Chapter 17: Influence Lost

The golden hour light streaming through Brianna’s bedroom window made her stomach churn. She stared at her phone—5:47 AM, thirteen minutes past her usual wake-up time. The algorithm punished inconsistency.

Good morning, beautiful souls! She’d typed and deleted the caption six times. Her fingers felt like they belonged to someone else.

The humming had started three days ago, low and persistent, vibrating through her bones when she tried to hold her morning poses. Now even looking at her ring light made her nauseous.

She forced herself up, muscle memory carrying her through the motions. Phone positioned on the marble nightstand, timer set for thirty seconds. The gratitude journal lay open to a blank page.

“I’m grateful for…” Her voice cracked. The words wouldn’t come.

Behind her, the ring light caught the carefully arranged succulents, the vintage books she’d never read, the himalayan salt lamp that was supposed to cleanse energy but only reminded her how dirty everything felt.

She tried again. “I’m grateful for this beautiful morning and the chance to—”

The phone slipped from her trembling hands, clattering to the floor. 847,000 followers waiting for their daily dose of inspiration, and she couldn’t even fake gratitude anymore.

In the kitchen, she stared at the green superfood powder—$89 for a month’s supply, 12% commission on every jar sold through her link. Her stomach rolled as she mixed it with coconut water, the same combination she’d promoted for two years as “life-changing.”

It tasted like grass and lies.

The yoga mat felt foreign under her feet. Poses she’d performed thousands of times—each one photographed, hashtagged, monetized—suddenly made no sense. Her body refused to bend into the familiar shapes, muscles rebelling against the performance.

She managed three half-hearted shots before giving up, slumping against the exposed brick wall she’d specifically chosen for its Instagram appeal.

Her DMs were already flooding in.

Girl, you okay? You seem off lately.

Your energy feels different. Is everything alright?

Are you sick? You don’t look like yourself.

Don’t look like yourself. The phrase hit like a physical blow. When had she last looked like herself? When had she last known what that even meant?

She scrolled through her recent posts—the same smile in every photo, the same carefully tousled hair, the same inspirational captions about self-love and authentic living. Her face looked like a mask she’d forgotten she was wearing.

The humming grew stronger, making her teeth ache. She found herself walking to the bathroom mirror, staring at her reflection without the phone camera’s filter. Her skin looked gray, her eyes hollow. This was what authentic looked like—exhausted, uncertain, completely unfilterable.

Without thinking, she lifted her phone and hit record.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” she whispered to the front-facing camera. No makeup, no lighting setup, no script. “I’ve been lying to you. To myself. I don’t even know who I am without this… performance.”

Her thumb hovered over the share button. 847,000 people expecting their daily inspiration. Brand partnerships worth $180,000 a year. The apartment lease that depended on that income. Her entire life built on being Authentic Bri—the girl who had her shit together, who could guide others toward their best lives.

She posted it.

Within minutes, the comments started rolling in.

Bri, please get help. This isn’t like you.

Unsubscribing. I followed you for positivity, not whatever this is.

You’re scaring your audience. Maybe take a break?

This is so uncomfortable to watch. Please go back to normal content.

Each comment felt like a small death. They didn’t want her authentic self—they wanted the product she’d created, the consistent brand that made them feel better about their own lives.

Her phone buzzed with notifications from brand partners. Three companies canceling upcoming campaigns, citing “inconsistent brand messaging.” Her manager calling, texting, emailing: What the hell was that post? Call me back NOW.

The humming intensified, making her apartment feel smaller, more artificial. She looked around at the space she’d curated for maximum filming potential—every corner designed to be content, nothing existing simply to exist.

When had she last sat somewhere without photographing it? When had she last felt something without immediately crafting it into shareable inspiration?

Another notification: follower count dropping by the hundreds.

The old Brianna would have panicked, would have immediately posted damage control content, an apology wrapped in wisdom about “showing up imperfectly.” But that Brianna felt like a stranger now, someone she’d been impersonating for so long she’d forgotten they weren’t the same person.

She turned off her phone and sat in the silence. The humming filled the space where the constant ping of notifications used to live. For the first time in years, no one was watching. No metrics tracking her worth. No audience to perform for.

It felt like dying. It felt like being born.

Outside her window, the sun climbed higher, past the golden hour, into the harsh honest light of midday. The kind of light that showed every flaw, every crack, every authentic imperfection.

She smiled—a real smile, not the one she’d practiced in the mirror for brand photos. It felt strange on her face, like using muscles she’d forgotten she had.

Her phone sat silent on the marble nightstand, its black screen reflecting nothing back.