I Stopped Treating My Audience as a Private Kingdom
Strategy & Stewardship
I Stopped Treating My Audience as a Private Kingdom
Moving from the fragility of possession to the clinical objectivity of social proof and community.
The smell of white vinegar is sharper when it’s cold, a stinging acidity that clings to the back of the throat long after the kitchen floor has been scrubbed. It’s the scent of a minor domestic defeat. Ten minutes ago, I was standing over the sink, my knuckles white and my palm pressed against the ridged metal of a pickle jar that refused to yield.
I am a hazmat disposal coordinator; I spend my days navigating the bureaucratic and physical complexities of “spent” solvents and corrosive sludges, ensuring that the remnants of industrial ambition don’t seep into the groundwater. I can manage a 55-gallon drum of hydrochloric acid with a hydraulic lift and a calm pulse, yet I was bested by a three-dollar jar of gherkins.
My hand is still vibrating from the effort, a dull ache radiating from the meat of my thumb. It’s a humbling reminder of the limits of possession. We think we own the objects in our pantry, just as we think we own the outcomes of our efforts. This morning, as I rubbed the circulation back into my hand, I realized that the linguistic habit of “owning” things has extended into a territory where it has no business being: the people we speak to online.
The Sovereignty of the Fiefdom
I stopped using the possessive when I talk about the people who follow my work. It wasn’t a sudden epiphany, but a slow erosion of a concept I had mistaken for a fact. Across the landscape of creators and influencers, the phrase “my audience” is used as a neutral shorthand, a way to denote a specific group of observers.
But if you listen closely to the cadence of the delivery-the way a creator says “my people” or “my following”-it carries the weight of landed nobility. It sounds less like a description of a relationship and more like a survey of a fiefdom.
Take the case of Marco, a fitness coach I consulted with briefly last year regarding some chemical safety protocols for his private gym. Marco is a man of 11,384 followers, a number he tracks with the precision of a high-frequency trader. When Marco speaks about these individuals, he doesn’t speak of them as students or peers. He speaks of them as “his audience,” a collective noun that grants him the status of a local lord.
Followers viewed as a domain of personal sovereignty.
In his mind, those 11,384 souls are a domain he has conquered, a territory that confers upon him the right to command attention. He treats the reach of his posts as a measurement of his own personal sovereignty.
The Clinical View of Parasocial Dominion
From a clinical perspective, what Marco is experiencing is a form of “Parasocial Dominion.” In behavioral psychology, we often see individuals conflate visibility with authority. The more eyes on a subject, the more the subject begins to believe they possess those eyes.
It is a cognitive distortion where the observer’s attention is categorized as the subject’s property. We see this in the way creators talk about “losing” followers, as if a piece of their estate has been stolen, or “growing” their audience, as if they are clearing more forest for pasture.
This linguistic assertion of ownership creates a class system. There is the One who possesses, and the Many who are possessed. The “audience” becomes a monolithic asset, a commodity that can be leveraged, sold, or directed. This is the nobility of the modern age: the standing of one who commands a territory of attention.
The Uniform Hazardous Waste Manifest
In my line of work, we have a system for tracking hazardous materials called the Uniform Hazardous Waste Manifest. It is a multi-part form-EPA Form 8700-22-that must accompany every shipment of waste from the moment it leaves the “generator” until it reaches the final disposal facility.
It tracks the name of the transporter, the specific chemical composition, and the exact weight of the material. There is no room for ambiguity. You don’t “own” the waste; you are a steward of its journey. You are responsible for its state, its safety, and its final destination.
If you start thinking of the acid as “yours” in a proprietary sense, you get careless. You forget that the acid has its own properties, its own volatility, and a total indifference to your ego.
Building visibility should be treated with the same clinical objectivity. When a business or a creator looks to expand their reach, they are looking for social proof-the digital equivalent of a manifest that says, “This person is recognized by others.” This is a mechanical process, a lever of growth.
For instance, many Italian creators who understand the reality of digital social proof might choose to
as a way to prime the engine of visibility. They don’t do it because they believe they are buying “subjects” for their kingdom; they do it because they recognize that Instagram visibility is a measurable piece of a broader marketing strategy. It is about establishing a baseline of credibility so that the actual, human relationships have a place to grow.
Visibility as a Tool, Not a Title
The danger arises when we mistake the mechanic for the nobility. When the numbers on the screen stop being a metric of reach and start being a measure of “worth” or “dominion,” the creator loses the ability to actually connect. They become a lord looking down from a balcony, wondering why the peasants aren’t cheering louder.
Consider Elena, a boutique designer in Florence who produces high-end leather goods. Elena has a much smaller following than Marco-roughly -but she refuses to use the word “audience.” She speaks of them as “the people who have seen the work.”
Numbers as subjects to be commanded.
Numbers as data points of connection.
Elena recognizes the distinction between her labor and their attention. When a post of hers gets 412 likes, she doesn’t see it as a tax paid to her by her subjects. She sees it as a data point of resonance. She understands that visibility is a tool, not a title.
Earning Attention Every Day
When we strip away the possessive, the relationship changes. If it is not “my” audience, then I am not their ruler. I am a participant in a conversation. I am a provider of value. I am a steward of their time. The culture has manufactured a version of nobility out of a proprietary pronoun, but it is a hollow crown.
It is a status that depends entirely on the continued participation of people who have no obligation to stay. I think back to the pickle jar. My frustration came from the assumption that because the jar was in my house, because I had paid for it, it owed me its contents.
I treated it as a possession that was failing to obey its owner. In reality, the jar was just a piece of glass and metal governed by the laws of friction and vacuum seals. It didn’t care about my hunger.
The moment we stop claiming ownership over others, we are forced to face the reality of our own work. If I don’t “own” an audience, then I have to earn their attention every single day. I have to provide something that is worth their time, rather than demanding it as a right of my station.
The manifest of our nobility lists the names of ghosts who vanish the moment we try to tighten our grip on the jar.
The Freedom of Clinical Growth
We live in a culture that incentivizes the “nobility” mindset because it’s easier to sell things to a “lord” than to a “steward.” If you believe you own an audience, you will spend money to protect that ownership, to grow your borders, to maintain your status.
But if you see visibility as a neutral mechanic-a tool for growth and a lever for social proof-you can use it without being consumed by it. You can grow your presence on platforms like Instagram as a way to facilitate real connection, rather than as a way to bolster a fragile sense of dominion.
The failure of the jar was a small gift. It reminded me that the grip is always temporary. Whether it’s a lid on a jar of gherkins or the attention of , we don’t own the world outside our own skin. We only interact with it.
We manage the manifests, we neutralize the acids, and we hope that the things we build are sturdy enough to stand without the support of a possessive pronoun.
Beyond the Kingdom
I’ve started looking at my social feeds the same way I look at a site manifest at work. It’s a list of interactions, a record of where things are and where they are going. There is no nobility in the numbers, only responsibility.
There is no kingdom, only the work. And the work, much like a stubborn pickle jar, requires less ego and more leverage. When we stop trying to be lords, we finally have the hands free to actually do something useful.
