Why I am writing, not broadcasting

Lately, my feed has been flooded with hot takes and surface-level insights about the state of the world: geopolitics, war, collapse. Maybe it’s just the algorithm doing its thing. Or maybe it’s something deeper in the culture. Either way, as I’ve started writing here on Substack, I keep coming back to one question: what am I trying to do, and why?

I’ve been asked more than once why I’m not in front of a camera. Why I’m not “growing my brand” with emotionally charged video content, or trying to grab attention on the platforms that dominate the modern attention economy. Why I’m not diving into the endless stream of viral controversies that flare up and fade out by the hour.

The short answer is: because that’s not what this moment calls for. The endless churn of outrage media is a massive part of the problem we face.

We’re living in a time of manufactured chaos, while real chaos spreads. Attention is now the currency of power, and the algorithms, designed by forces far removed from accountability, reward distortion, outrage, and distraction. The tempo of controversy has become a drumbeat of misinformation, disinformation, and culture war theatrics. Blink, and you’ve missed a dozen scandals, a hundred hot takes, and a thousand people yelling past each other.

I could step into that maelstrom. I spend far too much time absorbing this media ecosystem: studying it, trying to understand it, watching how narratives are shaped and sold. Reels on Instagram. Longform on Substack. Mainstream news panels. YouTube rants. Podcasts. I take it all in. And here in Ukraine, doing the work I’m doing, I know I’m sitting on what the algorithm loves. The imagery is powerful. The stakes are life and death. The story writes itself.

But turning a warzone into personal brand collateral? That’s not journalism. And while I don’t necessarily fashion myself as a journalist, I do consider myself someone who gives a damn about the world we’re leaving behind, and the future we’re fighting for. Exploiting this moment, even for a good cause, still comes at a cost. And that’s what I wrestle with every day: do the ends justify the means? Do I participate in the problem, just a little, to solve more immediate ones? To raise funds for frontline units? To sustain our ability to train Ukrainian forces?

There’s a growing class of content creators whose platforms are built on spectacle. Not always with malicious intent, but often without the self-awareness the moment demands. Some arrive with real conviction, hoping to help, to bear witness, or to galvanize support. But good intentions don’t always lead to good outcomes. And when suffering becomes raw material for engagement, the line between helping and exploiting gets dangerously thin.

The problem isn’t always intent. It’s effect. Even well-meaning voices can become part of the noise, contributing to a content maelstrom that flattens complexity, distorts focus, and pulls attention away from the structural forces driving these crises. They might not intend to perform, but the platforms they use are built to demand it. They reward simplification, speed, and emotional provocation — not context, not depth, and certainly not uncomfortable truths.

Some do see suffering as an opportunity, a backdrop for self-promotion, a way to accelerate growth. But most exist in a fog between purpose and pressure, navigating the same collapsing media environment we all inhabit. And that’s the hard part. We’re no longer just measuring truth by intent; we have to measure it by impact.

That’s a longer piece I’m still struggling to write, because some of those same creators have also done tremendous good. This is the friction. There are no longer clear best practices in the digital or journalistic realm. We’re all improvising, all trying, in our better moments, not to do more harm than good. But there are also those who I believe are doing harm, knowingly, and packaging it as truth for audiences that have been trained to distrust anything outside their echo chamber.

And unlike traditional journalists, most content creators operate without any real accountability. There’s no editorial oversight, no obligation to issue corrections, no institutional pressure to adhere to facts. They’re not bound by a code of ethics, and they rarely answer to anyone but their audience — an audience often shaped by algorithms more than truth. People like Joe Rogan sit at the heart of this new reality. He commands an audience larger than most media outlets, yet bears none of the editorial responsibility. He can host conspiracy theorists or pseudoscientific nonsense and frame it all as “just a conversation.” But conversations have consequences, especially when millions are listening. When the line between entertainment and information blurs, accountability evaporates. And when that happens, trust dies with it.

Some content creators come to warzones with cameras, convictions, and sometimes even good intentions, but they can still become part of the noise. Whether they mean to or not, they often feed the spectacle economy, contributing to a flattened version of reality where drama outweighs depth. Their presence becomes performance. Their footage becomes fodder. And their platforms, built on visibility, begin to reflect the same incentive structures that value speed over substance and outrage over accuracy.

But the problem doesn’t stop with those on the ground. In fact, the most dangerous distortions often come from far outside the blast radius.

Figures like Tucker Carlson, Charlie Kirk, and Russell Brand may never set foot in a warzone, but they help shape the media environment in which wars are interpreted, politicized, and repurposed to serve domestic culture wars. The narratives they amplify often align, knowingly or not, with the interests of hostile states. Kremlin-coded talking points are laundered through the language of skepticism, anti-elitism, or so-called free speech, giving disinformation the appearance of legitimacy. They posture as independent outsiders, channeling public alienation into narratives that echo authoritarian interests and quietly reinforce the very power structures they claim to oppose.

The platforms don’t just tolerate this. They reward it. The algorithms amplify what provokes, not what informs. In that environment, distortion isn’t a byproduct; it’s the product.

They aren’t risking anything. They’re not bearing witness. They’re cashing in. Safe, comfortable, and complicit, they profit from polarization, sow distrust, and help shape a world where facts are optional, accountability is malleable, and ideology becomes entertainment.

It’s not that they believe in nothing. It’s that they’ve built platforms that can believe in anything, as long as it performs, polarizes, and pays.

Too many aspiring creators see that model and think that’s the job. Build a following. Find your niche outrage. Turn every tragedy into a stepping stone. But when you’re standing in a place where people are bleeding, burying their children, and watching their lives collapse, your value proposition should never be “how does this look in 4K?”

Instead, I’m choosing to write. To slow down. To build arguments, not amplify outrage. At least that’s what I’m trying to do. Because while the daily churn of political theater is seductive, it often obscures what really matters: the structural shifts, the long arcs, the deeper movements beneath the surface. The rise of algorithmic governance. The capture of media by ideological and corporate power. The psychological erosion of civic life in a world where reality itself is contested.

This isn’t a content war. This is an epistemic war. And the battlefield is truth itself.

Writing gives me space to think, to connect, to question. It resists the flattening effect of platforms that reward speed over substance. It gives you, the reader, a chance to engage, not just consume. And it gives me room to explore ideas that might not trend, but might matter.

That said, I still need engagement. Not the hollow kind. Not virality or vanity metrics. But real connection. Community. Support. If this work is going to continue, if it’s going to matter, it has to be seen, shared, challenged, and built upon. I’m not rejecting visibility. I’m rejecting the terms on which it’s usually earned.

So no, I won’t be reacting to every manufactured controversy. I won’t be chasing the next viral outrage. I’m not here to go viral. I’m here to build something that lasts. To sound an alarm, and maybe help map a path out of the fog.

If that sounds slow, it’s because it is. But in a system built to reward speed and outrage, slowing down might just be worth it.