I Could Be Famous, But LBR, I'm Tired

Back When I Still Had the Energy to Dream

I wanted to be famous. Proper, red-carpet, dramatic-exit, Mariah-Carey-dressed-by-7am famous. I was a dancer, a singer, a little chaos magnet with jazz hands and a flair for crying on cue. My weekends were dance recitals and eisteddfods. My weekdays were packed with rehearsals, singing lessons, and dreaming up monologues in the mirror. I had a Sagittarius stellium in my third house practically screaming, “Notice me! Applaud me! Put me on a stage and throw roses!”

And honestly, I wasn’t half bad. I had that sparkle. The kind of presence that made drama teachers gush and aunties whisper, “She’s going to be something.”

And then in my 20’s, I started blogging before it was cool. I curated a personal brand before Instagram was even born. I went to events. I got PR packages. I once was recognised at a restaurant in the middle of Glasgow, and yes, I still consider that my peak. People knew who I was. Or at least, other blog-readers in the same postcode did.

But somewhere along the way, the dream got… tired. Not dead, not buried, just curled up in bed with a satin eye mask and a hot water bottle, waiting for someone else to handle the reels and the hashtags and the 7pm lives. The hustle never stopped. It just got louder. And more pixelated. And more exhausting.

The Fame Machine is Broken (or I Just Can’t Be Bothered)

Let’s be real. It used to be that if you were funny and had decent lighting, you could write a blog post, post it to Facebook, and boom. Your moment of digital fame. But now? You need to blog it, pin it, gram it, TikTok it, podcast it, create a downloadable lead magnet, go live on Instagram AND Twitch, set up a Patreon with five tiered options, and casually drop a Discord server link in your stories. It’s not fame anymore. It’s unpaid admin work.

Sure, I can take a photo of my lunch and write a cute caption. I can chuck together a solid blog post in one sitting while sipping a matcha. I can absolutely romanticise my day with filtered Instagram stories. But the rest of it? The scheduling, the scripting, the editing, the analytics? Babe, I’d rather alphabetise my pantry in silence.

I’m not lazy. I’m just… bored. The thing no one tells you about content creation is that you have to really want it. You have to thrive on repetition. You have to love the numbers game. And if you don’t? You get chewed up by the algorithm gods and spat out into irrelevance with a half-finished Canva template and a ring light gathering dust in the corner.

I Used to Be Recognised (And Honestly, That Was Enough)

Back in Glasgow, when I was in my Lifestyle Blogger Era, I was known. Not like, stalkers-at-the-door famous. But enough that if I walked into a cute brunch spot or an event at Blythswood Square, I’d hear a “Oh my god, I read your blog!” or “You’re the one with the cat and the matcha obsession, right?” I felt like a little celeb in a sea of tweed and tartan scarves.

That was the golden age. Pre-influencer culture. Before “content creation” had job descriptions and KPIs. Before TikTok trained us to dance for the camera, whether we liked it or not. Back then, you could be adored for your words. For your vibe. For your honest reviews of lipstick and your chaotic Sunday night musings. You didn’t have to film a Get Ready With Me for your dentist appointment or explain your trauma in a carousel post with matching Pinterest pins.

But then video became king. And just like that, the bloggers who didn’t want to show their faces or talk to a camera were pushed to the sidelines. We didn’t evolve. We just got tired. Some of us had other jobs. Some of us had breakdowns. Some of us, like me, just got very into skincare and bubble tea and stopped trying to make content out of it.

Let Me Just Post My Bubble Tea and Go

Here’s the thing. I do love to consume content. I binge-watch GRWMs, scroll through interior design reels, and cry at cute cat videos like it’s my full-time job. But when it comes to making it? I can’t. Not consistently. Not with the enthusiasm of someone who dreams of brand deals and AdSense income.

I want to share a photo of my lunch. Maybe post a rant on stories about Lulu being a little toe-biting menace. Possibly write a blog post when the inspiration hits. But daily posting, batch filming, and repurposing content across six platforms with matching captions? That’s influencer behaviour. And I’m just a tired girl with a Taurus stellium and a caffeine addiction.

I’m allowed to love creating without turning it into a full-time gig. I’m allowed to go viral once and then disappear like an internet cryptid. I’m allowed to post sporadically and ignore my notifications and never use LinkedIn again. This isn’t self-sabotage. It’s self-preservation.

Champagne Without the Clout

So yes, I could be famous. The bones of it are still there. The voice, the style, the face that looks amazing in soft natural light. The storytelling. The charm. The ability to deliver a killer one-liner and leave the audience crying or laughing or both.

But these days? I can already afford my own champagne. Not the cheap kind either. I’m talking French, cold, in a glass with actual weight to it. I don’t need to chase likes or ride trends or pretend I’m interested in PR hauls just to feel seen. I have friends who adore me. A cat who tolerates me. And a wardrobe that deserves its own coffee table book.

Fame is lovely. But freedom is better. The freedom to opt out. To unplug. To say no. To say, “Actually, I’m going to take a nap instead of filming that reel.” I’m not quitting. I’m just letting go of the expectation that I have to do it all. The algorithm can wait. My mental health cannot.

We Need to Stop Clapping for Basic Decency – Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity

In today's episode of Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity, we're unpacking why we need to stop clapping for basic decency. You know the script. A man texts back within twenty-four hours and we're screenshotting it to the group chat. A man plans a date more than three hours in advance and we call him a unicorn. A man manages to listen, pay attention, and behave like a fully formed adult, and our nervous systems short-circuit because we genuinely don't know how to receive it.Here's the truth nobody is saying out loud. The bar has been dragged so low that Satan himself needs a chiropractor after a competitive round of limbo. We've been culturally trained to be grateful for behaviour that should not require gratitude. We've been told these things are bonuses when they're actually the entry requirement. And in the meantime, women have been quietly doing the basic decency thing forever, without applause, while men get standing ovations for outputs we generated for them.Today we're talking about why a great man is genuinely just an average woman, who benefits when the bar stays low, the invisible labour women have been performing for free for centuries, and the friend-test that cuts straight through every excuse we've ever made for mediocre men. Let's get into it.For more visit BryJaimea.com or follow over on IG @BryJaimea

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