Growing up, fandom wasn’t instant—it was earned. If you were part of a fan club, it meant you cared enough to send in a form, write a letter, save up for a CD, or wait for a TV interview that only came on once. For some of us, our room or locker said more than our timelines ever could. Just to get a glimpse into someone’s world felt like a privilege.
Let’s take it a step further. Having the opportunities to be present in a public figure’s world is a bigger privilege that no one can ever comprehend, unless you walk that walk with them.
Admiration moved slowly back then, and maybe that’s what made it feel sacred. In today’s day and age, with access, it feels more sacred with the information we keep safe when it comes to a figure’s human side. We are not perfect, and we make a hell of a lot of mistakes for ourselves. The difference is, the access to those mistakes is due to the access to social media and cameras in general. I guess some of us public figures have just adjusted to the reality of the paparazzi, while others have contained them due to privacy laws established in our country.
From my focal point growing up, I didn’t just admire artists, actors, athletes, and musicians—I paid attention to how they stood in their truth, how they moved between the spotlight and their real life. I watched the confidence they projected, even when the media twisted their names. I saw how communities formed around them without the help of hashtags or followers. That kind of loyalty shaped my perspective on influence, connection, and storytelling.
But then the world sped up—and I grew up right alongside it.
Somewhere between cassette tapes and TikTok, I crossed over from being a fan of public figures to becoming one. Not in the Hollywood sense, but in the way people now watch, listen, and form opinions based on what I create, share, or represent. My poetry, music, advocacy, and art gave people a window into my life, the way I once peered into the lives of those I looked up to.
Except the rules changed.
Back then, you admired someone for their work.
Now, people watch your work because they admire—or question—you.
When you’re a public figure today, even on an indie or community level, your visibility isn’t optional. You’re not just the voice—you’re the face, the brand, the content, the representation, the expectation. I went from sending letters to actors I admired to being the person people message about their trauma, their hope, their questions, or their need to be seen. I used to line up for autographs—now people ask for my autograph when they purchase a self-published book of mine or tell me how something I wrote or performed carried them through something they didn’t talk about out loud.
It’s humbling—but it’s also heavy.
The fan clubs of the past created distance that protected everyone involved. You admired someone without feeling like you owned a piece of them. Well, that’s from my perspective anyway. You cherish every interview that gives you any small amount of information that can move you forward.
Today, public figures share access in real time. You’re expected to be relatable yet strong, honest yet not messy, available yet not overwhelmed, visible yet never vulnerable enough to make people uncomfortable. Depending on the relatable resource or activity they share, you follow suit.
And yet—being both the fan and the figure gives me clarity.
I know what it’s like to look up to someone and see a possibility for yourself.
I know what it means when someone sees me that way.
I know the power of being witnessed, whether it’s from a stage, a screen, or a story shared at the right time.
It’s like Pokémon in real time; sometimes, the pressure is “you got to collect them all.” But the reality doesn’t align that way. You need to pick the specific pieces of information needed for growth and change to align your life for the better.
The difference between then and now isn’t admiration—it’s access.
Fan clubs gave you updates.
Social media gives you people.
And once people feel connected to you, they don’t always separate the art from the artist—or the human from the projection.
But maybe that’s where my voice belongs and why I created “In the Spotlight!” on this site:
In the in-between space—where the girl who once stood in awe of others now stands in community with those watching her.
Not sculpted by fame.
Not flattened by judgment.
Not reduced to a feed or a trend.
But grounded in the truth that influence existed long before the hashtag,
And connection meant more when you had to hold onto it with both hands—not just your thumb.