Tell me this…
what happens when the thing that matters most can't be quantified?
The Tyranny of Proof
Let me tell you a story.
Years ago, I was being considered for a promotion. My boss spoke with his superior about me, and the response was hesitation: “I’m not sure I can trust him. He’s too kind.”
Too. Fucking. Kind.
Like kindness was suspicious. Like consistent kindness must be hiding something.
Months later, after watching me closely, this same person pulled me aside and said something I’ll never forget: “I realized… you’re actually just that kind all the time. To everyone.”
His revelation wasn’t a compliment. It was a confession of disbelief—an admission that authentic kindness is so rare that when encountered, our first instinct is distrust.
This disbelief lands especially heavy for neurodivergent folks like me, whose sincerity or kindness is often dismissed as naivety—or worse, manipulation—simply because their expressions don’t follow expected neurotypical cues.
And isn’t that the world we’ve built? A place where even goodness must come with receipts?
The Badge Game
Even in spaces claiming “ethical marketing,” there’s this desperate clinging to proof. I know of this one organization that awards “ethical marketing” badges to businesses who take a pledge.
It’s like buying a t-shirt that says “I’M HONEST” and expecting people to believe you because of the shirt.
And the sad irony? Some of the businesses they promote use the same old manipulative tactics anyway. One business they champion outright refused to take the ethical pledge—and they still promote them as leaders in ethical sales.
What good is a movement for integrity if it still operates on the same game of optics?
The Cathedral No One Sees
There’s a story about three stonecutters asked what they’re doing.
The first says: “I’m cutting stone.” The second: “I’m building a wall.” The third: “I’m building a cathedral where people will find peace for generations.”
Most marketing advice tells you to be the third stonecutter—to tell a grand story about your impact.
But what if the most beautiful cathedrals are the ones no one ever sees?
What if the kindness you extend to a stranger changes something deep within them—something they never tell you about?
What if your honest “no” to a client who wasn’t right for your services saved them from wasting money—but they never circle back to thank you?
What if your decision to honor someone’s boundaries instead of pushing for the sale planted a seed of what healthy business relationships should look like—but you never hear how it grew?
And what about someone autistic like me? For whom the act of building quietly, inwardly, without performance, is itself sacred. I’m not failing to tell the story. The story simply lives outside the realm of language or optics…
… or metrics.
The Measurement Trap
This obsession with measurement creates a trap:
If it can’t be measured, did it even happen?If it can’t be proven, is it even real?If it can’t be tracked, does it even matter?
It’s like trying to count the stars through a keyhole.
It’s like trying to measure the ocean with a teaspoon.
It’s like trying to capture lightning in a jar.
Some things were never meant to be quantified.
And for neurodivergent folks, who are constantly measured against invisible neurotypical standards, the demand to “prove impact” can feel like a continuation of a lifelong pressure to justify their existence.
The irony? The numbers do matter—but not in the way we think.
You might gain 10,000 followers, but lose yourself in the process.
You might sell a million-dollar offer, but betray your deepest values to do it.
Meanwhile, the one heartfelt message that saved someone’s life?
That won’t show up in your quarterly review.
The Metrics That Don’t Make the Spreadsheet
I once tried to catalog all the ways my work might create change that I’ll never see:
- The conversation that shifts someone’s thinking but they never tell me
- The boundary I model that helps someone recognize their own worth
- The quiet sense of safety someone felt in my presence, even if we barely spoke.
- The permission I give that allows someone to finally exhale
- The moment of presence I offer that reminds someone they’re not alone
- The moment someone reads between the lines and feels me—without needing words.
- The shift in their nervous system because mine stayed regulated.
- The words I write that someone reads years after I’m gone
None of these fit into my quarterly business review. None show up in my analytics dashboard. None can be showcased in a testimonial.
And you know what? That’s exactly what makes them precious.
The Devotion to the Invisible
When I let go of needing to see my impact, something shifts.
My work becomes devotion rather than production. My writing becomes offering rather than persuasion. My presence becomes gift rather than transaction.
Listen: the people who will cry when you’re gone won’t be crying because of your follower count or your conversion rate or your quarterly earnings.
They’ll be crying because of how you made them feel. Because of the love you shared. Because of the way you looked at them like they mattered. Because of the time you truly listened.
These are the things that leave no mark except in the secret chambers of human hearts.
A Different Kind of Success
So I’ve made a choice. I’m trusting the impact I’ll never see. I’m releasing the need for external validation. I’m focusing on whether hearts feel more nourished, more seen, more safe—not whether I can prove it with data.
Is it the fastest way to build a business? Fuck no. Is it the easiest path? Not even close. Is it the kind of success that’s celebrated on magazine covers? Rarely.
For me, as an autistic person it’s not even an option to play the traditional game. I’m not choosing slowness to be noble.
It’s the only way I can survive and still feel like I’m staying aligned with who I am.
And maybe—just maybe—it’s the kind of success that actually matters in the end.
Because when my body returns to dust, the spreadsheets and follower counts will vanish like morning mist.
But the love? The kindness? The moments of presence?
Those ripple across generations in ways we’ll never fully comprehend.
And I’m learning to trust that that’s enough.
