The North Country Business That Made Itself the Star

Let’s be honest—if you’ve spent more than five minutes scrolling through social media lately, you’ve seen it: business owners who can’t stop posting about themselves on their business page. Every other photo is another perfectly posed shot—the “hard at work” selfie, the latte with the laptop, the inspirational quote superimposed over their own face. Whatever the caption is, the subtext reads more like, “Look at me.”

And look, I get it. I’ve been that person. It’s easy to fall into the trap, especially when everyone around you seems to be doing the same thing. Somewhere between trying to stay visible and trying to stay relevant, the focus quietly shifts. What starts as a genuine effort to connect with your audience turns into a carefully curated performance meant to earn attention, approval, or applause.

We tell ourselves it’s part of marketing—it’s “branding,” it’s “building trust,” it’s “being relatable.” But there’s a fine line between being the face of your business and becoming its focus, and once you cross it, things start to feel off.

I saw that line disappear not long ago, right here in the North Country.

There’s a local business I’ve followed—one that, for a while, embodied everything right about how small businesses can show up effectively online. Their page used to hum with energy. They celebrated their customers by name, shared local events with genuine enthusiasm, and posted advice that was practical, helpful, and generous. You could feel the heart behind it. You could tell they weren’t just trying to sell something; they were trying to serve.

Then, almost overnight, everything changed.

The community posts stopped. The helpful tips vanished. Events that once drew people together went silent. In their place came glossy updates about personal wins, luxury getaways, and “living the dream” captions that felt oddly disconnected from the business’s original purpose.

The customers hadn’t disappeared—but they had been erased from the story.

What used to be a business serving its people had turned into a stage serving its owner. Followers were no longer being helped or celebrated—they were being used to prop up a performance.

And I recognized it instantly, because I’d done the same thing myself.

When I realized what I was doing, I felt sick to my stomach. My mission has always been to serve—to help small business owners grow with clarity, resilience, and heart. But at one point, my social media didn’t reflect that mission at all.

It had quietly turned into a gallery of me.

My routines. My insights. My wins. I told myself I was “showing up authentically,” but in reality, I was chasing credibility—a quick hit of recognition dressed up as purpose. It wasn’t connection I was after. It was attention.

Let’s just call it what it was: I was feeding my monstrous ego.

And it’s frighteningly easy to do. Especially online, where attention feels like currency and every “like” whispers, keep going.

That’s the trap so many of us fall into when we start to believe our business is us. The problem with that logic is that it makes everything personal. A slow month feels like failure. A negative comment feels like a personal attack. A compliment becomes a fix instead of feedback.

I saw this same pattern play out on a much larger scale during my earlier years in online reputation management—a field that, by definition, is about perception. On the surface, the work is noble: helping businesses correct misinformation, respond to reviews, and communicate with honesty. But the darker side of it is ego-driven. It’s full of people desperate to control the narrative rather than clarify the truth.

At my former company, many clients—some individuals, some major brands—were so preoccupied with what was being said about them that they completely lost sight of why reputation even matters. They weren’t thinking about their customers. They were thinking about their pride.

Teams would gather in boardrooms not to fix real problems, but to polish the optics. They weren’t talking about better service or clearer communication; they were talking about how to appear trustworthy. The conversations revolved around damage control, not integrity. The goal wasn’t to do better—it was to look better.

And yes, that kind of work pays well. But it’s disheartening to watch a company pour money into managing perception instead of rebuilding connection. Some of those businesses could have turned things around simply by apologizing, listening, or changing one broken process. Instead, they doubled down on ego. They wanted the world to see them as untouchable, even as their own teams were crumbling under the weight of that image.

We’ve all seen this pattern on a massive scale, too. Look at WeWork—a company that began with a genuine vision of community and collaboration, only to implode when its founder became the story. What started as a mission to make work more human turned into a performance of excess. The tequila shots, the messianic leadership style, the lavish promises—it all became about him. The company’s value ballooned to $47 billion on charisma alone, then collapsed when investors realized the emperor had no business model.

It’s a story we keep repeating, in different forms and at different scales. A good idea loses its footing, not because the work stops mattering, but because the ego grows too heavy to carry.

The irony is that a strong reputation—the kind that endures—isn’t something you can stage. It’s built in quiet, unglamorous moments of humility: when you fix what’s broken, when you respond with kindness, when you own your mistakes instead of burying them.

That’s the truth every ego-driven business misses. And for a while, it’s the truth I missed too.

Once I saw it, I started asking harder questions before posting anything. Was I sharing to help, or to be praised? Was I giving something of value, or just looking for validation? Would my client—or my neighbor—see themselves in this, or would it just make them roll their eyes?

That shift changed everything. My work started feeling lighter, more grounded, and more honest. The conversations with clients deepened. The engagement I got online wasn’t just numbers—it was connection. People stopped reacting and started responding.

As it turns out, the lesson I needed most came not from business, but from the snow-covered slopes of Tuckerman Ravine.

A few winters back I’d hired a guide through Redline Guiding to take me up Mount Washington. My guide was one of the best out there—but not because he said so. He never once listed his accomplishments or bragged about his experience. His focus was entirely on me—on making sure I was safe, confident, and prepared for every challenge along the way. He reminded me to eat and hydrate, checked my footing on icy sections, taught me to read the terrain and the weather. He took photos of me at scenic overlooks, not himself.

The entire climb felt like it was about my success, not his.

When we reached the summit, he didn’t take a single selfie. He took out his phone and captured my moment—the joy, the exhaustion, the sense of triumph that only comes from earning something hard. Could you imagine if he’d spent the whole hike performing for his own feed instead? What a total bummer that would’ve been.

When I think about that amazing day, I am reminded that great guides and great business owners have something in common: they know the journey isn’t about them.

A successful business isn’t built on ego. Ego burns too hot to last. It demands constant attention, constant applause, and constant reassurance. And when it runs out of fuel, it leaves very little behind.

A successful business is built on trust—and trust has no need for the spotlight. It grows quietly, through presence and consistency, through small acts of care, through the courage to keep showing up even when no one’s clapping.

Up here in the North Country, where relationships still matter more than reach, that’s the kind of business that lasts.

So maybe take a scroll through your own feed this week—not to judge it, but to listen to what it’s really saying. Are your business posts celebrating your customers or yourself? Are they helping someone, or just reminding people that you exist?

At the end of the day, your customers don’t need another star.

They need a guide who sees and celebrates them.

-Amanda