There’s a new ism in town.
For generations, society has coined these terms to capture the ways we feel held back—sexism, racism, ageism. Each one names a real force that shapes our lives. But now, in this digital era, as more of us create online, a new one has emerged, whispered from timeline to timeline: algorithmism.
Algorithmism is the belief that the invisible gears of the algorithm are working against you—that your work isn’t reaching people not because of its content, but because some unseen machine has decided you don’t deserve the spotlight. It’s the feeling that your creativity is being lost in a rigged system, where the deck is stacked, and the numbers never fall your way.
I’ve seen this thinking everywhere lately—on Substack, on X, on Instagram, on Facebook. Folks convinced that the reason their posts don’t soar is because the algorithm clipped their wings. And I understand the frustration. I’ve been writing and posting online for over fifteen years. I know what it’s like to send something out into the world with excitement in your chest, expecting a spark, only to watch it fall flat without explanation.
But here’s what I’ve learned: sometimes it’s not the algorithm.
Sometimes the work simply didn’t resonate.
And that’s a truth many people don’t want to sit with.
Over the years, I’ve had posts that took off — not full-on viral, but certainly catching fire enough to travel far beyond my own circle. They sparked conversations, questions, even arguments. And I’ve had others that went nowhere, slipping quietly into the digital abyss. I couldn’t predict it. I couldn’t control it. And it never bothered me too deeply, because I never saw creation as something that owed me anything.
See, when I put something out into the world, I’m not doing it to be crowned or rewarded. If it brings opportunity, beautiful. But that’s not the engine behind my work. I write and post because there’s something in me stirring — a thought, a question, an excitement — and I want to share it. I’m extending my hand not to have it filled, but to offer what I have.
That’s a big distinction in this age of algorithmism.
Because we’ve reached a point where many creators extend their hand the other way — palm up, expecting something to be dropped into it. A like. A share. A subscription. A sign from the digital universe that what they’ve created is worthy. And when it doesn’t come, the algorithm becomes the villain.
But sometimes, the piece wasn’t meant for a stadium.
Sometimes it was only meant for a small room — a quiet corner where a handful of people whisper, “I get it.”
And that’s enough.
I think we need to learn how to live with that again.
Because if we’re honest, algorithmism becomes a kind of digital victimhood. A convenient shelter. A way to say, “It’s not me; it’s the machine.” It protects the ego, but it robs the artist. It cuts us off from the crucial question every creator needs to ask: What can I do better? What can I say clearer? What truth am I missing?
Algorithms are real, yes. But they are not gods.
They are not destiny.
And they are not responsible for shaping our voice.
Our job — the only job we truly control — is to create, to share, and to stay present. To keep offering. To keep showing up. To keep placing our work into the stream without demanding the river flow the way we want.
When you move like that, you step outside the reach of algorithmism entirely.
You return to the pure act of creation — the joy of it, the mystery of it, the freedom of releasing something into the world without needing to dictate how it should be received. Once I hit “publish,” my work is no longer mine. I’ve done my part. The rest belongs to the reader, the moment, and the unpredictable currents of human attention.
Sometimes you’ll catch the wind.
Sometimes you won’t.
But if the work is honest, if the offering is sincere, it will land where it needs to land.
And that, to me, is more meaningful than any algorithm could ever engineer.
