Confessional Capital

On the power and peril of putting it all out there

Content Warning: This essay includes brief references to difficult topics, including depression, sexual assault, and suicide.

In March, The Cut published an essay titled “The Case for Marrying an Older Man,” and as it is wont to do, my corner of the Internet exploded. 

The essay, which detailed the author’s marriage to a man ten years her senior, quickly scored over 500 comments, along with untold clicks, shares, and subtweets. Some readers praised the author’s honesty. Others skewered her for being out of touch. Either way, people paid attention.

For a certain subset of writers, it’s practically a rite of passage to mine your personal life for content. Scroll through the digital pages of The Cut, and you’ll find essay after essay with the writer’s most intimate moments—foibles, neuroses, traumas—laid bare for public consumption. Deeply personal, even embarrassing essays aren’t just stories; they’re a cultural currency. 

And it’s not just essayists: confessional narratives are everywhere, shaping not only media but the way we interact with the world. There’s something about the confessional mode that sells—which means there’s power in revealing your messiest, most intimate self for the world to consume. Just ask Taylor Swift.

I’ve been trying my hand at some confessional writing myself lately. I wrote this essay partly to better understand my diagnosis; but, if I’m being honest, I also just wanted people to read it. I wanted to feel seen. And I decided the best way to feel “seen” was to spill my guts all over Substack.com. 

And it worked: that essay is the most-read post on my newsletter so far. I’ve gotten DMs and comments from multiple readers letting me know that the essay resonated with their own experience, or that they sent it to someone they knew who was going through the same thing. 

So, putting my content marketer hat, here’s what I’m wondering: Why does this work? What it is it about confessional narratives that pulls on people? Can we harness the confessional mode strategically, for our own purposes? And what, exactly, do we do with the giant AI gorilla in the room? 

Part I: Authenticity

Throw a dart in the dark, and you’ll hit an influencer who has built a personal brand on the back of their “relatability.” Think about family vloggers like The Bratayleys and the Ace Family, who invite millions of viewers into their homes to watch everyday life unfold. Their appeal comes from the illusion that viewers are getting an unfiltered, behind-the-scenes look at a regular family dealing with regular problems. 

This kind of “relatability” is key to how confessional storytelling works. Confessional narratives offer something raw and real—or the illusion of it, anyway. Readers feel they’ve been granted access to something intimate, something true, even if that truth has been carefully edited. The illusion of closeness keeps people coming back for more, deepening their emotional investment in the influencer's life and, by extension, their brand. 

Of course, it’s all too easy for this feeling of “relatability” to teeter over the edge into parasocial delusion. I’ve felt this myself: when I read writers like Jia Tolentino or Roxane Gay, it starts to feel like I really, literally know them, the same way I know the people in my high school grouop chat. When I’m reading these writers’ essays, or looking at their Insta stories, I have to actively remind myself: I don’t know this person at all. 

This raises another point: even when writers are being “authentic” or “relatable,” that authenticity is ultimately constructed. When writers reveal personal details in their work, they do so in a controlled environment—often with a particular narrative or brand in mind. They are part of a larger strategy to build trust, loyalty, and engagement—all of which can be monetized.

Not that all efforts at relatability are necessarily malicious. Many influencers feel they are being authentic, and many audiences find real value in these connections. But the power imbalance is clear: while the follower may feel a deep emotional connection to the influencer, the influencer holds all the control over what is shared and what remains hidden. The illusion of intimacy—of relatability—is, in part, a carefully constructed performance.

Part II: Vulnerability

Ten years ago, SEO expert and founder of Moz and SparkToro, Rand Fishkin, published an essay laying bare his struggles with mental health and the immense pressure of leading a startup. He writes candidly about the toll it took on him, personally and professionally, detailing how his depression affected his work, his relationships, and his self-worth.

The essay resonated with many in the startup world, not only because of its rawness but because it stood out in an industry that often demands relentless positivity and a "hustle" mentality. This brings us to another reason confessional storytelling works.

Fishkin’s essay works because he’s willing to be vulnerable—to reveal his anxieties and depression in an industry that often demands relentless optimism and success. The confessional mode works because it invites readers into an intimate space, where the act of laying bare one’s personal challenges creates a mirror for readers to reflect on their own struggles. It becomes a mutual exchange of vulnerability. Confessional-style writing is, like my Diagnosis essay, a way of reaching out and saying: It’s like this for me—is it like this for you?

But vulnerability can also have a strategic edge. Consider the infamous “Why We’re Shutting Down [Company]” posts that circulate every so often in tech circles: Founders use these stories to frame their personal failures in a way that invites empathy and, sometimes, admiration. The vulnerability feels authentic, but it also serves to build the founder’s reputation as a leader willing to take risks and embrace failure publicly.

Even in Rand Fishkin’s case, he wasn’t confessing for confessing’s sake: he used the story of his mental health journey to frame some changes he was making to his company. The confession is calculated, the disclosure designed to make the reader feel a particular way about Rand and his brand.

In this way, vulnerability becomes both a personal and professional asset. When wielded strategically, it can strengthen bonds between the writer and their audience while also enhancing the writer’s reputation. Yet, there’s an inherent tension in this dual purpose. When is vulnerability a genuine act of connection, and when does it become a brand tactic? And how much of that vulnerability is shaped by the desire for public validation?

Part III: Solidarity 

In 2013, Buzzfeed News published a victim’s impact statement from a woman named Emily Doe, describing her experience of sexual assault at a college party. Though the post was anonymous at first, the writer’s words were so raw, so deeply resonant, that it spread like wildfire. Readers began sharing their own stories, creating a domino effect of confessions. What began as one person’s painful truth evolved into a community of shared experiences, a solidarity built on the courage to say, “This happened to me, too.”

There’s a kind of solidarity that emerges from the confessional mode. When someone shares a deeply personal experience, it creates a space where readers or listeners can respond with empathy, or perhaps, their own confessions. It’s why confessional essays resonate so deeply—they don’t just tell a story; they create a moment of connection.

And sometimes, that connection blossoms into something more. Think of the #MeToo movement: What started as women sharing their personal stories of sexual harassment and assault soon evolved into a global movement, with countless others joining the chorus of confessions. These stories weren’t just about individual trauma—they represented a collective experience that resonated with millions of people across the world. It became a mutual exchange of vulnerability, where each confession seemed to build on the next, weaving together a tapestry of shared experiences. This exchange created solidarity, turning individual stories into a powerful collective force.

The confessional mode, in this case, wasn’t about self-exploitation or voyeurism—it was about creating space for others to be seen, heard, and believed. In a way, it asked the same question that underpins so many confessional narratives: It’s like this for me—is it like this for you? And for so many, the answer was yes.

Part IV: Power

In any style of writing, the writer wields a particular kind of power. They control the narrative and determining what the reader will know or feel. They decide what to reveal, how to frame it, and what to leave out. It gives them a significant amount of power over the reader’s emotional experience.

That’s especially true when you’re handling the volatile materials that so often feature in confessional writing. The stakes are heightened: you’re not just shaping a story; you’re revealing pieces of yourself, pieces that may feel raw or even dangerous to expose—and for the reader to consume.

But what happens when the writer’s control of the narrative slips? One of the risks of confessional writing is that once a story is out in the world, the audience can interpret it in ways the writer may not have intended. Readers bring their own experiences, biases, and emotions to the text, and in doing so, they can reshape the narrative. When does the writer lose control over the way their story is consumed, reshared, or judged?

Consider Lena Dunham’s memoir, Not That Kind of Girl. Her candid stories about her personal life, including a controversial anecdote about her sister, sparked outrage and accusations of oversharing. Once the public latched onto certain details, the interpretation of her story was no longer in her hands. Critics accused her of crossing ethical boundaries, and the backlash became its own narrative.

In many ways, this loss of control is a built-in risk for anyone engaging in confessional writing. By opening up deeply personal parts of themselves, writers are essentially giving the audience permission to judge, interpret, and sometimes even distort their experiences. The writer holds the power to evoke emotions, but once the story is out, the audience may reconfigure that power. Readers can claim ownership over the narrative, judging the writer's decisions, questioning their motives, or even using the confession as a way to invalidate the author’s experiences.

Confessional writing is a dance between power and vulnerability. The writer holds the power to shape their narrative and invite readers into their emotional world, but the audience has the power to shape what the narrative becomes in the broader cultural conversation. This tension between personal power and audience control complicates the ethics of confessional writing, especially in a world where confessions—once shared—take on lives of their own.

Part V: The Dark Side 

In 1774, German author and philosopher Johann Wolfgang Goethe published his novel The Sorrows of Young Werther. Written as a series of letters from the melancholic protagonist, Werther immerses readers in Werther’s despair, unrequited love, and eventual suicide. Fiction or not, it’s a classic example of the confessional mode; it’s also a glimpse into confession’s more pernicious potentialities. 

Werther didn’t just resonate with readers—it had real-world consequences. An outfit Werther is described as wearing (blue suit, yellow vest) became required wearing among the fashionable set. Much more darkly, the book reputedly led to some of the first known examples of copycat suicide—also known sometimes as the Werther Effect.

The Werther phenomenon illustrates a potential power of confessional narratives: they resonate so deeply that readers may not just relate to them, but act on them. The confessional mode, in this case, tapped into something so deeply relatable that it led some readers to emulate Werther’s darkest choice. 

This raises a critical question: How responsible is the confessional writer for the consequences of their story? In offering up personal pain for public consumption, are they inadvertently encouraging harmful behavior? When vulnerability becomes a cultural commodity, it carries risks—not just for the writer, but for the reader too.

Part VI: ConfessionalGPT? 

In this landscape of public or even performative vulnerability, there’s a new player: generative AI. Tools like ChatGPT or Lex can now produce personal-seeming stories on command. But can an AI truly "confess" when it has no inner life to reveal?

Confessional writing is rooted in the emotional labor of self-exposure; it carries weight precisely because it is rooted in real emotions, risks, and stakes. A confession is an act of bravery, laying bare one’s flaws, fears, and regrets for public consumption—and, potentially, condemnation.

With AI-generated content, the emotional stakes are non-existent. There is no risk to the machine—no inner conflict, fear of judgment, or catharsis. When an algorithm crafts a confessional narrative, it lacks the lived experience behind it.

But how much does that lived experience matter? To a casual reader, could the lines between human-written confessions and AI-generated blur? AIs are pattern recognizing machines: if they can recognize the pattern of confessional storytelling and produce something that feels “authentic” to the reader, isn’t that content just doing its job? In the great Turing Test that we’re all living through, does the answer to the question “is this authentic” become “who cares?” 

There is also a more troubling question: If AI can generate convincing confessional narratives, could this lead to emotional manipulation on a mass scale? A well-crafted, emotionally evocative story, even if fabricated, could elicit real reactions from readers—sympathy, empathy, even action. But if those emotions are being manipulated by an algorithm designed to maximize engagement or drive a specific outcome, we step into ethically murky territory. Are we being emotionally exploited by stories that are designed to trigger our vulnerabilities, without any of the authenticity that makes such stories meaningful?

Spilling your guts for fun and profit

Sometime between AD 397 and 400, St. Augustine wrote Confessions. An introspective work that laid bare his spiritual struggles, regrets, and search for redemption, it’s widely considered to be one of the earliest examples of confessional writing.

It’s also a reminder of how confession, even when deeply personal, is never just for the confessor; it’s shaped by the knowledge that someone is listening. Augustine wasn’t simply documenting his inner life; he was crafting a narrative meant to resonate with his readers, offering them both a window into his soul and a path toward their own redemption.

Confessions are more than just revelations—they are performances. There’s always a choice in what to share and what to withhold. That push and pull between what is revealed and what remains hidden creates a tension—a curiosity gap, if you will—that the reader is powerless to resist.

Confessional storytelling is powerful because it tugs at our most human instincts—to connect, to relate, to understand. In the right hands, it can create solidarity, foster trust, and even shape a brand. But it’s always a performance, one that walks a fine line between connection and exploitation. The real question isn’t just what we’re willing to confess, but what we hope to gain when we do.