Flor Nieto Blog

Is it weird to model your career after a musician? Good

Some people model their careers after thought leaders, CMOs, or iconic CEOs.

Me? I picked a musician who wrote about girls and parks and identity crises in the ’90s, founded a virtual band, composed an opera, and somehow made all of it make sense. Damon Albarn is my anti-template. And also, very much, my template.

He’s multidisciplinary. He’s unpredictable. He’s still deeply trusted.
And that’s exactly the kind of career I want.

Albarn didn’t pick a lane — he paved his own road. He went from Britpop frontman in Blur to voice and brain behind Gorillaz (a band made of cartoon avatars), to scoring operas, to collaborating with African collectives and musicians in Mali long before “cross-cultural collabs” became a trend. He didn’t just stay relevant — he stayed interesting. And that's much harder.

Most people see a career as a ladder. He made it a collage.

And through that, he built something rare: longevity without rigidity. A body of work that’s constantly evolving but always unmistakably his. A style, yes. But more than that, a spirit.

That’s the kind of energy I try to bring to my own creative work. To branding. To marketing. To storytelling. And honestly, it’s what I want to help other people unlock in themselves, too.

Because being multidisciplinary isn’t messy — not if there’s intention. Being unpredictable isn’t risky — not if you’re consistent with your values. And being cool doesn’t mean being cold — Albarn is also a present dad, a mentor to new artists, and someone who genuinely shows up for people.

He's proof you can build a legacy and be low-key. Be successful and soulful. That you don’t need to explain every decision, over-strategize every post, or burn out trying to stay in a box you never fit in.

So yes, I model my career after a musician.
Not because I want to be famous, but because I want to be free.

Free to reinvent. Free to experiment. Free to go weird. Free to go deep. Free to mean something.
And free to be trusted even when no one quite knows what’s coming next — but they still know it’ll be good.

Just like Damon.

Yes, I had a meeting, a photoshoot, a walk, and then Burger King

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I used to think days had to follow a structure. That you had to pick a lane: either be the chic entrepreneur with back-to-back Zooms and a glowing calendar, or the kind of person who wanders aimlessly through the city and ends up eating fries in a plastic booth.

But turns out you can be both. In fact, that contrast might be the most honest way to live.

The other day, I had a strategy meeting for a new brand, jumped into a quick photoshoot for a client, walked a few blocks while mentally planning my next column, and then — without even thinking — went straight into Burger King. It wasn’t planned. I wasn’t glam. It was just… needed.

And it felt perfect. Not ironic, not contradictory. Just real.

Sometimes people ask me how I balance the “aesthetic” with the chaos. How I switch between a pitch deck and a Winnie the Pooh puzzles. Between brand archetypes and ketchup packets.

The answer is: I don’t switch. I stack.

The meeting, the creative work, the walk through the city I now call home, and the spontaneous burger — it’s all me. It’s all part of the rhythm.

I no longer try to separate my identities or edit out the “non-strategic” moments. Because the best ideas often come between one thing and the next — when you're sitting in a booth with greasy fingers and your brain finally exhales.

There’s beauty in not always curating everything.
There’s freedom in the mess.
And there’s power in being able to show up as the same person, wherever you are.

So yes, I had a meeting, a photoshoot, a walk, and then Burger King.
And it was a perfect workday.

Not for everyone (and that's the point)

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Here’s something I wish more people said out loud: if your personal brand is meant to appeal to everyone, it won’t resonate with anyone.

We’re often told to “grow an audience,” “be more visible,” “get engagement,” and all of that has its place. But visibility without identity is just noise. And popularity without clarity is usually short-lived.

When we talk about personal branding, people often assume it means being liked. Being followed. Going viral. But the truth is: good personal branding isn’t about pleasing everyone. It’s about attracting the right people and gently repelling the rest.

What does that look like?

It looks like saying what you actually believe, even if it’s not trendy.
It looks like choosing depth over reach.
It looks like showing up in a way that’s consistent, not for clicks but for coherence.
It looks like being recognizable to the people you actually want to reach.

When you try to be universally likable, you dilute the sharp edges of your voice, your point of view, and your difference. You start writing captions that sound like everyone else. You pick colors and fonts that feel “safe.” You talk in generalities so no one can disagree with you. And eventually, you disappear into the scroll. Clarity, on the other hand, is magnetic. It tells people: “This is what I care about.” It gives others the chance to connect deeply, or walk away. And that’s exactly the point.

How do you get clear?

You ask:

What do I really want to be known for?
Who do I actually want to work with (or speak to)?
What do I not want to compromise on?
Where am I trying too hard to fit in?

You start shaping your brand like a mirror of your real values, not just your aspirations.

You let your brand evolve with you, and not as a performance, but as a reflection.

And yes, it might feel uncomfortable

People might unfollow you.

You might feel “too much” or “too niche.”

But over time, that specificity becomes trust. Recognition. Credibility. Work.

Because you’re not here to be for everyone. You’re here to be undeniably you, and unforgettable to the people who matter.

So say it with me:

You’re not for everyone. And that’s exactly why your brand works.

Want support in building a clear, compelling personal brand? The Inmediato can help, we offer strategy sessions and content mentorships to help you refine your voice and presence ✨

The dangerous art of staying too long: what Dogville taught me

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Let’s talk about Dogville. Yes, that Lars Von Trier film with Nicole Kidman. The one that looks like a play, feels like a heavy philosophical essay, and lasts nearly three hours.

My therapist recommended it to me years ago. At first, I didn’t understand why. I fell asleep twice. It felt slow, almost unbearably heavy. The set is minimal, almost like chalk lines on a stage, and it forces you to focus on the people, on their gestures, their cruelty, their excuses.

Grace, the protagonist, arrives in this town while on the run. At first, she is welcomed. The townspeople open their doors, seemingly generous and kind. Then, she begins to “repay” them. Small tasks, small favors, until they stop being small. The tasks become demands. The gratitude becomes obligation. The welcome turns into quiet, creeping violence.

Grace endures it all: humiliation, emotional manipulation, physical abuse. And each time, she forgives. Each time, she stays. On the surface, it looks like an almost saint-like purity, a moral high ground so high it seems unreachable. We admire her, we pity her, we judge her, all at once.

But then there’s that final scene. The one that changes everything. When Grace finally reunites with her father, she makes a choice that feels like both an act of ultimate revenge and a final reclaiming of her own power. In that moment, we realize her forgiveness wasn’t pure at all, it was filled with arrogance. An arrogance that made her believe she was above everyone else, above consequences, above the mess of being human.

It made me think deeply about forgiveness, about boundaries, about the way we often confuse tolerance with love. About how we cling to people, projects, and situations far beyond what is healthy, convinced that enduring is the same as loving deeply.

For a long time, I thought that my ability to hold space for others, to understand, to forgive — endlessly — was a strength. A gift. Something noble. But the truth is, that kind of forgiveness without boundaries can become its own form of arrogance. It can become a quiet way of saying, I am above needing respect, above needing reciprocity.

Because sometimes, self-care doesn’t look like a soft bath or a comforting tea. Sometimes, it looks like saying no more. Like stepping away from what drains you. Like letting go of what once felt safe but no longer serves you.

Dogville is not an easy film. It is meant to disturb, to provoke, to leave you uncomfortable. It is a mirror to our deepest patterns of compliance, of the ways we let others mold us, of the ways we betray ourselves in the name of acceptance.

It took me years to understand why my therapist asked me to watch it. Now, I see it clearly. It was a lesson in boundaries, in pride disguised as kindness, in the dangerous illusion that unconditional forgiveness is always a virtue.

I am still learning to close doors. To choose myself before the story others want to write for me. To let some relationships end. To let some projects remain unfinished. To walk away, even when it feels like betrayal.

Because choosing yourself is never actually selfish. It’s the only way to make sure that the love and energy you give are true, sustainable, and aligned with who you really are.

So yes, sometimes self-care doesn’t feel like a gentle hug. Sometimes it feels like a slammed door echoing in an empty room. And that sound? That echo? It’s the beginning of coming home to yourself.

Not everything deserves your fire

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I was 22, working for the biggest magazine in Patagonia. I was deeply into Truman Capote, New Journalism, and the idea that every single story — no matter how small — could be transformed into art. And I tried. I really tried. Even when the subject was a non-traditional advertising piece on a plasma-rich facial, I treated it like a narrative assignment. I interviewed, researched, framed a story arc, gave it a voice, and tried to turn it into something memorable. I submitted it proud. Excited.

My editor, one of the most brilliant and generous creatives I’ve ever worked with, said something I’ll never forget:

"This is beautiful — but it’s too much. Some stories deserve fire. Others just need to inform. You have fire. But you need to learn how to moderate it."

I didn’t love that. I wanted all my work to matter. To impress. But I rewrote it. I filed the informative version. It was fine. It did the job. It wasn’t magic, but it was functional. And that was enough.

It took me years to truly get it.

You don’t owe everything — or everyone — your best masterpiece. Especially in work. Especially in service. Especially when the person on the other side isn’t asking for it, paying for it, or valuing it.

Because every relationship — yes, even work-based ones — should be reciprocal. If it’s not, it’s a drain. A leak. A slow erosion of your energy and your creativity. That extra effort you’re putting in? Sometimes it’s not even being seen.

And yet, I still catch myself doing it. I still catch myself thinking everything I do must be perfect. Every email crafted. Every post beautiful. Every client served with our full creative capacity. Because at The Inmediato, we really care. We care about the work, the stories, the strategy behind each decision. And we want our clients to feel that care.

But here’s the truth: sometimes, people aren’t paying for that level of care. Sometimes, they’re not even expecting it. And when we over-deliver by default, we run the risk of making our work unsustainable. Not just financially — creatively, too.

Moderating your fire is not a weakness. It’s a form of creative protection. A way to last. A way to reserve your energy for the work — and the people — that truly deserve it.

Especially when you’re no longer just starting out. When you’ve done the work. When you’ve built the reputation. When people already kind of know what you do and why it’s good.

You can — and should — begin to be more intentional.

You can learn to choose when to give your all and when to just be clear and effective.

You can design your service, your brand, and your strategy to reflect where you are — not just where you started.

The truth is: your fire is powerful. But if you burn it all the time, you’ll lose the very thing that makes you exceptional.

So let it be sacred. Let it be sharp. Let it be deliberate.

Because not everything deserves it.

But when the time comes — you’ll still have it.

And it’ll be yours to give.

The hidden cost of viral content: is it hurting your brand?

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(And your team doesn’t need to dance for the algorithm either)

The Internet didn’t begin as a brand playground. It was built by people — users, communities, outsiders, curious minds — who wanted to share, create, and connect. The spaces we now call “platforms” were once experiments in digital self-expression. And somehow, over time, that beautiful mess turned into a feed.

What started as real people making things they loved has slowly been replaced by metrics, formulas, and virality. Visibility became a goal. And attention became a product. But in the middle of this race to be seen, something got lost: meaning, consistency, and integrity.

At The Inmediato, we work with brands that want to do more than appear. They want to matter.

And that’s why we don’t believe in viral content as a strategy.

Viral is chaotic by nature. It demands speed over depth. Volume over vision. It rewards whoever shouts the loudest — not necessarily who has something important to say. For a brand with a long-term strategy, it’s not just irrelevant. It can be actively harmful.

Because here’s the truth: your brand is a system of trust. A contract between who you are, who you want to reach, and what you promise. Every message, every post, every campaign either reinforces that contract — or breaks it.

And no, being “fun” or “trendy” isn’t wrong. But it has to be rooted in something real. Otherwise, you’re just mimicking what already exists, adding to the noise, not the conversation.

Some Content Destroys the Brand You Spent Years Building

There’s a certain kind of video that does well on social: punchy, casual, mimetic, maybe even absurd. It can be funny. It can be entertaining. But it doesn’t always belong to you. Not everything that performs well aligns with your values or vision. And you shouldn’t have to betray your voice just to get numbers.

In fact, some formats — when adopted blindly — can make a premium brand feel disposable. They flatten the narrative, reduce complexity, and strip away what makes a business unique. What’s worse: they can create expectations in your audience that you’ll now be pressured to fulfill, even if they were never part of your long-term strategy.

And that leads to another issue: not all visibility is useful. Getting attention isn’t the same as building positioning. It can even take attention away from the core — your product, your service, your point of view — and shift it toward pure entertainment. That’s not brand growth. That’s distraction.

Audiences Are Smart — They Feel the Disconnection

People might double-tap, but they also notice when a brand loses its own voice. And while it might be tempting to say, “it’s just one post,” the truth is: everything communicates. When content is inconsistent with your values or your tone, it creates friction. It breeds confusion. It weakens the relationship between your brand and the people you care about.

You don’t have to do what everyone else is doing. You’re allowed to opt out.

Because this space — the Internet — is ours, too. We are not just players in someone else’s algorithm. We are builders. And with that comes a level of responsibility: not to replicate chaos, but to create culture. To create experiences that bring clarity, not just clicks.

So What’s the Alternative?

Build a consistent voice and stick to it.
Create content that feels aligned with what you stand for.
Entertain if it makes sense — but always through your lens, not someone else’s.
Use your time and budget to develop systems, not spikes.
And remember: not everything needs to go viral to be valuable.

At The Inmediato, we believe marketing should mean something. It’s not a stunt. It’s not theater. It’s a process of showing up — clearly, consistently, and with intention — so that the people who need what you offer can recognize it, trust it, and choose it.

This isn’t about being nostalgic for a quieter Internet. It’s about reclaiming what was always possible here: connection, beauty, language, identity, presence.

Let others go viral. You can build something that lasts.

Emotional Intelligence Is a Business Skill — Let’s Use It

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Some people walk into a room and read the numbers. Others walk into the same room and read the people. The best leaders? They do both.

For years, “emotional intelligence” sounded like a soft skill you mention in passing—something nice to have, not something to build a business around. But in practice, it has shaped everything I do. From branding and strategy to leadership and client relationships, emotional intelligence is not a bonus. It’s a system. A skill set. A core asset.

It’s knowing when to speak and when to listen.
It’s reading what’s not being said.
It’s understanding how your team works best, not just how fast they deliver.
It’s managing feedback without making it personal.
It’s sensing a shift in a meeting—and adjusting without panicking.
It’s being strategic with humans, not despite them.

I’ve worked with brilliant minds who never missed a KPI and still burned bridges they didn’t even know they were standing on. I’ve also worked with quieter, emotionally attuned professionals who led teams with grace, landed long-term clients, and created cultures people didn’t want to leave.

And no, it’s not about being “nice.”
It’s about being aware. Responsible with emotions, not reactive with them.

In boutique businesses—where relationships are everything and impact depends on connection—emotional intelligence is not optional. It’s what makes you irreplaceable.

I’ve learned that emotional intelligence:

Saves deals when things go wrong
Creates loyalty that can’t be bought with discounts
Turns feedback into growth instead of fear
Builds brands that people actually trust

If we want better work, better teams, better creative partnerships—we need to stop separating EQ from “real business.”

Because there’s nothing more professional than knowing how to handle yourself—and care for others—without losing clarity, boundaries, or vision.

In the world of brand building, agency life, or simply navigating creative entrepreneurship, your strategy is only as good as your self-awareness.

So yes, design the perfect deck. Track the metrics. Build the roadmap.
But also—look someone in the eyes when they’re struggling. Name the unspoken. Pay attention to how you make people feel. That’s business too. Real, sustainable, human business.

Let’s stop calling emotional intelligence a soft skill. It’s not.
It’s one of the sharpest ones we’ve got.

What Kafka Knew About Changing for Others

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I picked up The Metamorphosis in Croatian to practice the language. A small act of ambition—one of those ideas that sounds smart in theory but quickly reminds you how terrifying language (and life) can be. On page one, Gregor Samsa wakes up as a bug. Or rather, čudovišni kukac—a monstrous insect. I had to pause and look up kukac. It’s not an easy read, not in Croatian, not in any language. But maybe that’s the point.

Kafka didn’t write to comfort us. He wrote to expose the cracks in what we call normal. And what better way to understand a new language than to dive into a story about isolation, disconnection, and transformation? Because The Metamorphosis isn’t just about waking up one day as a bug. It’s about waking up one day and realizing you’ve become someone unrecognizable—to your family, your world, even to yourself. And somehow, you’re still expected to go to work, to keep going, to perform.

Reading it now, again, in a language I’m still learning, adds a second layer. There’s a slowness to it. I read, I stop, I translate, I think. And in that pause, I feel even closer to Gregor. Trapped in a body that no longer functions the way it used to. Trying to speak and not being understood. Trying to stay part of a life that no longer fits.

It made me think—how many times in life do we go through small metamorphoses? Not the insect kind, but the invisible ones. The ones that happen when we say yes too often, when we adapt too much, when we silence what we truly want. When we slowly forget who we are, just to fit someone else’s expectations. Because what Kafka reveals—so clearly, so painfully—is what happens when people stop seeing you as a person and start seeing you only for what you do, what you provide, what you carry.

And when you stop being “useful”? They step back. They move on. It’s not that you’ve changed—it’s that you stopped serving a purpose they never admitted was transactional. Gregor didn’t stop being himself. But when he could no longer go to work, when he couldn’t meet their expectations, he stopped existing in their eyes. That’s the part that stings the most: realizing how easily you can be erased from a story you helped build.

Kafka teaches something brutal and brilliant: if you change too much to please others, one day they might not even see you as human anymore. That part hurts—but it’s also a reminder. To be seen, you have to stay visible to yourself.

So yes, I’m reading The Metamorphosis in Croatian. And no, it’s not just to practice vocabulary. It’s to remind myself that language is transformation. That reading reshapes us. That even bugs have boundaries. And that becoming unrecognizable shouldn’t be the cost of love.

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Is it weird to model your career after a musician? Good

Yes, I had a meeting, a photoshoot, a walk, and then Burger King