I sometimes wonder who I’d be if nothing was being sold to me.

Not, like, figuratively. Really, literally. If I could move through a day without being reminded that I am not whole and that this is, fortunately, fixable.

It isn’t just products, of course. It’s solutions. Improvements. Versions of myself that appear with great confidence and very little invitation. They arrive already named, already validated, already urgent. I’m, often, already late. 

By the time I recognise I want something, it already has a spiel. A rationale. A reason it deserves to exist. I don’t so much discover needs as recognise them from somewhere I’ve already been scrolling.

Before I realise that this is algorithm, I am impressed by my own clarity.

The Indian advertising industry likes to describe itself as human-first now. Which is interesting, because I’ve never felt more like a pattern. A use-case. A pen-portrait. Every feeling is an insight. Every hesitation, a moment. Every insecurity, a category for the next start-up delivering something in six minutes. 

We don’t sell products as much as we sell okay-ness. That you’re doing okay. That you’re progressing acceptably. That your life, if not perfect, is at least moving in the right direction.

Insurance doesn’t sell safety. It sells adulthood. Financial apps don’t sell returns. They sell calm. The kind of calm you see in ads where everyone seems quietly sorted, speaking gently to their parents, making responsible decisions in well-lit rooms. The implication is clear. This is what grown-up looks like. Catch up.

Skincare doesn’t sell skin. It sells discipline. Routine. The moral comfort of having shown up for yourself before the day has had a chance to disappoint you.

I own several things that imply a level of togetherness I do not consistently possess.

There is a version of me who wakes up early, finishes books, invests sensibly, and owns neutral-toned clothing. I support her generously. She remains hypothetical.

What feels different now is how quickly emotion moves to action. Once, discomfort lingered. Now it is immediately useful.

Anxiety becomes optimisation. Restlessness becomes discovery. Boredom becomes a problem that needs intervention.

Nothing is allowed to sit long enough to become awkward. I don’t let it. 

Even rest has been systematised. Even healing has outputs. I think of campaigns that gently tell us it’s okay to slow down, to take a break, to choose ourselves, usually followed by a reminder of which product can facilitate this self-compassion most efficiently. Softness, but with a deliverable.

Occasionally, an advertisement understands me with unsettling accuracy. It appears at the right moment. Names something I haven’t articulated. Doesn’t ask me to explain myself. Doesn’t expect anything beyond attention and, ideally, compliance.

It’s efficient. It’s faintly alarming. It works.

At some point, personalisation stopped feeling thoughtful and began to feel intrusive. My name appears everywhere. My habits are reflected back at me as insight. My behaviour is interpreted before I’ve had time to decide what it means.

There is a particular fatigue that comes from being constantly addressed. Adyasha. Adyasha. Adyasha. Adyasha. Adyasha.

WHATTTTTTTT?!

Sometimes I buy things simply to end the conversation. The retargeting. The reminders. The sense that my hesitation is being treated as a temporary malfunction. In these moments, checkout feels less like desire and more like closure.

I keep returning to the question.

What would happen if nothing were being sold to me?

If boredom were allowed to remain boredom. If restlessness didn’t have to become ambition. If dissatisfaction wasn’t immediately converted into action. If wanting could be slow, imprecise, occasionally pointless.

I suspect I’d feel less directed. Less productive. Harder to categorise.

But I might begin to recognise the difference between a feeling and a prompt.

This isn’t a rejection of advertising. It’s a question of volume. Of saturation. Of what happens when every human emotion is treated as an opportunity and every pause as a gap that needs filling.

We’ve built an industry that prides itself on knowing when to be witty, when to be gentle, when to be validating. We know exactly when to crack a joke, when to sound like a friend, when to pretend we’re not selling at all. We have brands that talk like internet personalities, food apps that sound like stand-up comics, finance companies that speak in affirmations.

Sometimes it’s genuinely clever. Sometimes it’s so fluent it’s disarming.

And sometimes it’s hard to tell where my inner monologue ends and the copy begins.

I think of the confidence with which certain brands speak to me, assuming familiarity, assuming alignment, assuming I’m in on the joke. I think of how easily humour becomes trust, how quickly tone becomes intimacy. I think of how often being entertained stands in for being persuaded.

I think of ads that insist on calm. On sorting your life out. On rewarding yourself. On not taking things too seriously. On taking things very seriously. Often in the same scroll.

At some point, the difference between insight and interference becomes difficult to locate.

Who would I be if nothing were being sold to me?

If no brand tried to sound like my smartest friend.

If no app congratulated me for coping.

If no campaign made a personality out of my purchasing power.

Probably less amused. Less affirmed. Less certain I’m doing things right.

But maybe more aware of which thoughts are actually mine.

Not everything needs a punchline.

Not every feeling needs a brand voice.

Not every pause needs to be filled with cleverness.

Who would I be if nothing were being sold to me?

Not optimised. Not particularly sorted. Possibly boring.

But unprompted.

And in a world that has mastered timing, tone, and targeting, that might be the most uncomfortable thing of all.

The author is head - creative and brand communications, Kult.