Personal Trainer Energy

I’ve been watching myself lately. The way I talk about building with AI. The posts. The “shipping” updates. The whole “building in public” thing.

And I realized I’m doing the same thing fitness influencers do.

I can’t shake it. Not because the comparison is unfair. Because it’s uncomfortably accurate.

The Comparison

The parallels are uncomfortable because they’re accurate:

The daily reps are visible. Code commits, experiments, architectural decisions—all of it functioning as proof of work. The same way someone posts their gym session or meal prep.
There’s accountability through exposure. Saying “I’m shipping this by Friday” creates the same social pressure as “I’m training for a marathon.”
People follow for the struggle, not the success. The bugs, the pivots, the “I was wrong about this”—that’s the content. Not the polished result.

I’ve been telling people lately: I can be your personal trainer, but I can’t lift the weights for you.

It started as a way to motivate others to do the self-learning I’ve done with AI tools and agentic workflows. But the more I say it, the more I hear myself saying it. The more I wonder what role that puts me in.

And now I’m writing a blog post about the fact that I’m writing blog posts.

This is the kind of recursive navel-gazing that makes me question everything.

The Cringe Factor

Here’s where I get stuck.

The “AI Guy” or “Builder” has become such a specific internet archetype that stepping into that role can feel like putting on a costume. The aesthetics are codified: screenshots of code, hot takes on models, “shipping” updates. You know the feed. You’ve probably muted some of it.

So when I’m doing those exact things, am I documenting or performing?

I want to say documenting. I want to believe the work exists independent of the content about the work. And technically, that’s true—Aegis Framework exists whether or not I write about it. Signal X Studio operates independent of any post I create.

But here’s the part I don’t usually say out loud: I like the attention.

Not in a gratification-seeking way. More like… validation that the obsession isn’t just obsession. That someone else finds this useful. That I’m not just talking to myself.

The Trainer Problem

There’s something specific about the “personal trainer” framing that I keep circling.

A trainer can demonstrate the movement. Explain the form. Create the program. Show up and hold you accountable.

But the adaptation happens in your body. The neural pathways form in your brain. The calluses develop on your hands.

I can show you how I prompt. How I structure agent workflows. How I think about AI-assisted development. I can even pair with you and debug in real time.

I can’t make you curious. I can’t make you uncomfortable enough to push through the learning curve. I can’t do the reps for you.

The people who reach out after reading something I’ve written—the ones who actually move—they were already ready. They just needed a template. A permission structure. Someone else going first.

The ones who don’t move? More content won’t change that. Better explanations won’t change it. Only their own decision to pick up the weights.

Which makes me wonder: what am I actually providing? Instruction? Or just… company?

The Part I Don’t Post

Here’s what the “building in public” narrative leaves out:

The sessions where I close the laptop and stare at the wall because nothing is working and I can’t figure out why.

The imposter moments where I read someone else’s technical post and think they actually understand this, I’m just pattern-matching my way through.

The fear that I’ve built an identity around being “the AI guy” and if this wave recedes, I’ll be standing on the beach holding nothing.

The way I sometimes write a post specifically because I haven’t posted in a while and the silence starts to feel like falling behind.

That last one is the one that keeps me up. Because that’s the fitness influencer behavior. That’s content for content’s sake. That’s the performance eating the practice.

I don’t think I’m there yet. But I can see the path that leads there. And the fact that I can see it doesn’t mean I won’t walk it anyway.

Is This Just Rationalization?

I keep interrogating this because I don’t want to become the thing I find hollow.

The fitness influencer who’s actually selling coaching and supplements, not transformation. The “builder” who’s actually building an audience, not a product. The thought leader whose thoughts are optimized for engagement, not truth.

The test I keep coming back to: would I still be doing this work if no one was watching?

And the answer is clearly yes—because I was doing it before anyone was watching. The audience came after the practice, not before.

But I also can’t pretend the audience doesn’t shape the practice now. Knowing people might read this changes how I articulate it. Whether that’s clarifying or corrupting, I genuinely don’t know.

Maybe both. Maybe the act of explaining forces clarity, and the desire for approval warps what gets explained. Maybe those are the same thing and I’m just uncomfortable admitting it.

The Meta Problem

I’m aware of what I’m doing right now.

Writing a vulnerable post about the tension between authenticity and performance… is itself a move in the authenticity-performance game. The confession becomes content. The doubt becomes a brand attribute. “He’s so self-aware” is just another form of positioning.

I don’t know how to escape this. I’m not sure you can. The moment you’re conscious of the dynamic, you’re inside it.

The best I can do is name it. And hope that naming it is different from exploiting it.

What I’m Actually Doing

Maybe the framing matters less than the function.

When someone reads about how I use AI agents and then tries it themselves—that’s the rep that counts. My documentation is just the form video. The workout plan. The “here’s what worked for me.”

When someone sees me publish something half-baked and realizes they don’t have to wait until their thinking is polished—that’s permission. Not instruction.

The personal trainer energy isn’t about expertise. It’s about showing up consistently enough that other people feel like they can show up too.

Whether that looks “on the nose” from the outside? Maybe. Probably.

But I’d rather document the actual work and risk looking like a cliché than stop doing the work to avoid the comparison.

Even if I can’t fully untangle my motivations. Even if some percentage of this is ego and I’ll never know exactly what percentage.

The Real Question

The cringe isn’t about looking like a fitness influencer. The cringe is about whether the work is substantial enough to justify the documentation.

And the only answer to that is to keep making the work more substantial.

Not more content about the work. Not better framing of the work. Just… more work. Harder problems. Bigger stakes.

The content follows the practice. Not the other way around.

At least that’s the line I’m trying to hold.

I wrote this post because I needed to think through the discomfort. Because someone made a comparison that landed too close. Because I’m genuinely uncertain whether what I’m doing is valuable or just visible.

And because—if I’m being honest—I thought it might make a good post.

I’m not sure what that says about me. But I’m leaving it in anyway.