Cinemorphosis

Author: Jeffrey McMahon

  • The Hunger Games: GLP-1, Free Will, and the Price of Thin

    The Hunger Games: GLP-1, Free Will, and the Price of Thin

    In my Critical Thinking course, we tackle three research-based essays that wrestle with one central, disquieting premise: technology is not just helping us live—it’s rewriting what it means to be human. Our first unit? A polite but pointed takedown of the American weight loss gospel. The assignment is called The Aesthetic Industrial Complex, and it asks students to write a 1,700-word argumentative essay exploring a question that’s fast becoming unavoidable: Does the old moral framework of discipline, kale, and “personal responsibility” still hold water in the age of GLP-1 injections, food-delivery algorithms, and weaponized Instagram bodies?

    We dive into the stories of good-faith dieters—folks who’ve counted calories, logged cardio, avoided sugar like it was plutonium—and still watched their doctors frown over charts lit up with prediabetes, high blood pressure, and the telltale signs of metabolic collapse. These are not cases of vanity. These are mandates from cardiologists and endocrinologists. Lose weight or lose time.

    Enter the needle. GLP-1 drugs like Ozempic and Wegovy promise what decades of dieting books never delivered: chemical satiety and the end of food noise—that constant mental hum that turns the pantry into a siren song. The results are seismic: hunger down, weight down, cravings down, existential questions up.

    Because here’s the paradox: when food no longer seduces us, we gain a body that’s marketable and medically optimized—but we lose something else. Food is not just fuel. It’s ritual. It’s celebration. It’s Grandma’s lasagna, a first date over sushi, a kitchen filled with the smell of garlic. Food is culture, memory, and soul. And yet, being ruled by it? That’s a kind of servitude. Constant hunger is its own form of imprisonment.

    So we’re caught in a new paradox: to be free from food, we must become dependent on pharmacological salvation. Health insurers love it. Employers love it. Actuarial tables are singing hymns of praise. But should we?

    That’s the real assignment: not just whether GLP-1s work, but whether the shift they represent is something to embrace or fear. This is no clear-cut debate. It’s a riddle with contradictory truths. A tug-of-war between biology, economics, ethics, and the shrinking silhouette in the mirror.

    And if my students groan under the weight of the question, I remind them: this isn’t Home Ec. This is Critical Thinking. If you want easy answers, go back to diet TikTok.

  • The Rebranding of College Writing Instructors as Prompt Engineers

    The Rebranding of College Writing Instructors as Prompt Engineers

    There’s a cliché I’ve sidestepped for decades, the kind of phrase I’ve red-penned into oblivion in freshman essays. But now, God help me, I must say it: I see the handwriting on the wall. And it’s written in 72-point sans serif, blinking in algorithmic neon.

    I’ve taught college writing for forty years. My wife, a fellow lifer in the trenches, has clocked twenty-five teaching sixth and seventh graders. Between us, we’ve marked enough essays to wallpaper the Taj Mahal. And yet here we are, staring down the barrel of obsolescence while AI platforms politely tap us on the shoulder and whisper, “We’ve got this now.”

    Try crafting an “AI-resistant” assignment. Go ahead. Ask students to conduct interviews, keep journals, write about memories. They’ll feed your prompt into ChatGPT with the finesse of a hedge fund trader moving capital offshore. The result? A flawlessly ghostwritten confession by a bot with a stunning grasp of emotional trauma and a suspicious lack of typos.

    Middle school teachers, my wife says, are on their way to becoming glorified camp counselors with grading software. As for us college instructors, we’ll be lucky to avoid re-education camps dressed up as “professional development.” The new job? Teaching students how to prompt AI like Vegas magicians—how to trick it into coherence, how to interrogate its biases, how to extract signal from synthetic noise. Critical thinking rebranded as Prompt Engineering.

    Gone are the days of unpacking the psychic inertia of J. Alfred Prufrock or peeling back the grim cultural criticism of Coetzee’s Disgrace. Now it’s Kahoot quizzes and real-time prompt battles. Welcome to Gamified Rhetoric 101. Your syllabus: Minecraft meets Brave New World.

    At sixty-three, I’m no fool. I know what happens to tired draft horses when the carriage goes electric. I’ve seen the pasture. I can smell the industrial glue. And I’m not alone. My colleagues—bright, literate, and increasingly demoralized—mutter the same bitter mantra: “We are the AI police. And the criminals are always one jailbreak ahead.”

    We keep saying we need to “stop the bleeding,” another cliché I’d normally bin. But here I am, bleeding clichés like a wounded soldier of the Enlightenment, fighting off the Age of Ozempification—a term I’ve coined to describe the creeping automation of everything from weight loss to wit. We’re not writing anymore; we’re curating prompts. We’re not thinking; we’re optimizing.

    This isn’t pessimism. It’s clarity. And if clarity means leaning on a cliché, so be it.

  • The Wellness Racket: Shaming, Scamming, and Selling You Salvation

    The Wellness Racket: Shaming, Scamming, and Selling You Salvation

    In How to Be Well, Amy Larocca vivisects the modern feminine ideal and lays it bare: not the goddess of hearth or harvest, but the “abstracted wellness she-god”—a taut, juiced-up high priestess of turmeric tinctures and lymphatic drainage rituals. This new oracle doesn’t offer wisdom but a curated Amazon storefront. She peddles empowerment with one hand and $128 collagen powder with the other, all while perched atop a Peloton like some neoliberal Delphic seer.

    These wellness influencers don’t just sell products; they sell paranoia dressed in millennial pink. Every scroll of your feed is a sermon in self-improvement with a side of fear: Eat this, not that. Touch this, never that. Microwave? You might as well lick plutonium. Their gospel is a toxic cocktail of pseudoscience, product placements, and shame. You’re not ill, darling—you’re just uninformed and understocked.

    And here’s the trick: they wave the banner of feminism, preaching self-empowerment while quietly mugging you with your own insecurities. They exploit the universal dread that something you ate in 2009 is still lodged in your spleen, slowly killing you. Who doesn’t want to be informed? Who wants to die from an unpronounceable preservative in a childhood granola bar? But the more you try to “be well,” the more you’re trapped in a never-ending scavenger hunt for health hacks, supplements, and contradictions.

    It’s not wellness. It’s a designer panic spiral. And the moment you start shaping your habits, meals, and bank account around their gospel, congratulations—you’re not just a follower. You’ve been converted. And this church doesn’t just ask for tithes. It demands your wallet, your weekends, and your soul.

  • Blessed Are the Gluten-Free: America’s New Spiritual Elite

    Blessed Are the Gluten-Free: America’s New Spiritual Elite

    Reading Amy Larocca’s How to Be Well is like watching Gwyneth Paltrow’s ghost possess a Whole Foods employee mid-mushroom latte. Her book is equal parts riveting and scalpel-sharp, dissecting the strange mutation of fashionistas who’ve traded in Gucci for goop and now drape themselves in wellness jargon like it’s couture. These wellness evangelists don’t just eat clean—they chant it. They speak in tongues made of spirulina, lipospheric vitamin C, Cordyceps, Shilajit resin, and ho shou wu, stringing together syllables like they’re summoning the ghost of Hippocrates.

    What we’re witnessing isn’t self-care—it’s a personality cult with better lighting. The modern wellness priestess has crowned herself a demigod, armed with adaptogens instead of sacraments, waving her magic tincture dropper and pointing lesser mortals toward the True Path of purified, gluten-free, unpasteurized transcendence. It’s not just health—it’s high-performance sanctimony.

    Larocca nails the diagnosis with surgical precision: “I sometimes think of wellness as the project of buying your own body back for yourself.” Translation? Welcome to America’s chicest hostage situation, where the ransom is payable in collagen peptides and oat milk. The goal is to become the luxury-branded version of you—perfect skin, toxin-free bowels, and moral superiority radiating from every overpriced yoga mat. The side effect? It magnifies the gaping inequalities of modern life like a magnifying mirror you didn’t ask to look into.

    Because let’s be honest: none of this comes cheap. These rituals of wellness cost money—bucketloads of it. We’re not talking about a jog around the park and some tap water. We’re talking $12 green juices and $300 infrared saunas. The entire project is rigged to serve the few while gaslighting the many. The wellness priestess doesn’t just ignore that her lifestyle is unattainable for most—she markets that inaccessibility as part of the charm.

    This isn’t health—it’s spiritual cosplay for the affluent.

  • Wristwatches and Wastelands: How Fashion Can Hollow You Out

    Wristwatches and Wastelands: How Fashion Can Hollow You Out

    Amy Larocca, a fashion journalist with twenty years of runway reportage under her belt, understands the psychological scaffolding beneath a well-tailored sleeve. “Fashion,” she writes in How to Be Well, “is about beauty, of course, but it is also about the desire to elevate daily life from its more banal limitations, to consciously and actively share something about how you’d like to be perceived by the rest of the world.”

    And that, my friend, is exactly where the trouble starts.

    Take a stroll through the horological asylum known as the watch community. What starts as an appreciation for precision craftsmanship often spirals into a neurotic fixation. A dive watch isn’t just for telling time—it’s for announcing to the world that you’re rugged, refined, and possibly ready to harpoon something. The desire to “elevate daily life” with just the right wrist candy turns into a slow-motion personality collapse. It becomes a lifestyle audition for an identity you don’t actually inhabit.

    The trap is cunning. At first, fashion promises transformation: a sharper silhouette, a touch of mystique, a sense of control in a chaotic world. But when the performance replaces the person—when dressing well becomes a proxy for purpose—you’re not elevating your life. You’re embalming it in linen and leather.

    The real tragedy isn’t vanity. It’s the way compulsive self-curation smothers empathy. Narcissism isn’t just annoying—it’s lonely. It dislocates you from community, connection, and anything approaching transcendence. A meaningful life, if it’s worth living at all, doesn’t orbit around the mirror.

    To be clear: there’s nothing wrong with looking sharp. Be fit, be stylish, radiate confidence. But when your wardrobe becomes your worldview—when you dress not to express but to impress—you trade depth for dazzle. You don’t become interesting. You become exhausting.

  • Toxins, Teas, and the Tyranny of Self-Care

    Toxins, Teas, and the Tyranny of Self-Care

    In How to Be Well: Navigating Our Self-Care Epidemic, One Dubious Cure at a Time, Amy Larocca introduces us to the “Well Woman”—an aspirational specter of affluent spirituality who floats through Erewhon aisles like a priestess of turmeric. She is non-religious but deeply “spiritual,” an educated, upper-middle-class avatar of intentional living. Her diet? Whole, organic, plant-based. Her skincare? Sourced from the tears of ethically massaged avocados. Her wardrobe? Soft, breathable cottons dyed with herbs. Her soul? Allegedly pure.

    She’s the type who throws around words like “boundaries” and “holding space” while sipping adaptogenic mushroom tea. Fluent in therapy-speak and swaddled in the cozy lexicon of mindfulness, she’s not just living—she’s curating her life, building an identity out of emollients, detoxes, and artisanal spices. And all of it—every mindful, ethically sourced drop—feeds the $5.6 trillion wellness-industrial complex.

    Larocca sees through the yoga-scented fog. The Well Woman, she argues, is just the latest installment in America’s ongoing franchise of unattainable feminine ideals: a new model to aspire to, envy, and—most importantly—buy into. Today’s purity isn’t moral; it’s material.

    Reading Larocca’s opening, I couldn’t help but think of Todd Haynes’s 1995 masterpiece Safe, in which Carol White—a vapid housewife in the chemical-glazed sprawl of the San Fernando Valley—slowly dissolves into the cult of purity. After one too many trips to the dry cleaner, Carol spirals into an obsession with environmental toxins, abandons her friends and family, and ends up exiled to a pastel-drenched wellness commune. There she lives alone in a sterile dome, staring at herself in the mirror, parroting affirmations until there’s nothing left behind her eyes but empty devotion.

    Carol White is the ghost of the Well Woman’s future—a cautionary tale in Lululemon. She doesn’t find peace; she finds a purgatory curated by Goop. And as Larocca peels back the lavender-scented rhetoric of self-care, it’s clear she sees this modern cult of wellness not as healing but as hollowing—a $5.6 trillion seduction that promises salvation and delivers scented self-delusion.

  • Trapped in the AI Age’s Metaphysical Tug-of-War

    Trapped in the AI Age’s Metaphysical Tug-of-War

    I’m typing this to the sound of Beethoven—1,868 MP3s of compressed genius streamed through the algorithmic convenience of a playlist. It’s a 41-hour-and-8-minute monument to compromise: a simulacrum of sonic excellence that can’t hold a candle to the warmth of an LP. But convenience wins. Always.

    I make Faustian bargains like this daily. Thirty-minute meals instead of slow-cooked transcendence. Athleisure instead of tailoring. A Honda instead of high horsepower. The good-enough over the sublime. Not because I’m lazy—because I’m functional. Efficient. Optimized.

    And now, writing.

    For a year, my students and I have been feeding prompts into ChatGPT like a pagan tribe tossing goats into the volcano—hoping for inspiration, maybe salvation. Sometimes it works. The AI outlines, brainstorms, even polishes. But the more we rely on it, the more I feel the need to write without it—just to remember what my own voice sounds like. Just as the vinyl snob craves the imperfections of real analog music or the home cook insists on peeling garlic by hand, I need to suffer through the process.

    We’re caught in a metaphysical tug-of-war. We crave convenience but revere authenticity. We binge AI-generated sludge by day, then go weep over a hand-made pie crust YouTube video at night. We want our lives frictionless, but our souls textured. It’s the new sacred vs. profane: What do we reserve for real, and what do we surrender to the machine?

    I can’t say where this goes. Maybe real food will be phased out, like Blockbuster or bookstores. Maybe we’ll subsist on GLP-1 drugs, AI-tailored nutrient paste, and the joyless certainty of perfect lab metrics.

    As for entertainment, I’m marginally more hopeful. Chris Rock, Sarah Silverman—these are voices, not products. AI can churn out sitcoms, but it can’t bleed. It can’t bomb. It can’t riff on childhood trauma with perfect timing. Humans know the difference between a story and a story-shaped thing.

    Still, writing is in trouble. Reading, too. AI erodes attention spans like waves on sandstone. Books? Optional. Original thought? Delegated. The more AI floods the language, the more we’ll acclimate to its sterile rhythm. And the more we acclimate, the less we’ll even remember what a real voice sounds like.

    Yes, there will always be the artisan holdouts—those who cook, write, read, and listen with intention. But they’ll be outliers. A boutique species. The rest of us will be lean, medicated, managed. Data-optimized units of productivity.

    And yet, there will be stories. There will always be stories. Because stories aren’t just culture—they’re our survival instinct dressed up as entertainment. When everything else is outsourced, commodified, and flattened, we’ll still need someone to stand up and tell us who we are.

  • Dreams of Debt, Pastries, and Postponed Purpose

    Dreams of Debt, Pastries, and Postponed Purpose

    I dreamed I was working in a café—one of those indie joints that sells artisanal pastries dusted with powdered irony—while slogging through my Master’s in English. Picture a barista apron slung over a grad student’s existential dread.

    I carried a phone that wasn’t just smart—it was sorcerous. With one tap, it summoned a stream of music from a satellite orbiting somewhere above Earth’s pettiness. This music wasn’t Spotify-tier. It was celestial—otherworldly symphonies that made Bach sound like background noise at a carwash. The entire café basked in it, as if rapture had been accidentally triggered over the scones.

    Then he appeared. A mysterious man—part career counselor, part trickster god—told me that if I attended a career convention, I could buy a van for my family. Not just any van. A magical, dream-fulfilling van priced at $400, which in dream economics is about the cost of a single textbook in grad school.

    The convention was a riot of lanyards and desperation. Voices swirled about the final class I needed to finish my degree: the dreaded seminar with Professor Boyd, a real professor from my waking life, whose lectures felt like intellectual CrossFit and whose office smelled faintly of despair and dry-erase markers.

    I never found the van man.

    The dream logic began to wobble. Doubt crept in like a late fee. I wandered through the convention’s gray carpeted purgatory and began rehearsing how I’d tell my family we would remain vanless, bound to our modest, immobile fate.

    And then—like a plot twist penned by a sentimental sportswriter—I ran into two Hawaiian brothers I hadn’t seen since Little League. We were kids once. They were legends. One of them, Wesley, struck me out four times in a single game, and I still remembered the way the ball moved like it had free will. Decades later, we were all adrift—middle-aged, mildly broke, and marvelously unsure of ourselves.

    We stood there, in that convention center of failed ambitions and discounted dreams, and talked about what we could’ve been. I told them they had enough charisma to turn their names into brands. I hugged Wesley and said, “You struck me out four times, and it’s a privilege to see you again.”

    None of us had a career. But we had memories. And love. And the unspeakable beauty of a satellite song that once played over cinnamon rolls.

  • Kafka Called—He Wants His Nightmare Back

    Kafka Called—He Wants His Nightmare Back

    Last night’s dream was less REM sleep and more bureaucratic farce with automotive stunt work. It started with me sprinting into a liquor store—not for booze, but for groceries, because apparently, in dream logic, milk and bananas are shelved next to Jack Daniels and scratchers. The plaza was wedged next to a police station, and as I pulled into the lot, I grazed another car. Minor fender-bender. Did I report it? Of course not. I had perishables. Yogurt waits for no man.

    Soon after, the cops called. Apparently, they frown upon drive-away accidents, even ones that involve $3.99 rotisserie chickens. Dutifully, I set off for the station, where fate promptly mocked me.

    As I crossed the street, a silver Porsche came screaming down the road like it was late for a yacht meeting. Behind the wheel was a rich guy with the glossy detachment of a man who names his houseplants after Nietzsche quotes. He swerved to avoid hitting a stray Siamese cat—an act of mercy that nearly murdered me. I dodged, lost control, and promptly rear-ended a parked car. Yes: I got in a car crash on my way to report a previous car crash.

    Inside the station, things went from absurd to surreal. The desk captain was none other than Todd, a former San Quentin prison guard I used to train with back in the ‘70s. Todd had the physique of a worn punching bag and the unmistakable face of Larry from The Three Stooges—if Larry had done time in corrections and smoked Kools for thirty years.

    Todd was unimpressed with my double-crash disclosure. He squinted at me like I was a damaged clipboard and muttered something like, “You ever thought of Canada?”

    Canada, in this dreamscape, was not a country but a penal colony for the mildly broken. A rehab center for the emotionally overdrawn. It wasn’t maple leaves and healthcare—it was despair with a windchill. The entire nation had collapsed into an encampment of defunct influencers and men who thought podcasts were a substitute for therapy. No plumbing, no cash, just bartering and tents. People traded AA batteries and protein bars like it was the yard at Pelican Bay.

    A man named Damon—he was 34, depressed, and once had a viral TikTok about the deep state—gave me the grand tour of my future. He pointed to the shell of a trailer I’d be assigned, complete with a tarp roof and a milk crate toilet. “It’s provisional,” he said, as if permanence were even an option.

    I immediately regretted migrating to Dream-Canada. I wanted to go back to the police station, fix the record, beg forgiveness, and reclaim my life of yogurt-based negligence. But that’s where the dream froze.

    I woke up to the smell of coffee. My wife was getting ready for work. Civilization, still intact—for now.

  • College Essay Prompt: Your Brand, Your Legacy: How to Influence Without Selling Out

    College Essay Prompt: Your Brand, Your Legacy: How to Influence Without Selling Out

    Assignment Overview:

    In the NIL era, athletes are no longer just players—they’re entrepreneurs, role models, and public figures. The rise of influencer culture gives you the power to shape your own brand, connect with fans, and earn money. But with that power comes pressure: How do you stay real while staying relevant? How do you build your platform without becoming a product?

    In the Money Game docuseries, LSU gymnast Olivia Dunne models a smart, sustainable approach to NIL: blending athletic performance, personality, and professionalism. In contrast, the Netflix documentary Untold: The Liver King tells the story of Brian Johnson—a man who built an extreme, hyper-masculine fitness brand only to fall hard after revealing he built his image on steroids and deception.

    In this essay, you will write a “how-to manual” for student-athletes trying to build an ethical, authentic, and effective personal brand. Your argument should clearly explain what works, what doesn’t, and why. Use Olivia Dunne as a model of smart influencer strategy, the Liver King as a cautionary tale, and at least one additional athlete (from the reading list or your own research) as a supporting case study.

    Your Goals in This Essay:

    • Teach readers how to build a responsible and sustainable NIL brand
    • Compare successful and failed influencer strategies
    • Reflect on how an athlete can balance real identity with public image
    • Take a clear stance on what makes influencer branding admirable, ethical, and long-lasting

    Essay Requirements:

    • MLA format (12-point font, double-spaced, proper citations)
    • 8 paragraphs: introduction, 6 body paragraphs, conclusion
    • At least two credible sources (see the reading list or find your own)
    • In-text citations and a Works Cited page
    • A focused, argumentative thesis (not just “influencing is good/bad”)
    • Use specific examples and clear reasoning

    Suggested 8-Paragraph Outline:

    1. Introduction
      • Hook: Ask a question or tell a quick story about athlete fame or social media fame
      • Context: Briefly define NIL and explain how it has changed college athletics
      • Thesis: State your core advice—what makes an NIL brand ethical, effective, and worth following
    2. Lesson #1: Be Real, Not Just Visible
      • Use Dunne’s example to show the power of authenticity and athletic credibility
      • Contrast with the Liver King’s persona-based deception
    3. Lesson #2: Align Your Brand with Who You Are
      • Use a secondary case study (e.g., Shedeur Sanders or Chase Griffin)
      • Show how a values-based brand creates trust and long-term appeal
    4. Lesson #3: Build for the Long Run, Not Just for Likes
      • Talk about long-term goals vs. short-term popularity
      • Emphasize how transparency and substance protect your legacy
    5. Lesson #4: Know the Game—You’re a Business, Not Just a Feed
      • Explain the importance of smart partnerships, content quality, and self-discipline
      • Compare thoughtful NIL deals with hype-based gimmicks
    6. Lesson #5: The Spotlight Is Hot—Know the Risks
      • Social media can bring opportunity and scrutiny
      • One bad post or fake partnership can harm your name
      • Tie back to broader trends in sports culture
    7. Counterargument + Rebuttal
      • Acknowledge: some believe shock and virality are the fastest way to fame
      • Rebut: real influence lasts longer than a trend, and fake personas crack under pressure
    8. Conclusion
      • Restate your thesis about how to build a brand that reflects who you are
      • Leave readers with advice: if a younger athlete asked you for NIL advice, what would you say?

    Companion Reading List

    1. [“How Marketers Choose College Athlete Influencers” – Harvard Business Review](https://hbr.org/2024/05/how-marketers-choose-college-athlete-influencers)

    Overview: This article delves into the criteria marketers use to select college athletes for NIL deals, emphasizing authenticity, engagement, and brand alignment.

    2. [“College Athletes Are Now Online Influencers, Too” – Global Sport Matters](https://globalsportmatters.com/business/2023/02/08/whole-different-audience-college-athletes-online-influencers-too/)

    Overview: Explores the dual identity of college athletes as both competitors and influencers, highlighting the opportunities and challenges of this new landscape.

    3. [“How NIL Deals and Brand Sponsorships Are Helping College Athletes Make Money” – Business Insider](https://www.businessinsider.com/how-college-athletes-are-getting-paid-from-nil-endorsement-deals)

    *Overview:* Provides a comprehensive look at the financial aspects of NIL deals, including the role of collectives and the varying scales of athlete earnings.([MarketWatch][1])

    4. [“Livvy Dunne Dishes on Her Social Media Strategy” – On3](https://www.on3.com/college/lsu-tigers/news/livvy-dunne-dishes-on-her-social-media-strategy-how-she-handles-rabid-fans/)

    *Overview:* Offers insights into Olivia Dunne’s approach to managing her online presence, balancing personal branding with athletic commitments.

    5. [“The Top 10 NIL Influencers To Follow On Social Media” – Viral Nation](https://www.viralnation.com/resources/blog/top-10-nil-influencers-of-2022)

    Overview: Highlights standout college athletes who have effectively leveraged social media for NIL opportunities, providing case studies of successful strategies.

    —

    College Football Players Exemplifying Savvy Social Media Use

    1. Shedeur Sanders (University of Colorado)

    Overview: Son of NFL legend Deion Sanders, Shedeur has cultivated a strong personal brand through consistent social media engagement, showcasing his on-field performance and off-field personality. His strategic use of platforms has led to significant NIL deals, making him one of the top earners among college athletes.([talkSPORT][2])

    2. Chase Griffin (UCLA)

    Overview: Recognized as a two-time NIL Male Athlete of the Year, Griffin has combined academic excellence with a thoughtful social media presence. He uses his platforms to discuss topics beyond football, including education and social issues, aligning with brands that reflect his values.

    3. Michael Turk (Oklahoma)

    Overview: Through his YouTube channel “Hangtime,” Turk shares content that blends athletic training, personal faith, and lifestyle topics. His authentic storytelling and engagement have attracted a substantial following, enhancing his marketability for NIL partnerships.([Wikipedia][3])

    4. Hendon Hooker (University of Tennessee)

    Overview: Hooker has utilized his platform to promote positive messages, including co-authoring a children’s book that combines sports themes with life lessons. His commitment to community engagement and personal development resonates with audiences and sponsors alike.([Wikipedia][4])

    5. Jaden Rashada (Arizona State University)

    Overview: As one of the first high school athletes to sign an NIL deal, Rashada has been at the forefront of athlete branding. His proactive approach to building a personal brand sets a precedent for upcoming athletes navigating the NIL landscape.([Wikipedia][5])

    [1]: https://www.marketwatch.com/story/these-10-college-athletes-are-making-over-1-million-a-year-in-nil-deals-203649d7?utm_source=chatgpt.com “These 10 college athletes are making over $1 million a year in NIL deals”

    [2]: https://talksport.com/us/2066573/livvy-dunne-top-nil-deals-shedeur-sanders-college/?utm_source=chatgpt.com “Livvy Dunne has $4m NIL fortune but it’s a trailblazing quarterback who tops college list”

    [3]: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Turk?utm_source=chatgpt.com “Michael Turk”

    [4]: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hendon_Hooker?utm_source=chatgpt.com “Hendon Hooker”

    [5]: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jaden_Rashada?utm_source=chatgpt.com “Jaden Rashada”

    10 Dos and Don’ts of Athletic Social Media Branding

    1. DO show your work ethic.

    Post training clips, game-day prep, recovery routines, and behind-the-scenes discipline. You’re not just flexing muscles—you’re broadcasting your commitment.

    DON’T just flex your abs.
     A shirtless selfie with no context screams vanity, not value. You’re not auditioning for a thirst trap Olympics.

    2. DO engage with your audience.

    Reply to comments, answer questions, and create polls or stories that invite fans into your world.

    DON’T buy followers or fake engagement.
     It’s obvious. It’s embarrassing. And brands can tell.

    3. DO be authentic.

    Speak in your voice. Share your story—wins, losses, doubts, comebacks. Fans connect with real people, not curated robots.

    DON’T mimic influencers who aren’t athletes.
     You’re not a fitness model or a supplement shill—unless you want to be irrelevant in two years.

    4. DO collaborate with brands that match your values.

    If you believe in a product, use it, and can explain why, that’s a partnership—not a transaction.

    DON’T promote sketchy products or fad diets.
     One bad NIL deal can wreck your reputation. If it sounds like snake oil, it probably is.

    5. DO use high-quality visuals.

    Good lighting, steady framing, and thoughtful captions go a long way. Even a smartphone can create pro-level content now.

    DON’T post blurry, off-angle, or half-baked content.
     You’re not in a group chat. You’re building a portfolio.

    6. DO tell a story.

    Whether it’s a comeback from injury, a day-in-the-life, or your pregame rituals—narrative builds loyalty.

    DON’T just post random hype clips with rap beats.
     Unless there’s context, all we see is ego and noise.

    7. DO highlight your education and character.

    Brands—and future employers—like athletes with brains, purpose, and integrity. Show that you’re more than a stat sheet.

    DON’T trash talk, subtweet, or complain.
     Screenshots are forever. Emotionally tweet like you’re already in the NFL.

    8. DO maintain consistency.

    Post regularly, even during the offseason. That’s when the real connections are made.

    DON’T ghost your audience.
     Going silent for months makes it look like you only post when you’re winning.

    9. DO respect team rules and brand guidelines.

    If you’re repping a university or sponsor, know the line between personal and professional content.

    DON’T leak locker room drama.
     One bad post can get you benched, dropped, or worse—memed into oblivion.

    10. DO think long-term.

    Use social media to build a bridge to life after football—whether it’s coaching, media, business, or beyond.

    DON’T tie your entire identity to performance.
     Your value isn’t just in touchdowns. Build a brand that lasts longer than your playing career.