My phone buzzes.

It's a text. All caps. From a friend I haven’t heard from in more than a year.

I'm looking at this morning's post at the same time. A handful of comments from people I genuinely love hearing from. (Not viral. The kind of numbers that make a social media coach tilt her head and say, "Okay, but have you tried a trending audio?")

Let me back up.

Seven days ago, I made myself a promise to be consistent on social media. Every morning, I post a Mo’ning brief. (Yes, the pun is intended. No, I'm not sorry.)

The rules are simple. Under 60 seconds. One small observation. One bigger point about life. One mission for whoever's watching.

Today happens to be ALL CAPS DAY, which I'd say is a real holiday, though I'd also say the internet is mostly made of fake holidays. So the mission was this: send somebody a note in ALL CAPS and tell them what they mean to you.

That's it. That's the whole production. No lighting. No script. Just some bouncy audio quality while recording in a T-shirt with a hipster French Bulldog.

Now, here's what the marketing gospel says about this.

Engagement is currency. Comments are gold. Shares are platinum. Every like is a tiny vote telling the algorithm you deserve to be seen. Whatever happens off the platform? Doesn't count. Didn't happen. 

If a tree falls in the forest and nobody comments with tree, leaf and chainsaw emojis, the tree is not getting boosted.

The algorithm, as far as I can tell, is a needy middle manager. It wants everything in writing. Preferably in the comments. Preferably by noon.

And to be fair to the middle manager, the comments matter. Every person who types something under that video is the reason the next person sees it at all. Some of them have been showing up in my comments since before I had a routine to show up for.

But my phone keeps doing this other thing.

People are texting me. Calling me. Messaging me privately. Telling me about their day, or what the mission stirred up or that they actually did the thing.

Some folks just aren't public people. They'll watch every single day and never leave a word where anyone can see it. That's not less engaged. That's engaged somewhere else.

The algorithm only gets to count half of that.

I think I know why it's happening, too. Sixty seconds of a slightly (or very) rumpled person saying something true doesn't feel like a performance. It feels like a voicemail from a friend. Some people reply where everyone can hear it. Some people call you back.

Which brings me back to the text.

It's from the woman who helped our family care for my uncle for many years of his life.

I forgot she had my number.

She'd watched the brief. She'd done the mission. Then she reported back, the way you'd report back to a commander, except in all caps, because she follows instructions better than a lot of people I know.

She'd sent three notes. All three were well received. And sending them made her feel good.

Three people got told what they meant to someone today. One woman felt good about doing it. And she went looking for my number just to tell me.

The algorithm counted none of it.

As far as the dashboard knows, that moment doesn't exist. It only exists because the comments kept the video moving long enough to find her.

I've been asked what the metrics look like after a week. 

Honestly? I don't know how to answer anymore. The numbers I can see are people I'm grateful for.

The numbers I can't see are three notes, one text and a woman I didn't expect to hear from, telling me in capital letters that she did her homework.

I texted her back.

IN ALL CAPS. What else could I do?