The journey from law to media visibility: how I built an unconventional path without forcing a personal brand

In this personal essay, our guest contributor Adanna Adindu Isabella Victor reflects on her unconventional journey from law to media, exploring how digital visibility, continuous learning, and building proof of work helped her create a career beyond traditional expectations.

 

The first piece of writing I remember calling mine was written when I was about ten years old, in primary school. I cannot say I understood what a career was then, or that I knew writing could one day become a bridge between my private thoughts and public opportunities. I only remember the feeling: the joy of putting words together and realising they could carry something that had been living quietly inside me.

Years later, whenever I complained about how hectic law was, my father would remind me that I chose it by myself. And he was absolutely right. I did choose law. I wanted it. I fought for it. I saw it as the natural home for someone who loved words, arguments, justice, and structure.

But I also grew up in Nigeria, where many of us were taught, directly or indirectly, that the most prestigious careers were law, medicine, accounting, engineering, and a small circle of other “serious” professions. Other courses were often treated as if they were less dignified, less ambitious, or less deserving of respect. You could hear it in the way people spoke about those who studied sociology, theatre arts, mass communication, or other disciplines that did not sound like a guaranteed family bragging right.

Medicine and the sciences were heavily tied to mathematics, and I knew early that I was not inclined that way. So law became the prestigious dream that still felt close to my natural strengths. It gave me language. It gave me logic. It gave me a reason to believe I had chosen wisely.

 

 

Then, in 200 level, something shifted.

It was 2019, before COVID changed the world and before remote work became a phrase almost everyone understood. I was lying on my bunk bed in school, thinking about the kind of life I wanted to live. I had always paid attention to women who seemed to represent ease, beauty, freedom, and intention. One of those women was Yvonne Victoria, whose “lady of leisure” mantra stayed with me because it made me think deeply about softness, choice, and the possibility of a life that did not always have to feel like survival.

That night, I realised something that scared me: law, as I had imagined it, might not give me the life I wanted.

I could have quit. I thought about it. But I did not. I saw law through because I had started it, because my family believed in me, and because a part of me still respected the discipline. But that night on my bunk bed, I stopped seeing my career as one straight road. I began to wonder what else my writing could become.

 

Read also: Vivienne Odofin-Daniel on transitioning from law to building global brand strategies and nurturing businesses that connect with Nigerians

 

Before the path made sense, it looked confusing

 

The difficult thing about unconventional careers is that they often look like confusion before they become clarity.

Before COVID, remote work existed, but in my immediate world, it did not feel like a structured or widely accepted career path. Most people I knew still understood work as somewhere you went physically, with an office, a boss, and a title that relatives could explain. The idea that a Nigerian student could build a career online, work for foreign clients, write for global brands, and turn digital skills into income sounded almost unserious.

But I had already seen small signs.

I knew I could write. In 2013, I wrote Made For You on Wattpad. I also wrote a fanfiction titled My Best Friend’s Girlfriend. At the time, platforms like Wattpad were not a dependable career plan for young writers like me. They were places where you wrote because you loved it, because you had stories, and because someone somewhere might read them. My first Wattpad account, which had built a strong early readership, was later shut down and could not be retrieved. Thankfully, I still had other copies of my work. That loss taught me something I did not fully understand at that time:  platforms may give you visibility, but you still need ownership.

In 2019, while many people used their data mainly to stream movies and scroll for entertainment, and I will not pretend I did not do the same, the difference was that I also began using mine to search. I searched for foreign remote jobs, writing opportunities, and courses. I looked for anything that meant proof that there was another way to build a career.

That was how I discovered platforms like Coursera and Internshala. I started taking courses and applying for internships because desire alone was not enough. Confidence is beautiful, but competence is what keeps doors open. I did not want to be someone who only said, “I can write.” I wanted to become someone who understood content, structure, research, SEO, briefs, deadlines, audiences, platforms, and results.

 

 

At that stage, I did not have the language for everything I was building. I only knew I was collecting skills that felt more aligned with the life I wanted.

 

Law did not disappear from my story

For a long time, I thought choosing one path meant betraying the other.

But the older I got, the more I realised that law did not disappear from my story. It trained me in research. It taught me how to read carefully, argue clearly, think in systems, and respect evidence. These skills later became useful in SEO, content strategy, taxation content, healthcare content, iGaming, creator briefs, and performance creative strategy.

The mistake many people make about unconventional careers is assuming they are random. Most of the time, they are not. They are patterns you cannot explain yet.

When I moved deeper into writing and content, I was not abandoning law. I was carrying parts of it into a different room. I was learning how to write not only for judges, lecturers, or exams, but for readers, users, brands, search engines, AI systems, clients, and communities.

That is why my career eventually stretched across different industries. I have worked in taxation, healthcare, iGaming, education, media, football, and creative strategy. I have worked with companies and clients across the US, Europe, and Asia. My work has sat under SEO, AEO, content systems, content management, creator strategy, and digital visibility.

On paper, that may look like a range. In reality, the thread is simple: I help ideas become clear, searchable, useful, and valuable.

 

Read also: How Derrick Downey Jr.’s “DualShot” recorder is rewriting the rules of content creation

 

When your best work is hidden, you need visible proof

One of the hardest parts of building a career in content strategy is that some of your strongest work may never carry your name.

Many companies work with non-disclosure agreements. I understand why. Businesses want to protect their trade secrets, content systems, market strategies, internal processes, and competitive ideas. But for the person doing the work, it can be painful. You can write the strategy, build the content, improve the structure, shape the campaign, or contribute to growth, and still find yourself unable to say, “This was mine” publicly. 

For a while, I struggled with that.

I had a CV that stretched across niches and countries, but I still needed something that belonged visibly to Adanna Adindu Isabella Victor. Not just work I had done for other people, or documents sent privately to employers, or anonymous proof under company names.

I needed my own proof of work.

That is how Bella’s Football Edge and Insights from an Abnormal Gen Z were birthed.

Bella’s Football Edge started from love. I have supported Arsenal for over 15 years, and football has always been one of the places where I feel most alive. What began as a hobby became a space where I could show my voice, analysis, consistency, humour, and point of view. I write about Arsenal match reactions, tactical talking points, Premier League debates, transfer opinions, and the emotional experience of being a fan. It is not performative because I am not pretending to care about football for visibility. I genuinely care. The credibility comes from the honesty.

 

 

Insights from an Abnormal Gen Z became another home for my voice. On Medium, I use it to write about identity, modern work, relationships, digital growth, SEO, AEO, and the emotional clarity behind how my generation is trying to survive and be understood. It gives me room to be reflective, practical, and sometimes vulnerable without having to confine myself to one niche.

These platforms do not replace my professional work. Rather, supports it, showing people how I think when no client brief tells me what to say.

 

Visibility does not have to be cringe

A lot of women struggle with visibility because we have been taught to fear being seen too much. If you share your wins, you are doing too much. If you promote your work, you are proud. If you talk about your expertise, you are trying to prove something. If you stay quiet, people forget you exist.

So we end up trapped between wanting opportunity and fearing judgment.

What helped me was redefining visibility. I stopped seeing it as performance and started seeing it as evidence. Visibility, at its best, is not shouting “look at me.” It is saying, “Here is what I know. Here is what I have built. Here is what might help you.”

That shift changed everything.

My Pinterest shows parts of my AI image prompting and visual creativity. My TikTok and Pinterest allow me to experiment with AI video editing and short-form storytelling. Bella’s Football Edge shows my football analysis and editorial voice. Insights from an Abnormal Gen Z shows my personal essays and thought leadership. LinkedIn shows my professional positioning around SEO, AEO, content strategy, and creative systems.

None of these platforms has to carry my whole identity. Each one does a different job.

That is one of the biggest lessons I wish more women understood: you do not have to turn your entire life into content. You can choose what each platform is allowed to see. Your LinkedIn profile can show your professional thinking. Your newsletter can show depth. Your Medium can show essays. Your TikTok can show process. Your portfolio can show results. Your Instagram can show personality. You are allowed to have layers.

The goal is not to become constantly available to the internet, but to become findable for the right things.

 

Read also: Uzoamaka Power on “Call of My Life”, being seen, and the terrifying beauty of being loved well

 

Build a body of work before you need it

Many people wait until they need an opportunity before they start building proof. They wait until they are applying for a job, pitching a brand, asking to be featured, or trying to convince someone of their value.

But proof works best when it has been built before the ask.

That does not mean you need a perfect personal brand. I do not believe in forcing a polished online identity that feels nothing like your real life. But I do believe every young woman should have visible proof of her skills.

If you are a writer, publish essays or samples. If you are a designer, show your process. If you are a strategist, break down campaigns. If you are in media, review stories, analyse trends, interview people, or document what you are learning. If you want remote work, show that you can think, communicate, organise, and deliver.

 

 

The internet has changed credibility. A CV is still important, but it is no longer enough. People want to see how you think before they take a chance on you.

That is especially true for African women trying to access global opportunities. Sometimes, before anyone interviews you, they search your name. They look for proof, clarity, and signals that you are not only talented but also intentional.

Your digital presence should not be a shrine to perfection. It should be a trail of useful evidence.

 

Value is what keeps visibility from becoming noise

The reason visibility becomes cringe is usually that it is rooted in attention alone.

When visibility is rooted in value, it feels different.

Value can be teaching what you know. It can be telling the truth about your journey. It can be sharing mistakes so that someone else avoids them. It can be documenting your process. It can make complex information simpler. It can give language to something many people feel but cannot explain.

This is part of why I co-founded Gain Mastery with Okem Ogba. It started as a class where we taught Nigerians how to understand foreign remote jobs, build relevant skills, position their CVs, and use online platforms better. Over time, the vision expanded. We began thinking beyond adults who were already trying to get work. We started moving towards secondary school outreach because young people need this education earlier.

They need to know the good and bad sides of online visibility. They need to know that the internet can open doors, but it can also reward noise, comparison, scams, and unhealthy performance. They need to learn that being visible is not the same thing as being careless. They can build skills, share ideas, protect themselves, and still use digital platforms as tools for growth.

For me, that is where visibility becomes meaningful. It is not just about my name appearing in more places. It is about helping someone else understand earlier what I had to learn slowly.

 

Read also: Everyone dreams of a soft life — how Denise Eseimokumoh, our Editor-in-Chief, creates hers with discipline and intention

 

The path now makes sense because I kept building

Looking back, the girl who wrote at ten, the law student on the bunk bed, the Wattpad writer, the student taking online courses, the football fan writing Arsenal analysis, the content strategist working across global industries, and the woman talking about digital visibility on a media podcast are not separate people.

They are all me at different stages of clarity.

For a long time, I wanted my career to make sense to everyone immediately. Now, I know that it is not always possible. Some paths only become clear after you have walked far enough to see the pattern.

My unconventional media path taught me that visibility is not about forcing a personal brand. It is about building honest proof. It is about allowing your work, values, skills, and voice to meet in public. It is about showing up consistently enough that the right people can find you, understand you, and trust you.

If you are a young African woman building a career that does not yet make sense to everyone, I want you to know this: confusion does not always mean you are lost. Sometimes, it means you are early.

But while you are early, build.

Write the essay. Start the newsletter. Share the case study. Record the video. Create the portfolio. Pitch the podcast. Apply for the remote role. Document what you are learning. Learn the skill properly. Put your name beside something useful.

Do not wait until you feel fully ready to become visible. Visibility is not the reward at the end of the journey. Sometimes, it is the road that helps the right opportunities find you.

 

Read more: Invisible scars: 22-year-old model on reclaiming identity through art and fashion

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