Picture it: Los Angeles, 2022. The morning I almost became a Dateline episode.

It started like any ordinary Saturday. Mid-morning, partly cloudy skies, birds doing their bird things. I was living in a quiet(ish) Southside neighborhood, where sun-faded stucco homes from the ’70s lined the streets, just a stone’s throw from the 405, and soaked in everyday SoCal suburbia—or, in my case, a true crime documentary.

I had leashed up Max, the bulldog we were fostering at the time. He looked like a giant, gently toasted marshmallow with legs and moved like one, too. Max didn’t walk so much as he embodied LA freeway traffic at 5:00—crawling forward inch by inch, aggressively unmoved by urgency. My fitness watch would often vibrate mid-walk just to say, “Are you… alive?” Still, the weather was perfect for bulldog walking, so off we went for our slow-motion adventure.

We’d made it almost the entire way around our loop when it happened.

A voice. Low. Raspy. Close.

“Just one today?”

I froze. It hadn’t come from in front of me—or behind. It had come from… beside me?

My stomach dropped. My brain immediately started filing emergency protocols. Was someone following me? Should I pretend I didn’t hear? RUN? Call someone?

I slowly turned my head toward the sound, and there—just above a crumbling wooden fence—two eyes stared back at me.

Eyes that belonged to a man I had never seen before.

He looked like he had been summoned straight from the pages of a survivalist manifesto. Wild white hair that had never met a comb, a beard that engulfed most of his face, and, from what I could see, clothes that hadn’t seen daylight in years. The fence he leaned on was barely standing—weather-beaten, splintered, sagging inward. Behind it stood the house.

And I say the house because everyone in the neighborhood knew it. That house. The haunted house. The something-is-definitely-wrong-here house. Paint that had long since peeled away. A dehydrated and hungover lawn that had never experienced a lawnmower. Sagging, pitiful porch. Windows that were covered in grime and tension. No one ever went in. No one ever came out. The kind of place you cross the street to avoid. The kind of place kids dare each other to knock on at Halloween.

And here I was. Standing still. Making eye contact with the ghost who apparently lived there.

My internal monologue? Screaming:

This is it. This is how I go. I’m going to be the cold open on next week’s Dateline. Maybe Keith Morrison will narrate. “She was just walking her dog…”

“Excuse me?” I asked, despite my better instincts. Despite the fact that my favorite true crime podcast had relentlessly drilled one phrase into my brain: FUCK POLITENESS.

He leaned a bit closer. “You usually have more. Bigger ones.”

I blinked. My body tensed. I looked down at Max, who was sitting like a loaf of bread, clearly unbothered. A useless sidekick in this horror movie.

My voice wavered. “Uh, yeah… he walks kind of slow. The big ones get irritated, so I take them separately.”

The man didn’t say anything for a beat. He just stared.

My blood turned to slush.

Had he been watching me?? He knew about my dogs.

Not just that I had more—but what they looked like.

I didn’t even know someone lived in that house, and now here was this human cryptid who had been tracking our every move like a National Geographic documentary.

My brain was spinning.

Why today? Why with this dog? Why not the big ones who would protect me? Can Max be a weapon if I throw him hard enough?

And then… the man smiled. A slow, eerie grin that crawled across his face like a shadow.
“Well,” he said. “Enjoy your next walk.”

And just like that—he was gone. Vanished behind the rotting fence like he’d never been there at all.

I stood there frozen for a moment. Heart thudding in my chest.

Still alive. Still on the sidewalk. Still in one piece.

“Let’s go, buddy,” I whispered, giving Max a tug. He blinked up at me but remained unconcerned, waddling along like we hadn’t just had a close brush with true crime infamy.

As we made our way home, I kept glancing over my shoulder, half expecting the man to reappear. But he didn’t. What he did do was leave me with a thought that stuck:

How did he know so much about me?

As we distanced ourselves from the ghost house and my adrenaline slowly normalized, I thought more about it. This elusive wildman wasn’t the only one watching. Other neighbors had noticed us in the past. Paid attention. Asked questions about my dogs.

And that’s when I realized something I hadn’t considered before: We had become a brand.

Whether I liked it or not, I was that crazy dog lady, the one with an ever-revolving door of canine companions. And our neighbors were invested. Even the most mysterious man on the block wanted to know more.

Before we go any further, let me give you some context—because the white-haired fence ghost wasn’t wrong.

At the time, we had three dogs of our own, and we were fostering regularly. Max was foster number six. Depending on the day (and how much energy I had), I’d take different combinations of dogs out for walks. Sometimes, just one. Sometimes, three. Sometimes, a wild mix of personalities that made me question all my life choices.

And people noticed.

Neighbors would comment when a new dog showed up. They’d ask what happened to the one with the bright blue eyes, or the chubby one, or the energetic little white one who’d lived with us for almost a year. They’d leave their porches and casually drop questions like, “So, is this a new family member or a foster?” or “Hey, where’s the one with the murder bark?” (Story for another day).

At some point, it became clear: we were being watched—but not in a creepy way (okay, sometimes in a creepy way). In an invested, curious, neighborhood-watch-meets-dog-lovers kind of way.

I didn’t know most of their names. But they knew us.

They looked forward to the daily lineup like it was a rotating cast on a sitcom. They’d ask how certain dogs were doing. They’d cheer when someone got adopted. A few even started asking for advice—on fostering, adopting, vet stuff, even what food to buy.

Somehow, without meaning to, we’d become a thing. The dog people. The neighborhood’s accidental mini brand.

So why did we stand out? Why did people stop and notice us when there were plenty of other dog walkers out and about?

The same reason any good brand stands out: Differentiation and consistency.

1. So… what is brand differentiation?

Glad you asked.

Brand differentiation is a fancy way of saying: what makes you different in a way that matters. It’s the thing that makes someone stop scrolling, click your site, and say, “Oh—this feels like it was made for me.”

It’s why someone chooses you instead of the business down the street offering basically the same thing.

That difference? It can come from a bunch of places:

• Your personality – how you sound, what you stand for, and what you give a damn about
• Your visual style – your logos, colors, fonts, and general vibe
• Your audience – the specific kind of people you’re showing up for (spoiler: it’s not everyone)
• Your offer or packaging – what you sell and how you deliver it
• Your process – not just what you do, but how you do it differently, better, or with more glitter

In my case? It wasn’t just that I was walking dogs. Lots of people were walking dogs. But I was walking a different combo every day—sometimes a chubby bulldog, sometimes a trio of scrappy weirdos, sometimes a mellow marshmallow with the gait of a senior turtle. It was the unpredictability that caught people’s attention. And when they found out why (fostering), they got curious. Then invested. Then emotionally attached.

That’s the power of standing out.

Because here’s the truth: In a sea of sameness, blending in is basically brand invisibility.

If your brand looks, sounds, and feels just like everyone else’s, there’s no reason for your audience to choose you. And they won’t. Because your people—the ones you actually want to work with? They’re looking for signs. Clues. Anything that tells them: “Yes, this is made for me.”

Differentiation is the signal that helps them find you.

It’s what builds connection and trust. It makes your audience feel like they’ve stumbled across the thing they’ve forever been looking for.

And once they find you? They stick around. They tell their friends. They fall in love with your brand because it speaks their language and understands what they care about.

So no, you don’t have to be the loudest brand in the room. But you do have to be the one that feels the most right to the people who matter.

That’s differentiation. And it’s magic.

2. Up next… what is brand consistency?

Brand consistency is what happens when every single part of your brand—your visuals, your voice, your messaging—all show up like they’re in sync and had a meeting about it beforehand.

It’s when your brand looks, sounds, and feels the same every time someone comes across it. No matter where or how they find you.

That includes:

• Your visuals – like your logo, colors, fonts, layout, and overall design style
• Your voice + tone – are you witty, heartfelt, edgy, polished? Pick a lane (and drive it well)
• Your messaging – the ideas, values, and core truths you’re repeating across platforms so your audience gets it

Think of it like this: You’re scrolling Instagram. You’re in full zombie thumb mode. And then—bam—you see a post and immediately know who it’s from. You didn’t even have to look at the username. The colors, the tone, the vibe—it’s unmistakably them.

That’s brand consistency in action.

And why does it matter? Because repetition builds recognition—and recognition builds trust.

And trust? That’s what starts conversations, opens wallets, and creates brand loyalty that lasts way longer than one click.

In our case? Consistency looked like this:

• Same neighborhood
• Same walker (me, hi)
• Same two permanent dogs were the constant in the ever-rotating cast of fosters

Even though the foster dogs were always changing, our presence stayed consistent. People saw us, recognized us, and started to care. They paid attention because we kept showing up in a way they could count on. We weren’t random or scattered—we were reliable, recognizable, and just unpredictable enough to keep it interesting.

So yes, creativity is great. Surprise is fun. But consistency is what turns a random encounter into a trusted relationship.

And in branding? That kind of relationship is everything.

What happens when you only have one (and not the other)?

Here’s where a lot of brands get tripped up:

They think standing out once is enough. Or that showing up all the time is enough. But the truth is—you need both.

✖️ Differentiation without consistency?

That’s forgettable fame.

You’ll turn heads the first time, sure. But if you don’t keep showing up in a way people recognize, they’ll scroll right past you. Out of sight, out of mind.

✖️ Consistency without differentiation?

That’s background noise.

You’re present, but you blend in. You’re doing all the things, but none of it stands out. You sound like everyone else, so your audience doesn’t stop, doesn’t click, doesn’t connect.

If I’d only ever walked the same two dogs, we might’ve been familiar, but never memorable. Just another neighbor doing her rounds.

But because we were both recognizable and distinct, people paid attention.

They got curious.

They got involved.

They connected to what we stood for—rescue, fostering, community, dog joy—and they kept coming back.

That’s what brand magic looks like.

Not just a one-time wow, but a story people want to follow.

TL;DR: You need both differentiation and consistency

If you want your brand to stand out and stick?

✔️ Be different enough to get noticed

✔️ Be consistent enough to be remembered

✔️ Be both if you want to be trusted, loved, and chosen

Max may have moved like freeway traffic at rush hour—but when it comes to your brand, you don’t have to learn the hard way.

You’ve got the map now.

Go build something unforgettable.

Ready to stand out on purpose?

If you’re tired of blending in—or winging it—and you’re ready for a brand that actually reflects what makes you special (and sells because of it), let’s talk.

👉 Book a brand consult or slide into my inbox here. I’ll bring the clarity, you bring the dogs (kidding… unless?).