With fame, you can't trust everybody. You can't depend on them

Hear the lament of Chris Brown, spoken from the bitter cup of experience: “With fame, you can’t trust everybody. You can’t depend on them being there for you as a person. They will only be there because of what you’ve got and what you can bring to their life. It’s not a relationship—it’s a leech.” These words, though born of the world of celebrity, ring with a truth far older than the modern stage. They speak of the danger of false companionship, of the shadows that gather when wealth, power, or renown surround a man. For where there is fame, there also come flatterers and leeches, who cling not to the soul of a person, but to the glow of his fortune.

The meaning is clear yet piercing: not every hand extended in friendship is sincere, and not every smile hides loyalty. When a man possesses little, he may more easily discern who loves him for himself; but when he possesses much, the purity of affection becomes clouded. Trust becomes precious, rare as gold in the dust. What Brown calls a “leech” is the false friend, the one who feeds upon another’s gifts, draining him of energy and peace, offering little in return. Such people do not walk with you through sorrow; they vanish when the feast is gone.

The ancients knew this truth well. Consider the story of Julius Caesar, who rose to unmatched power in Rome. Around him gathered senators, soldiers, and friends, all proclaiming loyalty. Yet on the Ides of March, those same friends, Brutus among them, struck him down with daggers. His power had attracted men not for love of Caesar, but for the hope of gain. In the moment of trial, their true hearts were revealed. Thus do Brown’s words echo the lesson of history: fame and fortune draw not only admirers but betrayers.

Another example lies in the life of King Lear, who trusted the flattering tongues of Goneril and Regan, believing their words of love. They praised him while he held the crown, but when his power was given away, their devotion turned to scorn. Only Cordelia, who had spoken less but loved more, remained true. Lear learned, too late, that those who cling for advantage are not companions but parasites. Here again we see the leech, clothed in affection but feeding only upon advantage.

But let us not think this lesson is only for kings, emperors, or celebrities. In every life, there are those who seek us not for who we are, but for what we can provide. Some draw near in seasons of abundance, but vanish in seasons of drought. Others speak words of loyalty, yet their hearts are bound only to gain. To recognize them is wisdom, to guard against them is survival. For relationships without mutual giving are not relationships at all—they are burdens, draining the soul of joy.

The true counsel in Brown’s lament is this: discern your companions. Seek those who walk with you not because of your wealth, your title, or your gifts, but because of your essence—your soul, your laughter, your wounds, your truth. Do not measure friendship by words spoken in prosperity, but by presence kept in hardship. The genuine friend is not the one who feasts with you, but the one who stays when the table is bare.

Therefore, let the teaching be clear: beware the leech, and treasure the loyal heart. Do not harden yourself in suspicion, but walk in discernment, testing the spirit of those who approach you. Ask not, “What do they take from me?” but, “What do they give, even in silence?” And above all, strive yourself to be a true friend—one who stands firm not for gain, but for love. For in a world filled with shadows, the light of genuine loyalty is the rarest treasure a soul may possess.