I stopped posting on Substack because I was tired of feeling ignored.

Why I decided to come back, and how I’m pushing through the discomfort

Like most people here, I was excited about both the possibility of monetizing my writing and getting away from the social media algorithm that felt like it was actively burying my posts.

My first few articles felt fun and exciting — a new way to share, a means to get back to the writing I’d always wanted to do. On a working trip to England earlier this year, I sat myself down in my favorite coffeeshop to write one of my favorite Substacks, spending hours coming up with the perfect hook to lead off my article.

I was eager to share my perspectives on how literature has a greater connection to copywriting than we give it credit. How craft actually matters when it comes to copywriting. Why studying the way writers write can truly make your copywriting more powerful and resonant.

I was so ready to write my stories, to share more about being a neurodivergent creative who struggles with organization and planning but lives in a world of ideas and nuance. To share as someone who has 100 ideas before breakfast but changes planners and task management apps like they’re outfits.

Maybe this would be the platform where I finally felt at home. Maybe this would be the place where I could stop competing for attention. A place where I didn’t have to post videos and talk to the camera. A place where I could just set my ideas out into the world in beautiful long-form writing, and all to people who love reading as much as I do!

My first Substack had a 100% open rate (among a handful of people, but still!). The comments were complementary and supportive. So I made it my goal to write a Substack at least once a week if not two or three.

I filled my Evernote with ideas. I voice-noted concepts in my car and transcribed them later. I was so damn fired up to be writing again after shoving it down for so many years under busyness, client work, and a paralyzing fear of not being good enough.

Within a matter of weeks, I could feel my interest waning. The sticky fear creeping up— consuming and controlling me— every time I opened my laptop to write. My open rate fell. My subscriber count wasn’t growing much (at all) week to week. My notes got (mostly) ignored, while my feed was filled with people claiming to get hundreds of subscribers from a single note or post.

(Sometimes those notes were inane as hell, too. “Let’s all support each other by sharing our favorite Substack post and commenting on 3 of them! Let’s help each other grow!” said the perky people who filled my feed even if I didn’t remember following them. After awhile, they all felt mocking, at best. And always from people who made growing look easy. No surprise that when I tried to post like this I didn’t also get hundreds of likes and comments!)

It felt difficult to justify spending my time on my writing if no one was reading it. Instead of being an inspiring place to share, it became an echo chamber of comparison, where everyone but me was growing.

I’d save posts without reading them. Scour Substacks for ideas on how I could get more attention, and, ultimately, validation. I spent more time strategizing and planning than writing. I thought I could ‘plan’ my way out of this hole.

Was I destined to be invisible? Was it worse to be rejected, or just outright ignored? I always thought it was the first. I’ve lived most of my life afraid of offending people. Terrified to ‘let people down,’ even at the cost of my own happiness. Feeling like it was easier to be ‘nice’ and safe rather than saying what I really think.

No wonder all anyone does these days is chase controversy with the simple aim of getting attention. Because even if they’re mad, at least they’re commenting. At least you’re getting followers. At least you’re getting the biggest currency of all: attention.

Amie Mcnee recently wrote a Substack on this exact subject that’s probably the most incisive thing I’ve seen in this conversation about attention in the social media age. She writes about how artists are killing their creativity, their joy, and even their careers solely by making attention the end-all, be-all metric:

Creators all around the world are being convinced that attention is the new marker of creative success. The prevailing narrative is that artists and corporations are now aligned in their incentives: get more attention.

This is false. You will never be a successful artist if you only chase attention. You’ve been lied to. Attention is what they need. You need to create value. Real value [….] Artists struggle to make money because all we’ve been conditioned and trained to do is get attention.

This is the conversation we need to have. Not more posts about ‘how to go viral’ and ‘how to get more attention.’ We need to stop letting ourselves believe the lie that attention is the only way to measure value. That your worth as a creative equates to the number next to your name.

I quiet quit my Substack because I was chasing all the wrong things. I didn’t have the heart to shut it down, but didn’t have the desire to post either. All this, from someone who posted about not needing to ‘command attention’ to be worth paying attention to.

While I said I just wanted to write for me, I was dreaming about virality and likes and attention. I claimed I just wanted an outlet, a fun place to write and share, but I was already thinking about how I’d see my name hit the rising chart.

I was chasing attention while claiming it wasn’t what I was looking for.

I cared more about attention than expression. I cared more about likes than saying what I really meant. I should have approached my Substack as a place to build a body of work, to let my writing grow. I should have released the outcomes and trusted my people to find me all in good time.

The reason my Substack ‘failed’ isn’t because I’m not ‘good enough’ to make it here. It’s not because I didn’t optimize my posts perfectly, or follow the gurus who claim they have the formula for going viral. It’s because I had the wrong intentions entirely.

I forgot that I didn’t spend years polishing my craft to get attention. To fill a validation void. To be seen and heard and told how ‘good’ I am.

I became a writer because I couldn’t help but be a writer. I write because I can’t help but crave putting my ideas on paper. I write because it feels too important not to. I write because I’m a master overthinker who loves to analyze and daydream. I write because, as Joan Didion says, “We tell ourselves stories in order to live.”

Maybe I was putting too much pressure on myself to be perfect. To be ready. To be seen perfectly. As someone who works in marketing, I felt the immediate need for it to ‘pay off’ in some way with conversions. I put too much emphasis on immediate gratification. And you know what? That’s not the point of writing as a craft. I conflated what I do for my clients with the long and steady progress of creating for myself.

When you sign up to be a writer, you’re not signing up for immediate gratification. It may take months for an idea to really crystallize. Years of sitting down to your keyboard to get the words right. Even longer for your writing to find an audience. Maybe never that you get publication, awards, and (yes) attention for your writing.

If you’re writing just for the attention, the gratification, the validation, of course you’ll be disappointed. Of course you’ll feel like a failure. Of course you’ll quit— quietly or in a loud, angry blaze of glory.

I quit Substack because I was tired of chasing likes and attention. And I thought the right answer was just giving up on posting entirely.

But you know what the real answer is? To keep writing. Even when it’s hard. Even when no one’s looking. Even when it feels like you can’t possibly keep going. Because not trying is worse.

So, what am I doing differently this time? My Substack will still be part of my marketing. Yes, I want to find my people here. But I’m not going to treat subscribes and likes and comments as the metric. I’m starting over, this time with different intentions that mirror my true desires, not the metric billionaire-led companies tell us to aim for.

Right now, in this season, done truly is better than perfect. Done is better than never put on paper at all.