If I don't write about it, was it worth it?

On a life always documented

Post title pulled from My Ego Dies At The End by the incomparable Jensen McRae

Picture me hunched over a desk in a bright office spending hours combing through public records and scrolling social media, hoping something would spark an idea. During my brief stint as a journalist, I eavesdropped on every public conversation I could and sat through hours of city council meetings, handing out business cards with a quick call me if there’s ever something happening you think I should know about. I like to think I was pretty good at it. I sometimes still wish I did work that was noble and mostly selfless. It embarrassed me to walk away.

I started blogging nearly two years after I left. My journalistic skills came in handy, except I was teaching myself search engine optimization and brainstorming caption ideas instead of gunning for a front-page article. My favorite part was always the photos that accompanied every post. I’d make a note of potential backdrops as I drove around town, making my husband take artful pictures of me in front of bright murals. I’d shop and shop and shop all so I could share affiliate links and make back a fraction of what I spent. Slowly, my life became something for others to consume.

I began to take Substack seriously earlier this year. Since then, I’ve amassed a modest (heavy on the modest!) following — just under two thousand readers and fifty paid subscribers. The money I’m making is far from enough to sustain me. Still, at the risk of sounding overly earnest, it’s one of the most fulfilling things I’ve ever done. Right now, I’m at the bar of my favorite coffee shop while Noah Kahan blares through my headphones. Sitting to write these posts is the highlight of every week.

But writing two essays a month — and not just writing, but creating something I’m proud of — is more difficult than I thought. I always have a list of ideas swirling, but they’re often nebulous. Sometimes, I feel like a journalist again, except I’m examining every private thought I have, hoping I’ll find something worth sharing. We’ve covered my complicated relationship with being too open online, so this may not be a surprise to you. Lately, I’ve been wrestling with my inclination to transform every complicated experience I have into something that’ll get likes, comments, and reposts. Influencing became hard because it exhausted me. I started to look at everything through a lens that prioritized social media engagement and getting attention from brands. Nothing was too sacred.

Is what I’m doing now that different?

spotted this on Twitter and it spoke to me

Earlier this month, I fell walking down a set of stairs while shopping, resulting in a crowd of people rushing to help and mall security calling paramedics to the scene. Thankfully, I was only scraped up, but the experience was equally embarrassing and scary. After everything slowed down, I sat and cried quietly before pulling it together for my daughter, who was terrified after witnessing the whole thing. Not A Good Time! Once I felt calm, I texted my closest friends to tell them what happened. Then I recounted the entire experience on Instagram Stories (no surprise there!).

Shortly after I posted, my mom called me to ask if I’d really already put what happened online, to which I responded yes, of course. It hadn’t occurred to me to keep it private. Besides, I thought hearing stories from people with similar experiences might help, and it did. But I didn’t allow myself to process, instead choosing to post a social media story time with my eyebrow still streaked with blood. I turned the whole ordeal into something exciting for strangers with minimal effort. I wonder why my brain works this way. The Instagram posts aren’t high-stakes, though. Stories disappear in twenty-four hours, and posts can be archived or deleted.

It’s not always that easy.

Crafting an outline for my book is one of the hardest things I’ve done. How the hell am I supposed to decide what’s off-limits when I’ve shared almost everything meaningful that’s ever happened to me? I look back at some of the content I churned out when I was younger and shudder. (If you ever elect me as president, I will make it illegal for 24-year-olds to publish hot takes they’ll inevitably regret in the future.) I’ve refined my process and rarely regret the things I put out there now, but a book is scarily permanent. My children might read it one day. Unlike my past articles that have mostly faded into digital obscurity, printed pages stay relevant forever.

As I sat down with my trusty notebook and one of my favorite pens, I mulled it over. Sharing every part of my psychotic episode wasn’t of interest to me, nor did I think it was necessary to describe every trauma I’d met in prior years. Even with those parameters, there’s something slightly uncomfortable about the impersonal way I sorted my most vulnerable experiences into imaginary buckets, deciding which things were too tender to discuss as I went along. I’m proud of my book, and I can’t find anything I wish I’d kept private. It was cathartic to write.

But I have to wonder whether the way I cope with suffering is entirely healthy. How would I process my life if there were no one to read the essays or reply to the story posts? I occasionally use a journal, but it doesn’t bring the same level of satisfaction. In some ways, it’s healing because I feel like I might help people. Honestly, I don’t think I know how to live my life otherwise.

I recently had a horrible week — lots of crying and phone calls to friends who knew the right things to say. I kept the sadness close to my chest, and it eventually passed, as it always does. When the cloud lifted, I mindlessly wondered whether my ordeal would fit in an upcoming essay and forced myself to stop. Not every bad thing is a lesson to learn, nor do I owe the world every detail in the name of making people feel better about themselves. (By the way, I realize I am, in fact, spilling my guts in this post. Meta!) This is meaningful. At this point, it flows easily. Naturally, even. But do any of my vulnerable moments belong solely to me? Of course, this is my own doing. No one’s forcing my hand.

it’s me!

I put pressure on myself to always make lemonade out of lemons, and for me, that means baring my soul to the world after something awful happens. I partly blame my Christian upbringing and the belief that every bad thing is turned into good. It generates positivity that often feels inauthentic. I no longer believe that all things happen for a reason. Sometimes, you land on the wrong side of the odds, and there’s nothing that can be done about it.

When something bizarre happens, I often joke that at least I’m getting a good story out of this. So, what happens when I don’t share that story and choose to keep it to myself? My life doesn’t have to be entirely for other people’s entertainment. Some things can stay in my group chats or (gasp!) in my journal. Every situation doesn’t call for a social media post, and the vulnerability hangover that inevitably comes the next day. I don’t have to write about it. It’ll still be worth it.

I thought it’d be fun to share more of my process since we’re talking about writing. It’s chaotic, but in a fun way. I draft a post with extra content for paid subscribers and a shorter post that’s free for everyone to read every month. My approach isn’t off the cuff; I have a mental calendar with the topics I’ll cover and the dates I’ll share the posts. I use Trello to keep track of ideas that I have — some good, many terrible. I thought about showing you the left column, but I had to redact it. Even I’ve got some self-preservation skills.