Not because there are too many creators or because there is too much content. I actually love that anyone can pick up their phone, start writing, filming, photographing, or creating something and find people who care about it. What exhausts me is how much of the conversation around creating has become about getting people to see the content instead of caring about the content itself.

You see it everywhere. Someone posts, “How I gained 10,000 followers in 30 days.” Someone explains the three things you need to do to go viral on TikTok. Instagram is filled with carousels about the “hooks that are working right now,” and Substack has become full of people explaining how they reached their first 1,000 subscribers, how they use Notes, or how they get more recommendations. There is now an entire category of content dedicated to teaching us how to make content that gets more people to consume our content.

And I understand why. Of course we want to grow. If you are creating something, it feels good to know that people are seeing it. If you’re building a business, numbers can be incredibly important. But I think somewhere along the way, we started confusing growth with creativity, and they are not the same thing.

Everyone is learning how to grow

The strangest part is that this mindset has spread far beyond people who actually make content about social media. Someone who started an account because they love photography is suddenly learning about retention. A writer is thinking about SEO and clickable titles before they even know what they want to say. Someone sharing their life starts looking at everyday experiences through the lens of whether they could become a Reel or TikTok.

TikTok probably made this especially obvious. We have learned that everything needs a hook, that the first three seconds are the most important, that you need to create curiosity, and that if someone doesn’t stop scrolling immediately, you’ve already lost them. There is obviously strategy behind this, and I don’t think strategy is bad, but I sometimes wonder what happens when we start believing that every piece of creativity needs to be optimized before it deserves to exist.

Instagram has done something similar. You can post a picture you genuinely love and immediately start looking at the reach, saves, shares, likes, and follower growth. If it performs well, you make another one like it. If it doesn’t, you assume your audience doesn’t want that kind of content. Eventually, the numbers start making creative decisions for you, and you can end up creating what performs instead of what you actually enjoy.

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Even Substack, which feels like one of the last places where people can slow down and simply write, has become part of the same conversation. There is nothing wrong with learning how to grow a newsletter, but sometimes I open Notes and feel like I’m seeing another version of Instagram or TikTok, where everyone is talking about getting more subscribers, building an audience, and figuring out how to reach more people.

I think that’s what has started to bother me. We aren’t necessarily more creative than we were before, but we have become much better at talking about how to distribute our creativity. And I’ve done it myself too when I first started out. I was sharing my journey not knowing there is a whole world pushing to gain more and more.

We care more about the outreach than what we’re actually putting out

At some point, I think we stopped asking, “Is this something I actually want to make?” and started asking, “Will people engage with this?” The difference seems small, but it changes everything. When the numbers become the main goal, you naturally begin repeating whatever worked before, even if you are bored with it. You start looking at your own life as a collection of potential posts and your own thoughts as potential hooks. Instead of experiencing something, you are already thinking about how you could turn it into content.

And I don’t think that’s what most of us originally wanted.

Most people didn’t start creating because they wanted to become experts at analytics. They started because they had something they wanted to share. They liked taking pictures. They liked writing. They were funny. They wanted to document their life. They had an idea they couldn’t stop thinking about. They wanted to find people who felt the same way.

The numbers came later.

Somewhere along the way, though, the numbers became the reason.

We have started treating reach as proof that something is meaningful because reach is easy to measure. A post that gets 500,000 views looks successful, while a post that gets 500 views can feel like a failure, even if those 500 people genuinely connected with it. We can’t put a number on someone reading your writing at exactly the right moment, saving a video because it made them feel less alone, or following you because they genuinely like the way you see the world. So instead, we look at followers, views, likes, and subscribers because those are the things the platforms give us to measure.

But being seen and being meaningful aren’t the same thing. We’ve lost the meaning of documenting our real life.

I think that’s why I want this next era of content to feel a little different. I don’t want to stop caring about growth, and I don’t think creators should pretend that numbers don’t matter. Growth can open doors, build businesses, create opportunities, and help good work reach people who would have never found it otherwise. But I don’t want growth to become the thing that decides what I create.

I want there to be room for the post that doesn’t perform, the essay that only a few people read, the picture that doesn’t get as many likes, and the random TikTok that was made simply because it was funny. I want people to be able to create something without immediately asking whether it can become a series, a strategy, a product, or a viral moment.

Because I think the best creators have always been the people who actually have something to say. Their growth came from the fact that people connected with their perspective, not because they found the perfect formula for reaching them.

Maybe that’s what we need to get back to. Not ignoring the algorithm or pretending that strategy doesn’t exist, but remembering that the content has to come before the outreach. The reason we wanted people to find us in the first place was because we had something we wanted to share with them.

I don’t want to become so focused on getting people to look at my work that I forget to make work worth looking at.

Maybe we don’t need another growth strategy.

Maybe we just need to care about what we’re creating again.

With Love,

Alyson

If you liked this article, you should check out my others:)

I think we’re too good at protecting ourselves. Shocker.

I know that probably sounds like a strange thing to say, especially now. We’ve spent so much time learning about boundaries, protecting our peace, recognizing red flags, and understanding what we will and will not tolerate from other people. I actually think a lot of that is a good thing. There are things I would never want someone to convince themselves they have to stay in just because they’re uncomfortable.

But sometimes I wonder if we’ve taken the idea of protecting ourselves a little too far. At some point, protecting your peace became the answer to almost everything, and suddenly we started labeling every uncomfortable interaction instead of just experiencing it.

A friend does something that bothers you, and maybe you’re outgrowing the friendship. Someone doesn’t text you back, and suddenly there’s a reason for it. You have an awkward conversation, and you start wondering if the relationship is toxic. You don’t feel like going out, so maybe you’re protecting your energy. There is always an explanation available, and usually, TikTok is happy to give it to you.

I started thinking about this while watching Sex and the City before it was removed from Netflix. There was a scene where Carrie was getting ready to leave because she was already late for a date with Big when the phone rang. It was Charlotte, and Carrie stopped what she was doing to talk to her about whatever was happening in her life at the time. They talked for a few minutes, Carrie hung up, and she left.

It was such a normal interaction that it almost felt foreign to me.

I started thinking about what that same situation would look like now. Charlotte would probably text Carrie. Carrie might see the message but be too busy to answer. Charlotte might see that Carrie was online. Carrie might screenshot the conversation and send it to another friend to get their opinion. That friend might send her a TikTok about friendship boundaries, and suddenly something that could have been a five-minute conversation has turned into an entire investigation into whether Charlotte is a good friend.

Obviously, Sex and the City is a television show, and people had complicated relationships long before social media existed. But I do think being in your twenties today is different from what it was for previous generations. We have access to so much information about ourselves and each other that sometimes I wonder if we have forgotten how to simply be in a relationship without constantly analyzing it.

We know about attachment styles, love languages, emotional availability, burnout, people pleasing, nervous system regulation, toxic relationships, and a hundred other things that previous generations didn’t have the language for in the same way. That knowledge can be incredibly helpful. It can give someone the words to explain something they have been experiencing for years.

But I think there is a downside to knowing what everything means.

We have become incredibly good at labeling things before we have even had the chance to understand them ourselves.

And I think TikTok has made this even easier.

You can have a weird interaction with your friend and, before you’ve even had a chance to talk to them about it, find hundreds of people explaining exactly what happened. Maybe your friend is jealous of you. Maybe they’re threatened by you. Maybe you’re outgrowing them. Maybe this is a sign that you need to let the friendship go.

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Sometimes it is.

But sometimes your friend is just having a bad day.

Sometimes you misunderstood each other.

Sometimes someone said something that came out wrong.

Sometimes you have to tell someone they hurt your feelings and give them the opportunity to do better.

That doesn’t mean you have to tolerate everything. It just means that not every uncomfortable moment is proof that something is wrong.

I think about this a lot because I spent this past weekend in Maine with some friends, and it was one of those weekends that reminded me how nice it is to just be around people without constantly thinking about what the experience means.

Some of these friends actually came into my life because of social media. A few of us met through Instagram, and somehow those online friendships turned into real friendships. So I don’t think social media is the enemy here. In fact, it has brought some incredible people into my life.

But the funny part is that the best part of our weekend happened when we barely had any service.

We sat around a picnic table wearing paper crowns and debriefed about the weekend while the weekend was still happening. We spent hours around a fire talking about our dreams and how we could help each other get there. We laid on the dock painting the sunset and sang karaoke to Disney songs. We didn’t really go into town, and we weren’t constantly reaching for our phones.

There was no TikTok theory telling us what our friendship was supposed to look like.

We weren’t wondering if we were making the most of our twenties or whether everyone had the right energy. We weren’t trying to make the weekend into something that looked good from the outside. We were just having the weekend.

And I think that’s what made it so good.

It made me wonder if this is one of the biggest differences between growing up now and growing up before social media. There wasn’t always a running commentary on your life. You could have a bad date without immediately looking for a reason it happened. You could have an argument with a friend and not immediately wonder if the friendship was toxic. You could feel uncomfortable around someone without deciding that they were a bad person or that you were outgrowing them.

You could just see what happened next.

I don’t want to romanticize the past. People had unhealthy relationships before TikTok, and people stayed in situations they shouldn’t have. I’m not saying we should go back to ignoring our feelings or accepting things that hurt us.

I just think there was something valuable about not having an answer immediately.

Our twenties are already a confusing time. We’re figuring out who we are, what we want, where we want to live, what kind of career we want, who we want around us, and what kind of life we actually want to build. It feels strange that we’re also expected to understand every emotion and relationship along the way.

Sometimes I think we’re so focused on becoming the best version of ourselves that we forget we’re allowed to just be people.

People who don’t always know what they’re doing.

And I don’t want to protect myself from all of that.

I want boundaries, but I also want relationships that have enough room for people to be imperfect. I want to know when something isn’t healthy for me, but I also want to be able to sit through an uncomfortable conversation without immediately deciding that I need to leave. I want to protect my peace, but I don’t want to use “protecting my peace” as an excuse to avoid anything that challenges me.

I think that’s what I took away from Maine more than anything. Some of the people sitting around that table were people I met because of the internet, but the friendship became real when we weren’t using it. We weren’t being told what the friendship meant or where it was supposed to go. We were just getting to know each other.

Maybe that’s what I want more of in my own life.

Not less self-awareness. Not fewer boundaries. Not ignoring red flags.

Just a little less labeling.

A little more patience.

With Love,

Alyson

I was in my first year of post grad, started a new job, and was trying to convince myself I was on the right path. From the outside, everything looked fine. But behind the scenes, I was crying on my way to work and booking trips just to have something to look forward to.

I started this Substack on September 1st, 2025, without much of a plan. I wasn’t trying to become a writer or build a community. I just needed a place to be honest about what life felt like after graduation, when everyone around me seemed to know exactly where they were going and I felt like I had missed the meeting where they handed out the directions.

Now, as I prepare to turn 24, I’ve spent the last week reflecting on everything that happened during my 23rd year. It’s strange how one year can feel both incredibly long and impossibly short. When I look back, I don’t remember it by months or seasons. I remember it by the moments that quietly changed me.

At the beginning of the year, I truly believed I was stepping into the opportunity that was going to change everything. I had joined a new team at work after already spending months convincing myself that maybe I just needed a fresh environment. I had been out of college for about a year and a half, and like most people my age, I was desperately looking for that feeling that I had finally found my place. I wanted this to be the beginning of the career I had imagined for myself, and I walked into it believing that if I just worked hard enough, I’d eventually feel fulfilled.

Instead, I found myself waking up every morning hoping that somehow I wouldn’t have to go.

At first I ignored the feeling because I thought it was normal. Doesn’t everyone complain about work? Doesn’t everyone spend Sunday evenings wishing the weekend lasted one more day? I kept telling myself to be grateful for the opportunity, to stop overthinking it, to give it more time. But the feeling never left. If anything, it became louder. There were mornings when I would sit in my driveway before leaving because I couldn’t bring myself to turn the key. There were afternoons when I’d catch myself wondering if this was really what adulthood was supposed to feel like, because if it was, I couldn’t understand why everyone seemed so willing to accept it.

That’s when I booked a trip to Charleston.

At the time I told people I simply wanted to visit another state, but looking back, I think I was searching for something much bigger than a vacation. Part of me wondered if I needed to move somewhere new, if maybe happiness was waiting for me in a different city. For a few days, wandering unfamiliar streets and seeing places I’d never seen before, it honestly felt like I had found what I was looking for. I came home lighter, convinced that maybe all I had needed was a change of scenery.

Three days later I was crying on my way to work again.

So I booked another trip, this time to San Diego, months in advance. I convinced myself that if I had something exciting waiting for me, then maybe I could survive everything in between. I started counting down the days instead of living them, and somewhere along the way I realized I wasn’t planning vacations because I loved to travel—I was planning escapes because I didn’t like the life I kept coming back to.

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That realization scared me more than quitting ever did.

One afternoon, while I was sitting at my desk, I let myself imagine what life would look like if I walked away. It wasn’t some dramatic moment. Nobody had said anything that day. Nothing extraordinary happened. I simply pictured a version of myself who didn’t work there anymore, and for the first time in months I felt like I could breathe.

It’s hard to explain what that moment felt like, but it was as if the weight I had been carrying for months suddenly disappeared. Nothing about my circumstances had changed. I was still sitting at the same desk, still working the same job, and I still had no idea what my future looked like. Yet somehow, imagining a different life gave me a sense of relief that I hadn’t felt in a very long time.

The relief I felt from imagining a different life told me everything I needed to know.

It wasn’t California that I was searching for. It wasn’t another vacation or another city. What I actually wanted was a life that I didn’t feel the need to escape from.

In that moment, I realized I didn’t need to move across the country. I didn’t need to spend the next five years forcing myself through a life that made me miserable just so I could finally enjoy the vacations I had planned. I didn’t want my happiest moments to exist on a calendar every few months. I wanted to enjoy the ordinary Tuesdays just as much as the exciting Saturdays. I wanted to stop building a life that revolved around escaping it.

That realization changed everything.

Over the next few weeks, I wrote constantly. Every thought that had been circling my mind finally had somewhere to go. I filled pages of journals with questions, fears, and every possible reason to stay or leave. I talked to my family more than I ever had before. We had long conversations about what life might look like if I quit, and although I expected people to tell me I was making a mistake, they did the opposite. They listened. They encouraged me. They reminded me that my peace mattered just as much as a paycheck.

Even then, I didn’t quit immediately.

There was something about saying the words out loud that made everything feel permanent, and I wanted to be absolutely certain before I took that step. I waited until the fear of staying became greater than the fear of leaving.

When that day came, I finally did it.

I quit.

I wish I could tell you that I had another job lined up or a detailed five-year plan sitting in my back pocket, but I didn’t. I had no idea where my next paycheck was going to come from. Every practical part of me knew that walking away without certainty wasn’t the “smart” decision. But for the first time in months, I wasn’t making a decision based on fear. I was making one based on the belief that I deserved a life where I could breathe.

Sometimes betting on yourself is the most responsible thing you can do, even when it looks irresponsible to everyone else.

Ironically, I still had one last appointment that I needed to complete before I officially left.

I dreaded that appointment more than I can explain. It was an hour-and-a-half drive, and mentally I had already moved on. I remember getting into my car thinking, “I really don’t want to do this.” Looking back, I know that wasn’t fair to myself or to my team. I had simply reached a point where I had nothing left to give.

About ten minutes after leaving the office, a truck in front of me hit a piece of concrete debris, sending it flying straight toward my car.

Before I even had time to process what was happening, it slammed into the front of my vehicle.

My car was totaled.

It’s still one of those stories that feels unbelievable when I tell it. Out of all the days, all the drives, and all the moments it could have happened, it happened on one of the last times I would ever make that drive.

Looking back, it almost feels symbolic. As if one chapter of my life ended all at once, making room for another to begin.

Without work consuming every part of my life, I suddenly had space again. Space to think. Space to try new things. Space to become someone I hadn’t had the chance to become before.

So I started saying yes.

I signed up for swing dancing because I’d always loved Footloose and thought it would be fun to learn. It sounds silly, but it reminded me that life didn’t always have to be productive to be meaningful. Sometimes doing something simply because it brings you joy is reason enough.

A few months later, I finally boarded that flight to San Diego. The trip that had once been my escape became something entirely different. While I was there, I decided to go skydiving.

People usually ask me why.

The truth is, I don’t think it was really about jumping out of an airplane.

I think I wanted to prove to myself that the life I dreamed about wasn’t going to be built by waiting until I felt ready. It was going to be built by doing things that scared me. Standing at the edge of that plane, I realized there probably wasn’t anything more terrifying than willingly jumping thousands of feet out of the sky. If I could do that, maybe I was capable of so much more than I had spent years believing.

Around that same time, another part of my life began changing in ways I never expected.

I found God.

Or maybe a better way to say it is that I finally stopped trying to navigate everything on my own.

I joined a Bible study in Boston, knowing almost no one. I remember walking in feeling nervous, wondering if I’d fit in. What I didn’t know at the time was that I was about to meet some of the women who would become my closest friends.

That experience inspired me to start my own online Bible study, simply because I wanted to create a space where people from anywhere in the world could open the Bible together. What started as a small idea quickly became one of the most meaningful parts of my week.

At the same time, this little Substack I’d started almost on a whim began taking on a life of its own.

Life Without a Syllabus has looked different so many times over the past year. It’s been a newsletter, social media posts, videos, journal entries, conversations, Bible studies, and a growing community of people who are all trying to figure out what life looks like after the plan you thought you had no longer fits.

The platforms have changed. The content has changed. Even I have changed.

But the mission never has.

I’ve always wanted this to be a place that reminds people they have the ability to create a better life for themselves. Whether that means finding your faith, quitting the job that’s stealing your peace, traveling across the country, jumping out of a plane, making new friends in your twenties, or simply admitting that you don’t know what comes next, I hope you leave here believing that your life is not as stuck as it feels.

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Hi, I’m Alyson, and I’m the face behind Life Without a Syllabus.

If my twenty-third year taught me anything, it’s that your twenties are both incredibly beautiful and incredibly confusing. You can feel completely lost while unknowingly walking toward the life you’ve been praying for. Sometimes not knowing where you’re going isn’t the problem. Sometimes it’s exactly where you’re supposed to be.

If you’ve found your way here, I truly believe you’ve found this community at exactly the right time.

Here’s to twenty-four.

I hope it’s filled with just as much growth, just as much adventure, and even more stories worth telling. More than anything, I hope you’ll be here to experience it alongside me.

Join the Club! Check out my other articles:)

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to do my own thing. I’ve never been someone who was content simply following a path that was already laid out for me. I like creating things. I like testing ideas. I like seeing how far I can push myself. More than anything, I like discovering what I’m capable of when there isn’t a clear roadmap in front of me.

That way of thinking has followed me into almost everything I’ve done. Whether it was real estate, social media, writing, or now building Life Without a Syllabus, I’ve always found myself asking the same question: What happens if I keep going?

It’s a question that has brought me a lot of growth, but it’s also made me realize something about myself.

Whenever I spend enough time working for someone else, I slowly start becoming someone I don’t recognize.

At first, it’s subtle. I stop looking for answers on my own because someone else usually has them. Instead of figuring something out, I ask. Instead of taking initiative, I wait for direction. Without realizing it, I begin operating under the assumption that someone else is responsible for providing the next step.

Psychology has a lot to say about this.

One concept that has always fascinated me is self-efficacy, a term coined by psychologist Albert Bandura. Self-efficacy is essentially the belief that you are capable of handling challenges and influencing outcomes in your own life. The stronger that belief becomes, the more likely you are to take action when faced with uncertainty.

What’s interesting is that self-efficacy doesn’t come from reading motivational quotes or listening to podcasts. It comes from experience. It comes from being faced with a problem, not knowing the answer, and figuring it out anyway.

Every time you do that, your brain collects evidence.

Evidence that you’re resourceful.

Evidence that you’re capable.

Evidence that uncertainty isn’t something to fear.

Entrepreneurship forces you into those situations constantly. There is rarely someone standing over your shoulder telling you exactly what to do next. If you want an answer, you usually have to go find it. If you want progress, you have to create it. If you make a mistake, there’s nobody else to blame and nobody else to fix it.

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Over time, you begin trusting yourself in a way that’s difficult to replicate elsewhere.

That’s why I find it so hard to stay comfortable in environments where all of the answers are provided for me. It isn’t because I think I’m above working for someone else. It isn’t because I don’t value structure or mentorship.

It’s because I know what happens to me when I stop searching.

I become passive.

And passivity has never been where I thrive.

The last 3 months of my life has reminded me of that in ways I wasn’t expecting.

For a while, I felt stuck. On paper, everything looked fine, but internally I felt disconnected from myself. I was waiting for clarity. Waiting for certainty. Waiting for some sign that would tell me exactly what direction to move in.

The problem is that clarity rarely arrives before action.

It usually arrives because of action.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped trying to solve my life from my couch and started participating in it again.

I signed up for a half marathon despite not feeling like a runner.

I joined a Bible study even though I didn’t know many people there.

I started traveling more.

I said yes to experiences I would have talked myself out of a few years ago.

I started building things again.

None of those decisions magically answered all of my questions. They didn’t reveal some grand life plan that had been hidden from me. What they did do was remind me that momentum creates clarity far more often than thinking does.

The more I moved, the more direction I found.

The more I challenged myself, the more confident I became.

The more I stepped outside my comfort zone, the more I remembered who I was.

Faith has played a huge role in that realization too.

One of the biggest lessons God has been teaching me recently is that He rarely provides the entire map. We want certainty before we move. We want guarantees before we commit. We want answers before we take action.

But throughout Scripture, God seems to work differently.

He asks people to take the next step.

Then the next one.

Then the next.

Trust is built in motion.

Looking back, I think that’s why the idea behind Life Without a Syllabus resonates with me so deeply. Real life doesn’t come with instructions. There isn’t a professor handing out a course outline for your twenties. Nobody tells you exactly where you’ll live, who you’ll become, what opportunities will appear, or which decisions will change your life.

At some point, you have to stop waiting for someone to hand you the answers and become willing to search for them yourself.

Maybe that’s why entrepreneurship feels limiting to me now.

Not because it limits what I can do, but because it limits what I’m willing to accept from myself.

Once you’ve experienced what it’s like to create your own momentum, it’s difficult to return to waiting.

Once you’ve learned how capable you are of figuring things out, it’s difficult to pretend you need permission.

Once you’ve seen what happens when you trust yourself and trust God enough to move forward without having all the answers, it’s difficult to settle for standing still.

Check out my past articles:

And I didn’t realize how much I relied on one until it was gone.

For basically my entire life, I knew what I was working toward. There was always a next step. A semester. A deadline. A grade. Even if I was stressed, at least I knew what chapter I was in.

Then suddenly… nothing.

I started this Substack in September feeling inspired and motivated. I was consistent for a couple months. I felt like I was building something.

And then I stopped.

Not in a dramatic way. I didn’t announce it. I just slowly fell off.

I was working. Staying home more. Doing the normal, responsible things. But internally, I felt confused. I didn’t know what my next move was. I didn’t know what I was building toward. And without structure, it felt like I was somehow behind — even though no one was racing me.

During that break, I kept thinking something was wrong with me.

But really, I just didn’t have anything to aim at.

So instead of waiting for clarity to magically show up, I started adding things back into my life — things that gave me something to focus on. Not because I had to. But because I needed direction.

Here are five things that genuinely changed my mindset.

1. Training for a Half Marathon

Last year, I ran my first half marathon with my best friend, and it was honestly one of the best experiences of my life. We trained together, complained together, pushed each other, and crossing that finish line felt unreal. I remember running to the finish line with tears in my eyes from feeling accomplished and just plain exhaustion. We created a plan. I actually would wake up and be excited to run in the morning…maybe because I knew I’d be rewarded with a smoothie after.

So this year, I signed up to do one alone — and then another with her later in the year.

Training gives my week structure again. There’s a schedule. There’s mileage. There’s progress you can physically feel.

Some mornings I don’t want to run. Some runs are slow and humbling. But there is something grounding about knowing, “I’m working toward this.”

When you don’t have a syllabus, sometimes you just need a finish line.

2. Joining a Bible Study

I decided to put myself out there more in my faith and joined a Bible study group.

I was nervous at first. I didn’t know if I would feel out of place. But it has been one of the most comforting parts of my week.

Spending intentional time learning about God and talking through life with other people has helped me shift my perspective. Instead of spiraling about my timeline, I’ve started trusting that there is one.

When everything feels uncertain, faith reminds me that I’m not actually wandering alone.

And that changes everything.

3. Doing Things My Younger Self Would’ve Loved

I asked myself a simple question:
What did I always want to try but never did?

One of those things was swing dancing. (so random..I know)

So I went.

I had no idea what I was doing. I felt awkward for the first five minutes. And then I didn’t. I was spinning around, laughing, meeting random people, and fully living out my Footloose fantasy.

It was the most fun I’ve had in a long time.

We get so serious after college. Everything feels like it has to be productive or strategic. But sometimes you just need to do something because it sounds fun.

That night reminded me I’m allowed to enjoy my life while I build it.

Follow my journey on Instagram!

4. Traveling Without Overcomplicating It

I packed a bag, grabbed my best friend, and we flew to South Carolina — somewhere I’ve wanted to go since I was a kid.

We didn’t overthink it. We just went.

We talked to Uber drivers who told us about their lives. Bartenders who gave us recommendations and stories. People who moved there years ago and said they’ll never leave.

Travel makes you realize how many different versions of life are out there.

When you feel stuck, sometimes you just need to step into a different environment and remember the world is bigger than your routine.

5. Journaling in a Way That Actually Feels Real

I used to be so strict with myself about journaling. It had to be neat. It had to be in my journal. It had to “make sense.”

But the most honest thoughts don’t come out that way.

Now, when I feel something strongly, I grab whatever paper is closest and write everything down. Sometimes it’s messy. Sometimes it’s arrows and circles and random words connected by lines.

Instead of letting thoughts just loop in my head like background noise, I grab one and ask, “Why is this here?”

Holding a thought still long enough to understand it has helped me know myself better.

And when you know yourself better, you move differently.

(I don’t have a picture here because when I journal, I usually am having a mental break down and my phone is across the room.)

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Around the same time, I decided to start posting consistently on Instagram and TikTok under Life Without a Syllabus. I didn’t have a master plan. I just shared honestly.

Within two weeks, a thousand people followed along.

That’s when it hit me — so many of us feel this way. Confused. In-between. Capable but unsure where to put that energy.

What changed wasn’t that I suddenly figured life out.

It’s that I started showing up anyway.

Thanks for reading! Check out some of my others posts.

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Everyone feels it. The clean slate. The pressure to become someone new. The thrill of declaring resolutions out loud. But I’ve never felt that way about January.

September has always been my new year.

Maybe it’s because since I was five years old, September meant starting over. A new backpack. Fresh notebooks. A planner waiting to be filled. A quiet promise to myself that this would be the year I’d show up differently. Even now, as an adult, that rhythm hasn’t left me. My internal clock still resets when the air turns crisp.

Last September felt like a true beginning for me. I built momentum. I found structure. I wrote consistently. I felt aligned.

So when January came around, I didn’t feel energized. I felt tired. I felt like I needed to exhale.

I didn’t plan to step away for two months. It just happened. Life pulled me inward.

Every week I had been writing about growth, about discipline, about showing up for yourself, and some weeks I wasn’t even sure I was doing that for myself. I never planned my posts too far in advance. I tried to write from wherever my heart was that week. If I was struggling, I wrote about it. If I felt strong, I wrote about that. I figured maybe someone else needed those same words at the same time. Or maybe I would need to reread them one day.

But when I stopped writing here, something else stopped too.

The systems slowed down.
The motivation quieted.
The planning paused.
The business check ins became reactive instead of intentional.

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Nothing was falling apart. I was keeping the ship afloat. But I wasn’t steering it with purpose. From September to December I had been proactive, clear, energized. From January to March, I was just getting through the days.

And the truth is I was burnt out. Completely running on low battery without realizing it.

The cold didn’t help. The gray skies. The endless snow forecasts. Waking up and feeling like my skin looked dull, like even the smallest flaw was amplified in winter light. Everything felt heavy.

So I booked a vacation.

Florida. Then the Bahamas. Then the Dominican Republic. Then back to Florida. What was supposed to be a quick reset turned into three weeks away because New England snowstorms delayed my flight home.

And honestly, the sun was medicine. That’s what I needed most. Warmth on my skin. Long days. Ocean air.

But somewhere in that third week, I started missing something.

Not the January version of me who was coasting.
Not the burnt out version trying to survive winter.

I missed the September to December version of myself.

The structured one.
The intentional one.
The woman who woke up with clarity and momentum.

Coming home, I felt refreshed, but more than that, I felt reconnected. I realized how much writing here anchors me. Maybe it’s not about motivating you every single week. Maybe it’s about reflecting honestly so I don’t lose myself in the noise of life.

Substack isn’t just a place where I teach. It’s where I process. It’s where I remember who I am.

Life doesn’t come with a syllabus. There isn’t a clean semester outline telling us what we will be tested on next. We just keep learning. We keep adjusting. We keep growing, sometimes loudly, sometimes quietly.

And the fact that over 2,000 of you choose to be here, reading my thoughts, means more than I can fully put into words.

I don’t take that lightly.

I’m back. Not because January demanded it, but because I’m ready again.

And that feels even better.

We wake up, scroll the same apps, make the same promises, push the same things to tomorrow. And tomorrow comes… looking exactly like yesterday.

At the start of 2026, I realized something uncomfortable but freeing: nothing changes unless you interrupt the pattern. Not motivation. Not a new planner. Not a prettier vision board.

The loop only breaks when behavior does.

The Patterns That Keep Repeating

For me, the pattern wasn’t dramatic. It was subtle:

• Waiting to feel “ready” before starting

• Overplanning instead of executing

• Giving myself too much time

• Confusing busyness with progress

I wasn’t lazy. I was organized. I was inspired.

But I wasn’t moving.

And that’s the dangerous part—when your life looks productive but stays the same.

What Actually Helped Me Stay Organized

What actually helped me stay organized wasn’t adding more systems—it was giving myself intentional space.

Every week, I take 30 minutes—that’s it—to sit down and really think about my goals and how I’m completing them before the end of the next week. No phone. No scrolling. No listening to what everyone else is doing. Just me, checking in with myself.

That time matters more than people realize. Without it, you end up reacting to life instead of choosing it. You feel it most when someone asks what you want to do next and your mind goes completely blank. That doesn’t mean you don’t care or don’t have ambition—it means you haven’t given yourself the opportunity to sit with your thoughts long enough to understand what you’re working toward and why.

That weekly check-in gives my goals direction. It keeps them from living only in my head.

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From there, I keep things simple. I take a piece of paper and do a full brain dump—goals, ideas, fears, everything. I connect the dots, scratch things out when they don’t make sense anymore, and organize what’s left into quarters. I still shoot for the stars, but I stay realistic. There’s no point in writing things down if they only set you up to feel behind later.

For every goal I keep, I write down how I’m actually getting it done. Then I put it in my calendar. Not just the goal—the steps. If it isn’t scheduled, it isn’t real.

I’m still figuring out tools like Notion. I know it’s helped so many people stay organized, and I’ve heard incredible things. Maybe it’ll click for me eventually. But right now, clarity matters more than complexity—and simple systems are what keep me moving.

Be Careful of Productive Procrastination

There’s another pattern I had to call myself out on this year: productive procrastination.

It looks like progress, but it isn’t.

It’s telling yourself you’re being productive because you listened to ten different people on YouTube talk about their routines, their success, their systems. It’s buying the prettiest planner to plan your week, then convincing yourself you also need a whiteboard so you can really see your goals laid out. It’s setting everything up so perfectly that starting feels optional.

At some point, preparation becomes avoidance.

What helped me was stripping it back completely. I took a piece of paper and did a full brain dump. Everything—goals, ideas, fears, things I kept circling but never committing to. I wrote it all out without worrying about order or logic.

Then I started connecting things. I crossed out what didn’t make sense anymore. I scratched off goals that looked impressive but didn’t actually fit my life right now. I organized what remained into quarters, not because I don’t dream big, but because I want to be honest with myself.

I’m all for shooting for the stars—but you still have to land somewhere realistic.

There’s nothing more discouraging than looking back at a list and realizing you tried to take on more than you could actually hold. A good plan should challenge you, not overwhelm you.

For every goal I kept, I wrote down exactly how I was going to get it done. Then I put it in my calendar. Not just the goal—the steps. If it wasn’t scheduled, it wasn’t real.

I’ll be honest: I’m still trying to figure out Notion. I know it works incredibly well for so many people, and I’ve heard nothing but great reviews from those who swear by it. Maybe it will click for me eventually. But right now, clarity matters more than complexity, and paper has been enough.

The Truth No One Likes to Hear

You don’t need more time.

You need less tolerance for repeating the same day.

The version of you in December 2026 is being built right now by the habits you protect and the excuses you allow.

If nothing changes today, the loop continues tomorrow.

Truthfully, I wasn’t always an Earle girl. I followed Alix when she first became famous and thought her videos were funny—she was always out, always living, always having fun. What surprised me later were the quieter things: the fundraising events, the scholarships she helped create with the University of Miami. There was more depth there than I expected.

When she joined Dancing With the Stars, I watched the first couple of episodes through TikTok clips. But eventually, I found myself planted on the couch at 8 p.m. every Tuesday night, fully tuned in, cheering her on.

And she cried. All the time.

Not in a fragile way—but in the way people cry when something inside them is cracking open. After performances, in rehearsal packages, during interviews. She kept saying things like “I didn’t know I had this in me” and “This experience has completely changed me.” She talked about discipline, about pushing past fear, about feeling powerful in her body and mind for the first time in a long time.

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“I’m rediscovering parts of myself I didn’t even know were there,” she said more than once. And you could see it. This wasn’t just improvement—it was transformation.

Dancing With the Stars feels like some sort of adult camp ritual. Stars enter for three months and leave as entirely new people. Alix said she felt stronger, more confident, like she could handle anything life threw at her. Watching her, it was impossible not to believe her.

“She broke up with her boyfriend.” I told my sister.

“How do you even know that?” She said.

People dissected everything online—whether he showed up to performances, whether he could show up, whether his schedule allowed it. But to me, it had nothing to do with him.

It had everything to do with her.

It was the moment when someone realizes their own strength—and once that fire is lit, you can’t pretend it isn’t there.

Earlier this year, I started the year in a relationship. I was playing girlfriend while still living my life. I was getting my work done, supporting my boyfriend’s ventures, showing up in all the ways I thought I was supposed to. And that was it.

My mind wandered—toward other interests, other versions of myself—but never far enough to leap.

Then I went to Arizona.

It felt like a camp of my own. A reckoning. A rebirth. I came back with my power fully intact, and it tore me open. I cried over and over again—not out of sadness, but because I was grieving a version of myself I didn’t even realize I had outgrown.

I was reading. Writing. Listening. Moving my body and feeling strong. Tending to my faith in a way that reignited something deep inside me. And without realizing it at first, I stopped recognizing my boyfriend—because I no longer recognized myself.

Our lives didn’t align anymore. The love was there, but it was the only thing left holding us together.

So I had a choice: stay in my relationship, or choose Paris.

If you’ve watched The Summer I Turned Pretty, you know what that means. Belly choosing Paris in season three wasn’t about running away—it was about choosing herself. Choosing growth. Choosing the unknown over comfort.

And in the end, that’s what Alix did too.

After the finale, she said, “I’m leaving this experience as a completely different person.” She talked about trusting herself, about knowing her worth, about not being afraid of what’s next. The tears weren’t sadness—they were release.

As the season went on, the internet did what it always does—it created a love story. People speculated that Alix was falling for Val. Every glance analyzed, every hug replayed. But that wasn’t the story.

If she fell in love with anything, it was the woman Val helped her see.

He showed her discipline, structure, belief—held up a mirror and said, you’re capable of more than you think. And once a woman sees herself clearly, everything else becomes secondary.

She wasn’t choosing a man. She was choosing her potential.

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Watching her, I realized something quietly but clearly:

When women change, the world looks for a reason. A man. A scandal. A storyline. But sometimes there isn’t one. Sometimes a woman simply falls in love with her own becoming—and that love asks her to choose differently.

Twelve months later, I can’t believe some of those moments happened in the same year. It feels like a different lifetime. A different version of me.

Alix chose Paris.
Belly chose Paris.

And this year, so did I.

I’ve conditioned myself into believing that distance makes me more lovable.
Not emotional distance, not boundaries, not self-respect — no, no.
I mean literal distance. Space. Gaps. Delayed texts. A strategically timed “sorry, just saw this.”

I didn’t realize this was a thing I did until recently. It lived somewhere deep in my subconscious, just hanging out like an unpaid intern who’s somehow running the entire company.

It wasn’t until I spent time with someone I didn’t want to hide from that I finally saw the pattern. Suddenly, the mysterious act felt… exhausting.

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The Mystery Myth (AKA My Comfort Zone)

Here’s the truth:
I love mystery. I get a weird thrill from it. If people don’t know everything about me, they can’t judge me. They can’t touch the parts I’m unsure of. They can’t see the soft spots I pretend aren’t there.

When people only get little pieces of you, their imagination fills in the rest and trust me, their imagination always paints a better picture than reality. My reality involves work, work, work and work. And this could be actual work, working on soemthing so I no longer have to work, or working on myself: fitness, reading, journaling etc. But limiting what people can see became my safety net.

I never liked that feeling of walking away from a conversation with a friend that you havent seen in weeks to months and feeling like they know your entire life. So then, I started to stay away. Why would I want to give you the blueprint of my life when you are not actually in it? It resulted in losing friendships but exposing my heart and intention was too much to handle.

If someone thought highly of me? Perfect.
If they were wrong? Even better — the curiosity kept them around.

And yes, this showed up in dating, friendships, work… basically every area of my life where vulnerability could sneak in uninvited.

The Problem With Being Mysterious All the Time

Mystery keeps you safe, but it also keeps you lonely.

You end up half-known. Half-understood. Half-loved.

There’s something isolating about never letting people see the full version of you. The one who panics, spirals, overthinks, gets emotional, and eats an entire pint of ice cream on a friday night watching Friends. They don’t get to see what makes you sad, tick, or what gets you up in the morning.

But those are the parts that actually make you human.
Those are the parts that make connection real.

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The Wake-Up Call

When I finally met someone I didn’t want to hold at arm’s length, I realized how automatic my distance had become. I felt myself wanting to pull away — not because I didn’t like them, but because I did.

It was like my brain was screaming:

“Careful! If they see you clearly, they’ll love you less!”
“Quick! Retreat! Give them space to miss you!”

Meanwhile my heart was like:
“Okay but maybe… don’t?”

That’s when it hit me: People don’t love you because you’re mysterious.
They love you because you’re real.

(Unfortunately. Being elusive would be much easier.)

If You Relate To This… Welcome To The Club

If you’ve ever felt safer being only half-known…
If you pull back the moment someone leans in…
If you curate yourself like a brand and not a human…

Same. Truly.
You’re not alone, and you’re definitely not strange. You just learned to protect yourself in a way that eventually started holding you back.

Mystery might attract people but authenticity is what keeps them.

There is something unbelievably beautiful about letting someone know exactly who you are. Not the filtered version, not the mysterious version, not the “let me keep you at a safe distance” version — but the real, ordinary, unedited you. Because when you give someone the full picture, you also give them the chance to show you how they love. You get to watch how they notice you: the small habits, the soft spots, the quirks you thought were flaws. You get to see how they choose you not because you’re shiny or mysterious, but because they actually know you.

And maybe this is the season where we let ourselves be fully seen, even if it feels like showing up to the party emotionally naked.

I’m trying. You can too.

We’re about a week and a half away from Thanksgiving. Families are gathering around tables with a huge turkey that no one really likes, because let’s be honest, everyone is really here for the ham and the side dishes. Hometown friends are meeting up the night before, getting drunk, and talking to old friends like no time has passed at all. Some people even end up catching up with their friends’ parents, and sometimes your hot history teacher is there too.

But what people don’t talk about, even though we all experience it, is the reunion of past lovers. You know exactly what I’m referring to.

Picture it.
It’s November 2021. I hadn’t seen my ex-boyfriend in two months since our breakup at the beginning of my sophomore year. We stuck to strict no contact. But as Thanksgiving weekend approached, the thought of him crept back into my mind. Would I see him? Would it feel the same?

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Most alumni go to the Thanksgiving football game against our rival town, so I dressed up expecting it to be our first run-in. I was wrong. He wasn’t there. Not even close.

So I sent the classic text. “Happy Thanksgiving to you and your family.” I told myself it was casual and polite, but I knew better. He texted back thirty minutes later with the same warm tone. Sweet. Familiar. Just gentle enough to reopen the door without fully stepping inside. I’ve done it before, and I know you have too. Even if they don’t reach out first, the fact that you respond says everything.

He asked if I wanted to spend time together that weekend, and I told him I was free later that night. I told myself that if I pushed it towards the end of the weekend, then I would psych myself out.. I just wanted to see him. No one knew where I was going except my mom. I told everyone else that I was going to visit a friend down the street. My mom looked at me and immediately knew what I meant.

He picked me up that night. We laughed like we used to. We smiled like we used to. We kissed like we used to. For a moment, it felt like nothing had changed. But everything had. We were already living different lives, whether we wanted to admit it or not. He was on his path and I was on mine. Still, it felt nice to slip back into the illusion of what we once were.

We danced around the idea of getting back together. I even suggested it, not because it was what I truly wanted, but because it felt familiar. Safe. He didn’t answer the question. He just let it linger.

The next day he texted me again. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Can we meet again tonight.” So we did. We met in the gas station parking lot down the street, then sat in his car and picked apart what went wrong in our relationship.

The night before, I left feeling like I was floating, convinced my first love and I were finding our way back to each other. The next night, I left feeling worthless. He told me he didn’t see a future with me, at least not right now. When we originally broke up, we agreed to take time apart until December and then reassess. Now it was late November and he was already saying no. He wanted to keep “exploring.” In other words, he still wanted to sleep around.

Looking back, I am grateful he said it.

I went home and did what I always did that fall. I blasted All Too Well 10 Minute Version. Something about “still at the restaurant” hit so perfectly in moments like that. It reminded me that the past is meant to stay there. That same month, I even wrote my own song called November about meeting up with someone you once loved and realizing you were trying to resurrect something that didn’t exist anymore.

A few days later, I went back to school and it turned out a lot of my friends (boys and girls) had a reconciliation that weekend as well. I didn’t realize it was so popular.

Because closure is a myth. It’s just an excuse to see someone and pretend, for a moment, that you are still who you were.

The truth is, I didn’t want that relationship back. We ended for a reason. We weren’t those people anymore, not the versions from two months earlier and definitely not the versions from two years before that. Things changed. We changed. And that’s okay.

So here’s my advice. Don’t answer that Happy Thanksgiving text. Or call. Or email. It is always the doorway back in.

If it has been a few years, maybe it’s harmless. Maybe. But if the breakup is still fresh, even if it’s been up to three years, let it be.

And if you run into them the night before Thanksgiving, let it stay what it is. A nostalgic night. A fun story. Nothing more.

You deserve a future, not a rerun.

How I’m Seeing Substack Change and What It Means for Us

Lately, I’ve spent a bunch of time thinking about Substack, where it’s headed, what the platform is becoming, and how those changes affect not just me, but you as a subscriber and anyone who creates. I’ve dug into what I found through research and through watching the platform shift firsthand, and I want to share what I’m learning and how I’m adjusting.

When I first joined, Substack felt like a pure newsletter platform. Write something, send it to people’s inboxes, maybe get paid. But now? It’s clearly morphing into something bigger. It’s becoming part newsletter, part social platform, part creator toolkit. For example, Substack redesigned its mobile app to include a new reading queue and a discovery feed, making it easier for readers to swipe through posts and discover new writers. They’ve also added the ability to follow writers even without subscribing so readers can keep up with what a writer is doing. I saw these changes and thought: okay, I need to think of this newsletter as more than just my weekly essay. It needs to live in a broader space.

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I also noticed that Substack is amplifying its recommendation and network features. Writers can now curate a network of other publications they recommend to their readers, so it’s less about the solitary newsletter and more about community and cross-promotion. That means the way we grow may shift. It won’t be only my content that matters, but also how I link with others, how engaged the community is, and how discoverable we are.

Another change I’ve been watching is the Notes feature, the micro-post feed inside Substack, which is getting more powerful. You can post videos directly in Notes, embed posts elsewhere, and potentially reach an audience beyond the inbox. I see this as one of the clearest signals that Substack wants to be more than email. For me, this means I need to think about what formats I can experiment with. Could I drop a quick video clip or a note with a thought, not just the long essay? It’s not about chasing viral, but about flexibility and presence beyond text.

It’s not just features; it’s also business strategy. Substack has been investing heavily in growth tools, monetization options, and creator support. That means for creators like me and you, the environment will increasingly reward those who treat Substack like a business: content plus formats plus community plus value, not just weekly email.

The Shifts I’m Tracking and the Steps I’m Taking to Stay Ahead

What I expect in the near term and through 2026 is that more creators will use audio, video, and live streaming. Engagement and retention will matter more than just subscriber numbers. Subscriptions will evolve with layers and experiences. Niches will matter more than ever. Creators will need to think of their newsletter as the hub of a broader creator business. At the same time, owning your audience will be critical, having a direct connection and control rather than relying solely on the platform.

Here’s what I’m doing in response. I’ve started publishing shorter Notes posts in addition to my long essays. I’m playing with audio snippets for a few pieces. I’m tracking where readers are coming from more closely so I can see what formats and content bring the most growth. I’m curating who I follow and interact with on Substack so that the network effect helps us. And I’m planning subscriber-only extras to deepen the relationship, not just “here’s a paywall version,” but “here’s community, here’s something you can’t get elsewhere.”

So if you’re reading this as a subscriber, know this: you’re part of the change. I’m preparing so that when Substack evolves, we evolve with it. I want you to get more than my writing. I want our newsletter to be a space where you feel part of something bigger, engaging, and growing.

I’ll tell you how to get ahead and make money from Substack.

Let’s get into it.

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When I started Life Without a Syllabus, I didn’t think much about “branding.” I wasn’t trying to build an image or a strategy. I just wanted to write and share what it feels like to navigate your twenties with no real roadmap, figuring things out as you go. But two months in, after watching my audience grow and connect, I realized something. I was building a brand. Not the kind with logos or taglines, but the kind that happens when you start showing up consistently as yourself.

A brand isn’t just how something looks. It’s how it feels. It’s what people think of when they hear your name, what they expect from you, and how you make them feel. For me, Life Without a Syllabus became a space for honesty. A place where I could say, “Here’s what I’m learning, even if I don’t have it all figured out.” And people responded to that realness. They weren’t looking for perfection; they were looking for connection.

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That’s what personal branding really is: connection, visibility, and trust. A voice that feels familiar. In a world where everyone is online, those who stand out aren’t always the loudest or most polished. They’re the ones who are real.

Think about pop stars like Sabrina Carpenter. Her blonde hair, her soft vintage style, and her playful tone have become a signature part of her identity. It’s not just a look. It’s branding.

Or take Hailey Bieber. When she launched Rhode, she didn’t just release a skincare line. She introduced a brand but more importantly built a world around it. She created a feeling. I just bought one of her products yesterday. I know I’m late to the trend but I got that same feeling she was searching for when I put it on my face this morning.

To sell the product, you have to sell the person first. Creating a brand makes selling any type of product easier in the long run sicne your followers already like and trust you. Think of all the influencers you love. I will put all my money to bet that you have a higher chance of purchasing something from them than a random stranger selling the same product.

Those same principles apply even if you’re not a global star. When I started writing on Substack, I began to understand that creating a brand is about being intentional with your voice. Every piece I write and every post I share becomes part of that bigger picture. The more I lean into my authentic tone, the more I attract readers who feel connected to it.

A personal brand gives you control of your own story. If you don’t define who you are, the internet will do it for you. But when you do it intentionally, you build trust and recognition. You create space for opportunity. You invite people into your world.

If you’re building something right now, a newsletter, a business, or even just a new version of yourself, think about what people feel when they interact with your work. Is it calm, inspired, curious, or encouraged? That’s your brand starting to take shape.

And if you’re thinking about rebranding yourself for the new year, start now. A rebrand doesn’t mean changing who you are. It means evolving how you show up. If 2025 was about growth, let 2026 be about transformation. You can transform yourself in simple, meaningful ways:

Redefine your digital presence. Update your Substack banner, your bio, or even your tone.

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Shift your habits. Your brand reflects how you live. The way you spend your mornings, what you consume, and how you talk to yourself all become part of your story.

Refresh your visuals. A brand rebrand can be as simple as changing your color palette, your photo aesthetic, or even your environment. Create visuals that feel aligned with your new mindset.

If 2025 was about finding your voice, let 2026 be about using it. Start offering what you’ve learned, whether that’s through coaching, creating, or connecting.

Your brand should grow with you because the best kind of branding isn’t about reinvention. It’s about alignment.

Here’s what I’m noticing across TikTok, Instagram, and Substack:

On TikTok, content that feels authentic rather than perfectly produced consistently gets more engagement. Videos where I share personal observations or journaling thoughts get 3–4 times more comments and shares than polished “inspirational quotes.”

Instagram is more visual, but posts where I pair a thoughtful caption with a personal photo get higher saves and shares than purely aesthetic content. People want connection behind the image.

Substack is where long-form authenticity shines. When I share detailed thoughts, reflections, or small lessons, the open rate often exceeds 40–50%, significantly higher than industry averages for newsletters in this niche. Readers clearly value real voices over clickbait or purely marketing-driven content.

Across platforms, I’m seeing that people don’t just want tips—they want insight into how someone thinks, struggles, and grows. That’s the core of my brand and the reason people are choosing to follow along.

2026 Marketing Tips to Grow Your Brand

1. Show up consistently. Posting regularly is one of the simplest ways to grow a personal brand. On TikTok, I’ve noticed videos posted 3–4 times per week perform much better over time than sporadic content. On Substack, sending a newsletter every week keeps your readers engaged and expecting your voice. Consistency builds trust.

2. Use your analytics to guide content. Look at what performs well—not just what you like. On Instagram, posts where I share personal lessons or reflections get 2–3 times more saves and shares than purely aesthetic photos. On Substack, posts that dive into personal experiences or honest insights consistently have higher open rates than generic advice. Let your data tell you what resonates.

3. Repurpose content across platforms. Don’t overthink creating “new” content for every channel. A story you share on Substack can be summarized for TikTok or Instagram. Clips of video content can be paired with written captions or quotes. Repurposing saves time and reinforces your brand.

4. Engage authentically. Reply to comments, answer DMs, and engage with other creators or readers. People follow people they feel seen by. On TikTok and Instagram, conversations in the comments often lead to deeper connection than the post itself. On Substack, responding to readers’ questions or sharing their feedback builds a loyal community.

5. Align your visuals and voice. Your brand should feel cohesive everywhere people see it. On Instagram, your color palette, typography, and photography style communicate who you are even before your caption is read. On Substack, your newsletter layout and headers set the tone for the kind of content readers can expect. Visual consistency strengthens recognition.

6. Test and evolve. Your brand isn’t static. Try new formats, experiment with style, or share content outside your comfort zone. TikTok trends can be adapted to your niche, Instagram reels can highlight snippets of your Substack essays, and your newsletter can evolve in voice or topics as you grow. Every small experiment teaches you what works and keeps your brand fresh.

7. Share your journey, not just results. People are drawn to the process. They want to know what you’re learning, how you’re failing, and how you’re growing. Sharing your real experiences—both successes and struggles—makes your brand relatable and memorable.

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I scrolled on TikTok today and someone said they were looking forward to their “winter arc” because the clocks are changing this weekend. That means it’ll get darker earlier and brighter earlier in the morning. I have no idea who set that system up, but I’m pretty sure a few years back we were close to keeping it the way we had it in the spring until some guy in government decided to keep it as it is.

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So now, you’ll see me waking up even earlier with a fresh mind, and deciding my day is basically over around 4 p.m. Being here in New England, with the cold creeping in and the sky dimming before dinner, it can really mess with my mental health. I start to feel like I never have time to do anything. It’s too cold to go outside, and honestly, all I want to do is stay in my pjs, drink hot chocolate, and sit by the fireplace, which sounds great, until it doesn’t.

Because after a while, seasonal depression starts to creep up slowly. Maybe not in the next month or two, since the holidays still hold their excitement, but when January hits, when the lights come down and the “new year, new me” motivation fades, that’s when it hits hardest. And I don’t want to just get through that feeling anymore. I want to prevent it.

The truth is, this time of year isn’t just about surviving the dark months; it’s about regulating your nervous system before the darkness even starts to feel heavy. The time change doesn’t just mess with sleep; it messes with mood, motivation, and connection. It can trick your body into thinking something is wrong when really, you just need stability.

And that’s where I’ve learned something important: the boring life is what actually saves you.

Now I’m an early bird, not a 5 a.m. “75 Hard” kind of early bird, but the kind that gets up when it’s still quiet, makes coffee, and feels okay just doing small things. Thriving in the cold is hard enough on its own; I don’t need to make it harder with unrealistic routines. But what I will do is share the things that actually help me during winter, habits that regulate my nervous system and remind me that slow doesn’t mean stuck.

The habits that actually help me survive winter

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I was scrolling through social media today and came across four different videos reacting to the new Vogue article, “Having a Boyfriend Is Embarrassing.” Some people were posting cute clips with their partners, proudly declaring, “Not me.” Others agreed with the headline, calling relationships exhausting and humiliating.

One woman in the comments wrote that married men live longer than single men, but single women live longer than married women. I can’t confirm the science behind that, but I believe it.

Because here’s the thing: having a boyfriend is embarrassing—if the boyfriend is embarrassing. And God knows I’ve had my share. But more than that, having a boyfriend is a liability.

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When you’re in a relationship, you don’t just represent yourself anymore. You represent each other. If someone said to you, “You two make sense—you’re the same,” how would that make you feel? When you’re single, your choices belong solely to you. When you’re with someone, their choices become yours by association.

I’ve defended boyfriends to my friends even when I didn’t agree with them. At some point, who you choose does reflect your character. I once asked a guy friend, “If the person you’re dating is a loser, does that make you a loser too?” He said no—because maybe they just don’t see the side everyone else sees. Bless his heart. But women do see every side of a man. We can feel his intentions. It’s our superpower, though it’s on us whether we want to admit what we already know.

I remember being at a Christmas party when my friends asked what I thought about something my boyfriend—let’s call him Timmy—had just posted. I’d already talked to him about it that morning, but he brushed it off. So I smiled and said, “He’s so silly,” even though I was mortified. It wasn’t a good look for me. I like to think I carry myself with some class, and that wasn’t a reflection of it. Because I was with him, his behavior became a reflection of me. That’s the liability.

Now I can laugh about it—but I’m also a little horrified that I ever put myself in that position.

A friend of mine once dated a guy who was pretty popular in college. Girls would leave flirty comments under his Instagram photos, and he’d like them. When she confronted him, he said, “Babe, they’re just supporting me.” She told him, “I can’t control what they say, but when you like it, you’re opening the door.” Of course, he didn’t understand. He was publicly signaling that he was available. It was humiliating for her. Some people say being a girlfriend is a humiliation ritual, and honestly, sometimes it feels that way.

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We’ve reached a point where more women in their 30s and 40s are single, financially independent, and completely capable of living full lives on their own. They own homes. They have successful careers. They travel, they take care of themselves, and they don’t need anyone.

So when a man enters the picture, what does he actually bring? Some won’t even offer to pay for dinner. Some can’t match ambition or effort. So why should women keep giving them chances? Half the time, they’re just in the way.

I was watching the newest season of Selling Sunset, and Emma was dating this guy who’s been in her life for years. In one scene, she’s having lunch with her friends when he shows up. Within ten minutes, it was clear: Emma is hardworking, responsible, and kind. He, on the other hand, was just… there. His family had money, but that seemed to be his main contribution. It gave “mommy vibes.”

If I’m paying my own rent, building businesses, and buying groceries to cook for myself and my friends, what exactly does this man have to offer me?

I’ve told friends before that I kept my relationships private because I wanted to protect them. That was partly true. But a big reason was that I was embarrassed by the unknown. I didn’t know what people would see—or what I’d have to defend. When it’s just me, I can handle whatever judgment comes my way. But add another person into the mix, and suddenly, their actions are your problem too.

I started asking myself some hard questions about my relationship. Am I the marrying type? Do I actually want to get married? The truth is yes, I do.

I thought about his last name. And I knew, immediately, that I’d keep my own. I wasn’t proud to carry that name, and I knew it. It wasn’t about tradition or stubborn independence. It was about respect. About self-worth. About the fact that everything I was feeling, the unease, the embarrassment, the frustration. It wasn’t because I had a boyfriend. It was because of the person he was.

Somehow, we’ve entered an era where men are dancing on bar tables, asking to split the bill, and expecting women to act like wives before they’ve proven they can be husbands. What happened?

But here’s the truth: the power has always been with women. We just forget that sometimes. Having a boyfriend isn’t inherently embarrassing—it’s embarrassing when he’s the wrong one. When you choose someone who doesn’t reflect your standards, your growth, your peace.

Women have more power than we give ourselves credit for. We decide who gets to stand next to us. So yes, having a boyfriend can be a liability, but only if you settle for one who doesn’t make you proud to be attached to him.

Having a boyfriend isn’t embarrassing.
Having the wrong one is.

I woke up this morning and wanted to cry.

Not because of anything that happened, really, but because of the weight that sat in my chest before I even opened my eyes. I laid there, still half-asleep, and felt this rush of emotion I couldn’t name. Guilt, maybe. Regret. The kind that lingers after a night that didn’t even go wrong but still didn’t feel right.

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It wasn’t a hangover. It was a heaviness. The kind that comes from knowing you said too much.

I replayed small moments in my head, things I said, things I shouldn’t have said, and I instantly wanted to pull them back. That’s the thing about being someone who’s usually private: when you share a little too much, it feels like you left the door to your mind cracked open.

I sat there feeling embarrassed, even though I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong. But still, I felt exposed.

And when you’re someone who spends so much time protecting your energy, that exposure hits harder than you expect.

For the first hour, I didn’t feel like doing anything. I had plans, a list, a whole structure for the day, and suddenly, none of it mattered. I didn’t feel inspired. I didn’t feel like the version of me who usually wakes up with excitement.

But beneath all that noise, there was still this tiny, steady pull, the part of me that remembers why I do what I do.

Because the truth is, I’m proud of what I’ve been building. I’ve poured my heart into projects that make me feel alive, and even in moments of doubt or regret, that purpose is still there. Sometimes buried, sometimes quiet, but never gone.

After a while, I started to remember why I don’t do certain things anymore.

But then I remembered why I started this in the first place. I’m in my 20s, still learning, still stumbling, still trying to figure out who I am. Life Without a Syllabus was never meant to be a highlight reel. It was meant to be honest. To show the messy parts too. And if I didn’t share this moment, I’d feel like I was lying.

With the feeling I had in the morning, you would think I was black out the night before. I realized it wasn’t the amount of alcohol I was drinking that effected my hangxiety the next day, it was my life. I had big dreams to work towards, I had things to do that I didn’t feel capable to that morning.

The truth is, I’ve decided to cut alcohol entirely. I’ve never had a problem with it, but I’ve noticed what it does to me, to people I care about, to our generation. Alcohol tricks you into feeling free, then quietly steals your balance. It numbs the edges that actually need attention. You wake up foggy, anxious, overanalyzing every text, every look, every word you said the night before. It’s a pattern so many of us fall into without realizing how much of ourselves it’s slowly taking away.

From a psychology standpoint, it makes sense. Alcohol disrupts neurotransmitters like serotonin and dopamine, the same chemicals responsible for our mood and motivation. So while it feels like a temporary escape, it’s really just pressing pause on your ability to feel grounded.

I want more than that. I want clarity, passion, and intention. I want to wake up feeling inspired, not drained. That’s what today reminded me, even when doubt shows up first, purpose can still follow.

I’ve never had a problem with alcohol. I barely drink. But when I do, I feel this subtle disconnect, like I’m watching myself from outside my body, aware that something feels off. It’s not about the drink itself. It’s about what it takes from me afterward. The clarity. The rhythm. The emotional balance.

It’s strange how quickly we forget that our minds and bodies are always in conversation. When we throw them off balance, whether through alcohol, overstimulation, or even staying up too late scrolling, we pay for it emotionally. We start doubting ourselves more. We get anxious. Our nervous system is trying to regulate while our mind spins in circles.

That’s why so many people wake up with anxiety after drinking. It’s not just hangxiety, it’s the body fighting to return to equilibrium while the mind replays moments it can’t control.

And that’s what this morning felt like, my mind trying to find its balance again.

So I got up. I went to Dunkin. Ordered a wake-up wrap, a pumpkin muffin, and a big ice water. The air outside was cold enough to sting a little, but in the best way, like it was snapping me out of my thoughts.

And as I stood there waiting for my order, I realized something small but important. Even in the moments when I feel off, disconnected, or ashamed for feeling too much, I’m still showing up. That’s growth. Not perfection. Not control. Just awareness.

Sometimes reflection hurts. Sometimes it makes you cry before you even get out of bed. But that’s the same reflection that reminds you who you are.

Life Without a Syllabus isn’t about living flawlessly. It’s about noticing the loops, the habits, the emotions that sneak up on us, and choosing differently next time. It’s about understanding that self-awareness isn’t always comfortable, but it’s always worth it. Because balance doesn’t come from being perfect. It comes from paying attention to what throws you off and coming back to yourself anyway.

With Love,

Alyson

I was scrolling through Substack Notes today and came across a post that stopped me. It said:

“I wanted to make something of myself this year. There’s still time, I think?”

Something about that line hit me. Maybe because I’ve thought it before. Maybe because I could hear the quiet mix of hope and hesitation in her words.
I wanted to crawl through the screen and give her a full PowerPoint presentation on why she shouldn’t wait. Why she should start her life now instead of waiting until the end of the year — because I’ve been there. And I know how easy it is to convince yourself that you’ll start “soon.”

Since I can’t actually do that, I figured I’d write this here — in hopes that it reaches the one person who needs to hear it.

We’re at the end of October.
That strange part of the year where everything starts to blur together. The air gets colder, the days get shorter, and our calendars fill up faster than we can say “I’ll get to it after the holidays.”

The season slowly becomes a mix of half-empty wine glasses, “costume optional” parties, Friendsgivings, and family gatherings that stretch across long weekends. Our schedules fill with traditions and obligations, and somewhere in between, we lose track of ourselves. We tell ourselves that we’ll start again when the chaos settles. After the holidays. When the new year comes and everything feels fresh and organized.

It sounds logical, right?
Except it’s not.

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Because time doesn’t pause for anyone — not for the holidays, not for family, not for exhaustion. And the truth is, January 1st doesn’t have any magic power. It’s just another day that we’ve decided means “begin again.”

Here’s the thing: everyone gets their spark at different times.
Sometimes it’s in the middle of summer. Sometimes it’s after a heartbreak. Sometimes it’s a random Wednesday afternoon in October when you scroll past a line on Substack and suddenly feel something inside you shift.

Can you imagine how strange it would be if everyone woke up on January 1st, shot out of bed, and started chasing their dreams at the exact same time?
That’s not how life works.

We’re not all meant to bloom on the same day.

And honestly — why would I wait until January 1st if I already feel that motivation now?
That’s like having something incredible sitting in front of you and deciding to put it on pause until the rest of the world catches up. Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?
But it’s true — so many of us do it.

We need to start asking ourselves why. Why are we waiting to begin when everything inside us is telling us it’s time?
Because the longer we ignore that voice, the easier it becomes to stay comfortable.

It’s okay to “go with the flow” when it comes to life — I’m not saying we need to plan out the next ten years. I have ideas of where I want to go, sure, but I also know life shifts constantly. Things fall apart, people change, opportunities show up in ways we never planned for.

The key isn’t to have every step mapped out.
It’s to start walking.
To take the first small action now, while the spark is still warm.

Time will pass whether you start or not.
January will still come, and when it does, you’ll either be two months into building something that excites you — or still standing at the starting line, waiting for “the right time.”

When that spark shows up — listen to it.
Don’t question it. Don’t wait for a Monday or a new month or a new year. The spark doesn’t last forever. When you feel it, run with it. You’ll always have a million reasons not to start, but you only need one whisper in your head saying, “just jump.”

45 days ago, I downloaded Substack. I forgot about it for three days — it just sat on my phone. Then, on September 1st, I got that random, unexplainable urge to write something. I don’t know what pushed me to do it, but I did.
And now here we are — a month later — and I’m talking to all of you.

If I had ignored that voice, I’d still be staring at a blank screen, holding onto the same six words that started it all.

Instead, I listened.
And it changed everything.

5 Things I’m Doing Right Now Since Getting That Spark

1. Building a Community on Substack
   I’ve been pouring my energy into creating a real space here — one that feels like a community. I’m focusing on helping people design a better life through coaching, one-on-one sessions, and a “30 Days to Jumpstart Your Dream Life” document that completely changed my own mindset. My goal is to help others experience that same shift — to feel their spark and run with it.

2. Leading My Own Team
   I recently switched teams within my company and stepped into a leadership role. It’s been a learning curve, but a fulfilling one. Managing people has taught me more about communication, trust, and growth than anything else this year.

3. Being Intentional With My Life
   This is the most important one. I’ve learned that if I don’t take care of myself — go to the gym, rest, disconnect — burnout sneaks in faster than you expect. I’ve been more intentional with my time, making space for balance instead of constantly chasing productivity.

4. Launching My Store
   Since getting that spark, I’ve created my own women’s clothing store — something I’ve dreamed about for years. It’s still new, but it’s mine, and I can’t wait to share it with all of you soon. It’s a reminder that you don’t need to wait for “someday” to bring your ideas to life.

5. Reconnecting With My Faith and Nature
   I’ve made an effort to rebuild my relationship with my faith and spend more time outside — walking, reflecting, and grounding myself. The smallest things — sunlight, quiet mornings, long drives — have become the moments where I feel most centered.

If you’re waiting for a sign to start, this is it.
Not because it’s a perfect time. But because it’s your time.

Don’t wait for a new year to create a new life.
Start now.
Just jump.

With Love,

Alyson

I was five when my grandmother told me we had to go to the hospital for the second time that day. I didn’t understand why — we had already gone that morning to visit my mom and it was usually a “once a day” kind of thing. But then I saw her. My sister. Unnamed, tiny, and nothing like me. I remember feeling confused, detached even. Everyone around me was crying and smiling and I just stood there, watching. At that age, I didn’t yet understand what love felt like. I didn’t know that this small, scrunched-up baby would one day teach me.

When I was eight, I sang all around the house — performing Hannah Montana songs with my purple guitar, while my sister strummed a toy one passed down through generations. She barely knew the words, but she sang anyway. Looking back, I realize those performances were my first cracks in the wall — moments where I let someone in without realizing it. We weren’t just playing music; we were learning how to be close, how to love in small, ordinary ways.

Then high school came, and I started building new walls. I cared about my reflection, boys, and what people thought. I became cold again — distracted, busy, unreachable. I forgot she was there. And yet, she always was. Watching me. Waiting for me to come back. She had this quiet kind of love — the kind that doesn’t demand, just stays. I didn’t understand the weight of that yet.

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When senior year came, she tagged along for every college visit. She didn’t say much, just looked out the car window, taking it all in. I think she wanted to understand where I was headed. What she didn’t know was that I was terrified to leave her behind.

I made a list of pros and cons about going away to college.
Pros: independence, my own space, new experiences.
Cons: leaving my sister behind.

And maybe, deep down, that was enough to make me stay. I’d spent years running from emotion, from vulnerability — and suddenly I was being handed a second chance. To slow down. To feel. To reconnect with the one person who never stopped loving me, even when I forgot how to show it.

That year, we talked about everything. No walls, no secrets. She learned things my closest friends didn’t know, and I learned her heart. She was witty, thoughtful, loyal — so much more than I ever gave her credit for. We had always been sisters, but that was the year we became best friends.

When I was younger, expressing emotion felt impossible. It was like I had this invisible wall between me and everyone else. My mom used to tell me I had a good heart but didn’t let anyone see it. She was right. I hid behind humor and distraction because it was safer than being seen.

Then one summer changed that.

It was 2015, and I was twelve — old enough to start feeling things but too scared to admit them. My brother lived in the room next to mine, always playing music. That summer, it was “Cecilia and the Satellite” by Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness. I didn’t think much of it then, but the sound of that song seeped into everything. It played through the walls while I painted, practiced guitar, or cleaned my room after my mom reminded me it looked like a boy lived there (she was right again).

Months later, when he left and I heard that song again, I froze. I missed him. I felt something so real it took my breath away. I cried — quietly, but it was the first time I let myself. The first time I realized love wasn’t about being soft or emotional all the time. It was about feeling something, even when it hurt.

Now, it’s October 2025. My brother is moving to Florida with his girlfriend. That New England boy will love the warmth, but he’ll miss the nights sitting by the fireplace — me, him, and my sister playing cards, arguing over who cheated. My sister is now a senior, looking at colleges, just like I once did. And me? I’m learning that love doesn’t have to be loud or dramatic. It can be quiet, steady, and familiar — like a song playing faintly through the walls.

I’ve spent most of my life trying to learn how to feel. My siblings were the ones who taught me. Through them, I learned that love isn’t always something you say — sometimes it’s just showing up, again and again, until the walls start to fall.

So if I die, put me down as a sister first.
Because that’s who I became once I finally learned how to love.

With Love,

Alyson

There’s something special about that. About being involved. About not waiting for someone else to make the first move.

Everyone wants that “village” we hear about all over social media — the close-knit, loyal, cozy kind of community — but few people stop to realize it starts with them. It even took me a while to understand that. I used to think, Well, if they wanted to see me, they’d make the effort. But that’s not always the case.

Sometimes people do want to — they just can’t. They’re working, overwhelmed, or too tired to make the hour drive. I’ve been there. I once had a friend drive out to see me because I couldn’t make the trip myself, and when I thanked her, she told me I didn’t need to thank her for wanting to spend time with me. That stuck with me.

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We scroll on TikTok and see videos of people being “villagers” — showing up to meet their best friend’s baby, or being there for all the big moments. But being a villager is more than just showing up when it’s fun or convenient. It’s cleaning the kitchen when your friend just had the baby. It’s dropping off food without expecting to hang out. It’s offering to hold the baby so she can take a quiet shower.

It’s texting, “I’m heading to Trader Joe’s — need anything?” and actually meaning it.
It’s helping a friend build their IKEA dresser even though you know it’ll take four hours.
It’s showing up to their art show, open mic night, or soccer game, just because you know it matters to them.

I’m big on birthdays. I love my own, but I love celebrating others even more. Why wouldn’t you be excited to celebrate the people who bring you joy? One of my favorite memories is from when my roommate had her birthday. My other roommate and I decorated the apartment while she took her “everything shower.” We threw candles on a cake, waited for her to walk out in her towel, and sang happy birthday right there in the kitchen. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was real — and it meant something.

Being a villager is remembering the little details. If your friend had a job interview or a conversation they were nervous about, ask how it went. It shows you care. Sometimes people avoid bringing things up because they feel like they’re being repetitive or burdensome.

One thing that helps me is writing reminders in my calendar notes — things like “Text her about the interview,” or “Ask how her mom’s doing.” I even keep a little list in my phone of small details — who likes lavender candles, whose love language is quality time, whose anxiety gets bad at night — because remembering those things makes people feel seen.

And don’t give with the expectation of something in return. I once had a guy friend offer to fix the lock on my door. I knew the kind of person he was — someone who always expected a favor back. I declined, saying my dad would get to it eventually (he never did), but I’d rather risk my friends walking in on me changing than feel like I owed someone.

A true villager gives without keeping score.

Most importantly, stay through the messy seasons — through the overworked jobs, the heartbreaks, the moves that make visits harder. Community isn’t about convenience. It’s about commitment.

Keep checking in when your friend is in a relationship you don’t love.
Be there during their burnout, not just their glow-up.
Don’t disappear when they move away or get busy — send voice memos, write letters, or FaceTime during lunch. Small effort still counts.

There were seasons where I wasn’t dependable. I’d cancel last minute plans or borrow my roommate’s food knowing I’d replace it later but never did. It didn’t feel good — for them or for me. Friendship isn’t measured by how often you see someone, but by the quality of the moments you share when you do.

Life gets busy. People move, change, evolve. I have a friend I haven’t seen in months because of summer travels and work schedules, but that doesn’t mean the friendship is lost. It just means we’re in different seasons right now. And that’s okay.

Because villages don’t fall apart when life shifts — they just grow differently.
And being a villager means tending to what’s already yours, not waiting for someone else to build it for you.

With Love,

Alyson

Most people don’t realize this until they’re looking back—when the reflection version of life finally makes sense. Suddenly, all the signs that once felt blurry come into focus. Maybe your friends said something once or twice, and your family stayed polite just to keep the peace—but they knew. They knew, and you didn’t.

Embarrassing, right?

Or maybe deep down, you did know. You just didn’t want to face the truth—that the man you’ve spent hours obsessing over, the one you swore you’d build a life with, might not actually be the one for you.

I spent the last two hours rewatching Sex and the City, where we first meet Mr. Big. He’s charming, mysterious, and—at first—barely in the show. You’d never guess how much of an impact he’d end up having on Carrie’s life. That’s the thing about people: we have no idea, when they first walk into our world, whether they’ll be a chapter or the entire story. Unfortunately, some are meant to stay forever, while others are meant to teach us something.

Now, let’s go back to how your body knows before your mind does.

I’ve heard stories from girlfriends who would break out in rashes, feel constantly anxious, or even get sick throughout their relationships—only to realize after breaking up that it wasn’t random. Their bodies were trying to communicate what their minds refused to see.

I don’t think their boyfriends were sitting around plotting ways to make them sick. But energy is real. People carry certain energies that can affect not only your mood, but your physical state.

I’ve felt this myself. I’ve reconnected with old friends and instantly felt a wave of tension wash over me. I’ve seen old lovers and broken out the next day after years of clear skin. Your body keeps the score—sometimes long before your heart catches up.

Let’s get real for a second.

I once spent months talking to a guy. I did everything—blew off my friends, cooked for him constantly, and poured so much of my energy into making him feel special that I convinced myself he was special. I told myself I didn’t post him because I didn’t want to attract the evil eye—but really, I was keeping one foot out the door. My body already knew. It wasn’t that I loved him any less—it was that something deep inside me couldn’t settle.

I once read a quote that said, “If the person you love is a reflection of you, would you be happy with your own reflection?”

That line haunted me.

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Because I thought he was an amazing person. But when I looked at him as a reflection of me, something felt off. I couldn’t explain it, but I knew. I loved him, yet it didn’t make sense. My body felt it long before my mind was willing to accept it.

We went out one night—nothing special, just another evening like the rest. After months of a situationship, it felt like we were naturally moving toward being “official.” When he asked me to be his girlfriend, my chest tightened. I smiled, took a breath, and said yes.

But why did it take me that extra breath?

Why did I need that second of hesitation to convince myself to say the words?

Sometimes we say yes because it feels like the next logical step, not because our bodies feel safe or aligned. But love isn’t supposed to happen by default.

What I’ve Learned:

The body never lies.

When you feel anxious around him but calm when he leaves—that’s not love, that’s tension.
When you’re checking your phone waiting for him to text, and the silence feels like punishment—that’s not chemistry, that’s insecurity.
When your stomach drops after a comment that “wasn’t that serious,” that’s your intuition whispering, please listen.

I used to think love meant holding on. Now I know love sometimes means listening to the quiet parts of yourself that beg you to let go.

Your body knows when something is off—it tenses, it hesitates, it gets sick, it shakes. Don’t dismiss that as nerves or “overthinking.” That’s your truth trying to speak before your heart breaks.

If you take anything from this, let it be this:
You don’t have to wait until you’re in the reflection stage of your life to see clearly.
You can choose to listen now.

With Love,

Alyson

I honestly couldn’t believe it. One month ago, I had never even heard of Substack. I was scrolling TikTok, questioning my life and my next steps after being post-grad for a year and a half, when I stumbled across someone talking about it. It looked like a platform for long-form content—a space for people who love to write. Since writing had always been something I enjoyed growing up, it sparked my interest.

I started my account on August 27th, without the slightest clue what I was doing. The app felt intimidating at first—I didn’t know a single person on it, and I wasn’t sure if I was even a good enough writer to share anything. I wasn’t in college anymore, so I couldn’t write about that. I didn’t want to focus on work. And I wasn’t sure if I wanted to publicly admit I was writing a book. For three or four days, I just lurked, reading other people’s posts and wondering if I could ever be brave enough to share my own.

Finally, on August 31st (technically September 1st at midnight), I posted my first piece. At first, it was just two uninspired sentences. Then I stopped myself and asked: what do I actually feel right now? What do I really want to share? That’s when I wrote my first real article: “Life Begins at Yes.”

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In it, I talked about my first year home after college—how different and limited it felt compared to the freedom and independence I had at school. I also wrote about the summer of 2025, when I had opened myself up to opportunities in ways I hadn’t before. Saying “yes” more often had made me feel alive again, and I poured all of that emotion into the piece. That’s how I still approach every article: I don’t plan them weeks in advance. I write what I’m feeling in the moment, and, funny enough, it usually resonates with what others are going through too.

By October 1st, I had over 900 subscribers—all organic, from Substack alone. No traffic from TikTok, Instagram, or anywhere else. Just me, showing up here every day, and somehow building a community of people who wanted to listen.

When I saw that number, it wasn’t just about growth—it was about proof. Proof that the words I almost kept to myself actually mattered to someone else. Proof that I didn’t need a perfect plan, or a huge following, or anyone’s permission to start.

This community came together out of nothing but honesty and consistency—and that’s what makes it so special to me.

And if you’re wondering how it happened, what I did day after day to get here, and the lessons I’ve learned along the way…that’s the part I can’t wait to share with you. It’s so simple and easy, but a lot of people have no idea.

So, how did I do it? Here’s exactly what worked for me:

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