I fear we have become a little afraid to need. And, what breaks me the most is the detoriation of needing each other. It almost cost me everything but in working through it I got everything back ten-fold.

Needing another is one of the areas I have done the most self work on. As I began to catch my breath in the aftermath of the harrowing experience of a divorce, and step away from any blame of wrong or right and decided to learn what I could from it, I asked how I could have done more in this relationship.

What struck me is my determination to be completly self-sufficient. You might ask why this is a bad thing, why would I want to not be?

What I began to see in myself was a need to be so self-sufficient that there was no room for anyone to be able to contribute to my life, and with out contribution they felt there wasn’t much of a place for them in my life. There was friendship and love but when you get into human nature, we all need to be needed a little too.

Not in a desperate need. But in a way we can help, support, uplift and have a say in working though joint matters.

One of the defining myths of modern adulthood I see is the idea that maturity means becoming entirely self-sufficient.
Handle it yourself.
Don’t burden people.
Be resilient.
Be independent.

I was desperately trying to be an ideal person who was emotionally composed, financially stable, low-maintenance, psychologically self-aware, physically healthy, and capable of assembling furniture alone.

Meanwhile this attitude had some unhealthy edges to it.

Apologising for asking for lifts.
Apologising for needing help, or not asking for it when I need to.
Not wanting to cry in front of anyone or even admit a struggle, blindly pushing through every emotional battle.

I was trying so very hard to appear like I had it alltogether all the time.

But humans are not designed for a solo journey. We crave connection, shared expereiences, friendship and love.

Even in the early pages of the bible this is recognised. Before sin enters the story, before collapse or conflict or shame, there is already one thing declared “not good”:

“It is not good for man to be alone.”

The verse says:

“The LORD God said, ‘It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him.’”
— Genesis 2:18 (NIV)

This comes in the creation story, after God creates Adam and places him in the Garden of Eden. God observes that Adam is alone, and then creates Eve as a companion.

Loneliness in modern life rarely looks dramatic. It often hides beneath competence. I sure put it there.

We are relational creatures rather than isolated individuals building private empires of self-fulfilment. Everyone needs community, but nobody wants to admit they need community.

So we perform self-sufficiency while quietly starving for support. Surrounded but lonely.

And because we fear vulnerability, many relationships stay suspended at a polite distance where nobody asks for too much and nobody risks rejection deeply enough to experience real intimacy either.

We know each other socially but not sacrificially.

Yet some of the most meaningful moments in life involve allowing ourselves to be carried.

A friend bringing food after loss.
Someone sitting beside you in hospital.
A neighbour mowing your lawn because you’re injured.
A parent helping another swapping meals or childcare.

These moments remind us that love is often deeply practical.
Not aesthetic belonging.
But in creating a space for another to step into.

I know I often enjoy being able to contribute to another. And, it certainly comes with a sense of elation after I have helped. I cannot deny that I enjoy feeling useful.

And perhaps this is part of why modern loneliness feels so spiritually heavy. Many people are attempting to live as disconnected fragments while still longing for the nourishment that only deep belonging provides.

We want to be fully known while remaining fully protected. But love has never worked that way.

To be loved deeply usually requires becoming interruptible.

It requires admitting:
I cannot carry this entirely alone.

In the early dating days with my now husband, I remember needing to flip my mattress. I was in the height of this self-work, finding ways other people could have space in my life. I decided that whilst I could flip the big queen mattress by myself, I could also ask this stronger man who was about to come over. And, so I did. I had been honest with him in our early days that this was something I was working on.

When I asked him to do the task he gladly did. He later reflected to me, knowing I was doign this work, that sometimes it isn’t because you cannot, but because I want to (help).

That little story of how powerful that little act was between us still sits with me as we have passed a decade together. A decade that has been more that I had ever dreamed for myself.

Like roots underground intertwining beneath the surface, holding one another upright during storms nobody survives alone.

In the most beautiful way, I do need others, and you do too.

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Modern life is engineered to remove friction. In fact, that is the sales tactic most use.

Food arrives without cooking.

Entertainment arrives without waiting.

Groceries arrive without leaving the house.

And with AI, answers arrive without wondering. Which is lucky because we filled the wondering time up with scrolling.

On the surface, convenience seems good. Human history is full of exhausting labour and unnecessary difficulty. Few people genuinely want to handwash clothing by a river or spend six hours churning butter.

But I wonder if convenience has crossed some invisible threshold where it no longer merely serves human life but begins reshaping it.

Because friction does more than inconvenience us. It forms us. It teaches us. It strengthens us.

A conversation difficult enough to require courage changes you. Cooking for people changes your relationship with food. Washing up together after a meal creates connection. Writing an essay teaches structure and flow. Waiting changes desire. Repairing things changes attachment. Learning slowly changes understanding.

When every obstacle disappears, I cannot help feeling something disappears with it. Not just inconvenience, but some of the qualities that inconvenience once quietly cultivated in us.

I fear that without these ordinary lessons of life, we lose patience, persistence, tolerance, depth, appreciation, and even the ability to simply sit together and laugh.

I cannot help but wonder whether it is creating a subtle detachment from our own lives. A distance between ourselves and the things that once shaped us. When everything arrives already done, or can simply be handed to AI, we lose more than the task. We lose the experience of wrestling with it.

And what is life if not experience?

We may become more efficient while becoming less capable of fully inhabiting our days.

A silence now creates space for someone to reach for their phone.

A recipe with too many ingredients is abandoned for one with four or takeaway.

But human beings have historically grown through resistance all the time.

Not pointless suffering.

Just ordinary friction.

The friction of learning.

The friction of showing up repeatedly.

There is also a strange irony in convenience culture: the easier life becomes materially, the more fragile many of us seem to feel psychologically.

I find myself wondering about that often.

I wonder about it in my own life. Whether something is lost in the doing. Whether, without the doing, I lose something of myself too.

Could a life without friction accidentally become a life without texture?

Ease gives us many gifts.

But difficulty gives certain gifts ease never can.

Maybe becoming fully human requires encountering enough resistance to develop shape.

The days I spend tending the garden—pulling out the old, clearing, reshaping and mending the beds before they settle into winter—are the days I sleep well. They are the days I feel satisfied.

The following morning, I often find myself standing outside with a coffee, quietly admiring the work.

I have never found that feeling in convenience.

And as I walk around my little garden patch, I wonder about that.

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There are times when there isn’t much to do in my little garden, but it rarely remains the same. A garden is never complete, and I cannot help but reflect on about my body, since I am still simmering in a similar analogy from my article, If Your Life Was a Garden, How Would You Tend to It Right Now?

Today, as winter hints at us here in Australia, things are wilting and needing to be removed, and the garden is different, with the recent fruitful season changing the soil and the current weather determining how quickly things die off with the incoming frosts.

Perhaps, I wonder, realising this change, that is part of the ache of being human — this constant belief that one day we will arrive at a finished version of ourselves. A body that never changes. A mind always at peace. A life in permanent bloom. I know I have been caught trying to reach some finish line as an ever-evolving being.

But nature has never once indicated that this is normal.

The rose is stripped bare in winter. The tomatoes bow and bend when laden with ripe fruit, unashamedly asking for support while gifting fruit, so much so they remind me of pregnant women, slowing down and asking for help, then bearing their fruit.

Everything in a garden has its own rhythm. Its own season. Its own needs for light, shade, water, and rest.

Me too.

Some seasons of our lives are for blooming outwardly. We feel radiant, energetic, open to the world. Ideas arrive easily. Confidence feels natural. We laugh more. We move through the world like something flowering.

Other seasons, like the end of this autumn, are slowing me down. It is asking me what I can winter prune. I see a summer and spring-clean time in life, but also a winter pruning time, and it has arrived. Just before it gets too cold, a little spurt of energy asks me to prune. To shed what no longer serves in order to give me the space to plan for my next summer. Old ideas, old desires now not fitting, commitments no longer serving and the clothes no longer comfortable.

So sadly, culture leads with panic when bodies change, and yet it should be joy. Joy for the weathering, the living, the embodiment of what life asks of us and what we are strong enough to bear.

If I didn’t change, I wouldn’t be alive. I wouldn’t grow, and I couldn’t have grown and cared for my own two tomatoes. I am forever changed from life, the good times and the hard both marking me, scars on my skin and the scars we carry within.

There is a kind of violence in expecting ourselves to remain untouched by life. To never age. Never slow down. Never outgrow things. To never bear the changes of life.

I listen today, to the wisdom the garden is teaching. Wisdom of patience and change, working with what is, and being grateful for what you have.

The older I get, the more I realise beauty has very little to do with perfection and everything to do with life.

Sometimes, it is an untidy garden with herbs spilling over pathways.
The weathered hands covered in soil.
The body that has carried grief, healing, stress, joy, survival.
The person learning to begin again, adjusting to an altering of their life course.

This is beauty to me.

We do not know what conditions another person’s garden has endured.

We do not know how much nourishment they were given.
How many storms they survived.
How exhausted they are from trying.

Less obsession with display.
More reverence for what it takes simply to keep growing, to bunker down and then rise up again.

Wholeness was never becoming flawless.

It is learning to love ourselves in every season. The wisdom in knowing another season is a gift, as is the story it writes on our skin.

A garden that changes is more interesting than one bending itself against nature to remain in bloom.

Life is beautiful.

Your ageing is a gift.

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There is something psychologically strange about knowing, at all times, what thousands of other people are doing.

We can easily know that a woman in Perth is renovating her apartment in perfect neutrals, omeone just sold a company for millions, a man in Melbourne wakes at 4:30am to sit in an infrared sauna before journaling about discipline and listen to a twenty-two-year-old explains “how to maximise your life” from inside a car financed by a cryptocurrency boom nobody fully understands, all in ten minutes, and all of it before breakfast.

Human beings once lived inside astonishingly small worlds.

For most of history, life was measured against maybe a few dozen people. You compared yourself to neighbours, siblings, people in your village, people at your church, people you physically knew. Your imagination had edges. Your ambitions, insecurities, and sense of identity were shaped locally.

Walls are gone now. Gone before we have had time to physically adjust, if we ever can.

The modern person wakes each day into a global theatre of comparison.

And I don’t think we’ve fully absorbed how unnatural that is.

We talk constantly about technology changing communication or productivity or attention spans, but one of the biggest shifts is this: we are now emotionally exposed to far more lives than our nervous system can carry.

Thanks to reality TV and social media, we end up partially living inside everyone else’s life which is over overshawdowing our own. You get this intimate inside view of it all, their beauty routines, their parenting, their workstation set up.

All curated with clever imagery to appear raw and uncensored.

Their opinions enter your inner world before your own thoughts even arrive for the day.

And I fear there is the result of a low-grade feeling that actual life is always a comparison against an invisible global leaderboard.

And because this exposure is constant, dissatisfaction starts feeling normal.

We mere humans are creatures with limits, rhythms, and boundaries. But modern technology quietly dissolves boundaries everywhere, imposes the idea of no limits and pulls us largly away from our once governing rhythms. We can now access endless information, endless opinions, endless lifestyles, endless aspirations.

I don’t think omniscience, the limitlessness of information was meant to belong to human beings.

Without limits, things become chaotic very quickly and isn’t that how our brains are starting to feel?

Could some of our anxiety be partially a boundary problem? We know too much, see too much, compare too much, absorb too much. Our ancestors worried about droughts and survival; we worry that everyone else seems to be thriving more attractively than we are - and it isn’t even true.

The internet collapses context, we compare our whole lives against other people’s highlights with alarming sincerity.

I get the sense we are drowning in awareness while starving for peace.

Maybe there’s a kind of wisdom in choosing smallerness again.

Not ignorance.

Just proportion.

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Maybe part of becoming healthy now is learning to narrow our gaze again.

To go deeper instead of wider.
To know a few things well instead of absorbing fragments of everything.

To reclaim the right not to consume the entire world before lunch — or at all.

Because when everything enters us, nothing settles.

And perhaps peace has always depended on a few sacred limits.
Smaller. Quieter.

A life small enough to tend carefully.
Small enough to love deeply.
Small enough that our own thoughts, our own loves, our own belonging are no longer drowned out by the endless noise of everyone else’s lives.

Or perhaps more simply:

Small enough to hear ourselves again.

How does that sounds?

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Ther is so much ‘push’ in life around this assumption that life, or a ‘purpose’ should crescendo.

Everything is expected to build toward some defining era where you finally become your highest self. Peak career. Peak clarity. Peak happiness. A life shaped like a mountain summit with a cinematic soundtrack playing somewhere in the background.

And this view helps some, but for the rest of us all that talk can leave us wondering, if we don’t feel like we are ascending could mean we aren’t doing something right.

I’ve started wondering if this obsession with “reaching your potential” has distorted the way we experience ordinary life. I wrote about the freedom and fulfillment that comes from allowing our strengths be the boundries to this endless void of overwhelming opportunity in my last article. And it has spurred on my mind to reimagine the so called mountains we pursue.

Because mountains are dramatic places, but nobody actually lives on the summit. I cannot help but see how real life mostly happens in the repetitions.

Packing lunches.
Answering emails.
Driving familiar roads.
Folding washing.
Showing up to work again.
Walking the dog.
Trying to stay patient when you’re tired.
Learning how to apologise.
Paying bills.
Cooking dinner.

The modern imagination treats these things as interruptions between meaningful moments. Administrative clutter surrounding the “real” story.

But what if repetition is the story?

Our community which is good and meaninful and something that exists via our contributions of everyday jobs and commitments is not built through explosive moments. This community that we thrive in, is shaped through ongoing attention. Tiny acts repeated over time. Which is almost painfully unglamorous.

And maybe that’s why we resist it.

We want transformation to feel electric. We want lives that photograph well. But most meaningful formation happens slowly enough that you barely notice it while it’s occurring.

A good marriage is usually built through ten thousand small kindnesses.

A stable family is built through shared meal times and stolen moments of silliness between a whole host of mundane stuff.

Trust is repetitive.

Love is repetitive.

Working together is repetitive.

But repetition feels invisible in a culture focused on milestones.

We have become obsessed with breakthrough moments while underestimating maintenance. Everyone wants revelation; few people want rhythm. And yet nearly everything alive depends on rhythm. We actually thrive on it.

Breathing.

Sleeping.

Eating.

Seasons.

Tides.

The irony is that people often destroy good lives because they are waiting for exceptional ones. They become unable to recognise meaning unless it arrives dramatically.

There’s also something deeply destabilising about believing your life must continually escalate. What happens when you hit forty-five and realise you are probably not becoming famous? What happens when your life turns out smaller than your younger self imagined?

What happens when I look back on a couple of decades of writing with no publisher yet picking up my proposals. Do I stop? Or do I honour this moment of joy in writing down and clarifying my ideas. Doesn’t it seem odd to pack it up because it hasn’t asscended a mountain when rather, it has crept into a few hearts that let me know from time to time, and in doing so, I let that be enough, because it is. Small is satisfying. One is someone.

For many people, that moment feels like grief. And sure it has been a little challenging to watch another decade pass with no book proposal getting an agent.

But perhaps it could become relief instead.

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Because once you stop demanding transcendence from your life you can let it be what it is, let is serve what is does and in doing so you can enjoy what is without tossing it out for what may never be. I can let go and self-publish.

You can notice other opportunities when you let go of ideals.

You can notice the part you do play.

Maybe your life and mine was never supposed to peak like a firework.

Maybe it was supposed to grow like a tree.

Quietly.
Almost invisibly.
Adding rings year by year growing stronger in itself, in what service it brings to your community and in what nourishment that will give you, if only you let it be what it is.

Small is satisfying.

One is someone.

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Every so often I convince myself, that my singing isn’t too bad at all. I feel like I’m hitting the notes as I belt out tunes in those rare moments I have the car to myself. I’ve even recorded myself on occasion just to hear it back, just to understand what on earth those people who gently, and some not so subtly, had tried to tell me.

Put it this way: once, while happily singing at the top of my lungs, someone asked who sang the song. I felt proud to tell them. Only for them to reply, “Let’s keep it that way.”

So I did a little record-and-playback experiment one day and… oh. Yeah. There it is. That flat, cracking attempt, full of heart, but not in a way that lands softly on the ears.

This is the most obvious way I can demonstrate that we cannot always be anything we want to be. I cannot be a singer. I can enjoy singing, but I will never have a different voice.

Reflecting on this recently as I sang to myself I realised that it was kind of nice to have some boundaries and how that suddenly helped me see that us saying you can be anything isn’t always helpful. The world stretches out before you like an infinite streaming catalogue and somehow, instead of freedom, you feel paralysed because a part of you knows you cannot be anything. Opportunity, resources, skills, strengths, timing — there are many very real reasons why.

And in the other hand of this you-can-be-anything line the world throws around, sits an even heavier assumption: that you have a spectacular purpose, a single Thing you were born to do. Your glowing neon destiny. Your TED Talk-shaped reason for existing.

I have spent much of my life mulling over purpose because I don’t seem to have one. Not in vocation. Not in an avocation. And so I dive deep and write and wonder. I think perhaps it is writing, but it never fully sticks. So I give it air, get swept up in life again for a while, and after some time wonder again if I should have something more singular, more successful in my life. And so I do a bit more reading and wondering.

In my latest revisit to the matter, I began reading Garden City by John Mark Comer. In it, he argues against the modern obsession with self-actualisation as the highest good. He writes about work, calling, creation, limitation, and how helpful it is to see we have strengths and weaknesses, which if we leand into we can use in a world that needs us to work together in order to function.

This means someone needs to be the firefighter and someone the mechanic. We need administration for organisation and heavy lifting to build. We need planners and police and bakers and parents. And a bit of entertainment along the way.

In filling these roles, we tend to find ourselves in places where our strengths help us do well. We are not equally gifted in all directions. Some people can hold a room with magnetic ease. Some can design spaces that make others exhale the moment they walk in. Some can comfort. Some can organise chaos into calm.

And some things, no matter how hard we try, we will simply never be exceptional at. I can want to sing, but really it is just something for me to enjoy. Releasing dreams around that allows me to come back to what I am actually good at.

The modern world treats this like tragedy. But limitation is not tragedy. Limitation is clarity.

A river becomes powerful because banks exist. Without boundaries, it’s just floodwater. And honestly, what a relief it is to have some boundaries narrowing down all the possibility. There is relief in realising your life can narrow without shrinking.

For years, I thought purpose was hiding somewhere inside ambition. If I just thought hard enough, planned enough, eventually my life would click into place with cinematic certainty.

But perhaps purpose is found more quietly than that.

Through paying attention to what you consistently return to. Through the work that leaves you tired but satisfied. Through what people quietly seek you out for. Through the places your abilities meet someone else’s need.

Maybe it isn’t a singular purpose. May it is simply being useful, which in turn makes it all meaningful.

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There are people holding entire communities together through meals, spreadsheets, humour, patience, listening, reliability, practical help, creativity, and presence.

We are living in an era where we’ve confused visibility with value.

The strange irony is that once you stop trying to become visible or limitless, you often become more useful.

You stop scattering energy across a thousand imaginary futures and begin cultivating what’s actually in front of you. Like a gardener who finally stops trying to grow mangoes in a climate built for apples.

Maybe purpose is less about becoming extraordinary and more about becoming faithful to the shape you’ve actually been given.

Maybe that’s why so many people feel exhausted now. We are trying to carry the psychological weight of infinite possibility while also curating ourselves into marketable brands or pushing against our weaknesses while overlooking our strengths. We are pressured to monetise hobbies, optimise mornings, maximise potential, and somehow remain spiritually fulfilled throughout the process.

It’s too much.

The older I get, the less interested I am in the fantasy of becoming everything.

I would rather become rooted in myself.

If I stop trying for everything, if I lean into what I can bring and meet it with what is needed around me, I begin to find the meaning I was trying to force into the cloud of purpose.

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There is something almost unbearably tender in the sight of a child building against the tide. A wall of wet sand, a moat, a fortress with fragile towers, shaped by their small hands, everything made with the earnestness of belief.

The child is lost in the building, smoothing the edges, adding shells, patting the walls firm, trusting in the labour itself. For a brief and shining moment, it seems possible that care might be enough. That if one builds with sufficient devotion, the sea may pause at the boundary drawn for it.

It is one of the first dramas of being human: the instinct to make something small and finite stand against what is vast and uncontrollable.

As adults, our sand walls become subtler, more socially approved, more elaborate. We build with achievement, usefulness, romance, order, self-discipline, busyness, competence, and image.

We build with savings accounts and calendars, with family routines and five-year plans, with all the private and public arrangements by which we try to make life feel less contingent.

We build identities sturdy enough, we hope, to stand against sorrow, and then we hold onto them as if they can keep the tide out.

We build futures and call them security.

We build reputations and call them worth.

We build relationships and quietly ask them for protection.

We do not only build these things — we place our trust in them.

For me, it was an architecture of longing. A quiet way to build something to hold against the uncertainty of life. As my parents began a divorce that would take years to resolve I built slightly odd identities, I build a socal group, I built a cool, care-free attitude to hie the one that was unsure, maybe even frightened. I didn’t know how to soften and let it flow through me, so up went the walls knowing one day that would crash down as if holding up a dam so large it would eventually burst through.

I decided I wanted assurances. Set things I wouldn’t stand for. Things that wouldn’t happen to me as if I had some control over it which life soon taught me I didn’t finding myself in both the things I stoof against at those tender ages.

I was afraid that what matter most could be lost becuase in a way it had.

And yet the sea remains the sea. Life will wash away what is not meant to hold us and sometimes, what we thought we could never live without.

With the learnings of our inability to control the tide we begin to develop our own private faiths. We hold onto beliefs that live quietly inside habit and longing: if I work hard enough, I will be safe. If I am kind enough, I will be loved. If I am useful enough, I will not be abandoned. If I remain organised, excellent, pleasing, self-controlled, spiritually sincere, emotionally composed, then perhaps life will spare me its harsher visitations.

We rarely say these things aloud. We rarely even recognise them within ourselves (it took me decades to tap into mine). But we arrange our lives around them all the same.

There are people who tether their worth to being indispensable. They become the one everyone relies on, because being needed feels like protection against being left. There are those who trust in competence with almost devotional intensity, believing that if they can only think clearly enough, manage well enough, perform strongly enough, then chaos will keep its distance. This was me. I became so capable that I left little room for others in my life (that’s what I was doing that took me decades to understand).

Others place their hope in romance, in beauty, in moral goodness, in service, in being endlessly adaptable, in staying above reproach. Each of these can be a gift. Each can also become a burden when asked to carry more than it can bear, when held beyond what serves us, and made to carry the illusion of control. That is the difficulty with false salvations: they are not always false because they are empty, but because they are too small. Too small for the life they are asked to secure. Too small for what comes when we finally loosen our grip.

Work can give structure. Love can bring joy. Discipline can steady a life. But none of these can abolish grief. None can make us immune to betrayal, illness, disappointment, or death. None can guarantee that what we cherish will remain in the form in which we first received it.

Still, we ask.

We ask because we ache for rescue.

The Deeper Fear

Beneath what we build and what we cling to is often a deeper fear. We tell ourselves that we want success, but perhaps what we really want is protection from insignificance. We tell ourselves that we want a well-ordered life, but perhaps what we really want is the illusion that unpredictability can be mastered. We tell ourselves that we want to be loved, but perhaps what we most fear is being left unseen, or left at all.

What we reach for in fear is rarely random. It reveals something about the particular ache we most want the world to spare us.

Some are haunted by loneliness and so build lives dense with obligation, noise, and contact. Some fear powerlessness and become controlling in the name of responsibility. Some dread failure and turn their whole life into a test they are always sitting. Some are so afraid of conflict that they become gentle beyond honesty, offering peace where truth was required. Some fear loss so deeply that they begin withdrawing from love before love has even had the chance to wound them.

It is hard to look directly at these fears, because they make us feel exposed.

The arrangements we build around them are often dignified, even beautiful. They can resemble strength. But any structure built to keep us from feeling the deepest truths of human life will eventually begin to crack under the strain.

That crack is painful.

It is also revealing.

When the Wall Gives Way

There comes a moment in most lives when the wall does not hold. The relationship you believed would save you doesn’t quite fit any more. The work into which you poured yourself does not protect you from emptiness. The self you built so carefully begins to feel unfamiliar in your own skin and there was no room for a change in your plan.

At first, such moments can feel like betrayal. We are invested only to have the course change and yet we are so deeply invested we will fight it, against all sense. We may be tempted to say that life has not kept its side of the bargain. But often the deeper truth is that the bargain was one we made without life’s consent, one we made as if the ocean heard and agreed to spare our sandcastle. We expected certainty where only a gift of time had been offered. We mistook shelter for permanence. We took what was real and beautiful and burdened it with an impossible assignment: save me from the human experience.

It took me a divorce to look at mine. Divorce was one of those things in the wake of my parents’, I said wouldn’t happen to me. And yet, it did. And it broke me open for the heartache, the aching reason, the realisation I couldn’t stop it, couldn’t control it and in turn had to admit it did happen to me. I was so fearful of the reality of my lack of control I knew I had to work on everything I could to never go through that again. I would need to find a way to walk away from new love if it wasn’t right for me, something I deeply struggled with. And I was tested. A few years later I found my self in a deep, whirlwind romance but it quickly unravelled. Oh how I begged for it to not be so, yet warning signs got bigger and bigger, far boyond the point of being undeniable. I feel so betrayed to be tested right where it hurt, right where I felt I deserved respite.

Disappointment can cut so deeply when despite all hope, the course changes. We we have that moment that we believe and hope and dream so fully we cannot fathom any other outcome possible. I have stood there astonished, loving the wrong person so hard that I couldn’t fathom that the would would let me love like this if it wasn’t meant to be.

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What the Sea Reveals

The sea does not mock the child’s wall. It simply reveals its limit. There is a kind of mercy in this. Not a soft mercy, but a clarifying one. The failure of what could not save us may become the beginning of a truer life. We begin to learn the difference between what comforts and what sustains, between what blesses a season and what can bear the full weight of existence.

We do not cease loving ordinary things, temporary things. Quite the opposite. It may be only when they are released from the burden of saving us that we are free to love them rightly. A relationship becomes more tender when it is no longer tasked with erasing loneliness entirely or leaned on wholly. Work becomes more honest when it is no longer required to make us worthy. Family becomes more human when it is no longer expected to spare us every grief. Faith becomes deeper when it no longer pretends to be immunity from suffering.

Perhaps that is one of the first wisdoms this life teaches with any depth: that what cannot save us may still be worth cherishing. That the collapse of illusion is not the collapse of meaning. That sometimes the sea, by taking away the wall, returns us to the shore itself.

There may be moments, later, when a particular loss or disappointment gives this truth a face. A relationship may end. A role may fall away. A season may collapse under the weight of reality. But even without naming those moments yet, the pattern is already familiar. We build, we trust, we discover the limit — and then, if we are willing, we begin again with a little more honesty.

And perhaps that honesty is not a lesser comfort, but a stronger one.

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This is Part 1 - Chapter 1 from The Hand That Lets Go. You can read the Introduction here.

I am writing and releasing my book a Chapter at a time. Subscriber to read along.

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We cannot build a peaceful life with clenched fists.

This article is part of a series that will become a book. A book that guides you through the grief of letting go, the uncertainty of the in-between, and the quiet strength required to open their hands to something new.

Some stories are not linear. They don’t follow neat, three-act structures. The before and after may look the same on the outside… but within, it is a shift from winter to spring.

Inside, there is wondering. Meandering. Questions that take time to answer, and times when you don’t yet know what the question is — only that something has changed.

These wanderings draw us inward, into deep reservoirs within ourselves — places where wonder, questioning, and awe quietly wait, often untouched by the pace of daily life. They leave us rethinking, reimagining, and feeling both exposed and held at once — vulnerable in one hand, and gently seen in the other.

This is one of those. One that meanders and wonders. One that holds you, even as it reveals you. It does not follow the rules, but instead takes you by the hand and guides you towards a new part of yourself — one you may not have realised you were ready to explore.

Introduction

We live by holding on.

We hold old versions of ourselves long after they have stopped fitting. We hold grief, hope, memory, longing, belief, and the ache of how life did not unfold as we imagined it would.

To be human is, in so many ways, to love what does not stay.

This is part of the beauty of life, and part of its wound.

We are born into a world of tenderness and continual relinquishment. Childhood opens and closes. Love deepens and alters. Bodies age. Seasons turn. Homes are left behind. Some dreams ask us to persevere; others ask us, with equal courage, to release them. There are losses that arrive suddenly, and losses that come by slow degrees. There are questions that do not resolve, and sorrows that do not fully leave.

And yet this life remains beautiful.

Not because it is easy, or because every ending can be explained into peace, but because in all its fragility it asks something true of us. It asks us to love fully without imagining we can possess. It asks us to remain open in a world where nothing living is exempt from change.

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Perhaps this is why the natural world can feel like such a quiet teacher. The shore does not fail when it lets the tide go out; its letting go is part of its faithfulness. The tree does not argue with the autumn leaf; it reveals that release was already written into its life. Again and again, the world shows us that letting go is not always loss alone. Sometimes it is part of love. Sometimes it is part of becoming.

This series is written from within that tension: between holding and releasing, grief and gratitude, the instinct to keep and the wisdom to let go. It does not offer neat answers for the hardest parts of being human. It is, instead, an attempt to sit honestly with them: heartbreak and bereavement, disappointment and change, helpless love, unanswered hurt, unrealised dreams, and the difficult question of when to hold on and when to release.

If there is hope here, it is not the hope of escaping these things. It is the hope that wisdom may be found within them.

That grief may deepen love rather than erase it.

That open hands may sometimes receive more truly than clenched ones ever could.

That the world, in all its changing beauty, may still help teach us how to live: how to love, how to grieve, how to endure, and how to let go in ways that do not empty us, but make us ready for what comes next.

Welcome to the hand that let’s go. A journey we will allow ourselves to surrender to as we surrended to today’s dawn, as we surrender to this evening.

Help me with the book - what feedback do you have for this first instalment? Did this piece speak to you?

Leave a comment

There are some amazing pieces of work out there, and so many I am yet to discover, which is an exciting prospect on my horizon. Here are some snippets out of a handful of what has found its way into my life and made a permanent mark on me.

~

Life isn’t about keeping score. It’s not about how many people call you and it’s not about who you’ve dated, are dating, or haven’t dated at all. It isn’t about who you’ve kissed, what sport you play, or which guy or girl likes you. It’s not about your shoes or your hair or the colour of your skin or where you live or go to school. In fact, it’s not about your grades, money, clothes, or colleges that accept you or not. Life isn’t about if you have lots of friends, or if you are alone, and it’s not about how accepted or unaccepted you are. Life isn’t just about that. But life is about who you love and who you hurt. It’s about how you feel about yourself. It’s about trust, happiness, and compassion. It’s about sticking up for your friends and replacing inner hate with love. Life is about avoiding jealousy, overcoming ignorance, and building confidence. It’s about what you say and what you mean. It’s about seeing people for who they are and not what they have. Most of all, it is about choosing to use your life to touch someone else’s in a way that could never have been achieved otherwise. These choices are what life is about.

Author Unknown

~

‘If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, …

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;

If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;’

If—

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

~

‘…I would enjoy the feeling of “being in love” and not worry so much about how it works out.

I would know that it probably won’t... but that something better will come along.

I wouldn’t be afraid of acting like a kid.

I would be braver.

I would look for the good qualities in everyone and enjoy them for those.’

If I Knew Then What I Know Now...

KIMBERLY KIRBERGER

~

‘I think probably kindness is my number one attribute in human beings. I’ll put it before any of the things like courage or bravery or generosity or anything else - or brains even? - Oh gosh yes, brains is one of the least. You can be a lovely person without brains, absolutely lovely. Kindness - that simple word, to be kind - it covers everything to mind. If you’re kind that’s it.’

ROALD DAHL

~

‘The more you leave out - the more you highlight what you leave in.’

HENRY GREEN

~

‘When everything is gone, everything remains.’

THE MINIMALISTS

~

‘The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it.’

HENRY DAVID THOREAU

~

‘A bell is no bell ‘till you ring it,

A song is no song ‘till you sing it,

And love in your heart wasn’t put there to stay,

Love isn’t love ‘till you give it away.’

OSCAR HAMMERSTEIN

~

These mountains that you are carrying, you’re supposed to climb.’

NAJWA ZEBIAN

~

‘…And you begin to accept your defeats,

With your head up and your eyes ahead,

…And you accept that it doesn’t matter how good a person is,

She will hurt you once in a while,

And you need to forgive her for that.

…You learn that it doesn’t matter where you have reached,

But where you are going to.

But if you don’t know where you are going to,

Anywhere will do.

…Because it doesn’t matter how delicate and fragile the situation is,

There are always two sides.

…You learn that patience demands a lot of practice.

…You learn that we shall never tell a child that dreams are silly,

Very few things are so humiliating,

And it would be a tragedy if she believed in it.

You learn that when you are angry,

You have the right to be angry,

But this doesn’t give you the right to be cruel.

You discover that only because someone doesn’t love you the way you would like her to,

It doesn’t mean that this person doesn’t love you the most she can,

…And that life really has a value.

And you have value within the life.’

After A While

Veronica A. Shoffstall

The other morning, I stood in the garden with a cup of tea, looking at a bed I had half-weeded weeks ago.

One side was thriving. The other was wild again. And I found it interesting to see the spring vegetables thriving amongst weeds - ‘Both things are true here.’ I thought. It is both neglected and thriving.

And I thought ‘this is what my life feels like right now.’

Some parts are flourishing. Some parts are neglected. Some are overgrown not because I don’t care — but because I’m tired.

So, if this is me, what would I do? Does it really matter that there are weeds here? Not really. What matters is that I keep watering what is growing and I get to the rest when I can. Yes, this feels sustainable and realistic.

I felt like I could manage it in this frame of mind and had to do some research on why that was.

Why This Question Works (From a Psychological Perspective)

There’s a reason therapists and coaches use imagery like this.

In psychology, metaphor helps us access parts of ourselves that logic can’t reach alone. When we imagine our life as something living — something organic — we step out of self-criticism and into curiosity.

Research in narrative therapy shows that when we “externalise” our struggles (seeing them as something we can relate to, rather than something we *are*), we reduce shame and increase agency.

A garden is not “bad” when weeds grow.

It is not “lazy” when things wilt.

It simply reflects conditions.

And that shift, as research indicages, matters. It helps us find a way forward through overwhelm.

Because instead of saying:

“I’m failing.”

We can get a little distance and with begin to ask:

“What does this part of my garden (me) need?”

And that question is far kinder and far more useful in moving us along with self acceptance..

I worked through this wonderful metapor and came up with some really helpful analogies, to continue on with that with the garden perspective, can help see things from a fresh new angle. Let’s consider:

What Does Your Garden Actually Look Like?

🌱 The Flourishing Beds

What in your life is growing well right now?

• Your children?

• A friendship?

• Your faith?

• Your resilience?

Often, we overlook what’s thriving because we are so focused on what feels messy.

Take a moment to name what is blooming. Growth deserves noticing.

🌿 The Weeds

Weeds are not evil. They are opportunistic.

They grow where soil is exposed.

Where something else hasn’t yet taken root.

In our lives, weeds can look like:

• Overcommitment

• Comparison

• Resentment

• Distraction

• Quiet exhaustion

They are often signs something needs attention.

Instead of ripping them out aggressively, what if you asked:

What is this weed protecting me from?

Sometimes overworking protects us from feeling not enough.

Sometimes scrolling protects us from loneliness.

Sometimes busyness protects us from grief.

Weeds tell a story.

🌾 The Overgrown Corners

These are the parts of life we avoid.

The conversation we keep postponing.

The dream we keep minimising.

The boundary we know we need to set.

Overgrown areas can feel overwhelming because we look at the whole thicket and think, ‘I can’t possibly fix this.’ But gardeners don’t clear an entire plot in one day. They do one square metre at a time.

Psychologically, this matters. Behavioural science shows that small, consistent actions reduce avoidance and build momentum. When we take one manageable step, we reduce the anxiety loop that keeps us stuck.

What is one small patch you could tend this week?

Not overhaul your whole life.

Just clear one little corner.

Real Struggles: When You’re Too Tired to Tend Anything

Let’s be honest.

There are seasons when you don’t feel like a gardener.

You feel like the soil. Flattened. Trodden on. Dry.

If you are in that season, please hear this (and I love the reality of this): Even gardens lie fallow. In agriculture, land is intentionally left to rest so nutrients can return to the soil. Productivity culture would call that laziness. Nature calls it wisdom.

If your life feels bare right now, perhaps it isn’t failure. Perhaps it’s winter.

And winter has work of its own — unseen, subterranean, slow.

Roots deepen in winter.

My dear friends,

Here’s something I’ve been turning over in my own heart.

We often imagine we are solely responsible for our garden.

But gardeners don’t control the sun.

They don’t command the rain.

They cannot prevent every storm.

There is effort — yes.

But there is also surrender.

What if tending your life isn’t about control…

but about partnership?

You show up.

You water what matters.

You prune gently.

You allow light in.

And you trust that growth is not entirely your job.

Practical and realistic steps forward.

Here are a few simple ways I thought would be realistic and self-honouring:

1. Water What You Want to Grow

Attention is water.

• Where are you pouring it?

• News cycles?

• Comparison?

• Self-criticism?

What if you redirected even ten minutes a day towards:

• Prayer or quiet reflection

• Reading something nourishing

• A walk outside

• A conversation that matters

Growth follows your loving attention.

2. Pull One Weed Gently

Choose one small habit or resentment that is draining you.

Don’t shame yourself for it. Just loosen it.

Maybe it’s saying no once this week.

Maybe it’s deleting one app.

Maybe it’s naming one truth out loud.

Small clearings create space.

3. Plant Something New

New growth requires intentional planting.

Is there:

• A hobby you’ve neglected?

• A friendship you want to deepen?

• A creative idea waiting quietly?

Planting feels vulnerable because seeds look unimpressive at first. Remember you have to start with a seed and spend a lot of time tending, to get a tree.

Everything begins small.

4. Accept the Season You’re In

Oh my love, planting tomatoes in winter will never work. We know this yet sometimes, out of desperation demard it of ourself. Let yourself be where you are at.

• Are you in spring?

• Summer?

• Autumn?

• Winter?

Each season has different work.

When you honour your season, you stop fighting yourself.

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There is an important question I will leave you with

If your life was a garden, how would you tend to it today?

Would you criticise every imperfection? No. You would simply kneel down gently, get your hands dirty and tend to nearest thing and had time and energy for, and you would water it.

You are not a machine to optimise. You are a garden to water.

You are living ground.

Some things are blooming.

Some things need pruning.

Some things need rest.

But none of it means you are behind.

I’d love to know —

What does your garden look like right now and what attention will you be giving?

Leave a comment

Share

Substack Notes can feel confusing at first.

Is it social media?

A feed?

A place to promote your work?

In reality, Substack Notes work best when they’re treated as conversation. Having a plan for your Notes can help the impact.

Used well, Notes help your writing travel further without turning your work into content for the sake of visibility.

Substack Notes are short posts that appear in the Substack network feed.

They’re designed to help writers:

• Share small thoughts and reflections

• Highlight longer Substack posts

• Engage with other writers

• Build visibility within the Substack ecosystem

They’re where connection happens.

Substack Notes the perform the best

Substack Notes are not mini blog posts.

They perform best when they feel:

• unfinished (in a human way), as in a pondering, or a question

• conversational

• personal rather than polished

A Note should feel like something you’d say out loud to one person.

What to write in Substack Notes

Effective Substack Notes tend to be:

• Short and clear

• Focused on one idea

• Written in natural language

Ideas that I see consistently work well:

• A short reflection from your week

• A line or paragraph from a recent post

• A genuine question for readers

• A thoughtful response to another writer’s work

Lead with the most important line

Only the first line of a Substack Note is guaranteed to be seen.

Instead of easing in, start with:

• the insight

• the question

• the tension you’re noticing

Clear opening lines help your Notes be read, replied to, and shared.

Use one idea per note

Notes travel further when they do one thing well:

• name a feeling

• ask a question

• offer a single reflection

Long, multi-point Notes are often skimmed.

How often to post on Substack Notes

There’s no perfect frequency.

A gentle, sustainable guideline:

• 2–5 Notes per week is plenty

• It’s okay to go quiet when life requires it

Consistency supports visibility.

Authenticity builds trust.

Trust lasts longer.

How to share your Substack posts using notes

You can absolutely share your own posts.

A helpful balance:

• One post share for every few conversational Notes

When sharing, frame it as an invitation rather than promotion.

For example:

• I wrote this considering…... Sharing in case it meets you where you are.

This tone encourages reading without pressure.

Engage with other writers is helpful

One of the most powerful ways to grow on Substack is by commenting thoughtfully on other Notes.

When you:

• respond with care

• add something meaningful

• speak in your real voice

You’re introduced to new readers in a context of trust.

This builds community — not just numbers.

Recommending other writers on Substack

Recommending writers you genuinely read and value is one of the most generous growth practices on Substack.

When you recommend others:

• you strengthen the community

• you support meaningful work

• you often build reciprocal visibility naturally

If you are going to recommend another, it is a good idea to include why to help give insight into why others might be interested too.

Hot Tip: Use Substack Notes to test ideas

Notes are an excellent place to explore ideas before writing a full post.

You can:

• share a question you’re sitting with

• name a half-formed thought

• ask if something resonates

The responses often reveal what readers are ready for next.

Substack tends to reward writers who stay.

Those who write with care, connect, and come back for the long run.

You don’t need to use every feature or be everywhere.

Choose what feels aligned.

Choose what feels sustainable.

Genuine audiences are built slowly, and Substack Notes, used gently, can be part of that growth.

I have collated these tips into a checklist for Notes, download it here.

Subscribes get a thank-you Poetry book & SEO Checklist:

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How do you interact with Notes? - What do you enjoy about it? Would you please comment so we can share our views and understand this wonderful space we are in:

Leave a comment

The Series at a Glance

Part 1 – How to Start a Substack (The Essentials)

Setting up your publication, choosing a name, and understanding the basic tools.

Part 2 – What to Write on Substack & How Often to Publish

Finding your voice, choosing a sustainable rhythm, and building confidence.

Part 3 – How to Grow a Substack Gently (Free vs Paid)

Subscriptions, paid options, and slow, intentional growth.

Part 4 - The SEO checklist I follow to help share my work and stay true to my voice

Writing with authenticity, and still getting seen.

Part 5 - How to use Substack Notes to grow your audience and still feel like yourself

Tips for using Substack Notes to build connection, share your writing, and reach new readers—without turning your work into marketing.

Think of it as making your work easier to find — not changing what you say.

These are the most impactful SEO actions you can take on Substack, without becoming someone you’re not.

Here are my top 10 must-do SEO actions on substack

1. Title Options, chose one option depending on your post style:

• a) Use clear, descriptive titles that say what the post is about

• b) Use headings that mirror how people actually search

• b) Title for curiosity, subtitle for clarity

Examples:

a) Descriptive titles:

• Answer a real question

• Clearly signal the topic

• Use natural language

b) Headings sound like real questions:

• How does SEO work on Substack?

• How do people find my Substack posts?

• Do Substack posts rank on Google?

You can keep lyrical subheadings underneath — just anchor the structure in clarity.

c) Curiosity then clarity to create interest

• Title = emotional pull

• Subtitle = literal explanation

2. Focus on one clear main topic per post

Google prefers focus over breadth.

Each post should clearly answer one core question, such as:

• How to grow on Substack

• How to use Substack Notes

• How to write consistently

If you want to explore more, link to another post instead.
This will also help to build topical authority across your writing.

3. Answer the main question early

This matters more than keywords.

Within the first 2–3 paragraphs, clearly state:

• What this article helps with

• Who it’s for

• What problem it solves

Example:

If you’re writing on Substack and want your work to be found without changing your voice, these are the SEO practices I actually use.

This improves rankings and reader trust. It is about doing what you say you will do.

4. Write in natural language how you would talk

This is each of us as writers already shine.

Search engines now favour:

• Clear explanations

• Conversational tone

• Helpful, grounded writing

Which is really gerat news for us.

5. Use natural keyword variations, not repetition

You don’t need to repeat the same phrase.

Search engines understand variations like:

• grow on Substack

• build an audience

• reach new readers

• sharing Substack writing

We can write naturally and let meaning do the work.

6. Link your own writing in posts, linking is a GREAT tool

Every new post should link to:

• 1–3 relevant older posts

• Your “Start Here” or foundational guide

This:

• Helps Google understand your content structure

• Keeps readers on your work longer

• Signals authority and depth

It’s one of the highest-impact, lowest-effort actions you can take.

7. Update older posts regularly

SEO isn’t just about new content.

Every few months:

• Refresh an older post

• Add a new heading

• Link to newer writing

• Adjust the title slightly if needed

Search engines love refreshed content — and readers don’t mind it either. Think of it as coming back to those books you love.

8. Write evergreen content

Evergreen posts compound over time.

Examples:

• How to write consistently

• How to grow a Substack gently

• How to share your writing

These keep bringing readers long after publishing.

9. Keep URLs simple and descriptive

Substack auto-generates URLs — but you can edit them.

Before publishing:

• Remove filler words

• Keep the main topic clear

Example:
/authentic-writing-substack-seo-notes
instead of
/some-thoughts-on-writing-from-the-heart

10. Write for “problem-aware” readers

Not just beginners.

Posts that perform well long-term often answer a question:

• Why isn’t my Substack growing?

• Is Substack still worth it?

• What if no one is reading?

These searches are emotionally charged and less competitive.

11. Use lists when it makes sense

Lists improve:

• Time on page

• Featured snippet potential

• Accessibility

Use:

• Numbered steps

• Short bullet lists

• Clear sections

Only when it serves the reader.

12. Encourage replies and engagement

Search engines track behaviour.

When readers:

• Scroll

• Read to the end

• Reply

Your content is seen as valuable.

Simple invitations like:

You can reply if this stirred something.

quietly help with gentle encourangement.

13. Link out to trusted sources

Linking to:

• Substack Help

• Thoughtful writers

• Relevant tools

Builds contextual trust and places your work in a meaningful ecosystem.

You’re not trying to rank everywhere.
You’re trying to be found by the right people.

That is how lasting audiences are built 🌿

For a checklist of these SEO tips, simply subscribe:

Subscribe now

I hope this helped. You may notice I’m not that great with it myself which is why I have done this reasearch and built a checklist, so I can follow it.

I would love to hear what has helped you reach new readers. Include any tips below so we can learn from each other’s success.

Leave a comment

The Series at a Glance

Part 1 – How to Start a Substack (The Essentials)

Setting up your publication, choosing a name, and understanding the basic tools.

Part 2 – What to Write on Substack & How Often to Publish

Finding your voice, choosing a sustainable rhythm, and building confidence.

Part 3 – How to Grow a Substack Gently (Free vs Paid)

Subscriptions, paid options, and slow, intentional growth.

Part 4 - The SEO checklist I follow to help share my work and stay true to my voice

Writing with authenticity, and still getting seen.

Part 5 - How to use Substack Notes to grow your audience and still feel like yourself

Tips for using Substack Notes to build connection, share your writing, and reach new readers—without turning your work into marketing

If you’ve been wondering “How do I grow my Substack?” or “Should I charge for my writing?”, this artile is about slow, sustainable growth that still honours your values as a writer.

What growth looks like on Substack

Growth on Substack happens through trust, not tricks.

It looks like:

• Readers replying to your emails

• People staying subscribed

• Re-stacking when something hits a cord

Numbers matter less than resonance here.

Simple ways to grow your Substack

You don’t need a big launch or constant promotion.

Gentle growth options include:

• Sharing posts with friends as well as your or email lists - be bold

• Sharing your Substack posts in your social profiles

• Commenting thoughtfully on other Substack writers’ work

• Inviting readers to share posts they love

Connection grows audiences more reliably than noise.

When you have a but of a track record with posting articles you can consider interviews as a way of working with new audiences, see my article on interviews linked below.

I also share my experience and knowledge on conducting interviews in my Course Unlock the Power of Interviews and provide guidance via Coaching Calls.

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Free vs paid Substack – a few thoughts

“Is this Substack worth paying for?”

Purchase comes with trust and trust is earned.

For this reason, many writers choose a mixed model:

• Most posts are free

• A few are reserved for paid subscribers

This allows readers to experience your work before committing.

Paid subscriptions work best when they feel like an invitation, not a gate.

When to introduce paid subscriptions

There’s no rush.

Good signs you may be ready:

• You’re publishing consistently

• Readers reply or thank you

• Writing feels like a meaningful practice

You don’t need a huge audience. You need the right one.

As you grow

It’s easy to start measuring your worth by numbers.

When that thought comes to you, it is helpful to remember:

• Why you started

• Who you’re writing for

• What the message is

• What feels good to post for you

Your Substack will grow at your own unique pace, no two grow the same.

Starting a Substack is about creating a small, steady space for your words to land.

Begin simply. Grow gently. Let it be enough what ever it is but continue to learn along the way.

Subscribe now

The Series at a Glance

Part 1 – How to Start a Substack (The Essentials)

Setting up your publication, choosing a name, and understanding the basic tools.

Part 2 – What to Write on Substack & How Often to Publish

Finding your voice, choosing a sustainable rhythm, and building confidence.

Part 3 – How to Grow a Substack Gently (Free vs Paid)

Subscriptions, paid options, and slow, intentional growth.

Part 4 - The SEO checklist I follow to help share my work and stay true to my voice

Writing with authenticity, and still getting seen.

Part 5 - How to use Substack Notes to grow your audience and still feel like yourself

Tips for using Substack Notes to build connection, share your writing, and reach new readers—without turning your work into marketing.

If you’ve found yourself asking “What should I write on Substack?” or “How often should I publish?”, you’re not alone. This part is here to help you find a rhythm that fits your real life, not an imagined one.

If you want to share your message here we need to think about building a sustainable rythym. Success isn’t overnight anywhere and that includes here. This isn’t about content plans or productivity hacks. It’s about writing in a way you can sustain.

If you missed Part 1; What is Substack and How Do I Get Started, read it here.

Start with what you’re already living, what you know

The best Substack writing often comes from lived experience.

Sure you can ask, What do people want?, but that won’t sustain you. It has to be more aligned with questions such as:

• What am I learning right now?

• What feels tender, true, or unfinished?

• What conversations do I keep having?

Your Substack doesn’t need to be expert-led. It can be companion-led.

Common types of posts that work well on Substack

If you’re unsure what to write, these formats tend to resonate strongly with readers:

• Personal essays with reflection

• Letters to the reader

• Stories with a lesson or insight

• Quiet observations about life, faith, work, or creativity

• Practical reflections drawn from experience

You don’t need to choose just one. Over time, patterns will emerge naturally. I have seen all forms have success as it is the content that really counts.

How long should a Substack post be?

Another common question is:

“How long should Substack posts be?”

There’s no single right answer, but most successful posts are:

• Long enough to say something meaningful

• Short enough to be read in one sitting

As a guide:

• 600–1,200 words works well for reflective essays

• Shorter posts are perfect for check-ins or letters

Clarity matters more than length.

Some tend to write weekly and in acknowledging a more frequent timing they mix up their articles to be one long-form article per month and the rest shorter works.

What is worth noting here as you think about readers reading is that having your posts read by 100% of those who subscribe isn’t realistic. People read what they can but it might not be everything. A subscriber open rate is usually from 20-40%.

How often should you publish on Substack?

Consistency matters more than frequency.

Weekly is wonderful if it fits your life. Fortnightly is generous. Monthly is still valuable.

Choose a rhythm you can keep even during full or tiring seasons.

Tell your readers what to expect – and give yourself permission to change later.

Drafting without overthinking

You don’t need to write perfectly.

Try this simple flow:

1. Write freely without editing

2. Step away

3. Edit for clarity, not cleverness

If it sounds like you when you read it aloud, you’re close.

And not all articles will have the same feel. I write much warmer pieces usually, but to pass on a bit of my experience in this series I am keeping it pointed and easy to work through.

Publishing with confidence

Before you hit publish, ask:

• Is this honest?

• Is this kind?

• Does this feel like me?

That’s enough.

You don’t need to anticipate reactions or outcomes. Publishing is an act of trust.

What comes next

In Part 3, we’ll explore:

• How to grow a Substack without chasing numbers

• Free vs paid subscriptions in more depth

• Staying grounded as your readership grows

Your job right now is simple:

Write the next thing you are called to share with the world.

The Series at a Glance

Part 1 – How to Start a Substack (The Essentials)

Setting up your publication, choosing a name, and understanding the basic tools.

Part 2 – What to Write on Substack & How Often to Publish

Finding your voice, choosing a sustainable rhythm, and building confidence.

Part 3 – How to Grow a Substack Gently (Free vs Paid)

Subscriptions, paid options, and slow, intentional growth.

Part 4 - The SEO checklist I follow to help share my work and stay true to my voice

Writing with authenticity, and still getting seen.

Part 5 - How to use Substack Notes to grow your audience and still feel like yourself

Tips for using Substack Notes to build connection, share your writing, and reach new readers—without turning your work into marketing.

Starting a Substack doesn’t have to be loud, strategic, or overwhelming.

If you’ve been asking yourself “How do I start a Substack?” or even “What is Substack and how does it work?”, this guide is for you.

This is Part 1 of a gentle, practical series that walks you through setting up your Substack step by step.

We’ll cover the essentials: what Substack is, how to set it up, and what actually matters when you’re just starting out.

The Series at a Glance

Part 1 – How to Start a Substack (The Essentials)

Setting up your publication, choosing a name, and understanding the basic tools.

Part 2 – What to Write on Substack & How Often to Publish

Finding your voice, choosing a sustainable rhythm, and building confidence.

Part 3 – How to Grow a Substack Gently (Free vs Paid)

Subscriptions, paid options, and slow, intentional growth.

What Is Substack? (And Is It Right for You?)

Substack is a writing and email platform that lets you publish a newsletter and send it directly to subscribers’ inboxes.

You write posts. Readers subscribe. Your writing lands in their email — without algorithms, ads, or constant social media posting.

Substack combines:

• A newsletter

• A simple website for your writing

• Optional paid subscriptions

It’s especially popular with writers who value depth, connection, and owning their relationship with readers.

Here is a great overview on what you can create on substack.

Get Started Today - Create Your Substack Account

To start a Substack, head here.

Start a publication here with one of the basic themes.

If you already have an email list upload your email list. But don’t keep going if you don’t Substack has a great community you can start sharing and build your audience on there.

You’ll be guided through a simple setup process where you’ll:

• Choose a publication name

• Create a Substack URL (you can change this later)

• Add your name and a short bio

If you’re stuck on names or details, you can come back and change it. Save this how to post for later.

A friendly reminder: many successful Substacks simply use the writer’s own name. This is a great place to start to get a feel of things first.

Decide What You’ll Write About on Substack

One of the most common questions new writers ask is:

“What should I write about on Substack?”

You don’t need a tight niche, but readers do appreciate a sense of direction.

Try finishing this sentence:

I write about….       …for people who….       …so they can….    .

This isn’t a promise for life — just a starting point.

Set Up the Key Pages Readers Look At First

Before you publish an article, it’s worth setting up a few foundational pages.

Your About Page

This is one of the most visited pages on any Substack.

Use it to share:

• Who you are

• Why you’re writing

• What readers can expect

• How often you plan to publish (keep this realistic)

About page guidance from Substack.

Your Welcome Page

Your Welcome Page acts as the essential landing page and “book cover” for a publication, appearing to new, unsubscribed visitors to explain the newsletter’s value and convert them into subscribers. It typically includes a logo, a one-line description, a cover photo, the creator’s name, and a, clear subscription button.

Here is Substack’s guidance on Welcome Page.

Your Welcome Email

Every new subscriber receives this automatically.

Keep it warm and human:

• Thank them for being there

• Tell them what you’re exploring

• Invite them to reply (this builds real connection)

Follow this great guide from Substack on how to set it up.

Your Profile

A clear photo and thoughtful bio help readers trust you. This is what invites new readers to subscribe so it deserves some thought.

Here is Substack’s profile settings guide.

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Should You Start a Free or Paid Substack?

Another very common question is: “Should I start a free or paid Substack?”

If you’re just beginning, starting with free posts is often the simplest and least pressured option.

It allows you to:

• Find your voice

• Build confidence

• Learn what resonates with readers

Here is a guide to setting up a paid subscription.

But one thing I have seen done well is starting free to build your audience so there is no barrier to the subscribing.

Once your audience is larger, you can add in some paid options. Doing it this way gives you a better chance of getting on the bestsellers list as a lot of people are signing up for paid at once, rather than one by one as they find you. This makes you more visibe.

But some people with an audience or great value proposition start paid and do really well. It is up to you. And you can change it later.

How to Publish Your First Post on Substack

Your first post doesn’t need to be polished. It just needs to be real.

Good first-post ideas include:

• Why you’re starting this Substack

• What you’re curious about right now

• A personal story connected to your main theme

When you publish, you can choose to:

• Send it as an email

• Post it on your Substack site

• Or both (most writers choose both)

Setting up a new post guide.

What Comes Next

In Part 2, we’ll explore:

* What to write when you feel stuck

* How often to publish without burning out

* Writing with confidence, even when you’re unsure

In Part 3, we’ll look at:

• Growing your Substack slowly and steadily

• Free vs paid subscriptions

• Staying grounded as your readership grows

You don’t need to do everything today.

Set up the space.

Write the first post.

Let the rest unfold in its own time.

Somewhere along the way, reading became another quiet pressure.

Unread newsletters stack up.

Tabs remain open.

A soft guilt creeps in — I’ll catch up later. But, then you don’t.

But what if subscribing was never meant to mean keeping up?

What if we are looking at it all wrong this way.

What if it was simply a way of saying:

This voice matters to me. I want it nearby.

Lets stop treating Substack like an inbox to conquer, and start treating it like a library you are creating for yourself, a bookshelf you can visit when you are ready.

You don’t have to read ever article as a subscriber

Subscribing is not a contract

When you subscribe to a writer, you are not promising to read every word they ever send. And trust me, they don’t expect it. Writers who look at the statistics know that an article that is read by 30-40% of your readers is a well-read article.

You can use that stastic in reverse. You can aim for just 30% of what you receive and you are going to be reading more than most.

By subscribing and releaving the pressure to read everything you are still saying:

• I value this way of seeing

• I trust this voice

• I want this here when I need it.

Unopened posts are nourishment stored for another day.

Read by resonance, not obligation

You don’t need to read in order.

You don’t need to catch up.

Let the title that makes you pause be the one you open.

Let your intuition choose.

Some seasons you will read deeply.

Other seasons you will simply stay connected.

Both are enough.

Each season of life only has room for a handful of companions.

Perhaps:

• one or two writers you return to often

• one voice that gently stretches you

• the rest waiting quietly in the background

You’re allowed to move in cycles.

You’re allowed to change.

You’re allowed to dip in and out.

You’re allow to pause and return.

Please allow reading be a ritual, not a task

Subscribe now

Depth matters more than volume.

I love the subscribers that say with that quiet subscription ‘I love your work.’ I don’t expect everything read. I don’t expect anything. What comes with your subscription is completly up to you and that is the only way I want it to be.

I don’t want reading to become another pressure. And I know that means you wont get to every article everyone you subscribe to sends you.

You belong here even when you are quiet.

You are welcome even when you are busy.

You are still part of this space even when you don’t open every email.

The hand that lets go is not careless.

It is wise.

So let go of the pressure.

Let the words wait for you.

Let reading be an act of meeting — not managing.

I’m glad you’re here, in whatever way you can be.

Leave a comment

If you loved this, here are some other good reads to add to your library

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It comes from constant alerts, infinite scrolling, blue-lit evenings, and the low hum of being reachable at all times. In 2026, many of us are not craving more productivity or better apps. We are craving relief. Space. Texture. Silence that doesn’t feel empty.

This is where analogue living quietly re-enters the conversation.

A gentle rebalancing.

Analogue living is not about abandoning technology or moving off-grid. It is about consciously choosing moments, routines, and habits that exist outside screens. It is slow living without the aesthetic pressure. Mindful living without the performative edge. A digital detox that doesn’t require disappearing from modern life.

It is simply the hand that let go, and noticed what was already there.

Imagine a weekend morning with nowhere urgent to be.

The phone stays face-down, still charging, not yet invited into the day. The light arrives first. It stretches across the room without commentary. You make coffee or tea slowly, noticing the sound of the kettle, the warmth of the mug, the small ceremony of it all.

Maybe there is a newspaper, a book with a spine that bends easily, or a notebook that already knows your handwriting. Maybe you step outside barefoot for a moment. No music yet. Just the ordinary soundtrack of life waking up.

Nothing remarkable happens.

And yet, everything feels steadier.

This is analogue living in practice. It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t optimise. It simply allows you to arrive.

What Does Analogue Living Really Mean?

At its core, analogue living is about intentional friction. It creates small pauses between impulse and action. It asks you to be present instead of efficient.

In a digital-first world, we are trained to remove effort. One-click, auto-play, instant answers. Analogue habits gently return effort to everyday life, as a grounding.

Analogue living might look like:

• Writing things down instead of typing them

• Reading physical books instead of endless feeds

• Having conversations without phones on the table

• Doing one thing at a time, imperfectly

The reason many digital detox attempts fail is because they aim too big, too fast. Analogue living works because it scales gently.

Here are small, achievable shifts that quietly add up.

1. Create analogue bookends to your day

Start and end your day without screens. Even 15 minutes matters. Morning light, stretching, journaling, making breakfast. At night, a lamp instead of overhead lights, a book instead of a feed. These moments signal safety to your nervous system.

2. Choose one analogue anchor habit

Not ten. Just one.

It could be a daily walk without headphones, cooking one meal from scratch each week, or keeping a handwritten to-do list. Repetition builds familiarity. Familiarity builds calm.

3. Let boredom exist

Boredom is not a flaw. It is a doorway. When you stop filling every gap with content, your mind starts offering its own. This is where creativity, clarity, and emotional processing live.

4. Make technology visible, not invisible

Instead of apps running silently in the background, make conscious choices. Put your phone in another room. Turn off non-essential notifications. Use technology on purpose, then put it away.

This is not restriction. It is relief.

Search terms like digital detox, slow living, mindful routines, and low-tech lifestyle are rising because people are tired in a very specific way. Burnout in 2026 is less about workload and more about cognitive overload.

Analogue living meets that moment. It offers nervous system regulation, improved focus, deeper relationships, and a sense of agency many people feel they’ve lost.

It also costs very little. No subscription required. Just a willingness to let go, gradually.

The most comforting truth about analogue living is this:

you don’t have to change your whole life.

You change one morning.

One habit.

One choice to pause instead of react.

And then you notice something subtle. You feel more here. More patient. Less brittle. The days don’t speed up quite as fast.

This is how meaningful change actually happens. Quietly. Cumulatively.

Analogue living is not about going backwards. It is about remembering how to stand still. About noticing the weight of a pen, the sound of pages turning, the steadiness of a breath.

It is the hand that let go, and discovered it was never empty.

If this resonated, consider sharing it with someone who’s been feeling a little overstimulated, a little stretched thin. Sometimes the most radical thing we can offer each other is permission to slow down.

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Seven years of motherhood have moved like light on water. Quick, shimmering, impossible to hold. If I don’t pause, whole seasons of my children seem to pass in a blink. And whole seasons of myself, I must add too. A blink from youthful into the stretch toward wise, and yet all this rushing I know isn’t.

My antidote is a small notebook. A handful of lines each evening when all is quiet: noting what the kids are saying and loving, what stretched me, what I quietly got through. The day the nursery rhymes fell away. The first wobbly tooth. The proud little “I can do it myself” over toast and butter. All captured, not to be lost but cherished now.

It’s ordinary magic, and it steadies me.

Because while the world can feel loud and uncertain, these daily notes bring me back to what I can touch and tend. They remind me that my life is not lived out there in the noise, but here, in the cereal bowls and school shoes, the bedtime kisses and the breath I take before the next moment arrives.

When the headlines shake me, and they often do now, returning to these pages helps me return to myself, and to the small patch of earth where I can genuinely make a difference.

A wise woman said, and I leaned in:

“Ours is not the task of fixing the entire world all at once, but of stretching out to mend the part of the world that is within our reach.”

— Clarissa Pinkola Estés

Isn’t that a balm? In a culture that glorifies urgency and outrage, she gives us permission to stay rooted. To move slowly. To care in real ways rather than perform concern at scale.

And then this, like a hand on the shoulder from her article Do Not Lose Heart:

“Any small, calm thing that one soul can do to help another soul… will help immensely.”

We know this, imagining how loving that small moment of notice would feel on a day like today. Small isn’t lesser. And goodness, the courage to pause amongst it all and choose tenderness when everything feels sharp.

There’s a natural pull toward overwhelm right now. A sense that if we are not reacting constantly, we’re somehow asleep at the wheel.

So much good is done quietly. A gentle boundary. A meal shared. A moment of patience when you have none spare. These are not small things. They are sacred.

There’s something liberating in knowing we don’t have to solve everything or carry it all. That’s not failure. That’s wisdom. Real change rarely arrives through grand gestures or perfect plans. It comes by tending one life, one neighbour, one act of courage, one boundary, one open-armed kindness at a time.

It’s a call to scale our gaze to the human level again. To remember the power of being here, present, doing what is ours to do.

In an age where noise is mistaken for impact, small and calm is radical.

Small and calm is strength.

Small and calm is how light spreads.

This isn’t about bypassing emotion or pretending everything is fine. It’s about grounding before reacting. Choosing centred presence instead of spiralling panic.

We don’t have to match the world’s frenzy. We can be the still point. And in doing so, we help others breathe again too.

If you’re tired, it doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you care. Rest, then continue. Courage isn’t loud; often it looks like carrying on with softness intact.

Perhaps the line that feels most needed right now is this:

“The light of the soul throws sparks, can send up flares… Struggling souls catch light from other souls who are fully lit and willing to show it.”

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Your presence, your gentleness, your decision to stay open-hearted in a time that rewards armour… that is power. We don’t always see the ripple, but it is real.

We don’t do our work to be seen. We do it because that’s who we are. Because our lives, lived sincerely and bravely, become lanterns. And lanterns, by nature, are generous.

So breathe. Root down. Take heart. And trust that together, we are capable of mending more than we can yet see.

There’s a relief in this, isn’t there? A loosening in the shoulders. You don’t have to carry it all or solve it all or have the grand plan for humanity.

In a culture obsessed with scale and visibility, tiny acts are rebellious. Tenderness is subversive. Stillness is strength.

Light shared quietly passes from soul to soul like candle flame. No spotlight. No announcement. Just warmth spreading.

So if you’ve been feeling that wobble — that doubt, that exhaustion, that quiet question of “am I doing enough?” — take heart.

You are allowed to carry only what is yours.

You don’t need to rise to the moment. You already are the moment.

And you, just as you are — steady, thoughtful, human — are more than enough light for the patch of earth you stand on.

We go gently.

Gently is how we go on.

Link to Clarissa Pinkola Estes article Do Not Lose Hope: https://www.dailygood.org/story/1538/do-not-lose-heart-we-were-made-for-these-times-clarissa-pinkola-estes/

Lately, I’ve been noticing how the natural world never rushes its seasons.

The tide pulls out, the forest goes quiet in winter, the soil lies fallow before new shoots appear.

Everything alive understands the rhythm of rest.

Yet we often push on as if we were exempt from these cycles—treating rest as something to snatch at the end of exhaustion, mostly in the form of sleep.

We collapse into bed, and when we still wake tired, we wonder what’s wrong with us.

Perhaps nothing is wrong—only incomplete.

Rest is not a single act but a whole ecosystem.

I liken it to a symphony of different pauses and replenishments, not just of the sleeping kind, each one restoring a different part of us.

And what if rest is not only something we take for ourselves but also something we offer to the people around us?

A rested person brings more patience, presence, and grace to a dinner table, a conversation, a workplace, a family.
Rest, then, is not indulgence.
It is an act of generosity.

This idea—rest as both a symphony and a gift—offers us a more expansive, and perhaps more humane, vision for how we live.

The Seven Instruments of Rest

The notion of different kinds of rest comes from Dr Saundra Dalton-Smith, a physician and researcher who has popularised the idea of seven types of rest.
Most of us lean heavily on just one instrument—physical rest—and wonder why the melody of our life feels thin or discordant.

To bring the music back, we need to learn to recognise the other instruments and give each its moment. Think about which of these you need the most.

1. The Percussion: Physical Rest

Percussion grounds a symphony.
So too, physical rest is the foundation.

It has two movements:

• Passive rest—sleep, naps, simply lying down. This is the deep drumbeat that allows your body to repair.

• Active rest—yoga, stretching, massage, a gentle walk. Like a soft rhythm, it keeps the body supple and releases tension.

Uncommon note: Movement can be restful.
The gentle sway of yoga or a slow stroll often soothes sore muscles more effectively than staying still.

2. The Woodwinds: Mental Rest

The mind is like a clarinet that never stops playing.
It needs pauses in the score.

Mental rest comes from brief breaks during the day, jotting down to-do lists so the brain doesn’t have to hold them, short meditations, or simply staring out of the window.

Uncommon note: Writing a task down—without acting on it—reduces cognitive load.
Your mind trusts the page to remember for you.

3. The Harp: Sensory Rest

The harp’s gentle notes can be lost in too much noise.
Our senses too are often overwhelmed by screens, alerts, traffic, bright lights.

Sensory rest invites quiet: dimming the lights, closing the eyes, putting devices aside, slipping into nature where birdsong replaces notification pings.

Uncommon note: Even pleasant stimuli—like favourite music or scrolling inspiring images—can overwork the senses.
Short periods of near-silence or darkness can feel surprisingly restorative.

4. The Trumpets: Creative Rest

When the trumpets play, we sit up a little straighter.
Creative rest revives that spark of wonder.

It doesn’t mean forcing yourself to produce something new.
It means letting yourself receive—wandering in a gallery, listening to live music, staring at the night sky, reading a story that stirs you.

Uncommon note: Exposure to art outside your own field often triggers fresh ideas.
A scientist may find insight in a painting; a parent may rediscover playfulness in a poem.

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5. The Strings: Emotional Rest

Strings bring warmth and depth.
Emotional rest is about putting down the mask—no need to perform or people-please—so that feelings can rise and settle naturally.

It can be as simple as being with someone you trust and telling the truth about how you are, or journalling honestly, or creating a boundary around a draining relationship.

Uncommon note: Emotional fatigue often stems not from feeling too much, but from suppressing what needs to be felt.

6. The Harmonies: Social Rest

Some people replenish us; others quietly deplete us.
Social rest is choosing the former, limiting the latter, and knowing when to seek solitude.

Uncommon note: Even extroverts sometimes need social rest, and sometimes the best social rest is quiet presence with a trusted friend—no small talk required.

7. The Solo: Spiritual Rest

Every great piece of music has a moment when a single instrument rises in stillness.
Spiritual rest is that moment of connection to something greater than ourselves—through prayer, contemplation, time in nature, service, or a sense of meaning.

Uncommon note: Spiritual rest is not about doing more; often it’s about being still enough to remember we are part of something vast and held.

Rest as Generosity

If the idea of rest makes you feel guilty—like you’re taking something away from others—consider this:

A rested person is more patient with a child’s questions.
A rested leader listens more generously.
A rested friend remembers to ask how you are and lingers to hear the answer.

Rest is not self-centred.
It is the well from which we pour our presence, kindness, and creativity into the world.

You don’t need to engage all seven types every day.
Instead, ask yourself:

Which instrument in my life is out of tune today?
Which part of the score has been neglected?

Begin there—with a nap, a quiet walk, a few minutes of unhurried prayer, a conversation with a trusted friend, a night without screens, or a gallery visit.

Tiny shifts—sometimes just two or three minutes—can start to restore the harmony.

Rest is not the absence of living.
It is what allows us to live fully tuned, able to offer the best of ourselves.
By resting well, you don’t only heal yourself—you offer the world a clearer, richer, more generous song.

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https://thehandthatletsgo.substack.com/p/time-makes-the-miso-japanese-inspired

Do You Have a Pile of Beautiful Blank Notebooks?

I mustn’t be the only one… do you too have a pile of beautiful blank notebooks?

The linen covers. The creamy pages. The promise of a more intentional life pressed between two covers. Bought with excitement, imagining all the words you would pour onto their pages. And then… they sit. Waiting. Too beautiful to touch, too precious to “ruin.”

There’s a strange paralysis that comes with the pristine page—the fear of messing it up or not knowing what’s worthy of writing.

But here’s the truth: a notebook’s beauty only begins once you start writing in it. A filled notebook—dog-eared, smudged, scribbled—is infinitely more valuable than a perfect one gathering dust.

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Why We Hesitate

We freeze for many reasons:

• Perfectionism: we don’t want to spoil something flawless.

• Fear of starting: we wait for the perfect idea or perfect words.

• Collector’s mindset: we treat notebooks as precious objects rather than living companions.

Remember: blankness isn’t meant to be preserved. It’s meant to be filled—with thoughts, lists, sketches, prayers, shopping notes, or bursts of inspiration. The page is an invitation, not a test.

The key:

See Your Notebook as a Companion

Think of your favourite shoes. Their scuffs and creases tell the story of where they’ve been. A notebook is the same. Its worth grows the more you carry it, bend its spine, or spill a little coffee on the edge.

A notebook becomes a companion to your life. Every mark is proof that it walked alongside you.

Be Messy

Let the book be messy and lived in. That is what makes a great notebook. Forget perfect layouts or Instagram-worthy doodles—fill it with your life.

• Cross out words.

• Half-start poems.

• Make a list of groceries and how much they cost.

In twenty years, those little details like prices will be fascinating, as will the meals you cooked.

Think of your notebook like compost. Scraps, half-thoughts, jottings that feel useless at the time—all of it breaks down into fertile ground for future ideas. Nothing is wasted.

My Notebook Ritual

I love a blank notebook, but I also love a dated one. It pulls me along, urging me to write something for the day. Even if it’s just a few gratitudes, that’s enough.

I list snippets of conversation that made me laugh, feel, or lean in. I jot the cost of a ticket, the kilometres I drove, and what the car service included.

I go from mundane chore notes to poetic prose, because not judging it allows the pages to fill.

Those pages become fascinating. For example: my Grandma, now 92, recorded that at 15 she had to crank a car engine. She didn’t like it because the handle could kick back. One day, visitors’ children were over, and she tried to “show off”—and got into trouble because she didn’t know how to stop the engine!

A simple complaint about an everyday task now tells a story—how the world has changed, and a little snippet of character shines through.

How to Start Today

Your notebook is asking you to start. On the first page:

• Write your name and today’s date.

• Copy a quote, prayer, or favourite song lyric.

Break the spell of perfection.

Don’t aim for essays. Begin with a single line:
Today I noticed…
Right now I feel…

No theme, no restrictions. Let this notebook be a catch-all, so you always have something to write—even if it’s just the weather.

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Make It a Habit

Reach over. Choose one notebook from your pile today. Don’t overthink it. Open to the first page, and let your pen move. Write something ordinary—a to-do list, a sentence about the weather, a note to yourself. That single act transforms it from a blank object into a living companion.

Take it with you. Pull it out whenever you have a chance. Think of all the moments you normally spend scrolling on your phone. What if, instead, you wrote a line?

Before long, you’ll discover that the filled notebook—the one with coffee stains and scribbles—is far more beautiful than the one you kept waiting for the perfect moment.

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