I came to Substack because it wasn’t Instagram.

Unlike Instagram (or Facebook, Twitter, or TikTok), stepping into this space didn’t assault my nervous system with an algorithm. There were no celebrities, no influencers, no brands shouting for my attention. Even the objectively famous writers here—like George Saunders and Cheryl Strayed—showed up as writers, not personal brands.

There was no endless scroll to get lost in. No bite-sized content engineered to hook and distract. No 15-second videos slamming into my brain, no quick quips, no reposts and retweets battling for territory.

It was quiet here. And in that quiet, I could actually do the thing I wanted to do: write. Not perform. Not posture. Not churn out content and chase likes. That's why it was so good.

And it has been good to me. I’ve been lucky enough to build a real income here. It’s not my only source of income, but it’s grown to be the most significant one. And it’s not just extra money—it’s how I support myself and my daughter.

The more I see this place get renovated into a social media platform, and the more I see big-name celebrity writers and influencers coming over, the more I lose heart. Because I just can’t play that game. I really can’t. Not only because I don’t want to (I don’t) but because I’ve learned I can’t be a writer and an influencer at the same time. I can’t make art and constantly fight for attention, too. I’ve done that, and it was hell.

I hope “just writing” here will continue to be enough for people like me, and for all the other writers who rely on this place to make a living.

Maybe Substack will change its model; maybe it won’t. Maybe the writing will stay the main draw; maybe it won’t. I will keep writing, either way, here or elsewhere, because that’s the only part that’s ever been real.