one year later
what 365 days on substack does to a person
exactly one year ago, i posted my very first official article on this publication,1 which is insane to think about. i can recall the feeling of anticipation and excitement, my brain overflowing with ideas for what to post next. i was pumped. my subscriber count was starting to rise, my posts were getting more likes. i could see a bright future ahead.
one year later…
i’ve gained like a single subscriber in the last month. i’m struggling to generate post ideas. i feel self-conscious and anxious at the idea of hitting publish every time.
so what happened? what turned substack into an thrilling place on endless possibilities to something that feels like it requires all of my time and energy?
the answer is… a lot of stuff.
for the sake of the few new people or those who haven’t been around since the beginning (which would be like 90% of you guys), let’s backtrack for a sec and examine how i felt one year ago.
so, in april of 2024, i was fourteen years old and pretty new to blogging, but i felt like a professional. i’d hosted a blog on blogger called controversial book club with a few friends, and we had to post once a day on there according to the schedule we made. once a day, that’s insane, and we discovered that, gradually lowering the amount of weekly posts over the course of two months.
one day, i discovered a platform called substack. at first, i didn’t like it. i could barely customize my site and was a bit overwhelmed. so, i spent a couple of months just exploring at getting to know people. i started to make some friends and get a good idea of what writing on substack would look like.
what did it look like, you ask?
it looked epic. i was electrified by the amount of possibilities this platform held. so i started transferring all of our posts from the blogger blog to a new publication called
(which i named without my friends’ consent). this took… ages, but by april, it was ready to be sent out into the world. my friends, however, wanted me to wait until may. reluctantly, i did.waiting a month to join substack was so hard. i tried my best not to tell everyone i’d met about it (which means i told like everybody). to keep me occupied, i started writing up future posts for the blog. then, one day, as i wrote up my 50th post or something, i realized i didn’t really like what i was writing. i wanted to write about… something more exciting.
and that’s how for the life of me was born2.
oh, the possibilities were absolutely endless. writing about my life? well, i’d been around for fourteen years so i could write about fourteen years worth of stuff, which would take a lot of time and by the time i finished, i’d likely be a lot older, with even more years to write about— i was in a substack craze.
fast forward two months and i have around 60 subscribers. i’ve posted consistently over the past six or seven weeks and it’s been fun. so naturally, i wrote about that.
just look at those headers.
“substack has given me hope and positivity.”
“substack has helped me with my time management.”
“substack has helped my mental health.”
all of that stuff is great… but it now it seems to be the opposite.
months go by and more months go by. i keep posting, my audience keeps growing, i keep having a great time writing about random stuff. i change the publication name, customize it, personalize it, shape it into something i can keep posting on for years to come.
i start posting poetry, i leave
, i start doing book recaps… and that brings us to today.
so, ten months ago, substack was amazing and doing amazing things for my brain. now, everything’s flipped. and here’s why.
substack craves consistency
this one hurts, because i used to be so consistent. like clockwork. i had a posting schedule, a running list of topics, drafts lined up, and enough energy to keep it all going. every week, i showed up. sometimes twice. it made me feel productive and reliable, like i was actually building something. and people responded to that—my subscriber count rose, my posts got more comments, and it felt like i was part of a well-oiled machine.
but that kind of momentum is hard to maintain. especially when life gets chaotic or your brain just… doesn’t cooperate. school picked up, friendships shifted, my mental energy dipped, and even though i wanted to post, i’d find myself staring at a blank page or a half-finished draft thinking, “i’ll do it later.” later turned into next week, then the week after. before i knew it, it had been weeks since my last post and i was spiraling.
the thing is, the key to consistency isn’t numbers, it’s trust. readers subscribe because they want to hear from you regularly. not every day, not even every week necessarily, but regularly. when you disappear, it’s easy for people to forget. not out of malice, just because there’s so much content out there. if you stop showing up, your space starts to feel quieter. and if you're already doubting yourself, that silence can be loud.
what makes this part tricky is that substack doesn’t punish you instantly. there’s no algorithm slapping you on the wrist. but over time, you do feel it. slower growth, fewer comments, less engagement. and it’s not even about being popular, but about feeling like your work still matters. that you’re not just screaming into the void. and when you lose that consistency, it’s easy to lose the sense of purpose too.
most readers want useful content
when i first joined substack, i wasn’t thinking about being useful. i was thinking about being me. i wanted to write weird little stories and random life updates and mildly chaotic thoughts about whatever i was obsessed with that week. and for a while, that totally worked. people seemed to enjoy it, and i was having fun. it felt like a personal corner of the internet where i could be unfiltered and not worry about structure or value or any of that serious writing stuff.
but the longer i stayed on here, the more i realized that most of the big, successful newsletters—like the ones that get thousands of subs and are always at the top of the discovery feed—have one major thing in common: they’re useful. like, actually helpful. they give advice, they break things down, they offer something you can use. whether it’s how to write better, how to manage your time, how to survive being a teenager with too many emotions—those posts usually have a clear takeaway.
and i get it, people are busy. they want to feel like reading a post was worth their time. like they learned something, or it gave them clarity, or it made their day a little easier. and when you’re just writing about your own life with no neat little moral at the end, it can feel like… maybe that’s not enough? maybe i’m just journaling out loud and hoping someone relates. maybe that’s selfish. maybe i need to be more structured, more “how-to,” more actionable.
but also, i don’t want to force it. not everything i write needs to be a life lesson wrapped in a conclusion. sometimes i just want to share a story or a feeling or a random thought i had at 1am. the challenge is figuring out how to do both: how to be myself and still provide value. maybe the value is in the honesty, in writing things people are too nervous to say out loud. or maybe i just need to accept that not every post will land, and that’s okay. i’m still figuring it out.
substack notes is either a blessing or a curse
when i first discovered substack notes, i was immediately obsessed. it felt like the cool group chat or social media space i never knew i needed. suddenly, substack wasn’t just about newsletters. it was a place for quick thoughts, reactions, inside jokes, little pieces of writing that didn’t need a whole post to exist. it felt alive. people were commenting, sharing, boosting each other. i’d post something random and five people would reply with “same” or “wait i needed this,” and it was like whoa. connection. community. actual proof that someone out there gets it.
but then it got overwhelming. really fast. one day i opened notes and it felt like everyone was being brilliant at the same time. like every scroll brought up some deeply insightful thread or a perfectly polished sentence or a quote from someone way more experienced than me. and suddenly my chill little note about hating watermelon or writing from bed felt… dumb. like i’d shown up to a black tie event in pajama pants.
and it’s not just the comparison (though that’s definitely a part of it). it’s the pressure. substack didn’t feel like social media at first—it felt quieter, slower, more thoughtful. but notes brought in that constant feed energy. the feeling that if you’re not posting something, you’re falling behind. and if you are posting, you better say something good. funny, insightful, or original. preferably all three, which is a really high bar for someone just trying to survive high school and write on the side.
still, it’s hard to stay away. i’ve met some of the kindest people through notes. i’ve discovered great writers, found inspiration, laughed way too hard at one-liners about book characters or existential dread. it can be magical. but like most magical things, it requires boundaries. even a year later, i’m still learning how to use it without letting it use me. how to post without overthinking. how to enjoy the scroll without letting it mess with my brain.
i’ve become too comfortable
this one snuck up on me. when i first started writing, i was hyper aware that people were reading. even if it was just a few dozen subscribers, i edited everything like it was going on display in a museum. i overthought my sentence structure, triple-checked every word. i treated each post like it was a public performance, because it was. but over time, that wore off. substack started to feel like my personal inbox. like i was just sending long, slightly chaotic life updates to a few close friends. and that felt… nice.
maybe too nice.
i started feeling like i was oversharing. not in a dramatic way, but in that slow, slippery way where you stop realizing how much you’re giving away. i’d write about something super personal and hit publish without blinking. then a few hours later, someone i don’t know would comment something supportive (or not supportive), and it would hit me: wait, they just read that. not my friend. not my mom. not someone who knows me in real life. a stranger. someone who could be screenshotting this right now. someone who doesn’t know the context or the nuance or the mess behind the scenes.
and once you start thinking like that, it’s hard to stop. suddenly, every post idea feels risky. every draft feels like too much or not enough. i keep wondering, am i writing this because i want to, or because i’ve trained myself to be an open book for engagement? do i even like what i’m sharing, or am i just used to the feeling of exposure? when substack feels small and cozy, it’s easy to forget that it’s not. it’s a public space. and that realization can shake your confidence.
which brings me to the real problem: the anxiety.
i’ve become too anxious
it’s crazy how quickly confidence can flip into fear. i used to hit publish without hesitation. sure, i’d get a little nervous sometimes, but it was the good kind of nervous, the butterflies-before-a-show type. now it feels different. heavier. like every post is a test i might fail. like one wrong sentence could ruin everything. i’ll write something i actually like, reread it ten times, and then just… leave it in drafts. not because it’s bad, but because i’m scared of what might happen if i put it out there.
and the worst part is, i don’t even know what i’m scared of. people judging me? maybe. people misunderstanding me? probably. but honestly, sometimes i’m just scared of the silence. scared that i’ll post something that meant a lot to me and no one will care. or worse, they will care, but not in the way i hoped. it’s like i’ve built this mental pressure around every post, where it has to be perfect or profound or helpful or something, or it’s not worth publishing at all.
i also think the anxiety is tied to the consistency thing. because when i was posting regularly, i didn’t give myself time to spiral. i had a rhythm. i didn’t overanalyze every draft because i knew another one was coming next week. now that i post less often, every post feels like it carries way more weight. it’s “the one” for the month or whatever, so it has to land. and that mindset is a creativity killer. it turns writing into a high-stakes game instead of something i do because i love it.
and maybe worst of all, the anxiety is making me lose my voice a little. i second-guess my tone, my style, even the types of things i used to write about freely. i start asking myself: does this sound like me? or is this what i think people want from me? and i hate that. i don’t want fear to shape my writing. but lately, it kind of has been.
i focus on the numbers
i hate that i care about this as much as i do. i really do. when i started, i still cared, but it wasn’t everything to me. i barely checked the stats tab. i didn’t know what a good open rate was. i was just writing for fun, hitting publish, and moving on with my day. but now? i refresh the stats like they’re social media likes. i overanalyze every tiny spike or dip. if a post underperforms, it messes with my whole mood. and i hate that, because it makes writing feel like a performance instead of an expression.
it’s not just views or subs either. its the whole mental math of “how did this one do?” and “why didn’t that one take off?” and “was this post worth the time i spent on it?” which is such a toxic way to think, but it’s hard not to when the numbers are right there, staring you down after every post. substack gives you just enough data to obsess over, but not enough context to understand what it actually means.
and the numbers lie, kind of. because sometimes i’ll post something that barely gets any clicks but ends up starting really meaningful conversations in the comments or my inbox. sometimes a post flops by the stats but hits hard for the right people. and then other times, a throwaway post gets way more attention than expected and i’m like… cool, but that wasn’t even my best work? it’s confusing. it makes it hard to trust your gut.
and yet, i keep looking, keep chasing, keep tying the worth of my writing to how many people clicked the email or hit the little heart at the bottom. and i don’t want to do that anymore. because i know this space started as something much deeper than numbers. it was about sharing, connecting, documenting, creating. and i want to get back to that. i need to get back to that.
so… it’s been one year
and what a year it’s been. it hasn’t all been easy. in fact, a lot of it has been confusing, exhausting, and weirdly emotional. i’ve gone from being wildly consistent to totally burnt out. from feeling on top of the world to second-guessing every sentence. from posting with confidence to hovering over the “publish” button like it’s a bomb. and the numbers have gotten into my head way more than i’d like to admit.
but underneath all of that—the stats, the pressure, the anxiety—is the same thing that brought me here in the first place: i love writing. and not just when it’s going well. not just when the posts are polished and the engagement is high. i love writing when it’s messy and honest. when it’s just me trying to figure stuff out in real time. i love sharing. i love the feeling of someone reading something i wrote and going, “same.” that connection is what keeps me here.
the biggest thing i’ve learned this year is that this blog doesn’t need to be everything. it doesn’t need to be perfectly consistent or wildly useful or constantly growing. it just needs to be mine. a place to create, reflect, experiment. a space for my voice. and if that resonates with other people, amazing. but even if it doesn’t, especially if it doesn’t, it still matters. that shift in mindset changes everything.
so if you’re just starting out, or you’ve been doing this longer than me, or you’re somewhere in the messy middle, remember that you don’t owe anyone perfection. you don’t need to post like a machine. you don’t need to go viral. write what excites you. post what feels true. be okay with quiet seasons. take breaks. come back. learn as you go. this platform can feel huge and intimidating, but it’s also what you make it. let it be yours.
and to anyone who’s read even one of my posts this year: thank you. really. i’m still here because of you <3.
whether you’ve been subscribed to me for a day or the entire year this publication’s been up, i appreciate you more than you will ever know. thank you so, so much for being here and supporting me. it truly means the world.
as always, i wish you a wonderful, wonderful day and i’ll see in a week or so with my next post. much love <3.
i say official because i launched it on april 18 and posted two little intro posts, but those don’t really count.
though, of course, it was originally called teen memoir.
Jack, I look forward to reading your posts. I’m not looking for profound answers or “”how tos”, I just enjoy your writing style and the chance to get to know you better. You truly have a gift! Please continue to share it!
wow. thank you for writing this and having the courage to share it, jack! i haven't been here the entire time, but i was one of the earlier people and it's been so much fun to be along.