Am I Even a Writer?

It’s been a little over a month since I started this Substack journey. For the first time in a long while, I felt inspiration flood back into my body — not just creatively, but spiritually. There was something powerful about reading the thoughts of others. How they expressed themselves. What they chose to say. What they didn’t.

Substack felt like a place where people found their voices and, somehow, also found each other. A quiet community of writers — each with their own rhythm, their own truth.

But then the doubt crept in.

I started to question my ability as a writer. And then I asked the real question:

What even is a writer?

Am I one, really? The same way the rest of these people are?

Why would I be considered that, when all I write are deeply personal stories about trauma, confusion, healing, and memory?

I don’t have a best-selling novel to workshop. No clever quotes that go viral.

Sometimes I wonder:

Did I sign up just to use this platform as a digital diary?

Does anyone actually care what’s going on with me?

There are days when I scroll and see people trading book deals, newsletters with thousands of subscribers, six-figure earnings, and perfectly-crafted essays that feel polished and timeless.

Is that the goal?

Would I like to celebrate my 1 millionth subscription too?

Sure.

Would I like to be recognized and paid to share what’s on my mind?

Absolutely.

But that’s not why I started this.

I didn’t come here to go viral.

I came here because I like to write.

And for a while, I had stopped.

I left social media for almost a decade because of what it did to my mental health. And now, being back in any kind of digital space — even one like this — I can feel some of those old pressures returning. The temptation to compare. To question my worth. To shrink.

But here’s what I’m reminding myself today:

I don’t need to be a “writer” in the way the world defines it.

Maybe I’m not supposed to be one.

Maybe I’m just someone who likes to write — and that’s enough.

I’ll keep scribbling down my thoughts and frustrations.

I’ll keep telling stories that feel small, but honest.

I’ll keep showing up here — even if it’s messy and unsure.

Because I know there are others like me.

Others who write just to feel.

To remember.

To connect.

To breathe.

And that? That’s real.

That’s reason enough to stay.