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.


Sometimes the most powerful writing isn’t polished — it’s honest. And this? This felt like truth.
A writer is someone who writes. Yes, you are a writer! And “the rest of these people” are people, just like you. I look forward to following your writing journey here on Substack.