Too Much? Or Just Enough?

This morning I received a message from a fellow Substacker that was both kind and challenging. It named something I have been circling for weeks: why I write here, how often, and who I am writing for. I want to share it with you because it captures the tension I live with each time I sit down to write.

The message came from a writer whose work I had just subscribed to. I had sent them a note first, telling them I was interested in their work and inviting them to check out mine. Their response was kind, thoughtful, and also a little hard to hear.

Here is what they wrote back:

Hi there. Thank you so much for subscribing. I am familiar with your work, and I LOVE reading your posts. I am an honest person so I am going to be honest here. Please approach this with curiosity and let us see if we can find a solution. The only challenge I have is that your posts are so many that I cannot keep up. I feel like I am drinking from a fire hose, an amazing fire hose, but still too much. In one of your posts you said something like, “I write like I am running out of time.” I love to read, so if I am feeling overwhelmed, maybe your readers are too. I want to support you by actually reading your work. What do you think?

I wrote back and shared my ambivalence and my predicament. The truth is, this message hit a nerve. It landed right in the middle of a question that has been swirling in my mind for weeks: what am I writing for, and who am I writing for?

When I first launched my page, it felt like my newsletter took off like a rocket. I watched my subscriber count grow faster than I ever imagined. I will be honest, it felt like a drug. But lately, growth has slowed. Sometimes the numbers even tick backwards. I suspect the reason is exactly what this reader said. Posting every day is too much for some people.

For context, I got this message the day after I wrote It’s My Train and I’m Not Slowing Down (Yet), a reflection I just posted yesterday. That piece was my attempt to name something I have been feeling for months: that I am writing at a pace I cannot seem to slow. I keep waiting for the words to run out, but so far they have not. It is as if I have turned on a spigot that was closed for decades, and now the water is rushing through with a force I cannot control.

Writing has become the way I meet my feelings instead of burying them. For years, I hid them behind the sharp edges of my eating disorder or the polished performance of someone trying to prove they have it all together. Now, instead of hiding, I am opening myself to them. I write them down so I do not miss them, so I can return to them, so I can share them. The thought of slowing down makes me uneasy. Part of me fears that if I pause too long, the gate will close again.

The reader who said they feel like they are drinking from a fire hose is not wrong. That is exactly how it feels inside me right now. I would love not to feel quite this much, quite this often. But I do. And when I feel something, I write.

The question I keep circling is whether this is the right space for all of it. Should I keep more of these reflections private, sharing them only with people I know well and trust? Or is there value in offering them here, to a wider audience, even if that means some readers will step back?

The truth is, I do not want to go back into hiding. I have spent too much of my life keeping my inner world locked away, editing myself to fit what I thought others could handle. Writing here has been a way of breaking that habit. It has been part of my own healing process.

So for now, I will keep writing when I feel moved to write. Some days that might mean three reflections. Other days it might mean none. I am learning to let the pace be whatever it needs to be.

Writing is how I stay awake to my own life. It is how I keep myself from slipping back into silence. I know I may not be the right fit for every reader, and that is okay. For those who choose to stay, thank you for walking beside me.