✨To the Platform That Hugged Me When I Had No Arms Left ✨

A thank-you to Substack, and You, for giving me connection, courage, and a few virtual coffees along the way. 🫂

How It Started ☕

I didn’t arrive on Substack in a burst of creative enlightenment. I arrived via Google.

I searched “writing platforms that pay” while standing in the kitchen with a half-drunk mug of tea and a very real sense of financial dread.

At the time, I wasn’t dreaming of publishing deals. I was thinking, very practically, “Can I make a little money doing something I love, without burning myself out even more?”

Because here’s the truth. I love my job. Deeply. But anyone in care work or in fact, anywhere where you look after minds of all ages will tell you, it’s not a job you do for the paycheck. It’s a job you do despite the paycheck. I’m also a full-time carer for my mum, who’s nearly housebound. And I’m doing a part-time degree on top of all of that.

Most months we’re not living, we’re surviving. Carefully. Quietly. Gratefully, but still just… barely.

So Substack felt like a door. A place where I could write honestly, maybe build something slowly, and yes, possibly earn a tiny bit extra here and there. Not in a “I want to be a six-figure writer” way. More in a “can I pay for the electric without panic this week?” way.

Spoiler: I still don’t have a single paid subscriber.
But someone bought me a coffee once. Actually, two. And that meant more than I’ll ever be able to explain.

Why I Started Writing (and Who I Was Writing For)

At the beginning, I was writing for me.

It was my little vent space. Somewhere to dump the emotional leftovers no one else had time or energy to hear. I never expected anyone to read it, let alone comment.

But slowly, things shifted.

People found me.
People read.
And people said, “Me too.”

I started writing less like I was shouting into a black hole, and more like I was whispering to someone who needed it.

I still write for me. But now, I write for you too. Especially if you’re tired, overwhelmed, under-supported, or quietly holding it all together with one hand and a half-melted Twix.

Before This, Life Got Quiet

I’ve never been the best at social plans. I cancel. I forget. I vanish when overwhelmed. People stopped inviting me to things, and honestly, I don’t blame them.

When you’re working, studying, and caring for someone full-time, there’s not a lot left over. No evenings. No weekends. No spontaneous anything.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault. But it was lonely.

Substack didn’t magically fix that. But it gave me a doorway out of it. A way to connect, even in small ways, with people who got it. Or at least cared enough to try.

What I Was Scared Of 😬

Everything.

That people would laugh.
That no one would care.
That it would flop and I’d look ridiculous.

When life’s thrown enough bricks at your confidence, you don’t expect much from new beginnings. You prepare for failure, not kindness.

But kindness came anyway. Quietly. Casually. Consistently.

And that cracked something open in me.

What I Needed to Say 🔥

I needed to say the things that don’t have a place in polite conversation.

That mental health services are underfunded and overstretched, and yet full of people trying their absolute best.
That carers are carrying more than anyone sees.
That healing is hard and recovery isn’t linear.
That sometimes the bravest thing you can do is rest. Or say no. Or cry over a toastie.

And I needed to say: it’s okay to feel messy. To not be okay. To be soft and tired and still worthy of being heard.

The First Time I Knew Someone Was Really Reading

It wasn’t about likes or shares. It was one quiet comment from someone who quoted my own words back to me.

Words I barely remembered writing.

And they said, “This helped me.”

I just sat there. Blinking. Like… wait, you saw that?
You felt it?

That’s when I realized this wasn’t just digital therapy. Someone out there was listening.

When Someone Bought Me a Coffee ☕😭 - (a Bucket of Coffee!!)

It wasn’t just a coffee. It was a virtual hug, a tiny miracle, a whispered “keep going.”

I stared at the notification like I’d just won the lottery.
(I nearly cried.)

Because it wasn’t about the money. It was about being seen.

No one owes me anything for writing here. But when someone chooses to support it, even just once, it’s a big deal. Especially when you’re used to pouring out without expecting anything back.

The Posts That Flopped (But I Still Believe In)

All of them.

Every post, even the ones that didn’t land, was written for a reason. Some days I write for catharsis. Some days to provoke. Some days because I need to remember what I believe.

They don’t have to go viral to be valuable.

What I Know About My Voice Now 🎤

It’s not perfect.
It’s not always polished.
But it’s real.

And it’s helping people. Even if just one at a time. Even if just me.

What Writing Here Has Done to Me (Emotionally, Not Just Creatively)

It’s helped me find myself again.

I’ve spent so long shape-shifting for work, for survival, for everyone else's needs. But here, in this little writing space, I get to be honest.

Unfiltered. A bit chaotic. A bit deep. A bit funny on accident.

It’s helped me grow. And it’s helped me heal.

The Best Bit ❤️

The people.

The ones who comment with typos and heart.
The ones who stay long after the post is buried.
The ones who read quietly and still feel deeply.

You make this worth doing.

To the One Reader Who Said “I Believe in You”

You probably don’t remember writing that.

But I do.
And I always will.

The Connection I Didn’t Expect

Friendship.

Actual friendship.
From a newsletter platform.
Who knew?

But here we are.

To Anyone Scared to Post Their First Piece 🫣

Straighten your socks.
Pull up your pants.
Deep breath.
Post the thing.

Is it scary? Yes.
Will it be perfect? No.
Will your people find you? Eventually, yes. And when they do it’ll mean everything.

What Keeps Me Going on the Quiet Days

You.

Your words.
Your courage.
Your chaos.
Your honesty.

Reading what you write keeps me writing what I write. We’re in this together.

If Substack Disappeared Tomorrow 😭

I’d grieve. Hard.

Not because it made me rich or famous. (Because it hasn’t and i doubt it will)
But because it gave me somewhere to be.

To be messy. To be raw. To be real.
To try.

That’s rare. And precious. And needed.

How This Changed My Life (Even a Little)

I don’t suddenly believe I’m a bestselling author.

But I do believe it’s okay to try.
To show up as I am.
To write anyway.
To trust that maybe, just maybe, it matters.

And that belief?
That’s more than enough for now.

Thank you, Substack

Thank you, readers
Thank you to every single person who’s ever commented, read, clapped, messaged, or sent virtual caffeine my way
You made this feel possible
You made me feel possible

And I’m not done yet 🫶

P.S. I don’t have paid subscribers, but I do have bills, emotions, and a dependency on tea, coffee and biscuits to process both. If you’d like to support me in a caffeine-based way, you can do that here: