I have been a Substack writer for two months.
I started my Substack on February 3, 2024. I had never used it before. I only knew that it was a place where people could write.
In June, 2022, my mom became very ill, very suddenly. In September, 2022, my oldest son died, very suddenly, of a fentanyl overdose. In December, 2022, my mom died.
In June, 2023, I began writing the story of the six months of my mom’s illness. I wrote it on Facebook.
I wrote the story, publicly, for emotional reasons.
Being my mom’s caretaker was both a traumatic and a beautiful experience. I wanted to share the experience with others, but could not speak it aloud.
Physically, I could not make the words come out.
During my mom’s disease, there were people who were there, living the trauma with us, who were in complete denial about what was happening. At times, I was writing the story for them - I imagined that they were quite disoriented, once it was over.
Also, I was angry at those people. There were times when I was writing the story at them. There were times when I knew that the things that I was saying, or not saying, had the potential to be hurtful.
At times, I was being vengeful and mean.
It was grief. It was anger. It was sorrow. It was hurt.
But I wasn’t only angry at individual people.
I was openly writing with anger at a powerful force of evil that is actively working toward the destruction of innocence, purity and light. I wrote my mom’s story, publicly, in an attempt to open eyes and shine light on the darkness.
Most of the time, I was writing from a place of profound love. I believe, with all of my heart, that my mom suffered for a reason. The only reason I can imagine is that it was to wake people up. My mom gave me her story in an attempt to save us from ourselves.
Finally, I thought that, through the writing, I would find a magical, triumphant end to my sadness.
On December 13, 2022, my mom died. On December 13, 2023, I finished writing her story on Facebook.
On December 14, I wrote nothing.
On December 15, I wrote nothing.
I made art and posted pictures. I made little trips out into the real world, attempting to participate in life. I vacuumed, mopped, washed dishes, did laundry and cooked dinner for my family.
I was going through the motions but, without the story, I felt empty. Finishing it hadn’t felt triumphant at all. I knew that I had written something good, but I had no idea what to do about it.
Then, the voice in my head told me to rewrite it on Substack. I had heard podcasters talk about Substack, but had never experienced it myself.
I downloaded the app. I figured out the basics. I went to Facebook, scrolled back to June 11, 2022, copied, pasted, and began to edit.
I did this with no expectations.
On Facebook, my readers had been familiar. They were people who knew my mom. Many of them had been there while she was sick.
At times, I felt guilty. I felt bad about forcing people to relive the trauma. I wondered if rewriting pain was the wrong thing to do.
However, the only defense against evil is reality. The only way to expose lies is with truth. It is unfortunate that the truth is painful, but it is only through the pain that we will find freedom.
I decided to be as honest as I was capable of being. From their own screens, people could choose to read or not to read.
However, being fully honest on Facebook made it difficult for me to be around people in real life. I felt awkward in social situations, when the expectation was friendly small talk about new puppies or the weather.
I found it impossible to bear my soul online and then put it back into its box. I couldn’t find a way to blend in.
I imagine others have had similar feelings, following traumatic events.
Substack has been different. In a short period of time, I have found readers who do not know me and who never knew my mom. It is easier that way.
I can write my story. I can be as honest and as raw as I need to be, and not worry that I may have caused the prolonged and unnecessary sorrow to my aunts.
But it is a strange experience, as well. I quickly learned that the ultimate goal of a Substacker is to have a large number of subscribers. I have been drawn in by my subscriber stat page. I have gleefully witnessed bursts of subscriber growth, and felt disappointed when those bursts have ended.
Or when I lost subscribers.
Losing subscribers hurts.
I start to wonder: Did I say something offensive? Am I being too political? Am I coming across as too angry? Am I not angry enough? Do people dislike the spiritual aspect? Am I boring?
Every time I got an email saying I had a new subscriber - I got a boost of serotonin. When there were no emails, I started questioning again.
I got myself caught up in the positive feedback loop of social media. My subconscious had fallen for the very trick that I had been warning people about. I was feeling the highs of growth and the lows of stagnation. In a short two months, my brain was in danger of changing my writing, in order to please my subscribers.
In order to gain more subscribers.
Silly brain.
Yesterday, I started a conversation with my husband about Substack. I was using phrases such as: “The potential for subscriber growth.” I was excitedly babbling on about strategies for reaching more readers.
While I spoke, he quietly listened, eating his beans. When I paused, he looked up at me, and said: “You didn’t write your mom’s story so that you would gain subscribers.”
My husband is a brilliant man. He grew up in communist Yugoslavia, giving him a perspective that my life experience does not allow me. In addition, he speaks twelve languages, and reads Cyrillic, giving him access to a world that my life experience does not allow me.
When he says something, it is based on deep understanding.
I have a memory for emotion. My husband has a memory for fact. Because I know his advice to be sound and reasonable, he stopped me in my tracks. I wrote the story for it to be told. I am rewriting it with faith that it will reach the ears of all who are meant to hear it.
Subscribers are a happy bonus. They cause a little boost in self-esteem. They are affirmation that I am on the right track. Each of those numbers represents a person who is willing to read the words that I write. That is humbling.
I am grateful for subscribers.
However, subscriber stats cannot become the goal of my writing.
If subscribers become the goal, my story loses its honesty.
My husband reminded me that the only valid reason to tell any story is to tell the truth as one believes it to be.
Very true.
You’re a good writer and you tell the story with the emotion it deserves. The emotion your mom deserves. So keep writing truth and keep telling your mom’s story.
And remember that some subscribers (true with every single substack) are addicted to social media and subscribe to get something in their mailbox. They subscribe because someone they like subscribes.
Numbers don’t matter. What matters is that you have subscribers who read your pain and your joy. They appreciate and they understand. Your husband is very wise
I wish I could just hold your hand and tell you that ‘You did good. You are doing good. It is right.’