Please don’t stop writing on Substack. I would love to pay but I can’t.
However your beautiful writing also released tears in me. My nana and gran said : Ca, you have to cry to release sadness, otherwise you will get very ill.
Thank you so much, Ma’am.
I need a safe space right now with beautiful flowers and sea scapes and all that is precious and kind.
Carole, thank you so much for your honest and thoughtful words. I won’t leave Substack! And if I do in the future for some reason—we’d move back to an email platform :).
It fills my heart with joy and goodness to read your words—that this place could be a safe space filled with beautiful flowers and sea scales and all that is precious and kind. Thank you, Carol—thank you so much. Your words mean the world to me.
I love reading your posts, so much so that I make sure I have time to savor the words. It's my hope that you stay so that I can continue to enjoy your writing, but I'd completely understand if you felt the need to spend that "free" time doing something else, even something just for YOU. As far as feeling in limbo, I can relate. Probably most people can. I've always felt that I'm out of place where I'm from and I've found great comfort in living elsewhere, but at this point I'm a bit stuck. It's a happy kind of stuck, though, and I'm sorry that yours isn't. Take care of yourself. You can only pour nothing from an empty cup.
Lisa, your presence here means more to me than I can express. Knowing that you make time to sit with my words is one of the greatest honors—truly. Thank you for seeing what I’m trying to build here, and for always bringing such empathy and kindness to this space.
I feel your words about feeling out of place so deeply. There’s a strange comfort in knowing we’re not alone in that—in the limbo, in the ache, in the search for something that feels like home. I’m so grateful you’ve found a kind of happy stuckness—- a peace and steadiness where you are at. Thank you for the gentle reminder to care for myself. You’re right: we can’t pour from an empty cup—and your encouragement helps refill mine. ❤️
Adi, thank you so much. Your words feel like a quiet exhale—like being seen in a deep and knowing way. It’s comforting to be reminded we’re not alone in this space, especially in these in-between seasons where so many of us are holding so much. I’m grateful we’re connected here. ❤️
Alice thank you for sharing that vulnerability. The people staying here with you are the ones who are desperate for words they cannot find until they read something like this. You matter here in ways that are much bigger than money. While I cannot do a paid subscription yet, I will when I can.
Jennifer, your words landed right in the center of my heart. Thank you. It means so much to know this space is offering language to what others are carrying—that is exactly why I write, and hearing you say that is a gift beyond measure.
And please, no pressure at all about a paid subscription—just knowing you’re here, reading, connecting, and offering this kind of presence is already so generous. I’m grateful to be walking alongside you here. ❤️
I write my poetry for me. I choose to share some of it in hopes someone will read it and feel less alone. More seen. Early in my chronic illness journey someone in my online support group posted a poem that felt like holding a mirror up to my pain and grief. It made me feel less alone. When we as a society and community are willing to be vulnerable and raw we open the door to connection which is so essential. I am not consistent in when I’m on Substack but when I do open it up your posts are one of the two I always check.
Jennifer, what a gift your words and presence are. And I feel so much light—to know that something I’ve written is one of the few things you seek out when you’re here. That means more than I can express. I absolutely agree: when we choose to be vulnerable and raw, we crack something open—not just in ourselves but in others too. It’s how we find each other. I’m so grateful you shared this glimpse into your story and the way poetry helped you feel less alone. Thats so beautiful and raw and vulnerable. It’s the kind of connection I hope to offer here too. Thank you for being here with me and adding your presence and light-filled words to this space. ❤️
Alice, your words are always such an honest reflection of what many of us experience but aren't comfortable expressing. Your poem was deeply touching and real. The pain so humbling.
We all think about our stats but I don't believe it's the numbers (or even a reduction in them) that show reality. It may be safe to say that the people who left just aren't your people (your honesty shouldn't feel threatening to others). Or your truth may be too close to their own and they aren't ready to really be with it, as your are.
I'm happy to hear that (at least for now) you are staying on Substack and continuing to share your world with us. It takes courage to be so open and vulnerable here. And the people who stay with you are the ones who are growing their own courage, through your example.
I hope you'll find a way to meet your financial needs and keep doing what you're doing here!
Lisa, your words gave me such a beautiful pause. I’ve read them several times now, trying to take in the depth of your kindness and clarity. Your support has meant so much to me—more than I can say—and especially in seasons like this where doubt whispers loudly and the numbers feel louder than the truth.
And you’re so right: it’s not about the stats, not really. What a necessary and important reminder—and how easy it was for me to forget in the swirl of things lately. When you’re building something so tender from your own lived experience, it’s easy to let fear creep in and wonder if honesty is just “too much.” Hearing you say that maybe some aren’t ready—but that others are growing their courage through this work—brought tears to my eyes. It reframed everything in a way that felt right moving forward.
Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for staying. And thank you for reminding me that it’s okay to take up space with truth. Your presence here is a steadying gift, and I’m deeply, deeply grateful.
I think so—or at least, feeling like I am not doing enough good here. And feeling like it’s “all for naught”. Thank you for reminding me that this isn’t true. ❤️
Please don’t stop writing on Substack. I would love to pay but I can’t.
However your beautiful writing also released tears in me. My nana and gran said : Ca, you have to cry to release sadness, otherwise you will get very ill.
Thank you so much, Ma’am.
I need a safe space right now with beautiful flowers and sea scapes and all that is precious and kind.
Carole, thank you so much for your honest and thoughtful words. I won’t leave Substack! And if I do in the future for some reason—we’d move back to an email platform :).
It fills my heart with joy and goodness to read your words—that this place could be a safe space filled with beautiful flowers and sea scales and all that is precious and kind. Thank you, Carol—thank you so much. Your words mean the world to me.
I love reading your posts, so much so that I make sure I have time to savor the words. It's my hope that you stay so that I can continue to enjoy your writing, but I'd completely understand if you felt the need to spend that "free" time doing something else, even something just for YOU. As far as feeling in limbo, I can relate. Probably most people can. I've always felt that I'm out of place where I'm from and I've found great comfort in living elsewhere, but at this point I'm a bit stuck. It's a happy kind of stuck, though, and I'm sorry that yours isn't. Take care of yourself. You can only pour nothing from an empty cup.
Lisa, your presence here means more to me than I can express. Knowing that you make time to sit with my words is one of the greatest honors—truly. Thank you for seeing what I’m trying to build here, and for always bringing such empathy and kindness to this space.
I feel your words about feeling out of place so deeply. There’s a strange comfort in knowing we’re not alone in that—in the limbo, in the ache, in the search for something that feels like home. I’m so grateful you’ve found a kind of happy stuckness—- a peace and steadiness where you are at. Thank you for the gentle reminder to care for myself. You’re right: we can’t pour from an empty cup—and your encouragement helps refill mine. ❤️
So beautiful and true. Exactly where many dedicated souls find themselves in this time.
Adi, thank you so much. Your words feel like a quiet exhale—like being seen in a deep and knowing way. It’s comforting to be reminded we’re not alone in this space, especially in these in-between seasons where so many of us are holding so much. I’m grateful we’re connected here. ❤️
Alice thank you for sharing that vulnerability. The people staying here with you are the ones who are desperate for words they cannot find until they read something like this. You matter here in ways that are much bigger than money. While I cannot do a paid subscription yet, I will when I can.
Jennifer, your words landed right in the center of my heart. Thank you. It means so much to know this space is offering language to what others are carrying—that is exactly why I write, and hearing you say that is a gift beyond measure.
And please, no pressure at all about a paid subscription—just knowing you’re here, reading, connecting, and offering this kind of presence is already so generous. I’m grateful to be walking alongside you here. ❤️
I write my poetry for me. I choose to share some of it in hopes someone will read it and feel less alone. More seen. Early in my chronic illness journey someone in my online support group posted a poem that felt like holding a mirror up to my pain and grief. It made me feel less alone. When we as a society and community are willing to be vulnerable and raw we open the door to connection which is so essential. I am not consistent in when I’m on Substack but when I do open it up your posts are one of the two I always check.
Jennifer, what a gift your words and presence are. And I feel so much light—to know that something I’ve written is one of the few things you seek out when you’re here. That means more than I can express. I absolutely agree: when we choose to be vulnerable and raw, we crack something open—not just in ourselves but in others too. It’s how we find each other. I’m so grateful you shared this glimpse into your story and the way poetry helped you feel less alone. Thats so beautiful and raw and vulnerable. It’s the kind of connection I hope to offer here too. Thank you for being here with me and adding your presence and light-filled words to this space. ❤️
Alice, your words are always such an honest reflection of what many of us experience but aren't comfortable expressing. Your poem was deeply touching and real. The pain so humbling.
We all think about our stats but I don't believe it's the numbers (or even a reduction in them) that show reality. It may be safe to say that the people who left just aren't your people (your honesty shouldn't feel threatening to others). Or your truth may be too close to their own and they aren't ready to really be with it, as your are.
I'm happy to hear that (at least for now) you are staying on Substack and continuing to share your world with us. It takes courage to be so open and vulnerable here. And the people who stay with you are the ones who are growing their own courage, through your example.
I hope you'll find a way to meet your financial needs and keep doing what you're doing here!
Lisa, your words gave me such a beautiful pause. I’ve read them several times now, trying to take in the depth of your kindness and clarity. Your support has meant so much to me—more than I can say—and especially in seasons like this where doubt whispers loudly and the numbers feel louder than the truth.
And you’re so right: it’s not about the stats, not really. What a necessary and important reminder—and how easy it was for me to forget in the swirl of things lately. When you’re building something so tender from your own lived experience, it’s easy to let fear creep in and wonder if honesty is just “too much.” Hearing you say that maybe some aren’t ready—but that others are growing their courage through this work—brought tears to my eyes. It reframed everything in a way that felt right moving forward.
Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for staying. And thank you for reminding me that it’s okay to take up space with truth. Your presence here is a steadying gift, and I’m deeply, deeply grateful.
Thank you Alice. Your words, thoughts and experiences are needed here, but I know it's easy to lose sight of that...
I think so—or at least, feeling like I am not doing enough good here. And feeling like it’s “all for naught”. Thank you for reminding me that this isn’t true. ❤️