Everyone keeps asking how I stayed consistent. How I wrote for seven months. How I built things one after another. How I managed the pace, the output, the discipline.
They think it’s passion. Or ambition. Or some impressive sense of self-control.
But the truth is… I didn’t start because I wanted to be a writer.
I started because I wanted to be seen. Not for how I looked. Not for how social I was. Not for how “fun” I seemed. I wanted to be seen in my thoughts, the only place I’ve ever truly lived.
I started writing because I was the loneliest I had ever been. I wasn’t the fun friend people invited everywhere. I wasn’t the cool one everyone gravitated toward. But I also wasn’t letting myself be the full nerd I actually am. I was stuck between versions of myself, and invisible in both.
So I wrote. Because at least the page didn’t get bored of me. At least the page didn’t drift away.
And now that I’m actually being seen... now that my posts travel, my DMs fill, my work has reach, my voice has weight-
I’m freaking out.
Because being unseen hurt… but being seen is somehow just as terrifying.
It feels like the spotlight arrived before I grew into the person standing under it. Like everyone is watching a version of me I haven’t caught up to yet. Like I accidentally opened a door and now the room is full.
So every time someone says, “You’re so consistent,” my brain whispers:
“If only you knew. This isn’t discipline. It’s fear.”
Fear that stopping will make me disappear again. Fear that silence will expose how unsure I actually am. Fear that momentum is the only thing holding together the version of me people think I am.
Meanwhile, in real life…
I don’t live like most people my age. I don’t roam around campus making random late-night plans. I don’t move from outing to outing like nothing has consequence. I don’t run on that loud, reckless energy college seems to run on. Sure, I’ll binge a show once in a while. I watched Stranger Things because someone I cared about wanted me to. But that’s connection. Not lifestyle.
Most people my age live in that rhythm. And I don’t.
Which means people often get bored of me. Not because I’m cold, but because I’m quieter. Slower. More inward. More “sit with me and talk” than “let’s go somewhere.”
And yet almost every friend I’ve had has said the same thing:
“You’re cosy.” “You’re my comfort person.” “Don’t ever change.”
Comfortable enough to rest in. Not exciting enough to stay for.
So yes — maybe I build because creations don’t leave. Maybe I write because words don’t outgrow me. Maybe I stay consistent because consistency is the only place I don’t feel disposable.
People think consistency is discipline. But sometimes it’s just the place you go when the real world doesn’t have space for your kind of softness.
I don’t have a conclusion for this. No ribbon-tied insight. No inspirational ending.
It’s just the truth:
That I started because I was lonely. That I continued because it made me visible. And that now, even with all this visibility, I’m still trying to understand why being seen feels so much heavier than being ignored.