Paint Anyway

I opened Substack’s “This Week’s Reads” email the other day, and something quietly disappointed me.

Every single featured post was about building your audience.

How to grow.
How to convert.
How to game the algorithm.

Not one piece of creative work.
Not one poem, one personal essay, one honest letter.
Not one voice saying something true just for the sake of truth.

And yet this platform is filled — overflowing — with writers, thinkers, artists. People who show up every week not to sell something but to say something. And when I scroll through Notes, I see a strange paradox: people pouring their souls into their work… and feeling like they’re failing.

Not because their writing isn’t good.
Not because their work isn’t meaningful.
But because not enough people are watching.

That’s the problem, isn’t it?
We’re writing in a world that rewards visibility more than vulnerability.
We’re creating in an era that tells us our worth is measured by reach.

But I want to ask a different question:
Who are you creating for?

Because I’ve had to ask myself the same thing.
I’ve been writing here for months.
I pour my heart into every piece. I write about love, about leadership, about sacrifice, about the moments that changed my life.
And I’ve flatlined at 302 subscribers.

Some weeks that number goes down.

And you know what? That’s okay.
Because I’ve never been writing for them.
I’ve been writing for me.
For you.
For the few people who find something real in my words. For the handful who read and feel less alone.
That’s enough.

There’s a story I’ve carried with me for years — about two artists.
One refuses to begin until everything is perfect.
The right brush. The right light. The right conditions.
She waits for the moment to strike, for inspiration to arrive fully formed. But the moment never quite comes.

The other artist?
She just paints.
Every day. With whatever she has.
She paints because that’s what artists do.

And because she paints, she becomes an artist.
Not in title, but in truth.

I’ve always wanted to be that second artist.
And I hope you do too.

Because the truth is: we do not become artists after the world applauds us.
We become artists before.
In the quiet.
In the waiting.
In the 300-person newsletter that no one retweets.
In the blank page that we fill anyway.

We write because something inside us must be said.
We paint because the act of painting matters.
Not because it scales.

And yet… we forget this.
We measure our success in followers instead of fulfillment.
We worry more about resonance than reverence — for the craft, for the process, for the spark that made us want to create in the first place.

I’ve come to believe this:
I would rather be authentic and alone than performative and applauded.
I would rather whisper something true to a quiet room than scream something hollow to a crowded one.
I would rather build a life of substance than a brand built on spectacle.

So if you’re a creator — a writer, a thinker, a maker — and you’re feeling discouraged, let me offer you this:

Keep going.
Write what’s in your heart.
Create what calls to you.
Don’t stop because it isn’t working.
Because if it’s making you more whole, more awake, more you — then it’s working in all the ways that matter.

The world doesn’t need more people chasing the algorithm.
It needs more people who paint anyway.

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If this stirred something in you—if you’ve been questioning whether the work is worth it—let this be your reminder: it is. You don’t need more followers to matter. You just need to keep showing up.

Follow or subscribe on Substack, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify for more reflections like this, five days a week. And if you know another creator who needs to hear this today, send it their way.

The world needs fewer performers and more truth-tellers.

So stay honest. Stay present. And keep painting.

I’ll see you tomorrow.