Writing Through the Feelings: Why I Still Blog Even When No One Reads It

When I was a little girl in elementary school, I fell in love with reading and writing. While other subjects like math and science were a struggle, reading and writing felt like home to me. I’d ace those parts of standardized tests and bask in the simple joy of crafting stories, even when it meant handwriting them in cursive on wide-ruled paper. (Yes, cursive. And yes, I’m that old.)

Back then, computers were a novelty. You only used them during “computer class,” where most of us just tried not to die of dysentery on the Oregon Trail. Everything else—papers, stories, thoughts—was written out by hand. And I loved it.

That love of writing stayed with me. For the longest time, I wanted to be a journalist. That dream stuck around until about 11th grade—and then, like many adolescent dreams, it quietly faded. I honestly can’t even remember what I thought I’d do next.

Still, writing has always been a part of me. Even now, I love the final product of writing—but the process? That’s another story. Writing—especially when I’m unfamiliar with the topic—gives me intense anxiety. I overthink, over-research, and second-guess every word. I worry about grammar, tone, credibility. I worry I’ll sound dumb. I worry people will think I have no business writing about whatever it is I’ve chosen to share. Classic imposter syndrome, I guess.

But here’s the twist: when I’m down, inspired, angry, or just overwhelmed—I want to write. It’s my safe space. Writing is how I process. It’s how I cope. I get to spill my thoughts onto the page without interruption, without correction, without someone jumping in to fix or debate or reframe what I’m feeling. Sometimes, I just need to get it out—and writing lets me do that.

That’s what my blog is for. It’s not just a hobby; it’s therapy. It's a place where I can be raw, real, and honest—without fear of being shut down or side-eyed. And if you’re reading this, chances are you’ve seen this vulnerable side of me before.

But here’s where it gets hard to admit: most of the time, no one really reads it.

I’ll pour my heart into a blog post, carefully craft the words, share it on Facebook and Instagram, and… nothing. Maybe 12 views. Maybe 18 if I’m lucky. And that’s over the course of weeks or months. It’s a strange kind of heartbreak, realizing that the words you were so nervous to share, so hopeful might resonate, barely made a blip in anyone else’s day.

It makes you question your place. Your voice. Even your friendships.

Because in your head, you think,

“Don’t I have more than 12 people in my life who care enough to read a 4-minute blog? Isn’t that what support looks like?”

And when the answer seems to be no, it stings. It chips away at whatever self-confidence you had managed to build up.

But here’s the release part of all this: I’m learning to be okay with it. I’m learning to write anyway. To keep showing up, for me. Because the truth is, my blog isn’t about numbers. It’s about survival. It’s about release. It’s about untangling the mess of thoughts in my head and putting them somewhere safe.

Even if only 12 people ever read it, I’m thankful for the ability to write it. I’m thankful for the healing it brings me—especially when my mental health takes a dip, like it has these past few days. Writing doesn’t fix everything, but it gives me something to hold onto when everything else feels like it’s slipping away.

So if you’ve made it this far—thank you. Truly. You’re one of the twelve, and that means more than you know.