Showing Up, Selectively

Look at me posting a new Substack article one day after writing one...

Hey Audience—whoever may be reading these, whoever may be considering clicking “follow”— Are you looking for erratic content sent straight to your inbox? Would you like it to feel like your Substack creators are ghosting you for months at a time? My content schedule is like a booty call from an ex— random, unpredictable, but maybe you’re a little into it?

The very next morning after I posted The Season of Maintenance, I rode the wave of momentum. I had another idea, so I moved on it. Intentional thoughts, unplanned schedule. Maybe that’s how I roll.

I used to think I didn’t post enough on social media.

Not frequently enough. Not consistently enough. No content calendar, no weekly cadence, no strategy beyond I should probably say something so people don’t forget I exist.

Lately, I don’t think that anymore.

This realization hit me after I posted my last Substack piece, The Season of Maintenance, on January 13th. The one before that was November 20th. A decent gap, by internet standards. Long enough that Old Me might’ve panicked a little. Long enough that I would’ve wondered if I was doing myself a disservice by not “showing up.”

Instead, I noticed something else: I actually felt fine.

I checked Instagram—mostly because I like to share my Substack posts there—and realized I’ve technically been posting more than I have in a while. Not because I planned to. Not because I decided to “be better” about social media. But because my husband and I are renovating a house and apparently dumpsters full of debris, walls taken down to the studs, and peeling wallpaper are compelling content to friends and family.

That wasn’t strategy. That was life.

Where am I going with this?
Good question.

Here’s the part that feels important: I don’t keep Instagram on my phone anymore. I download it when I need to post to Stories, then delete it again. This isn’t a productivity hack or a moral stance—it’s just what works for my brain. When scrolling is one tap away, I scroll. A lot. And I don’t like how it makes me feel.

This isn’t new. I’ve written about my social media usage before. I’ve complained about it over wine with friends and to my writing group, and I’ll probably complain about it again. I don’t particularly like social media. (There. I said it again.) And it’s not because I’m a very private, introverted person (I mean, I am, to a degree) but ask any one of my IRL friends and they’ll tell you I’ve got one heck of a mouth on me.

I’ll post when I have something to say.

There was a moment recently—sitting at my desk at work, flipping through my brand-new 2026 day planner—when I thought, Oh, I could turn this into a Reel. And then immediately thought: Why?

Not in a dramatic way. Not in a “social media is evil” way. Just… why? What was the point? What was I trying to prove?

The honest answer was that it wasn’t important to me. Important enough to download Instagram again. Important enough to edit a video. Important enough to spend time I didn’t really have. So I didn’t.

And here’s the thing I didn’t fully understand until recently: not posting doesn’t mean I’m not creating.

I think I used to believe that if I wasn’t visible—if I wasn’t posting weekly, sharing progress, narrating my process—then I was somehow falling behind. That silence equaled stagnation. That if I wanted to “make it” in traditional publishing, I had to play along.

Now? I trust something else.

I trust that when I do share—whether it’s an essay, a novel, or a quiet update—the right people will find it. I trust that my audience (whoever they are) won’t punish me for absence. They’ll meet me where I am.

Maybe this is creative adulthood. Maybe it’s confidence. Maybe it’s just exhaustion mixed with clarity.

Whatever it is, it feels better.

— E