This blog is not dead. It has, I suppose, been on pause for a while, though less in a state of stasis and more one of catatonia. A fugue state, if you will. I, too, have been running in place. It’s been nine months since my last post here, but somehow I find myself standing in the same spot, figuratively speaking. Same problems at work, same assholes creating crises in the news on the daily, and same frustrated sense that I’m functioning as a willing tool in the wholesale squandering of my own life.

2025 was characterized by days full of difficulty. On paper, I probably had a “successful year.” After getting my ADHD treatment dialed in, I started being able to catch up on basic household chores, and I pretty much blasted all my work goals out of the water. I went to parties without dissolving into a ball of social awkwardness. I disengaged from Facebook and Instagram. And yet, I got to the end of the year feeling thoroughly disappointed by how little I had to show. Every day felt like a slog through a haze of unending work and horrible headlines. I hardly played music, in fact going months at a time without touching an instrument. I didn’t write much. I hadn’t finished a single knitting project. And despite not posting on social media for pretty much the whole year, I still spent hours per day gripped by Reddit’s endless scroll.

After all of it, had I even come out the other side with anything useful?

At first, as I wallowed in the doldrums of a week of particularly upsetting work meetings to kick off 2026, I thought the answer was “nothing.” But that’s not actually true. The real answer, I think, is a shedding of illusions.

I built this blog on a foundation of illusions. It seemed like social media was full of people who had successfully leveraged short form content and affiliate blogs. Why not me? Of course, I’d prioritize authenticity, but it was worth a shot.

The cracks started to appear soon after I started. Always a beat or two behind on technological trends, I became aware that I’d made a mistake. Blogging was dead, it seemed, except for on Substack, where I wasn’t. My attempts to mimic the social media posting styles of successful creators fell flat (turns out I have no instinct for feeding the algorithms). Worst of all was when I started to encounter AI writing wherever I looked, and it was like being confronted by a mirror in the dingiest airport bathroom you can think of, stark white lighting and all. I had adopted that punchy, artificial marketing style in my posts. All unknowingly, in my attempt to craft something that would “make an impact,” I had modeled myself after soulless slop.

A year (mostly) away from social media — and a reading of Careless People by Sarah Wynn-Williams — broke my misconception that the social media algorithms were a merit competition. And if I abandoned the goal of pleasing the algorithm, what would be stopping me from exploring any topic I want, even the mundane, and even in the wandering stream-of-consciousness style long since pounded out of me by a career in communication?

Two-and-a-half weeks into January, this year has been full of difficult days. And believe me, I’m aware that neither the world nor my job will get any less stressful in the near future. Maybe, though, I can outweigh the difficult parts.

Knitting project: Baby blanket for friends, 75% done.
Current book: Stolen Focus by Johann Hari.

Featured image by Nadine Wuchenauer on Pexels