Substack Gave Me Back Something I Didn’t Know I Needed

I never really liked social media. I didn’t have a Myspace. I joined Facebook late. Everyone I knew was already on it by the time I gave in. They made it sound like I was missing out. So I signed up.

At first it seemed harmless. Just another way to stay connected. Until every single person I had outgrown was suddenly in my daily feed. High school classmates, old coworkers, distant cousins. Some of it was fine. Some of it cracked me open.

There was one good thing that came out of it. I found a group for people with facial paralysis. Courage to Smile. That space gave me something I’d never had before. Proof I wasn’t the only one. For the first time in my life, I saw my own experience reflected back. I made friends. I found resources. I felt seen. It was healing.

But the rest of it? The fights. The family drama. The hang outs I wasn’t invited to. The highlight reels that made me feel like everyone else’s life was easier, shinier, more lovable than mine. I’ve spent more hours than I care to admit just scrolling. Numbing out. Feeling worse. Clicking things I knew would hurt me.

There was also a stretch of time where I tried to play the game. I posted the glow-ups. The party girl pics in little dresses. The “I’m doing better than you think” photos. DMs rolled in from high school boys who never looked my way. Old friends I loved messaged me like they still meant it. But it was short-lived. So was that version of me.

After that, I went quiet. For years, I said nothing. I kept my Instagram business page, but I posted nothing personal. Not a photo. Not a quote. I lurked. That was it. I acted like I didn’t care, but I was still looking. It was a hard habit to break. Curiosity kills the calm. I didn’t engage. I didn’t comment. I had already learned that lesson. Too many fights. Too many triggers. Too many times I gave my energy to people who didn’t deserve it.

Then came COVID. Family fights. Emotional breakdowns. Grief on top of grief. That’s when I got block-happy. I didn’t deactivate. I curated. If I wasn’t speaking to you, I blocked you. And it worked for a while. Until it didn’t. Something always slipped through. A post I wasn’t meant to see. A video from a party I was left out of. My aunt sharing clips from my sister’s wedding. My dad’s speech. The one I wasn’t invited to. I watched the whole thing. Alone. It wrecked me.

But then came Substack.

This space feels like what the internet was supposed to be. Not perfectly curated. Not designed for shock value or viral distraction. Just people. Telling the truth. Writing things that matter. Connecting through something deeper than comments and likes.

In the beginning, I wrote about my face. Now I’m writing about my trauma. And once again, I’m finding connection. Real, healing, mutual connection.

I’ve built confidence here. I’ve found my words again. I had shut down. I had shut up. I had just survived.

But this space relit something in me. It woke up the fire. The part of me that still dreams. The version of me that remembers who I was before I was tired. Before I was scared. Before I was silenced.

It made me think of every version of myself that got me here. The one who cried over the things I’d never have. And the one now who feels so grateful for all the things I do have. The things I was never supposed to.

I’ve been through things I may never write about. And I’ve been through things I have to write about. Even if someone judges me for it. Even if it makes them uncomfortable. I have to get it out. I have to put it somewhere.

It started as a little writing experiment. But this is me telling my truth to the universe. This is me confessing. This is me bearing my soul.

And every time I do, every time I really do, someone out there says, “Hey. Me too.” “Hey. I needed this.” And the truth is, I needed it too.

xoxo,

HH 💋