Sometimes, It Feels Like It’s All Pointless — But Then, It Isn’t

There are days when I wonder if what I’m doing even matters. Not that sharing my story here—on this blog, on Threads, on Instagram—doesn’t bring some kind of healing. Because it does. Writing it all out, naming the pain, the grief, the mess, pulls me from the dark a little bit each time. I’m finally able to look at my life, at the chapters I never thought I’d survive, and not feel ashamed anymore. That alone is worth something.

I was talking with one of my closest friends recently, wrestling with the question: Why do I keep doing this? Why put my rawest moments out there, on display? Because honestly, sometimes it feels like shouting into the void. Like my words aren’t reaching far enough. Like the noise I’m making isn’t loud enough to wake anyone up or push anyone toward change. I worry that maybe I sound preachy or rough around the edges.

I kept thinking there would be a moment—a post, a message—that would click, go viral, and suddenly everything would take off. That my words would find the perfect audience, and that would be the breakthrough. But it hasn’t happened. Engagement has slowed, conversations have become fewer and farther between. It feels stalled, and yes, that can be discouraging.

But here’s the thing: this tension—the feeling of not gaining traction paired with the deep desire to make an impact—is exactly what I’m living with. It captures the complexity of this work. Frustration and discouragement show up alongside unwavering commitment and hope.

I want this to matter.

I want to reach people.

I want to help.

Still, the truth is, I don’t do this for numbers or recognition. I don’t crave fame or even a passing mention. I do this because I needed someone—someone exactly like me—when I was drowning in the middle of it all. Someone who’d already walked through fire and made it to the other side. Someone loud and unapologetic, who wanted to see me healing just as much as they needed their own. Because when you’re trapped in the darkest places, it feels like there is no “other side.” It feels like an endless nightmare.

I stayed because I didn’t believe escape was real. But now, I’m on the other side. And I want people to know—they can get out.

So even when it feels like the work is stalled or invisible, I keep going. Because this matters—beyond likes, beyond shares, beyond measurable success. It matters because real healing, real change, lives in these connections, in the moments we find each other and choose to keep showing up.

I don’t force conversations or come with expectations. When people reach out, I let them lead. This isn’t therapy—I’m not a clinician, and I don’t hand out medical advice or pretend to have all the answers. But what I do is listen. I care. And I show up. That presence, that connection—that’s what truly makes the difference.

Knowing I’ve become part of someone’s support system, no matter how big or small, fills my heart in ways words can’t fully express. I’m humbled beyond measure by the relationships that have grown simply because I chose to be here—authentically, vulnerably, and consistently. Because you've allowed me to be here.

This was never about me. It started as an outlet to pour out my grief and speak my truth. And in doing that, I met some incredible people—people I now consider dear friends. People I’m honored to walk alongside.

So, I’ll say it again, because it bears repeating:

Thank you.

Thank you for showing up.

For staying.

For trusting me with your pain and your victories.

For letting me find my footing as I try to help you find yours.

For accepting kindness when it’s offered.

For choosing to listen.

I don’t do this for me—I do it for you. For all of you.