Table of Contents
I’ll say it bluntly. Words are my thing. Which is why I’ve come off Instagram.
I love writing, pretty much as much as I love my garden, or my kids (OK, maybe not that much, lol, buy you get the gist) Which is why I run this blog, and why I work professionally as a copywriter and marketer.
But for a very, very long time, I tried sharing my poems and blog posts on Instagram in the hope of reaching more people who’d like to read them.
Yet it got to a stage where, after 7 years, I had to start questioning it:
- Were my poems being seen? I didn’t think so, and if they were, the volume of people wasn’t there.
- Were they being used in other content, by other people, without crediting me? This was one of my big fears.
I also just didn’t enjoy the platform anymore. I realised, so much of my precious life was being wasted consuming other random people’s content, instead of engaging and interacting with other profiles that may be interested in mine.
And so, the time came, to jump ship.
I removed all my content, and uploaded 9 simple yet tactical posts which are like a landing pad for any newcomers to my world.
Which now means all my poems and blogs will only ever be published here, on this site, and sometimes on Pinterest too.
And honestly? It’s one of THE best decisions I’ve ever made. I don’t miss it in the slightest haha.
But I want to rewind for a sec, because it’s important to explain why this matters, not just for me, but perhaps for you too?
We live in an era where we’ve been conditioned to believe that visibility equals value. That if you’re not posting every day, if your follower count isn’t climbing, if the algorithm isn’t rewarding you then somehow, you and your work are less worthy of being seen.
I swallowed that belief whole for years. I let it shape how I wrote, when I wrote, and how I felt about my writing when it didn’t perform the way I’d hoped.
And here’s the painful truth I had to sit with: Instagram was never really built for words. It was built for images, for immediacy, the dopamine hit of a double-tap. Poems — real ones, the kind that ask something of you — they need space.
They need quiet.
They need a reader who arrives with intention, not someone who stumbles across them between a reel about sourdough and a sponsored post for activewear.
So I was setting my work up to fail, over and over again, and then quietly wondering why it wasn’t landing.
The moment something shifted
I remember sitting one evening, scrolling through my own feed, trying to see my content the way a stranger might. And what struck me wasn’t the poems themselves — it was the noise surrounding them. The relentless churn of content either side. The way everything competed for the same fraction of a second of someone’s attention.
I thought: this really isn’t a place for anything I want to say anymore.
Not because my words weren’t good enough. But because the environment itself was working against the very experience I wanted to create — one of stillness, of reflection, of feeling genuinely met by something you read.
That realisation didn’t come all at once. It was slow, like most honest realisations are. But once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it.
Why a blog?
I know what you might be thinking. Blogs feel old-fashioned, don’t they?
In a world of short-form video and 3-second attention spans, sitting down to write long-form content for a website may very well feel like bringing a handwritten letter to a WhatsApp group (I wish!)
But that’s exactly why I love it.
The people who find their way here to this site, to this page — they come on purpose.
They typed something into a search bar, or followed a link, or were recommended this little corner of the interweb by someone who thought they might find something meaningful here. They weren’t served my words as an interruption; they arrived looking.
And that changes everything.
A reader with intention is a completely different human being to a scroller mid-habit. When someone sits down to read, they bring their full self. Their curiosity. Their willingness to feel something.
That’s the reader I’ve always been writing for. I just hadn’t been putting my work somewhere she could find me.
What this space will hold
This blog is, and always has been, a home for honesty. I started it as a place to share my thoughts, experiences, life — unfiltered and unapologetically real.
You’ll find my poems that were written at my kitchen table, on my notes app at 2am, in the margins of notebooks during meetings I probably should have been paying more attention to. You’ll find musings about things I’m working through — motherhood, creativity, identity, the strange and tender business of being a woman navigating this world.
You’ll find the kind of writing that doesn’t wrap everything up neatly at the end, because life rarely does that.
What you won’t find is content created for an algorithm. You won’t find posts engineered around keywords or scheduled for optimal engagement windows. You won’t find a version of me that’s been smoothed down and made palatable for mass consumption.
Just words. Honest ones. The kind I’d say to a friend over a long cuppa.
An invitation
If you’ve read this far, I already feel a kind of kinship with you. You’re clearly someone who values depth over speed, and that’s not as common as it should be.
I’d love for this to feel like less of a broadcast and more a conversation. So if something I write lands with you, if a poem catches you somewhere tender, or an essay puts words to something you’ve been carrying, please reach out.
Leave a comment. Send a message. Tell me about your own experience of the thing I wrote about.
That exchange, that moment of me too between two people who’ve never met, that’s what writing is for. That’s what it has always been for.
And it’s what Instagram, for all its (crappy) reach, could never quite give me.
A note on Pinterest
You’ll also find my work over on Pinterest, which might surprise you, but hear me out. Pinterest is one of the few platforms that actually rewards timeless content.
A poem I pin today might be discovered by someone three years from now, at the exact moment they needed it. There’s something quietly beautiful about that. It’s less about performance and more about planting seeds.
So if Pinterest is more your world than mine, come find me there too.
But for now, this is home. These pages, these words, this little website I built with love and intention.
I’m so glad you’re here. And I mean that in the way that matters, as a person who spent a long time putting her most honest self into a platform that was never really listening from the get-go.
