Sharing or Shouting?
Blurred lines between connection and competition.
It’s been a while since I came on here to post. I’ve been giving myself space — time to process what I’m digesting and to understand why I haven’t felt like sharing. To me, being on Substack means opening a small window into life from your own perspective, and lately I haven’t known what I wanted to show through that window.
What’s been on my mind is this: like so many people online, I have a real desire to share my learnings, thoughts, values, and stories. I think most of us do — we want to be seen and understood. As an Enneagram 4, that longing for understanding runs deep in me.
But when I look at that impulse closely, shame sometimes bubbles up. Who am I to think people want to hear from me? Those voices — the gremlins — are familiar. I can see them for what they are, but they’ve made me more intentional about why I share. Especially now that I’m more committed to my freelance work and, like it or not, that means showing up on Instagram and promoting myself.
Honestly, I find it icky. Instagram feels like a marketplace these days — everyone selling something: retreats, products, programs, ideas, dogmas. I don’t want to compete or add to the noise.
I’ve not considered myself been competitive in the obvious way — the out-loud kind that plays out on leaderboards, stages, or feeds. My competition has always been quieter, the kind that lives under the surface. It’s not loud, it’s seething. It’s the voice that wants to be as good as or a little better than the person next to me — usually someone I actually know. Trying to get my first kiss before my best friend. Being ‘better’ than my sister. Holding a handstand longer than someone in class. That kind of thing.
But online? It’s slipperier. The moment I catch myself down an Instagram rabbit hole — scrolling through another teacher’s page, dissecting their following, their captions, their life — that same seething feeling wakes up. It’s ugly. It’s small. And it has nothing to do with who they are, only with what part of me still thinks worth is something to win.
I don’t want that in my life any more than it has to be. I know comparison doesn’t serve me — it just tightens the grip of that inner competition that thrives on scarcity. The louder the world gets, the more important it feels to choose quiet — not the kind that hides, but the kind that refuses to compete.
And lately, even Substack — which once felt refreshing and genuine — is starting to feel crowded. When I first joined, I followed maybe ten writers I loved. It felt intimate, full of new ideas and authentic voices. Now, it’s starting to feel like Instagram did: too much content, too much self-promotion, too many people saying the same things about self-growth, capitalism, consumerism — all while participating in the very systems they critique.
It’s exhausting. I’ve needed space from it.
Now that I’m back, I’m not sure it’s worth continuing here — or if what I have to say adds anything unique anymore. Maybe it’s time to move these kinds of conversations back offline — into real spaces, with real people, where our words aren’t tracked by algorithms or replicated by AI.
Does anyone else feel this too?
Okay, so I originally posted this and ended there. But almost immediately, I realized all it really did was point out the obvious — the frustration, the noise, the fatigue we all feel. And honestly, we need more than just naming the problem these days.
I think I also know why I’ve been able to step away from here lately: I’ve been busy forming real connections offline. I joined a singing group. I signed up for short courses and trainings. I’ve met new people, gone on dates, kept in touch with friends and family over long phone calls. I feel full — and because of that, I haven’t needed to be online as much.
And since this month is about gratitude and togetherness, maybe that’s the invitation. To get involved in the actual world around us. As overused as it sounds, I dare you — if you’re not already — to step outside your comfort zone and connect with someone new. Through a hobby, a community group, a shared meal, a faith, a class, a volunteer project — anything. Just one thing.
Please tell me what it is. It doesn’t have to stick forever. Maybe it’s shortlived. But open yourself to seeing who is out there. Listen to the people around you. Let’s spend more time together.
