They Called Substack “Just a Hobby”
Have you ever felt stupid for caring about something that actually saved you?
Have you ever told someone about something you care about and immediately felt stupid?
Sometimes, when I tell someone I write on Substack, I see that look.
You know the one.
The “Oh, sweet, how cute” look.
It’s not malice or mockery. It’s more like that condescending nod people use when they don’t understand something but are convinced it can’t possibly be important.
Like saying you collect pebbles from the beach or that you’ve started a calligraphy class. It’s nice, but it’s not “real.”
But for me, this is the most authentic place I have.
A few weeks ago, I was telling a friend how much writing here gives me.
How the people who read actually listen. How they show up in the comments not to argue, but to connect. How this little digital corner is the only space where I don’t pretend to be calmer, more organized, more “on top of things” in life than I actually am.
He laughed.
“Well, it’s nice that you have a hobby.”
A hobby.
The word fell between us like a wet rag.
Not because there’s anything wrong with hobbies, but because this isn’t a hobby.
This is the place where I allow myself to be human.
The place where I don’t conform to expectations, don’t compete, and don’t have to prove myself. The place where I can say things I’d never utter at a dinner table with friends, because there we’re all playing our roles. There we’re “fine” There we’re “doing okay” There we’re “no problem”
Ever since I discovered Substack, or rather, it discovered me, it has somehow become a big part of my life.
I can’t treat it as a hobby or an obligation. I’d even say it’s my most enjoyable escape from reality, and at the same time, I’m not running away from reality, because all of you are real.
You aren’t fictional characters or NPCs from some video game. The friendships I’ve formed here aren’t figments of my imagination, they’re genuine, solid relationships with people I may never see in person, but who mean more to me than the people I pass by every day.
On Substack, I’m neither a hero nor a failure. I just am.
And that’s the point of this place. Outside of it, it’s a constant competition. Who’s achieved what, how much money they’ve made, what kind of car they drive, or whatever “achievement” someone has come up with.
But here, we just support each other. And maybe that’s why I love Substack. Because no one is competing, and here it doesn’t matter how many followers you have or whether you have money.
If this is a conversation you’d like to be part of, join our community❤️
And yet, sometimes someone belittles this space, that old, familiar inner voice surfaces within me
“Maybe it really is silly. Maybe you’re imagining things. Maybe it doesn’t matter.”
I’ll admit it, sometimes I’m human and I doubt myself.
That’s the most painful part. Not people’s reactions themselves, but the way they trigger my own doubts. It’s as if someone is pressing a hidden button that says, “You’re not serious enough to do something that matters.”
And then I go home, open Substack, see a few new comments, someone sharing that my words helped them feel less alone, and I think to myself:
“How can this be stupid or silly!?”
Not everyone will understand your space. And that’s perfectly normal. It’s not for everyone.
The truth is, people often underestimate the things they don’t understand. Especially if they can’t measure them in terms of money, status, or results. If they can’t put them in the “success” category.
But there’s another truth — many of us have a place like that. A place that others don’t understand. A place that seems small, but is actually huge.
For some, it’s their garden.
For others, it’s painting at night when everyone else is asleep.
For others still, it’s the diary no one has ever read.
For me (and I believe for you too) — it’s this little digital corner that outsiders see as “just another platform,” but we feel is our home.
And maybe that’s exactly why it hurts when it’s belittled. Not because we want recognition, but because it’s a part of us. And when someone laughs at it, it’s as if they’re laughing at something inside us that we had the courage to show.
By the way I made something for your Substack❤️
But here’s what I’ve realized lately
Others don’t need to understand.
I don’t need to explain it to them.
I don’t need to convince them that this is important.
It’s important to me.
And it’s important to the people who come to read.
And that’s more than enough.
Substack, or whatever your space is, isn’t silly just because it isn’t loud. It isn’t trivial just because it isn’t mainstream. It isn’t childish just because it’s personal.
Sometimes the most serious things in our lives are the ones no one sees and the ones that keep us alive.
If you have a place like that, digital or not, and someone has ever dismissed it with a wave of the hand, as if it were trivial, know that you’re not alone.
Know that there are people who understand. People who have also heard, “Oh, it’s just a hobby,” while deep down, it was the only place where they could breathe.
And know that your little corner is real.
And important.
And enough.
Not because anyone acknowledges it.
But because you’re there.
If you’re still reading, here are a few more things you might want to hear:
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My Substack often gets called a blog when it is meant to be a professional project.
I have a favorite scene in Seven Faces Of Dr Lao that speaks to this. Merlin has spent an entire performance conjuring things up, only for the audience to mock and dismiss him. A boy stays behind, saying he thinks Merlin is the greatest magician ever. "Thank you, my boy," Merlin replies, voice thick with tears. "That means so much to me." He gives the boy a hug as he cries.
That's how Substack often feels to me in contrast with the rest of the world. In many ways, it's now my full-time job.