The Futile Chase

One evening last year, I was deep in the Instagram hustle—tripod set up, ring light on, spending hours editing a 30-second reel, constantly checking stats, and getting beat down by the algorithm—when my daughter asked, “How many people liked it, Mama?”

“Twenty-seven,” I said.

She looked at me, confused. “But you have six thousand followers.”

Curious, I ran the numbers. From October to November, my “normal” range of likes per post sat between 27 and 77, with most weeks clustering around 40 to 60.

6,000 followers on Instagram.

7,500 more on Facebook.

Another 1,500 in a private Facebook group.

And over 3,000 YouTube subscribers—being fed some version of that content (which, by the way, too an immense amount of time and creative energy).

All for what?

On average, a thumbs-up or heart from 50 people.

In that moment, it hit me—how much of myself I was pouring into something that didn’t even make sense to a 10-year-old. How I was modeling a version of success that depended on likes from strangers rather than connection with self.

Since then, I’ve shifted. I still create. I still share. But not to gain followers. Not to prove my worth.

I write for the ones who sit with my words. The ones who take the time to reply, who share vulnerably about their own triumphs and tragedies.

I make art that may never be seen by a large audience—but is deeply felt by the few who hold it. Last month, I mailed out little tokens of appreciation to writers and poets I’ve only ever traded comments with on Substack—watercolor florals, mixed media collages, thumbprint art.

This wasn’t a quid pro quo. It wasn’t an artist trading card exchange. It was a simple act of reaching out—of placing value on the right kind of interaction. Of saying: I see you.

I’ve also hosted two Ripple Rooms so far. Six people came to the first one. Eight to the second. Tiny numbers by internet standards—but what unfolded in those 60-minute Zoom calls felt deeper than most online spaces I’ve ever been part of.

We talked. We paused. We made. We shared honestly and left feeling more connected, more witnessed.

That’s the kind of legacy I want to leave behind.

Not numbers. Not virality. Just a trail of quiet moments where someone feels less alone. Less judged. Less pressured to perform.

A legacy where creativity is measured by the lives it touches, not the likes it gets—something even my 10-year-old can emulate.