I'm going to be vulnerable with you today. More vulnerable than usual, which is saying something if you know me at all.

Does anyone actually care about my words?

I've been avoiding that question for a long time. Because the answer might hurt. But here's what I've been sitting with lately: even the people who love me most... the ones who cheer me on, who share my posts, who call themselves my biggest fans... most of them haven't actually read my work. Not really. Not all the way through.

And I'm not saying that to guilt anyone. I'm saying it because it's made me think about how we show up for each other nowadays.

We'll spend hours consuming content from strangers. Scrolling through posts, watching videos, reading hot takes from people we'll never meet. And I get it... it's easy. It asks nothing of us. We don't have to respond. We don't have to feel anything. We don't have to show up. It's emotional snacking... filling a void without ever being nourished.

But when someone we love hands us something they created and says "this matters to me"... that's different. That's an invitation into intimacy. And intimacy is terrifying because it requires something. It says "see me." And really seeing someone means we might have to feel something, respond to something, be changed by something.

So we scroll past the people who love us to consume the words of strangers. Not because we don't care. But because caring is work. And we're all so tired.

I've also been thinking about love languages lately. Not the warm, fuzzy way we usually talk about them, but the way they've become a kind of shield. Everyone knows what they need. Everyone expects their people to learn their language and speak it fluently. But somewhere along the way, it became a one-way street. "I know what I need, but your needs are your problem."

I'm done living like that.

Here's what I need you to understand about me: I am a writer. Not as a hobby or a side hustle or a fun thing I do sometimes. Writing is how I process the world. It's how I make sense of pain. It's how I reach across the distance between my weirdness and yours and try to find the place where we overlap.

I don't write for strangers. I never have. I write to build a found family of people who might actually understand the fucking weirdo I am. I write because I want the people I love to understand why I struggle but love so deeply.

When I ask you to read something I wrote, I'm not asking for a favor. I'm not asking you to do homework. I'm offering you a piece of myself and hoping you'll hold it gently. Reading my work is a way to love me back.

So here's my invitation, my gentle call-out, and my honest ache all wrapped into one:

If you're part of my found family... if you've told me you care about me... if you've ever wondered how to show up for me in a way that matters... read my words. Not all of them. Not right now. But sometime. One article. One chapter. One blog post.

And if it moves you, tell me. Not because I need validation (okay, maybe a little), but because connection is a two-way street. I pour myself onto these pages hoping someone on the other side will say "I see you. I'm here. You're not shouting into a void."

This isn't a test or a manipulation. It's a love letter in a bottle, sent out across a vast ocean, hoping the people I love will find it.

Do my words matter?