600 Articles Later, Here’s What I’ve Learned About Myself and Medium

It was like most relationships at first

Photo by feey on Unsplash

I confused infatuation with true, unconditional love. The latter is earned, not won, by paying a token membership fee, thinking I’d finally be rich from writing.

At first, Medium felt like a magic garden, and I showed up with a bogus bouquet of words that went nowhere, never touching any heart.

It was April, 2018. I had stories. I had business experience. I had decades of hard-earned lessons from entrepreneurship, recovery, coaching, family, aging, money, art, and reinvention.

I figured if I showed up, wrote honestly, and hit publish enough times, the platform would reward me beyond the joy I get from writing.

Sometimes it did, but in pennies. I kid you not. When the pile of pennies grew large enough, the wonderful people at Medium kept up their end of the deal and sent me money.

But not enough to look at my wife and justify the countless hours I spend in my head, hammering on my keyboard, locking up the brakes on a long bike ride to send myself an email so I don’t forget my “great idea.”

Most of them suck by the time I get home, so I delete them. Imposter syndrome is a bitch.

That is the first thing the Medium platform taught me

Writing online is not a vending machine. You do not insert effort and receive applause, income, followers, or meaning on command. You write, publish, learn, adjust, and keep going.

Or you quit.

Medium did not make me rich, but I always feel wealthy when I write.

And it made me honest.

It showed me how badly I wanted validation. It showed me how often I checked stats when I said I did not care. It showed me the tiny emotional rise when an article took off, and the quiet little bruise when one died on the runway.

That is embarrassing to admit, but it is true.

I have learned that I am not above wanting to be seen or to make more money. I am not above wanting the little green numbers to go up. I am not above comparing myself to writers who seem to crack the code every other Tuesday.

Belonging to something that matters

As a highly sensitive person and an Otrovert, over time, I went from feeling like an ‘eternal outsider’ writing about and to myself to becoming part of a wonderful community of like-minded and not-like-minded people.

For a guy who truly sucks at belonging, I feel like I belong to Medium through the many wonderful people who manage our publications and help me broaden my reach by playing well with others.

Here’s something even better. Not one time have I attracted a hater. Not even close. Nothing but genuine love, with a few newer members who commented out of a need for attention rather than with the intention of building a relationship with me.

Attention is a weak substitute for purpose

The articles that matter most to me are not always the ones that earn the most. They are the ones who tell the truth. The ones about aging, sobriety, grief, art, work, money, love, fear, and what it means to start over when you are old enough to know better.

Six hundred articles later, I am not writing because I have all the answers. I am writing because I am still asking better questions. My insatiable curiosity is like my inner child; never in a rush to grow old and sit still.

That was not clear when I started. I thought writing was mostly about teaching. It is also about listening to my own life, listening to other people’s stories, and listening for the quiet sentence hiding beneath the noise.

Medium has been a wonderful classroom

I never liked school, and that’s kind. But I always loved learning. Medium taught me discipline. It taught me humility. It taught me that some headlines matter more than they should, and some stories matter even when nobody claps. It taught me that consistency is not glamorous. It is mostly sitting down again.

That is the part nobody sees.

They do not see the drafts that never made it. The bad titles. The awkward openings. The essays that started one way and ended up somewhere else. The mornings when I felt like a writer, and the afternoons when I felt like a fraud with a keyboard.

But I kept publishing

That matters.

At 65, I do not want to spend the second half of life pretending I am done becoming someone. I am not retired from becoming. I am not retired from learning. I am not retired from making art, taking photographs, telling stories, helping people, or trying to understand what makes a human life meaningful.

That may be the biggest gift Medium gave me.

It gave me a place to practice becoming visible. To read other people’s work and leave a considerate, constructive comment with no expectation for a return.

Not famous. Visible. Not to follow to be followed. But to lead by being myself, and following people when I felt genuinely interested in their work.

There is a difference.

Fame wants strangers to admire you. Visibility asks you to stop hiding from the people you might help.

Six hundred articles later, I am less interested in chasing the algorithm and more interested in earning trust. I want to write things that feel human. Useful. True. Sometimes beautiful. Sometimes uncomfortable. Sometimes, it's simple enough that someone reads it and says, “Yeah. I needed that today.”

That is enough

After a lifetime of never being or having enough, I am enough because I work on my inner game every day. Writing is part of my mental health, like photography, painting, and being grateful for it all.

My ego lives even though it’s shrinking. I still want more readers. I still want the work to grow. I still want my writing, photography, art, coaching, and stories to reach people who are trying to become happier, healthier, and wealthier in the ways that actually matter.

I still love and want to make more money. But I don’t write or live for money. I live for my soul.

Medium owes me nothing. I pay and owe it.

No platform provides the inherent value Medium does. Have they been perfect? No. But they listen and stay committed to us, the writers, editors, and everyone who shows up daily to create, give, and serve.

Love is earned

It’s earned by showing up with care, honesty, patience, and craft. One sentence at a time. One story at a time. One reader at a time.

Six hundred articles later, I know that Medium is not my lover, my boss, my savior, or my retirement plan.

It is a studio. A creative playground with guidelines and people who keep an eye on us to preserve the community's incredible integrity.

And every time I publish, I walk back in, pick up the tools, and practice.

Now, I love being here.

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