By J. H. Irwin
Author | Storyteller | Capturing Life, Memory, and Meaning
A Personal Moment
“A few days ago, I found myself doing something I know better than to do. I was staring at my Substack statistics again, looking at subscriber counts, open rates, and growth charts, searching for answers hidden somewhere among the numbers.
Nearly eight months ago, I began this journey with optimism. I brought over readers who had followed me through my website and other projects, committed myself to writing consistently, and followed much of the guidance offered to new creators. I paid attention to timing, frequency, formatting, engagement, and all the things that are supposed to help a publication find its audience.
Yet despite my efforts, meaningful growth has remained elusive.
Like many writers, I have spent time asking myself why.
At first, I assumed there must be a technical explanation. Perhaps I wasn’t posting often enough. Perhaps I was posting too often. Maybe my topics were too broad, or my headlines weren’t compelling enough. It is easy to believe there is a formula somewhere, a hidden combination of strategies that unlocks success if only you can discover it.
The longer I reflected on it, however, the more I realized the question wasn’t really about algorithms, timing, or publishing schedules. The deeper question was whether I was creating the kind of content people actually wanted.”
That is where the uncertainty begins.
I write from my heart. I write about life as I have experienced it and continue to experience it. Some days that means writing about aging and finding purpose in later chapters of life. Other times it means reflecting on technology, travel, relationships, memory, or the rapidly changing world around us. I write about hope and disappointment, about resilience and uncertainty, about the things that connect us as human beings despite our differences.
I also write about being gay because being gay is part of who I am.
It is not the entirety of my identity, but it has shaped my experiences, my relationships, my understanding of acceptance, and my perspective on the world. Some of my articles explore the challenges, triumphs, and realities that come with living openly and authentically. Those stories are not political statements. They are simply honest reflections drawn from a life I have actually lived.
I would be lying if I said I never wondered whether that reality causes some people to move on. We live in a time when identities are often viewed through political lenses, and not everyone is comfortable with stories that challenge their assumptions or experiences. It would be naive to believe otherwise.
Yet if that is true, I find myself asking a different question.
What exactly would I be expected to do about it?
Would I remove those stories from my writing? Would I pretend those experiences never happened? Would I edit parts of myself out of the narrative in hopes of attracting a larger audience?
The answer has always been no.
Not because I am trying to make a statement, but because authenticity is the entire reason I write. The moment I begin removing pieces of my life to make other people more comfortable is the moment the writing stops being honest. I did not start writing to create a more marketable version of myself. I started writing because I believe stories matter, truth matters, and shared human experiences matter.
The same principle applies to another aspect of my life that occasionally finds its way onto the page.
Over the years, I have struggled with depression. Some periods have been manageable, while others have been considerably more difficult. Like many people who live with depression, I learned how to continue functioning while carrying burdens that remained largely invisible to those around me. I went to work, fulfilled responsibilities, maintained relationships, and appeared fine, even during periods when I felt anything but fine.
Those experiences changed me in ways I did not fully understand at the time.
When people read my work and describe it as empathetic or compassionate, I think much of that perspective comes directly from those struggles. Life has a way of teaching us lessons we never asked to learn. Difficult experiences can make us harder, but they can also make us more understanding. They can deepen our awareness of the fact that nearly everyone is carrying something, whether we can see it or not.
The friend who suddenly withdraws may be struggling. The coworker who seems distant may be overwhelmed. The stranger who appears angry may be hurting in ways we will never know. Once you have spent enough time wrestling with your own challenges, it becomes easier to recognize that other people are often fighting battles of their own.
That understanding influences everything I write.
When I write about kindness, compassion, empathy, or humanity, I am not writing about abstract concepts. I am writing about lessons learned through experience. I am writing about the importance of extending grace because I know what it feels like to need it. I am writing about connection because I know how isolating life can become when that connection is missing.
Perhaps that is why I sometimes feel out of step with the culture surrounding us.
We live in an era that often rewards outrage more than understanding. Anger travels quickly. Conflict attracts attention. The loudest voices frequently receive the largest audiences, while quieter voices struggle to be heard. Social media platforms are designed to amplify engagement, and engagement is often fueled by division, certainty, and confrontation.
Empathy rarely performs as well as outrage.
Kindness seldom generates the same reaction as conflict.
Compassion is difficult to measure in clicks, shares, or subscriber counts.
Yet despite that reality, I remain convinced that these qualities matter. In fact, I suspect they matter now more than ever. A thoughtful conversation may never generate the same level of attention as a public argument, but thoughtful conversations change people. A kind word may never trend online, but it can alter the course of someone’s day. An honest story may never become viral, but it can make another person feel less alone.
No statistic can adequately measure those outcomes.
A subscriber count cannot tell you whether an article arrived at exactly the right moment for someone who needed it. A growth chart cannot reveal whether a reader felt understood after spending a few minutes with your words. Numbers are useful, but they are often incapable of capturing the things that matter most.
That realization has forced me to reconsider how I define success.
Of course I want my publication to grow. Every writer hopes to find readers. Every storyteller hopes their work resonates beyond the small circle in which it began. There is nothing wrong with wanting your work to reach more people.
What I have come to understand, however, is that growth cannot be the only measure of value.
If the only path to a larger audience requires becoming someone other than myself, then it is not a path I am interested in taking. I would rather write honestly for a smaller audience than perform for a larger one. I would rather build genuine connections slowly than sacrifice authenticity in pursuit of numbers.
Perhaps growth will come with time. Perhaps it will not. That part remains outside my control.
What remains within my control is how I show up each day. I can continue writing about life, relationships, memory, travel, technology, aging, hope, and the experiences that shape us. I can continue writing about being gay when those experiences belong in the story. I can continue bringing empathy to the page because empathy is one of the most valuable lessons life has taught me.
Most importantly, I can continue believing that kindness still matters, even when it is not rewarded by an algorithm.
The older I get, the less interested I become in performing for approval and the more interested I become in living authentically. The same is true of my writing. I no longer aspire to create content simply because it might attract attention. I want to create work that reflects who I am, what I value, and what I have learned along the way.
At its heart, that is what Still Human has always been about.
Not perfection.
Not popularity.
Not performance.
Simply an ongoing exploration of what it means to remain compassionate, authentic, and connected in a world that often encourages us to be otherwise.
If that journey takes longer than I expected, so be it.
I am still writing.
I am still learning.
And above all else, I am still human.
Words can still move the world. Read mine → https://substack.com/@jhirwin
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