Awww omg thank you. That is so nice of you to do. Why are we not friends? 🤣 P.S. it’s my first day here on Bluesky

Congrats!!!

Best post I’ve seen today 😂

Genius!

Nooooo. I live in Italy 🇮🇹 but I’ll try looking for it online. TYSM! 🤩

hahaha omg I need one of those!!!🥰

love this!

So here’s the gentle truth I’m holding today—
“Working hard for something we do not care about is called stress. Working hard for something we love is called passion.” — Simon Sinek

Let’s choose passion.
Let’s choose service.
Let’s choose *us*.

Even when it’s quiet.
Especially then.

But marketing was never meant to feel like survival.
It’s not an emergency.
It was meant to feel like *service.*
Like devotion. An expression of one's passion.
Like love, dressed up in honest, sincere strategy.
Like saying, “*Here’s what I care about, does it move you too?”*

I’ve lived that life.
Refreshing the page to see notifications pop up.
Posting just to feel something.
Measuring my worth in saves and views.
Craving comments like caffeine.
It wasn't validation. Really, I wanted reassurance:

"Am I still good?"
"Am I still loved?"
"Am I still seen?"

I know they're not shallow.
But it's because they’re *scared*.

Scared they’re not enough without public praise.

You started creating because you felt you had something worth sharing to the world. Something strong and special.

Something *only you* could say.

I see it all the time.
Coaches. VAs. SMMs. OSPs. Healers. Freelancers.
Chasing numbers, not connection.

Because we didn’t start doing this for the metrics.
I started writing because words felt like home.
Because I had something honest to say.
It was like coming back to myself.

And you?

But then the coach in me spoke up: *(She's always interrupting, but I'm glad)*

“When did writing become a performance?”
“When did creating become about proving yourself?”

And that cracked my mind open.

Now?

I second guess every sentence like it’s a tax form.
If you're a small account like me, this is where you nod and whisper, “same.”

“Maybe I should stop writing altogether.
Maybe the magic’s gone.
Maybe *I’m* gone.”

Have you ever felt that quiet ache? That itch to quit before you’re rejected?

That’s what I said out loud.
The rest stayed curled up in my chest like a secret.

I remembered when my words *flew.*
Before my “quick” 1 month hiatus turned into 4 existential summers.

Back then?
500 likes. 100 comments.
Every post felt like a firework.
Effortless. Addictive.

It was an eye-opening conversation with my co-founder:
myself.

(We do that now.)

I caught myself whispering:

“I don’t want to write this next post.
What if no one cares?
What if it gets… 20 likes again?”