- 2 days ago
Updated: 21 hours ago
Last week, a woman emailed me asking for a refund.
She had followed my writing for years on LinkedIn.
She told me she loved what I shared there.
When I launched my Substack, she became one of my first paying subscribers—
a Founding Member.
When it was time to renew last week, she wanted to cancel.
I refunded her immediately.
No convincing.
No defending.
No explaining.
I wished her well.
And then I closed my laptop.
But I couldn't stop thinking about what had just happened.
Not because of the refund.
Because of what it revealed.
At first, I thought the story of this cancelation was about platforms.
LinkedIn versus Substack.
Free versus paid.
Active subscribers versus passive readers.
But that isn't what this was about.
The platform was simply where a particular version of me lived.
This story was about me.
The version of me she missed.
Years ago, I was publishing constantly.
If you followed me on LinkedIn, you could expect a steady stream of ideas, opinions, reflections, stories, lessons, encouragement.
I wrote so often because I love writing.
I also wrote because the algorithm rewarded frequency.
The more I published, the more people saw my work.
The more people saw my work, the more followers I gained.
The more followers I gained, the more I believed I was building something meaningful.
So I kept going.
And going.
And going.
And going.
What looked like generosity often felt like depletion.
Then my book came out.
And something unexpected happened.
It didn't become the payoff I had envisioned.
At first, I experienced that as disappointment.
Today, I understand it differently.
Because if the book had rewarded the very behaviors that were depleting me—
I would have kept doing them.
If endless availability had "worked"—
I would have mistaken self-abandonment for strategy.
If constant performance had finally been validated—
I would have believed that was simply the price of success.
Instead—
Life interrupted the pattern.
And in doing so, it gave me the opportunity to ask a question I had never asked before.
What is the true cost of the way I create?
Over the past year, I've changed.
Not because of platforms.
Not because of algorithms.
Not because of subscriptions.
Because of me.
I stopped believing I needed to share an opinion about everything.
I stopped feeding an algorithm that never promised to feed me back.
I stopped measuring my worth by how frequently I appeared in someone else's feed.
I started protecting my mornings.
I started detaching myself from my business.
I started writing fewer things.
Longer things.
Truer things.
I started creating from regulation instead of urgency.
From discernment instead of obligation.
From sovereignty instead of performance.
And here's what I've learned.
Not everyone likes this version of me.
Of course they don't.
Change has a way of revealing
who benefited from the woman you used to be.
The woman who canceled her subscription wasn't actually missing my writing on LinkedIn.
She wanted the version of me that lived there.
The woman who wrote endlessly.
Who gave away everything.
Who was always available.
Who never seemed to run out of thoughts, time or energy.
The version of me who quietly absorbed the cost of everyone else's access.
I don't say that with resentment.
I don't say it as criticism.
I say it because it's true.
She preferred a version of me that no longer exists.
That version of me was incredibly generous.
She was also incredibly exhausted.
That's when another realization arrived.
One that I haven't been able to shake.
Creation always costs someone.
Always.
Every essay.
Every book.
Every home.
Every family.
Every strategy.
Every business.
Every company.
Every movement.
Every community.
Every relationship.
Every presentation.
Every performance.
Every vision that becomes reality.
We tend to reserve the word creation for artists.
But creation is much bigger than "art."
Parents create families.
Teachers create curiosity.
Lawyers create arguments.
Neighbors create community.
Entrepreneurs create businesses.
Architects create buildings.
Engineers create systems.
Leaders create cultures.
Friends create trust.
Every single one of us is creating something.
Every act of bringing an idea into existence asks something of the person who brings it to life.
Sometimes that cost is money.
Sometimes it's time.
Sometimes it's reputation.
Sometimes it's energy.
Sometimes it's attention.
Sometimes it's years of invisible labor that no one ever sees.
The question isn't whether creation has a cost.
The question is "who's paying for it?"
For a very long time—
the answer was me.
I paid with evenings.
I paid with weekends.
I paid with my marriage.
I paid with my nervous system.
I paid with my attention.
I paid with my friendships.
I paid with the constant pressure to stay relevant.
I paid with the belief that if I just kept giving enough away...
Eventually it would come back to me.
Eventually someone would notice.
Eventually I'd earn the right to slow down.
I know now how many women have been handed the same equation.
Keep giving.
Keep proving.
Keep producing.
Keep serving.
One day you'll be rewarded.
But what if the reward depends on continuing the very pattern that's consuming you?
Is that really a reward?
This is why I think we've misunderstood platforms like Substack.
People often assume a paid subscription is buying more content.
That's never been what it meant to me.
Substack isn't where I write differently.
It isn't where I promise more access.
It isn't where I hide my best work behind a paywall.
It's simply a place where people who believe in my writing can help sustain it.
There's a profound difference between paying for more
and investing in someone's ability to continue.
I don't want to write more.
I want to keep writing.
I want to keep noticing.
I want to keep asking better questions.
I want to keep creating work that helps people see themselves differently.
Those are not the same promise.
The woman who canceled her subscription thought she was paying for more of my "LinkedIn" writing.
I thought she was helping preserve the conditions that make thoughtful writing possible.
We weren't participating in the same agreement.
And once I understood that—
refunding her became easy.
Because this wasn't a disagreement.
It was a divergence.
She no longer consented to supporting this version of my work.
I no longer consent to creating the way I once did.
Both of those things can be true.
Neither of us has to be wrong.
The irony is that I don't create less because I care less.
I create less because I care more.
About my words.
About my body.
About my family.
About my attention.
About my community.
About creating something that can still exist ten years from now.
Because creation cannot survive forever
if the creator is always the one paying the bill.
For years, I believed the cost of creating was simply mine to bear.
I don't believe that anymore.
Not because I've become less generous.
Because I've become more clear.
I've stopped subsidizing everyone else's access with my own depletion.
That isn't selfish.
It's stewardship.
It's how I protect the conditions that allow meaningful work to exist.
Because the work deserves a creator who is fully present enough to create it.
And maybe that's the invitation for all of us.
Look closely at what you're creating.
A business.
A family.
A relationship.
A community.
A career.
A life.
Then ask yourself one question.
Who is paying for it?
Because creation always costs someone.
The only question is whether you're willing to let that someone keep being you.
If my writing has made you feel supported, I want to make sure I can keep doing it.
Become a paying member of the HYPE WOMEN email community here.
xoxo,
Erin
