Dearest Reader,
I hope this email finds you well. I’ve missed you. I’ve thought about you.
But I’ve needed to Go Dark.
By Going Dark, I mean to slip away into the quiet, create space in my own little world, and become invisible.
I was a late adopter of social media. My two oldest kids were really small when social was blowing up and taking over. I’d seen too many moms breastfeeding their babies while scrolling their feeds and think: this is a real travesty. Not to mention terrible modeling.
No part of me wanted to jump on that wagon. To me, social media was just one massive distraction.
I signed my first literary agent for a novel I wrote back before social media really took hold in publishing. Back then, books could sell on the concept and the writing, without a whole circus of visibility.
And then, the shift came. And big.
Suddenly, everything became about how many followers you had, how visible you were on all your “socials,” how many emails you had, and could you prove that they would all buy your book?
My first agent prodded me to get online. Post. Share. Say something. Make yourself look attractive to publishers.
Damn.
Writing books had always been my dream. What was I to do?
Despite my reservations, I wasn’t willing to give up the dream. I started a few accounts. I learned the dance. I played along.
And now the requirements for visibility as a creative have intensified. It’s not one channel, it’s many.
“What about LinkedIn?”
“Have you started confessionals on TikTok?”
“Have you considered starting your own Podcast?”
Fucking hell.
Creatives are not only working to create, we’re expected to talk about it, share about it, tease it, market it, and make it sound hot before the thing even has legs! It hardly matters what you’re saying. Just that you’re saying something. Constantly.
And while I understand we are living in different times, I can’t help but feel a little uneasy about what this “always on” expectation does to the creative soul.
I believe being ON all the time deters creatives from our real work.
Part of the role of the artist is to dip beneath the surface, dive for buried treasure in dark places where most people don’t want to venture, and listen in a world where everyone is fucking talking.
That’s the only way to find gems worth coming up for air to share about.
I started hosting retreats because I was exceptionally good at Going Dark. That’s it. And I thought maybe others might like to Go Dark, too. Not because I had some wild delusions of becoming a wellness influencer. Fuck no.
I use Going Dark as a creative tool for 3 main reasons:
The fewer constraints we have on our time, energy, and availability, the more room we have for real work. When I’m unreachable, my mind can finally stay with an idea long enough to shape it. Deep work doesn’t survive constant input from the outside world.
Depth takes time. Patience. Staying with what’s uncomfortable long enough to learn something true. In a world trained to perform and polish, it’s honest depth (not oversharing, not trauma dumping) that actually feeds us. It’s what reminds us we belong to each other.
When I stop broadcasting, something subtle comes back online. Dreams. Intuition. That quiet inner messaging I can’t access when I’m always “on.” Privacy is power.
I just submitted another proposal for a new book to my agent this week. I haven’t been posting on any social channels, or writing in any other places. That proposal took everything I had.
And I’m telling you because I don’t think I’m the only one who feels the cost of constant visibility. I don’t think I’m the only one who can feel how the culture demands performance when what we actually need is presence.
Here’s to Going Dark y’all. And the treasures we find when we’re down there.
To find out more about my other writings and offerings, please see my website. xxo
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.