The Painful Truth About Starting a Substack From Zero
Everyone says “Start a Substack.” No one mentions this part.
Starting feels sexy. Until it doesn’t.
I used to get a rush from beginnings. Not the to-do list kind. The life-changing, this-could-be-it kind. The tingly feeling that this time, things would be different.
When I started my Substack, that’s exactly how it felt.
Like I was standing at the edge of something big. The internet equivalent of a movie montage where I’d pour my heart out, hit publish, and boom. Subscribers would flood in, people would forward my words to their friends, and I’d finally feel like a “real” writer.
Spoiler: that didn’t happen.
I hit publish on my first post… and heard nothing. Not hate. Not applause. Just silence. You know what silence sounds like when you’ve just shared something vulnerable? Loud. Like, existentially loud.
I kept refreshing. Inbox. Dashboard. Stats. Anything that might tell me I wasn’t crazy for doing this. But the reality of a new beginning isn’t a standing ovation. It’s quiet.
Awkward. Full of hard work that no one claps for.
And suddenly, the thing that once felt brave and thrilling now felt fragile and kind of dumb. And the doubts flooded in.
Maybe I’m not ready.
Maybe I should’ve waited.
Maybe I should go back to what worked.
On Medium, I’d built a following of 21,000 readers. I could’ve stayed there, stayed “safe,” kept chasing views and validation. But I wanted to start fresh. Build something more personal. A community.
What I forgot is this: Starting from scratch doesn’t just take courage. It takes patience. And a stomach for being ignored. But somewhere between the zero likes and slow growth, something shifted.
People started to comment. Then they subscribed. Then someone replied and said, “This is exactly what I needed today.”
That’s when it hit me:
Growth doesn’t come from shouting louder. It comes from helping people.
I used to think success meant a big audience. Now I think it means the right one. People who don’t just read your words. They feel them. People who share them, not because you asked, but because they can’t help it.
That’s who I write for now.
And the beautiful thing is, once I stopped obsessing over going viral, the writing got better. Not because I was trying harder. But because I was finally saying what I wanted to say, not what I thought would get me clicks.
Eventually, I introduced paid subscriptions. I didn’t have a grand plan. Just this: I started sharing the stuff that was actually working for me. Each week, I test new ideas. Some bomb. Some quietly change everything.n I take the winners, clean them up, and send them to my paid subscribers.
Nothing fancy. Just what’s working.
Now when I sit down to write, I’m not speaking to the vast internet. I’m writing to people who are in it with me. So if you’re at the beginning right now. Staring down silence, wondering if anyone will ever care. Let me tell you this:
Keep going.
Not because “consistency is everything” or any of that motivational wallpaper. Keep going because someone out there needs what you’ve got. They just haven’t found you yet.
And when they do? They won’t care how big your audience is. They’ll care that your words made them feel less alone.
That’s the real win.
Not the numbers.
The people.
For anyone who's tired of being invisible online. This is your rescue plan. If feel lost in a sea of tips? Let me give you the map.
Derek
Thanks so much for this article. Starting is hard because there is so much to deal with and you have to keep going even though you aren't sure
The real work’s the hardest work.
It’s easy to forget that when ambition overtakes discipline. I’m writing a map out of the void by posting into it.