On Receiving

Three months in

It’s been three months since I published my first post on Substack, on February 24.

I came here planning to move slowly. I think I have.

Within that first month, more people found their way here than I ever expected. And strangely, I didn’t quite know how to feel about that.

I couldn’t celebrate it the way I thought I would.

Maybe because numbers feel fragile to me.

Maybe because I know how easy it is to get caught inside them—to start measuring things that were never meant to be measured.

I’ve never shared subscriber counts publicly.

Early on, I made the decision to unsubscribe from everyone here—even writers I genuinely loved reading.

I know that may have felt sudden. If that hurt anyone, I’m truly sorry.

But I wanted to be completely fair to everyone.

I wanted to actively show, through my profile, that I am not here to play the game of “sub for sub.”

That is why, I intentionally only subscribe to Substack’s official publications.

It is a quiet boundary I’ve set.

I know this might sometimes seem unkind, and in fact, some people did choose to unsubscribe because of it.

So I wouldn’t recommend this path to anyone else.

It is simply my own way of being.

I wanted whatever gathered here to feel entirely real.

And to those who stayed anyway—thank you.

To those who kept showing up.

Reading.

Writing.

Leaving thoughtful comments.

Continuing the connection without needing that social structure in return.

I’m deeply grateful.

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I rarely restack. I rarely tag people.

As a side note, if your goal is to grow your numbers or get your work restacked as much as possible, I wouldn’t recommend this approach either.

I often see writers restacking each other’s work to build momentum, and perhaps there is a certain beauty in that kind of support.

But again, it is simply not my way of being.

And yet, there is one thing I’ve been holding close to my heart.

At some point down the road, I would love to share and introduce some of the dear friends I’ve exchanged deep, meaningful words with over the months.

I used to do this on note, a Japanese platform as well.

To me, the people who bring true connection into my life are the essential characters who color and shape this journey.

When the time is right, I want to honor them here.

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People come.

People go.

Sometimes that’s all it is.

Sometimes a season ends.

Sometimes a connection simply reaches its natural end.

When someone I barely interacted with leaves, I usually don’t feel much.

But when there was even a small connection, of course there can be sadness.

I think that’s normal.

Maybe part of being here is learning how to hold both things at once—

connection,

and letting go.

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There’s one thing I care about deeply.

If someone takes the time to leave me a sincere comment, I want to answer with sincerity too.

Even if I’m not subscribed, I still visit the pages of people I feel connected to.

Sometimes I leave a comment.

Sometimes I only leave a like.

Not because I have nothing to say.

Sometimes it’s the opposite.

Sometimes I feel too much to say it in one sentence.

I don’t know how far I can take this in the future. But in my heart, I know I have handled every single connection with care.

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I want to make a living as an artist.

That still feels very far away from where I’m standing.

Maybe it is.

But I also know there’s no point rushing toward something that asks for patience.

If I lose myself trying to get there, then I lose the whole reason I started.

So I keep returning to the work itself.

To writing.

To creating.

To protecting whatever feels most alive in me.

At this three-month mark, I decided to allow myself something small.

I set up Buy Me a Coffee.

Paid subscriptions on Substack can feel like a big commitment.

I know that feeling well.

Years ago on note, a Japanese platform, there was a tipping feature I used often.

I loved it.

I still remember how moved I felt the first time someone sent me a tip.

After that, I started sending them too—to writing that moved me, and to friends I wanted to support. Before I knew it, I had given hundreds of dollars just in tips. Seeing them happy was what brought me the greatest joy.

It felt less like payment, and more like buying each other coffee across distance.

Once, someone wrote to me:

“I just finished work, and I’m drinking this coffee while thinking of you.”

I still remember that.

We were far apart.

And somehow, we were together for a moment.

By the end, more money came back to me there than I had ever sent out.

And this might sound strange, but when I eventually left note, I closed my account leaving a significant amount of money behind….

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Money can bring up complicated feelings.

It does for me too.

Part of me didn’t want to seem greedy.

Part of me wasn’t sure if I was someone who was allowed to receive.

To be honest, I’ve always been terrible at receiving.

I used to feel much more comfortable being the giver.

Sometimes too comfortable.

Sometimes to the point of over-extending myself and giving too much of my energy away to others.

Maybe that’s exactly why I needed to say yes this time.

To practice receiving.

To practice allowing support.

To practice saying thank you—and letting that be enough.

And here on Substack, I hope to do the same again. When the time comes, I’d love to pass some of what I receive along to someone else’s Buy Me a Coffee, keeping this beautiful circle moving.

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In less than a week, I’ll be leaving Japan for a new journey.

Originally it was supposed to be three weeks.

I had to shorten it to two.

Truthfully, I am not really in a position to be traveling right now, and I spent so much time agonizing over whether I should even go.

But I’ve finally finished booking the hotels.

For a while, I thought about staying in hostels to save money.

But a close friend worried.

And somewhere in that worry, I remembered that my choices aren’t only about me.

They’re also about not making the people I love carry more worry than they need to.

So I booked the hotels.

Partly for myself.

Partly for them.

This trip feels like an experiment in many ways.

I hope the stories that come from it might become part of my work one day.

Maybe even part of how I make a living.

I don’t know yet.

But I’m willing to find out.

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Every cup of coffee you share with me will do much more than simply make this journey easier—it quiets some of the anxiety in my heart, and gives me energy to keep capturing photographs, filming moments, and writing the stories as they unfold.

And if you feel moved to send a coffee along—

please know it means more than you might think.

Thank you. Truly.

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Buy me a coffee