The Growth Plan and the Panic.

I’ve been writing for a while, but this year I started taking it seriously. I mapped out a vision. I showed up more. I started building something that mattered to me.

From a handful of subscribers to now hundreds across platforms, the numbers are moving. It should feel like momentum—and it does. But along with it comes a quiet panic I wasn’t expecting: Is my content good enough? Am I good enough?

I don’t want to change who I am to chase growth. But I also don’t want to play small out of fear. I want to grow and bring people along for the ride. I want the process to feel electric, like something worth paying attention to—not just for me, but for anyone watching from the sidelines wondering if they’re ready to take their own shot.

That’s where things start to get complicated.

I’ve been moving with instinct so far—writing when something lights me up, riding the momentum of a thought or emotion that won’t let go. That immediacy has carried me through the first quarter of the year. It’s part of my magic, I think. When I write from that place, it feels honest. It flows. People respond to it.

But now that I’m trying to plan ahead—to grow with more intention—I worry I’ll lose that spark. What if planning stifles the flow? What if I write a “smart” piece that misses the moment entirely? What if I build a content calendar full of technically solid posts that lack soul?

This fear isn’t just about structure. It’s also about skill.

Because, technically? I don’t feel all that sharp. I second-guess my wording. I wonder if my ideas are original enough. I worry I’m too slow to catch the trends, too out of step to really break through. Some days, all I can see are my shortcomings. All the things I don’t know. All the ways I fall short of the writers I admire.

And yes—I get jealous. There, I said it.

I scroll through other writers’ work and feel that twinge. Their stories are so cool. So insightful. So well-formed and stylish and clever. It’s not that I don’t want them to win. I do. But I also want that feeling for myself—that feeling of knowing you’ve landed on something that works, that hits.

When I sit with all of that—the fear, the doubt, the comparison—it’s easy to feel stuck. To feel like maybe I’ve already hit my ceiling. Maybe I got lucky, rode a wave, and now the real work begins and I’m not equipped for it.

But I don’t want to let that be the story.

Because even with all that fear, I keep writing. Even when the panic shows up, I keep showing up. That has to mean something. Maybe it means I’m still in it. Still hungry. Still hopeful.

I think about the kind of creator I want to be: someone who’s honest about the process, not just the wins. Someone who grows without performing perfection. Someone who makes others feel like they can do it too.

That’s what I’m chasing—not just growth for the sake of numbers, but growth that feels true. That’s harder to measure, but more meaningful in the long run.

So here I am—with a plan in one hand and panic in the other. Trying to make space for both. Trying to trust that the fear is not a stop sign, but a signal I’m moving into something new. Something that matters.

If you’re reading this and you’ve felt the same way—just know you’re not alone. We’re all out here trying to make something honest, hoping it lands. And sometimes the bravest thing we can do is to keep going, even when we’re not sure we’re “clever enough.”

Here’s to growing anyway.