The Big Ole Smelly Elephant In The Substack Room

There it was again.

That big, fat, awkward elephant sitting right in the middle of the digital room—its scent unmistakable, its presence undeniable. Everyone typing, tweeting, threading, posting, podcasting, and publishing, pretending it isn’t there.

But it is.

And it stinks.

The Big Ole Smelly Elephant in the Substack Room is simple: everyone’s writing, but no one’s really reading.

Let that sit with you for a moment.

We came to Substack with dreams—some humble, some wild. We believed we’d build a “community.” We envisioned engaged readers, clapping silently behind their screens, eager for our next post. We imagined the email notification with our name sparking joy. We saw dollar signs. Subscriptions. Recognition. Validation.

Instead, we got something else.

A beautiful platform, yes. A simple, elegant place to write. But also a digital echo chamber where writers write for other writers—while pretending they’re writing for “an audience.”

And that’s the elephant.

The illusion of audience.

We say we write for readers.

But most of us write for… each other.

Writers writing to impress other writers who are also writing to impress other writers. A swirling cyclone of cleverness, craft, and critique—where genuine readers (non-writers) are mythical unicorns we rarely see.

Let’s be honest. Have you ever read a piece, liked it, left a comment, and secretly hoped the writer would return the favor? That’s not bad. It’s human. But it’s also telling.

Substack is full of brilliant voices. Thoughtful minds. People baring souls, exposing truths, peeling back layers that took years to build. And yet… we can’t help but wonder:

Is anyone actually reading this? Like, really reading?

We look at open rates. We analyze likes. We read comments that sometimes feel more obligatory than organic.

We start to ask: Is this sustainable? Is it worth it?

The elephant grunts. We ignore it.

But here’s the thing.

Even though the elephant is real—so is the magic.

I’ve read things on Substack that have shaken me. Essays that cracked open a piece of my heart I didn’t know was locked. Letters that felt like they were written just for me, even though the writer didn’t know I existed. And yes, I've received kind, authentic comments from total strangers who were moved by something I wrote.

That’s the other truth. The quiet one.

Yes, most of us are writers writing for writers—but among us are readers who care. Not thousands, maybe not even hundreds, but a handful. And sometimes, that handful is enough.

There’s something beautiful about that too.

Maybe success here isn’t about going viral or hitting 10,000 subscribers. Maybe it’s about impact. Maybe it’s about writing the truth no one else dares to say—even if only 12 people read it. Because if even one of those people feels seen, heard, changed—that’s a kind of success we don’t talk about enough.

But to reach that point, we have to stop pretending. We have to call out the elephant.

We have to be okay with the fact that growth is slow. That platforms don’t owe us audiences. That writing is hard. That being seen is even harder. And that sometimes, the loudest noise isn’t applause—it’s silence.

And still, we write.

Because in that silence, sometimes a whisper rises. A connection. A message. A thank-you from someone across the world who says, “This helped me.”

And in that moment, the elephant gets a little smaller.

A little less smelly.

A little less powerful.

So, if you're feeling discouraged, unseen, tired of shouting into the digital void—know this:

You’re not alone.

The elephant is real.

But so is your voice.

Write anyway.

Not for claps.

Not for coins.

Not for comments.

Write because your truth matters.

And someone, somewhere, is waiting to hear it—even if they don’t know it yet.