I Don't Count Subscribers

Everything that counts can't be measured by numbers

What does that little number beside your name on your profile actually mean to you?

As I approach another little milestone, it feels like as good a time as any to revisit a niggle I've been quietly carrying around since I got here.

This week, I've written three or four different versions of this essay. I disappeared down a rabbit hole of psychology research papers, convinced someone else must have already figured out why we attach so much meaning to numbers. Social proof. The Goldilocks effect. I kept reading, hoping one of them would explain what it all means.

They did explain some of it. Why numbers carry so much weight in our minds. Why we're so quick to use them as shortcuts when we're trying to make sense of people and places.

What they couldn't tell me was what this particular number had come to mean to me.

And this essay wasn't going to write itself. Again.

So I closed the tabs and came back to do the only thing I really know how to do.

Just being me.

So what is our subscriber number actually measuring? Success? Influence? Community? Is it all of those things? None of them? Or have we all quietly accepted that it means something without ever stopping to ask what that something actually is?

What I've realised is that it has nothing to do with my subscriber count anymore.

It's the ones who read every week. The ones who comment on every weird observation I make. The people whose names pop up and make me smile before I've even read what they've written.

I know that I'm an aunty to Nelly who I now address in the comments when talking to the twin sisters who I love, and always make me feel like home. Give her a tummy tickle from me.

I'm excited that my friend from Michigan is about to become a grandma very soon! She's read every single article I've ever written and I love you for all your support every day, every week.

There's a dream of an entire dome self sufficient community, written in an essay that was inspired by a conversation we had. I can't wait to visit! Did you know there's a place called Truth or Consequences? Of course I'd learn that from her!

I love that I could come and sit on your couch and not need to be hosted, but know I could help myself to blueberries in the fridge.

A book finally published by another friend who was one of my first subscribers here arrived by courier yesterday.

Congratulations to Dennis Dodo

That's what I care about.

I also think about you when I write. I know you've probably read a lot before you arrived at mine and there's plenty of raw , thoughtful and emotionally heavy pieces on here.

Whatever I'm writing about, I hope you leave with a chuckle, something to think about, or at the very least feeling like my words weren't one more heavy thing you had to carry today.

I also can't help writing ridiculously long comments on your essays. You know what I mean, but I can't help it! Because look at what you've shared with the world!!

You're baring your soul and knowledge all over my screen and trusting people with what matters to you. And it matters to me.

There's no way I could slap it with a heart, write, "Nice post!" and move on.

But then we get into the funniest conversations that I forget that other people will come to your essay with something thoughtful or supportive and here we are like we're cracking up in the kitchen. And I love that.

I usually read at night, when Alfie's asleep and everything's quiet. And I do that because I never want to skim through your words between doing other things. Reading someone's essay while negotiating with a toddler about socks feels disrespectful to both of you.

So I wait. And it's hard!

Especially with the time zones and seeing your notification arrive during breakfast. But I always want to be present with your work, so I'll quickly let you know I've seen it with a quick “I can't wait to read this tonight” message.

I have a shower, put my pyjamas on, grab a few snacks, and climb into bed to snuggle in with your words.

Reading you has quietly become one of my favourite little nighttime rituals.

Maybe that's why I've stopped thinking size and connection are the same thing.

Because if I'm honest, what scares me about growing isn't the number itself. It's losing this feeling of actually knowing you. Being more than profile pictures.

But then there are people who make me think maybe we don't have to choose between growth and connection

Man With No Name is one of them. He's built a vibrant community around some incredibly raw writing. What I admire most isn't just his growth, it's that he still shows up like every person matters. Regardless of whose essay he's under. You can feel how much he genuinely cares, and that gives me hope.

So I'll keep doing what I've been doing.

Every day since March the 2nd I've shown up. And honestly, that's the milestone I'm proud of.

I'm someone who gets wildly excited about new projects, convinced I've discovered my life's calling, then quietly wander off three weeks later because I've suddenly become fascinated by something else.

Not here.

I'm too fascinated by you.

And I think that's why this little number has never felt all that important to me.

If something were to happen to us tomorrow, I don't think anyone would remember the number either.

No one is going to stand up at my funeral and say,

“Kelly had nearly 200 subscribers on Substack."

What a bizarre eulogy.

The things we'd remember about each other were never the numbers.

They'd be the tangents. The comment sections that started feeling like we'd stormed into each other's lounge rooms with our blankets and snacks. The replies that somehow became more absurd with every response.

The reminders that love, hurt, humour and grief don't separate us just because oceans do.

Somehow these essays became something more than a collection of stories.

They became a vault of who I really am.

In my own words. In my own voice.

So as I get closer to 200 subscribers, I'm not celebrating the number.

I'm celebrating you in the conversations.

Your essays have made me laugh, bawl my eyes out, or sit quietly looking into the distance with a cup of tea at nine o'clock at night.

I'm celebrating everything those numbers can't measure.