Where Are the Stories for the Rest of Us?

Why culture forgets us once we’re past our “prime," and why we’re not done yet

Earlier, I was scrolling through our extensive list of beloved movies to find something to put on in the background while I wrote today. A very specific thought popped into my head (and not for the first time). Maybe it's popped into yours before, as well, especially if you're old enough to have ever felt old a time or two before.

Have you ever noticed how almost every big, beautiful, culture-defining story seems to revolve around someone under the age of 30?

Books, movies, myths, quests, revolutions, coming-of-age dramas, mind-bending sci-fi, even the weird cult classics we pass around like secret candy – all starring people in their teens or twenties. Sometimes very early twenties. Occasionally, you might stumble across a “grizzled” 35-year-old, which is code for "already spiritually retired."

And I get it. Youth makes for juicy storytelling. It’s a time of life that's alive with epic firsts. First love. First heartbreak. First existential crisis. First realization that your parents don’t actually know what they’re doing. First world-class fuck-up. There's intensity, discovery, and mistakes with consequences. It's all very cinematic.

But as someone who's solidly not in her twenties anymore, I’ve found myself wondering more and more often:

What happens to the rest of us?

Do we just... fade into the background? Is it truly our job now to become quirky supporting characters or stoic mentors? Are we no longer allowed to burn things down and start over? Make epically bad decisions? Discover something about ourselves so transformative that it sends us into a new chapter of life?

Or do amazing things like that only happen when your skin still has collagen and your student loan grace period hasn’t ended yet?

Things I'm Not Saying Anywhere Else: A Brain Dump

These days, I share a lot of myself in writing across different spaces – particularly Quora, Substack, and Medium. But some thoughts don’t really fit anywhere official. They’re too quiet, too in-progress, too unresolved, but they're not necessarily private journal thoughts, either. 

So this time around, I’m giving myself permission to play emo writer and putting them here – my little, old Blogger blog that almost no one reads. Not because I have a point to make, but because I needed a space to breathe.

........

Lately, I’ve been craving spaces where I don’t have to be useful but still feel like I can share if I want to. Where I’m not writing to explain something, solve something, or potentially earn anything. Just spaces where I can be a person. Quietly. 

That feels more radical than it should. I suppose that's something for me to think about further when I've got a minute to navel-gaze freely.

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I’ve been noticing how often I brace myself for disappointment, even when no one’s let me down yet. There’s a scar in me that expects abandonment and another one that whispers I deserve it, so if it does happen, I'm not even surprised. 

I don’t believe what those scars tell me about myself anymore. But some days, they still echo. Loudly, on occasion.

On that note, I've decided to put a pin in therapy for now after my therapist pulled a no-show last week, as well as didn't bother to communicate afterward. 

One of the bigger, more pervasive issues in my life is people who don't treat me like a priority and show up for me the way that they should. For that reason, I really, really need my therapist to be reliable and communicative if I'm going to actually have one. 

........

Sometimes I think the quietest parts of me are the ones that hold the most truth. The parts that don’t want to perform, don’t want to teach, don’t want to be good. These aspects of who I am just want to exist, without apology or polish. I'm getting better at letting them.

There’s something sacred about writing things that aren’t meant for anyone but me. No optimization. No growth strategy. Just a timestamp on a mood, so I can remember who I was for a moment.

I should consider doing this again sometime. 

What I’ve Learned From Blogging Every Week (Even When I Didn’t Feel Like It)

You know those writers who always seem to have their act together? (Of course, you do.)

They’re cranking out newsletters every week, dropping blog posts like clockwork, and somehow still finding time to live aesthetic Insta-worthy lives full of matcha lattes and annotated novels. I used to assume those people had some secret I didn’t.

At this point, I fully realize they don’t. And neither do I.

But I have been blogging weekly for a while now, and I’ve learned a few things along the way. Some of them surprised me. Most of them made me realize that consistency isn’t about inspiration, productivity hacks, or being in the mood. It’s about building something quietly over time and trusting that the process is worth it, even when the words don’t feel like anything much in the moment.

Here are a few notes on what I've learned so far.

You Don't Have to Be Inspired to Write Something Good

If this were a requirement, I'd be screwed, because I don’t always feel like writing.

Sometimes I’m tired. Sometimes my brain is loud and completely overstuffed with concerns about other people’s needs. Sometimes I open the blank post window and just… stare for no good reason. And yet, some of my favorite pieces – especially the ones people have reached out about and the ones I’ve looked back on with real pride over the years – were written on days like that.

Inspiration is awesome when it actually happens. But thankfully, it’s not required.

I’ve learned that writing is a bit like lighting a candle in a dark room. You don’t wait for the room to light itself. You make the decision to show up one day with a match. And more often than not, something catches, even if it’s just a warm little flicker at first.

Readers Value Your Voice More Than You Think

There have been weeks when I almost didn’t publish anything. I’d write something, read it back, and think, “Is this even worth posting? Does this say anything that matters, and is anyone actually going to notice or care?” But I’d hit publish anyway. Sometimes, I'd even have someone message me to say it resonated. 

Readers connect with your voice, your honesty, and your rhythm. And when you show up consistently, even in small ways, people start to trust that voice, even if they don't always step out of the shadows and say so explicitly. You become part of their week. And they become part of yours.

How I Make Time for the Work That Actually Matters

Tips for creatives trying to balance paid work with soul work

Like a lot of working writers, I spend a good chunk of my time writing about things I don't particularly care about. Pest control, crypto platforms, debt relief programs, hot dog buns, you name it. If it pays, I'll probably at least try to write it, and most days, I do.

But the writing that actually feeds me? The spiritual essays. The longform explorations of self. The storytelling that lets me really dig into topics I care about. The visual art that sparks something I'm proud to share with others, even if they don't "get it," per se. That’s what I've always had to fight to make time for, often failing miserably.

And if you're anything like me, you might be in a similar boat.

The work I genuinely love doing isn’t always profitable or even productive. It's definitely not urgent by society's definition. But I've realized over the years that it’s what makes me feel like I have a reason for being here. It’s the work that reflects who I actually am, not just what I can do or how I can potentially serve the rest of society.

I think of it as my Eight of Cups work. The cups that may not look as impressive or stable as the ones I’ve walked away from, but that I actually feel excited about drinking from. (Sometimes, there's even sparkling Chardonnay or cold lemonade in there. Yum!)

And lately? I've actually been consistently showing up for that work without shirking my obligations to my clients or ghosting the bills I still need to pay.

Accepting the Reality of Your Energy

A huge turning point for me was accepting that I don’t have infinite energy, especially as I get older. That I’m not going to walk away from a jam-packed day of ghostwriting articles for clients and then bang out a spiritual essay, design a new T-shirt, or rewrite the ending to my latest short story.

That used to frustrate me. But these days, I plan around it.

Instead of trying to force myself into some rigid daily content grind, I finally seem to have learned to build my creative routine around my natural rhythms. For example, I write my best essays and newsletter posts on weekdays when I first get up. 

I know I have a much smaller window of usable energy on weeknights, but also that those windows are perfectly suitable for banging out product descriptions or marketing blogs for clients. (There's also no way I'll ghost a client deadline, even if I'm tired, while I definitely might if it's just something I planned on writing for myself.)

"I'm Broke, But Can You Make Me a Masterpiece?"

Why custom art isn’t free just because the tools got faster

So, let me paint you a picture.

You’re an artist, illustrator, or other visual content creator who’s incorporated AI into your workflow at some point. One day, you open up Facebook, Instagram, TicketyTok, or wherever it is you go online when you feel like sharing some of your renders.

There’s a message request waiting there for you.

Maybe it’s from someone you know in passing. Could be from someone you’ve never met who stumbled across something you made at random. Either way, they’re reaching out in search of custom artwork for a CD cover, a tattoo design, or maybe just a gift for a friend.

And while they admit they’re broke and don’t have a lot of money to throw around, they’re hoping that maybe — just maybe — you can help them out. Cheaply.

Cue the sigh. Cue the eye rub. Cue the immediate inner monologue of, “Do I even have the bandwidth for this? Because I know how this usually goes…”

Spoiler: It goes like this more often than not. And yet… I might still say yes.

Let’s talk about it.

The Opening Line Every Artist Knows by Heart

“I don’t have much money, but…”

I have heard this exact sentence — verbatim — dozens upon dozens of times over the years. It’s basically the universal handshake of freelance digital artists, especially those of us who dabble in AI or otherwise use digital tools to bring our visions to life.

It’s never malicious. It’s not even always entitled. A lot of the time, it’s just how people are used to opening the door. They lead with scarcity, with apology, and with the hope that you’ll either:

• Feel bad for them and cut your rate, or…
• Be so balls-out passionate about art that you’ll do it for free because you love making art just that damn much

But here’s the thing. I do love making art. A lot. Always have and almost certainly always will. And that’s exactly why I don’t just give the things I make away for a fart and a song.