Consistency Is Ruining My Life
After 18 months straight, I’m not publishing weekly essays anymore.
Most days, I’m somewhere between deleting myself from the internet entirely and knowing I’ll show up again tomorrow. After all, consistency works.
The algorithm whisperers love to preach consistency, but skip right past the law of diminishing returns. Turns out, talking about it isn’t very profitable because it means doing less, not more. But putting in more reps is how I solve most things. It’s a game of skill acquisition, and it’s even saved my life more than once. That said, right now, publishing online as consistently as I do fits squarely in the diminishing returns camp.
But, like a lot of stubborn men, I suck at knowing when to quit.
Men don’t know when to quit because they’re told not to.
Most men, myself included, wrongfully assume masculinity and capability are supposed to go hand in hand. This is problematic for many reasons, but here it means:
Self-doubt and masculinity are at odds.
To doubt your capability is to admit your weakness.
Admitting weakness gets framed as emasculating, so men try to use control as proof of capability.
It isn’t.
Human behavior doesn’t have a gender, but I’m using masculinity here to call out the stereotype. Being capable isn’t about being able to control what happens. Capability comes from being able to respond when things happen. Particularly, when we fellas face self-doubt. Because those of us who identify as male aren’t very good at it.
67% of men hate admitting they’re wrong.
11% of women hate admitting they’re wrong.
Working through self-doubt doesn’t mean ignoring feedback.
I was talking to someone from my inner circle this week who shared concern for the volume of writing I produce. I get it, it adds up. I publish a blog for my daily email series; a Substack note each day; a weekly essay; a podcast episode every week, plus a companion essay to go with it.
They explained their worry was two-fold:
they don’t want me to burn out or take on unnecessary pressure.
they struggle to keep up with my content, as someone who loves me.
How lucky am I to have people in my life who care about me enough to be honest?? I’m serious. At first, I admit I felt defensive—but that’s actually the part I can’t stop thinking about.
When I started publishing online after years of silence, I didn’t expect too much consistency to be my downfall.
I’m embarrassed to confess I was scared to get sober because of Friends, the hit sitcom from the 90s. The irony of it being the “coffee shop show” isn’t lost on me. But there’s one episode in particular that sticks out. It’s the one where the love interest of a main character gets confronted about his drinking. That’s not why it sticks out, though I think checking in with people you care about is a good thing. Where I cringe is the way things unfold after stops. Just like that, “Fun” Bobby wasn’t so fun anymore. In fact, he was kind of a bummer to be around.
Now, four years sober, I’m still afraid of being not-so-fun Bobby. It even came up for me this week. I was leaving a coffee shop, headed for the door at the same time as someone else. So I did one of those awkward stutter-steps. He did too. Polite chuckles followed. Which led to a compromise: I let him go ahead of me, and he did the thing where you hold the door and take a performative half-bow. You know the one… it says “I’m obligated to do this, but trying to be nice about it.”
I said thanks, but couldn’t help noticing the gesture didn’t really fit him. He looked... glum? Anhedonic? We’d just met—if you can call it that—so who knows the kind of day he was having. But he reminded me of not-so-fun Bobby from that Friends episode. And the part that really freaked me out was when he spun away from the door and into the rain outside. That’s when I noticed his backpack—one of those roll-top ones with a cinch functional enough for adventure, but sleek enough for work. The website probably says almost exactly that… but, anyway, it looked cool. Colorful blue webbing clipped the bundle to itself, not unlike how mine did.
He could’ve been me.
“Hey, I like your bag” I called out. Turning abruptly to face me, he broke out in a wide grin. He thanked me, without obligation, before walking away a little brighter. I’ve been carrying that interaction with me since.
Knowing when to quit isn’t always clear.
I’m worried the routines, boundaries, and consistency I’ve built into my life have turned me into not-so-fun Bobby. Sure, I love writing, but I’m ready to admit the time I spend on it is coming at a cost.
It’s making me consider restructuring my whole production schedule. Or even the distribution mechanism. Because I effectively maintain three mediums through one channel: email. This is largely because I want to avoid a social media presence and find email the best fit for my own needs. But maybe it isn’t for everyone else?
I could be wrong. And maybe those close to me can see what I can’t.
Masculine tropes tell us to dig in, to endure, and to work harder.
Listen, I’m as shocked as anyone by this predicament where consistency is my downfall. But you have to find ways to be objective about the self-doubt behind your need to be consistent.
I’ve been operating with consistency as my north star, and quality as a close second for a long time. My mistake was thinking one takes care of the other. And it does—just not the way I’m currently doing it. Which is why this person from my inner circle suggested flipping those. What if I didn’t publish weekly essays? Or weekly podcasts? What if they were monthly instead?
It would create a bi-weekly publishing schedule. And then I could still post my shorter, daily BUDS emails for me (and anyone who’s interested).
Volume ≠ consistency.
I keep chasing volume because it feels like proof, like evidence of consistency. Proof that I’m capable. What you repeat gets refined. It will grow and you’ll improve. Doing more works when the goal is to stack progress over time, which we understand thanks to compounding interest.
My ability to keep showing up consistently, and publishing at a high volume, is how my ego tells my self-doubt it’s wrong. It helps me feel like I’m not wasting my time. Publishing frequently, as I have been, feels like forcing my skills to improve. Which seems like a good thing—then, my dedication can’t be the problem behind growth or resonance, right?
The story I tell myself is that my volume gets me closer to my writing goals. But I forgot about those damn diminishing returns. Volume gave me the illusion of control. Which, yes, helped me feel more secure, but also put me back into trying to control what happens instead of responding when things happen. So, all I’ve really been doing is trying to bury my self-doubt.
This is me facing it.
Consistency doesn’t require volume—fear got the best of me.
Letting go of control can help you reconnect with life and the people in it.
As you can tell, I’m thinking a lot about self-doubt lately. It really bubbled up this weekend when attending something called the “Art Hop”, an annual block-party-style open house in the arts district. It’s really cool—meet and greets with local artists in their studios, food trucks, live music. I was filled with a sense of belonging. “These are my people” I kept telling myself, as if to keep not-so-fun Bobby at bay.
I’m usually the first to get overstimulated by crowds, but apparently not there. Even so, I wrestled with feeling like an outsider. Somewhere in my brain, I still see myself as a high school jock who the art crowd surely detests. The irony of all ironies is that I’ve always felt like an artist, even when I used to masquerade as a jock to fit in. Whoops.
Perusing the displays, someone asked me if any of them were mine, to which I responded that, “no I’m a writer...” So, naturally, they followed up by asking what I write. And that’s where my brain malfunctioned. What kind of writer am I? As I always do, I tried to describe myself in ways that might be easily digested.
More self-doubt.
While strolling through the studios, I dreamt of having one of my own. But what would I make? I can’t draw, paint, sculpt, or craft. I can kind of get by as a photographer, but I’m not all that passionate about it. I used to bring my camera along with me on outdoor trips so I’d have something to go with whatever I wrote about the experience. Because, again, I’m a writer, not an artist. Right?
Still, I loved being there. I started thinking about ways to align myself more with the arts community; much like I’d done with the world of outdoor sports at first. I imagined a plan coming together. Maybe I could interview these local artists and tell their stories? I could seek out deep conversations with them to publish as podcast episodes and essays. “That’s something I’m good at” I thought. Surely, I could become part of the art community that way... but that’s where I caught myself.
I always look for ways to be part of a group by getting close to the thing and the people who do it. Which is why my mind immediately went to sharing about artists in the community and how they express themselves. Which would mean proximity, but wouldn’t actually make me one of them. “It’d let me work on consistency to improve my craft, though…”
But what if being myself was enough?
Instead of gathering reasons for why I wasn’t an artist, I challenged myself to flip it around. Then I went a step further, because that sort of felt like gathering evidence to prove myself instead of being enough as-is. So I opted for embracing this thought: what if I became a writer with a studio in the arts district for no other reason than because I wanted to?
We often get in our own way.
I was back at the coffee shop where I’d run into not-so-fun Bobby today. Sitting at a table by the back wall, I let my mind race. It’s been doing that all week, which is why I’d gone there—to search for clarity.
Sipping my coffee, something clicked… writing is what I’d do whether it paid or not. It’s not all that surprising, but the conviction felt good. The problem is that chasing volume to silence self-doubt puts quality behind consistency. And I don’t want that to be the case anymore. So, that means dialing back the volume a bit. Slowing down, but not stopping.
I’m not publishing weekly anymore.
Going forward, I’m publishing:
One daily snippet on my website.
One weekly email with those snippets all in one place.
One monthly essay, podcast, and bonus essay here on Substack.
More breathing room for your inbox.
More writing room for me.
onward.
P.S. If you’re new to my work, I think you’d also enjoy my blog. That’s where you’ll find everything I publish, including my daily email series.
When it comes to slowing down without stopping, writers recognize the value of intention and focus over sheer output. The key is to manage your creative energy and find a sustainable rhythm.
Interesting that you conflated consistency with volume.
Also struck by the expectation that subscribers might be overwhelmed.
Because I come at writing from a more functional marketing perspective, I've never thought everyone would read everything. Which is depressing yet liberating.
Interesting and a great read as always and yet another reminder that there is no one right way to do this; there's only a right way for you (and me and that dude over there and that chick outside) to do this.