On the 27th of May, I made a decision I never thought I would:
I stopped writing online.
For two straight years, I published something on Twitter every day. The streak became a part of who I was, and in many ways became a metric for progression and a badge of honour for my discipline. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way, the joy in the process had disappeared.
If you've ever been engrossed by something you love, you know how difficult it is to think rationally. Initially, it's easy to go that extra mile. You stay up late, wake up early, and are comfortable pushing well past your comfort zone.
But soon enough, the spark fades. You feel stuck, overwhelmed, and, worst of all, burned out. Deep down, what you once enjoyed most, now simply doesn't feel right.
My philosophy has always been simple: be consistent and practice daily. No matter how you feel or what situations may arise, to get better at any activity, repetition is non-negotiable. This, in essence, is what's helped me write online as well as meditate, journal, and even learn a new language.
However, earlier this year, something changed.
I was writing out of obligation, not curiosity. Everything I wrote felt hollow, and it became more about writing to keep my streak alive rather than writing to say something that genuinely mattered. But regardless, I kept going. I pushed through and told myself it was all "part of the process".
Then one day in May, life stepped in. A series of events in my personal life hit me harder than I'd expected. The feeling I had with writing had now reached a breaking point, and I knew I couldn't continue pushing through any longer.
But stopping wasn't easy. In many ways, it felt like throwing in the towel.
What would happen to the audience I'd spent years building?
How could I let them down?
How am I going to get better if I don't publish?
The first few days were the hardest. It felt like skipping the gym after years of consistent training. But within a few weeks, something shifted.
Without the overbearing pressure to publish, the noise slowly but surely started to fade. I wasn't habitually checking social media or chasing metrics. For the first time in years, I had a sense of peace and clarity that I hadn't experienced in a very long time.
Here's the irony of it all: even though I wasn't publishing, I was writing more. Not for an audience, but for myself. I now had an abundance of time and energy to focus on what mattered most— my family, friends, and my business.
Although I couldn't see it then, stepping back taught me something I wish I'd known sooner. Creativity needs space for growth. It's not a machine. You can't keep pushing it through for the sake of systemization, efficiency, or a specific outcome.
I want you to ask yourself something:
When was the last time you asked yourself why you're doing what you're doing?
If it's been a while, remind yourself of this.
When that voice in your head says you need to continue to do XYZ to be good enough, think about what made it special to begin with.
You see, creative work is special and deeply personal. It's far less about the output and much more about the connection. And when you're in it long enough, it's easy to forget that.
So if you feel like the lines are getting blurred, take it as a sign that you need to give your work the care, attention, and space it deserves.
Because sometimes, letting go is the best way to find yourself back.