You Don’t Have to Keep Proving It

In June 2025, my Medium earnings exploded. I’d been averaging about $14 a month for more than a year, and then suddenly three of my essays were boosted. The total for the month came to $213.76.

For a few weeks, I let myself believe that $213.76 signaled my arrival as a “real author” on Medium. I pictured steady growth, new followers, and maybe even an audience that multiplied beyond the small circle of readers who have encouraged me from the beginning, mostly my dad and my closest aunt. Every morning I opened my stats page to see how far the numbers had climbed overnight. The line graph looked like proof that all those early mornings writing before work were worth it.

By September, my monthly earnings were $8.79. July and August were hardly better.

I laughed at myself for the June behavior. I loved that feeling of seeing how many people had read my articles that month. In all, one article topped 35,000 “presentations.” But I laughed because I understood that the rush of June was a mirage created by the ‘boosting’ system at Medium. The work hadn’t changed, and neither had I, really. Only the numbers had shifted.

For me, writing has never really been about the money. The idea of getting paid for something I love has always felt like a bonus, not the goal. Though I do like measuring how many trips to Del Taco I can make in a month on my Medium earnings (usually less than one).

There it was, though. That external validation that I’ve craved most of my professional career. Now, it had crept into something deeply personal—my writing. The old story started to ring in my ears that my worth can be measured in metrics. It is a story I’ve told myself in many forms: revenue, grades, applause, likes.

But when the numbers dropped, the writing didn’t stop. In the past eight months, I’ve written more than 140 essays. Most have been read by only a handful of people. I used to worry that meant I was failing to reach an audience. Now I see it differently. Writing has become the way I make sense of myself. It has turned from a performance into a practice.

Every time I put words on a page, I learn to listen a little better—to my thoughts, to my patterns, and to the voice that no longer needs permission to exist. I still feel a flicker of hope when an article does well, but it doesn’t carry the same weight or importance. The work itself has become the reward.

I’m grateful for every reader and for every small connection made across a screen. But I’ve stopped checking to see if the numbers prove anything. They don’t.

I’m learning that showing up is enough. That meaning doesn’t depend on recognition. That creation itself is its own arrival.

And that is enough.