#100: It’s major milestone time.

Reaching triple digits hasn’t changed me. You have.

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“If your writing disappeared, would it matter?”

David Hieatt — co-founder of the Do Lectures and online writing guru — rhetorically asked this question in one of his weekly newsletters.

And it stuck with me. As a prior corporate wonk, I care more about impact than intention. Anyone can convince themselves we’re making a difference, but unless we’re actually moving the needle, we’re just giving ourselves premature pats on the back.

Sure, I have enough passion for changing the conversation about loss to launch a rocket into stable orbit, but am I channeling it in the most effective way? Is my work leaving a mark?

And then Substack had a snafu.

Normally, we upload the voiceover, schedule the post for its Saturday 6am US Eastern time drop, then go on our merry way. But Substack was giving us a hassle and the post got stuck in limbo.  

By the time we pried it loose, it was 11:44am Eastern Standard Time.

There are a subset of TL readers I like to call the 6am club. They walk their dogs, set their coffee makers, and read that week’s post before much of America has even opened their eyes. But on that Saturday, they got nothing.

(And neither did you, my friends in Europe, South Africa and the Middle East! I haven’t forgotten about you!)

Before I even got out of bed, I started getting texts. Emails. Notes of concern.

“Is something wrong with Substack?”

”Did you skip a post this week?”

”Are you ok?” 

Leona and I rushed to get it published, and by 4pm we were amazed by the response — 657 people had read the delayed post.

You, dear readers, answered Hieatt’s question for me, with a resounding, humbling, elating YES.

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Writing 100 posts, 100 weeks in a row, changes a person…

In ways I didn’t see coming.

We imagine writers sitting at their computer, tapping away because they just can’t not. The main relationship that drives their work is their passion for their ideas, their craft, their expression… right?

We’re all just tortured and glamorous.

Wrong. It’s our readers. Writing is communication. And communication is a collaborative act. If I wasn’t reading comments, emails, and texts from all of you regularly — learning which posts really resonated with you, how TL has changed your outlook, ideas you now have yourself — I wouldn’t be here.

So instead of sharing how writing has changed me, I want to talk about how YOU have changed me, dear reader.

You’ve helped me strengthen the muscle of patience.
While I fancy myself a rapid and decisive decider, I’m frequently just… rash. Too quick to hit the button, make the call, buy the new pair of reading glasses that I end up returning later. But I can’t do that with TL.

Honing a good idea for public consumption takes time. Putting a post together involves a series of voice notes, underlined book pages, cut-out newspaper articles, scribbles on post-it notes, marked up outlines, rough drafts, and oceans of deleted words. I kept thinking I was going to get better, faster, more efficient at all this. Nope.

But I’ve paradoxically discovered the joy of slowing down.

Of watching each post unfold in its own way, in its own time. Of knowing I put everything I had into it, because it’s not just about me. You’re on the other side.

You’ve made this bigger than me.
As we’ve said in a prior post, I’m a streak girl. But delivering a TL post every week is more than putting a big red ‘X’ through each Saturday on an imaginary calendar. It’s the real feeling that you are out there, you are reading, and that you give a damn.

How could I not respond to that with a commitment to deliver? You depend on me, even if it’s just for a laugh. And I thrive on being depended upon. I guess it’s another way of feeling that I matter and the work I’m doing is making a difference.

I don’t feel like I’m on some solo mission. We are in this together.

Even Solo had a team.

You’ve inspired me to be even more ME.
Writing to all of you is much more than just reporting back all my amazing ideas and discoveries. It is daily motivation to look within even though sometimes I really don’t want to, to challenge my outdated ways of thinking, and live life a little bit more fully and unapologetically than I did the day before.

In other words, it's a positive feedback loop. Having this platform to share ideas for better living helps ME live better.  

You’ve also allowed me to be my goofy, quirky, nerdy self. You allow me to quote Rilke and Captain Kirk all in the same post. You allow me to laugh at myself and my cowbell fears. You’ve been with me through it all — job change, empty-nest initiation, death-iversaries — cheering as I figure out what it all means, and how to move ahead with strength and grace. 

You’ve helped me become what I dreamed of being.
One hundred posts ago, I was a corporate wonk with big ideas on how to change the conversation around loss in our culture. But now? Now, I’m a writer, with thousands of words under my belt. 

Yes, I talk about getting the most of out life every dang week, but taking my own advice when it came to sharing my writing was intimidating. Starting to publish on Substack felt like standing up in a room full of strangers and boldly declaring, “I have something worth reading! No, I don’t have a degree or really much experience in this craft… but trust me. It’ll be good!”

One hundred posts later, I now introduce myself to strangers as a writer. I learned a new craft while literally, simultaneously retiring… Because you showed up every week. I let you and your commitment carry me forward.

One week at a time, I stuck my neck out and gave this writing thing a whirl. Corporate wonk, logical-to-a-fault, not-an-artistic-bone-in-her-body Sue Deagle became a creative!

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I never would have thought that publishing on the internet would help me feel closer to the human race.

And yet…

Even though many of you will never comment or even ‘like’ a post, you’re here — showing up to read and think about a topic that most would love to ignore.

It’s an act of both courage and surrender to face our mortality.

And it’s an act of humanity to do it together. To sit around the proverbial fire and share insights, embarrassing stories, heartbreak.

I didn’t know that my life was missing this until this community blossomed into existence.

Thanks to you, I know a level of purpose and fulfillment I had not imagined was possible. This newsletter started because I wanted to share my journey through loss… I had no idea that my newsletter readers would teach me so much about making the most out of life.

Thanks from the bottom of my heart.

Here’s to the next 100 posts… and beyond. Books, videos, editorials. Let’s see what unfolds ;).

Headed out on another adventure!

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