On why George Eliot would relate

and why this newsletter is my equivalent of standing on stage

I have never been the type of people-pleaser who just nods and agrees with everything. I’m definitely not that agreeable, and countless arguments over half-eaten family dinners are proof of that. Being the female version of your dad means that you always tell the truth even when it would’ve been wiser to shut up.

But making people uncomfortable? That’s the part I avoid like it’s the plague. Disappointing them, displeasing them, having them think I’m too dramatic or too sincere, or in this case too full of myself for writing things down and believing they are worth reading.

Which is why, even though I started this Substack in 2021, I didn’t tell anyone about it until 2025 because truth in private is easy, but truth in public is a health hazard.

People-pleasing doesn’t always look like being fake. Sometimes it just looks like withholding, like 14-year-old me who had a One Direction Twitter fan account where everyone from my school was preemptively blocked so I wouldn’t hand them another excuse to bully me. However, when Zayn left the band I didn’t hesitate twice before admitting to everyone that I had spent the whole day ugly-crying. And that’s what I call being honest but strategic.

I’ve always danced that line, saying the true thing but only when the emotional risk is low. Being honest but charming, vulnerable but likeable, thoughtful but curated. The line is so thin it’s basically imaginary; it’s a tightrope held together by overthinking and the word “lol.” Because the truth is, you can be totally transparent and still feel manipulative if you're constantly adjusting your delivery to make sure no one flinches. If you’re always asking yourself, "How can I say this without making anyone uncomfortable?" the answer is usually: you don’t.

Yet, I still rewrite texts to sound breezy and opinions to make them more digestible. This is not so much hiding your authentic self as it is putting it in a polite font. It can be very exhausting, walking around trying to be the emotional thermostat for every room. And no one’s forcing you to be that way, that’s the worst part. You’ve simply volunteered for it.

But here’s the thing: you are too much. And so is everyone else. We’re all dragging around a ball and chain built from questionable opinions and weird little spirals.

And maybe that’s exactly why I finally decided to share this Substack.

Not because I stopped being scared of what people think of me — I’m still working on that. But because I started getting tired of writing in secret like it was some emotional side hustle and pretending I am not proud of it. Of treating my thoughts like they were only safe to share if no one I knew could read them and go, “Oh. So that’s what she really thinks.”

The day I finally posted the link, I had what I can only describe as a full-body cringe. I was absolutely convinced that everyone I’d ever met — half-assed crushes, coworkers, distant family members I have never even met, that girl from primary school — would drop what they were doing and dissect every sentence like it was a group project.

But my therapist, my favorite high school psychology teacher, and ChatGPT have taught me that this is just the spotlight effect speaking. It convinces you you’re the main character in everyone’s mental tabloid and no one gives a fuck.

Still, there’s a reason I’ve always felt this strange kinship with women who wrote under pen names. George Eliot. The Brontës. Writers who didn’t hide their brilliance, but just shielded it behind a different name, because being seen fully was dangerous, or at the very least deeply uncomfortable.

They weren’t trying to be mysterious. They were trying to be heard without being torn apart. And while I am, in absolutely no way, comparing my Substack to Middlemarch, I do understand the impulse to share your voice without putting your face on the cover just in case it lands wrong.

And after name-dropping some of the most influential Victorian authors of all time, I will now leave you with this screenshot from TikTok, because I believe in range.

Until sharing a link doesn’t feel like a social experiment,

C.