These essays are separate from my usual writing for no other reason that I am writing them as part of a program I am currently going through around stories, taking up space, and sharing more personally. While that is a lot of what I intend to do on Substack anyway, in my mind these feel slightly different and their own ‘category’ for one reason or another. So… here we go.
Throughout middle school, I was online.
I couldn’t tell you the exact sequence of events that led me there, but somehow, I found myself on a Rupert Grint message board, supposedly run by his stunt double. (If you don’t know, Rupert Grint played Ron Weasley in the Harry Potter films. Ron was my favorite—mainly because we shared a birthday, March 1st.)
I wasn’t a diehard fan of Rupert himself. He was just a kid in a movie based on books I was obsessed with. This was long before parasocial relationships through Instagram posts. He felt distant, but the message board—surprisingly active—became a place where I met people from all over the world.
For 2-3 years, I had “friends” in places I’d never been: Canada, France, Japan. We’d write letters, send real mail. I received actual packages with gifts, often. I became a moderator at some point, though I can’t recall which section.
Eventually the relationships moved off the message board, too. Then, my afternoons and evenings were spent on Yahoo and MSN Messenger (AOL wasn’t global, obviously), practicing Evanescence songs into a those old skinny microphones (apologies to their eardrums), swapping Harry Potter theories, and sharing our weird, sad poetry—the kind only a 12-year-old existentialist could write.
This was before I stumbled into the darker corners of the web—the “pro-ana/mia” Xangas and Livejournals—but even then, it felt similar in some ways. There was an openness, a willingness to share the heaviest, most human thoughts with strangers of all ages.
And sometimes, when I look back, I think—that’s fucking weird.
But then again... is it?
At least I had an outlet for the confusing, heavy moments of adolescence. No lines were crossed. Nothing inappropriate happened. I had friends. I felt seen, understood, and cared for. And sure, the path I took to find that connection might be every parent’s worst nightmare, but maybe... it was okay.
(The later dive into those darker spaces? Less okay. But that’s another story.)
I don’t really know why I’m sharing this, except that I’m practicing telling more stories, and this is the one that surfaced today.
If I had to guess, it’s because I’ve been thinking a lot about connection lately.
The spaces where we feel safe to share, and the spaces where we don’t.
And how a mix of ignorance and naivety made 12-year-old me comfortable enough to spill my most fragile thoughts to strangers on the internet.
It feels almost poetic because... isn’t that what I’m still doing? Isn’t that, essentially, the core of my business?
There’s something romantic about that full-circle moment.
Something that feels true.
These days, it often feels harder—who cares about this shit? But I keep thinking about that little girl who, despite her doubts, believed—or at least hoped—that someone out there did care. And she shared anyway.
And people listened. People cared.
I know they did because years later, someone tried to bring our core group back together on Facebook. It didn’t pan out, but the effort mattered. I remember their names, their stories, their ideas. And I’d like to think they remember me too.
So maybe that’s my point.
I want to borrow her bravery again. To believe that people care. To share the weird, hard shit—and trust that somewhere, someone is listening.