Why Write Like No One’s Reading (Because They Probably Aren’t)

There’s this popular piece of advice you must’ve heard so many times: Dance like nobody’s watching. It’s meant to be liberating, to live freely, without shame, without the heavy gaze of the world pinning us down.

Everyone says dance like nobody’s watching, but honestly, I was over here typing like my Wi-Fi was broken and nobody could load the page anyway. Not because it’s poetic. But because in the early days, no one was reading. And honestly? That might have been the best thing that ever happened to any writer.

Back When My Only Reader Was Me

When I started writing, I wasn’t expecting an audience of millions. I wasn’t under any illusions about suddenly becoming the next internet sensation or trending on some obscure subreddit. Still, I think some small part of me hoped for something – a comment, a share, a curious scroll. Some sort of, you know.

Instead, what we got was… crickets.

For the first few months, my blog was like a well-kept secret, so well-kept that no one actually knew about it. I was writing blog posts straight from the heart, typing away at odd hours, sharing thoughts that felt raw and real, almost journal-like.

There were no filters. No performance. No pressure to sound smart or look put-together. And because I didn’t feel the need to impress anyone (since no one was reading anyway), I ended up writing some of the most honest things I’ve ever written.

Even today, I occasionally scroll back through those early posts, the ones buried deep in the archives, and I read them with a mix of pride and disbelief. Sometimes I laugh out loud and think, Wait, I actually wrote this? This was me? Because they’re so stripped down, so unedited, so me, that they catch me off guard.

It was in those months of silence that I learned a quiet, powerful truth: writing without an audience is where your real voice is born.

When There’s No One Watching, You’re Finally Free

We live in a world that’s constantly watching. Or at least, it feels like it is. Whether it’s social media, work emails, or the pressure to package your every thought into something “aesthetic,” there’s always a sense that someone might be looking.

And when someone’s looking, we perform.

We polish our words, we second-guess our opinions, we edit the life out of our sentences. We start writing for imaginary readers who we assume are smarter, cooler, or more successful than us. And in doing so, we begin to write from a place of insecurity rather than authenticity.

But when there’s no one watching? You get to be real.

You write about things that matter to you, not what’s trending. You ramble. You explore. You go on weird tangents and leave thoughts unfinished. And somehow, that messiness is where the magic lives.

There’s no SEO strategy, no headline hacks, no performance anxiety. Just you, your thoughts, and the wild freedom of saying exactly what you mean.

You might also want to read: How is writing affecting your brain?

The Art of Low Expectations

There’s something strangely beautiful about having low expectations. While the world is chasing metrics, analytics, and conversion rates, there’s a quiet kind of rebellion in just… writing.

Not writing for clicks or followers, but writing because you have something to say, even if it’s just to yourself. Low expectations allow you to take creative risks. To be vulnerable. To experiment. To fail in public and not care, because no one’s paying attention anyway. And that’s where you discover your edge, that unique part of your voice that doesn’t show up when you’re trying to please.

When you let go of the pressure to impress, you tap into the kind of writing that actually connects. Not always right away, but eventually. Because while flashy content grabs attention, it’s the real stuff that stays.

Writing as an Act of Remembering

One of the most surprising things I’ve realised through writing is that sometimes, I’m not just writing to express myself – I’m writing to remember myself.

In those early blog posts, I can see the thoughts I was afraid to say out loud anywhere else, the quiet dreams I was afraid to jinx, the messy processing of life’s weird little moments.

Writing like no one’s reading turns your blog into some kinda time capsule – not of what happened, but of who you were when it did. And even if no one else reads it, future-you will. And they’ll thank you for being brave enough to be honest.

Everyone tells you to “write for your audience.” But here’s a radical thought: maybe your audience doesn’t exist yet. Maybe they’ll find you years from now, long after you’ve published that vulnerable post you almost didn’t share. Maybe they’re not looking for the perfect piece, maybe they’re looking for someone who feels real. Someone whose words make them exhale and think, “Okay, I’m not the only one.”

You don’t have to write for everyone. You just have to write for someone, and that someone might not even know they’re looking for you yet. So in the meantime, why not write for the one person who’s definitely here? You.

To Anyone Still Blogging Into the Void

If you’re out there, quietly writing blog posts that no one seems to read, let me just say this:

You’re part of a strange, beautiful club – the writers who keep going even when the world isn’t clapping. The ones who know that the real reward isn’t in the views, but in the clarity that comes from putting your thoughts into words.

You’re building something in the world of Artificial Intelligence (AI) that algorithms can’t measure, not a brand, but a body of work. A place where you’ve shown up, again and again, as your honest self.

And one day, someone will stumble upon it and feel less alone because you were brave enough to say what they couldn’t.

P.S. If you’ve ever hit “publish” and then immediately thought, “Why do I even bother?”, this one’s for you. You bother because it matters, even if you can’t see how yet.

One Last Thing…

I know I’ve said a lot about writing like no one’s reading, and for a long time, that was the truth. But here’s the beautiful part of the journey: somewhere along the way, you showed up.

Readers found their way here. Slowly, quietly, and then steadily. And I want you to know, I don’t take that for granted. Not for a second.

The difference now is, when I sit down to write, I know someone might actually read it. But I still try to write like I did in the beginning – with the same honesty, heart, and weird rambling thoughts. Because that’s the version of writing that felt the most true. And that’s the version I want to keep alive, no matter how big this blog gets.

So thank you for reading, for returning, for quietly nodding along on the other side of the screen. It’s not lost on me. In fact, it means everything.

Cheers!