Writing feels powerful, and I enjoy it, but I wonder if my thoughts and essays are utterly meaningless; pointless ramblings devoid of any power or value I believe them to have. That is to say, what makes my voice more important than anyone else’s? Indeed, why would anyone take any notice of or care about anything I have to say in the first place? There are writers, journalists and people whose job is nothing but this, and it feels like those are the people we should be listening to most.

Objectively, I know that even if only a single person cares, that’s enough. Even if this wasn’t the case, writing for the sake of it is justification enough to continue. It’s the same with art and creativity, it doesn’t have to have a purpose but it’s part of what makes you you, and by extension is allowed to exist and take up space. The pursuit of (and dedication to) any form of creative expression will always mean something to someone else. There will always be at least one person who’s interested in the same things that you are, and with near limitless access to other individuals all over the world, we’re able to find community easier than ever before.

The reality though is that despite my objective understanding of the importance of art and creativity, I can’t shake the feelings of self doubt, fear of judgement, rejection and criticism that will undoubtedly occur if my reach and influence once again expands beyond the safety of the sphere of trust I’ve built for myself. I’ve seen first hand what happens when words are taken out of context, with strangers and keyboard warriors on the internet judging your words without compassion; and despite knowing that context is near impossible to deliver 140 characters at a time, tearing you apart for even the slightest misstep.

During the time I was reaching over 100K impressions a month on Twitter, I experienced how quickly viral threads can give a voice of hope to those afraid to speak out, while simultaneously attracting the most vile of comments from those wallowing in their own self hatred and refusal to accept that someone else might have a different opinion or experience.

When it comes my own opinions on certain topics, I know there are people that will disagree with me, but I find it hard to comprehend how others would disagree on something when it feels like it’s a fundamental core value that we should all share without question.

What’s even more challenging is when you have the same opinion, but different ideas about how that might look in reality. For example, the sentiment behind the campaign that resulted in the most recent Supreme Court ruling in the U.K. is sound, women do need protecting from men, but demonising trans women is not the way to do it. It’s complex systemic issues and deeply rooted misogynist behaviour that require change, neither of which can be solved by isolating and running a campaign of fear against what is a mere 1% of the population.

It’s this same hateful rhetoric that blames immigrants for the housing crisis while there are landlords who own vast property portfolios and unimaginably wealthy individuals who pay as little tax as possible through elaborate avoidance schemes. If everyone paid their fair share, then many of the issues we face such as NHS & Local Government funding, would be almost non-existent. Instead, we’re seeing welfare cuts that impact the most vulnerable groups of society, rather than legislation change that ensures a more equitable and sustainable distribution of wealth.

It’s why both writing and talking about many of these things is important, and despite any doubts I have I will continue to do so, even if what I have to say isn’t particularly profound or revolutionary. The fact I was able to grow an engaged audience of over 1,200 people generating said 100K impressions a month should speak to the power of my voice, and I have considered returning to Twitter’s spiritual successor, Bluesky.

That being said, the emotional toll of playing the role of activist against a tidal wave of intolerance for trans women broke me in 2020, and it’s much more difficult a role to play in 2025. I’m not convinced that it will be healthy for me, and believe that I can help people in less visible, but more impactful ways.

Where to start though is always the challenge... but writing? That seems like a good place for now.