My mornings used to follow the same predictable, unwelcome routine: eyes barely open, hand already reaching for my nightstand. The glow of my phone, and my thumbs scrolling endlessly through a feed of human misery. Doomscrolling is a current that relentlessly drags me deeper the longer I do it, even when I know I’m drowning in content. Consequently, it would leave me feeling miserable before it was even 9 a.m.
This pattern shifted when I downloaded Substack. Instead of marinating in the internet’s collective nervous system, I read. I make a cup of tea. I let my brain warm up slowly, rather than hijacking it with information. I’ll read a sharp little pop culture critique that makes me chuckle, or a book analysis that makes me want to jot things down in my notebook. By the time I’ve sipped my mug dry, I feel lighter mentally.​
If you’re unfamiliar, Substack is a platform where writers, thinkers, hobbyists, storytellers, and everyone in between can share their work. Everything goes in Substack: it might be an independent journalist breaking down complex issues, an author sharing serialized chapters of their novel in progress, or a proud baker documenting the batch of fresh cookies they’ve whipped up. I love Substack for its sense of intimacy and authenticity between the viewer and the publisher, a lost art in our hyper-connected digital world.
​There’s something that feels charmingly old school about it. Reading Substack is nostalgic; it feels like how people used to read the morning newspaper at the kitchen table. Each post feels intentional, crafted to share a perspective or a story rather than to chase likes or views. The writers aren’t competing for attention or trying to game an algorithm; they’re offering their words like a friend sitting across from me at the coffee table. It feels personal and human. Â
Reminiscent of newspaper sections, Substack organizes content into categories, helping users find the content they crave. These categories vary from hairstyling, wildlife, poetry, health, wellness — anything you can imagine. This organized structure not only makes it easier for readers to explore the vast selection of articles but also helps writers reach the audiences most likely to appreciate their work. Following specific creators allows me to curate a personalized inbox, ensuring my reading caters to my varied interests.
What I love most is how low-pressure Substack feels. Doomscrolling begs for my attention the same way a sink asks for dishes — urgent and with an unspoken pressure that makes it impossible to ignore. Substack waits like a book left face-down on a table. It doesn’t require a big-time commitment, either. I’m not always in the headspace to spend hours in some enlightened reading trance.
In some instances, I only read one post. Five minutes. A small reset, but enough to feel, just briefly, that I’ve reclaimed my attention and it once again belongs to me, before I’m forced to face the rest of my to-do list of tasks.
To be fully transparent: I haven’t been cured of my doomscrolling habits. If you personally know me, you’re probably used to a stream of 20 TikTok’s sent to your inbox each day. However, since discovering Substack, my mornings have become a sacred time to recalibrate. It invites me to make room for curiosity, thoughtfulness, and intention. In a world that often feels like too much, that small shift to be purposeful with my time and attention makes all the difference.
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