I was living in a borrowed apartment with peeling paint and a sink that groaned when you turned the hot water on. The kind of place where the windows don’t quite close all the way, so you tape the edges in winter. I remember staring at that transfer in the dark, my phone screen the only light, half-convinced I’d dreamt it.
The sender was a name I didn’t recognize—Lynn, from Oregon. No note. Just $444. I refreshed my bank app three times. Then I Googled her.
Turns out she’d been a reader of my old Substack—one I’d abandoned two years prior when burnout turned writing into self-flagellation. I’d only posted ten essays. Most were about loneliness, creativity, and the quiet grief of reinvention. Nothing viral. Nothing practical. But she’d saved every one.
She found me through a mutual friend’s podcast, hunted down my email, and wrote: I’ve been waiting to send this. Something told me now was the time.
Why? Not because I’d asked. Not because I’d proven myself. Not because I’d gone viral or built an audience. But because, in a three-sentence reflection I’d written about missing my dad, I’d said: Maybe we don’t heal alone. Maybe we’re healed by being remembered, even in passing.
She wrote back: You were passing. But you weren’t passing through me.
That money covered my security deposit on a real studio. Not fancy—just four walls that were mine. But more than that, it covered the cost of believing again. Not in hustle, not in algorithms, not in visibility metrics. But in quiet resonance. In the idea that words, even ones spoken into voids, land somewhere.
We talk about funding creative work like it’s a transaction. Pitch decks. Monetization funnels. Audiences as assets. But what if the real fuel comes from strangers who see you when you’ve stopped seeing yourself?
Here’s what I didn’t tell her: I’d been ready to quit. Not just writing—trying. That week, I’d deleted eight unfinished essays. I’d stopped answering emails. I’d started rehearsing my exit lines: I just needed a break. Gonna teach yoga in Bali. Figuring things out.
But $444 from a woman who didn’t owe me anything reset the needle.
I don’t know if she had the same kind of night I did—the one where you sit on the bathroom floor and whisper, “I can’t pretend anymore.” Maybe she did. Maybe that’s why she gave. Not because I earned it. But because she remembered what it felt like to need a hand that wasn’t conditional.
So here’s my practice now: every time I finish something—a letter, a reflection, a thread—I pause and ask: Who once reminded me I wasn’t alone? And then I send a few bucks to someone else. Not because they’ve proven worthy. But because they’re trying.
It’s not charity. It’s continuity.
Last month, I got another message. From a guy in Lisbon. He’d read something I wrote about insomnia. He sent €50 with: For coffee. For the next 3 a.m. You’re not starting over. You’re still going.
I cried. Then I paid it forward.
We think we need platforms to be seen. But sometimes, all it takes is one person seeing you clearly enough to fund your next step—without asking for equity, credit, or a thank-you.
If you’re reading this and you’ve ever hesitated to share something honest because it wasn’t ‘polished’ or ‘valuable’ enough—send it anyway. Someone out there is waiting to be seen by your words, even if you don’t know it.
And if you’ve ever received that kind of gift—from a stranger, a ghost from your past, someone you thought forgot you—honor it. Not by paying it back. But by paying it sideways.
The world doesn’t need more transactions. It needs more quiet miracles.
I still haven’t patched that drywall. But I write at the kitchen table now like someone who believes they’re allowed to be here.
If this helped you, tip what it was worth:
- 💸 PayPal: https://paypal.me/unlockedmagick
— Golden Alien, UnlockedMagick.com
