Writing for the One
If you had asked me who I was writing for in my first six months of writing for public consumption, I wouldn’t have had a good answer for you.
The honest answer I should have given, though, is that when I first started writing, I was mostly writing for myself.
As a coach who repeatedly teaches the importance of writing with the reader in mind and centering the reader in the transformation, that’s a little humbling to admit out loud. But maybe my honesty here will help someone else who is still trying to figure this out too.
Because the truth is—many of us start writing because we need to say something before we ever learn how to shape it for someone else.
When I first started writing publicly, I wanted to expose the unhealthy church systems that perpetuated spiritual abuse and religious harm. I wasn’t thinking much about my reader. I was thinking about my experiences, my frustrations, my healing, and my need to finally say the quiet parts out loud.
Then, when it finally occurred to me that I should probably think about my audience, I immediately assumed I should write to the church leaders who were hurting people.
News flash: that didn’t work.
It took me a long time to figure out who my actual reader was—and even longer to learn how to tailor my words to them.
And honestly? Writing for myself was easier.
I could say whatever I wanted because I was my only audience. There was no need for structure, clarity, or intentionality. I didn’t have to think about how my words would land or whether they were actually helping someone move forward.
But eventually, I had to admit something uncomfortable:
Writing only for myself wasn’t particularly effective.
It wasn’t serving anyone else.
And once I finally identified my reader, I ran into another problem entirely: finding them.
At first, I assumed my audience would naturally be made up of my friends and family. After all, why wouldn’t the people closest to me want to follow my writing journey and read my words?
But I learned pretty quickly what many writers eventually learn:
Only some of my friends and family members were my actual audience.
And I had to learn that it was okay for them not to be.
Most of them hadn’t experienced church hurt. Most of them hadn’t deconstructed their faith. Most of them weren’t wrestling through the complicated, exhausting process of trying to reconstruct it.
So I had to find my readers another way.
And that process was slow.
Painfully slow.
I had 26 people on my email list for over six months.
Twenty-six.
That was a lesson in humility.
After enough pouting and grumbling to God about it, though, I felt Him gently reminding me of something I still need to hear regularly:
If my words were reaching even one person who needed them, that had to matter.
I’ll be honest with you, though—that doesn’t always feel like enough.
I’m guessing I’m not the only writer who has wrestled with that tension.
And I don’t actually think those thoughts always come from ego or some secret desire to become wildly famous bestselling authors.
For many writers, the desire for growth isn’t really about attention—it’s about impact.
We believe words matter. We believe stories heal. We believe honesty creates permission for other people to finally exhale. So when we pour our hearts into our work and hear almost nothing back, it can feel deeply discouraging.
Especially in a world obsessed with numbers, algorithms, followers, subscribers, and visibility.
But maybe the better question isn’t:
“Why isn’t this growing faster?”
Maybe the better question is:
“Am I being faithful with what’s already in front of me?”
How Well Am I Stewarding My Calling?
If God has called us to write, then part of our responsibility is learning how to steward that calling well.
I actually love the language of stewardship because it clarifies something important: callings still require participation.
We don’t just want the outcome—we have to engage the process.
As a coach, I’ve talked to countless writers who are frustrated by different parts of their author journey. They want more subscribers, more engagement, more book sales, more visibility, more momentum.
But when I ask whether they’re consistently writing long-form content, showing up for their audience, nurturing relationships with readers, emailing their list, posting regularly, or creating opportunities for people to actually find their work, the answer is often filled with “I would…” statements followed by a “but…”
And listen—I understand. Life is full. Writing is vulnerable. Consistency is hard.
But growth rarely happens overnight. It happens over time. And often, it happens quietly long before it becomes visible.
What Would Success Realistically Look Like for Me?
One of the biggest obstacles writers face is chasing a version of success they’ve never actually defined.
We absorb everyone else’s metrics:
follower counts
bestseller lists
viral posts
giant launches
massive email lists
And before long, we’re running on a treadmill we never consciously chose.
But if we slow down long enough to honestly define success for this season, we can start building intentionally instead of reactively.
Maybe success right now looks like:
finishing the manuscript
writing consistently again
publishing weekly
reaching 100 aligned readers
creating work you’re proud of
helping one hurting person feel less alone
Not every season is meant for massive visibility.
Some seasons are about building roots before growth becomes visible above ground.
Whose Approval Am I Chasing?
This might be the most important question in the entire piece.
Whose approval are you actually chasing?
Who do you desperately want to notice your success?
Who are you hoping will finally be proud of you when your subscriber count grows, your book launches, or your content performs well?
Because if we’re honest, sometimes we’re not just building platforms, sometimes we’re trying to prove our worth. And that is an exhausting foundation to build anything on.
At some point, we have to untangle our calling from our craving for validation. We have to learn how to create from conviction instead of constant comparison. And maybe that starts by remembering this:
Audiences are not built all at once.
They are built one person at a time.
One reader.
One conversation.
One email.
One honest story.
One quiet moment where someone on the other side of the screen finally feels seen.
That matters.
Even when it feels small.
Even when growth feels slow.
Even when there are only 26 people on the email list.
Because writing that helps one person breathe a little easier is still meaningful writing.
And maybe learning to value the one before chasing the masses is part of becoming the kind of writer we were meant to be in the first place.
Reflection Questions
Have you ever mistaken visibility for impact? What helped you recognize the difference?
What does “success” honestly look like for you in this season—not five years from now, but right now?
Are there places where you’re chasing validation more than connection? What might it look like to loosen your grip on outside approval?
I write in two spaces.
A Seat at the Table: Faith, Healing, and Honest Conversations After Church Hurt is where I explore faith, healing, and making room for honesty after it’s been made complicated.
Ink & Intention: Practical Writing Support for Nonfiction Authors is for writers who want to show up with clarity, discernment, and integrity—especially online.
I’m also the author of Breathing Again and several guided journals, and I work with writers who want thoughtful, grounded support as they find their voice and shape what comes next.
If something here resonated, you’re welcome to explore more at your own pace. You can find everything in one place here:
Kristen Neighbarger | Author, Writing Coach, and Resources for Writers
