Have you ever had one of those days? Or weeks? Or… let’s be real — months — where you’re doing everything right, ticking all the boxes, putting your heart into it, and still nothing seems to be moving? It’s a feeling that can lead to blogging burnout.
Yeah. That’s where I am right now, caught in the cycle of blogging burnout.
I set up my blog. Designed it with love. Signed up for Amazon Associates. Started building my email list. Tried Brevo. Waited for signups. Posted consistently on Pinterest — and initially? It worked. But now? It feels like everything’s hit a pause, pushing me further into blogging burnout.
No clicks. No conversions. No subscribers. No one’s buying, no one’s signing up, and the silence? It’s loud, amplifying my feelings of blogging burnout.
There are days when opening my blog feels like texting someone who left me on read. And still, I show up.
Blogging — for me — is not just about the numbers (even though yes, I do refresh my analytics more than I’d like to admit). It’s about creating a little online world that feels like mine. One where the font is soft, the tone is real, and I can speak in lowercase if I want to.
I keep telling myself, “This is just the beginning,” but sometimes it feels like I’m shouting into the void, and honestly, if I had read “Things No One Tells You About Starting A Blog” when I was starting out, I’d probably cry a little less.
And the worst part? The internet tells you: “Be consistent.” So I do. It tells you: “Add value.” So I try. It tells you: “Don’t give up.” And I’m holding on, but some days… it feels really, really lonely here.
So… why do I still blog? Why am I still here, romanticizing the damn thing when it’s not paying me — yet?
Because it makes me feel seen (even when I’m invisible to others).
When I write, it’s like I’m having a conversation with the version of me who needs the most love. I tell her, “Look. We may not have made a single rupee yet. But we made something.” And that counts.
Because I’m building before they’re watching.
This is the soft launch era. The prequel. The part no one will care about later — but I’ll remember.It’s when the blog looked half-done.When I’d spend hours choosing a Canva banner only to delete it.When I published something and got 3 views — and 2 of them were me checking if it loaded right. And still — I’m building.
Because it’s healing, romantic, and kind of magical.
No one tells you that creating for the internet is lonely.But no one tells you that it can be beautiful too.To sit with your chai, type your heart out, and press publish — even if no one claps.
But don’t get me wrong. I still want this to work.
I still want people to read what I write. I want Google to find me, not because I followed all the SEO rules, but because I said something real. I want my Pinterest pins to lead somewhere meaningful.I want my email list to feel like a cozy inbox friendship, not just a stat.
What I’m learning (the hard way):
• Not every post will blow up — but that doesn’t mean it didn’t matter.
• People don’t sign up just because you put a form — they sign up because they trust you. That takes time.
• Pinterest will have its slow days. So will your brain.
• And monetization? It’s a game of patience + strategy, not instant pudding.
So here’s what I’m trying:
• Making content that feels like me, not a carbon copy of what’s trending.
• Adding little notes at the end of each post, like this one:
P.S. If you’re also someone who’s showing up for a dream that hasn’t paid off (yet), I made a soft, little reminder letter for you.It’s free. Just a hug in PDF form.
So what now?
I’m still going to write.Still going to pin.Still going to experiment, tweak, cry (probably), and try again.Not because it’s easy.But because this is the part I’ll look back at one day — and feel proud that I didn’t give up.
To the person reading this — maybe from your bed at 1AM — I get you.
We’re the ones who romanticize the quiet work.We write before the applause.We believe in slow magic.We’re not there yet — but we’re still here.And maybe, that’s enough for today.
So if you’re reading this and feeling the same — like you’re stuck in this strange, sad space between starting and succeeding — hey, I see you.
We’re building in the dark right now.But even seeds need darkness to grow.
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