On writing for algorithms, audiences, and everyone but ourselves.
I always loved putting thoughts onto paper.
My voice used to come clearly and calmly through the ink, seeping into the pages. I didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about what to say or how to say it. I wrote. And in that writing, I always found clarity.
Then came emails and social networks. But technology didn’t have quick DMs on our phones yet. While I was now typing instead of writing by hand, I could still feel the flow of my fingers across the keyboard. All those typing lessons paid off. I could type with my eyes closed and let the feelings and thoughts appear on Blogger, Tumblr, or a Word document.
I didn’t write letters to friends anymore, but I must have broken some record for the longest Facebook messages.
I didn’t think about my voice, my tone, my brand, or whether my writing style would be flagged as AI.
I wrote.
And writing was like breathing. Natural.
Even when I moved to Canada and had to communicate in a brand-new language, writing still felt natural. Sometimes my translations of Portuguese thoughts wouldn’t quite make sense. Sometimes they would create an entirely different meaning, which made for some very funny stories and awkward situations.
But even in a second language, my tone was still my tone. Effortlessly.
I don’t know exactly when things changed.
But after spending almost two hours deciding on the best words for a single paragraph, I realized that somewhere along the way, that natural flow had gotten lost.
Every word is now measured. Weighed for audience, fit, conversion, SEO.
I care so much about sounding polished, confident, and reputable that something that used to feel so mine has become a chore I actively dread.
And while going back and forth between best practices, recommendations, and opposing feedback, I heard a question echoing in my head.
Whose voice is this anyway?
It’s my voice.
And my voice shouldn’t have to be constantly tailored, filtered, and polished. It shouldn’t have to scan well, rank here, or perform there.
It should simply sound like me.
My thoughts. My feelings. My own way of describing the world, making sense of things, and asking questions.
I remembered that words were once how I regulated myself. How I processed feelings I couldn’t quite name. How I made sense of experiences that didn’t make sense until I saw them written down.
Writing was my creative expression. My way of finding myself in the middle of everything else.
And somewhere along the way, I started writing less to understand myself and more to be understood by others.
For an audience. For a business. For an algorithm.
I used to write because I had something to say. Now, so often, I write because I feel I need to.
Share content. Be present. Demonstrate your expertise.
Whether it’s writing, speaking, or making TikTok videos, it has become more about the obligation to produce content than the desire to share something uniquely ours.
There’s nothing inherently wrong with writing for others. And yes, maybe it’s part of being a professional or entrepreneur in this day and age.
But I miss writing without a purpose beyond the writing itself. Without wondering whether someone will read it, like it, share it, or find it useful. Without turning every thought into content.
Maybe not everything we write needs to accomplish something. Maybe, sometimes, writing should just be writing. Maybe writing can still be our own way of experiencing the world around us, giving shape and form to thoughts and feelings.
Maybe writing can go back to feeling like breathing.
And if the tone and form don’t fit the standard, if the keyboard strokes miss the best practice marks, maybe we can let that go and remember it’s our own voice.
Not every word needs to follow best practices. Some words just need to be ours.
