The wind howls, rain is smacking against the window, and the cold is biting — it's a pretty on-brand start to the New Year in England. I don’t normally like the first two months of the year. There’s pressure to do more and be more even when I tell myself I won’t give in. I can feel myself being squeezed by the fat fingers of society. It feels icky, and simultaneously, it’s horrendously cold, so it’s hard to start the year on the right foot when I need to wear four layers to leave the house.
I’ve been thinking about what I want this Substack to be. So much of what I’ve written last year has come from wrestling with questions: How do I carve a space for myself when I don’t really know who I am? What will this year look like as it unfolds each month? Each week, the pages sat blank in front of me, and I wore my keys thin from typing and re-typing. But—so slowly, each time—something tangible emerged.
This newsletter has turned into a kind of safety net for me. It’s been a place for things that have crowded my mind to unfold and disentangle — a place for stuck ideas to tumble about before eventually forming into words, then sentences, and coherent paragraphs (with the help of B, who edits for me every week). Writing, published or not, has allowed the thoughts I didn’t even know I had to emerge and gain clarity as I go. Clarity isn’t always a given, but what I get halfway is sometimes enough to keep me going.
It’s the rhythm of a writer’s existence. Everything we experience can be written about. Each day we have, each walk we take, each bus we ride and the interactions we have impact us in some form. It’s strange to realise this is simply the way of things; the answers I’m searching for won’t come quickly, which is tough for someone who dislikes leaving loose ends. For now, it’s about taking each moment as it comes, choosing repeatedly to stay engaged and cherish what’s in front of me.
Maybe that’s why I keep coming back to my notes each week. Writing feels like a way to uncover meaning while still being in the messy process of discovery. For years, I kept journals off and on, but my thoughts always raced faster than my pen could keep up, which frustrated me endlessly. Now, On the Verge has evolved into something much bigger than a place to explore agency—it’s become a way of actively practising it.
You, the one reading this, have turned it into something far greater than I ever thought possible. Unexpectedly, strangers began reaching out. People I’ve never met told me they saw parts of themselves reflected in my words. There’s something incredibly comforting about finding readers who feel the same way as you, even if it is from afar.
What once felt like a solitary pursuit has become a space filled with connection thanks to your responses. I still struggle with imposter syndrome, questioning whether my most vulnerable thoughts could ever truly resonate with anyone. I envy the elegance of other essayists, wishing I could borrow even a fraction of their skill. But we champion on anyway because writing is more than poetic sentences about human existence, it’s a way of feeling out what you do not know.
This is just the start of 2025, and I can’t tell you what I’ll write next, but I hope you’ll stick around for the journey.
Another day turns over, a new week, and year, afresh, and we go again.
Awesome words, Natalie. Great post! Happy new year!
This is why I love substack - your kind of writing, random, meandering and going where the mood takes you, so thank you, keep writing. I worry that substack is being overtaken by celebrities and people who get thousands of followers immediately for some unknown reason, so you are helping me keep the faith (I have no idea how many readers you have but I hope it's a lot!). Happy new year!