Why I Keep Writing, Even When Few Respond
I was barely a few weeks old when I learned that my voice—my cries—did not always draw a response. My parents, hardworking and loving in their ways, had their limitations. My father’s second job required sleep uninterrupted by an infant’s midnight wails. On those long nights, I was wrapped carefully in a blanket and placed in the family car, parked inside the garage, so my cries wouldn’t disturb him. The practicality of this decision, born out of necessity rather than malice, taught me something important long before I had the language to process it.
Sometimes, the world doesn’t respond to your voice. At least, not right away.
This early experience shaped me. I did not begin to speak until I was four years old. Perhaps I subconsciously concluded that words, like cries, yielded little reward. Why bother reaching out if no one is listening? But it turns out I cannot ignore the impulse to try. As I reflect on an adult life filled with essays, thoughts, and submissions that go unanswered, I see this persistence not as a flaw but as an essential, hardwired aspect of what it means to be a human.
If there’s one thread that runs across millennia of human existence, it’s our need to share, teach, and express. From cave drawings to digital think pieces, humans have sought to communicate over generations and epochs—to contribute knowledge that, when shared, might enrich something more significant than the self.
Much of what we share may never be acknowledged by those around us. Consider the countless oral stories, written manuscripts, and pieces of music lost to time. Does that absence negate the value of their creation? Most certainly not. Like all of us, their creators were driven by an intrinsic and collective need to contribute to the broader human story.
To write, then—to create—is an act inherently imbued with purpose, even when the world does not immediately answer.
Yet it is impossible to ignore the friction, the frustration of pouring hours into ideas, only to be met with silence. Why do so few respond to those of us eagerly entering the noisy seascape of today’s media platforms?
It is, I think, an issue of saturation. We live in an age where millions of voices clamor for attention simultaneously. Fueled by metrics and trends, algorithms often favor the loudest or most easily digestible content, leaving quieter or less mainstream ideas submerged beneath waves of relevancy.
Compounding this issue is the age-old bias of gatekeepers—those editors, curators, and platform guardians who decide which narratives deserve amplification. Rejection or inattention can feel deeply personal, but more often, it is circumstantial, reflective of an overburdened system rather than an individual’s failings.
This brings me to a vital truth—silence is not the same as irrelevance. Somewhere, someone may stumble across my words and find resonance. Somewhere, someone may feel less alone or newly inspired because of an idea I put out into the world—even if I’ll never know they’ve encountered it.
Persistence, then, is a radical choice in the face of a world that often measures value in clicks, likes, or immediate affirmation. Continuing to share, write, and submit despite the odds isn’t just brave—it’s meaningful. I see each unchecked email response, each overlooked submission, and each unseen post as seeds scattered on arid soil. Some may never bloom, but an unexpected flower might emerge one day.
More importantly, persistence nourishes something even more significant than external recognition—it cultivates the self. Every word I craft, every essay I polish, strengthens something intangible within me. Writing makes my thoughts sharper, my emotions clearer, and my sense of purpose stronger. It transforms my pain, patience, and hope into something tangible, something eternal. That, in itself, is worth the effort.
To anyone like me, who wonders if their cries are futile—whether written, spoken, or otherwise—I offer you this reflection. The act of expressing is sacred. It connects us in ways we may never fully understand. Even when the world seems disinterested, remember this truth: your voice adds something irreplaceable to the tapestry of existence.
Keep writing. Keep creating. Keep crying out. The silence that meets your efforts does not diminish your value—it underscores the courage it takes to persist in the beautiful, timeless pursuit of being honestly heard.
And who knows? One of these days, the world might turn its head and respond.
Oh, and while I am on the subject,
Father and Mother,
Can You Hear Me Now?
Hmm, maybe not, eh?
