I’ve been on Medium since 2019. I didn’t really understand it as I do now.
Initially, I just saw it as a branch of something like Huffington Post or Tiny Buddha. A place that offered the possibility of being heard and seen by readers.
And then the hustle to get to 100 changed my mind.
Now, it feels like a place to be heard and seen by writers.
A place to hear and see writers in return.
It feels more like a writer’s den or a hideaway — with the scent of clove smoke wafting through the air — and the aroma of café con Leche heavy with milk and cinnamon.
A place where hearts are on display — draping on sleeves or even more so — slipping and sliding across the floor.
A place where words drip dramatically out of minds onto the screens where they dance alone — or twist and turn and bounce off one another.
A place where hope hangs in the air. Where disappointments devour.
A place where one goes to grow — to be brave.
It feels like a womb — so cozy — so safe.
It feels like a battleground where the injured lick their wounds.
It feels like serendipity where the words of others resonate with my own.
It feels familiar. This place gives me courage.
I like it here.