Confessions of a Has Been: The Most Honest Newsletter I've Ever Written to Kick Off This Advent Calendar

You know, so often I find myself opening my laptop, logging onto LinkedIn, Instagram, Facebook—whatever platform is closest at hand—and scrolling aimlessly through my feed.

It’s like I’m searching for something to soothe this gnawing ache, this quiet fear I wake up with some mornings:

the unsettling thought that maybe my best years are behind me.

Yet, every post I see, every perfectly curated video, every event invitation in my inbox feels like another reminder that life is speeding past me, that I’m being left behind.

Is that the reality? Probably not. But it’s easy to fall into the trap of believing it.

This morning, as I sat with my coffee in hand, letting its warmth ground me, a thought struck me: what if I’m not the only one feeling this way?

What if this quiet self-doubt is more universal than I realize? So, I cracked open my laptop, not with a plan or an answer, but with a need to pour out these messy thoughts, raw and unfiltered, onto the page.

Because maybe, just maybe, someone else needs to hear them too.

What if I've peaked?

When I started creating content in 2016, it was like lightning in a bottle. One post went viral, then another, and suddenly, the world felt wide open.

It was like the golden years for early creators. You could be anybody, anywhere on the planet, and write a post that could easily reach millions. My words were often picked up by major publications online, spreading my messages even further than I could have ever imagined.

Almost overnight, I went from a laid-off startup worker to being crowned the “LinkedIn Queen” in my local community. Random strangers would stop me to ask if I was “that girl from LinkedIn,” and even small moments, like getting a sweet discount on car repairs, became surreal reminders of how far I’d come.

If you're groaning reading this, I know, I know. I’ll admit, sharing this feels a little uncomfortable.

I know that as a reader, it might come across as nauseatingly self-congratulatory.

But for me, that journey...from feeling like my life had hit a dead end to finally feeling seen and understood...was indescribable.

In many ways, building a presence on LinkedIn has helped me to grow. I know the importance of appreciation and making people feel seen and understood, and I never turn down opportunities to help lift people up when they've hit rock bottom.

I've felt the pain of feeling invisible, and also the joy of being recognized and celebrated.

But there’s a quiet ache that lingers in this story, a truth that’s hard to hold: notoriety is fleeting.

Just as I was building, growing, creating...life unraveled.

In 2019, my dad passed suddenly, leaving a silence that felt impossible to fill.

Not long after, I was met with a diagnosis of infertility and a cascade of health challenges.

The weight of it all was crushing.

The content that once felt like a spark of hope and inspiration became unbearable...like the taste of a meal you regret just before it turns your stomach.

I couldn’t bring myself to write.

And when I finally did, all that came out was grief.

Raw, unfiltered, and unrelenting.

The words I’d once used to lift others now barely held me together.

So, rather than put on a show, I disappeared. I hoped that when I finally was able to return to sharing stories that felt like a warm cup of coffee, that people would still gather round to listen.

But, that didn't really happen. So often, I'd talk about my LinkedIn journey as a Cinderella tale, but I lost my glass slipper, and nobody brought it back to me.

I would have to create again without the applause.

It reminds me of the time that I was auditioning for TEDx. I had rehearsed my pitch a million times, but when I stepped out onto the big stage with the spotlight blinding me from seeing any reactions from the judges, I choked.

Not getting facial feedback was crippling for me to be able to perform.

And here's why this matters to you, the reader (maybe, hopefully).

It's easy to love what you do with validation, but far more challenging when it's done in silence.

So often, we praise the pro athletes, the celebrities, the leaders that are fuelled daily by adoration and applause, but what about the rest of us?

What about the ones who quietly rebuild after life has knocked them down? Or figure out how to continue while wondering if anybody even notices that they exist?

What about the financial or admin staff that hold the business together but the freaking sales people get to ring the bell? Or the stay-at-home-mom that just added a damn elf on the shelf to her never ending to do list because her want to create Christmas magic for her kids is bigger than her fatigue?

No one cheers for the person just trying to get out of bed when grief feels like an anchor. Or the one staring at a blank page, wondering if they’ll ever find their voice again.

And that brings me to my fear of having peaked.

Not because I need applause to feel worthy, but because it’s hard to unlearn the joy of being seen.

It’s hard to separate the value of your work from the response it gets.

When the world quiets down and you’re left with just yourself...your doubts, your fears, your messy thoughts...it’s easy to wonder if your best days are fading behind you.

But here's what I'm slowly learning: It doesn't actually matter, just show up.

Show up when the applause has faded.

Show up when your words feel small and insignificant.

Show up when you doubt whether anyone will care.

Because showing up isn’t about the world noticing you, it’s about proving to yourself that you still have something to give, even when the room is silent.

Sometimes you don't get the glass slipper back. Sometimes, you have to walk barefoot, find new paths, and rebuild the magic from scratch. And that’s okay.

And hell, who knows? Maybe the best days aren’t behind us after all. Maybe they’re just waiting for us to make them happen, right?

Thanks for listening, friend. I hope you'll hang out with me this month for more stories, thoughts, ramblings, and fun.

Love and coffee, Mick