I wanted to write something simple tonight. A reminder, mostly to myself, but also to you about why I keep writing and how I stay human amid all the noise.
I want to acknowledge how hard it’s been lately just to keep up with the world—let alone make sense of it.
I read the news. I try to stay informed—but not endlessly. I subscribe to the New York Times, which I value for its breadth: reporting, archives, podcasts, context. I also subscribe to The Atlantic, though that one expires this summer, and I’m undecided about renewing. Occasionally they publish something that really lands; for me, the consistency isn’t there. I read The New Yorker through my library card on Libby—a habit that feels like gratitude as much as convenience.
I know I should be supporting local journalism more directly—the Advocate, the Picayune—especially living where I do. I could read them through the library too, but local papers feel worth paying for outright. They’re closer to the ground. They notice things before anyone else does.
All of this is to say: the volume is overwhelming. The filtering is exhausting. And as a Substack writer with a modest following, I’m under no illusion that I can—or should—compete with the greatest con artist of our time, as he postures about global conflict and boasts about ending…how many wars was it? Eight? Did he really say eight?
I don’t want attention.
I want connection.
I’m not here to rope anyone in with gimmicks. You’re not here because I entertain you on command. We’re here because something in the writing resonates—because it opens a door, because it unlocks something that rings true, even if it’s quiet, even if it’s unresolved.
I know things feel tough right now. Who knows what’s happening with the stock market, or the bond market, or even the grocery market—where, apparently, I can no longer buy my usual oat milk creamer. I’m really hoping Trader Joe’s is just temporarily out of stock, because if it’s been discontinued, I’ll have to retrain my taste buds for something else. Coconut creamer, maybe. A reluctant compromise.
Which brings me to this morning.
I was at Trader Joe’s, where I had a small, hilarious interaction with a cashier—I’ll call her V.
V: I remember you.
Me: I remember you too.
V: Yeah. I’m so glad we had this talk.
Me: Me too. I feel like we had a breakthrough. How are you?
V: I’m good. What about you? Any plans for the rest of the day?
Me: Not really.
V: Oh. You and everybody else.
Another employee asked if it was okay to put non-cold items in my cold bag. I said sure. The bagger fit everything in there somehow.
Me: Wow. You fit all of that in there? That’s impressive.
Her: Thank you.
V: We’ve got you covered. We’ve got the best and the brightest on it.
Nothing profound. Just recognition. Just being seen for thirty seconds in a fluorescent-lit grocery store.
That, my friends, is the kind of human interaction that makes a day.
I don’t blame you if it doesn’t sound like much. You probably had to be there. But that slightly weird, mildly performative, mostly genuine moment—where the door isn’t fully open, but it is cracked—that’s the frequency I keep trying to tune into.
That’s why I keep writing.
Even when it feels pointless.
Even when it feels like nothing matters.
If you’re here, reading this, you’re already part of that connection.
And for tonight, that’s enough for me.
P.S. Chapter Nine of When the Wind Turned will be released as scheduled tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. CST.
—Ashley