This afternoon, I came across a blog I wrote back in 2013, and it really caught me off guard. Back then, I was 21, a student, and completely inspired by the American lifestyle blogs I was reading. What surprised me the most, however, was how open and innocent my writing was. I wrote about everything: struggling to fit in during my master’s program, my family, even my washing machine problems! In short, it was raw, full of mistakes, but it was genuinely me.
Reading those posts brought a wave of nostalgia. I remembered those few months so clearly: finishing my summer job at the tourist office, moving to Angers with my now-husband, spending weekends with my family, little moments with my grandmother, long walks with my dog. Simply put, just reading it all made me so happy. Life has changed so much since then… and so have I.
Then I asked myself why I feel so blocked when it comes to writing on my blog now. Of course, having a nine-month-old obviously takes up a lot of time. But I also know there are fears holding me back. Fears of what, exactly? Maybe judgment, not being good enough, not being liked…
I started blogging at twelve, and I probably had as many blogs as I had moods! I met amazing people online, but I also faced mean, unnecessary comments. Growing up with the internet and social media, I should be used to it, right? But part of me thinks life is already complicated enough without trolls adding to it.
Back then, my blog was like a personal diary. The truth is, the honesty probably came from writing for myself first, even if others enjoyed reading it too. Over time, however, blogging became about monetization, and social media became influencer-driven. Everything became polished, perfect, standardized. There was pressure: to have an editorial line, a consistent aesthetic, a format. One had to please, create interesting content, and stand out. Looking back, I think I was chasing an impossible perfection… that wasn’t really me.
Maybe the answer is simple: start writing again as if no one is reading. In other words, reclaim the freedom to write raw, imperfect, clumsy words—but honest ones. Life isn’t a perfectly curated Instagram feed. It’s laughter, failures, little joys, and big questions. If my blog could become that imperfect but sincere space again, maybe I would finally want to come back… and stay.
Take care,
Mathilde
