Why subscribe?

Look, I get it. You’re tired. Of discourse. Of curated vulnerability. Of content pretending to be connection. Of fluorescent wellness hacks and trauma turned into brand collateral. Same.

This is a place for people who think too much, feel too hard, and maybe laughed at their own existential crisis in a Walgreens parking lot once. We’re not here for answers so much as we’re here to ask better questions—the kinds that keep you up at night not because you’re broken, but because you’re finally waking up.

Expect long-form essays that unravel (not tie up) the psychic knots of identity, grief, neurodivergence, love, embodiment, and this strange project of trying to become a human being in late-stage capitalism without giving up your soul or your sense of humor.

There will be grief. There will be semi-colons. There will be attempts at piercing the membrane between performance and presence. There will be footnotes (metaphorical, but still). I do not promise catharsis, or clarity, or a newsletter that arrives with algorithmic precision. What I can promise is that the sentences will sweat. They will ache. They will try.

If you’ve ever felt like your inner life is far too loud for modern life’s polite silence, or like emotional depth is both a curse and the only remaining form of resistance, this may be the weird little corner of the internet for you.

When you subscribe, you get full access to every essay, field note, and archived whisper I’ve written, and the ones still waiting to be born.

You’ll never miss a post. Each piece arrives directly in your inbox, quiet, ad-free, algorithm-free. Just truth, tenderness, and time on your terms.

What You’ll Receive

• Ideally? Insight. Or at least the neurochemical simulacrum of insight. What you’ll actually receive is a semi-regular cascade of long-form essays, emotional spelunking expeditions dressed up in syntax, written by someone constitutionally incapable of small talk and who finds the phrase “content creator” spiritually violent.

  You’ll get:

  • Sentences that take the scenic route and sometimes bring maps.

  • Philosophical dissections of things like grief, intimacy, shame, neurodivergence, memory, embodiment, and how Target somehow triggers all of them at once.

  • The occasional footnote or parentheses that acts like it wandered in from another essay entirely.

  • The kind of honesty that makes polite people uncomfortable but emotionally fluent people feel seen.

  • Probably too much about the collapse of Western civilization. Definitely too much about feelings.

  You won’t get productivity hacks, spiritual bypassing, or a digestible call-to-action at the end. But you will get the sincere, unedited humanness of someone who has sat inside the chaos and decided, against all odds, to narrate it.

  This is not a brand. It’s a slow-burn love letter to complexity. If that’s your thing, you’ll be right at home.

(And if you’re just curious about how Substack works, visit Substack.com.)

🌐 A Community of Quiet Revolutionaries

Substack isn’t just a platform, it’s a gathering of voices refusing to be flattened, rushed, or commodified.

Here, we write with depth.
We connect without noise.
We build slow-burning communities rooted in trust, truth, and tenderness.

By subscribing to Chaotic Goodisms, you're joining a larger ecosystem of readers, creators, and survivors who crave something more honest, and more human.

In this community:

• Comments are conversations, not comment wars.

• Writers are unfiltered, not market tested.

• You’re not a “follower.” You’re a co-archivist in a shared remembering.

This is the kind of internet I want to live in.
Soft. Subversive. Alive.

To learn more about the tech platform that powers this publication, visit Substack.com.