I’ve been blogging for over a year now. In that time, I’ve written a lot, learned a lot, and poured hours into shaping words. But here’s the truth: my traffic is still really low.

It’s frustrating. I wish my blog had taken off quickly, the kind people stumble onto and share without me working so hard. But that hasn’t been my story. Most days it feels like my posts just sit there quietly, hardly seen. To be totally honest, the last few days I’ve felt like this might be a distraction from what I’m supposed to be doing around the house (laundry, it’s always more laundry). I’ve wondered if I’m selfishly indulging in this.

And it’s in those moments that comparison creeps in. I see other bloggers with thousands of readers and subscribers, and it’s tempting to measure my work against theirs. It would be easier to justify spending time on my computer writing if it was blessing our family in some tangible way. But, comparison really is the thief of joy. If I spend too much time looking at someone else’s numbers, I miss the joy of simply creating.

I also think about my kids. Maybe one day they’ll read these words and find a kind of kinship in them. Maybe they’ll see the quiet side of their mother that lived in paragraphs and sentences, the one who painted with words as much as she painted on a canvas or planted flowers in the dirt. If nothing else, they’ll know I wrestled with what it meant to create and to keep showing up, even when it wasn’t easy.

The thing is, writing feels necessary to me. It’s not just a hobby, t’s part of who I am. When I sit down to shape words, it feels like stepping out of just being Mom for a moment and remembering how to be Katie. Writing is the outlet that reminds me I have my own voice, my own way of seeing the world, and my own call to create.

I think that’s because creating is integral to being human. We’re made in the image of God, and the very first thing we know about Him is that He is Creator, with a capital C. He spoke the world into being. He painted the sky, formed the trees, shaped us from dust. If we’re made in His image, it makes sense that creating would be stitched into who we are too.

For me, that creation takes many forms. I write. I paint. I cook. I plant a garden and watch it grow. I raise children, shaping little lives day by day. And in all of those things, I feel closest to the God who made me.I n a world where I only have 20 minutes every few days to write, this has been what I needed as my more literary and consuming works-in-progress sit to the side of my desk, gathering dust. It’s not the season for my books, but it has been the season for this blog.

This blog matters to me. It matters because it reflects Him. It matters because it reminds me who I am. And it matters because sometimes, even if only one person reads it, the creating itself is the point.

Because that’s the heart of it: I keep writing not because of who might read it, but because it’s what I was made to do, and it makes me happy.