On Fame, Belonging, and the Politics of Creative Space

Glennon Doyle joined Substack. Less than a week later, she left. This isn’t really about her.

This is an extra post I hadn’t planned to write – but the conversation around Glennon Doyle’s brief time on Substack felt too revealing to ignore. It’s free to all, and not really about her. It’s about what her presence stirred up – in the room, in the culture, in us.

If it resonates, feel free to like it ❤️ share it or subscribe for more writing like this – thoughtful, grounded, and a little bit soul-stretching.

Glennon Doyle joined Substack. Less than a week later, she left.

There was no dramatic goodbye. Just a big arrival – a new space called “Being Here,” launched with warmth, intention and excitement – followed by a quiet exit and a surprisingly noisy middle bit.

Not from everyone. But from enough people to stir something worth looking at.

Because this isn’t really about Glennon.

It’s about what happened around her.

And what it revealed.

When someone with a household name walks into what’s felt like a cosy kitchen table – a place we’ve built slowly, shared tentatively – it’s easy to feel the room tense.

Not because they’ve done anything wrong.

But because their presence disrupts the order.

They’re not meant to be here, we think. Or at least – not like this.

Not without easing in. Not without signalling she understood the space. Not without announcing herself in the “right” way.

Not without softening, shrinking, acknowledging the space they’re taking up.

We don’t talk much about that. But we feel it.

There’s a quiet protocol in many creative spaces – especially the ones that position themselves as “community-first” or “independent.”

We say we want growth. But not too fast.

We say we want success. But not that kind.

We say “there’s room for everyone.” But we flinch when someone walks in and takes up a bit more than we expected.

Glennon didn’t do anything wrong. She just showed up. And for some, that was too much.

Because whether we realise it or not, we have strong ideas about how visibility should work.

This is where it gets interesting. Because we’ve seen this pattern before.

When Meghan Markle joined the Royal Family.

When Florence Given landed a book deal.

When Taylor Swift shifted from underdog to empire.

When any woman becomes too known, too confident, too much – there’s a backlash that isn’t just about what they said or did.

It’s about how they arrived.

The creative world says it loves vulnerability, but only if it’s not paired with influence.

It says it wants “realness,” but recoils when someone arrives without performing humility.

You can be visible, but don’t be self-assured.

You can grow, but not in public.

You can speak, but only if you make yourself small while doing it.

One of the strangest things about the Substack reaction was that it didn’t come from the old-school publishing elite – it came from within.

From the people who have spent years fighting for alternative platforms.

From those who say, “There’s room for us all.”

Which is what made it so telling.

Because sometimes gatekeeping isn’t loud or aggressive.

Sometimes it sounds like concern.

I just want to protect this space.

I’m worried it will change everything.

Isn’t this meant for people like us?

We dress it up as integrity. But often, it’s scarcity in disguise.

Platforms like Substack promised a clean slate.

A space where writers could build slowly, honestly, without the noise and metrics of old-school social media.

So when someone known walks in – with a name, a following, a built-in audience – it feels like a threat.

Not because they’re doing anything wrong. But because they remind us that some people start on a different rung.

We say “start where you are,” but we don’t always mean it.

Not if where you are includes a million followers and a bestselling memoir.

There’s a script people expect you to follow when you’re new here – whether “here” is Substack, a friendship circle, a new industry, or a local cafe.

• Be grateful.

• Be small.

• Be apologetic for taking up space.

It’s unspoken, but we all recognise it.

Glennon didn’t follow the script.

And that – more than anything she said or didn’t say – might’ve been the reason people bristled.

Because we don’t just react to people. We react to how they enter.

To the energy they bring. To the roles we’ve unconsciously assigned them.

Truth is, I don’t think this was about Substack at all.

I think it was about our discomfort with growth.

With visibility.

With the idea that someone might come in and not need to earn their keep the way we did.

It’s easier to say “they don’t belong” than to sit with the ache of wondering if we still do.

It’s easier to critique someone else’s presence than to feel the tremor of self-doubt when the room starts shifting around us.

But these are the questions that live under the surface:

• What if my space isn’t as safe as I thought?

• What if the rules have changed?

• What if I’m not as comfortable with abundance as I say I am?

That’s what I’ve been sitting with, anyway.

Not a defence. Not a takedown. Just a mirror held up to the room – and maybe to ourselves.

Did you feel it too?

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