I never imagined I’d be someone who writes on the internet for a living—or at least makes a living from it. My name is Emily, and for most of my twenties, I thought the only way to succeed was to climb the traditional ladder: study hard, get a steady job, maybe make $50,000 a year, and call it a win. That was my North Star. That was the dream.
Then, everything changed.
I started writing online in April 2020, right in the middle of a global pandemic, when everyone was at home and the world felt like it had pressed pause. My first month? I made $1.39. Yes, one dollar and thirty-nine cents. I still remember looking at the dashboard and thinking, “Well… that’s a start, I guess?”
By November of that year, my earnings had climbed to $40.36. It was tiny, but it felt like progress. Every small payout was a shot of adrenaline, proof that maybe, just maybe, this “internet writing thing” could actually go somewhere.
Three years later, in November 2023, I logged in to see $19,200 staring back at me. Nineteen. Thousand. Two. Hundred. My jaw literally hit the floor. I sat there in disbelief, scrolling up and down the page, thinking, “This can’t be real. How did I get here?”
And here’s the crazy part—I didn’t start out thinking about the money. Not really. I loved writing, loved connecting with people, loved the tiny sense of control it gave me in a world that suddenly felt so uncertain. But money? I used to idolize it. I thought it was the answer to everything. I spent my twenties following people online who were making $10,000 a month, and my brain couldn’t even process it. Ten thousand dollars in one month? That’s insane.
Before this, I had always assumed I’d live a predictable life: go to college, get a decent job, maybe hit $50,000 a year, and be proud of it. That was the big, lofty goal. And honestly, there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s a solid income. It’s a safe path. But the second I started seeing real potential online, that whole idea started to crumble.
By 2023, I was running a side hustle that was earning more than I ever thought possible. I had clients, subscribers, readers—all of whom trusted me enough to pay for my work. And yet… something was off.
Here’s the thing about making a lot of money online: it’s intoxicating. It feels like freedom. You can quit your 9–5, travel the world, buy whatever you want. And for a while, I chased that feeling hard. I spent late nights tweaking emails, posting content, optimizing revenue streams. I was obsessed with growth, addicted to the dopamine hit every time a payment notification popped up.
But somewhere along the way, I started to feel hollow.
By 2025, I realized I had burned myself out completely. I wasn’t writing for joy anymore; I was writing for clicks and dollars. The thing I loved—the pure thrill of creating something, connecting with someone through words—had vanished under the weight of spreadsheets, funnels, and analytics. My passion had been commodified.
And then came the decision that surprised even me: I burned it all down.
I didn’t sell the business. I didn’t try to pivot or scale further. I just… quit. Closed the subscriptions, deleted accounts, said goodbye to the readers. The money? Gone. And yet, for the first time in years, I felt free.
It wasn’t easy. My friends were confused. My parents worried. Some people called me crazy. But here’s the thing: money isn’t happiness. It isn’t purpose. It’s just a tool. And for a long time, I had let it define my life. Let it tell me I was successful. Let it dictate my worth.
Quitting forced me to remember why I started in the first place: the love of writing, the joy of building something meaningful, the thrill of connecting with people authentically.
Since then, I’ve focused on smaller, quieter projects. I still write, but I write for me. I consult occasionally, but I’ve stopped chasing the next big thing. Life is simpler now, and it feels… richer. Not in money, but in energy, in freedom, in creativity.
I want to be honest about something important: building a $10,000/month side hustle is possible, but it comes with a cost. The cost isn’t always money—it’s time, energy, mental health, and sometimes, your sense of purpose. And if you’re not careful, you might wake up one day with everything you thought you wanted and realize it doesn’t serve you anymore.
I’m Emily, and I built a side hustle that made more money than I ever imagined, only to burn it all down. It was terrifying. It was liberating. And it taught me something invaluable: success isn’t about the numbers on a dashboard. It’s about whether the work you do fuels your life instead of consuming it.
Would I do it all again? Maybe. But next time, I’d pay attention to the parts of myself that matter more than the money—my curiosity, my creativity, my freedom.
Thanks for reading.
