3,828 subscribers, 112 posts, and one big lesson

Five years of writing, healing, and finding my voice

The first number that defined my motherhood journey wasn’t a due date. It was a Thyroid-Stimulating Hormone (TSH) score, and for the first time, high wasn’t good.

It was October 2020, and I’d just been diagnosed with an autoimmune disease that was making it hard for me to get pregnant. I’d been healthy my entire life, and suddenly my body was a mystery I couldn’t solve. I couldn’t outwork or outplan my way through this one. I spiraled.

A few weeks after my diagnosis, I signed up for a little-known newsletter platform called Substack. Something in me knew I wanted to tell my story someday, I just didn’t know when or how. I named it Half Moon Hustle, an ode to finding balance amidst instability.

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Over the next six months, my life became about healing. I overhauled my diet, gave up caffeine and alcohol, and took more supplements than I could count. I practiced restorative yoga every night and quietly scaled back at work to reduce stress, desperate and willing to do anything to have a baby.

I felt ashamed that my body had failed me. I felt so alone, watching my friends get pregnant with ease while I struggled to conceive.

Then, in April 2021, I took a routine pregnancy test before an acupuncture appointment. When two pink lines appeared, I couldn’t believe it and took three more just to be sure. All confirmed it: I was pregnant.

I wish I’d had someone to walk me through it, someone who could tell me my body wasn’t the enemy, that I wasn’t broken.

That’s when I knew I wanted to write. Not to teach or inspire, but to process.

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In June 2021, I worked up the courage to share my first post. My hands were shaking as I hovered over the send button.

How we got here

I sent that first newsletter to 100 of my closest friends and family. I shared something I’d rarely said out loud: the months I’d spent trying to get pregnant, the diagnosis, the shame, the loneliness.

It felt too raw, too personal. Who was I to tell my story? But I did it anyway.

After I hit send, dozens of friends reached out. Not just to say thanks, but to tell me their own stories, ones they’d never shared with anyone else.

“Thank you for saying what I couldn’t.”

In that moment, I saw what this newsletter could really become. Not a platform to showcase my achievements, but a space to be honest about the hard stuff: the things we don’t say at work, the things we don’t post on social media, the things that make us human.

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Growing up as a Ukrainian immigrant, I learned early that achievement was everything. Work hard, earn good grades, climb the ladder. Measure your worth in titles and paychecks. Avoid failure and don’t let your family down.

So I went from Wall Street to Harvard Business School to Pinterest. I knew how to perform, how to succeed, how to look like I had it all together.

But during those months of fertility struggles, something in me cracked. For the first time, I couldn’t work my way out of a problem. I had to face something I’d spent my whole life avoiding: my emotions.

Writing that first post wasn’t just about sharing my story. It was about admitting I was struggling, that I didn’t have all the answers, that I was scared.

It was the first time I let go of the idea that strength meant having everything under control.

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For the first few years, I wrote occasionally about whatever was on my mind. After becoming a mom, it was refreshing to have something just for me.

Then in 2023, I had my second daughter and experienced postpartum depression. The transition from one to two kids completely rocked me. I was angry, exhausted, resentful. I didn’t recognize myself.

I sat down to write about it and the words poured out of me. Then I stared at the draft for weeks.

This was different from writing about fertility. This was admitting I was struggling as a mother, that I wasn’t prepared, that some days all I wanted was to escape.

I was terrified to hit publish. What would people think? Would they judge me? Would they think I was a bad mom?

But I thought about the version of me in those early postpartum days, drowning and feeling so isolated. If I could help even one person feel less alone, it was worth it. So I hit send.

When I stopped trying to have it all figured out and started being honest about the mess, people showed up. Not to judge, but to connect.

That post taught me something crucial: vulnerability is magnetic.

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Finally, in 2025 I committed to writing every single week. Somewhere in that rhythm, I found my true, authentic voice. I finally felt like a writer.

Then in April, I left my job at Pinterest after nearly a decade to start a company. It was the scariest decision of my life, and I wrote about what it felt like to be in the messy middle, the neutral zone, letting go of my former title as a product leader without a clear plan for what came next.

It was freeing and terrifying all at once.

For so long, my sense of worth had been tied to achievement: promotions, performance reviews, external validation. But without a title or a corporate ladder to climb, I had to ask myself a different question: what does success look like now?

Writing was the only constant through this major professional transition, so I instinctively reached for numbers to ground me in doing a good job: the subscriber count, the engagement metrics, the viral posts.

Some weeks, the silence after hitting publish felt deafening. I’d wonder if my words mattered, if anyone cared, if I was still relevant without the title that once defined me.

But privately, women would reach out. They told me they felt seen, saved my posts, forwarded them to friends.

It reminded me what I was here to do: not chase numbers or titles, but build connection through honesty.

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Five years and 112 posts later, that work has connected me with 3,828 readers who show up, reflect, and remind me why I keep writing.

So what’s next for this space?

If the last five years were about learning to share my truth, the next five will be about deepening it. Continuing to show up with the same honesty, the same fear, the same curiosity about what it means to live fully as a woman, a mother, an entrepreneur, and a writer.

Though it would feel good to become a Substack bestseller, I know that’s just ego candy. I don’t have a numbers goal.

I want to write from the heart. To help women feel seen and inspired. To keep growing this community in a way that feels authentic and alive, to bring people together in real life.

In an age where everyone has a newsletter, it’s a privilege to be in someone’s inbox at all. So thank you - for reading, for sharing, for supporting my work, and for trusting me with your stories.

Five years ago, I thought I was starting a newsletter. But what I really started was a practice of honesty, connection, and becoming.

Writing has changed how I move through the world. It’s how I make sense of it. Here’s to the next five years of showing up, telling the truth, and finding ourselves in the process.

Namaste,

Tamara

PS - If you have a minute, I’d love to hear from you. What brought you here? What are you navigating right now? Just hit reply, I read every message.

Thanks again for being part of this community!