Is Your Blog Dead? The Brutal Truth About Losing Passion

Diagnosis — you turned play into work

There are two kinds of activity. The difference between them explains why your blog is dead.

Work is what you'd quit the second you could. Picture this: you get universal basic income. Roof, food, safety — no strings. Would you keep filling out spreadsheets? Commuting to standups? Writing reports? Whatever you'd drop first — that's work. Sacrifice for outcome.

Play is when you can't not do it. Even without knowing why or how.

That's where I was in 2022. Russia invaded Ukraine. I shut down my Russian-language blog — couldn't keep going like before. Five months of silence. Then I started a new one. Completely different. No idea what I was doing. Just felt like I had to.

I had a hypothesis: show what I know, find work through the blog. Play turned into work — and flopped. But the internal push didn't leave. It stayed. The blog went through a dozen rebirths — same as me, through immigration, adaptation, losing my identity.

The difference isn't in the actions. It's in the energy source.

I feel this every time. Open the editor at night — thought's burning, fingers flying. Post births itself in an hour. Close the laptop charged up.

Then the same me, same skill — structuring, explaining, breaking things down. But now it's a training curriculum for video editors at a university. Approvals from the department, revisions from curriculum designers, notes from producers. Same words, same screen. But after every round — emptiness.

For me, play also means permission to be imperfect. Writing raw, unfiltered. Maybe it's a kind of therapy — I'm not sure, but it feels like it.

Here's a funny thing: I used to have to convince people I wasn't perfect. Colleagues, friends, readers — everyone. They saw one thing, I thought another. After 2022, I stopped convincing. A lot happened — immigration, losses, a full reset. I changed. And people stopped telling me that.

So — I actually was perfect before?

When your blog is work, you become the media manager of your own life. Who's my target audience? What are their pain points? What triggers them?

God, I hate this. Before 2022, I was still infected — NotNowSchool blog, Instagram, analytics, all those thoughts. Energy draining. Libido dropping.

Though I'd already articulated it to my therapist in 2020. I was 30, first time ever. Therapy, I mean — what did you think? Anyway, I told him: I want to be read by people who resonate with me. Pleasing everyone? Don't want to, won't try.

2026. I've completely stopped thinking about it. There's just me and whoever finds me interesting. Everyone else can fuck off.

Frustration exists in both modes. The difference is what you do with it.

When it's play — like Lego. Building something complex, a piece won't fit. Try it this way, try it that way. Swear. Walk to the kitchen for coffee. Come back — try again. Because you want to see the finished thing. Because it's yours.

When it's work — the same frustration breaks you. One failed post, silence in the comments, unfollows — and that's it: why bother? You're not even getting paid.

A blog can be a media product — with strategy, analytics, a content calendar. That's a valid choice, it works. Or it can be personal — no plan, no metrics, just internal impulse. Also works. Both options are fine.

The problem isn't which one you picked. The problem is when you didn't pick. When the blog became work by accident, without your decision. That's when energy drains.

Symptoms — how to tell your blog became work

A blogging crisis isn't when you're out of ideas. It's when a committee forms in your head.

I picture it clearly: important suits sitting around, each with a nameplate. Chief Content Officer. Chief Audience Retention. Chief Brand Safety. They're shaking their heads: "tsk-tsk, not our tone of voice," "we'll jinx it," "what will the audience think?"

You sit down to write — and instead of "I have something to say," you hear this committee. Twenty voices, none of them yours.

Symptom one: content calendar

I remember when the first bloggers started making six figures. Some marketer figured out the game early — became an icon, started teaching. Content calendars, ratios, distributions. Sales posts, engagement posts, warming posts, expert posts — whatever other categories exist.

Then came the courses. "Magic exclusive formula." One person sells, the second resells, the third repackages. Everyone ends up selling the same thing. And the buyers don't think. They worship the formula, build content calendars, squeeze posts out of themselves on schedule.