You Build the Structure, Then You Play

What publishing — and a late Autism diagnosis — taught me about voice, rhythm and creative magic

Most people think publishing is just about getting the words out.

But what I’ve learned — through burnout, rebuilding and working alongside creators for more than 15 years — is that publishing isn’t just a content strategy that pushes things out the door on time. It’s a process of strategically uncovering the truth of what you need to say next.

Behind every sustainable newsletter, book or body of work is a quiet inner structure — one that holds both your magic and your voice.

And for years, I couldn’t find mine.

When “Strategy” Left Me Empty

In 2020, I paid an e-commerce consultant $1,300 for a custom report — I don’t remember the exact title anymore. I just remember opening the PDF with hope... and how quickly my stomach dropped as I scrolled.

I had trusted her with family money, dreaming up a small shop for sensory needs, with a side mission to support healthcare workers during the early pandemic. The report was lifeless — a canned SWOT grid, some surface-level templates — nothing I hadn’t already found in a few hours of online research.

When I asked for clarification, I got silence. Eventually, I was blocked from her website.

The money stung. But the deeper wound was this: I had placed my voice and vision in someone else’s hands — and she handed nothing back to me.

The Years Before That? I Was Always Holding My Breath

In my childhood home, someone always had the answer.

If we were sick, a scientist on a cassette tape explained the missing vitamin. (Spoiler: it was usually a supplement or a non-toxic cleaner.) If we were scared, we opened the Bible — or listened to a pastor — and held tight to stories that gave us a few more hours of safety.

But something was always missing. And I could feel it, even if I didn’t have words for it yet.

We rarely had families over, unless we were “ministering” to them. We didn’t get invited out after church. My dad cycled through jobs and my grandparents sometimes paid our bills. My mom could be unpredictable. I learned to scan for shifting moods and hold my breath before the house turned to ice.

Other families seemed to move through life with magic — game nights, laughter, cookie bake-a-thons. I watched from the sidelines, trying to figure out the secret spell I didn’t know.

The Newsroom Was My First Safe Container

When I declared my journalism major at Baylor, something clicked. I could manage the panic attacks — they mostly stayed tucked into the evenings. I loved the rhythms: walking the same path to class, writing with friends who also loved questions, learning the beat of the newsroom.

When I sat on the city desk for a year, my professors used to say, “Soak this in. No other job will ever feel like this again.”

They were right — but not in the way they meant.

It took me years to understand why I felt so at home: it wasn’t just the pace or the stories. It was the structure. The container. The rhythm.

I had finally found a place where it was safe to be curious.

From Book Projects to Burnout

By 2016, I had helped a handful of self-publishing clients bring their books into the world. Each time, I built a clear path, managed a team, created the structure and helped shape their vision into something real and tangible.

And each time, when the work was done, I felt a strange hollowness. Not relief — but confusion, exhaustion and a lingering heaviness.

I thought a fresh start might help, so I enrolled in mindfulness meditation teacher training. I'd been practicing meditation for a few years, but I had no plans to really teach.

Still, an image haunted me: soldiers digging trenches in the mud. Their faces were strained. I saw myself getting up from my editing desk, walking into the field and picking up a shovel.

On some level, I knew what that image meant: I wasn’t here to sit on the sidelines anymore. It was time to dig in — not just into client work, but into my own voice.

What the Whole Foods Parking Lot Taught Me

Sometime after receiving my Autism diagnosis, I found myself frozen outside a grocery store.

I couldn't make myself go inside. And for the first time in my life, I didn't override it or mask or plaster a smile on my face.

I got still.

And then a movie started playing in my mind.

I saw myself building the Whole Foods from scratch — pouring the concrete in the parking lot, painting the stripes, laying bricks along the perimeter. I dragged shelves into the aisles, stocking them can by can, bag by bag. Then came the baskets, the bright fruit, the soft textures, the warm light.

And I heard a voice say:

You build everything from the ground up. You create structure everywhere you go.

That moment shifted everything.

Of course I knew how to build structure — that’s been my job. People had paid me to do that for years.

But I hadn’t yet claimed it as a gift, something that was built into how I participated in the world, even in how I go to pick up groceries. And I hadn’t yet learned to use this gift for my own creative life.

For decades, I blamed myself for a lack of discipline when the truth is I’d been building containers for other people’s magic — but I didn’t yet know how to stay inside a container long enough to enjoy it myself.

The Publishing Spectrum: What I See Now

In 2022, when I started writing on Substack, I was keenly aware of what usually got me stuck: chasing structure too early, trying to make everything efficient, trying to follow a path with guarantees. I worked hard to resist those impulses. It was not easy. But I let myself twist, wander and explore anyways.

After every post, I felt like a whitewater rafting guide — leaning side to side to catch the current. I loved the splash on my face. I loved dreaming and then shaping that dream into something repeatable.

Slowly, I started to see the pattern:

I work on a publishing spectrum — one end holds structure: editorial plans, systems, calendars, strategy. The other holds magic: memories, metaphors, intuition, somatic practices, emotion, grief.

Some days, I’m planted in one. Some days, I twirl between the two. The more I understood this spectrum, the more I saw it in others and began watching new creators on Substack. I wasn’t judging — I was just sensing: where do they live on the spectrum? And which direction requires effort for them?

Because some people need more structure. Others need permission to get lost. Most need both — and the right rhythm to hold them.

The Work I Do Now

I used to freeze when I saw creators resisting structure. I thought they were sabotaging their own success.

Now I see it differently.

The world tries to snuff out our magic in exchange for a buck. Of course we resist.

But once we learn to explore both sides of the publishing spectrum — structure and wildness — something shifts. We start to trust our own process. We stop outsourcing our creative authority.

We find a sustainable, life-giving way to keep writing, to keep publishing.

That’s what I help people do now.

For the Creator Who Can Publish — But Feels Something’s Missing

If any of this feels familiar — if you’re publishing, but still feel unrooted, tired or disconnected — I’ve been working on something for you.

It’s a 5-Day Substack Publishing Cohort for experienced creators who are ready to stop swinging between extremes and try on a rhythm that actually fits.

We’ll explore both ends of the spectrum — the practical and the poetic — and create a sustainable system that makes room for your voice.

You won’t just publish more. You’ll learn how to stay.

Details: 5-Day Substack Publishing Cohort

Dates: September 8 – 12, 2025

Format: Daily emails + ~30–45 minutes of coaching per day via asynchronous Voxer (voice/text)

Group Size: Amanda + 10 people max

Includes:

• Complete publishing framework

• Real-time support on your actual publishing questions

• A 30-day sustainable publishing plan (that you’ll want to reuse)

☀️ This is the cohort’s inaugural round — intentionally priced to be accessible. It’s also the last time this 5-day format will be offered at this rate.

Spots are limited.

Your Magic Deserves a Container

Whether you need months of unstructured exploration or you're craving a season of real guidance — you’re not behind.

You’re just finding your rhythm.

Find the people who help you build something real. Find the voices who rally around your magic — not to tame it, but to help it take shape.

Find the container that lets you stay.

We start tomorrow.