The Emoji That Made Me Cry at 4 a.m.

Who knew an emoji could lead to such a beautiful friendship? A gentle nudge to post the thing (even when your inner critic screams "No!")

Something remarkable happened last week, and I’m still a little starry-eyed. A little speechless.

It started with a simple Substack note written by Kim Petersen—a gentle reminder not to compare yourself to others. To trust your own journey. At the end of her message, she added an olive emoji. Just an olive.

I sat there, barefoot in the grass, sipping my morning coffee—intrigued.

I wanted to ask Kim what prompted her to choose an olive of all things. It seemed to jump off the screen, just for me.

I sipped my coffee, wiggled my toes in the grass, and thought about that olive.

Within an hour, I had written The Misunderstood Olive and posted it to Substack Notes with the caption:

It felt spontaneous, rash—totally unlike me.

But maybe something I’m becoming??

In my secret life, I treat my journal like it’s my unpublished blog, and I’ve been writing fiction and memoir-style essays since I was a teen. But poetry? (And Substack?) Both are uncharted waters for me.

So part of me was thinking, “What the heck am I even doing…writing about personified olives? And posting it? For real human eyeballs to see?”

My intrusive inner critic is always trying to poop on my parade.

But thankfully, I’ve developed a fairly reliable poop-detector—my Inner Guidance System. (Iggie, for short).

Ol’ Iggs has taught me to blow off my inner critic and follow my muse to faraway meadows and dance in the daffodils.

Well.

That day, I listened to her.

“Trust me,” she said. “This will be fun.”

So I tapped post, slipped my phone into my back pocket, and headed inside to get ready for a Sunday hangout with the fam.

But as I debated whether to shave my legs or hide them under bell bottoms, a thought crept in:

Was that a Substack no-no?

Did I just hijack that woman’s Note?

She was writing about not comparing ourselves to others…

and in response, I posted a random poem

about how humans are basically olives—

just because she ended her sentence with an olive emoji??

💭🫣🔁

My finger hovered over the delete button.

But Iggie shut that down.

So, I shoved the overthinking to a cobwebby corner of my brain and skipped to my next dilemma: Should I try to squeeze in a hair wash, or slick back my grease bomb into a ponytail?

I chose the pony.

And out the door I flew.

Photo by Alexandr Choi on Unsplash

Then came the full-circle moment.

That night, thanks to too much wine (or fate), I randomly woke up parched at 4 a.m. but before I ventured into the dark for hydration, I did what every dumb, phone-obsessed person does. I checked Substack.

There it was—a notification I’d never seen before.

“Kim Petersen mentioned you in a post.”

I blinked…read it again.

Mentioned me? In a what?

Being a six-day-old Substack baby, I didn’t even know what that meant.

But I clicked.

And…

😳😮😵‍💫

WHAT??

She had written a full post about what I’m now calling (drumroll please):

The Olive Effect.

The rippling effect that sets infinite creation in motion.

How a single creative act—a note, a post, even an offbeat emoji—can become the fuel that another soul needs to ignite their next creative act.

I read Kim’s post, blinking in disbelief. How was it that my name and poem were woven into this woman’s post as the integral theme? I…I don’t even know her. But she read my poem and…

My brain buffered. Lagged.

I rewound to that morning—me sitting in the sun, writing a poem about an olive emoji.

And now, here I was…

reading a full-blown post about the ripple—excuse me, olive—effect of creativity.

With my name and poem featured.

What?!?

Let’s just say…I didn’t fall back asleep.

I laid there in the quiet of my bedroom, letting the warm sun of Kim’s generosity seep into my cold, bewildered bones.

This is why we must share our work.

Even when it feels scary.

Even when it feels like not enough.

Too raw. Too weird. Too vulnerable.

Even when we get caught in the clutches of perfectionism.

Even when our hand hovers over the cursor and we think:

No, it’s not ready yet.

I should find a better word than “scary.”

These photos don’t quite capture the feeling.

Is it too long?

Maybe just one more read-through…

Stop.

Breathe.

Share it anyway.

Because what might feel ordinary to you might be pure magic to someone else.

You can’t read the label when you’re standing inside the bottle. (Pssst…every creator is standing in their own bottle).

We never truly know how many hearts we heal, artists we awaken, or fellow weirdos we inspire. 💞

The Olive Effect shifted something in me.

Because the truth is:

I’ve spent years frozen in self-protection—hiding my voice, my past, my growth.

I’ve stayed silent for far too long, fearing that I’m too emotional, too weird. That I must be exaggerating the depth of my pain.

And maybe worst of all?

That I’m doing something wrong—just by being myself.

(That’s the trauma talking.)

But I’m here now.

I’m doing it.

Healed and healing.

I’ve been on Substack exactly 16 days now, and already, my world has opened up. Brightened.

And it’s mainly because of that silly little olive I keep talking about.

Here’s what I’m learning:

Your words don’t need to be polished to be powerful.

They just need to be shared.

So, here’s my echo of Kim’s beautiful post:

If you’re scared to share something—do it anyway.

You never know who will feel seen because you were brave enough to hit publish.

We hear: Hurt people hurt people. Free people free people.

Well, here’s mine:

Creators create creators.

You never know which emoji will spark your next poem.

Which poem will inspire someone’s next post.

Who might cry happy tears at 4 a.m. because of your words.

And now here I am—

writing a post

about her post

about my poem

inspired by her emoji.

It’s that complicated…and that simple.

That’s the mysterious magic of the Olive Effect.

🌿

Huge thanks to my new friend, Kim Petersen—whose thoughtful generosity turned this shy Substack newbie into someone who finally feels like she belongs.

And to all you wild, tender, misunderstood olives out there:

Keep writing.

Keep reading.

Keep sharing.

I won’t know that your weird, wonderful self exists unless you make yourself known.

(Preaching to the choir here.)

So go ahead—

Wave your hands high.

Do a quirky dance.

Tell me about yourself.

Own your unique spark.

And after that:

Go…

Share your essay!

Your poetry!

The letter to your younger self.

Your old diary entry.

And just see what happens.

I think you’ll be amazed by the magic you set into motion—and who finds you because of it.

So, what are you waiting for?

She’s ready for her next adventure!

🫒🧳