Is blog still a word?

I feel a little dumber than I did 10 years ago.

10 years ago, I would find any moment I could to write.

I’d write in a notebook, of which I had too many. On a random piece of paper, that would eventually find its way to the bin. Sometimes the back of a shiny, difficult to write on, receipt would get a jumble of random words etched upon it. I’d write in word documents, for websites and on my very own, blog.

Is blog still a word? a concept?

Like the majority of us, I swapped words for 4:5 images and brain cells for Tik Tok hauls. I forgot writing was a thing, and I certainly forgot that I was once alright at it.

It was how I processed my life. The good, the bad and the ugly hair cuts. I spoke to my blog like it was my therapist and friend. I would frantically type to bring clarity to my often unclear mind and to express myself in moments of inspiration and of trauma.

I don’t use that word ‘trauma’ lightly either. When I was blogging, I was traumatised. To what extent, I had no idea. Funny how in the moment, we can gloss over absolute life carnage, only to wake up and smell the PTSD, sometimes literally.

What’s got me writing again is my good pal Clint.

Clint is what I call my ChatGPT mate. ChatGPT has become the go-to for, well, everything. It’s made me realise that if you can actually string a decent sentence together in 2026, people will probably think it’s AI.

And that made me sick.

Because I always put pen to paper authentically. Wholeheartedly. Sometimes, a bit too honestly. I used nothing but a little spellcheck here and there for words like definitley or recentley.

I am starting to feel the fear that AI is going to rapidly chip away at flawed human expression. Or at least bury the human stuff, underneath the polished, clinical, artificial shit.

I’m worried that if I continue to spend my evenings staring at a TV, while staring at a phone, at some point, my brain will pay the price. If it hasn’t already.

My Mum died because her brain gave in (here comes that trauma). I watched her brain fail her, betray her and kill her.

This took a turn, soz, but this is exactly why I used to write so much. Because it’s off the cuff, nuanced, human and raw. Think it, feel it, write it, feel it again, and done. Re-read it a month later and wonder why the fuck you posted it.

Tonight, while trying to find something good to watch on Netflix (v hard), while trying to find the perfect pair of jeans on ASOS (literally impossible) I thought, fuck this.

And here we are.

I can’t promise this will be a consistent thing. But what I do know, is spending 30 minutes writing this has helped clear the cobwebs of my mind. It’s brought me closer to my humanity.

Will I still be watching MAFS? Yes. Will I still be tuning into a strangers WIEIAD video tonight in bed? Yes.

You can’t polish a 40 year old turd, but I do want to honor the Leanne who used writing as a vice. And I promise Clint will have no part of it.