My Digital Pilgrimage

Reaching for home

‘Christina’s World’ by Andrew Wyeth

“The ache for home lives in all of us." ~ Maya Angelou

Dear Reader,

As I continue writing my memoir, gathering stories that didn’t find their way into my four poetry collections, another surfaced this week – my digital pilgrimage. A journey that began back in 2004, when I finally bought myself a home computer. The tower unit was so large it doubled as a footstool, worlds away from my small laptop today.

Still, it was the green door in the green hill, and through it, I stepped into a newly blossoming world filled with poetry and song.

My Digital Pilgrimage

For over twenty years, I wandered as a pilgrim through the digital wilderness, searching for the poets – a place where words could dance and connection felt real. But the shadowed places I travelled through on my way to this garden of light were anything but safe – they were fractured, chaotic and often hostile.

Initially, back in 2004, I stumbled into a writer’s forum, looking forward to connecting with others who might share my love of words. Sadly, it was more playground than sanctuary – wild, disordered, volatile. At first, I held my ground, watching from the side lines. Yet the endless squabbles, harsh critiques and unrelenting noise wore me down. Conversations felt like walking against a strong wind – resistance in every direction.

Then came the final fracture, a major falling-out between two big personalities who had split the community. Not wanting to take sides, I quietly turned and walked away. When I returned a year later, the forum was gone, closed by the writer herself, exhausted by the turmoil.

Disheartened, I sought refuge in a photography community, hoping the pairing of my poems with images would foster deeper conversation. Instead, the space felt eerily indifferent – like standing in a vast gallery, waiting for someone to notice. Encouraging comments came, but without depth. I lingered there, lingering the way the exhausted linger – too weary to leave, too hopeful to stay. However, that journey led to some meaningful friendships with a local group of photographers, a connection that remains today.

In 2014, I turned to a poetry platform, expecting a haven for writers. Instead, it was brittle, competitive and unwelcoming. The space was thick with rivalry, poets with multiple profiles tearing each other down. If your voice didn’t fit the mould, it was dismissed, discarded. Psychological games ran rampant. My stay lasted only months, yet I lingered, ever the people-pleaser, holding out for crumbs. Until I couldn’t.

So, I created my own platform.

Ten years ago, with my wife’s help, I built The Liberated Sheep, published my first poetry book and started blogging weekly – sending my words out like birds into the digital wind. A few kindred spirits found me – scattered voices, quiet but knowing, who understood the rhythm and pull of words. It was wonderful. But over the years, a quiet desire to widen the ripple began to emerge.

As a result, because several writer friends were already there, I side-stepped onto social media – the dazzling, spinning carousel that promised connection but often delivered only noise. Twitter, Instagram, Facebook – each platform had its own language, yet none spoke in conversation. Buttons replaced words. I scrolled. And scrolled. And scrolled.

Weary, I wondered if I’d ever find a place to simply be. The algorithmic shuffle dragged me along without pause. My words became pixels, swallowed by timelines that never paused, never listened. Still, the time spent connecting with dear friends was wonderful – though the rest was just exhausting. At first, I thought what’s wrong with me? Why can’t I make these places work? Then it hit me: square peg, round hole – we just didn’t fit.

I was a quiet, slow-living, depth-loving, introverted soul who craved meaningful connection, not speed or shallow exchanges. Yet social media thrived on urgency, on fleeting engagement. It wasn’t built for reflection – for the way of being I love best. No wonder I struggled to make it work.

And so nearly five months ago, I jumped off the Meta carousel and wandered into Substack, where everything shifted. The spinning slowed. My search eased and within days, I started to find real voices – kindred spirits blossoming across the landscape, willing to share their stories, thoughts, truths. Words mattered here. Conversations unfolded – not in one word sentences or button talk, but in depth, meaning, reflection.

Before fully embracing this sanctuary, I returned to Facebook one last time – to say goodbye. It was a quiet farewell, acknowledging I no longer belonged in the algorithmic churn. I thanked those lovely friends who had walked beside me and stepped away, knowing I was home. I also shared a post on my website, inviting others to join me in this new space, where words truly matter.

Like a restless horse, I had bolted from space to space for over twenty years, searching for something unnamed. And now, finally, I had found it – the soul herd, gathered on the hill, waiting in quiet recognition. No longer lost in the scroll. No longer crawling through uncertainty.

The shadows I once travelled through led me here, to this garden of light, where words dance freely and connection is real. A place where kindred spirits find each other and wildflowers stretch toward the sun, alive with feeling.

Thank you so much friends, readers, poets and dreamers for welcoming me Home.

Yours in words, Deborah

If my words strike a chord and you feel inspired to dive deeper into my poetry or explore my essays on Jungian thought, I invite you to visit: The Liberated Sheep