I've spent nearly 20 years communicating online. And actually, it might be a little longer if I count my Geocities website.

But I digress.

All those years were spent building and engaging communities on other people's platforms, shaping messages for other people's missions, figuring out where audiences like to hang out, and how to meet them where they are.

Somewhere in all of that, I began thinking more about the idea that "if it's free, you're the product." I stopped writing for myself. I was writing for an arbitrary algorithm.

It's not that I don't have things to say. There's no shortage of ideas in this brain. But, as we know, social media rewards speed, polish, and performance. It trains you to compress your thinking so it's bite-sized and "snackable" before you've even completed the entire thought. The nuance. The delivery.

I designed this digital porch lined with Mason Jar Notes to work in a different way. Slower. Calmer. Spacious. Mine. Somewhere I could sit with an idea long enough to find out what I actually believe about it—or think I believe about it—not just what might potentially go viral.

Mason Jar Notes is that. Not a newsletter (yet). Not a content strategy. Just a porch with mason jars preserving what I'm thinking about. And because it's a porch, I hope that it's welcoming for anyone who may stop by for a spell.

I'm writing from a lot of seats. Public and population health. Social work. Digital strategy. Caregiving. Court-appointed guardianship. A Black man from the South who still believes "y'all" means all. All of it shapes what I notice and what I think is worth preserving.

Some of what I write here will be about digital health, access, and equity. Some will be about care systems and who they serve. Some will just be things I noticed on a walk or questions I can't seem to stop thinking about.

None of it will be finished. And that's the point.

If something here makes you think, makes you pause, or makes you want to pull up your own chair and add to the conversation, then this is working.

More porch than podium in these parts. Always.