I’ve been sitting with a realization lately that feels small on the surface, but oddly grounding.
I think I’m an archivist.
Not in a formal sense, and not in the “everything must be preserved” way. More in how my brain naturally approaches the things I love. Games, TV shows, books, tabletop campaigns. I don’t experience them as isolated moments. I experience them as journeys, and my instinct is always to record the journey as a whole.
That’s probably why I’ve always gravitated toward full seasons, full playthroughs, full series. Why I wrote about entire Dimension 20 campaigns instead of one standout episode. Why I reacted to all of Stargate SG-1 season one, and not just the “best” moments. Why I like playlists more than clips.
I don’t chase moments. I build collections.
For a long time, I didn’t have language for this. I thought I was just inconsistent, slow, or bad at “content creation.” I kept trying to force myself into schedules, promises, and timelines. I would say I’m going to do this regularly, or I’ll post every day, or I’ll stick with it this time.
And every time, the same thing happened.
The work started feeling heavy before it even existed.
What I’ve realized is that the problem was never the work itself. It was time. Or more specifically, expectation tied to time.
The moment I promised something in advance, I stopped enjoying it. My brain doesn’t work well with future obligation layered on top of creative curiosity, especially while having a day job and real-life goals. A schedule turned play into pressure. Publishing turned into performance.
And the irony is that most of this content is archival by nature anyway. Someone discovering my Stargate rewatch months from now has no idea whether I posted daily or once a week. They’re entering an archive, not a live broadcast.
So I’ve been trying something different.
Instead of saying “I promise I will do this,” I’ve shifted to “I am doing this, and the record will show it.”
That one change removed a lot of weight.
If I publish something, it exists. It’s part of the archive. If I don’t publish for a while, that’s not failure. It’s just a quiet period in the record. Some collections will move faster than others. Some will pause. Some might never be completed, and that’s okay, too. Archives are allowed to be honest.
This also reframes how I think about progress. I don’t measure it in streaks or consistency. I measure it in entries. Another episode archived. Another game session recorded. Another book reflected on. Over time, a body of work forms, without me needing to force it into existence.
Recently, I published an unboxing video that has very few views. I enjoyed making it. It exists now. It’s part of the archive. That felt surprisingly freeing.
I’m not saying this is the “right” way to create. It’s just the way that finally feels aligned with how I think.
For a long time, I thought something was wrong with me because I couldn’t keep up with the version of consistency I thought creators were supposed to have. I kept trying to prove momentum, to promise output, to make future versions of myself accountable in advance. And every time, it drained the joy out of the work before it even existed.
Naming myself an archivist feels like giving myself permission to stop fighting that.
I don’t need to perform reliability. I don’t need to promise what comes next. I just need to keep returning to the things I care about, and record them honestly when I do.
To make that tangible, I put together an Archive Index on this site, a simple, living list of what I’m slowly collecting. Not a roadmap, not a schedule, just a record of what exists, what’s paused, and what might get added someday. It’s there for me first, but if you’re curious how my brain organizes this stuff, you’re welcome to wander through it.
I still care deeply about building something that lasts. That part never went away. I just stopped trying to build it on a clock.
From here on out, this blog, and my videos, are just entries in an ongoing archive. No promises. No timelines. Just a growing record of things that mattered enough for me to stop and write them down.
That’s enough. And for the first time in a while, it feels sustainable.
