Category: Musings of a Streamer

Musings of a Streamer: Issue 16, April 2026

April 29th, 2026

Finding THE Game

One challenge I face is deciding which game to stream. There are plenty I want to play, but not enough hours in the day to play them all, let alone finish them. Beyond the time problem sits a harder question: is this game even worth streaming? Truthfully, I am bad at identifying that. All games can be worth streaming for the right streamer, but not all streamers are right for a game.

Aether & Iron taught me that recently. Seven hours in, the game had done nothing wrong. The mechanics were solid. The world was fine. The narrative was fine. Everything was just… fine. And fine is its own kind of problem. Without a genuine connection to what’s happening on screen, streaming becomes a chore to pursue.

Not that I have much of an audience to feel anything. Two years of streaming and I remain firmly planted in the 0-5 viewer range, a number so consistent it’s almost impressive. Streaming to an empty room while not even enjoying the game is a special commitment to the bit, and somewhere around hour six of Aether & Iron, even I had to admit the bit wasn’t landing.

Despite my constant declarations of wanting to finish Aether & Iron on stream by the end of April, I had to accept that would not happen. Pushing through to the end felt impossible once I started falling into a familiar trap: oh, I just won’t stream tonight. Something I tell myself not to do, and do anyway, with the reliability of someone who has learned absolutely nothing from their own patterns.

No Man’s Sky has been the opposite, and the contrast surprised me more than I expected. I’ve tried playing No Man’s Sky in the past, but it never clicked with me… Until it did these last few weeks.

Where Aether & Iron felt like an obligation, I kept negotiating with, No Man’s Sky feels like somewhere I actually want to be. Something about the quiet enormity of it, the freedom to exist in a universe that doesn’t demand much from you, clicked in a way I wasn’t expecting. There’s no pressure to push the narrative forward, no sense that I’m falling behind. The game simply exists, vast and unhurried, and allows me to craft my own story and journey. Somehow that’s exactly what I needed.

And I know it’s working because of what happens when I’m not playing it.

The telltale sign of a game that works for me is simple: I think about it when I’m not playing it. I plan what I’ll do next. Which planet to explore. Which base to expand. Whether I want to push further into the story or wander off in a completely different direction because something on the horizon looked interesting. That kind of pull doesn’t come from a game being good. It comes from a game finding you at the right moment.

Heck, in my brief break from streaming to focus on the end of the semester, my last semester of teaching, I’ve wanted to play even without an audience. No stream. No chat. Just me and an infinite universe, which, considering the state of my viewer count, isn’t entirely different from my usual setup.

Finding the game that resonates is everything. Not the game you think you should play, or the one with the most potential, or the one you’ve been publicly declaring you’ll finish for three months. The one you actually want to play, with or without an audience, with or without a schedule, with or with no good reason beyond the fact that it pulls you back.

Without that connection, streaming becomes a chore dressed up as a hobby. Aether & Iron wasn’t a bad game. It just wasn’t my game, and no amount of stubbornly scheduling stream nights was going to change that. The warning signs were there: the skipped streams, the six hours of fine. I ignored them until I couldn’t anymore. That has been the hardest part of being a streamer, recognizing when something isn’t working and giving yourself permission to move on. I convinced myself that I needed to finish the game. In reality, I didn’t.

No Man’s Sky reminded me what it feels like when the fit is right. When you’re thinking about a game between sessions, making quiet plans for the next time you load it up. That’s the version of streaming worth chasing. Not the numbers, not the algorithm, not the perfectly curated content schedule. Just the genuine desire to play, and the willingness to share that with whoever wanders in.

Even if that’s nobody.
Musings of a Streamer: Issue 15, March 2026

March 31st, 2026

My Store Simulator Addiction

Okay, I may have a problem.

Over the last few years, there has been a rise of store simulators, each one themed for different things. A general superstore. A TCG shop. A gas station. A movie rental store. Pawn shops. The list goes on and on. And I’m addicted to them.

It started with TCG Card Shop Simulator. Innocent enough. Open a little shop, sell some cards, organize your inventory. Open packs yourself to start a growing collection of cards that live in a virtual space. It’s simple, relaxing, and something close to peace. It ticked two boxes for me: card collecting and a loop that doesn’t require too much.

The loops are satisfying; stock the shelf, ring up the customer, reorder inventory, and repeat. There’s a rhythm to it, a meditative quality that quiets the noise in my brain. No existential dread. No imposter syndrome. Just me, my fake store, the soothing click of a cash register, and the occasional frustration when an NPC complains or someone smells bad (in game).

It’s the variety of mindless that isn’t actually mindless. Your hands are busy. Your brain is occupied just enough to stop spiraling about real life. You’re solving problems, but the stakes are wonderfully. No one loses their livelihood in some grand venture that leads nowhere. There’s comfort in that. A world where effort equals reward and progress is visible. Shelves go from empty to full. The register fills with cash. The shop expands. It’s tangible in a way that real life rarely is.

Lately, Retro Rewind and Bookshop Simulator have been my go-to cozy morning streams. One lets me pretend I run a nostalgic rental shop. The other lets me live out the fantasy of owning a bookstore without the financial trouble that would actually entail.

The collection aspect of these games is the driving force that keeps me playing. Like TCG Card Shop Simulator, you can collect special versions of the books or VHS covers. In Retro Rewind, it’s holo VHS covers. In Bookshop Simulator, it’s first editions, signed editions, or special books that grant bonuses to the shop. It goes beyond simple store management. There’s a hunt to it, a reason to keep playing beyond just keeping the fictional lights on in my fictional store that I care about way too much.

And both have me excited to see where the developers take them; which is always a good sign as a crazy addicted gamer.

I’ve streamed both in the last week, enjoying the mindlessness of it all. And honestly, these games have reignited my excitement for streaming in a way I didn’t expect. I’m just having fun, getting lost in the mundane tasks they ask you to do. They somehow pulled me away from my endless runs of Slay the Spire II and the epic journey of Estelle and Joshua in Trails in the Sky 1st Chapter.

I like to think I mainly play story-drive games, but here’s the thing about streaming story-driven games: I’m constantly checking the clock. Is a cutscene coming? Did I miss my ad break window? Am I about to hit a plot point I can’t pause? It’s stressful in a way that undercuts the whole reason I stream. I’m supposed to be having fun, not doing mental calculus about narrative pacing while pretending to be entertained, or provide entertainment.

Store simulators don’t have that problem. The loops are self-contained. I can rearrange the shop for an hour. I can run a few in-game days, hit an ad break, and dip whenever I need to. I’m not held hostage by pacing someone else designed. It lets me relax into the stream instead of managing it like a second job.

Which is good, because I already have two of those. Technically four, if I’m being honest. I treat my virtual bookstore and rental shop like actual jobs. They have operating hours. I have goals. I get genuinely annoyed when fictional customers are rude to me.

This is fine.

I have a problem.

But it’s a peaceful problem. A cozy, shelf-stocking, cash-register-clicking problem. And honestly? There are worse ways to spend my time.

So I guess what I’m saying is: go play some store simulator games. They’re pretty rad.
Musings of a Streamer: Issue 14, February 2026

February 26th, 2026

No Viewers? Stream Anyway!

I play games that no one watches.

Well… that’s not entirely accurate.

I play games that no one seems to want to watch me play.

Actually, let me try that again.

I play games that are so niche I rarely have viewers.

That’s closer. Still not quite it, though.

Here’s the truth: I have little to no motion in the streaming space. I have to accept that. I love playing video games on stream, despite how frustrated as I can get on stream. I enjoy sharing my journey through whatever world I’ve decided to throw myself into. The weird indie titles. The slow-burn RPGs. The games that have absolutely no viewers when you look them up on Twitch.

Sometimes people pop in for a glimpse. A ‘hello’. A ‘first time playing?’ But most of the time, I’m alone in my enjoyment, playing with the quiet hope that someone will stumble upon me like they accidentally clicked the wrong category and decided to stay out of curiosity. I’m not streaming the hottest new release. I’m not chasing the trending category.

I’m just… playing what I want to play.

And that comes with consequences.

Low viewership. Quiet chats. The occasional bot trying to sell me ‘professional graphics’ as if that’s the missing piece to my wildly niche indie title that has zero momentum in the greater gaming community.

It’s funny, really. The advice you see floating around streaming spaces is almost always the same: Play trending games. Find your niche, but not too niche. Be discoverable. Think strategically. Maximize your time. Optimize your content. Repurpose everything. Grind. Grind harder. Why aren’t you grinding?

And I get it. I really do. In past Musings I had similar suggestions. There’s logic behind that advice. Growth on streaming platforms is brutally difficult. Discoverability is a joke most days. If you want numbers, you have to be intentional and you have to ensure you are spreading your content around.

But here’s the thing no one likes to say out loud: streaming that way kills the joy of streaming and playing video games. If I forced myself to stream only the games that ‘perform well,’ I’d burn out in a month. If I chased every trending release just to maybe catch a few stray viewers, I’d stop caring about the experience itself. And if I turned every stream into a calculated growth experiment, I’d lose the reason I started doing this in the first place.

I stream because I love games. Not because I love metrics. Or people…

There’s something oddly peaceful about streaming a game with zero expectations. This is something I’ve had to teach myself… Throughout 2025, and now the thing I really want to emphasis in 2026. When there’s no crowd, there’s no pressure. I can explore at my pace. I can read every bit of lore. I can get stuck on a puzzle for twenty minutes to an hour without feeling like I’m wasting someone’s time. I can react honestly instead of performing constantly. It becomes less of a show and more of a shared space. Even if that space is mostly empty.

And yeah, sometimes that emptiness stings. I won’t pretend it doesn’t. There are moments where I glance at the viewer count and feel that tiny punch in the gut. That voice that whispers, ‘Why bother?’ Like everyone, I’d love to have a consistent viewer base. But the longer I’ve been doing this, the more I’ve realized I don’t need it.

I love finishing a game and knowing I saw it through, even if no one else cared. It’s the rare moments when someone does pop in and stays for the journey that and I get to light up. Those moments feel earned. They feel authentic. They feel like me.

There’s also a strange confidence that comes with embracing obscurity. When you accept that you’re not chasing trends, you stop measuring yourself against people who are. You stop doom-scrolling. You stop asking why someone else grew faster. You start asking better questions.

Am I enjoying this?

Am I proud of what I’m building?

Am I happy?

And honestly Yeah. To all of it. Not every day. I’m not that enlightened. But most days? Yeah. Because even in the quiet, even in the low-view streams, there’s something grounding about showing up for yourself. About saying, ‘This is what I like. This is what I’m playing. And I’m okay with that.’

It doesn’t mean I’ve given up on growth. It doesn’t mean I don’t want more people hanging out. Of course I do. I’d love a lively chat. I’d love regulars. I’d love community.

But I don’t want those things at the cost of losing my love of streaming and playing games. If growth comes, I want it to come because people vibe with what I already enjoy doing. Not because I twisted myself into a being someone who isn’t their truth self.

So yeah. I play games that ‘no one watches.’
Musings of a Streamer: Issue 13, January 2026

January 20th, 2026
Welcome to 2026, fellow streamers!

We’re already creeping toward the end of January, which means two things:
- This year is moving way too fast.
- Something definitely already broke, and it probably wasn’t our fault (probably).
This year, we’re doing things differently. No more drama. No more staring at the viewer count like it personally owes us money. No more wallowing in self-pity because the algorithm looked at our stream and politely pretended it didn’t exist.

Instead, we smile.

We embrace the zero-viewer streams and empty chats. We laugh at the scuffed audio and the moments where we forget to show gameplay. We accept that sometimes the best part of streaming is talking to ourselves like a podcast nobody asked for. We also don’t beat ourselves up over dead air (seriously, stop that, it’s okay to go quiet). And most importantly, we actually enjoy the process of the craft we’ve decided to pursue.

And make no mistake, my dear streamer friends, streaming is a craft. It’s a skill we have to learn, practice, and occasionally trip over on stream in real time. If we don’t embrace the mistakes and the low points, we’re bound to eat ourselves alive and come out the other end exhausted and unhappy.

Because here’s the thing: streaming is fun. Somewhere between analytics dashboards and an unhealthy obsession with growth, that gets lost. So in 2026, we’re choosing positivity. Not toxic positivity. Slightly delusional optimism positivity. We see our mistakes and roll with them. We don’t dwell on whether someone is watching, or when a random bot pops in to sell us their “awesome” graphics and unsolicited advice we very clearly did not ask for.

We gently shove away the little devil on our shoulder telling us to give up.

Views or no views, we’re here for the ride. And gosh darn it, we’re going to vibe in 2026. The world already sucks enough, so let’s provide a little light, even if it’s just for ourselves.

Happy streaming, fellow streamers!
Musings of a Steamer: Issue 12

December 30th, 2025

A Bookend to a Streaming Year

I’ve been streaming on Twitch since 2021, off and on, with long stretches of nothing in between. It’s never been a straight line. There were months where I streamed regularly, felt energized, and believed I was finally building momentum, followed by months where I disappeared entirely. Life happened. Motivation dipped. Mental health got in the way. This year, though, I set a clear goal for myself: consistency.

I wanted to establish a schedule and stick to it. Not chase growth or numbers, not obsess over view counts or follower milestones, just show up when I said I would and see what happened. For the most part, I did that. I say for the most part because there were still gaps, weeks where I fell off or needed to step back. But compared to past years, I showed up more. I tried harder. I built a rhythm where there hadn’t been one before. And honestly, that matters. We don’t talk enough about small victories, but they’re often the only ones we can realistically claim.

That said, comparison has a way of sneaking in anyway. I don’t think I’ll ever reach the level of success some others have found, whether they’ve been doing this longer or in less time than me. I smile when I see small streamers hit their stride within months, building solid audiences and finding their flow almost effortlessly. It’s genuinely impressive. It’s also a reminder that this isn’t something I’ve been able to replicate, no matter how much effort I put in. That realization doesn’t come with bitterness so much as acceptance.

The truth is, I’m not even sure streaming is something I can do long-term. I love it, yes. I love the conversations, the shared moments, the sense of connection that happens when people show up and stay. But streaming is time-consuming in ways that aren’t always obvious. It pulls me in a thousand different directions: planning, tech issues, social media, energy management. Some days, instead of feeling fulfilled, I feel scattered. Aimless. Like I’m pouring energy into something without knowing where it’s really going. I’ve ended streams feeling empty or lost more often than hopeful.

That feeling is what led me here.

This year forced me to slow down and take stock of where I’m actually spending my time and attention. It made me ask harder questions about what I want out of creative work, and what I’m realistically capable of sustaining. Streaming demands presence, consistency, and emotional availability. Some days I can give that freely. Other days, it feels like a weight. It’s a hobby I love, and one I would dream of turning into a career, but the pieces aren’t right. I’m not sure I’m right for it, at least not yet.

Still, I’m not ready to walk away.

I’m giving myself one more year. One more year to focus on content creation and streaming without punishing myself for not measuring up to someone else’s timeline. One more year to build on the consistency I’ve started, to refine what I enjoy about this space, and to let go of what drains me.

This isn’t a promise of success or a declaration that everything will suddenly click. It’s simply a commitment to try honestly, to show up when I can, and to stop treating uncertainty as failure. If, after another year, streaming still feels like it’s pulling me apart instead of helping me grow, I’ll have the clarity to step away knowing I gave it a real chance. I’ll have closure.

For now, that’s enough. One year. One focus. One honest attempt to see where this path leads. This year, I found consistency. Next year, in 2026, maybe I’ll finally find my stride and my voice. Anything is possible.

I hope your streaming goals have been met this year, whenever you happen to be reading this.

This is the final issue of Musings of a Streamer for 2025. I’ll be back in 2026, with a clearer sense of where I’m headed.

Musings of Streamer is a monthly series that highlights reflections and commentary from my streaming and content creation experience. I am neither an expert nor a large streamer. All advice and content are meant to provide a perspective for you to consider, not to blindly follow. Join me every month to explore the wild waters of streaming on Twitch. I hope you find these insightful in your own journey.
Musings of a Streamer: Issue 11

November 20th, 2025

Being “On” Every Day

This month I gave myself a dare: stream every single day for at least two hours. No off days, no “I’m tired, maybe tomorrow,” no “the numbers are bad so what’s the point?” Just me, my camera, and a video game.

On paper, it sounds like a growth challenge. More hours usually means more discoverability, more chances for people to stumble into chat, more time for the algorithm to maybe, possibly, sort of like me. But that was not the goal. I was not chasing viewers. I wanted to know if I could be “on” every time I went live.

When I say “on,” I mean present and tuned in. Not just a body in a chair, but a host. Someone who can greet a lurker, riff off a random comment, narrate what I am doing, and make the stream feel like a space instead of just background noise. I wanted to see if I could show up like that, on command, day after day.

Spoiler: “being on” is not a switch you flip. It is a whole ecosystem of energy, attention, and self-management.

The Other Side of Streaming

From the outside, a stream can look effortless. Someone plays a game, chats, laughs, reacts, and time passes. From the other side of the screen, it is closer to juggling while you host a dinner party, run tech support, and do your best to stay sane when you’re at the edge.

There is a quiet, constant checklist running: read chat, respond, keep talking even when it slows down, watch the game, remember the goal of the stream, check alerts, thank the follow, try not to tunnel vision.

Doing that for a couple of hours on a good day is fun. Doing it every single day starts to reveal the seams. I noticed how much energy it takes just to warm up, how long it takes for my brain to shift from “quiet off-camera person” to “okay, we are on, let’s do this,” even if the audience is three people and a suspiciously cheerful bot.

Some days, that shift felt smooth and electric. The game and discussion flowed, and I could feel myself genuinely having a good time. Other days, it felt like dragging my own soul across the starting line. I was tired, or anxious, or just empty. My mental health fluctuated at random times. And the fatigue hit harder than on normal days.

Learning what “on” really means

About halfway through the month, I realized I had been chasing the wrong version of “on.”

In my head, “on” meant high-energy and charismatic every single time. Big reactions. Constant banter. No dead air. Basically, doing an improv show.

However, as the days pushed ahead, I leaned into a slower pace. I talked more softly. I let the game breathe. I let silence exist for a few seconds while I thought instead of panicking and stuffing it with noise. I was still present, still paying attention to chat, still welcoming people in, but I was not pretending to be a version of myself. I was just… me, with all my silly mental health issues and fatigue on full display.

Being “on,” I am learning, is less about performing at 110 percent and more about being deliberately present with whatever I have that day. Some days that means being the energetic host. Other days, it means being the calm friend hanging out while we both decompress. Both are valid. Viewers can feel the difference between genuine presence and forced hype, even if they never put it into words.

The toll on the body and mind

Daily streaming also forced me to confront something I usually ignore: my body and brain.

Sitting under lights for two hours a day, or more, talking almost nonstop, is more physical than it sounds. My throat gets dry. My posture slowly collapses. My eyes burn from staring at multiple screens. When I finally hit “end stream,” there is a weird afterimage of chat still scrolling behind my eyes.

Then there is the mental part. Even though this challenge was not about numbers, my brain still noticed them. How many people came in? How long did they stay? Why was yesterday busier? Why is today so quiet? Did I do something wrong?

Add that on top of the usual stress of life, and it becomes a lot. There were nights where I ended stream and just sat in silence, completely drained. Not sad, exactly, just emptied out. Like I had poured all the words I had for the day into the void and now had to wait for them to refill.

Daily streaming made that cycle very visible. It showed me that if I treat every stream like a test I have to ace, I will burn out. My body will tap out first, and my brain will follow close behind.

As the end draws near…

So, was the challenge worth it?

I learned that I can show up far more consistently than I thought. I learned that my “on” does not have to look the same every day. I learned that consistency can build its own confidence.

But I also learned that I need boundaries. I need water on my desk. I need stretches before and after. I need future days where I do not go live, where I let myself be fully off without guilt. I need to remind myself that it is okay if a stream is empty or a little awkward.

Most importantly, this month reminded me why I stream. It is not just for growth, or numbers. It is for the small moments: the regular who pops in to say hi after a long day, the new viewer who laughs at a dumb joke, the comfortable silence while we both focus on the game.

Being “on” is not a mask I put on for strangers. I am paying attention. I am trying. And some days, that has to be enough.

If you are a streamer, or thinking about becoming one, you do not have to do a daily challenge like this. But it might be worth asking yourself: what does being “on” mean for you? What version of yourself are you trying to summon every time you go live, and is that version sustainable?

I am still figuring out my answer. For now, I know this much: I can go live every day. I can be present more often than I expected. And I can also choose to rest, then come back and try again, one stream at a time.

Musings of Streamer is a monthly series that highlights reflections and commentary from my streaming and content creation experience. I am neither an expert nor a large streamer. All advice and content are meant to provide a perspective for you to consider, not to blindly follow. Join me every month to explore the wild waters of streaming on Twitch. I hope you find these insightful in your own journey.
Musings of a Streamer: Issue 10

October 23rd, 2025

Measuring Success

Success as a streamer is often judged by cold, public numbers. Viewer counts. Subscribers. Sponsorships. Viral clips. They sit there like silent judges on your analytic pages, refreshing faster than your mood can keep up. But success in streaming isn’t something you force; it’s something you cultivate. Those metrics might show the fruits of your effort, but they don’t tell the full story, and they certainly don’t offer comfort when the numbers dip. Or the isolation it can cause when those numbers don’t meet your ambitions.

The truth is, you can’t control those front-facing stats. You can nudge them with smart titles, creative promotion, or good timing, but even that’s unpredictable. What you can control is your process, consistency, and connection with the people who do show up. It isn’t glamorous, and it rarely shows immediate rewards. But it’s about the discipline of hitting “Go Live” when chat is empty. It’s the refinement of cleaner audio, sharper overlays, smoother transitions over time. It’s the energy you bring, the tone you set, the way you respond to a familiar username or a first-time chatter. Building a successful streaming channel isn’t about chasing algorithms; it’s about cultivating trust, moment by moment.

There’s a strange kind of freedom in accepting that the metrics aren’t the measure you should pay attention to. Once you stop treating numbers as proof of worth, you learn to read them as information. That mindset quiets the noise and brings you back to the essence of streaming: showing up, connecting, and experimenting.

When you strip away analytics, live streaming becomes deeply human. You’re present in real time, improvising, offering your attention and humor without a script. That’s connection at its most raw, and that sort of connection takes time to grow. You might spend months or years with little to no views before people notice. That’s not failure, though.

The slow beginning, and those moments of low viewership, are where your voice takes shape. When no one’s watching, you can try things. Fail with a smile. Discover what you actually enjoy. That’s where confidence is built. Over time, you start to understand that streaming success isn’t about rapid growth; it’s about lasting growth, earned through patience and persistence.

A dip in views becomes a moment to observe, not panic. Maybe your game choice shifted. Maybe your schedule changed. Maybe it’s just Tuesday. Numbers tell stories, but they don’t tell your story unless you let them. The streamers who last the longest treat their channels like gardens, not machines. They plant seeds with intention, water them with patience, and accept that growth has seasons. There will be droughts. There will be blooms. Both are part of the process.

Social media amplifies the big wins: partnerships, sponsorships, viral clips. Those moments are valid, but they’re just the visible layer. Beneath every viral clip are countless streams that never trend. The long, unseen grind is what builds the skill and stamina to keep pushing on as a streamer. If you define success by going viral, you’ll burn out chasing trends that fade the next day. But if you define it by craft, consistency, and community, you’ll find a steadier rhythm. You won’t burn out as quickly or feel like your drowning at sea. You’ll start valuing engagement over exposure, conversations over clicks. You’ll realize that every loyal viewer once stumbled in by accident and stayed because of how you made them feel.

And maybe that’s the quiet truth about success as a streamer: it’s the steady joy of building something that reflects who you are, even when no one’s watching. The numbers will rise and fall, trends will come and go, but the time you spend honing your craft and skills. That’s the kind of success that doesn’t vanish when the stream ends.

Success as a streamer is often judged by cold, public numbers. Viewer counts. Subscribers. Sponsorships. Viral clips. They sit there like silent judges on your analytic pages, refreshing faster than your mood can keep up. But success in streaming isn’t something you force; it’s something you cultivate. Those metrics might show the fruits of your effort, but they don’t tell the full story, and they certainly don’t offer comfort when the numbers dip. Or the isolation it can cause when those numbers don’t meet your ambitions.

The truth is, you can’t control those front-facing stats. You can nudge them with smart titles, creative promotion, or good timing, but even that’s unpredictable. What you can control is your process, consistency, and connection with the people who do show up. It isn’t glamorous, and it rarely shows immediate rewards. But it’s about the discipline of hitting “Go Live” when chat is empty. It’s the refinement of cleaner audio, sharper overlays, smoother transitions over time. It’s the energy you bring, the tone you set, the way you respond to a familiar username or a first-time chatter. Building a successful streaming channel isn’t about chasing algorithms; it’s about cultivating trust, moment by moment.

There’s a strange kind of freedom in accepting that the metrics aren’t the measure you should pay attention to. Once you stop treating numbers as proof of worth, you learn to read them as information. That mindset quiets the noise and brings you back to the essence of streaming: showing up, connecting, and experimenting.

When you strip away analytics, live streaming becomes deeply human. You’re present in real time, improvising, offering your attention and humor without a script. That’s connection at its most raw, and that sort of connection takes time to grow. You might spend months or years with little to no views before people notice. That’s not failure, though.

The slow beginning, and those moments of low viewership, are where your voice takes shape. When no one’s watching, you can try things. Fail with a smile. Discover what you actually enjoy. That’s where confidence is built. Over time, you start to understand that streaming success isn’t about rapid growth; it’s about lasting growth, earned through patience and persistence.

A dip in views becomes a moment to observe, not panic. Maybe your game choice shifted. Maybe your schedule changed. Maybe it’s just Tuesday. Numbers tell stories, but they don’t tell your story unless you let them. The streamers who last the longest treat their channels like gardens, not machines. They plant seeds with intention, water them with patience, and accept that growth has seasons. There will be droughts. There will be blooms. Both are part of the process.

Social media amplifies the big wins: partnerships, sponsorships, viral clips. Those moments are valid, but they’re just the visible layer. Beneath every viral clip are countless streams that never trend. The long, unseen grind is what builds the skill and stamina to keep pushing on as a streamer. If you define success by going viral, you’ll burn out chasing trends that fade the next day. But if you define it by craft, consistency, and community, you’ll find a steadier rhythm. You won’t burn out as quickly or feel like your drowning at sea. You’ll start valuing engagement over exposure, conversations over clicks. You’ll realize that every loyal viewer once stumbled in by accident and stayed because of how you made them feel.

And maybe that’s the quiet truth about success as a streamer: it’s the steady joy of building something that reflects who you are, even when no one’s watching. The numbers will rise and fall, trends will come and go, but the time you spend honing your craft and skills. That’s the kind of success that doesn’t vanish when the stream ends.

Musings of Streamer is a monthly series that highlights reflections and commentary from my streaming and content creation experience. I am neither an expert nor a large streamer. All advice and content are meant to provide a perspective for you to consider, not to blindly follow. Join me every month to explore the wild waters of streaming on Twitch. I hope you find these insightful in your own journey.
Musings of a Streamer: Issue 9

September 13th, 2025

How Streaming has Helped Me

This post is a pseudo-continuation of Issue 7 of Musings of a Streamer. That didn’t go into much detail. And while I’m not confident that I’m ready to dive super deep, I do want to share more… And This is more. More context. More honesty. A clearer picture of the manic emotions that gnaw at me, and the quiet ways streaming has helped me hold them at bay.

So, here goes.

I hit “Go Live” because I needed to feel like I existed somewhere outside my head. When I am not writing or streaming, my inner dialogue often runs at a thousand. My mind races in every direction, my mood swinging wildly from one extreme to another. I’m manic. Depressed. Empty. Full of energy. I struggle to connect, to stay focused, sometimes even to breathe. Silence feels like it can swallow me whole, while noise can overwhelm me to the point of shutting down. My head is not always a safe place to linger, and so I turn outward, trying to anchor myself in a space where I can feel seen and grounded.

I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder not too long ago. I haven’t talked about my diagnosis openly. It rarely comes up, not because I’m ashamed, but because it feels unreal, like something that belongs to another version of myself. Sometimes I convince myself that if I don’t say it aloud, maybe it isn’t there. Maybe I can just keep moving forward without the weight of labels. But silence carries its own kind of burden, and I’ve realized that holding it in doesn’t make it vanish. If anything, it isolates me further.

So here I am, speaking to you. Sort of.

It’s odd to put this into words, to let it exist outside of my journal or my private thoughts. But to keep us focused, I want to share how streaming on Twitch, and content creation has become one of the most important tools I’ve had for processing my mental health.

Depression is a frequent companion of mine. It creeps in like fog, soft and unrelenting, making it harder to move or even imagine movement. I’ve written about it before, and I’ll write about it a thousand more times, because depression is rarely a single story; it’s a recurring theme that shifts shape but never disappears. Streaming, though, offers me a kind of counterpoint. It doesn’t erase the depression, but it gives me a space where I can meet it with company, creativity, and connection. I write for the same reasons I sit down in front of a camera to play video games.

When I go live, my depression, or more manic moments, seeps through the cracks from time to time. Along with it comes anger, or frustration, or that restless energy that can feel like too much for me and maybe too much for others. But in those moments, I’m not hiding it. I’m not pretending to be anything other than what I am that day. And, people respond, not by turning away, but by leaning in. Some share their own struggles, their own days where everything feels impossible. Others just hang out, bringing lightness to the room with no need to fix me like some folks I’ve known in my real life throughout the years. Some are just there to listen and reflect along with me. Either way, I’m reminded that I don’t have to be alone in the weight of it.

Streaming has also given me moments of joy. I can be moody and dark, yes, but I can also be filled with energy as I chat with anyone who stops by. There are days when laughter flows freely, when conversations spiral into absurd tangents, when the act of playing a game becomes less about the game and more about the shared experience. Those moments matter. They remind me that my emotions are not fixed in place, that joy is still possible, that I am capable of connecting with others even when my brain insists otherwise.

What I didn’t expect when I started streaming was how much structure it would bring into my life. On the days I schedule a stream, I know I have to show up. I have to prepare in some way—choose a game, make sure OBS is going to act weird, make sure the mic works. That small ritual of preparation becomes an anchor. Even if I’ve spent the day spiraling, by the time I hit “Go Live,” I’ve given myself something to hold on to. And once the stream begins, the act of being present with others helps me step out of the loop in my head, if only for a little while.

Of course, it’s not always easy. There are times when my mood swings mid-stream, when my energy crashes suddenly, when the act of being “on” feels unbearable. Those moments are difficult, and I’ve had to learn how to navigate them with honesty—sometimes by ending the stream early, sometimes by admitting that I’m struggling. It’s not perfect, but it’s real, and I think that honesty is part of what makes the experience meaningful both for me and for the people who watch.

Content creation more broadly has given me a language for processing my mental health. Writing, in particular, allows me to shape the chaos of my thoughts into something tangible. Even if the words don’t always make sense, they create a map of where I’ve been, a record that helps me notice patterns and shifts I might otherwise miss. Streaming, then, becomes the live version of that—less polished, more immediate, but equally necessary.

Together, writing and streaming form a kind of dialogue with myself and with others. They remind me that I’m not just a passive subject of my mental health, but an active participant in how I navigate it. They don’t cure me—there’s no cure for bipolar disorder—but they give me tools, practices, and connections that make living with it more bearable.

Looking back, I realize that what began as a way to distract myself has become a way to ground myself. Twitch might not be therapy in the traditional sense, but it’s a kind of community therapy, a reminder that even in the darkest moods, I can reach out and be met with laughter and connection.

So yes, I hit “Go Live” because I wanted to exist somewhere outside my own head. But I keep going live because it works. Because it gives space to me and others. Because it gives me connection on the days I feel cut off, structure on the days I feel scattered, and joy on the days I’ve forgotten it’s possible. And in that way, streaming hasn’t just helped me process my mental health; it’s helped me live with it, one session, one conversation, one moment at a time.

Streaming isn’t the end all be all. There have been downsides that have hurt my mental health in many ways, but this is meant to highlight one of the ways I have found positivity in the wild waters of content creation.

Musings of Streamer is a monthly series that highlights reflections and commentary from my streaming and content creation experience. I am neither an expert nor a large streamer. All advice and content are meant to provide a perspective for you to consider, not to blindly follow. Join me every month to explore the wild waters of streaming on Twitch. I hope you find these insightful in your own journey.
Musings of a Streamer: Issue 8

August 12th, 2025

A Moment to Take a Breath

If you’ve ever spent more than an hour in one of my streams, you’ve probably noticed a pattern. Every hour I take a short break. I pause whatever game I’m playing and step away from the mic for three to five minutes. It’s a time to refill my water bottle, stretch my legs, and check on my pups. These breaks have become a personal ritual for me. They are a way to reset, not just physically, but emotionally and mentally too.

Streaming, while something I deeply enjoy, can also be incredibly draining. You’re “on” the entire time: interacting, entertaining, reacting, thinking ahead. There’s a constant push to perform, to be present, to keep the energy going. And when you live with social anxiety like I do, that kind of sustained engagement takes a toll. Even if my viewer count is zero.

So when I take that break at the top of the hour, I’m doing more than just stepping away. I’m making space for myself to breathe.. And when I come back from those few minutes away, I don’t jump straight back into the flow. I pause. I breathe. And I invite everyone watching to do the same. It’s a simple moment. One deep breath in. One deep breath out. Sometimes I’ll it’s more than a single breathe.

I started doing it almost instinctively. After returning from a break, I noticed that I still felt keyed up, still buzzing from the last hour’s energy, still overthinking something I said or didn’t say. So I stopped. I took a breath. I told myself, “You’re okay. You’re back. Let’s start fresh.” Then, something told me: Maybe others need this too.

So I started inviting my viewers to breathe with me.

That moment, those few seconds of shared stillness, became a powerful point of connection. Not in the flashy, viral content kind of way, but in a quiet, human one. In that breath, we’re all just people. Not streamer and audience. Not usernames chatting online. We’re people. Breathing through our own stress, our own doubts, our own anxiety. Together.

And here’s the thing: we don’t often get that in our digital spaces. Most online environments are fast-paced, designed to keep you scrolling, clicking, reacting. Even in live content like streaming, there’s a pressure to constantly be doing something. Silence can feel like a threat. Stillness can feel like a failure.

But I’ve learned, and I’m still learning, that stillness is not failure. It creates room for reflection. It invites vulnerability. And sometimes, it’s exactly what we need to keep going.

For me, it’s also an anchor. When anxiety starts creeping in, when the little voice in my head starts asking if I’m doing enough, if I’m being enough, the breath is a reminder that I don’t have to prove anything in that moment. I just have to be present. I just have to breathe.

That’s a huge part of why I do this. Because streaming isn’t always easy for me. I love it, but I also wrestle with it. I have days where doubt gnaws at me, where I wonder if what I’m doing matters, if I’m connecting, if I belong. Taking that breath helps me push back against those feelings. It’s a tiny act of resistance against the noise in my head.

And by sharing it with others, I hope it becomes something more than just a personal coping mechanism. I hope it becomes a shared pause that offers comfort, permission, and peace.

Some viewers have told me they look forward to those breaths. That they needed that pause more than they realized. That it helped them refocus, feel less alone, or even just remember to drink water. That means the world to me. Because this little habit has turned into healing.

For me.

For others.

It’s funny how something so small can carry so much meaning. But maybe that’s the point. We live in a world where everything’s always moving, always demanding more. To pause, even for a few seconds, is a radical act of self-kindness.

So if you ever drop by my stream and see me take that breath, now you know why. It’s not filler. It’s not empty space. It’s a sacred moment, however small, where we choose presence over pressure. Where we let go of what we were holding onto for just a heartbeat. Where we remember that we’re allowed to slow down.

It’s a breath for me. A breath for you. A breath for anyone who needs one.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what we need.

Musings of Streamer is a monthly series that highlights reflections and commentary from my streaming and content creation experience. I am neither an expert nor a large streamer. All advice and content are meant to provide a perspective for you to consider, not to blindly follow. Join me every month to explore the wild waters of streaming on Twitch. I hope you find these insightful in your own journey.
Musings of a Streamer: Issue 7

July 24th, 2025

Depression in Streaming

Streaming on Twitch is something I started because I figured why not stream while I play. As time went on, I became more interested in trying to make it something more than just a hobby. But more often than not, I find myself ending stream sessions feeling empty. Not tired, but emotionally low. Depressed. Like none of it matters. It’s been especially true since the beast of unemployment came knocking.

Sometimes the lack of viewers causes me small panic. Watching the numbers hover at one, two, or more often than not zero causes me to doubt everything, including myself. I try not to obsess over it, but it’s hard not to notice when it feels like no one’s listening, no one’s watching, no one’s there. It reminds me of how empty I am.

Other times it’s my gameplay. I mess up. I fumble through what should be a simple combat encounter. Or I forget an important story beat. Or, more recently, completely forgot to sell a certain material for money.

What kills me the most is the follow-unfollow that happens. I panic and wonder if I did something wrong. Maybe I did. Maybe they just wanted a follow back. I don’t know. I’ll never know.

I watch other streamers have a ton of fun or be effortlessly entertaining, and I can’t help but feel like I fall short. I tell myself not to compare, but that voice still creeps in: Why would anyone watch me when there are so many better, funnier, more talented people out there?

And then there’s the energy. Some days I just don’t have it. I hit “Go Live” already feeling drained. I try to push through it, fake a smile, be upbeat for whoever might tune in, but inside, I feel like I’m running on fumes.

The truth is, I believe I don’t matter in the streaming space. That I’m invisible. That what I’m doing is pointless.

And yet… here I am, still showing up. Still trying. Because something in me wants to believe I can do this. That maybe my presence does matter. That somewhere out there, someone might need to hear this and feel a little less alone.

I don’t have an uplifting conclusion or magic fix. These are just ramblings of an increasingly jaded content creator. I don’t have advice to give for anyone else who may feel this way. I’m just trying to be honest about what this feels like. Maybe I’ll come back and add to this when I’m in a better headspace.

Either way, if you’ve ever streamed and felt like this… I see you. I hear you. You’re not alone. I hope you will keep pushing on.

Musings of Streamer is a monthly series that highlights reflections and commentary from my streaming and content creation experience. I am neither an expert nor a large streamer. All advice and content are meant to provide a perspective for you to consider, not to blindly follow. Join me every month to explore the wild waters of streaming on Twitch. I hope you find these insightful in your own journey.

Category: Musings of a Streamer

Finding THE Game

My Store Simulator Addiction

No Viewers? Stream Anyway!

The Other Side of Streaming

Learning what “on” really means

The toll on the body and mind

So, was the challenge worth it?