Why I Gave Away the Blog that Made Me

Without the blog, I presumed I could not fly.

Today, I published my last post on the Museum 2.0 blog. This is an edited version of that post, telling the story of why I let go of the online platform that gave me my career.

A brief overview of Museum 2.0: as far as I know, it’s the longest-running, most-read blog in the museum industry not published by an institution. I started it in 2006, writing 800 posts over 13 years. Over that time period, the blog had 945,000 unique visitors, plus another 8,000–20,000 who received the blog as an email newsletter weekly. The blog changed my life, built my career, and empowered me to write two best-selling books.

So why am I saying goodbye?

Counselors talk about marriage being something you recommit to every day. When I think of Museum 2.0, I think about the commitments I made to myself, to it, and to readers — and how those changed over time.

I started the Museum 2.0 blog in 2006 for three reasons:

• I’m a self-directed learner.

• I love to write.

• I wanted to build a bigger professional network, and this felt like a safe (and nerdy) way to start.

At the beginning, the blog was an experiment. A way for me to learn out loud. A way for me to call up a hero and ask, “can I interview you?” My only commitment was to myself and my own learning. I blogged three times a week. I explored things that made me curious. I was nobody, rowing into the dark with my pen, sharing thoughts about the glinting fish and ships on the horizon.

2006 was a good year to start a museum blog. Within a few months, I was having rich conversations in the comments section with new friends around the world. I’m still close with some of the very first people to read the blog — strangers whose comments, encouragement, and advice have guided me for more than a decade. I felt like I’d rowed into a friendly harbor of creative, nerdy museum misfits who were eager to share and learn together.

But within a year, the dynamic started to shift. Suddenly and disconcertingly, I wasn’t nobody anymore. I became a kind of “it girl” for museum participation. Thousands of people started reading the blog. Approaching me at conferences. Asking me if I could consult. I’ll never forget when one of my professional heroes, Elaine Heumann Gurian, cold-emailed me to ask if I would consider reviewing a paper she was writing. It was like the God calling to ask if I would give my opinion on a new planet.

I felt like I’d written my way into a winning lottery ticket. The response to this blog changed my life. I spent 2007–2011 traveling the world, doing participatory projects and consulting gigs, and writing my first book. I became a little bit famous — in a small niche of a small field — but famous nonetheless. None of that would have happened without Museum 2.0.

I am incredibly grateful to Museum 2.0 readers for giving me this lottery ticket. For believing in me. For wanting more from me. Readers pushed me to accomplish more than I ever imagined. They helped me interrogate my ideas deeply. They gave me confidence, guidance, and stories for my books. They gave me support as I struggled to lead a museum through a participatory rebirth. Readers gave me confidence to grow and share.

But the increase in readership and attention had a dark side, too. By 2009, the blog I’d started as a place to learn out loud had become the engine of my career. Now, I was writing Museum 2.0 for the old reasons, but also some new ones:

• it established and built my credibility.

• it opened doors to new professional opportunities.

As you might imagine, this led me to approach the blog with a different attitude. I still loved writing and learning, but I became more externally motivated-for good and ill.

On the good side, I made deep connections with people who became treasured mentors, colleagues, and editors. I met perfect strangers through Museum 2.0 who enriched my thinking, invited me to far-off countries, and helped shape my books. At the same time, the pressure shifted. I started to slide from valuing external guidance to valuing external validation. I wanted your approval. I started to think of readers less as friends and more as clients who were counting on me to deliver. I kept to a rigorous schedule and never took a week off. Even weeks when I was giving birth, on vacation, or exhausted from challenges at work, I blogged. My attitude was, “readers don’t care what’s going on with me. They want the content.”

The blog became like Dumbo’s feather. I loved it, but I also let it overpower my sense of self. As long as I was holding it — as long as I was pumping out content — I could soar. But I was terrified to let it drop. Without the blog, I presumed I could not fly.

Through the hard years — the years of books and babies and being a new museum director — I thought about quitting. But I always came back to two reasons to blog:

• I learn so much from writing. If I stopped blogging, I suspected I wouldn’t reclaim that time for some other beneficial pursuit. I’d probably just answer more emails. Blogging is precious because it is an opportunity to reflect in writing.

• I love the Museum 2.0 community, and I felt responsible to you. The love felt good. The responsibility felt daunting.

In 2015, as I was writing my second book, The Art of Relevance, my grip on that magic feather loosened. I started to realize that my credibility and capability are not tied to hitting “publish” every week without fail. I started to realize I would still feel motivated to write without a deadline. For the first time in nine years, I gave myself permission to write when I wanted. It felt liberating, and scary, and good.

From 2015–2019, the blog continued to be my go-to tool for reflection and learning. Readership went down a bit, and I was OK with that. I was proud of what I wrote, and I still loved the opportunity to share and grow with others. But I also started to notice two big challenges that ultimately led to the change I’m making now.

1. Museum 2.0 is about participation, but I never fully succeeded in making it participatory. Because I’d built the blog originally to do my own writing and learning, I rarely invited guest writers. I never experimented here with models for collective writing. As I got more “famous,” I got even more stuck in feeling like I had to deliver the voice and content readers expected. While I hosted in-person events like MuseumCamp that created amazing community space, I never figured out how to bring that collective energy online. I wished Museum 2.0 could break free of me and become more dialogic, led by a strong writer AND online convenor. So I looked for that leader, and I found her in Seema Rao. This summer, I gifted the Museum 2.0 blog to Seema. She’s already taking it in more multi-vocal directions. I’m excited to follow her new experiments and approaches— building on the archive of what came before.

2. I’m transitioning to a new phase of personal freedom and professional exploration. I need to let go of some things to make room. I’m trying to let go of the magic feathers of external validation I used to clutch to legitimize my existence. I’m trying to let go of the illusion that someone else has their hand on the throttle of my potential impact. I want to build some new boats, row to new places, and not worry that I’m letting someone down by following my own curiosity. I’ll keep writing and sharing and learning, both through my new work with OF/BY/FOR ALL and on my own. You’re welcome to come along. I’d love to keep talking and learning from you. I treasure your perspective, even as I try to lessen my need for your approval.

I believe in the spirit and vitality of everyone who has contributed to Museum 2.0. Your attention, comments, care, and challenges have meant the world to me. You are the reason it was so hard for me to make this change. But I see it as a gift. For myself, a gift of freedom. For Seema, a gift of a platform. And for all of us, the gift to keep growing and sharing together.

Museum 2.0 is a place where we dream together about a more inclusive, vibrant, democratic cultural sphere. A place where we imagine a world where every voice, every story, every creative expression matters. I will always feel proud and grateful to have rowed alongside you in this place, towards that dream, together.

Adapted from post originally published on Museum 2.0 at http://museumtwo.blogspot.com.