43K likes on a Substack note changed my life.

I didn’t even know what viral meant this time last year. Here’s the story of how a sweary rant against Trump changed my life.

Two men in badly applied make up ambush a hero.

‘So, when was the last time the baby did a poo?’

Just a normal Friday afternoon for me. Working from home in my kitchen. Answering calls from new mums as part as my job in healthcare. Nearly five o’clock. Nearly time for the weekend.

My husband was in the living room. I couldn’t hear him clearly, but he was clearly angry. Effing and jeffing at the TV. Proper angry. Last call completed, I begin to close my laptop for the day.

‘Rebek, you have got to come and see this. It’s unbelievable’.

I walked into an ambush. February 28^th, 2025. President Volodymyr Zelenskyy meets President Trump and Vice President JD Vance in the Oval Office at the White House.

‘It’s been like this from the start’ my husband tells me without looking away from the TV. Agog with disbelief.

‘Some joker even asked Zelenskyy why he wasn’t wearing a suit!’.

My husband clenches his fist; I clench my jaw. I am sick with rage. Bullying, humiliation, veiled and not so veiled threats being levelled at one of the bravest men in the world. Pack mentality. A playground filled with bullies who never had friends to play with.

My daughter wanders in and interrupts

‘What’s for dinner?’

We both silence her. Perhaps harshly. We would never normally do that, but this is not normal.

I feel helpless as the mockery, the provocation and the arrogance escalates. I feel helpless but I am not helpless. They will not do that to me. They will not do that to anyone. I grab my phone and start typing a note on Substack.

An absolute beginner, I only started posting notes on Substack a few months earlier. In fact, I only came to Substack a few months before that. Not a digital native, my previous social media experience was limited to an eclectic mix of a Facebook account of family pics and social activism and an Instagram account dedicated to Taylor Swift (my daughter was a big fan).

No matter. Zelenskyy was an actor and comedian before he took on the role of defeating Russian superpowers. Passion often trumps experience. And so, I typed. Furiously, my hand shaking, one eye on the TV screen, one eye of the phone screen. This was not the time for typos.

I pressed post. My message was out there for everyone to see, and I would have shouted it from the rooftops if I could:

No regret. Zero. Momentarily I wondered if I would be taken off the platform. Is that hate speech? Frankly my dears, I did not give a shit. Take me off the platform if you like. I don’t want to be on any platform that thinks Trump’s behaviour is acceptable.

‘And now we are just going to show a replay of that extraordinary encounter between President Trump and President Zelenskyy’

Announced the shocked but still understated BBC broadcaster.

‘Turn it off’. I snapped. I had seen enough. I really had.

My phone buzzes. Someone has liked my note. I was relieved. I was not alone.

‘Buzz’ again. And again. And again.

The likes and the comments start coming in. Encouragement. Solidarity. Incredulity. Community. Britain, America, Canada, Australia, everywhere. We are all standing together. The comments come thick and fast and some are breaking my heart.

A woman who can no longer afford her antidepressants thanks to Trump’s health care cuts. A mum who is worried about the future for her LGBT son. Another who is worried about the reproductive rights of her daughters.

Senior citizens wanting to uproot their lives and escape, only staying put for the sakes of their children and grandchildren. Normal people. People like me and my family. A dreadful picture is building. No-one feels safe. America is under ambush. I can’t look away.

And I don’t. I answer every message. I am up way past my bedtime. Eventually I must go to bed. But I can’t sleep. I’m too alert. Alert to many things, including the buzzing of my phone.

I can’t turn it off as my eldest daughter is at university and my phone has become my long-distance baby monitor. So, I spend a few hours tossing and turning. Eventually I give in and go downstairs to engage with commenters. Sleep can wait.

The ‘likes’ are coming apace. Over 1000 already by break of day, Saturday. The note is gaining momentum, traction like I had never experienced. My adrenaline keeps me going through the day. No family time, I had a bigger family to answer to.

There was no let up on Sunday either. Thousands more likes, hundreds more comments. I juggle replies whilst trying to cram in the weekly food shop. Sunday dinner cooked by my husband. I barely look up from my phone for two days. Got a crick in my neck.

Just a mum. Fighting fascism. Riding the tube around London.

‘You know you don’t have to answer every message’ my concerned daughter informed me.

‘I do, I really do’, I reply.

If I could have bottled some of that energy, that force for good, that community and courage that was ringing through those messages and sent it to the White House, Trump would have been packing his bags within the hour.

People from continents apart, connecting and committing to push for better, to support each other and offer resistance (if only by their existence). I could not look away and yes, I was proud, exhilarated and awoken to a new way of fighting oppression and bringing people together. It felt good.

But Monday morning came around too quickly and I was soon back at work. Supporting new mums, arranging medical care for new babies. An important job, that I took very seriously. But I felt I had other work to do too.

Catching up with the countless messages I had received over night (damn the complications of corresponding over many time zones). My lunch break was spent scrolling through my phone. Thousands more likes, a volley of amazing comments to engage with. I was running out of hours in the day.

And so, it continued. For over a week. Making deep and meaningful connections. Offering solidarity and to and strength to a nation under siege. I even started a second Substack publication called ‘Sick of this Shit’ dedicated to calling the Trump out and offering support to all who needed it.

Me. A fifty something, British housewife and mother. Healthcare worker of 20 years, dodgy back, cat lover, no social media experience, no political or journalistic background. Was I qualified to take on such a task? Probably not. But I was angry and wanted to help. That would have to be enough.

A week after posting, the note was still running away with itself. And it ran into trouble. I hit a bit of a MAGA algorithm. A flurry of angry commenters, flexing their tattooed muscles, engaging their one brain cell and beating their hairy chest. The men were not much better either! (Seriously MAGA women are vile). I quickly learned how to ‘block and delete’ but not before a few heated exchanges that I probably should have walked away from sooner.

But I could not walk away from writing. And so, I continued to work the day job, look after the kids, cook the odd meal and squeeze in my writing at any available hour (night and day). A month after posting the note it had accumulated nearly 30k likes and it was not stopping. Slowing down but not no grinding halt.

I can’t lie; my ego was being seriously stroked. So many declarations of love – even a proposal of marriage, which my husband found very amusing (laugh not Mr Mack, I have made a note of the subscriber just in case).

But going ‘viral’ can be tough and so can having your words run away from you and make a life of their own. It was at times a bit overwhelming, quite exhausting and anxiety provoking. My mum became worried

‘You better watch yourself Rebecca, you will have the FBI knocking down your door’ she warned.

‘Good,’ I replied.

‘I don’t care as long as they replace it. I need a new front door anyway.’

Laugh though I would, I have decided it is not a good idea for me to visit America until the glorious day the administration changes. I don’t fancy being turned away at the borders or even worse spending the rest of my days in some ICE affliated gulag. I am still sad about my self-imposed exile but that’s the price you pay for speaking up a guess.

By April the note began to slow down. I didn’t. Hovering around 40K likes and 1.5K comments I had less to engage with, but my engagement with writing for better was picking up a pace.

A new job, along with my day job, mum job, wife job, keeping the world turning like every other woman does job. Something had to give and in April 2025 I suffered a back injury that left me struggling to walk and straining to sit.

I spent months attending costly chiropractor appointments and chomping through pain meds. My doctors were clear. I had been doing too much. Something had to give. My body was saying no. But I could not say no to writing. I had not felt this alive in years.

Providing support, providing a space for people to be held and heard, fighting for better, putting my hard fought for personal and professional experience to good use. Over 40k people had liked what I had to say. Now over 2000 people were subscribing to read my work.

In July I took a leap of faith. I handed in my notice at work to become a full-time writer. To write for better. For everyone. He did that. Trump. Can you imagine the look on his face if he knew how had inspired a ‘piggy’ woman to turn her life around and pursue a dream of writing and activism against people like him? It’s a delicious irony. I savour it every day.

Trump has inspired me to do so much more than just write. I joined the Stop Trump Coalition in the UK and was proud to march against Trump’s UK state visit in September in London. I regularly share updates from the coalition along with ‘Everyone hates Elon’, a grass roots group here in the UK opposing the rise of the tech billionaires and oligarchs.

Protesting like only Brits can. A proud day for Britain.

I now write regularly here on Substack for my publication entitled This Woman’s Work. I take on a variety of topics including motherhood, midwifery, misogyny, midlife, mental health, media and politics.

Each post invariably touches on the impact and influence Trump and his twisted narratives have on the health, wellbeing, rights and safety of everyone, especially women, children, the disabled and other marginalised groups. The f*cker inadvertently changed my awareness, my writing and my life. I would love to tell him one day.

My ‘Sick of this shit’ publication is moving over to This Woman’s Work too. All my writing in one place. Double the fun. Double the impact. The more the merrier.

They say never post in anger. Take a breath, go make yourself a cup of tea and gather your thoughts. This middle-aged mother and housewife say ‘F*ck that’. Just say it. That’s what I did. Said it from the heart. Said it as I was thinking it. No strategy. No endgame. Just pure emotion. Its all we have got at the end of the day. Our truth.

The note now has over 43K likes and I am still receiving likes and restacks nine months after originally posting it. It changed my life. For the better. Showed me that the pen (or keyboard) can be as mighty as the sword and there is real value in the kind of community offered here on Substack and the kind of connections and support that can be offered online.

My work has always been to care for people (as a midwife and a mental health support worker). I came to Substack to continue that work but ultimately, I came to write as me and yes, I am a bit sweary when pushed and yes, my mouth gets me in trouble sometimes, but some things just need to be said. Communities need to be formed. Virtual hands need to be held and hope and holding needs to happen online as well as in real life. That’s my work now. This Woman’s Work.

I am here to write for better. For all of us.

If I promise not to get too sweary, do you think you would like to join me?

Want to find out more about me and my work? Click on my popular hero post below.

This Black Friday I am offering 30% off annual subscriptions to This Woman’s Work. Click on the link below to sign up.