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Nahman’s writing is warm, candid, thoughtful, and gently political she cites theorists such as Karl Marx, Jean Baudrillard, and Marshall McLuhan, offering an accessible leftist lens on everything from celebrity culture to the changing seasons. Nahman’s Sunday newsletter is free, but a paid subscription to “Maybe Baby,” which costs the minimum fee, includes access to a weekly podcast and a monthly advice column.

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Writers can choose whether subscriptions are free or paid the minimum charge for paid subscriptions is five dollars a month or thirty dollars a year, and Substack takes ten per cent of all revenue. Nahman publishes “Maybe Baby” on Substack, a service that enables writers to draft, edit, and send e-mail newsletters to subscribers. “It will be a place for me to write more freely than I’ve been able, explore ideas (and feelings) I think deserve more attention, and generally connect with you all via the amazing technology of e-mail™️,” Nahman wrote, beneath a photograph of herself sitting on her bed in a red sweater, the word “Announcement” superimposed over her head, like a crown.

(The name, she has written, was inspired by her appreciation of uncertainty.) Just before the pandemic arrived in New York City, Nahman left her job as the features director of Man Repeller, a women’s media site, with a long-held plan to go freelance in late March, she announced the launch of “Maybe Baby” on Instagram, where she has ninety thousand followers. They are the core offering of “Maybe Baby,” a weekly e-mail newsletter, of which she is the sole writer and editor. Nahman, who is thirty-one and lives in Brooklyn, sends out missives like these every Sunday, to some thirty thousand subscribers. “I then proceeded to make the most colorful stoner drawing of my life, which I’m convinced healed something inside of me,” she reported, attaching a photo of herself bundled up in winter clothes, looking peaceful. Three weeks later, she took a small dose of psychedelic mushrooms and walked around a lake. In October, she reflected on the long-term consequences of “collective, inexhaustible despair” in November, she clarified that, despite sounding depressed, she was doing fine, before segueing into a two-thousand-word meditation on anxiety, which she illustrated with a photograph of her cat, Bug, a sleepy Persian. “I’ve noticed that when you hug your knees to your chest and watch the water pitter-patter against your toes, drips sliding down your nose and into your mouth, it feels almost like getting caught in a warm rainstorm.” She recommended reading Ross Gay’s poem “A Small Needful Fact,” a Jacobin essay about socialism, and a profile of Miranda July in New York magazine. “Not to paint too bleak a picture, but I’ve started sitting down in the shower,” she wrote, in September, in an e-mail. She had spent most of the pandemic inside, shuttling around the one-bedroom apartment she shares with her partner, Avi.