Last July, the very first issue of Lake Cumberland Compass launched. In the year since, I’ve poured my heart, soul, and far too many midnight hours and personal dollars into telling great stories about amazing people in and around our community. It was never just a magazine — it was a love letter. One meant to blossom into a full-bloom romance of mutual support and care.
But love letters don’t pay the printing costs. Or the light bill.
I offered the Compass in multiple formats to meet readers where they were — in print, as a digital flipbook, as blog posts, email subscriptions, and social shares. I built a platform grounded in transparency and collaboration, hoping it would become a home for real stories, real voices, and a community that gave back.
Yet here I am, writing this — knowing even this post might not reach ten sets of eyes. That alone says everything about the climb.
The Intent
From day one, the mission was simple: create a local, independent wellness and lifestyle publication that amplifies the voices of those doing meaningful work right here at home.
I wasn’t trying to get rich. I was trying to build something sustainable. Something that could cover expenses, support a modest home, and eventually reinvest into the very community that inspired it. I had plans to support local causes — with time, with promotion, with funds the Compass might generate. I dreamed of living generously, not fearfully. Of working with purpose instead of survival mode.
The Reality
Despite heartfelt feedback from readers and unwavering support from a handful of advertisers (you know who you are — and thank you), the overall support never reached the level needed to keep the print edition afloat.
We live in a time when local storytelling has to compete with louder platforms, national chains, and lightning-fast scrolls. And even the best intentions can get drowned out.
And I’m no amateur. I’ve spent more than three decades in publishing. I’ve won national and state-level awards. I’ve built magazines that reached readers across the country. People often tell me the Compass feels “national quality” — that they appreciate its locally written stories and positive flow.
But that wasn’t enough.
The Compass didn’t crash.
It just ran out of runway.
With a few more steady sponsors, it might’ve taken flight.
In the beginning, I paid freelance writers to help carry the weight. Then I couldn’t afford to. I offered commission-based ad sales with bonuses — no takers. Eventually, I stopped begging. The tears and fears became regular companions.
Ten issues in, this polished labor of love has drained my savings, maxed out my credit cards, and left me running on fumes — passion frayed, optimism dented, and cynicism creeping in where hope used to sit.
The toll is more than financial. It’s personal. It’s emotional.
Trying — and often struggling — to connect with local decision-makers has taken a toll on my mental health.
It’s that feeling — that no matter my skills, experience, or credentials, no matter how loudly I toot my horn, the circles I need to reach just aren’t listening.
We artsy types… we beat our drums with everything we’ve got, the rhythm so rich in our heads — but outside, it just sounds like noise to ears that were never tuned to hear it. And that’s the heartbreak. Not the effort, but the echo. Not the message, but the silence that meets it.
It reminds me of band camp. Yep. Fund raising for band camp.
That awkward magic of showing up with a box of oversized chocolate bars to sell for a cause you care about — no cheerleading squad, no quarterback to back you. Just you, hustling with a hopeful smile. You sell a few to kind-hearted folks. Some bars get smashed, some stolen, and you eat the cost with your hard-earned babysitting money for no return on that investment – except for the hope of a day-old cupcake during band camp lunch. Meanwhile, the popular kids breeze through multiple boxes, grabbing at hands held high by the crowd, waving dollar bills that will never be yours to grasp.
That’s what it feels like — not a lack of effort, but a lack of access.
And ironically, that’s exactly what the Compass was created to fix: a lack of access.
The Cost
Publishing a monthly magazine isn’t just a job — it’s a full-body investment. Time. Energy. Sanity. Cash. When the bills land in your lap every month, passion starts to feel a lot like penance.
Just to break even, I needed the equivalent of five or six full-page ads. That’s two fulls, four halfs, eight quarters — you get the idea. That’s just to cover basics. Add in software, website hosting, insurance, licenses, supplies, internet, and the 60+ unpaid hours I worked each week… and suddenly, this “free” magazine becomes very expensive.
I remember one early issue — a local organization asked me to leave a box of copies to distribute each month. I was thrilled. Months later, I was asked to stop dropping off so many. They were “being recycled.” Each copy cost me about $3 out of pocket at that time. Hearing that made me physically ill. Other groups would’ve gladly shared those extras where stashes had run dry. Instead, 150+ copies ended up in a dumpster. My work. My money. My hope. Gone.
Those moments… they linger. The cost was more than financial, it was personal — and it didn’t just end with copies in a dumpster. It was felt in every hour, every unacknowledged ask, and every missed opportunity to connect.
I work from a tiny spare room in my home. I don’t have staff. I don’t have a fancy office. I don’t even pay myself and I desperately need to. My phone is five years old. My car is a 2013 model. I eat out maybe once every few months, don’t subscribe to cable television, or buy new clothes, or go on fancy vacations. I live a frugal life, well within my means.
Throughout this journey, I’ve reached out to local businesses, public entities, and community leaders. I’ve delivered flyers. Sent emails. Made personal asks. I promoted them — sometimes for free. Many never responded. Some didn’t see the value in what I left behind — or maybe they were just too busy to notice.
You can’t build a bridge alone — and at some point, you stop swimming upstream.
The Pivot
I’m not giving up on storytelling. That part of me is non-negotiable.
But I am stepping away from the print edition — at least after the June issue.
The Compass may return in digital form. It may evolve into something new entirely. For now, I’m focusing on building out my journal projects on Amazon and restructuring my website to reflect the shift. I’m creating space for what’s next – diving deeper into projects that align with my passion that don’t require begging to sustain.
I’m done knocking on doors that are never going to open for me.
It’s a strange thing — getting close enough to the table to grab that stale cupcake, only to have the chair yanked out from under you. One moment you’re ready to join in; the next, you’re on the floor, staring up, wondering how you mistook the invitation.
So, while this might read like a love letter from a dorky band camp kid, pining for a seat at the cool kids’ table — the truth is, I’ve always been that creative soul, pulling something strange and oddly beautiful from the depths of the aching heart and quietly placing it on a table that was never set for me. I’ve never wanted a permanent seat there, just to be seen, heard, and accepted.
The Closing
To those who read, subscribed, advertised, shared, encouraged, or simply believed in the vision: thank you.
You were the wind in the Compass sails.
If you’d like to stay connected for what’s next, I’d love for you to join the email list or follow along via the website and social media. The Compass isn’t lost — just recalibrating.
This isn’t the end of the journey. It’s the end of this song. The page is already turning. The band is already marching, the next movement just beginning.
Thank you.
Lisa
Compass Communications 