What it's really like to be the only one who does what you do
I have a great team. Engineers review my documentation for accuracy. Product managers answer my endless questions. My work gets feedback before it ships.
And yet, being a solo technical writer is still lonely.
Not lonely in the "no one talks to me" sense. Lonely in the "no one else thinks about what I think about" sense.
Here's what that actually looks like.
No One to Discuss the Craft With
Last week, I spent an hour deciding whether a piece of content should be a tutorial or a conceptual guide.
Tutorials are step-by-step. Conceptual guides explain the "why." The distinction matters for how users navigate documentation. It affects the structure, the tone, the level of detail.
I made the decision. It was the right call. But I made it alone.
Engineers review my docs for technical accuracy. They catch errors, clarify edge cases, and make sure the code examples actually work. That's invaluable.
But they're not thinking about information architecture. They're not debating whether this content belongs in the quickstart or the API reference. They're not wondering if users will find this page through search or navigation.
That's my job. And I'm the only one doing it.
Wins That Don't Translate
A few weeks ago, I restructured our documentation sidebar. It took hours — reorganizing pages, fixing broken links, testing navigation paths, making sure users could find what they needed in fewer clicks.
When I finished, I was genuinely proud. The documentation was meaningfully better.
I mentioned it in our team Slack. People responded positively — thumbs up, a few nice comments. But I could tell it wasn't a priority for anyone else. And why would it be? They had features to ship, bugs to fix, customers to support.
The documentation sidebar wasn't keeping anyone else up at night. Just me.
But it means celebrating alone. The wins that matter most to me are often invisible to everyone else.
Carrying the Vision Solo
Here's something I didn't expect about this role: I'm the only one who sees the full picture.
Engineers know their features deeply. Product managers know the roadmap. Support knows the common questions.
But I'm the only one who sees how all of it connects in the documentation. I'm the only one thinking about the user's journey from first visit to successful implementation. I'm the only one noticing that we have three pages explaining the same concept slightly differently.
That's powerful. It's also heavy.
When documentation has gaps, I feel responsible. When users get confused, I wonder what I missed. There's no one to share that weight with, no peer to say "I noticed that too" or "here's how I'd approach it."
Different Mental Models
I think in user journeys. Engineers think in features.
When a new feature ships, engineers are excited about what it does. I'm thinking about how users will discover it, understand it, and actually use it.
"What does this feature do?" is an engineering question.
"What problem does this solve for users, and how do we explain it so they succeed?" is a documentation question.
Both are valid. But they're different languages. And sometimes it feels like I'm the only one speaking mine.
The Flip Side: Freedom
I don't want this to sound like complaining. Because honestly? There's a flip side.
Being the solo technical writer means I own the documentation voice. I set the standards. When I decide we're going to write in a certain style, that's the style. No committee. No endless debates. No death by consensus.
I can experiment. I can try new approaches. If something doesn't work, I can change it without convincing five people first.
The autonomy is real. And it's valuable.
But autonomy and loneliness are two sides of the same coin. You can't have one without accepting some of the other.
Finding Your People Outside Work
The thing that's helped most? Finding community outside my company.
The Write the Docs Slack has been invaluable. Thousands of technical writers sharing challenges, asking questions, and celebrating wins that actually make sense to each other.
"I finally got the API reference structure right" gets real excitement there. People understand.
Twitter and LinkedIn have helped too. Following other technical writers, reading about their processes, realizing that my challenges aren't unique — that's been grounding.
You don't have to work with other technical writers to have a community of them.
What I've Learned
A few things I'd tell someone starting as a solo technical writer:
Build relationships with engineers who explain things well. Not all engineers communicate the same way. Find the ones who naturally translate complexity into clarity. They'll make your job easier and your documentation better.
Create your own feedback loops. If no one's reviewing your work for documentation quality, find ways to get that feedback. Watch new users navigate your docs. Ask support what questions keep coming up. The feedback exists — you just have to seek it out.
Celebrate your own wins. No one else will fully understand why that sidebar restructure mattered. Celebrate it anyway. Keep a list of improvements you've made. Look at it when you need a reminder that your work matters.
Find your community. Write the Docs, DevRel communities, Twitter, LinkedIn — the people who understand your work exist. They're just not in your office.
Accept the trade-off. Autonomy comes with loneliness. Freedom comes with responsibility. You can't have the good parts without accepting the harder parts too.
It's Worth It
Being a solo technical writer is lonely sometimes. That's the truth.
But it's also deeply rewarding. You own something meaningful. You see the direct impact of your work. You build something that helps real people accomplish real things.
The loneliness isn't a bug. It's just part of the deal.
And once you accept that, you can build the support systems you need — inside and outside your company — to thrive anyway.
Are you a solo technical writer? What's been your experience? I'd love to hear what's worked for you.
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