Hey {{First Name | there}},

On February 2nd, I was holding a lot of tension.

Tension about summer childcare I hadn't figured out yet. Tension about what I actually wanted to be doing with my summer. And something heavier — the image of my son coming home from preschool after a group of girls made fun of his artwork and told him he wasn't a good artist. His first experience with bullying.

This riled me up, as it would any parent, but especially so because I am intentional about how I nurture an artist identity in my kids. I’m highly aware of how kids self-select away from art so early, the moment they start comparing or getting judged. And I instinctively know this happens faster and more collectively for boys who don't see themselves reflected in the craft aisles at Target.

I was holding all of that. And then, in the shower, an idea came.

It arrived almost fully formed — a vision of a beautiful, sustainable art product line made from natural materials, done outside and in motion, not confined to a craft table. Not flat markers and paper, but materials that enabled an organic responses to nature. Using hands in meaningful ways. Building real skills of artistry and makership.

As I let my mind wander into this idea, I fell to my knees crying. Not because I was sad, but because I was overwhelmed by the beauty of what had just arrived — and by the fact that it had arrived at all.

That idea is Move and Make Art Studio. And this is the story of how I am bringing it to life — which is also a story about all the moments I could have let it die, and didn't.

The first thing I did after that shower was let myself get lost in the idea. I literally did no other work that idea than talk to myself about what this could look like, what problems it would solve, who it would benefit and how.

Then, for weeks, every time the idea came back to me on a walk, I left myself a voice note. I let myself imagine what bringing it to life might look like. I gave it mental space and energy — which is what kept it alive and brought it into greater focus.

It can feel overwhelming to give energy to an idea you don't know will work. It can feel like you're setting yourself up for disappointment. But I made a decision early on: exploring this idea is worth it, even if it never becomes anything. The exploration itself is for my good. This might sound obvious when you read it, but in reality it felt radical. If you read this newsletter, you know I have a lot going on. Why would I start devoting my energy to another new idea when I have fully formed offers to run with?! I kept asking myself the same thing.

Because of the vulnerability I felt, I kept the idea to myself on purpose. Not because I was secretive, but because I knew I needed to be fully bought in before I let anyone else's reaction mix with mine. Other people's doubt — even well-meaning doubt — can get inside an idea before it's strong enough to survive it.

So I talked to myself. Voice notes on walks. Over and over, letting the idea get more and more real just by giving it room.

Once I felt solid in the vision, I asked myself a question: What's the first experiment to make this real?

This is probably the step most people miss. The chasm between having an idea and executing on a vision is enormous. No one can bridge it without taking small steps. Keeping an idea too big to accomplish is a sure path to idea death.

So my question became, what's the smallest version of this I could actually try?

That became a summer series. Six sessions. Kids from my community. Enough structure to test whether people wanted this, whether they'd pay for it, whether it could actually work.

And here's what I noticed: each step only revealed itself after I took the one before it. I couldn't see the website until the flyer existed. I couldn't see the flyer until the sessions were designed. I couldn't find the location until I knew exactly what I wanted to be able to do with the kids in each session. I've been foraging for supplies. Scouting parks. Collecting things and building the infrastructure piece by piece.

This is what bringing an idea to life actually looks like. It’s looks sort of like a scramble up close.

Last week, I had everything ready. The flyer looks great. The website was built. The park shelters were reserved (eligible for refund if I needed it). Registration was set up. The only money I'd spent (and couldn’t get back) was $16 on a domain name.

And then I completely spiraled.

Every insecurity I had came rushing in right at the moment of truth. Do I actually want to do this? Is this worth putting out there? Am I really willing to be seen? Will this put me over the edge? What if my own kids don’t want to go? What if my kids have meltdowns while I’m trying to teach?

Because here’s the thing about building something — the idea itself is usually not scary. The visibility is what’s scary. And I realized that's exactly why I'd built everything out before telling anyone. Because I know myself. The insecurities come with being seen, not with the creating. So I created first, until I had something I believed in, and then I faced the fear.

And when I got honest with myself, I realized: what's the actual risk here? If no one signs up, I get information. Something was off — the timing, the price, the location, whatever. I lose $16 and I learn something. If my own kids hate it or refuse to listen or participate, well, then, we have a growth opportunity to learn how to listen to and support each other better. (But also I trialed some of the projects with my kids and they loved them, so I think we’ll be okay)

So I launched. I sent the flyer to my kids' schools. I texted some friends. And within an hour, I had sign-ups. And maybe even better, the excited responses I received was overwhelming. Parents were thrilled that this opportunity existed for their kids.

Here's what I want you to understand: ideas can die in so many ways. They can die quick deaths or long drawn out deaths.

In the shower it could have been: that's a cool idea, if only I knew the right people. If only I had a different background. If only I wasn't already running other things.

In the experiment phase: that would be great, if only I'd lived here longer. If only someone sponsored me. If only I had more connections.

In the doing: this is too much to run alone. What if I don’t find support. Maybe this isn't the right time.

Every single one of those thoughts came to me. And every single one of them was, in some way, true. I have only lived here less than a year. I am already running other things. I do need support. None of those facts were wrong.

But I kept asking a different question: what's the next step I can actually take? Not the step that requires the connections I don't have, or the sponsorship that hasn't arrived, or the perfect conditions that may never come. Just the next real step.

That question is what kept this idea alive.

Ideas don't need perfect conditions. They need someone willing to keep taking the next step despite the very reasonable case for stopping.

Because the ideas that come to us with that kind of charge — the ones that make us cry in the shower — those aren't random. They're responses to real tensions, real pain, real needs in the world.

Yours included.

What idea have you been quietly holding? What would it look like to give it just a little more room?

If this resonates, I’d love for you to share your own idea in a reply! Fan it into flame a bit more.

Warmly,
Jennifer

Creative Current is the podcast I just launched with my friend and creative partner, Jess Schimm. We talk open-book style about our relationship with creativity and all it brings up in our lives. I love it so much. I trust you will too.

P.S. Want to encourage someone in your life whose taking creative risks? Share this email with them. It’s an encouragement to me, too!

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