The Quiet Weight of Beginning

There’s a strange kind of silence that comes before something begins - in the space between dreaming and doing. It’s almost like a hum - of hope and fear, all at once. It’s filled with questions that sound a lot like doubt.

What if I’m not ready?

What if I’m not good enough?

What if I fail?

These thoughts have followed me with every step I have taken to get to where I am today. They arrive in quiet moments - when the house is still, when the work feels bigger than me, when excitement fades and the reality of creation sets in - the work, the waiting, the uncertainty.

It’s easy to mistake fear for a sign that you shouldn’t continue. But I’ve started to see it differently. Fear doesn’t always signal danger. Sometimes, it’s just the body’s way of recognizing meaning - of saying, this matters.

To create something honest, you have to walk straight through that space between what you know and what you don’t, and that space never feels comfortable. It’s vulnerable to put yourself out there - to show your heart, to say this is me and let the world see it. There is so much risk in that kind of openness. But there is also deep beauty in the act itself - in daring to be seen, in letting your dreams take shape outside of you.

So, I keep going. Even when it feels too big, too uncertain. I take the next small step, then the one after that. I remind myself that courage isn’t the absence of fear - it’s the decision to move with it, to make space for it alongside hope.

Because the truth is, every beginning feels impossible until it doesn’t. And the only way through that uneasy silence - that weight- is to begin anyway. Maybe that’s what all beginnings really are: a series of uncertain steps, stitched together by hope.

I’ll keep weaving it all together - the doubt, the hope, the care - one imperfect thread at a time.