I thought that after all the time, the effort, the sanding, the writing, the reworking—there would be a moment where I’d sit back, exhale, and just know: Yes. It’s done.
But here I am, standing at the edge, heart in my throat, wondering if I’ve built something real or if I’ve just been fooling myself.
My website is almost live. My table—the table, the one I poured myself into—is finally finished. My book is in my hands, a tangible weight of words I once only carried in my head. And yet, instead of feeling accomplished, I feel… exposed. Like I’m about to step onto a stage with no script, no armor, no assurance that anyone will care.
Because what if no one does?
What if no one buys the table? What if my book is too serious, too raw, too much? What if the website I’ve spent hours crafting just sits there, unseen, like an empty storefront on a street no one walks down?
And what if—this is the part that really terrifies me—what if people do see? What if they actually look, and they don’t like what they find?
The Weight of the Work
I’ve never built something like this before—not just a table, not just a book, but this whole life I’m trying to create. A life where I get to make things with my hands and my heart. A life where my work means something.
But what if it’s not enough?
I want to price my table for what I know it’s worth. I want to write blog posts that feel honest. I want to share my book without feeling like I need to apologize for it. But there’s this voice in my head whispering, Who do you think you are?
I don’t have a massive following. I haven’t spent years building an audience or learning how to market myself. I don’t know the right way to launch a website, to sell my work, to get people to care. And I don’t want to do any of this just because I think I should.
I just want to make things that feel real. And I want to believe that’s enough.
The Risk of Going Public
Once I hit publish, there’s no taking it back. The book will be out there, the table will have a price, the website will be open to whoever stumbles upon it. And suddenly, it won’t just be mine anymore.
That’s the part that scares me the most.
Because this isn’t just about a table, or a book, or a website. It’s about me. My soul is in these things. And I know—God, I know—that putting yourself out there like this means opening yourself up to judgment, to silence, to the possibility that what you’ve built won’t hold.
And yet.
And yet.
I also know this: not sharing is its own kind of death.
Hiding doesn’t protect me from rejection; it just guarantees that my work never has a chance. Keeping quiet doesn’t keep me safe; it just keeps me small.
I don’t want to live like that.
The Only Way Forward
So I’m doing it. I’m publishing the site. I’m listing the table at a price that reflects what I put into it. I’m letting my book be what it is, without second-guessing whether it’s funny enough or light enough or enough, period.
I don’t have all the answers. I don’t have a five-step launch strategy. I don’t even know if I’m doing any of this the right way.
But I do know this:
I made something.
I put my heart into it.
And now, I’m sharing it.
That has to be enough.
Want to Follow Along?
If you’ve ever wrestled with the fear of being seen, of putting yourself out there even when it terrifies you—I get it. I’m right there with you.
You can check out my website, where I’ll be sharing more of my work—woodworking, writing, and whatever else is pressing on my heart.
And if you want to keep up with this journey, you can subscribe.
Let’s build something real. Let’s do the work. And let’s not let fear have the final say.