Starting Small, Staying True

Starting Small, Staying True

We got the business license in January. Not because I had a five-year plan or a marketing strategy—but because my husband looked at the growing stack of cards and asked, “What are you going to do with all this?” And he was right. I’d been making things for years—cards, notepads, little paper moments—but I hadn’t given them a real place to live. A place where they could be seen, shared, and maybe even sold.

The idea of putting my work out there? Terrifying. I was convinced people would think it was trash. That it wasn’t good enough. That I wasn’t good enough. I’d spent years making things quietly, without asking for attention—and suddenly I was supposed to present it to the public like it mattered. Like it had value. That shift took guts I didn’t know I had.

I opened an eBay shop, then an Etsy shop. And every time someone started noticing my stuff, I’d pull it. I didn’t want them to buy it and tear it down. I didn’t want proof that my worst fears were true. So I kept hiding, even while hoping someone might see it.

And then, an opportunity came up to have space in a new vendor mall. I didn’t overthink it—I just said yes. It felt like the right kind of nudge. A way to test the waters, show up in person, and see what happened when my work had a physical home. That space is still there, quietly doing its thing. If you’re ever in Saltville, VA, stop by the West Main Mercantile—they’d love to see you, and my shelf’s tucked in there with plenty of sass.

The real reason I sell online? I make more than I can fit in the physical space. The ideas don’t stop. The collections keep growing. And I needed a place that could stretch with me—where I could share more, test more, and build something that didn’t depend on shelf space.

And honestly, building this business has kept me so busy, I didn’t have time to sit in the fear anymore. I used to worry so much about being torn down that I’d pull listings before anyone could buy them. I was getting in my own way. But then people started telling me how much they loved my cards. My bookmarks. My packaging. They saw the charm, the care, the story behind each piece—and that helped me see it too. Every kind word chipped away at the fear. Every sale felt like a quiet vote of confidence. I’m still learning to trust it, but I’m not hiding anymore.

That shift didn’t happen overnight. I am still figuring things out, still learning what it means to run a business—not just creatively, but practically. I had to learn what an EIN was. I had to figure out how to collect sales tax, even though I didn’t know what counted or where it applied. I didn’t understand platforms or systems—I just kept trying things.

Now I’ve got listings scattered across different places, some active, some forgotten, and I’m still sorting through the mess. It isn’t a part of the creative spark—it’s part of the reality of turning a hobby into something real. I didn’t love it, but I did it. Because if I was going to sell what I made, I wanted to do it right.

This first year has been a mix of joy, doubt, pivoting, and persistence. I’ve tested platforms that didn’t quite fit, learned what drains energy and what sparks it, and landed on Shopify with a clearer sense of what I want this to be. Not just a storefront, but a space that feels intentional. Personal. Alive.

Getting people to see what you’ve made is its own kind of work. The algorithms don’t care how long you spent choosing the right font or layering that texture. The traffic graphs don’t show the late nights or the tiny victories. And while you're trying to build something real, the scammers and marketers show up in your inbox, promising to “boost your sales” or “fix your site” for a price. They don’t know your shop. They just see a target.

I keep showing up—because this shop isn’t built on trends or shortcuts. It’s built on rhythm, storytelling, and a little Appalachian sass.

I don’t have a blueprint. I have a growing pile of lessons, a few bruises, and a lot of hope. If you’re building something too—whether it’s a business, a collection, or just the courage to start—I see you.

Thanks for being here. I’d love to hear from you.

P.S. If you like stories with sass, fog, and the occasional sticker surprise—join the email list. It’s where the good stuff lands first