How to do hard things (without feeling ready)
This is the opening speech I gave at Craftcation this year. Sharing it here in case you missed it—or maybe just needed to hear it too.
Seven months ago, I did something I normally never do.
I was driving, and as I came up to a traffic light, I crossed my fingers that it would turn red. Usually, I speed up to catch the green.
But this time, I was hoping for a sign that I should turn around. I was on my way to my first guitar lesson. And a big part of me didn’t want to go. Not because I didn’t want to learn guitar, but because I was terrified.
It all started a few weeks before that. I had found this old bucket list I’d written years earlier.
And on that list — along with some things that are truly embarrassing — was:
“Really learn to play guitar.” It was one of those “someday” things that had followed me from list to list to list. The thing I kept putting off.
And it’s not like I’d never played before. I knew a few chords. One very basic strumming pattern. I could do a questionable version of Me & Bobby McGee. But I couldn’t really play. I’d go years without touching the Goya guitar my grandmother had given me. She was a classical guitar player.
I’m guessing you have a list like this too.
Maybe on your list is:
- plein air watercolor painting at the beach
- learning how to sew so you can use that fabric you bought 10 years ago to make a dress, even though you’ve never touched a sewing machine in your life
- quitting your office job to align with your dream career
A few weeks before my sweaty moment at the red light, I wandered into my local guitar shop to buy a cord for my ex. I wasn’t brave enough to ask for a guitar lesson just then, but I returned a few more times until I finally mustered up enough courage. That bucket list item just wouldn’t let go.
At first, it felt exciting. Full of possibility. Until I was actually driving there. I had about 99 very convincing reasons to turn around:
- I don’t have time.
- I’m going to be bad at this.
- I can’t sing.
- This is self-indulgent.
And I knew that voice. Some people call it the inner critic. My therapist calls it my “mob boss.” Because that’s what it sounds like in my head — like Robert De Niro.
- “You think you can do this?”
- “Who the F do you think you are?”
- “Just staaap.”
- “Forget about it.”
I’ve heard that voice so many times. I heard it when I signed up for my first craft fair, standing in my tiny apartment surrounded by things I’d made, thinking:
- “Who is going to buy this?”
- “I should go back to grad school.”
- “Do what my parents want me to do.”
But I didn’t listen. I went to that craft fair — and hundreds after that. Some days I’d sit there all day, smiling, trying not to cry, watching people walk past my booth, knowing I needed to make money to pay rent. But why I kept waking up and dragging my stuff from the parking lot to set up displays in cold, wind, and rain was because one of the things on many of my bucket lists was starting my own business.
One of those lists also led to the first Craftcation in 2012, when I signed a contract that basically said if people didn’t show up, I owed hundreds of thousands of dollars to the Crowne Plaza Hotel right down the street from where you’re sitting right now. I literally researched how to immigrate to Montreal, where I imagined the hotel’s general manager would never find me, disguised in my vast collection of wigs and costumes.
Now let’s get back to me approaching that traffic light, sweating on the way to the guitar store for my very first lesson.
So I made a deal with myself: If the light turns red, I go home. That’s a sign. The light stayed green.
And I remember thinking:
“Cool. I hate this for me.” But I kept driving. I walked in.
And the mob boss — Robert De Niro, everyone who knew what was best for me — was still there:
- “You don’t belong here.”
- “Who are you to do this?”
But I walked in anyway. I walked to the back of the shop where the lessons happen and immediately started rambling about how nervous I was.
- “I don’t know why I’m here.”
- “I don’t have time for this.”
- “I’m a mom and I own my own business.”
- “I’m going to be bad at this.”
- “I can’t carry a tune.”
- “Music theory is like a language I can’t speak.”
Talking too fast. Waving my hands. Apologizing for things I didn’t need to apologize for. And my guitar teacher just looked at me and asked:
“What do you do for yourself?”
And I stopped. Because I didn’t have an answer.
Somewhere along the way, my creativity — something that I had always done for myself — became something else. It became content. Products to sell. A new business plan. I had used my creativity to survive, buy food, and pay rent. And when you do the thing you love to pay bills, maybe it starts to feel like it doesn’t belong to you anymore. It becomes something to be judged. Measured. Put on a deadline.
And suddenly there are all those Robert De Niro questions:
- Is this good enough?
- Will this sell?
- Is this on-brand?
Instead of:
- Do I love what I’m doing?
- Am I having fun?
- Is this meaningful to me anymore?
- Why am I killing myself to make a living with my art?
And sitting there in that guitar lesson, I realized how far I’d come from those moments when my creativity was flowing and I was completely in love with what I was making. This guitar lesson wasn’t serving any purpose other than the joy I felt being there as a beginner and doing this thing I’d always wanted to do. This lesson wasn’t for my business. No one was waiting to judge me. It wasn’t going to pay my bills. It was just… mine.
And honestly? That felt really uncomfortable. Because I had gotten so used to tying my worth to my productivity.
So I kept showing up to lessons. Sneaking in practice when I could, even if it was just 10 minutes on a to-do list that was already too full. And something started to happen. That feeling I had when I first started making things came back. The cheerleader in my head — the one who pushed me to write bucket lists in the first place — was back. I remembered those moments when a younger version of myself had pushed past scary things.
I had forgotten that brave Nicole who sat on the floor of her tiny apartment, losing track of time, forgetting to eat, completely in the flow of creating something new. Not forcing something. Just channeling it.
And once I started listening to that cheerleader again, things began to shift. I walked into a gym — something I hadn’t done in years — and felt like an absolute dork. The mob boss was there, of course.
- “Why are you taking time away from what you should be doing?”
- “Your shoes aren’t the right ones.”
- “You’re gonna fall off that treadmill.”
- But I did it anyway.
And then I made one of the hardest decisions of my life. I separated from my husband of 15 years. It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t easy. It’s still messy. But I knew it was right.
The mob boss said:
- You should keep trying to make it work.
- What if you’re alone forever?
- What if you’re making the biggest mistake of your life?
But something told me this was right. Because doing hard things — even when you’re not ready — that’s how you start trusting yourself. That’s how the cheerleader voice gets louder. That’s how you build a life that actually feels like yours.
About a year and a half ago, I moved into my grandparents’ house in Southern California. I was suddenly five minutes from my parents for the first time in 15 years. While clearing out the garage, I found my grandmother’s paintings stacked in a closet. I hung them all over my new house. I added my mom’s paintings from high school, displayed my grandma’s vintage guitar, and set up my dad’s drum set.
When I walk through the house where I live, I think about the people who came before me. Creative people. People carrying responsibility. Family. Life. But their creativity often lived in the margins. And a lot of us here are still doing that. Trying to carve out time for ourselves, for our art, for the things we long for.
I understand why sometimes that feels futile. I understand why sometimes that feels unworthy. Especially when we’re all living in a world where people don’t always feel safe, seen, or welcome. And here we are… making things. Sometimes it feels almost absurd. Like: “The world is on fire… buy my art.”
But what you’re doing? It’s not small. It’s choosing possibility over fear. And that matters.
So here’s what I want you to do. Take the blank cards you were given. On one, write the thing you’ve been scared to do.
On the other, write yourself a permission slip. Then flip over the permission slip and write one thing the cheerleader would say to the mob boss. Something like: “I’m doing this because…” Then underneath that, write one tiny first step you can take toward the thing you’re giving yourself permission for.
Before you leave Craftcation, take that step. However small it is.
And I know I’m asking you to do something hard. So I’m going to do something hard too. There are only a handful of people who’ve heard me play guitar. Most of them are related to me. I’m not a great guitar player. I’m not a great singer. And I’m not here to be. I’m here to show you what it looks like to do something while that voice is still there. So I’m going to play you the first song I ever wrote, which happens to be about one of the hard things I’ve done recently. *At this point in the speech I play my song.
Okay. I did it. That’s what it looks like. Doing something while the voice is still talking. That’s what I want you to walk away with this week. Take me and my sweaty palms slipping off this guitar as inspiration, and have your own bucket-list moment.
And before you leave, put your card on the wall. No names. No pressure. Just a room full of people… doing it scared.
This is what Craftcation is. Not just workshops. Not just the learning. This is a place where we practice being brave.
*And if you’re ready to be brave with us, join us at Craftcation next year.
