When Your Confidence Takes a Vacation Without You
Last month, I got on a plane by myself and flew to Seattle.
That might not sound like a big deal—but for me, it was huge.
For decades, flying meant months of therapy, a tightly clutched Xanax, and white-knuckling every bump with a head full of existential dread. The fear was so bad that I turned down free trips to Hawaii and Europe. On our honeymoon, I begged my husband to rent a car and drive 43 hours home from Montreal because I was too scared to fly back after seeing a news story about a plane crash while we were there.
So no, this wasn’t just a quick weekend away. It was a decision to say yes to something I hoped would help my business, connect me with people in our creative community, and most of all—stretch me. I had to choose courage over comfort, even if just for that first leg of the trip.
How did I do it? Lots of therapy and research. And, I packed art supplies and downloaded binge-worthy shows. I took a tiny bit of medication—just enough to take the edge off, not enough to make me feel fuzzy (which actually makes me more anxious). But more than anything, I made a choice. A choice to stop letting fear make the final call.
That trip came on the heels of another solo work trip—this one to a creative conference in Palm Springs, where I stayed with three people from our community who I knew… but didn’t know know. For a socially anxious person coming off a rough couple of years, it felt risky.
On the car ride from a mutual friend’s shop to the rental house, I blurted out to my friend, “I feel like everything I’m saying sounds weird and I’m having a little social anxiety right now.”
It was a split-second decision to name what I was feeling instead of stuffing it down. Like letting out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. And then came the second exhale—when she told me that’s not how she was receiving me at all.
I told her I hadn’t always felt like this. That some recent stuff had stirred up old insecurities—the junior high “does everyone secretly hate me?” voice had resurfaced and was currently enjoying five-star accommodations in my brain.
I was in a crisis of confidence.
When I pulled up to the house and had a quiet moment to myself, I thought of this quote from Adrienne Rich:
“There must be those among whom we can sit down and weep, and still be counted as warriors.”
I felt like that friend in the car was one of those rare people.
That quote has been echoing in my head a lot lately. It reminds me that we don’t have to be all buttoned-up and bulletproof to be strong. That vulnerability isn’t something to overcome before we’re worthy—it’s something we carry with us into the brave things we do.
And so I stayed. I showed up. I taught a workshop at that conference in Palm Springs that my younger self would’ve been blown away to see me a part of. I introduced myself to another speaker there and asked for feedback on some things I’d been second-guessing in my business. I was open. I was nervous. I did it anyway.
By the end of that trip, I felt like I’d found my footing again—not in a “Stella got her groove back” kind of way, but in a quieter one. An “I did the hard thing even though I was scared” kind of way.
So when the Seattle trip came up, I said yes. This time, the excitement outweighed the anxiety.
Still, vulnerability has a way of lingering.
But in Seattle, something had shifted. I was able to lean into myself in a way I hadn’t in a long time. I stayed present. I didn’t shrink. I let my friend—who was generously hosting me—see the real me, without filtering or fussing.
When I needed time to decompress, I said so. No apologies. Just, “Hey, I’m going to need a little quiet time,” and it was met with warmth and understanding. Another one of those rare people Adrienne wrote about.
It sounds small, but these little moments of honesty with ourselves and others? That’s where confidence gets rebuilt. Where connection deepens. Not in grand gestures—but in ordinary exchanges where we choose to show up as our full selves.
We don’t have to choose between being brave and being soft.
We get to be both.
We are both.
At Craftcation this year, I met so many people who were doing that—choosing courage over comfort in the tiniest and biggest ways. People who pushed themselves to talk to someone they’d only known online. Who sat down at a new craft they’d never tried before, knowing it might not turn out “right.” Who said hi to a stranger, showed up to a class alone, or admitted they were feeling overwhelmed.
Some had to fight off an aggressive inner critic just to walk through those doors. Others rearranged work, finances, family responsibilities. But they came. And they stayed open.
I always encourage attendees to take the leap while they’re there—try something new, skip a session if rest is what they need, strike up a conversation even if it feels awkward. This year, I realized I was doing the same in my own way—on those work trips, at that trade show in Seattle, at the Palm Springs conference. I practiced what I preach. And it was worth it.
Not just for the connections I made or the ideas I gathered, but for what I learned about myself. The confidence I started to rebuild. The inner space I reclaimed.
If you’ve been in a season of questioning yourself, feeling exposed, or struggling to speak your truth—know this: you are not alone. You’re not broken. You’re just human. A creative human.
And being a creative person is an act of vulnerability every single day.
It takes guts to make something out of nothing. To risk rejection. To show up again and again when the world says, “This isn’t practical,” or “You’re too sensitive.” But you and I—we’re not here to be practical. We’re here to be real. Brave. Tender. Messy. Unapologetically ourselves.
That’s what I want for you. That’s what I want for myself. And that’s the kind of community I want to keep building—one where we can cry and create, fall apart and rise up, be flawed and still be fierce.
Because the truth is:
There must be those among whom we can sit down and weep… and still be counted as warriors.
Consider me one of those people for you.
Love, Nicole S.
P.S. I’d love to hear from you—what’s something brave you’ve done lately, even if it scared you?
