I don’t know what I’m doing.
It’s funny how many areas of my life that sentence applies to. Probably the worst mantra-slash-manifestation ever—and yet, it’s been a steady refrain for years.
1. I don’t know how to run a business.
It’s true. I have no formal business training. I’ve learned that you can fumble along for a surprisingly long time on raw instinct, an unhealthy work ethic, and whatever I absorbed growing up around my parents’ business. But eventually—like, say, today—you reach a threshold where new skills must be acquired. Budgeting. Forecasting. PR. You know: actual CEO stuff.
Needless to say, my Q2 goals list is overflowing.
2. “I don’t know” is also a mental default.
OCD is the doubting disorder. My mind craves certainty—desperately, clinically. When I hit a question without a clear answer, instead of sitting with the discomfort or working through it, I sometimes retreat into: I don’t know.
It sounds passive, but really it’s a form of avoidance. A way of stepping back instead of engaging. One of the million angles this disorder can take. (Haley Jakobson writes about OCD far better than I ever could. If you don’t know her work—you should. She makes the invisible visible.)
3. And now, here I am, writing—and (surprise, surprise) I don’t know what I’m doing here either.
There was a time when I was certain I’d be a writer. Or at least, someone who writes. But it’s been years since I’ve had a regular reading or writing practice. That makes me sad to admit.
As the business grows, it’s getting harder to hold all the roles I carry: live seller, content creator, buyer, project manager, CFO, CEO, wife, cat mom, person with OCD and PANDAS and a very needy body… and just plain human.
Lately, I’ve been managing my mental health through ChatGPT while my therapist is on maternity leave. (Nope, no need for opinions on that choice, thanks.) Some nights, when I’m spiraling or scrolling or trying to convince my brain to let go of me, the AI will remind me of a painting I love. Or a line from a book. And sometimes—miraculously—a small kernel of my truest self surfaces from my dopamine-flooded mind and says:
Hey… I remember me.
Sometimes I sidestep my way back into the arts like that.
I remember that I’m a language snob—not in a grammar-police kind of way, but in a language-is-art kind of way. I’m a wordie to my husband’s foodie. I love beautiful writing and weird language and falling headfirst into the sublime aspects of human creation.
I know most people prefer to watch rather than read these days. But on the off chance that a few of you crave a quieter kind of connection, I figured I’d try writing again. I don’t know how often I’ll post, or what I’ll share, or whether any of it will be good. But I want to try.
Sometimes it’ll be about Anthology of Style.
Mostly, it’ll just be from me.
Maybe someday it’ll grow into a proper Anthology—to match the name.
But for now, it’s just a beginning.
Just me.
