Lately, I’ve been sitting with the idea of putting myself out there more. I’ve been doing it.. I think? Almost annoyingly so. It’s not my usual way of being—I’ve always been measured, careful, deliberate. I take my time. I work on something until it feels right, or at least close enough to what I envisioned. I do my best to explain myself clearly, to lay things out so there’s no misunderstanding, and then—I let go. Not with resignation, but with trust. Trust that what I made will land where it needs to. Trust that whoever is meant to receive it will find it. Trust that once it’s out of my hands, it’s no longer just mine.
But I’ve noticed that this way of moving—this patience, this carefulness—isn’t necessarily received the way I experience it. It seems to bother people. Maybe because from the outside, it looks like hesitation, like I’m holding back, or like I’m trying too hard to make something happen. That I’m chasing something just out of reach. But the truth is, I’m not chasing. I really can’t. I don’t have it in me to force things, to make noise just for the sake of being seen. I move when I feel ready, when it feels real. And when I do? It’s not because I’m searching for validation. It’s because I finally know it’s time.
And maybe part of that hesitation, part of that patience, is because I’m still figuring out how to market myself—when I know I’m an experience. When I know my "live version" is weirder, funnier, more layered than anything I put online. It’s strange to translate something so fluid, so unpredictable, into something digestible. How do you sum up a whole presence, a way of being, into posts and captions and neatly packaged updates? It feels like trying to describe a meal when the only way to understand it is to sit down and taste it.
I’ve always felt like I was born on third base, but only in the knowing game—not in money, not in privilege. Not in access or advantage. Just in understanding. Some people move through life confused, unaware of their own trajectory, but I’ve always had a sense of where I was and where I needed to go. That awareness has been its own kind of wealth. But here’s the thing—if you start on third, you don’t just sprint home. You don’t rush to the finish. You have to pause. Take it in. Feel the weight of the moment, the wind, the stadium lights. Be present. Because if you’re not, you’ll miss the experience entirely. You’ll cross home plate before you even realize what the game was about.
That’s how I move through life. That’s how I approach art. I try my best, starting from third. Not entitled to the home run, not expecting anything to be handed to me, but aware that if I play this right, if I stay in it fully, I’ll get there on my own terms.
I don’t know if this makes sense to anyone else, but I feel grateful. Grateful to be a creative. Grateful for the ideas that wake me up at night. For the moments when something clicks and I can finally see the full picture. For the people who get it, who support without needing an explanation, who remind me that I’m not doing this alone.
And lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about how cultural presence—deep, undeniable presence—means more than any number attached to it. More than profit margins or potential earnings or industry approval. Cultural presence is what lasts. It’s what shifts conversations, what shapes the future. And I want to be part of that. But it has to be valuable for me first. It has to feel true, necessary, rooted in something real.
So I’m showing up. I’m putting myself out there. Not for them, not for some hypothetical audience that may or may not care—but for us. For the ones building, creating, dreaming alongside me. Let’s show up for each other. Let’s make this matter.
