At best, this life will be creative experiments

Hey honeys and hustlers,

This month marks ten years of running a creative business. I still have days where I have absolutely no idea what the f*ck I’m doing. But I made it here, and that means something special to me. I didn’t have a ten-year plan when I first started freelancing after college. No aspirational “now I have arrived” version of me who wakes up in a perfectly lit studio, drinks a beverage that actually stays hot, and calmly executes a color-coded plan like a Swiss engineer (but I do love color coding things, to be fair). Instead, there’s this: a decade-long string of creative experiments—some accidental, some meticulously planned, some held together with gaffer’s tape and audacity. Ten years of making things, selling ideas, pitching myself, reinventing myself, experiencing incredible highs and lows, and occasionally looking at my calendar like it personally betrayed me even though I made it. Ten years of trying to build a career that feels like mine—quirks and detours included.

And if I’m honest, there are many things that I would do largely the same. Most things, actually. The experimenting isn’t a detour from the work. It is the work. I could write another 300 articles or publish another 200 podcast episodes, but the reality is that you can really only learn how to run a business by doing it your way. So I hope this article, and every other one I write, inspires you to get out there and try.

In the beginning, I was turning my hobby into a business: photography, hybrid photo/video work, freelancing wherever someone would let me show up with my gear and my optimism. I said yes to almost everything to figure out what I liked and what I was good at. I learned how to be a technician and a translator—someone who could take a client’s vague idea and turn it into something tangible. When I moved to North Carolina, I did the very grown-up thing: I got my LLC 2 months later (before the ink on my new driver's license was even dry, probably). It sounds like a formality, but it felt like a declaration. Like I was telling the universe, “Hey, I’m not just a hobbyist. I’m building something.”

Then came the real work: sales, branding, marketing. The stuff that isn’t glamorous until you realize it’s what buys you creative freedom. I figured out how to talk about my work without apologizing for it. In working with different clients and learning how to earn a living, I found a voice as a creator—not just a service provider. There was a stretch where the outside metrics looked great. I went full time. I had real success—six figures from freelance work, brand deal campaigns, grants. On paper, I was doing the thing you’re “supposed” to do.

And even with incredible highs, I crashed out a few times. Not because I was failing, but because the lows can feel brutally lonely when you’re the boss, the worker, the payroll department, and the person who has to be motivated on command. The creative brain is not designed for constant output and constant self-management without a little drama. That’s when writing entered the chat.

I started writing to connect with all the people who see or hear my work on YouTube or the podcast. The newsletter became a place where I could be honest, curious, funny, messy, specific. Ideas started coming more naturally. The podcast made sense in the same way: another medium, another doorway to community. (Thank you to the people who pushed me to do more solo episodes!) At some point, I decided I wanted something different. I had stories I wanted to tell, and I wanted to use my skills for me—not just for client work. I wanted bigger productions. A team. A sense that I was building a body of work, not just completing assignments.

So I started shifting. Not a clean pivot (nothing in my life is ever a clean pivot), but an intentional reorientation. I began moving toward independent media—photo, video, writing, audio—because that’s what I actually want to spend my days doing. Even when it’s chaotic. Especially when it’s chaotic.

Last year, I got sober, and it changed more than my habits—it changed my standards. I committed my entire existence to hitting publish on the best work I could make. Not perfect work. Real work. Consistent work. Work with a pulse. That commitment cemented something I’d been craving: a catalog. A foundation. Proof—not to strangers, but to myself—that I can make things consistently across mediums and build momentum without abandoning my life and relationships outside of work in the process. (Still working on the “in the process” part. Baby steps. Respectfully.)

These days, I’m working on a political campaign until November, which means I’m leading video, working with a team, and directing digital content at a high level. It’s intense, it’s meaningful, and it’s stretching me in the exact places I’ve been asking to grow. I’m also still me: the person who gets fired up about a shot list, a sentence I read, or a surprising sound design moment like they’re all equally important. Because they are, to me. I’m still here, writing this newsletter, obviously. I’m having fun on Threads, balancing my time online with time in nature. And I’m planning future podcast episodes, my 2027 daily podcast challenge, and my return to YouTube.

And it’s okay for life and work to be that simple sometimes. It’s the slowdown and stability (haha, no political campaign is truly slow, but still) I needed after grieving the loss of a parent last year. But after Election Day, I have some decisions to make.

Where is this going? I’m not totally sure. But I’m not totally unsure either. I’m not sure if I’ll get another job after this campaign, but I probably should figure that out. That’s a topic for after Election Day, when my stomach is full of Thanksgiving food, and I’m surrounded by my family again. What I do know is that I want to make more series. I’m a serial creator and consumer. Narrative TV series. Podcast series. Writing series. Audio series. Video series. Photo series. All the series. And yes: my February 2027 daily video podcast challenge is going to be a movie. Literally. Because I’m adding video this time. Keep my sanity in your thoughts. And maybe send electrolytes.

I also want to create more products—print, mostly. The internet is cute, but paper is forever. I might have one more digital product up my sleeve too, because I contain multitudes and no respect for the word “capacity.” And I want more collaborations. I miss Substack livestreaming with my friends, but there are other ways to make fun things and experiences with my friends.

Most of all, I want more community. Maybe free community challenges in the new beehiiv community space for all the folks here. Maybe meetups for people in the Creator Database (so join if you haven’t already!). Maybe some ideas that you have to meet folks who are on the same journey you are (so feel free to reach out!).

Ten years in, I don’t think the goal is to become the next viral internet creator who only talks about how much money they make. I think the goal is to become someone who can keep experimenting—without losing themself. At best, this life will be creative experiments. And if that’s true, then I want to be the kind of creator who treats curiosity like a business plan, treats community like a creative medium, and treats “hitting publish” like a small daily act of faith. Because it is.