I mean, I guessed the headline would spark some interest. but by the middle I assumed most people would be like, yea ok who cares, and stop reading.

12 years of making stuff online and I still know nothing, apparently!

I think sometimes I resign myself to believe that no one cares what I post. especially when it’s long and there’s no obvious “value”. years of growing my marketing brain has warped my senses to assume everything needs to have a purpose. a clear call to action.

but it shouldn’t surprise me. because that belief keeps being proven wrong.

I forget that the internet is a community, after all. and that this is the whole point. but it’s easy to forget among all the slop and distaste.

they say history repeats itself. and I think we’re circling back to something that feels reminiscent of an earlier era on the internet. a time of shitty graphics on myspace and angsty poems on tumblr.

a shout of human emotion across the digital void.

the surprise when someone sees it, and shouts back.

in the early 2000s, I don’t think we could conceptualize just how many people were out there. how could they even find us?

today it feels more like, when everyone on the planet is out there (and a bunch of robots) — how could anyone find us?

I think the answer to both is the same: we feel the energy of human emotion.

in prep of creating a new offer, I’ve been having conversations with a few people who create content for others as part of their work.

I wanted to confirm with them something I’ve been noticing: a desire to just outsource all of it. wanting someone else to worry about it. to grow, but with their hands completely out of the creation process.

every time I get on Instagram, I see another “this is my last post” post. people are paying $60 for a device that just stops them from using their phone. there’s a collective disgust about needing to show up online at all just to grow a business.

(lest we forget that, before the internet, people used to have to waaaaay harder to sell things and get the word out. go door to door. make thousands of phone calls. put ads in the newspaper. how lucky are we to connect with people across the world from our homes! but I’m not here to yum everybody’s yucks, so, I digress. you’re allowed to be annoyed if you want to!)

and like, I get it. creating content for my business easily takes up hours of my life each week. and I’m supposed to be a pro at this. I often wish I could spend this time sleeping, reading, or scrolling on my phone. but unfortunately, I have a business to run.

all the content we see online plays into this desire, too. everything hooks on better results with less effort. it’s almost intoxicating. it’s addictive. of course we want this!

but also: it keeps us chained to the very thing we’re trying to break free from.

because how do we connect, when we’re so determined NOT to be connected?

how do we expect to stand out, or for people to find us, without putting out a beacon of human emotion?

my astrology this week prompted me to think about how we participate — in friendships, in communities, etc.

I loved sitting with this question, because it made me consider the ways that I expect participation, or validation, or support from others, without always putting in equal effort myself.

any relationship is a practice. we have to be willing, to some extent, to put in effort. to cultivate the seeds we plant. to be a little inconvenienced, sometimes.

but I think we’ve created relationships with our own social media where we don’t want to participate, at all.

and there are some fair and valid reasons for that. maybe we don’t feel safe to be seen imperfectly. maybe we’ve been burned my unfair criticism. if you’re anything like me, maybe we’ve created unfair dynamics where we give a lot and ask for very little in return.

no matter the root, the result is the same: we created an unhealthy dynamic. so now, we don’t want to participate. but we still expect — we still need — the relationship to continue. we’re here to grow a business, after all. so we participate with minimal effort, with an aura of frustration and dread, while still expecting to still reap the rewards of showing up.

I think you can see why that doesn’t work.

more and more, I feel like we have two routes for running a business on social:

→ prioritize growth, at the cost of depth. focus on how we can make the most money with the least amount of effort or personal stakes. outsource your voice and follow the trends until you have a big enough following where you can rinse and repeat. bring new followers in on a cycle. give them some value, then let them go and look for the next ones.

→ prioritize depth, at the cost of quick growth. cultivate relationships with people, whether or not it immediately converts into a sale. lean into your own voice, knowing the right people will hear that call amidst all the sludge. participate in your community as a peer. show up for the people who show up for you. lead with generosity and joy.

it’s your call to pick what feels right for you. I obviously have a bit of a bias, but neither is wrong. they’re just two different strategies with two different outcomes.

and if you, like me, aim for option 2, then you have to decide to fix your relationship with social media. stop outsourcing your voice to someone else, or a damn robot, or even to the version of you who’s annoyed, frustrated, or avoidant about showing up.

for as much time as content takes me, I know I’ll never fully hand it off. because in a world where my work asks people to pay me, respect me, and put their trust in me — my voice matters at every stage of that transaction.

no matter how much these platforms, people, or politics may piss me off lol.

maybe I’ll eventually outsource parts of my process that don’t require my voice. but I can’t disconnect from a relationship I’m asking others to invest in. I have to put out that call. I have to show up with the right energy. I have to create with enough emotion that people can feel it, like a light in all the dark.

I’ll leave you with a few reflection questions to start unsticking your relationship to showing up, as well as an invitation to a social storytelling workshop I’m hosting this month to support you with showing up more personally online.

it’s called Plot Your Life, and includes a 90-minute workshop, a workbook, and a 5-day sprint where you can get direct support from me on your content. you can get the details and sign up here.

• why am I feeling like I want to eliminate social media from my plate altogether? what is at the root of that desire? is it who I follow, or what I consume? what can I get rid of that’s making me feel like I’m not doing enough, or like I can’t share honestly and imperfectly?

• how can I start to improve my relationship with social media? what boundaries can I set to support my mood, attention, and participation while I’m participating on these platforms? what do I need to do to ensure I’m showing up with my best energy, without overriding my needs?

• how can I find more fun and joy in the creation process? how can I start to let go of the “shoulds” and make what I want to make? what would make me feel like my time wasn’t wasted? how can I bring more of my true, human emotion to connect with people more deeply, instead of just asking them to support me and my business?

and one answer surprised me, because she mentioned my autoimmune disease. which is something I must’ve mentioned off-hand once. but it’s not something I talk about regularly at all.

which is on purpose. yes, I have an autoimmune disease. yes, it affects my life daily. I’ve had multiple people in my life tell me I need to talk more about it — that I could be a huge influencer for other people with this condition. but I don’t.

I’m soooo grateful for the people who do; who share tips and research updates, and who make me (and many others) feel less alone in this condition. but I also know that’s not for me.

because I really just… don’t want to talk about it. I think about it enough. it already takes over my whole life. I don’t need it to be my identity, too.

and yet, someone remembered this about me. because she has someone in her life with an autoimmune condition, and it was something we shared.

so I’ve been thinking about that a lot.

because it made me think about all the ways we connect with people online — even unintentionally — through these small things we share about ourselves.

and all the ways that we hold back from ultimately making those connections, because we’re scared, or think no one will care, or that it’s not important.

we focus on the things we think “matter,” while inadvertently editing the stuff that actually does matter.

to relationships, at least.

this is something I preach a lot to my own clients and community — that we need to speak to the human identities rather than strictly the business ones. because every client I’ve ever had came to me for their brand or their content — but we also had something else in common. something completely innocuous.

for some, it was being swifties. for others, it was being cat moms.

nothing to do with branding. and yet, everything to do with how we connected as humans.

and those are things about me that I share pretty openly. but what about the things that I don’t?

the struggle is: the internet doesn’t leave a lot of room for nuance.

so I think sometimes we feel like — and I definitely fall into this trap — there are two distinct buckets: what we feel comfortable sharing online, and what we don’t. rather than letting there be some grey area (heh).

I don’t think privacy and honesty are opposites. I don’t think boundaries and openness are opposites. I think there’s probably a middle ground somewhere — of being open about who we are, without opening the door all the way to making it our entire identity.

so, here are some things I don’t share about online, why I don’t, and also where there might be space to find some nuance.

having an autoimmune disease

more and more, I think this is something a lot women — especially women who run their own businesses — are navigating. being able to work from home, set my own schedule, and skip the stress of interpersonal politics has done wonders for me the past couple years. it’s a type of freedom that I never had in a corporate environment.

like I said above, I feel a lot of tension here because I don’t want to become a poster child for my autoimmune disease. I even feel resistance, right now, to telling you what autoimmune condition I have. and it’s not even like it’s a secret. everyone in my life knows! but it’s also something I have to explain to people all the time. and I kind of like having a sacred space where it doesn’t have to be a part of me. I can pretend to be normal, even in a small way.

and yet: I think there is probably some opportunity here to talk about the realities of navigating it, without going into the minutiae of what it is. so that’s something I’m open to exploring.

being single

I have mentioned this before, and frankly, it’s something I desperately wish I could talk about more openly. but being a single women makes me very, very aware of my own safety and security. and talking about this feels like an immediate signal to creeps and weirdos.

another piece is, most female business owners are married and/or moms, and many of them are my clients. and I never want to create an undue separation between us. or honestly, feel more othered than I already do.

but I do grieve the way other women can talk so openly about being mothers, or being partners, and connect with others in similar life circumstances in a way that I can’t. I think single women tend to feel even more isolated because of that. I definitely do.

on top of that, I feel soooo deeply about the way being a single woman building a business affects me. and it frustrates me that I can’t really talk about it without risking the two things above. so I’m still not quite sure how to navigate this one.

money

man, I have sooo many opinions here. especially related to what I shared above — and the way I view things as a women who is trying to make a living from her own business, and live comfortably on a single income. with an autoimmune condition to boot. it’s not for the faint of heart, let me tell you.

I think women as a whole tend to undervalue ourselves. and in doing so, we tend to undervalue each other as a result. but this is more of a systemic problem than an individual one, and I don’t know how to talk about it without also getting into the last two points, or accidentally making people feel like I’m calling them out.

money is just, generally, a sticky problem. but I also feel like, as women, it’s our responsibility to talk about it — specifically about the ways we affect each other by not asking for what we’re worth, undervaluing ourselves, and making financial decisions based on what we need instead of what we deserve.

I do want to share more about this one. but I’m still working through some of the sticking points.

therapy

I don’t shy away from sharing that I’m in therapy. but I do shy away from sharing, like, why. which I don’t think is an incorrect boundary, to be clear lol.

but it also feels funny not to, because it’s something that takes up a lot of my personal life. and I know a lot of people have chosen to go to therapy, or felt less weird about going to therapy, because of me talking about it. which is like, so cool.

I guess I feel like maybe there’s more I could share here, especially around how being single makes finding outlets for getting support SO much more imperative. and the ways this support is helping me heal, get out of my comfort zone, and feel much more comfortable in my own skin. which are such important components to building a business.

future plans

it feels weird to say this but I guess I’ll just do it: I actually don’t know that this business is my endgame.

I love it. I’m proud of it. but I still, in many ways, feel like an 18 year old who’s trying her best, but still doesn’t know what exactly she wants to be when she grows up.

I feel closer than ever to what I’m meant to do in this world. but I still remain open to what exact form that takes. I’m only 31, and I like going where the creative winds take me, so I can’t honestly say that this is what I’ll be doing forever. there are so many creative doors — books, movies, music — that I’m not fully ready to shut.

but that doesn’t mean my current business doesn’t matter to me. I still intend to build it and tend to it for the foreseeable future. I just don’t talk about the other dreams much, because I never want this to feel like an afterthought — when it’s not.

why I’m really online

yes, I’m here to build a business. but that’s not the full truth. there’s a big part of me that’s here because I long to be seen and known and loved — because I yearn for a bigger life, and deeper connections and friendships than what I’ve found in my own vicinity.

I feel really defensive about the internet, mainly because I feel like I really need it. are there a lot of bad parts? for sure. but as a girl who grew up in a veryyyy small town in indiana, the internet was my lifeline. and I credit it for a lot of who I am today, because I had access to more perspectives than my very small, white, catholic hometown could provide.

so it’s hard to me to hate it, even though I know there are a lot of negatives. and it frustrates me when people discount it, or refuse to engage with it, because of the bad pockets. I wish there was more acknowledgement of the way it can connect us and bring us together — if we choose that.

so… now what?

at the risk of this essay just feeling really unsatisfying: this isn’t a promise to talk about all of this now, or ever. some need more time to percolate. others might just be a hard boundary that I don’t want to delve into.

but I’m interested in the conversations that might come out of it — because if I’ve learned anything in this process, it’s that conversations are not the same thing as identity.

and all of these things — while I don’t want them to overcome who I am, or how you perceive me — are things I’m willing to open up a dialogue about, in some capacity.

I’m interested in exploring the ways that openness and boundaries can coexist on the internet. and in finding ways to introduce nuance and depth into spaces that don’t usually allow for it.

— bryn

a SPS (surprise post-script) if you read til the end

I haven’t officially announced this yet, but I’ll be hosting a social storytelling workshop and 5-day sprint next month called Plot Your Life. I’ll be sharing my framework for finding the finding the stories already hiding in your everyday life + the systems for turning those stories into content — and then supporting you with unlimited feedback for 5 days in Slack.

you can get the deets here and join the waitlist for first access and the best price when it goes on sale in a couple weeks!

I don’t obsess over growth, pore over email open rates, or think in clever ad taglines like other marketers I know.

I’ve always been more of a storyteller.

I care more about learning people’s struggles, finding just the right words to make them feel seen, and and helping connect people together through shared identities and experiences. making people feel something.

I see brands as stories. content as arcs within chapters.

which is why I’ve always been so bored by generic business and thought leadership content.

when I think about my favorite stories, my first thought is always the characters. the ones we relate to. the ones we root for. the ones we love to hate. the ones we wish we could be.

whether that character is the heroine of a book, the lead of a movie, or the singer of a song… a story is not a story without a person at the center of it, right?

that’s why most marketing is boring. because there’s no HUMAN in it.

I hate to talk about AI (I’ll be brief), but there’s no denying the influx of flat, emotionless content rampant because of it.

if you ask me though, marketing needed more humanity before robots entered the picture. AI just accelerated the timeline.

so sharing stories and human perspectives may be strategic. but I think it’s also just deeply needed. and wanted.

stories are what connect us. they’re at the foundation of how humans have connected for as long as we’ve existed. which is good news.

we may not all be marketers or sellers. but we are all storytellers. and we all have stories to tell.

how to embrace your inner storyteller

we tell stories all the time — to our friends, to our families, to our therapists. but for a lot of people, there’s a block around how to do it with our brands. to our communities.

I think that’s less of a skill problem, and more a practice problem.

as business owners, we approach our content as content, rather than as conversation. we approach our communities as audiences, more than as peers.

and that creates distance. it puts us in a posture of needing to be an expert, instead of a human who’s in the thick of it, too.

so before we can be better storytellers, we need a few core reframes in how we show up in the first place:

01. reimagine your idea of “value”

value in content used to mean tips, lists, knowledge. so we show up as the expert, ready to dole out information and advice. but today, knowledge isn’t the value. not when anyone can google and get an answer in seconds.

it’s not that tips can’t be valuable. but value can be so much deeper. understanding someone’s approach. recognizing shared values, shared experiences, or shared lifestyles. seeing what’s possible for ourselves. making us laugh. feeling like we’re a part of something bigger.

we need to broaden our idea of what “value” even is, beyond advice.

02. be a participant, not an expert

there’s a tendency to position ourselves as an expert — the one who’s already been through the struggle and has all the answers — because that’s what we think builds trust.

but what actually **builds trust is knowing someone is in the thick of it with us.

so put yourself in **the story. share your feelings, decisions, and challenges as they happen. let yourself be in the messy middle, not just the person at the end with all the answers figured out. it’s more relatable — and real — to bring people along while you figure it out, than to only show up once you have.

03. root your content in your active Plot Lines

most content advice tells you to pick a few content pillars or “leadership themes.” which isn’t bad advice, exactly. but it forces you to manufacture ideas out of thin air, based on what you think you “should” be talking about. which keeps you stuck sharing things that are safe, general, and again, make you more an expert than a participant.

instead: look at the Plot Lines already active in your life and business, and bring people along while you explore them. narrate the experience. share the twists, turns, decisions, and learnings.

and don’t force it. look at what you’re already doing and thinking about. maybe you’re updating your messaging, slowing down your business for the summer, or starting a new hobby. all of it is fodder, because it’s rooted in your real life, not borrowed from someone else’s voice.

make your content feel like it’s part of a bigger world

now you’re probably thinking: this all sounds great Bryn, but, how do I actually connect this back to selling for my business?

great question. because content takes up most of your day-to-day, but it’s really only a small part of the bigger story your brand is telling. which I think we tend to forget.

we look to one post to sell an offer, rather than serve as a doorway into our world.

we ask so much from one piece of content: introduce us to new people, deliver value, have a hook that will make it go viral, explain the offer, prime someone to spend 4 figures… so on and so on.

but one piece of content is only ever one piece of a much bigger puzzle. its job isn’t to do everything. it’s to bring someone a little deeper into your world.

and to do that, it has to tie back to the bigger narrative of your brand.

the biggest sticking point here is usually: there’s no way to tie my personal life into my offers. like, surely there’s no way to connect my gardening hobby to my design business, right?

nope. wrong.

we tend to view ourselves diametrically: personal us and professional us. but that’s not actually true. humans are nuanced. we contain multitudes! and also: we’re not that complex.

unless you started your business completely devoid of emotion just to make quick money, I’m willing to bet you started because some deeper part of you loves this work, is good at this work. and that’s the same you that loves to garden, or cook, or binge teen dramas.

to say those things don’t connect — when they’re all just who you are, and all things that matter to you — is silly. there are throughlines in everything. the work of worldbuilding is finding them, and bringing them to the forefront.

so in any piece of content, your only jobs are: 1) share honestly, and 2) connect it to the throughline.

to do that, at a baseline, your world needs two things:

01. a narrative arc

all your communications — no matter the platform or format — tie back to a deeper story. maybe that story is wanting to cultivate more beauty in the world. maybe it’s feeling deeply connected to nature. maybe it’s being fiercely protective of the environment. (all things that could connect gardening and design, btw).

the narrative is what connects the things you care about → the things your audience cares about → the ways you can support them through your business.

02. sensory signatures

these are what give your world feeling, not just words. fonts, colors, graphics, photos, music, tone of voice, format… and of it creates a vibe — an experience of who you are, and what it’s like to be in a space with you.

when done well, these signatures paint a fuller picture of what your brand is, who it’s for, and reflect back to your audience an identity that they already hold, or wish they did.

this is the difference between content and stories

and also the difference between a business owner who shows up to promote her business, and one who shows up to connect and make an impact.

neither is right or wrong. I don’t think they’re mutually exclusive, even. but one has a lot more potential to be fun.

this is the process I use to create all my own content. it’s also the one I walk through with you, 1:1, inside Brand Plotline. over four weeks, we draw out your narrative, your sensory signature, and your content presence strategy — so the founder you are and the brand you show up as finally start telling the same story.

idk if that’s scientifically true or not, but it feels true, doesn’t it?

because I can’t tell you how many times in building my business, I felt like I was finally making progress… only to realize I was right back where I started.

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for a long time, I thought I had an inaction problem.

I was, and still am, a perfectionist and overthinker. I would sit on ideas and decisions forever before actually doing anything. I tweaked and tinkered. I craved outside validation. I convinced myself everyone knew something — or had something — I didn’t.

so a couple years ago, when I was feeling extremely lost in my business, I started my very first Confidently Messy challenge. the goal was simple: take tiny, bold actions every day. and it worked. it made me take action. it made me stop trying to perfect every little thing I shared. it pushed me to act first and think later.

but it also showed me that my problem wasn’t really action. it was self-trust.

I wasn’t stuck because I was lazy, or because I didn’t care enough, or because I didn’t have good enough ideas.

I was stuck because I didn’t trust myself to know the right direction.

so I kept looking for someone else to give it to me.

I looked for experts to tell me where to go, what to say, and how to show up. what to post, how often to email, what my offers should be, what my brand should look like.

I joined courses. I pored over frameworks. I studied other people’s strategies. I collected prompts and templates and formulas.

and each time, I’d have this brief, exciting moment of clarity. like: oh thank god. this is it.

but then I’d try to put it into practice. and it was, in fact, not it.

the strategy that felt so clear in theory would feel weird in my words. the framework would technically make sense, but I couldn’t make it sound like me. the content prompts would give me ideas, but they didn’t feel like my ideas.

and eventually, I’d end up right back where I started.

convinced something was wrong with me. that I didn’t think hard enough, try hard enough, or find the “right” way to do it.

but all that time, I was solving the wrong problem.

I was mistaking borrowed clarity for self-trust.

it feels productive. it feels safe. it feels like momentum. but really it was just suffocating me. I was ignoring my own needs and overriding my own instincts.

and then wondered why I wasn’t excited to show up for it.

I see this same loop all the time with other overthinking, deep-feeling creatives. they’re perpetually stuck in this “refinement mode,” where they’re looking to others for the right cadence for stories, the right structure for emails, the right formula for threads, the right amount of personal to share.

like there’s a right answer that they can find, if they just look hard enough.

so they join a program or buy a course or download another free thing that promises to make the process easier. and sometimes it does help, for a minute. because they’re smart, sensitive, observant people, they can always find more to think about.

but for perfectionists, more information can feel like progress even when it’s keeping us in the same loop. because it feeds our overthinking tendencies by giving us more to think about. and thinking feels productive. we’re acing the test! we’re finding the answer! we’re doing the work!

except when we try to take action on those strategies and frameworks, and still feel paralyzed.

right back where we started.

and the cycle repeats: feel unclear → seek a framework → feel briefly relieved → try to apply it → feel disconnected → blame yourself → seek another framework

it’s not that we aren’t trying. we’re actually trying really damn hard. we’re exhausted. but we’re never getting anywhere.

because we’re building from the outside in, instead of the inside out.

an outside-in approach looks like this:

you seek more information → try to integrate it → feel briefly clear because you have a plan → notice that something feels off → assume you missed something → go back to square one

it uses action as a way to validate someone else’s strategy. like: did I do this right? did I follow the steps? did I perform the formula correctly?

and it’s exhausting because you can be moving constantly and still be walking in circles when every cue you’re following is external.

but an inside-out approach looks different:

you take messy action without waiting to feel ready → experiment with your natural expression and energy → pay attention to what actually works → refine based on what you learn → integrate it into your own process → build confidence and self-trust over time

it uses action as information. so instead of just expending effort, it gives you direction.

that was the part I kept missing. I didn’t need another framework, or more action. I needed to learn how to read my own internal cues, and build my own strategy from them.

overthinkers don’t have a thinking problem. we have an integration problem.

because we can intellectualize forever. we’re actually really good at absorbing concepts and making connections. the thinking is not the issue.

the hard part is integrating those thoughts into our everyday actions. into how we write, how we sell, how we show up, how we connect, how we make decisions, how we communicate.

how we build a presence that actually compounds instead of resetting every few months.

a framework can give you structure, but it can’t give you a relationship with your own voice. a template can give you a starting point, but it can’t tell you what sparks joy in your body and brain. a strategy can tell you what worked for someone else, but it can’t automatically become a system that works for you.

that part takes integration.

and integration requires action, reflection, pattern recognition, and usually someone to be a mirror and reflect back to you what you can’t see.

this is why all the work I do is 1:1. because, for me, courses and group programs often gave me more to think about without helping me translate those thoughts into the way I actually worked. so I would feel clearer for a few months, but then I’d sit down to create or sell or show up, and suddenly all that clarity would be gone.

the missing piece wasn’t more concepts. it was internal work, and someone to help me see the patterns I couldn’t see myself. then building those patterns into a system rooted in how I actually communicate at my best.

my processes and systems for showing up look way different today.

I share these not as a template, but to show you the difference between a strategy that’s built from the outside-in vs. the inside-out.

1. story and narrative

before: I used to talk about branding and marketing pretty generically. borrowed language from bigger names in the space. stayed pretty surface level. didn’t really have a POV that was mine (was more like a patchwork of other people’s ideas that I was trying to apply to my own work). wasn’t really connecting with people, even though I was trying really hard.

today: I talk about what I’m actually navigating. I speak to others with similar perfectionist and overthinker struggles, and the experience of being a quieter, more sensitive founder who doesn’t want to perform her way to visibility. Confidently Messy started as a challenge for myself, and now it’s at the root of most of what I share about. my work is less about generic branding and website, and more about storytelling and human connection, because that’s what I care about.

2. visual signatures

before: my visual style was pretty safe and simple. nothing really stood out. I would sometimes try trending styles or aesthetics or templates that caught my eye, but they also didn’t really feel like me. and I didn’t know how to make them feel like me. a lot of what I did was copy/paste from my brand design, but it didn’t have much energy or personality on a feed, and felt pretty sleepy.

today: I have visual pieces that I use in everything I create. brighter colors, cooler fonts, the stars. a filter I use consistently. these all make my otherwise boring photos at home look more energized and interesting. feels more like me, and has a lot more personality. makes it really easy to create stuff that people notice on their feed and recognize as mine.

3. presence and marketing

before: I tried to be everywhere. I’d sit down every week with a folder of saved content ideas and broad content pillars and try to generate posts from thin air. lifestyle content was it’s own separate bucket that felt random, so I rarely incorporated it. would often try to show up like an expert with polished POVs that sounded nice, but I didn’t really know how to back up or embody in my day-to-day.

today: I create everything around Plot Lines — or the things that are naturally happening in my life and business. every week I check in on them and share what’s been coming up for me. I don’t have any content pillars or categories of what to talk about. just the story, as it’s happening. I always start with longer form writing because that’s more natural for me, and let social posts come from that. I have go-to formats every week that I can easily repeat.

none of this came from finding the “right” framework.

it came from paying attention to my own patterns — how I think, how I create, what kind of presence actually feels good for me. and taking action before I had all the answers. and someone helping me see what I couldn’t see myself.

if you want to see what this actually looks like week to week: I’m making a behind-the-scenes Loom exclusively for the Brand Plotline waitlist, where I’ll show you how I use these systems week to week to create content and show up. if you want to see that, hop into the waitlist and I’ll send it your way when it’s ready.

and if you’re at the point where you want to build your own version of this — your story, your signatures, your way of showing up that actually builds over time — that’s what we do together in Brand Plotline. It’s not about fitting you into my framework. it’s about having me as your partner for a month while you play, experiment, reflect, and integrate. so you can stop looking for the “right” way to show up and start building the one that actually belongs to you.

— bryn

why does it feel so awkward to want things?

last month, I made a new tiktok account. a personal one, where I wanted to allow myself to be a little more open, and share things that didn’t necessarily fit under my business. an outlet for expression and accountability to push myself out of my comfort zone.

but I felt nervous about people in my life finding it, so I took extra precautions. I got a new phone — one that never connected to my phone number or email address.

in theory, there was no way to connect it to me.

and still, by my 13th video (which only has 700 views), two people in my life saw it pop up on their for you page.

it shot me right back to one of my core adult memories. I was in college, back in my hometown for a fundraising event at my high school. while waiting in line for something, one of my old high school teachers came up to me. not to say hi, or ask how I was doing — but to ask me about my youtube channel.

(this was a creative outlet I had recently started, that before that moment, I had no idea anyone in my life knew about.)

I can still feel the blood that rushed to my face. the spike in my heart rate. the desperate need to make up an excuse and run away to avoid that conversation.

but why? why does it feel so viscerally uncomfortable to be seen wanting things? trying things?

I’ve gotten a little more comfortable with this kind of discomfort over the years (though only slightly). and it clearly hasn’t completely stopped me from building, creating, and pursuing things that I want. but it has shaped the way I do them. because I’m always questioning: what if someone finds this? will it be embarrassing? how do I make it less so?

there are certain dreams that feel empowering to want — to be a doctor, a lawyer, a CEO. people will laud it as impressive. desirable. a worthy and valuable pursuit.

but other dreams feel like a lightning rod for judgment. the ones that require you to be your most vulnerable. the ones that you don’t achieve through a degree and a hefty paycheck. the ones that require you to be seen wanting and trying — before you ever have anything to show for it.

“going after your dreams,” no matter what they are, is impressive. it requires hard work and dedication. but certain dreams are not as easy or as obvious as waking up at 5am, putting in the effort, acing the tests. they require us to desire things that are, often, up to luck and out of reach. they require us to wish for things that aren’t logical or obvious or cool.

they require us to want as much as we do. and that’s a vulnerable thing.

and vulnerability is messy. it’s messy to have wild, weird, whimsical dreams. it’s messy to try (and possibly fail). it’s messy to get up and try again. it’s messy to dream for things that may never work, or that you may never get.

and yet, I think it’s beautiful to be messy. I think it’s beautiful to be so wholehearted that people can’t help but see it glowing there on your sleeve.

I never want to be so “cool,” or so fearful of judgment, that I’m ashamed of that.

so I want to be better at wanting things out loud… even when it’s awkward, messy, and I may inevitably be bad at it. I want to be okay with wishing for things that may never come true.

but I do think there’s a power and permission to just… saying the desire out loud. claiming it in public.

so here’s mine: I’d love to write a book.

it’s something I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember, but I’ve never been able to say it out loud. not really. it’s always, “wouldn’t it be cool if,” or “maybe it’s something I’ll try in the future.” always something to soften it. or to protect me from the vulnerability of wanting.

so I squashed that dream down further and further over my lifetime. until I barely thought of it at all. and convinced myself that maybe I could be content without it. but it would still nag at me, sometimes. like when I’d hear a really great song. or watch a really great movie. or while on a walk on a nice, sunny day. it would reach out and tap me on the shoulder saying, “don’t forget about me.”

it wasn’t until this past month, at 31, when I finally got the courage to say it out loud: “I want to write a book.”

I’ve said it a few times since then, too. and guess what? the world hasn’t fallen apart. no one has looked at me with confusion or judgment when I said it.

what actually happened is that, every time I claim it, I get a little braver. the dream inside me that I’d pushed down for so long starts to take up a little more space. and I start to believe, bit by bit, that it’s not only something I could want. it’s also something I could do.

so yeah, wanting is messy. wanting is uncomfortable. wanting is scary.

but what’s the alternative? living a small life where you want nothing at all? honestly, I think I’m more scared of that.

so I’ll take the messiness and embrace the hell out of it. if it means that maybe (just maybe) it could come true.

worst case scenario, I’ll at least have fun trying.

— bryn

Hey friend,

When did I stop trying new things?

It’s so much less socially acceptable to be beginners as adults. We’ve graduated from the stages of life when it’s normal to take all sorts of classes, paint with our fingers, or pick up a new sport. So does that mean there’s a point we’re all supposed to just… stop learning?

I’ve realized lately (both in my business and my life) that I’m so hesitant to try things if I don’t know for a fact it will be good. Try a new workout class? Nah, mine’s fine enough. A new recipe? I’ll just stick to something I know is good. A new sweater? Only if I’ve seen it on someone else first. A summer pottery class? Quite a big commitment for something I could be total shit at.

I stick to what I know, because it’s safer than what I don’t.

Yet lately I’ve been really craving new experiences. Because those “what ifs” still nag at me — Could I write a book? Could I make pottery? Could I knit a sweater? Could I write a song? Could I do any of those things if I just… let myself try? Even if I was really bad at it, at first?

But that gap between wanting and doing sometimes feels too wide to cross.

The comfort zone is called that for a reason.

It’s not like it’s miserable here. It’s comfortable! It’s like: why wouldn’t I sit in the same spot on the living room couch every day? It’s familiar, it’s spacious, and it has the best view of the TV.

But I also think comfort tricks us into believing if something is fine or good enough, it’s not worth risking for something bigger. Or just different. And it’s not like we have tons of time, energy, or even really the culture to go try new things regularly.

So, the devil you know, and all that…

But now I just can’t unsee it; how I’ve become so risk-averse to the very small, low-stakes act of being a beginner at something.

But I’m not ready to give up on trying new things already at 30. I’m not ready to be stuck at where I am for the rest of my existence. I don’t want to look back, 10, 30, 50 years from now and regret that I didn’t try more things while I could.

So I made a brand new TikTok account.

Separate from my business. Not to grow my brand, or build an audience, or get better at content, or any of the reasons I’ve been posting for the past decade. Just for me.

Specifically, for the version of me who wants to be curious and document ideas and not have it mean anything more than that. For the girl who’s turning 31 at the end of the month and wants to figure out not only who she is, but who she wants to be.

I’m purposefully ignoring everything I know to practice being a beginner again; embracing the discomfort that comes with that and seeing what happens. Starting without any kind of plan for how this will go.

And let me tell you… I procrastinated the hell out of it. It took me over a week to post my first video. I was feeling all of the pressures of this needs to be good and I want to explain it all in the right way and how can I make it the perfect introduction. It’s been a long time since I’ve done something that wasn’t in service of something else, and I had no clue where to begin.

So I sat down one afternoon, and filmed for 5 minutes. And then I posted it.

Turns out, there’s actually something so freeing to just accept it’s going to be bad, and that no one will see it, and decide it’s worth doing it anyway.

My goal is life first, content second.

The biggest thing I’m doing to make this sustainable — and get through all the discomfort of just beginning — is to make sure I’m always aligning to my own joy, first. So I don’t want the pressure of a content calendar or a positioning statement or a posting plan. Instead, I have a list of experiences I want to have this month, just for me:

• Books to read, movies to watch, music to listen to

• Birthday activities, including a color analysis and spa day

• Writing dates to romanticize the process of writing for fun again

• Finding a creative art class to take this spring, like pottery or painting

• Coffee and Zoom dates with friends I haven’t seen in awhile

• A full closet purge and clean-out

I’m sure I’ll document these things. But I won’t force it. The point is just to build a life outside of my work, embrace a little whimsy, and learn about myself in the process.

The beauty of beginnings is that they don’t have conclusions yet.

I don’t have a tidy bow or lesson to say here other than, being a beginner is uncomfortable. And it’s persistent.

It’s always going to be easier to just pick up the phone and scroll instead of staring at a blank page. It’s always going to be easier to make the same thing for dinner than risk something new. It’s always going to be easier to take the same route than explore a new road that may take a bit longer or lead you in the wrong direction.

But I’m done choosing easy, and letting the “what ifs” pile up. So I’m excited to prioritize joy instead. To let myself learn to love things I’m bad at. And to put down some of the pressure to make space for a little more whimsy and lightness.

And to document it, imperfectly, along the way.

— Bryn

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Hey friend,

For years, I refused to share my writing, ideas, or dreams with anyone who actually knew me.

Instead, I found ways around it. Posting things on Tumblr or YouTube, praying no one in my real life would find it. Being mortified when they eventually did. Dropping it the second it stopped being safely hidden.

Publicly, I was more comfortable chasing other people’s dreams — good grades, good jobs, good titles — while keeping my own carefully concealed. Tucked away somewhere they couldn’t be touched or criticized or claimed.

Anonymity was the only way I knew how to cross those lines. Explore beyond the reaches of what was expected of me.

When I’ve felt most confident as myself

I think a lot about summers in grade school and high school, specifically how different they felt from the rest of the year. When there were no rules, roles, or report cards. No one telling me who I was supposed to be or how I was supposed to act or what I was supposed to care about.

In summer, I could be anyone. Do anything. So I spent hours dreaming and reading and creating and playing. Not for any goal in particular, but just because it felt good.

I think I’ve spent a lot of my life since then searching to feel that feeling again. That spaciousness and freedom to just… create and explore for the sake of it. With no grade or performance review waiting at the end. With no one watching (or at least, caring less if they did).

For me, there was so much opportunity in this space to dream and make and chase curiosities without fear of what others would think.

Invisibility is protection, until it’s not

That need to create and express myself never went away. I just kept it more and more protected, over time. Perfectionism. Overthinking. Distance. All of these were shields I put up to control what others would think. To save myself from having to feel small or judged or inadequate.

What I didn’t consider is how it would feel to be stuck inside that cage I’d built for myself.

The end of my 20s — ah, those pesky Saturn returns — became a dismantling of all the forces that had piled up over the years and were keeping me stuck in that space. The parental expectations, the academic validation, the corporate identity. Layer by layer, I took down that external scaffolding.

Then I had to confront the internal stuff, too. The fixed version of myself I’d been holding onto out of habit, or fear, or just because I didn’t know there was another option. Or because I was too scared to try something different.

I’m still in the space of trying to figure out who I am, and where I’m going, with all the old stuff cleared out.

The cost of staying hidden

As I’ve been floating in that empty space — having let go of the old baggage but still unsure where I’m going next — I realized I had to make a decision.

Either I could continue to hide in my old habits, or I could try something different.

And I realized that, of course, I was afraid of what people would think of me. But I was more afraid of what I’d become if I let that fear keep dictating my future. If I let myself keep repeating the old mistakes.

The dreams I’d have to let go of. The connections I would never make. The moments in my life I knew I’d live to regret.

Maybe that sounds simple or obvious, but for me, it wasn’t. It was the first time the math really changed for me. When the cost of staying hidden started to feel higher than the cost of showing up and facing whatever came next. Too high. More than I was willing to keep paying.

And something I knew I’d come to regret if I didn’t change.

You can’t leap straight from fear to growth

A former coach of mine, Julia, once talked me through the psychology of comfort zones. And it’s always stuck with me. Especially in the past year, as I’ve navigated leaving old jobs, old relationships, and old beliefs.

Psychologically, you can’t leap straight from your existing comfort zone into growth. At least, not without sending your nervous system into panic and overwhelm.

Instead, you have to keep testing the edges, little by little, until the fear zone starts to shrink and the learning zone starts to open up. You have to practice being uncomfortable often enough that it stops keeping you stuck. And eventually, with time, you find your way into growth.

How I started to expand my edges

Challenging myself to be more confidently messy last year was the best thing I’ve done for expanding my own edges.

Going into it, all I knew was that I felt capable of more in my business, my work, and how I was showing up — more honesty, more creativity, more vulnerability. I just couldn’t seem to access it. I had too many filters in the way: perfectionism, overthinking, over-explaining... and they were all holding me back from where I knew I could be.

So “confidently messy” became my mantra. Every single day I asked myself: how can I do this in a more confidently messy way?

For 30 days straight, I showed up without my usual armor. I filmed in public. I sent emails without editing them into the ground. I got on calls without over-preparing. I dropped into people’s DMs with a question or a compliment. I posted vlogs without worrying if they were too long or too rambly or too cringey.

Every day I committed to just showing up without unnecessary planning or polish. Just an intention of who I wanted a future version of me to be capable of.

Six months later

The receipts from that month alone were really great. But the real shift for me is harder to quantify.

Six months since that initial challenge, I feel it most in the way I move through my business. I have more spaciousness. More self-trust. I believe that I’ll figure things out, even if I don’t have the answer yet. I try to just create things that feel right, without over-engineering it.

I’ve been able to make things and complete things and test things that I wouldn’t have even attempted before — because I got more comfortable being uncomfortable. Because I practice, every day, letting imperfection be enough.

It turns out the cost of staying hidden was always higher than I thought. I’d just never let myself really feel the weight of it until I finally put it down.

What’s next?

And now I feel ready to do it again, and go even deeper.

Not just in my work, but in my life. In the parts of myself that exist outside of productivity and output and what I’m good at.

I want to lean into the version of me who wants to take up more space. To do the things I’ve put off or let go of or never even let myself explore because they didn’t feel “practical” enough. To create just because it feels good. To learn more about myself just because I want to. To figure out who I want to grow into, from this empty space.

To find my way back to something that feels like those summers.

The Confidently Messy Challenge, round two

So next month, I’m hosting my Confidently Messy Challenge again. This is a completely free challenge inside my community where we all commit to showing up more confidently messy for 30 days.

My personal focus this month is to post on TikTok at least once every day, as I’m figuring out how to be more me in this next season of life. But people who join the challenge have all kinds of goals — from showing up on video to trying new hobbies to finally getting their website live.

The beauty of this challenge is that everyone can show up where they are, focus on their own needs and goals, and support and encourage each other along the way.

If you’d like to join, you can sign up here. We kick off on Wednesday, April 1st.

Join the Confidently Messy Challenge

— Bryn

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Hey friend,

For most of my life, I’ve worn hard work like a badge of pride.

And not just the hard work it takes to learn a skill, like the lost Saturdays spent in front of a screen learning Illustrator or the discomfort of churning out 1,000 words day to finish a full-length book.

Not just the hard work it takes to really learn how to exercise for the first time as an adult, discover what you like (almost nothing) and hate (almost everything), and incorporate it into your daily routines.

Not the hard work of trying to gain financial independence, as a single woman trying to build a solid foundation for herself in a world that doesn’t make that easy.

Not the hard work of setting better boundaries to create stronger, deeper relationships with people in adulthood.

(All hard work I’m doing right now, by the way. But not the kind of hard work I’ve incentivized for myself over the years.)

I mean the kind where difficulty for the sake of it becomes the whole point. Where you overcomplicate everything because something feeling easy means it doesn’t count. That deep-rooted belief that hard work only counts if it feels hard. A little painful, even?

And this month I realized how much that has cost me.

Shedding the “shoulds” and learning what I actually want

Since leaving the full-time corporate world in 2024, I’ve been doing the unglamorous work of figuring out what I want out of my work.

Trying to shed the “shoulds” I’ve carried around productivity and success and money, and instead connect to my own joy and fulfillment, first.

And finally, this year, I feel like things have started to click.

I’ve noticed it in my long-term client relationships, where I can now do twice the work in half the time, because I trust in my own skills. And I know the client trusts me, too.

I’ve noticed it in brand projects, where I don’t always know exactly what the work will look like week to week, but I feel the change in someone while they build not only their brand, but a new relationship with it.

I’ve noticed it in Golden Hour conversations, where I’d come in not feeling my best, but still walk away certain the person left with so much inspiration and excitement.

All of that was real, hard work. But it felt easy in a lot of ways, too. Ideas that flowed without overthinking. Connection built without losing myself. Outcomes that arrived without the low-grade hum of stress I’d gotten so used to. A quality of energy I can only describe as sparkly. ✨

But I don’t think I could fully appreciate — or even notice — that work unless I had something else to compare it to.

I can make almost anything work… but that’s not always a strength

A few months ago, I started working with a client in an industry I used to work in full-time.

At every stage of our work together — from the initial discovery call, to the contract signing, and every week after — I felt an internal hesitation. But I overrode it. I knew I could do the work (I’d done it for years!) and I knew I wanted the income (it would be my highest monthly invoice yet!).

But I also knew, somewhere beneath all of that, that it wasn’t going to feel the way my other work felt.

Because I’d been inside this industry before, I knew the pace. The constant churn, the shifting priorities, the way there’s always a new fire to put out. Over the years, I adapted to that environment. But I never thrived in it. And I’ve since learned those two things aren’t the same.

Despite this work feeling like familiar ground, it felt anything but easy. At every turn I felt unsure. I could never find solid footing. I couldn’t settle into a rhythm. I second-guessed decisions I’d have made confidently anywhere else, and questioned abilities I knew I had.

It was like I was stuck in this weird in-between, where I was capable of doing the work, but slogging through mud to actually do it.

Some work is hard because it matters. Some work is hard because it’s wrong.

It was stark to look at (and feel) these two experiences side-by-side.

On one side: The mud. The effort. The energy I was spending just trying to get to “fine.”

On the other: The flow. The ease. The work that took energy from me, but also gave it back.

I’d never been able to see the constant so clearly before, because I’d never experienced them both at the same time. And feeling them both side-by-side made be realize there are two different kinds of hard work.

One kind is work I can do with my eyes closed, but feels soul-sucking. Technically doable, but draining and effortful at every step.

The other kind if work I have to show up fully for, but feels natural and fun. Still demanding, but in a way that energizes me more than it depletes me.

I used to think hard work only counted if it looked like the first kind. That difficulty and uncertainty were just proof of effort. But these past few months have taught me that the best kind of hard work can actually feel like fun, play, and lightness. That ease isn’t a sign you’re not working hard enough — it might actually be a sign that you’re finally working right.

The second kind was harder for me to find. But I know it will be easier to maintain, because it gives something back to you, every time you show up for it.

I was confusing tolerance with alignment

The work that got me here was the work of building self-trust.

(A quick disclaimer of sorts here to say: I’m not an “everything happens for a reason” person. I’m not religious. I’m not even particularly spiritual. I dabble in some of the more “woo woo” stuff out of curiosity, but I can’t say with any certainty that it’s human design or astrology or any one thing that’s unlocked this for me. I’m open to the idea that there’s a power greater than me somewhere in this process. But I’m wary of handing too much credit to someone or something, because I think that can diminish the power we actually have, and the real effort and work we put in to make change happen for ourselves. I feel like that’s important to say. But whatever anchor drives self-trust for you, lean into it. Just don’t pass off all the credit.)

Self-trust, for me, has meant learning to believe that I can handle what’s coming before I have proof that I can. That things are more within my control than they feel in the thick of a hard moment. That when something feels off (even if I’m not sure why yet), that feeling is information worth listening to.

It’s actually kind of wild, the way things start to shift when you just… trust that they will.

Things don’t need to get worse before we’re allowed to let them go

When I first sensed the difficult client might not renew, I panicked.

I took it personally. I was convinced I’d done something wrong. I worried about the income gap, and how I would fill it. I believed this was the fracture that would finally make everything crumble.

But once the initial shock passed, I just felt… calm.

A sense of resolve that if this was going to end, then it should. That it didn’t actually have anything to do with me. And that I’d probably be better for it.

And when they did finally confirm they weren’t renewing (for reasons that had nothing to do with me, it turned out), I felt relief. The specific relief of something leaving that you know, in your bones, was never quite right for you anyway. And in its place: space to fill with something that is.

The worthwhile kind of hard

Self-trust might just be our best business asset.

I don’t believe there’s one strategy or framework or system that will unlock everything. At least not without the underlying, fundamental, hard-won ability to trust yourself. Your instincts, your pace, and your version of what good work actually feels like is what makes all the other things work.

Things are allowed to feel easy. Maybe not always effortless or unchallenging. But flowing. Energizing. Right.

And if something in your work feels like that, that’s your signal.

Finding that is the true hard work. But the worthwhile kind.

— Bryn

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Hey friend,

Every week when I sit down to write this essay, the process starts the same.

I scribble down some ideas. It’s always big chunks of rambling paragraphs that loosely connect in my brain, but I’m not sure what the thread is yet. I’m just getting thoughts down on paper. Meandering my way through my brain to figure out what I want to say.

Then (because looking at such a big block of text scares the hell out of me), I plug it into ChatGPT. I ask it to make it better. Give it a clear through line. Make it engaging. Tell me what’s important and throw out what’s not.

And every time, I hate what it gives me.

No matter how detailed my prompt is, what version I use, or what amount of context I give it, the result is the same.

And every time, it makes me angry. We’re in the age of AI! This is supposed to make my life better! Supposed to give me time back!

But instead, I keep fighting with it. I waste minutes—sometimes hours, embarrassingly—trying to get it to give me something vaguely useful or interesting. And maybe I’ll get a scrap of something here or there… but by that point I’ve lost a lot of time and all of my creative energy.

Fighting with a goddamn machine!!

Because I can’t confront the questions myself. Or the possibility of not having the answers.

Why is creating from scratch so uncomfortable?

Last night, I watched this video of Jennette McCurdy (yes, the former iCarly star, now author of I’m Glad My Mom Died and Half His Age. Her story and work is fascinating and beautifully honest, if you haven’t had a chance to explore it yet).

In the interview, she described her writing process—which involved anywhere from 12-20 drafts to get to the final version of her books.

She shared about writing from deep emotion and anger. Vomit drafting just to get her thoughts out onto the page. Dissecting her own words piece by piece. Learning what she’s trying to say in the process.

And my prevailing thought was: That sounds awful. I wish I could do that.

It’s not even like the writing process is new to me.

I was an English major in the mid-2010s, when we had laptops and Wikipedia but no LLMs. I counted once and I wrote 72 essays in the span of 3 years.

A few years later, in 2018, I was working full-time and feeling the itch of not writing much for fun. So I gave myself a challenge: draft a full book in a couple months. I spent all my evenings and weekends trying to hit my word count, just to prove to myself that I could. The book was bad, but I did it.

And now, in 2026, I can’t even write an essay without at least trying to get a computer to do it for me.

Turns out, I can no longer sit with the discomfort of a draft.

I hate the feeling of not-knowing; navigating the space between beginning and end when I don’t know how to finish the thing I’ve started.

It annoys me to look at my messy thoughts like a huge pile of mismatched socks that I have to slowly, tediously, pair together.

I’m resentful of the amount of time and energy it will take from me, that I’ve become unwilling to give.

And I’m so tired, and so afraid of feeling that discomfort, that I outsource my creativity to a computer.

Avoiding the messy parts of the human experience

And the computer still sucks time and energy from me, but in a different way.

When I create something from scratch, I feel fulfilled. There’s always a sense of accomplishment, like finding the key out of an escape room or putting the last piece in a puzzle. The process takes time, sure, but it’s enjoyable, and I have something to be proud of.

When AI creates something for me, I just feel glad that I can finally check a task off and move on.

Even after I spend hours fighting with it—make tweaks here, come up with something better here, stop using flowery adjectives and em dashes there—that’s all I ever have to show for it. At least it’s done.

I never feel more fulfilled. Or like I unlocked a new idea. Or like I learned something new about myself.

And when I actually stop and think about that, and stare that reality in the face…I feel ashamed and disgusted.

Because I’m letting AI own the creativity, and turning myself into the machine.

I used to love writing so much that I made it my job. And now I’m fearful of it.

I appreciate so much about the creative process. But I’ve eroded mine.

The messy middle is uncomfortable and overwhelming. It makes sense that we would want to discard this part for something more efficient. Less emotional.

But what happens when we avoid the messier parts of the human experience?

When we start to believe that our work is to package our lives, rather than live them?

When we accept the trade-off of creativity for productivity?

We’re being sold everywhere that this is the “Age of AI.” Embrace it or risk being left behind.

But I see our job differently. We’re not here to embrace it. It’s happening anyway. Our job is to seek connection, in spite of it. To hold onto our creative spirit, in spite of it.

And I guess that starts with sitting in the discomfort of an unfinished draft, a middle chapter, or an open question. Not quite knowing where it ends or what’s next.

Where to go from here

At least I know I won’t be here forever. Eventually, I’ll work my way through it. I’ll publish this essay. And I’ll be proud that I did.

Then I’ll write the next one, and the next one, ignoring the nagging itch to cut out the middle. Knowing it’ll get easier each time.

And instead of opening up ChatGPT to say, “here, take this off my plate,” I’ll reach out to my community and say, “this is on my mind - what do you think?”

And I’ll slowly, sloppily, stubbornly reconnect with my own voice in the process.

This wasn’t the essay I set out to write. But I guess it’s the one I needed to.

So AI didn’t write a word of it. And maybe it suffers for it… Maybe you haven’t even made it this far.

But hey, at least I did.

— Bryn

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Hey friend,

I’m entering this year at a (generous) 4 out of 10.

My two‑week break off social media and my business — off even thinking about social media or my business — left me feeling more disconnected than refreshed.

I logged back into Instagram feeling like everyone else had been jumper‑cabled to life on January 1st, while I’m still struggling to get out of bed before 8am.

The comparison-itis is raging. The news cycle is still depressing. The circle‑backs are circling back (rude). And how long can I realistically ignore the unread emails before the holiday excuse starts to sound suspiciously like “the dog ate my homework”?

My energy is low, but my craving is at an all‑time high.

I’m craving to create new things. Craving to connect. Caving to feel like myself again.

(And if you’re craving those things too — read ‘til the end.)

The gap between craving and capacity

This feeling isn’t new for me.

Every new season, I find myself staring down the barrel of three empty months in my content calendar thinking, how the heck am I supposed to fill this?

How am I — the girl who cannot reply to an email or return the sweater that’s been sitting on her counter since November — supposed to plan three months of content?

Surely my brain, in its luxurious two‑week rest, completely melted and all my ideas washed down the drain.

Riiiight?

Except… no. That’s not actually what’s happening.

What’s happening is that I want to create — badly — but I don’t have the energy or structure to meet that desire where it is.

And when I’m craving something but can’t seem to access it, it usually means two things:

1. I need to lower the barrier to entry.

2. I need to make dedicated time to sit down and do it.

(PS: anything that’s low on both energy and craving? That gets a polite thank‑you‑for‑your‑service and an exit stage left.)

How I keep showing up without forcing it

1. Lowering the barrier to entry (aka stop asking yourself to create from thin air)

I’ve tried hooks. I’ve tried pillars. I’ve tried signature series, content buckets, color‑coded Notion boards, and whatever else the internet was convinced would finally make consistency ~effortless~

And like, those things can be useful. They can even feel energizing, in the moment.

But none of them ever really worked for me long‑term.

Why? Because they still require you to pull ideas out of thin air… or borrow them from someone else’s brain. They ask for a sustained level of energy without actually feeding you back.

So eventually, I’d burn out. Or resent it. Or disappear for a few weeks and spiral about my “discipline.”

What finally shifted things for me was realizing my process couldn’t start with arbitrary buckets. It had to start with life.

I call these starting points Plot Lines.

Because Plot Lines are:

1. Existing parts of your real, lived story

2. Pieces of a longer‑term arc (not one‑off ideas)

3. Designed to build on each other over time

Instead of starting outward — what’s everyone else talking about? what’s the big cultural conversation right now? — we start inward.

What’s already coming up for me in this season of life?

Right now, for me, that looks like:

• Choosing my word for the year (connection) and actually figuring out how to live it, not just romanticize it

• A very real urge to declutter my closet, pantry, bathroom cabinets… my whole life, honestly

• Navigating the highest freelance workload I’ve ever had

• Still wanting to create and grow my content alongside ^ that reality

These aren’t content ideas yet. They’re tensions. They’re things I’m already thinking about, bumping up against, and navigating in real time.

And the important part is: my audience is, too.

The work isn’t to invent something clever — it’s to notice what’s already here and ask, where are the connection points?

Lets use the weirdest & most boring one as an example for funsiessss (and to show you that this works).

A (very unsexy) Plot Line example

“I really need to declutter my closet, pantry, and bathroom cabinets.”

On the surface? Riveting. 🤪

But when I slow down and look at the why and how, a whole plot line opens up:

• New‑year reset energy → The urge is to clear out the old to make space for what’s next. Why is this urge showing up now? Why will it support my creativity? Why might my audience might feel the same urge in their brand, business, or marketing?

• Deciding what stays and what goes → What guidelines I use to audit my life and my brand. What still fits this season? What’s outdated? What even is my gut check — and how do you build trust with yours?

• Defining my style in this next chapter → So much of what I own (and how I’ve shown up) belongs to past versions of me. What fits my life now? What identities am I ready to shed? Where am I pulling inspiration from going forward?

Oh, would you look at that… Turns out this isn’t about a closet.

It’s about alignment. Discernment. Letting go. Choosing intentionally. Building consistency without forcing it.

When I understand the tension inside a plot line, ideas don’t feel so scarce. They compound.

I’m not showing up with answers off the jump — I’m sharing the journey as it unfolds. And that creates momentum instead of draining it.

2. Making dedicated time (aka craving without structure is just guilt)

The blunt truth is: craving alone won’t make you consistent. Having good, life-aligned ideas that make you excited you to pull out your phone, alone, won’t make you consistent.

You need a strategy and a plan. One without the other collapses every time.

We can’t wait for the perfect energy or the magical open afternoon. Momentum comes from deciding it matters and protecting time for it.

One thing I started last year — and am doubling down on even harder — is dedicating Mondays to my own content.

It’s a non‑negotiable block in my calendar. No client calls. No client work. As much creative space for myself as possible.

I used to push this work to the weekends — and maybe that works for you — but for me it failed in two predictable ways:

1. Too much unstructured time → hello perfectionism. I’d overthink everything and somehow lose an entire weekend with little to show for it.

2. Zero energy → after a full week of work, my creativity felt tapped out. Content turned into a “have to” instead of a “get to.” Resentment followed.

Finding a container that gave me enough time — but not so much that I spiraled or avoided — is what made content doable (and enjoyable) for me.

So whether it’s a full day or a single afternoon, early in the week or late… give the things you’re craving an actual home in your schedule. And give them your best energy, not your leftovers.

This was never about content. It was about alignment.

That disconnected feeling around showing up (that you might be feeling too, no matter what time of year it is when you’re reading this) doesn’t come from a lack of ideas. It comes from trying to create around our lives instead of from them.

Trying to make our lives fit someone else’s success, aesthetic, or voice, rather than tapping into our own.

Plot Lines are what help me reconnect — to myself, to my audience, to the season I’m actually in — while still moving my work forward.

And making dedicated time is how I honor that craving instead of shaming myself for it.

Want to plan our next quarter of content together?

If content is a goal for you this year but you already feel a little behind (samesies), I’m hosting a Plot Line Planning Session on January 28th at 1pm ET.

It’s a small group call where we’ll map out your Q1 plot lines together, step‑by‑step. I’ll walk you through my Plot Lines content ideation process and workshop them with you in real time.

You’ll leave with content ideas rooted in your real life — that you feel both excited and capable to bring to life — and a plan that fits the season you’re in.

Come to the Plot Line Planning Sesh

— Bryn

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Hey friend,

Every January, the internet gets loud about clean slates.

This will be the year you finally write your book! Get into a gym habit! Become a new version of yourself!

And I get the appeal. There’s something comforting about the idea that we can draw a hard line between before and after — that we can reset everything overnight and step cleanly into a new chapter.

But that’s never really how it’s worked for me.

For years, I had the same New Year’s Eve ritual. I’d sit down, recap the year I was leaving behind, then write out everything I hoped to accomplish in the year ahead. And before I closed the notebook, I’d flip back and reread my recap from the year before.

Every time, I felt the same sinking feeling. Because when I looked at those lists side by side, all I could see was what didn’t happen.

I didn’t that promotion. I didn’t start writing that book. I didn’t take that pottery class. I didn’t go on any dates. I didn’t make any new friends.

Year after year, I pressured myself to become an entirely new person. And when I didn’t, it felt like I failed some invisible test.

So I don’t really approach the new year (or really anything) as a hard reset anymore.

I think of it more as a next step.

Less, Who do I need to become this year? And more, Where do I want to head next?

I’ve stopped asking a year to fulfill every milestone or prove its worth. Not every season needs to be productive, expansive, or impressive.

Most of the time, the real work is quieter than that — simply orienting yourself in the right direction, even when the path ahead still feels a little foggy.

New year planning, through a brand lens

I wrote recently about this idea of forward motion without pressure. About trusting direction over outcomes. About letting a year unfold instead of demanding things from it. And that perspective has shaped the way I think about planning — especially when it comes to a personal brand.

Because when it comes to business and brand planning, we tend to shape our goals around ideals. We draft ambitious content calendars. Plan big rebrands. Commit to new platforms, new formats, new versions of ourselves we’re convinced we should be by now.

So when those plans start to wobble a few months in, we interpret it as a personal failure. That we lacked discipline, didn’t want it badly enough, and need to try harder next time.

When in reality, we were trying to build momentum on a foundation that wasn’t steady to begin with.

Sometimes it’s a brand that no longer reflects who you are. Sometimes it’s a brand that was built around an ideal you never fully inhabited. And often, it’s both.

Why I start with a brand world audit

When most people hear “audit,” they think tactical. Things like metrics, messaging, visuals, performance.

And those things have their place. But they aren’t the foundation.

The founders I work with — deep-feeling, vision-led, highly intuitive humans — don’t experience their brands as a checklist. Their brands are something they live inside.

Personal brands aren’t static systems. They’re living spaces. And if you don’t pause to notice how that space feels before you start expanding it, you risk spending the year forcing yourself to show up in ways that quietly drain you.

So a brand world audit has to go deeper than what’s technically “working” or “not working”. It has to include:

• your energy

• your identity shifts

• how you naturally want to show up in this season

• the places where things feel forced, difficult, or off

This kind of audit isn’t about fixing problems, but about noticing where the foundation is rocky — and where it needs to be strengthened before you build anything new on top of it.

My approach to auditing a brand world

Part one: The grey (what’s no longer fitting)

This is the part most people skip,. But it’s also the part that holds the most information.

Some questions I like to sit with:

• What parts of your brand world feel heavy right now?

• What feels misaligned with who you are now, not who you were when you built it?

• Where did you slip into autopilot this year?

• Where did you over-perform or contort yourself into a role that no longer fits?

• What aspects of your online presence feel more like a costume than a home?

Be honest with yourself, and try not to judge any of it. Drift happens. Over-performance happens. Ghosting happens. Survival modes get us through certain seasons. Our job is just to make sure they don’t outstay their welcome.

The goal here isn’t to fix anything yet. It’s simply awareness — so you can start making different, more intentional choices from here.

Part two: The gold (what’s feeling good)

Just as important as noticing what needs to shift, is paying attention to what already feels aligned.

Some questions to journal on:

• What themes consistently connected with people this year?

• What moments did you feel fully yourself?

• What types of content or storytelling felt surprisingly easy?

• Where did people lean in the most?

• What creative urges did you ignore because you felt like you should be doing something else?

Your answers here are clues. Often, the next chapter of your brand isn’t about creating something entirely new — it’s about building intentionally from what’s already working.

Part three: The atmosphere (what you want your brand world to feel like)

Before goals, strategies, or content calendars, it’s important to first connect with how you want it all to feel.

Every brand world has an atmosphere — whether it’s intentional or not. It shows up in the pace of your content, the way you tell stories, and the energy you put out.

So before you plan what you’re going to do this year, get clear on what you want it to feel like to be inside.

Some questions to consider:

• What kind of space are you craving right now?

• How do you want people to feel when they spend time in your space?

• What season are you entering — creatively, personally, energetically?

• What pace feels realistic and sustainable for you to show up at your best?

• What’s different about you this year compared to last?

The focus here isn’t about aesthetics or reinvention. It’s about alignment. When the atmosphere matches where you actually are, showing up takes a lot less effort.

Instead of forcing yourself into a version of your brand that doesn’t fit, you’re building from a place that makes sense for this season.

Part four: The story (your narrative threads)

Brands tend to lose momentum when the story drifts away from the person telling it.

This isn’t about rewriting your whole brand narrative, but just noticing and acknowledging where the emphasis has shifted — so you can reflect it more honestly.

Some questions to work through here:

• What is your brand about in this season?

• What ideas, values, or perspectives feel most present for you right now?

• What feels like the central throughline of your next chapter?

• What parts of your personal story want more room?

• What beliefs or boundaries have changed?

When your story matches the season you’re in, your content will feel more personal and coherent.

Part five: The expression (how you actually show up)

This is where visibility comes in — but less as performance, and more as presence.

Once you’ve worked through the first four parts, this piece becomes simpler. Because it’s not about forcing yourself to show up in a certain way, but about choosing the forms of visibility that actually support you in this season — and letting go of what doesn’t.

Questions for this part:

• What formats feel most natural for you right now?

• What storytelling rhythms match your energy?

• What platforms do you genuinely enjoy spending time on?

• What pace feels sustainable over time, not just aspirational?

When your expression matches your personality, energy, and the season you’re in, showing up stops feeling like something you have to psych yourself into.

It becomes a continuation of the world you’re already building, not something separate that’s layered on top.

A gentle re-entry into the year

If you take anything from this process, let it be this:

You don’t need to reinvent your whole self or brand in January. You don’t need a dramatic pivot or a perfectly articulated version of the year ahead. And you don’t need to decide everything now.

Sometimes the most meaningful work is just taking an honest look at the world you’re already building — and checking in to make sure it’s still the world you want to be in. Making small refreshes where they’re needed so it feels more natural, and more energizing, to show up.

When you do that first, whatever you build next will feel steadier, more grounded, and more you.

That’s enough to start the year from a place of alignment, rather than pressure.

If you want support taking this deeper

For some, this kind of audit is enough to get back on the right track. For others, it may open up more questions than answers.

If you notice that:

• you can feel things are off, but can’t quite articulate what

• you know the current story doesn’t fit, but you’re not sure what should replace it

• you’ve been going in circles with your brand for awhile and can’t quite land somewhere solid

That’s usually the point where having a second set of eyes — or a collaborative partner inside your brand to help it take shape — can help.

Work with me one-on-one if you want support making sense of what’s surfaced here — turning loose observations into a personal brand world foundation that actually reflects where you’re headed, and feels easier to show up in along the way.

— Bryn

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Hey friend,

I could be the poster child for perfectionism.

So much of my life has been underscored by trying to get things right — and being terrified of getting them wrong. I’ve spent hours tweaking punctuation, spiraling over tiny decisions, and avoiding things altogether because it felt safer to not do them at all than to try and fail.

This way of operating had become so normal to me that I didn’t even see the pattern anymore. Not until this past July, when I finally realized how stuck I’d become because of it.

And at that point, I decided something had to change — even if it meant doing something deeply uncomfortable.

Starting to show up in progress

So I started an experiment: a 30-day challenge to show up “confidently messy” every single day.

Not confidently ready. Not confidently perfect. Just confidently willing to do the thing anyway.

It began with this video — and unexpectedly turned into a whole movement. It re-engaged my community, grew it, and lit up parts of my creativity that had felt dormant for years. 90 of you even joined in when I launched it as a community challenge in September.

And this was really the first time I created content directly from a plot line in my real life.

I’ve been making content online for over a decade, but this was the first time I really understood that my best opportunity wasn’t the polished tutorials or the “here’s how to do this” essays.

It’s the content where I’m actually living and embodying the thing, in real time.

Your life is full of plot lines

That challenge made me realize that our lives are full of little plot lines — ongoing, unfolding journeys where we’re actively becoming the person we talk about being in our work.

These are the stories people love following.

And when you share these in-progress parts of your life — the habits you’re forming, the projects you’re building, the shifts you’re making internally — you create a narrative your community can actually connect with.

Now, plot lines are the backbone of the content strategies I build for myself and my clients. Because they root everything in something true, ongoing, and human.

Plot lines can look like:

• The habits, systems, and routines shaping your creative or work life

• Mindset shifts, lessons, or reframes you’re navigating (like confidently messy!)

• Projects you’re building or experimenting with

• Intentional personal changes you’re making

• Creative or professional goals you’re actively working toward

• New hobbies or skills you’re exploring just for fun

How to document a plot line

Once you’ve identified the plot lines you want to share, the next step is documenting them. Which is the part most people are intimidated by — and tend to overcomplicate.

Sharing something “in progress” feels vulnerable. It feels like more pressure than a one-off post. But it doesn’t have to be.

I break it down into three simple steps:

1. Plan your plot lines

At the beginning of the week or month, choose which ongoing journeys you want to pay attention to. The key questions to identify good ones are: Will it evolve over time? and Is it relatable or meaningful to me and my community?

2. Notice and track moments

Capture snippets as you go — behind-the-scenes clips, rough drafts, decisions you’re making, and things you might otherwise deem “not interesting” enough. Set a daily or weekly reminder if you need to, to get in the habit of just noticing things in the moment.

3. Reflect on the meaning

As things unfold, keep checking in: What am I learning? What’s challenging me? What’s surprising me? How am I overcoming it? What insight could help someone else going through something similar?

This is how you can turn the life you’re already living into content that resonates.

An “in progress” plot line example

Let’s say you’re spending this quarter restructuring your email sequences so they run in the background — freeing you from writing and scheduling new ones every week.

That’s a plot line.

And it could tie directly to a shared value you and your audience care about, and that shows up in your brand: building a life-first business (for example).

Along the way, you might capture:

• How you’re comparing email service providers

• How you’re creating time for a project like this

• How you’re designing the new sequences

• Your workflow as you write and build

And as you make progress, you can share:

• Why you chose the provider you did

• What you outsourced vs. handled yourself

• What took more time than expected

• What you’d do differently next time

Even if you’re not an email expert — maybe especially then — people follow these journeys because they feel real, human, and actionable without being prescriptive.

Why showing up in progress works

For me, it wasn’t about building authority or proving expertise or any of the things people say your content needs to do to be successful.

It was just about taking the pressure down far enough that I could actually show up. And in the process, people got to see the real, imperfect version of how I work — which turned out to be the thing they resonated with the most.

— Bryn

Resources to take this deeper:

Download the free Brand World Vision Planner — my Notion template with a section for documenting and tracking plot lines so you can turn them into content.

Follow me on Instagram for real-time plot lines and helpful breakdowns, like:

• How to find content hiding in your every day life

• What makes good plot lines?

• How to connect your plot lines to your offers

• How I turn plot lines into content

Work with me one-on-one to get back into (confidently messy) action, build your brand world, and maintain online visibility without losing the personal connection that makes it all work.

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Hey friend,

On January 1st of this year, I wrote a letter to myself one year in the future. In it, I documented how tired I felt. Since 2019 I’d been working my ass off in the tech space, trying to prove to someone (myself, I guess?) that I was capable and worthy.

And finally, it had all come to a screeching halt. I’d been let go at the end of 2024 — and I took it as a sign to actually let go, and do something different.

This would be my first year without a stable full time income. But that part didn’t really scare me. What scared me most was that I’d become so thoroughly burned out that I didn’t recognize myself anymore.

I’d taken one design project in all of 2024. I had a decently sized community online, but I wasn’t engaging with them in any meaningful way. I knew I wanted to do something with this business… I just didn’t know what. **

I was completely tapped out, both of energy and of joy. And I desperately wanted to get that back.

Here’s a snippet from that letter:

“Right now, I feel immensely tired. So I hope you have your fire back. Or at least the spark of one.

I’ve been thinking lately how lovely it would be to have a childlike energy again; a belief that things are good, an uninhibited joy, a softness of spirit.

I hope you achieve that in the year ahead. And in the process, I hope you’ve found your creativity again. I hope you’re writing. I hope you’ve been reading. I hope you’ve been moving and listening to good music. Getting outside. Making things with your hands.

I hope you have a growing list of things that bring you joy and reconnect you to your imagination.”

Getting my spark back

This letter is what made me start my “Getting My Spark Back” series on Instagram — where I shared small moments of creativity, imagination, joy, and softness in the everyday. All in pursuit of finding my fire again.

It was really the first time I chose to show up online not as “Grey & Gold Creative,” but just as Bryn. No strategy. No offer to promote. No cohesive plan behind it. Just trying to reconnect with myself — and hopefully with my community, too.

At the time, all I knew was that I felt tired and lost. It seemed like everything I’d worked toward — in my corporate career and in my business — had been for nothing.

But now, nearly a year later, I see it differently:

I wasn’t directionless. I was disconnected. From my creativity. From my people. From my purpose.

What creative slumps really are

I think that’s what creative slumps are, at their core: A disconnection.

Being stuck in the in-between, where you know you can’t keep doing what you were doing before, but not knowing where you’re going, yet. The stumbling in the dark to try and find the light switch.

What we think fixes it (but doesn’t)

In the moment, a creative slump feels like life-or-death. This quiet desperation that, if you don’t find the answer fast enough, you’ll never find it at all.

So we look for answers outside ourselves. We overthink. We ask for validation. We let “experts” tell us what we should or shouldn’t do.

The irony is that all of this is just pressure disguised as problem solving.

It’s pressure to find an easy answer that doesn’t exist. Pressure that the only way to do something is to do it right. Pressure that creativity only “counts” if it gets results.

And when you believe that, creativity stops being creativity. In trying to “solve” it, it becomes something to figure out instead of something to feel into.

Here are some things that did not help me get my spark back:

• Investing in group programs with strict “win-or-lose” formulas

• Putting pressure on myself (and others) to hit arbitrary numbers

• Letting others dictate what my work “should” look like

• Giving myself strict templates, timelines, or goals to just “get it done”

• Trying to reverse-engineer what worked for someone else

• Waiting for the perfect idea or strategy before taking action

How I actually got my spark back

What actually helped was the opposite: It was taking the pressure off completely. Letting myself step back, rest, and not think about it.

Letting myself not fix it.

That was the biggest lesson from my year of creative disillusionment. When I desperately sought an answer, I never found it.

When I let go of needing an answer and followed joy, the answers appeared on their own.

And at the root of chasing joy was connection — to myself, and to others.

Some things that actually helped me get my spark back:

• Fewer rigid to-dos and deadlines

• Checking in with my energy every day (”What feels fun to work on right now?”)

• More DM conversations with fellow creatives

• Letting go of the rules and “shoulds” in my content

• Investing in 1:1 support where I felt seen

• Taking a day or afternoon to do something fun, even if it wasn’t “productive”

• Investing in myself before my business (therapy, exercise, etc.)

One year of healing

Now, almost a year later, I finally feel like I’m healing from years of burnout and putting my own needs second. I’ve rediscovered my creativity by reconnecting — with myself, and with you.

Recently, I’ve started to notice some real, tangible shifts:

• I don’t panic before discovery calls about needing to “look capable”

• I don’t over-analyze every social media post

• I don’t hesitate to leave a comment, send a voice note, or just drop in and say hi

• I’m not afraid to chase a new idea without knowing the end goal

• I have more confidence in myself and my ability to figure things out

All because I’ve put less pressure on myself, in small ways, every day.

Do I have it all figured out? Absolutely not. This essay still took me forever to write because the words don’t always come easily. I still hit energy dips and get stuck in overthinking spirals. Old wounds still pop up at inconvenient times.

But every day, I can feel myself healing. And it’s all because I’m more connected now — to myself, my purpose, and to you.

— Bryn

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Hey friend,

When I first dreamt up The Gold Standard in 2021, I was drawn to a trend I saw growing in the online space — the dismantling of the overly polished designs and perfectly curated presences that had dominated my feed since I started my brand design studio in 2019.

Little by little (by the influence of TikTok, no doubt), the glossy carousels and luxury aesthetics were being replaced by grainy car confessionals and lip syncs. The era of studio names like “Grey & Gold” — where we all called ourselves “agencies,” posted maybe once a week, and still fielded multiple inquiries — was being phased out for something looser, realer, and more human.

And honestly? I welcomed this change. Sure, there were losses: feeds that once upon a time felt less saturated, marketing that felt less relentless, and a time when your success didn’t hinge on your ability to lip sync to Taylor Swift. But there was so much opportunity, too. To stop gatekeeping what worked. To stop hiding behind our logos. And to actually know the humans behind the work — beyond their ability to push pixels and charge $500 less than the next person.

I ultimately felt like this would be a positive shift in the online business world. It opened up new possibilities for anyone to stand out, and for real connection to exist in a space that had started to feel mostly surface-level and faceless. I was eager to show up in a more personal way and make deeper connections with my online community. But of course, I had no idea how quickly things would shift.

At the time, I was calling it “human-first branding.” But “personal branding” would soon take over the internet, and the online business space would transform completely in a short time.

Where The Gold Standard began

Before even The Gold Standard, there was Gold Standard Brand Co. Which, even though it was only created two years ago, already feels like a relic of it’s time.

What started as a fresh insight — that you can’t separate the personal from the brand — has now become, ironically, the actual gold standard. I won’t claim I invented that idea, but you can’t say I didn’t see it coming.

That blend of the personal with the brand has been central to my work and message from the start. But as the landscape changed, it’s taken on new forms.

If Gold Standard Brand Co. was about convincing founders to bring more of themselves into their brands, then The Gold Standard newsletter was about helping them navigate the aftermath.

In 2023, that looked like connecting to your deeper voice and purpose as a leader. In 2024, it meant more authentic business and marketing strategies. And when I re-launched in on Substack earlier this year, it become standing out in a crowded feed that churns out content on autopilot, when everyone with a phone has a personal brand and lip stains to sell.

And even though every year the online space looked different, and new challenges arose… my gold standard was remained the same: being yourself is your best strategic asset.

What it’s become to be “yourself” online

That still feels true. But in 2025, I don’t think you need to be convinced of this anymore. And it’s also really fucking hard.

For a while, it was enough to share an intro post every few months and throw some fun facts on your About page. But now, marketing your business demands as much from you as running it.

Not just your time, but your energy. Not just your creativity, but your personal life. You can’t be a founder without also being a face — and neither role can be outsourced.

It’s no wonder we’re all exhausted. Overthinking every post, burning out trying to keep up, and feeling like every post that doesn’t get enough likes must mean something about us.

More opportunities for connection created more chances for rejection. More visibility created more vulnerability.

Leaning into the grey

All this to say: The Gold Standard doesn’t feel like the goal anymore. I’m not here to define what “good” looks like online, and I don’t feel connected to the idea of pushing you to do more.

Instead, I feel pulled to explore the in-between. The murky, messy, very human space between where you are and where you’re going. The seasons of evolution where your brand needs to grow along with you. The times when showing up feels vulnerable, half-finished, or in flux.

How we can exist in the grey area, together.

Because it’s not about getting to the gold, it’s about learning to get comfortable in — and maybe even celebrate — the grey.

— Bryn

What other topics would you like me to cover as part of The Grey Area?

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Not launching because the timing wasn’t perfect. Not sharing ideas because they weren’t fully formed. Not talking about something because I didn’t have the right words yet.

All the things that, if you stay far enough away from it, can look like being “strategic” or “intentional.” But when you zoom in, you see is just fear in a business suit.

A couple weeks ago I finally had the realization that I was never going to feel ready. I’ve been posting online for over ten years, running a business for almost six, and if this magic moment of feeling “ready” was ever going to come...it probably would have by now. I’ve been sitting around waiting for permission from some external voice that is never going to give it to me.

The readiness trap, and why I started this challenge in the first place

Our brains, in their efforts to keep us safe, see anything uncertain as dangerous. So it keeps moving the goalposts. First you need the perfect caption, then the perfect lighting, then the perfect timing—to prove it’s worth posting at all.

Meanwhile, that dream that keeps nagging at you collects dust.

That’s when I realized I had two choices: I could keep waiting for my brain to grant me permission (which it may never do), or I could start taking action from a place of “not ready yet” and prove to myself that the world doesn’t end when I’m imperfect.

So I chose option two, just to see what happened. I set myself a challenge: For 30 days, I would do at least one thing each day that I didn’t feel totally ready for. And hopefully rewire my brain to see that good things can happen when I show up as I am, not as I think I should be.

My week one reality check, and why messy is messier than I thought

When I first started this challenge, I thought it would make me feel immediately empowered. Like, I knew it wouldn’t be easy per se. But I thought pushing myself would ultimately feel like action. Like progress.

Instead, it held up a mirror to all the ways I’ve been shrinking myself.

Like using AI to write emails because I didn’t trust my own voice to come up with the right things to say. Scrolling endlessly for inspiration because I didn’t believe I could come up with interesting ideas without it. Questioning whether anyone would care about what I said before I even finished typing.

And I almost quit right there. Because this wasn’t the empowering breakthrough montage I’d imagined—it was uncomfortable as hell. But the discomfort was exactly the point.

I needed to see how deep the self-doubt went before I could re-wire it.

What I know now is: Confidence isn’t the absence of doubt or fear or insecurities. It’s taking action in spite of those things.

It’s deciding that whatever is on the other side is more important than the discomfort you feel in the middle. And embracing it rather than waiting for it to disappear.

Three reframes that are helping me show up in a new way

Through the first couple weeks of this challenge, I’ve identified a few shifts that have helped me navigate that discomfort:

Your authenticity is your advantage.

Your authentic voice—the one that get excited about weird things, has strong opinions, and uses too many exclamation points—is your magic. The world is drowning in “professional” and “palatable.” What it’s starving for is you, unfiltered. The more you sand down your edges, the less we can connect to the real you.

Action creates confidence.

Not the other way around. Confidence comes from proving to yourself that you can handle whatever happens when you show up imperfectly. Think about how the future version of you—the one who's already where you want to be—would act right now. Then do that, messily, until it becomes natural.

Your mess is magnetic.

People don’t connect with a highlight reel, they connect with your humanity. Your failed experiments, your learning moments, your "I'm figuring this out as I go" energy—that's where real connection happens. Stop hiding behind polished facades and start sharing the process. That's where people see themselves in your story.

How to start showing up more confidently messy

Choosing to be confidently messy isn’t just about overcoming perfectionism. It’s about all of us—the overthinkers, the people-pleasers, the ones with brilliant ideas who keep them locked away—finally getting out of our own damn way.

Your confidently messy might look like:

• Finally starting that Substack you’ve been thinking about for weeks

• Applying for that opportunity you would love but think you’re “not qualified” for

• Sharing the project idea before you have all the details figured out

• Speaking up about what you want even if you feel like an imposter saying it

• Posting the video even though your editing isn’t perfectly polished yet

The world doesn’t need another perfect, sanitized version of success. It needs your specific flavor of messy brilliance.

The people who change things, who build movements, and who create work that matters to people—they’re not the ones who waited until they felt ready. They’re the ones who decided their message mattered more than their fear.

Your Editor-In-Chief,
Bryn

Where is perfectionism and self-doubt getting in your way? How do you want to show up more confidently messy this month?

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Cue: mild panic. Existential spiral. Spreadsheet fiddling. Several pacing-around-the-room moments.

Because while I knew for months I needed to bake in more client work, I hadn’t fully acted on it. But when the money faucet slows to a drip almost overnight, you realize you started too late.

So I did the thing I’d been putting off for months: I posted on LinkedIn.

The ick of showing up

If you’ve ever avoided posting because it feels weird, you’re not alone.

Here’s what felt uncomfortable for me about LinkedIn specifically:

• It’s got a stiff, corporate, bro-y vibe that makes me want to shrivel up and perish

• Most of my network there is made up of old coworkers, bosses, and colleagues—which makes it feel extra vulnerable

• It feels like you have to either be an expert or be shouting your accolades, and I’m allergic to both of those things

But there are so many reasons we don’t show up online.

• It’s uncomfortable to be seen before you feel ready

• It’s vulnerable to share your real, honest thoughts

• It’s scary to try something new and have it flop

• It’s hard to feel confident when the algorithm is silent and the inner critic is loud

And when your energy’s low or your circumstances are shaky, it’s even harder to rally.

But what I know about people like us—introverted, multi-passionate, career-reimagining dreamers:

We want more. We care deeply. And we know we have something to say, if only we could just get it out and have it be received in the right ways.

How I’m getting through the ick

Here’s how I am getting through the discomfort of posting and making it easier on myself.

I name the cringe upfront

In my very first (intentional) post on LinkedIn, I just straight out said I was feeling cringe about it.

Did the post perform amazingly? No. But was it honest and true? Absolutely. It dropped the performance and pressure. And it opened the door for people to say “same.”

One of my go-to tricks, online and offline, is just to name the discomfort. Say it out loud. Break the tension. Because when something feels awkward, calling it out softens the edge—both for you and the other person (who is certainly dealing with their own anxieties, too).

It’s a collective exhale and an invitation for everyone to let their own guards down a bit.

I work with my panic

I knew hitting “publish” would make me spiral, so I scheduled the post to go live while I knew I’d be driving to take my cat to the vet.

Highly recommend the “post and be too busy to obsess” method for your first few posts.

I also tagged a few people I trusted to comment and support me, so I didn’t feel totally alone. Was it strategic? Yep. Did it also help protect my very fragile visibility feelings? Also yep!

Sometimes showing up means asking for backup. You don’t have to do it all alone!

When you know something will cause you stress, it’s better to acknowledge it than ignore it. And remind yourself that you have options to get over the difficult parts.

I give myself a runway

Action creates momentum. I knew it would feel uncomfortable to keep going after my first post, so I wrote a few week’s worth and scheduled them all at once.

Because when things feel awkward or vulnerable, your brain will look for any excuse to stop. Your ideas will stall. Your creativity will dry up.

So do your future self a favor and remove the friction. Plan ahead. Pre-write. Schedule. Keep moving.

You don’t need a perfectly honed content strategy to start. You just need to start.

The longer you wait, the louder the inner critic gets. The more you just post and realize that everything is fine, the quieter it gets. Plan accordingly.

I document the journey

The old me would’ve waited to post until I had a crystal-clear POV and a 6-month visibility strategy mapped out. And then ghosted after the first week.

The new me chooses to just show up in the messy middle. Here was another post I shared this week:

No tip. No framework. No huge teaching moment. Just a real thought, in real time. And a silly meme (that I love).

One of the biggest traps of personal brand content is the pressure to always be useful. We think every post needs to deliver value in the form of a neatly wrapped insight or a 3-step method.

But being real is also extremely valuable.

Sharing your thoughts-in-progress? Valuable.
Letting people see the way you think and move through challenges? Valuable.
Showing people that you understand their struggles and symptoms? Valuable.

We don’t need more content that makes us feel behind. We need more content that reminds us we’re not alone in the middle.

I do it my own way

The temptation is always to follow the format. To mimic the people who seem to be “doing it right.” Because if you follow the rules and don’t get results, well, at least you don’t have to blame yourself.

But I knew I couldn’t be creative while also trying to fit into the LinkedIn vibe. That’s how I ended up not posting there for years.

So I decided: if I’m going to do it, I am going to do it my way. With a little softness. A little humor. A lot of realness.

If I’ve learned anything in my many years on the internet, it’s that it’s more important to enjoy the process than to chase the performance.

At the end of the day, if you’re going to post, you have to do it for YOU. Most posts won’t get seen. The only things we can control are:

1. Whether we show up

2. Whether we enjoy doing it

If you’re struggling to show up right now

This is your reminder to stop waiting for perfect clarity. Stop waiting until the inner critic quiets and you feel “ready.” Stop waiting until you can package your brilliance into one palatable sentence.

Just start with where you are.

Call out the awkwardness. Post the thing you’re feeling. Make yourself laugh. Make yourself cringe. Name the thing that no one else is saying.

Even if no one sees it, you still showed up for yourself. Which is the most important thing.

And if you need a little support buddy to hype you up, I’m just a tag away!

Your Editor-In-Chief,

Bryn

What are you struggling with when it comes to showing up right now? Or if you are showing up, what has helped you overcome the discomfort?

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The Classifieds (ie. Ways I can help)

• Free Training: From Invisible to Impactful: Learn the strategic storytelling framework that creative brands use to stand out and make an impact—so you can stop blending in and start breaking through.

• Golden Hour Sessions: 60 minutes with me to make your ideas “make sense” together, clarify why you are showing up, and finally get out of your head and into action. 4 spots are available at $100 off!

Subscribe to join the creatives and creators rewriting the rules of showing up, standing out, and building authentic personal brands.

And then, on Friday, news broke that Taylor Swift now owns her full catalog of work.

Now, I am a lifelong Swiftie, so this is a big cultural moment for me that’s been 6+ years in the making. But in case you haven’t been paying close attention (or any attention), my friend Sarah has an in-depth and thoughtful recap of the whole saga here.

But the summary is: this isn’t just a business deal where an artist buys back her masters from investors. It’s a creative reclamation. And one that is teaching me a lot about my relationship to my own creative work.

One thing that has always fascinated me about Taylor Swift is her fierce commitment to her art. As we know, the art alone isn’t always lucrative. This feels especially true for music in the transition from physical to digital. Which is why many artists opt build their empire with lip gloss and liquor instead (no shade, just truth). But Taylor has remained wholly focused on the music.

And then, when it was sold out from underneath her, it became her entire mission to get it back.

A mission that involved hundreds of re-recorded songs, large-scale marketing campaigns, and the highest grossing tour of all time.

And it made me wonder: How would it feel to create something you’d fight so hard for?

I often think about the inherent dichotomy of owning a creative business. In the past few issues of this newsletter I’ve written about many of the complexities that arise from this—things like the pressure of consistency on creativity and the difference between creating content vs. creating art. It’s something I can’t let go of because it’s a delicate balance I am always searching for and never quite able to find.

And I know this is at the root of my own creative stuckness lately. It feels like we are always chasing new strategies—new ways to succeed, new ways to grow, new ways to unlock more time or ease—only to find we’ve traded the soul in the process. The reason we do all of this in the first place. And as creative people, there always comes a moment where we look around, realize we’ve lost the spark, and remember that’s a trade we aren’t willing to make.

I mean, the struggling artist is a common trope for a reason, right? We’re sold a story that you can be creative and broke, or successful and soulless. Choose your path.

But Taylor Swift proves differently.

I first became a fan of Taylor when I was 11. I was in my friend’s basement, on her families old Dell computer, chatting on MSN messenger. (If it isn’t the most 2000s thing btw that we went over to friends houses just to chat with other friends over the internet… what a time!) And for the teens in the audience: the 2000s version of putting a cool song on your Instagram story to show all your friends you had good taste was to put an emo lyric as your MSN away message.

And that day, my friend Megan (who had an older sister and therefore enviable music taste) had, “the only thing that keeps me wishing on a wishing star” as hers.

This was where an 11-year-old girl’s lifelong adoration was born.

11-year-old Bryn saw herself in that lyric. In that song. In that album. And as she grew into the 30-year-old women she is today—10 albums later—that has remained true. Because Taylor is more than just an artist, she is a diarist. She pours her soul into her own work.

It’s why she’s still so successful, nearly two decades later. Why her music matters to so many. And why losing (and ultimately buying back) her masters was so much more than a business deal—it was a movement.

One that had millions of people consciously choosing to listen to a re-record over an original (even if it didn’t hit quite the same). That had all the major streaming services prioritizing Taylor’s Versions in playlists. And that had millions of people flocking to a tour that celebrated all the eras of one woman’s career—because they were our eras, too.

Lifelong relationships like this between artists and their communities don’t come from trying to “make a hit.” They come from the vulnerability of pouring yourself into your art. Making things that feed your soul so much that other souls see themselves in it, too. That it inspires them to pick up a guitar or record a video or write a poem.

That’s why “Taylor’s Version” is so much more than just a signature at the end of an album title. It’s a lesson in what actually makes art matter, and a reminder that we always have the option to make something that is so personal and so meaningful and so important, that we would play a 5+ year long-game to fight for it. And that people would fight for it with us.

Today, Taylor Swift owns the full catalog of her life’s work. And I’m on the path of creating and claiming mine.

Your Editor-in-Chief,
Bryn

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SUNDAY FUNDAY

TRIVIA: What’s the only Taylor Swift song that mentions the color “purple”? Hit reply with your guess! I'll share the answer next week.

You hear a lot in the online business space that if you work for yourself, content is just part of the tradeoff. You wanted freedom? Cool. Now you owe the algorithm five reels a week. So we quickly start treating content like it’s the job, instead of what it really is: a medium for communication. A mode of expression. Something that was supposed to connect us, not to hold all this pressure.

But when we tie it to our worth, our results, our income, our identity as a “successful business owner,” of course it gets heavy. And of course it stops being fun. It’s no wonder, then, that we avoid it. We turned it into something it was never supposed to be, and then hitched our entire being to it.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately (well, all the time) about why I started creating things online in the first place. And it wasn’t for sales, or reach, or credibility. At the heart of it, I just wanted to connect with people. I felt lonely, quiet, and weird, and I didn’t have an outlet for being that person IRL. So I turned to the internet, because I felt like I could find my true voice, here. I could say something, and people would say things back. And there was proof that I wasn’t actually alone just because the people in my immediate circle didn’t get me.

But now, as someone who is trying to make a brand and business online, there’s always another voice that creeps in.

“Okay, cool idea. But how does this fit into the funnel?”
”My face is in it, so people will like it but they won’t share it.”
”This is helpful but it doesn’t really align to the offer I want to sell right now.”

These voices get louder and louder the longer you’re in this space. And they’re not bad questions, but they’re not the most important—or even the most useful—ones. Because they filter your ideas around what they need to do rather than what you want to say. And then you wonder why you feel so blocked, why content feels so hard, and why you just shouldn’t even bother when it doesn’t work, anyway.

I’ve been learning (and re-learning) that content feels easier when it comes from somewhere real. Not a strategy or a CTA, but a sense of self. A purpose. A deeper why. And when it feels challenging, it’s because I’ve disconnected from that core purpose, and started focusing more on the result.

But content isn’t the job, it’s the byproduct. Of your curiosity. Of your desire to connect. Of your need to make sense of something, or make the world better. That’s the root. Everything else is just leaves.

So if content feels hard for you right now—either because you’re out of ideas, or because it just doesn’t feel like you—start with:

What am I actually here to say?
Who am I hoping will hear it?
Why does this matter to me?

That’s where the core of your presence lives, and where you should create from. Where content stops being performance, and starts being expression. Where the real stuff begins.

Your Editor-in-Chief,
Bryn

TOP STORIES

You are not stuck, you are attached

“There’s a quiet pain we rarely talk about. It’s not heartbreak, failure, or rejection. It’s the weight of carrying things we were never meant to hold on to. The version of ourselves we’ve outgrown. The identity we’ve attached to a past mistake. The belief that we should’ve been further by now.”

That’s a snipper from this essay on letting go, which put words to something I’ve been feeling lately: how often we stay stuck because we’re still gripping tightly to something familiar. For me, it brought up the way content had become a crutch; a thing I clung to out of fear of what would happen if I slowed down or tried something new. If that resonates, I think you’ll take a lot from the piece, too.

A reminder about fear and transitions

There’s a reason change feels so scary, even when it’s leading somewhere good. The liminal space between “what was” and “what’s next” can feel like a free fall. But that’s the magic of it. The risk is what opens the door. This short reflection and poem is a beautiful reminder that fear in transition is normal—and even necessary. I’ve come back to it more than once this week.

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS: Send us the questions you're wrestling with, stories that caught your eye this week, or industry conversations you can't stop thinking about to hello@greyandgoldcreative.com. Selected submissions will be featured in upcoming editions of TGS!

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JOURNAL PROMPT: Who do I want to be today?

This is one I’ve been doing daily during morning pages. I ask myself this question, then write from her perspective. How she approaches her work. How she rests. How she carries herself throughout the day. It’s helped me figure out how to soften into growth instead of forcing it, and to meet myself where I am while still holding the version I’m becoming.

If you try it, I’d love to hear what comes up!

(Ok, maybe that’s dramatic. But also… is it?)

I’ve been spending more time on there lately—part client work, part curiosity, part masochism if I’m honest—and I came across a post that immediately made me clench.

It claimed, with all the confidence of a tech bro on his high horse, that if you want to be remembered, you have to be constantly visible.

Not just consistent. CONSTANT.

The post cited examples like Gary Vaynerchuck and Justin Welsh (all men btw—but that’s a whole other essay) who post upwards of 15-20x per week (per week!!) as the bare minimum if you want to stay top of mind. On LinkedIn alone. Plus ads. Plus newsletters. Plus podcasts. All the time, across all the channels, or else your ideal audience will forget you exist.

FORGET. YOU. EXIST.

And in the past, this kind of post would have unraveled me.

I would’ve spiraled. Opened Notion. Mapped out a 4-week content sprint I didn’t have the energy for. Awoken from a deep sleep to Google “how to repurpose content” at 1:49am.

Because I believed that’s what made someone noticeable. Made someone worthy of attention.

Now, I call bullshit.

This flavor of advice—loud, hyper-optimized, constantly measuring success in eyeballs and impressions—isn’t specific to LinkedIn. I think there’s just less non-professional content to dilute it compared to places like Instagram. But this advice prevails no matter where you look.

It tells us the only way to grow is to shout from every rooftop, every day. But what it really does is feed a machine where only the loudest (and most resourced) survive.

And frankly, I think it's one of the worst strategies for building a memorable personal brand.

The more content I see from someone (especially when it’s repetitive, mundane content, like this dude’s surely was), the less I actually see it. There are entire creators I’ve unfollowed or muted or unsubscribed or marked spam simply because the sheer volume of their presence was too much.

There is nothing inherently wrong with consistency or visibility. But this obsession with omnipresence is doing something much more insidious than simply “keeping us top of mind.”

It’s exhausting us. Flattening our voices. And eroding the very connection it claims to build.

Let’s break down how (and what actually works, instead).

1. Omnipresence erodes connection

This kind of advice sounds harmless until you realize what it really implies: That the quiet ones don’t get remembered. That if you’re not constantly producing, you don’t matter.

And what that does to people like us—the introverted, thoughtful, deep-feeling creatives who crave meaningful relationships, not just reach—is that it makes us feel like we’re not worthy of trying at all.

Like if we stop feeding the feed, the people on the other end will disappear. That the only way to stay close to someone is to be constantly in front of them. That we have to prove our worth in 30-second reels and 280-character thoughts or someone else will immediately take our place.

That we’ll be forgotten if, heaven forbid, we log off for a week of rest. Or choose to get coffee with a friend instead of churning out another email.

But that’s not how real connection works.

I’ve never followed, hired, or trusted someone because they posted daily—or because I feared I’d forget them if I didn’t see them in my feed 20x a week. I bet you haven’t, either.

Visibility means very little without resonance. And resonance isn’t built through volume. It’s built through connection.

It happens in conversation. In DMs. In comment replies. In small, sincere moments. In the way you show up even when you don’t have something to post.

A more sustainable strategy: Don’t pour everything into output. Pour into people. Prioritize depth over volume. Spend time in real conversations. Check in with your people. Share something just because it matters to you, not because it checks a content box. Spend a good chunk of your “marketing” time on showing up in ways that are relational, not just promotional.

2. Omnipresence flattens our voices

You can’t create thoughtfully when you’re sprinting toward a quota.

Posting for the sake of constancy pushes us toward what’s safe, easy, and expected. It flattens our ideas into templates. It dilutes our voice until it sounds like everyone else’s. It turns nuanced stories into vague tips just to stay on schedule.

And while there’s nothing wrong with a system—I love a good structure—when the goal becomes output for output’s sake, we start sacrificing what actually makes something worth engaging with in the first place.

I work with people every day who are brimming with nuance and soul. And yet they struggle to post. Not because they lack ideas, but because we’re led to believe those ideas have to fit into polished boxes. (And that we need 100s of them).

They become so overwhelmed by the expectations that they just… stop. Because the pressure to “keep up” and do it “right” makes them overthink every word. They’ve internalized the idea that if they can’t show up constantly, maybe they shouldn’t show up at all.

So their voices stay buried—not because it’s not there, but because they’ve been conditioned to believe it has to come out on someone else’s timeline.

But presence is not the same as performance.

The best content is rooted in something deeper. A real insight. A story. A spark of curiosity. Something said in a way only you could say it.

A better approach: Get more real. Let people see the real you. Stop polishing every sentence into something perfect and start sharing the stuff that makes you a full, layered, relatable human. It’s easier to connect with someone who feels real, than someone who’s just an “expert.”

3. Omnipresence exhausts us

The irony of posting 20 times a week to be "present" is that you're not really in any of it.

True presence isn’t about how often you post. It’s about how rooted you feel in the things you’re saying. And that kind of presence requires space. Attention. The ability to pause, observe, experiment, and respond with intention.

But when your calendar is full of deadlines, metrics, and "rules," there’s no room to actually feel what you want to say—let alone say it well. It’s just auto-scheduling creativity out of existence.

The part we often forget is: Not all content creation looks like content creation.

Thinking is creation. Reading is creation. Resting is creation. Sitting with an idea long enough to feel it is creation.

What might happen if you used some of that time to wander offline for a bit? To daydream in your journal. Make a moodboard on Pinterest. Read a long essay instead of another 10-second caption. Send a voice note to a friend with a half-formed idea. Follow a curiosity and see where it leads.

We treat our time like it only counts when it produces a post. But some of the most meaningful content I’ve ever made started as a long walk. A scribbled sentence. A conversation. A spark I didn’t rush to put words to.

A new rhythm: Choose your pace on purpose. If you’re trying to build the habit of showing up or get over perfectionism? Post more often. Let the reps teach you. Let it be messy. Let it be light. If you’re craving making things that are deeper or more unique? Give yourself more space. Use it to play. Use it to experiment. Use it to expand.

Omnipresence isn’t the point

This LinkedIn post (and subsequent reflection) made me realize I’ve also been defaulting to pre-set rules about frequency and presence. Posting 3+ times/week on Instagram because of a goal I set months ago. Sending this newsletter weekly because 1x/week is the “norm.”

But that doesn’t support the slower, richer, more reflective pace I’m craving in this season.

So one thing I’m doing about it is slowing down this newsletter.

Not because I’m burning out. (I’m actually more lit up than I’ve been in months.) Not because I don’t love writing it. (But because I do.)

Right now, I want to protect the spark. I want to make TGS something worth sitting down with, thinking about, and waiting for. Something that honors your attention instead of assuming I deserve it just for showing up.

Every two weeks feels better for this season. It gives me space to live a little, to notice more, and to write with a little more weight.

Because I don’t want to be everywhere. I want to be worth remembering when I do show up.

And that, I believe, is more than enough.

Your Editor-in-Chief,
Bryn

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SUNDAY FUNDAY

PROMPT: Post something this week that makes no sense to your content strategy, but just feels fun. Like this example. Send me a link when you do it so I can hype you up!

I was raised in a high-achieving household where this was the prevailing question.

It hovered over everything.

As far as I could tell, my job would be the most important identity I would ever hold.

And it was my biggest identity crisis when, inevitably, it wasn’t.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

They ask you this a lot because, as a kid, the answer is always changing.

I picked ones where I could try different lives on for size.

Actors. Writers. Artists.

If I could always walk in someone else’s shoes or see through someone else’s eyes…

I would never be stuck with just one.

But, eventually, we must pick just one.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

So much of your adult life rests on a choice you make at 17.

A college advisor told me not to use the word “passionate.”

Too cliché for personal essays, I guess.

So I can’t be passionate. I must be practical.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

When you blindly follow a script, you often lose the plot.

It slips through your fingers…

(Or gets pulled from your white-knuckled grip).

But then, finally without the weight of it,

You learn what freedom feels like.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

I can’t write you a “30 lessons I learned by 30.”

Most of the lessons from years 0-29 are ones I’m un-learning.

Beliefs to untangle. Stories that desire different endings.

Identities that no longer fit.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

I want to know. I want to have learned.

But here I am, turning 30, not knowing anything yet.

But maybe there is a comfort, in that.

There is always tomorrow.

To evolve. To become new.

To try on someone else’s shoes or see through someone else’s eyes.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

I don’t know.

I don’t think you’re ever done becoming the person you’re going to be.

“What do I want to be when I grow up?”

I don’t want to be a “what” —

I want to be a “who”

Someone who cares about people.

Someone who follows her curiosity.

Someone who trusts herself.

Someone who sees challenges as opportunities.

Someone who loves the grittiest parts of herself.

Someone who embraces earnestness.

Someone who puts joy at the top of the to-do list.

Someone who finds the creativity in anything.

Someone who expands out instead of shrinking in.

Your Editor-in-Chief,
Bryn

TOP STORIES

How to create when you have nothing to give

A big focus in the year leading up to my 30th birthday was reconnecting with my creativity. With that childlike wonder that allows us to think less and feel more. This essay puts it into such simple terms, I wish it had come out a year ago and saved me some trouble lol. But in all seriousness, the reframe here from creativity as luxury to creativity as oxygen is so lovely, and the tips are so useful in simplifying something that often feels so complex and out of reach.

The good kind of tension

So many dinner party metaphors have popped up in my life since hosting In Conversation! This essay is no exception. It made me think about the ways we focus on making things pretty or good, that we forget to make things interesting. And for design in particular, interest comes from tension. This feels like a lesson we can bring into other things, too.

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS: Send us the questions you're wrestling with, stories that caught your eye this week, or industry conversations you can't stop thinking about to hello@greyandgoldcreative.com. Selected submissions will be featured in upcoming editions of TGS!

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Break Through

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SUNDAY FUNDAY

GAME: Bracket City. Y’all I keep learning about cool new games!! This one gets kinda hard but I love it.