Make the First Mark

I remember when I was 12, my grandma sent me a pastel art kit with everything one would need to begin their pastel journey. Rows and rows of color lined the wooden case, sturdy enough to double as a briefcase for these special treasures. It felt official. Foreign. And it was mine.

Erasers, smudging tools, pencils, and instruments I couldn’t even begin to imagine using were perfectly secured in place. Bright pops of color against warm wood. My face lit up when I opened it, revealing a rainbow of possibility. I was thrilled at the thought of creating.

But I also remember feeling overwhelmed.

The mediums looked so perfect as they were. Each pencil and pastel carefully placed in its color-coordinated row. Nothing out of place. No dull tips. No jagged angles from use. No color stained the eraser.

It was beautiful. Untouched.

So I kept it that way.

I opened it day after day, just as excited as the first time, but I never dove in, for fear of messing it up. I didn’t want to disrupt the harmony. I could stare at it for hours without removing a single item from its secured place.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. Months into years.

That art kit went everywhere with me. It survived endless room clean-outs. It traveled to college. It made its way to Denver.

And I have never used it.

When I open that slender wooden case, a world of possibility reveals itself, one still unknown, even to me, especially to me. I’m holding what it all could become. I’m in control of what could be created.

Each time I lift the lid, expecting to finally begin, something makes me close it and store it away again. It feels daunting. I don’t know where to start. I know nothing about sketching or pastels or how the tools are meant to be used.

What if I’m bad at it?
What if I freeze?
What if I don’t know what I want to create?
What if it turns out terrible?

I’m “the creative one.” It should come naturally.

But it doesn’t.

For a long time, I thought the scariest thing was being bad at something. Now I realize the most terrifying thing of all is not trying.

I’m writing this as a reminder to myself, and to you, that it’s okay to try something. It’s actually encouraged, especially when you aren’t good at it. That’s the point.

Take the leap.

Maybe you pick it up and master it with ease. Maybe you make a fool of yourself and realize you don’t even like it. Again, that’s the point. Try. Fail. Learn. Grow.

We forget that we don’t need to master a skill to enjoy it. We put so much value on the outcome when the sweet spot is in the process; the discovery. Those are the moments that make us interesting.

Be more interesting in a world full of people too scared to try.

At the very least, you’ll have a story.

For the longest time, I talked about teaching pottery. It lived in the back of my mind, a wafty thought, distant and blurred, but persistent. Every time I mentioned it, it felt like I was talking about someone else’s life. Not mine.

I told myself I didn’t have time.

I had a full-time job already. A social life. A dog. Other obligations. My days felt full. It sounded irresponsible to want more. So I made excuses that felt practical. Reasonable. Adult.

“It’ll happen when it’s meant to.”

But if I’m honest, I was waiting for space to magically appear instead of creating it.

One day I realized: I could make it happen. The only thing holding me back was me.

What I had been waiting for wasn’t going to arrive on its own. It required effort. It required choosing it.

It always felt like a dream for someone else. Something fun to talk about. Not something I would actually do.

But why not me?

That’s when I flipped the switch and started trying. Within weeks, things fell into place. I became an instructor. I was living the life I had once spoken about as if it belonged to some future version of myself.

But now it was mine.

I was her.

And I loved it more than I ever imagined.

I’ve learned from my students, especially during those nerve-filled first sessions, that we’re all just trying and learning together. My nerves fade as I remember: I’m learning to teach. They’re learning a new skill. We’re in it together.

They inspire me. They sign up on their own, putting themselves out there with open energy, excited to learn. They don’t care if they fail.

In fact, I encourage them to.

That’s how they learn pottery. And that’s how you learn about yourself. About this life.

All of this is to say: try the thing that’s been sitting quietly in the back of your mind. No matter how buried it feels.

If it’s there, explore it.

Don’t treat it like a distant possibility. Don’t speak about it like it belongs to someone else.

Chase it. Grab it. Try.

I think we’ve all become too timid, guided by fear of judgment or embarrassment.

Make it your life.

Let go of expectations. 

Open the pastels and start drawing. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s terrible.

Especially then.

Make the first mark.