Reading Time: 35 minutes
I was about seven when I decided to stop trusting myself.
It’s a day my family is tired of hearing about but I can’t seem to stop talking about it. Obviously, I’m not over it. What happened was this: we took a personality test, and I got the bad one. Beforehand, we got an overview of each type, and I knew which one of the four I didn’t want to be: the arrogant, selfish, bossy, critical of others, impatient, insensitive, non-empathizing, blames others for short-comings, prioritizes work over relationships, and bad listener one. There were upsides to that type, but they paled in comparison.
We sat down in the living room of our home, and I had a pencil and a piece of paper on top of a coffee table book in my lap. I was eager to learn more about myself. I felt confident, excited, and ready to learn how to become a great person.
I wrote down the multiple choice answers that fit me best, totalled up my score, and waited for my results. Around the circle my family went, sharing their score total that my dad would pair with a personality type from a book. Some were gentle and peacemaking. Others were sensitive and brilliant. Still more were fun and spontaneous. I felt my heart beating quickly to find out which one I was. We finished with me. When I heard the result, I felt sick. I couldn’t believe that all this time, I had actually been a selfish, insensitive jerk. I felt embarrassed and ashamed. I wanted to fix myself.
I decided to root out all of that badness and replace it with something better. I would ignore everything I wanted because everything I wanted was selfish and insensitive. And the fact that I wasn’t aware of this until this moment just proved that I couldn’t trust myself. I would rip out this plant to the root, and plant a new seed.
It took me all of ten seconds to come up with and commit to this plan, and the next twenty years to live by it. I have only started to unlearn it in the last four years.
I am looking at the kind of Pinterest board I’ve seen dozens of times for brands on a video coaching call with Ana, my copywriter friend. I’m not sure why, but the inspiration feels empty. Like a pretty shell with nothing inside. This would be a rude thing to say so I don’t say it. I want to avoid being insensitive and selfish. Instead I say, “I feel like it’s missing something.” She is open and coachable, and welcomes feedback, although I know she feels frustrated. And I get it. It’s frustrating to work hard on an inspiration board and it just doesn’t work.
“Why do you think that? What’s missing?” she asks. I pause for a moment, trying to find the words. Words, I’ve found, often don’t convey the ideas in my mind. So when I coach, I often speak in analogies, metaphors, and examples, because there are too many things that I feel but can’t seem to say. They’re not really emotions, but an awareness in my mind. Like I am aware that the path is blocked by something. But I don’t often know what the block is, why it’s happening, or how to clear it at first. So I’ll usually kick at whatever is there so we can get to the bottom of it one way or another.
Should I say that there’s life missing? That I don’t believe it? That it feels cliche? That it’s completely boring? “I’m not sure,” I settle on, “there’s something off.”
I continue to wait. Then a color comes to my mind. It’s a deep blue, the kind of blue I’ve been seeing on the stylized walls of beautiful, minimalist bathrooms and stylish plant shops lately. It’s rich and I love the hue, and it is blocking my mind’s eye from seeing anything else. I decide to kick there.
I am hesitant to say it though. It’s not logical. In fact, it might even be insensitive and selfish for me to say this. What if she hates this color? What if I’m just trying to get her to use this color because I love it? But I’m trying to unlearn the distrust of myself. So I say it. “I don’t know why, but I keep feeling this blue color.” I pull up some images online and show her what I mean. “You don’t have to use this color, but it won’t leave me alone until I at least put it out there, so I’m showing it to you.”
Ana stops. “That is one of my most favorite colors,” she tells me.
“Then why is everything on your board white?” I ask her, smiling.
“Because I like things to be clean,” she says.
For some reason, I can feel that everything being white is not going to be an authentic move for her brand, even if I can’t explain why. “Let’s find a way to express the feeling of cleanliness in a different way than white for your imagery,” I say. I ask her to try to find more inspirational images that align with the feelings of her Heart Story, not just the way she thinks her brand should look. I see her write down the assignment in a notebook before we say goodbye.
On the front step of my house later that evening, I’m writing in my journal. Another image pushes its way to the front of my mind. It’s that same blue color, but with stars on it, like the ceiling of a cathedral. Again, I feel the warnings that this doesn’t make any sense. I might be acting too pushy. Too selfish. Too insensitive. But again, I am trying to trust myself more. So I search some images of cathedral ceilings, take a few screenshots, and send them to her. I tell her I’m not sure why I’m sending them to her, but I felt a nudge so I’m doing it.
Within a minute I receive a reply. She tells me that I sent her the exact pattern that was on the ceiling of the church in her Heart Story. I feel my face turn into a smile, although at the same time, I’m not surprised.
We talk some more about her ideas to apply her Heart Story to her business. Everything is connecting. “This is what I’ve been looking for! This is what I’ve always wanted to do but I thought I couldn’t! I’ve felt so frustrated because I’ve been feeling like I’m supposed to look the way my peers look, but I also hate the idea of looking exactly like them. Now I know what I’m supposed to do.”
This is the effect most people feel after working through their Heart Story with me, and it’s addicting to help people find these connections. It’s a rush to coach them to find a source of inspiration that makes so much sense that it helps them break down the barriers that keep them feeling unsure and like they’re not enough. It’s quick. They’re learning to trust themselves. And I get a chance to see them deeply.
But after a minute or so, as I put down my phone to come eat dinner with my family, I feel the rush subside. Already, it feels like her happy words have slid off of me. Like my arms have been smeared with oil and the compliments are water sliding down my skin.
I am at the top of the stairs at my parents’ house and I am twelve. I stay out of sight, listening while my heart breaks. My mom is talking to my dad about me, and she is crying. They’re talking about how I told her I wanted to have a big career. “Do none of my daughters value what I do?” she asks.
I feel tears sliding down my cheeks and my throat closes up painfully. I see a montage of my mom. She is dropping off the homework I forgot in the middle school office with a quick wave and a smile. Parked in front of my flute teacher’s house, she’s taking a quick power nap while I approach the car after I’ve finished my lesson. She is handing me a lunch sack with my name written in calligraphy as I pack my backpack. She is doing all of this for my sisters too.
How could I betray her?
I promise that as soon as I have kids, I will stop pursuing any kind of career because doing anything else would be selfish and insensitive.
I imagine the conversation I wish I would’ve had with my mom instead of this masochistic, martyring promise. She is picking me up from school. I tell her that I overheard her conversation with my dad and that it made me feel sad and I want to talk about how I should choose what I should do with my life. I ask her why she decided to stay at home and what she likes about it. I listen to her stories and the things she loves. I also listen to the hard parts and her pieces of advice. I tell her thank you and that I am grateful for how much I have benefited from her choice.
Then I continue to honor the choice she made by making my own.
I am working with the third ads manager I have hired in the last two years, and I am frustrated.
“Tell me what you do again?” he asks. “What’s your course about?”
I grimace. I hate this question so much. I fumble through an answer about helping people who want to have a successful and pretty business on Instagram. It falls flat in my mouth. I sound so stupid.
“Okay so you’re a business coach,” he says.
“Yeah, I guess.” I say. But I’ve never liked that title.
“So what sets you apart from your competitors?” he asks.
“Well,” I say, feeling excited. “I have this really unique process,” I say, and I spend the next ten minutes telling him something about a Heart Story and that it might not make sense but trust me, it is amazing.
I’ve lost him. “Uh huh. Okay, well let’s just talk about the results you get for people then,” he says. He doesn’t really make an effort to understand what I’ve just told him. I decide that what I do is probably stupid anyway.
“Yeah, of course!” I say, trying to be as helpful as possible. I robotically list off success stories where people have started six figure businesses from scratch, made thousands of dollars in weeks, and more. It always feels uncomfortable to reduce these people’s progress to numbers like this. But they’re true stories.
“Oh wow that’s amazing! Let’s go with that.” He tells me that the simpler my message is, the easier it will sell. My heart sinks. He has no idea that I’ve spent over ten thousand dollars with copywriters to help me do exactly that. And it still isn’t right. And no one ever understands what I’m talking about when I talk about a Heart Story. So I hide it. We run the ads. I cringe inside when I look at the copy. I look just like any other business coach with bullet points of making six figures, growing a business, and making sales. It falls flat and it doesn’t feel like me. I imagine what people in my audience would think of me if they saw these ads. I pray they don’t see them. Still, I run the ads.
We launch the program and we don’t make as much as I know we could’ve. I blame it on the ads. I complain to Michael that this isn’t fair. We’re driving to the coast and we have a movie turned on for the kids so I can explain for the whole drive why everyone I’ve hired is not doing their job the way they’re supposed to.
“How is it that I can help so many people find clarity in what they’re doing, and I can’t do it for myself? If I could talk to me, I could figure it out in a few sessions. Or maybe even one. I am mad at everyone I’ve ever hired that they haven’t figured this out for me. Why can’t they explain it clearly? That’s their job.” I open a bag of M&Ms, grab a few, and dump several into Michael’s hand while he drives. The douglas firs zip past us on the road as we drive. He asks a few questions and offers a bit of advice, but I have to cut him off because he doesn’t get it. “I’ve created products, programs, and services that sell, and change people’s lives. Why can no one accurately describe what’s going on? I paid them to do that and they’re not doing it.”
Arthur asks for water and I tell him we’re all out and then I continue. “It’s costing me tens of thousands of dollars to not have this clarity because I can’t share my work on a bigger scale if it doesn’t make sense to anyone, you know?”
Michael is done listening because I am not listening to any of his advice. I close my mouth and keep complaining in my mind, adding Michael to the list of people who don’t understand me.
When I return to work, my frustration with everyone else has quickly turned inward. I am journaling about all of the reasons why I suck, when I realize the thing I don’t want to know: the only person obscuring the truth about what I do is me. And the only one who can uncover the truth is also me.
I grab my phone and send a voice memo to my mindset coach, Stephanie. I hired her when I thought COVID meant the world was ending and she told me that all COVID was doing was throwing into sharper relief what’s already there. What came into sharper relief for me? That I didn’t trust myself.
I tell her that it’s like I’ve just realized I’ve pumped in the fog myself to obscure the truth. And I’m not sure what to do to clear that fog. She tells me that whenever we hold on to false beliefs, we’re getting something out of it. She encourages me to ask my unconscious mind what benefit I’m getting from it.
I do it without wasting another moment, keeping my notebook and pen in hand.
I close my eyes.
What am I getting from keeping my message confusing? I ask.
One word floats into my mind like a dandelion seedling: protection.
Pain from what?
That I won’t be accepted.
This makes sense. If I keep my message confusing, no one will be able to understand who I truly am, what I truly have to offer, so no one will be able to reject me. Because if I’m found out, if people know I am insensitive and selfish, they won’t trust me or love me anymore.
If being accepted didn’t matter anymore, could I know the truth behind the confusion?
Then the words stop coming. Instead I see, in my mind’s eye, my own arm. Walking on my arm is a small woman. I can’t make out what she looks like because her features and edges are not defined. It’s as though someone tried to use a bad eraser to erase a drawing on a page.
I know immediately that this is me.
Why are you so small? I ask.
“Because you heard I was bad, so you tried to make me disappear.” She sits on my hand. She is self-assured, kind, solid. She continues, “Apparently you can shrink me, but you can’t wipe me out.”
Who are you? I ask.
“I am light, love, joy, passion, excitement.”
I am skeptical and surprised because I’ve never believed that about myself before. How could that be possible? Shouldn’t she be the embodiment of selfishness and insensitivity? Although I do not speak my disbelief, she knows it still. And she helps me understand that her very existence is unmoveable. The way she communicates this is by bringing up an image of Thor’s hammer, cemented with godly power to the earth. I laugh a little from the choice of image, but the message is received.
Who are you? What are you like?
The words float up quickly, and I write them down. “Beautiful, smart, kind, caring, compassionate, driven, sweet, heart-driven, excited, forgiving, passionate.”
For a moment, I remember that these are the kinds of words that my family has used to describe me. But I’ve never believed it. Or maybe I have in part, but it could never outweigh the badness that was in me.
Does all of the good in me come from you?
And what about the bad?
Without hesitation, she says “it’s a misapplication of the good.”
Then she brings up a memory of an expensive piano I once played in the lobby of our local concert hall. It was a Fazioli, the most expensive piano I’d ever seen, with keys that responded to the lightest touch. As part of a music festival one summer, they let anyone in the community come test it out, and my sister and I brought our music and played. We’d never experienced an instrument responsive like this. Our piano at home felt extremely clunky in comparison. The owner of the piano beamed when we finished and said, “it’s like the piano playing version of driving a lamborghini, isn’t it?”
She doesn’t say it, but the meaning is clear. My body, my mind, my heart, my soul is an instrument of goodness akin to a Fazioli. “You’ve been trying to play, and you aren’t good.” I let that sink in. “It’s my job to play. I am really good at playing this piano.” She begins to play as though perfect piano playing is instinctual, not learned. She pauses. “It’s your job to protect me while I play.”
I write all of this down in my notebook.
Why have I never met you before? I ask.
“You’ve been afraid of me,” she says, strolling along my arm again. “Ever since you decided you wouldn’t trust me anymore,” she says.
I’ve noticed that she’s starting to come into more focus and I can see her more clearly. Her skin is rough and scarred. I understand that this is the damage I did trying to uproot her. I write this down.
Have we met before? When have you been with me? When have I felt your presence?
She brings up a montage of memories. A small play shelter built with found branches I happened upon in the woods near our home in Germany. It was the first time I considered building whatever I wanted myself. I just needed supplies and knowledge. She also brings up memories of pieces of music I’ve played. She tells me that she’s often been muted, but when I play Chopin on the piano, or when I play the flute, she speaks.
What do you need?
“Let me be heard. Speak to me. Let me speak. Do not step on me. Don’t try to monetize me. I will give you everything you need to be successful. But you have to trust me.”
In my mind’s eye, I hold out my hand like an obedient dog. I trust you, I say. Our hands clasp in a shake, and something changes. Like the walls of my insides have been covered with black scales. I note that I’m the one that installed them there. When they fall away, I see the walls are made of light.
We are sitting in a circle on my parents’ back patio for our book club. My sister is talking about her work at church. She feels like she’s not doing enough. She’s talking about all of the people she knows who have had her same church role, and how they all did more than she’s doing now.
Another dandelion seedling floats to my mind. I can help with that.
Obediently, I say this thought aloud. Then I continue. “I can help using the stuff I do for work.” I start talking about using a Heart Story, but I’m always afraid that sounds stupid. I say it a little softly because I don’t want to force my ideas on anyone. But I know I could help.
I look around a little and my dad nods in interest. I write down my ideas and start making plans.
I’m self-conscious about feeling eager. If people see what I’m eager about, they’ll know the truth about me: I’m insensitive and selfish. When I was applying for college, I had access to a spreadsheet that told me exactly what standardized test score and grade point average I would need in order to get a full ride to the school I wanted to go to. I’d look at it every week as I studied for the standardized test. I thought it would be really fun to get a full scholarship. I liked practicing for the test. It felt like a game, and I was good at it. I could do really well on the reading, math, and English portions, but the science was difficult.
When I finally took the test, I got a nearly perfect score on the English, reading, and math sections, and got far below average with the science, which dragged down my final score. I was only awarded a half-tuition scholarship.
If I would’ve asked, my parents would’ve helped me get more test prep. But I was afraid of looking overly-ambitious, which in my mind was synonymous with insensitive and selfish. I was afraid people would think I had my priorities mixed up. So I didn’t ask, and I only did preparations and practice tests that I could do myself. Looking back, I would’ve felt an exciting sense of accomplishment if I would’ve qualified for that scholarship. It would’ve been fun just to really try for it.
Now as a mom, it’s unnerving when I see eagerness in my kids. Like Arthur’s face of sheer delight that he gets a present. Like Mary’s unabashed demand for more candy when she sees more candy.
I find myself apologizing to people for my kids’ eagerness. I find myself teaching them to suppress their desires. And while I say it’s for politeness’ sake, I know that’s not true. I am uncomfortable with their desires showing themselves so obviously.
At least that’s how I usually feel. A few days ago, instead of telling Arthur that his excitement might make other people feel bad so he should hide it, I asked him to share more so we could all share it with him.
I text my sister as she’s applying for jobs. I tell her that I have recently realized that the exact thing I do for a living, I haven’t helped the people I love the most to do. I make sure she knows that she is under no obligation, and that I’m just trying to trust myself, and what myself is telling me to do, is to share the Heart Story with the people I love.
My sister and I go to a field full of Queen Anne’s lace and sit on a quilt. The light is golden on her face. I’m nervous and I over-explain what we’re going to do and why it will help. I apologize but she waves it away kindly. We get into my process. She lays down while I ask her questions. She is imagining memories that have inspired her in her life. Her face is pleasant, her mouth is resting in a small smile. She says yes when I ask her if she is basking in inspirational memories.
Then she finds her Heart Story. I ask if she will share it with me, and she opens her eyes. They are sparkling with delight. Her Heart Story is on the Ile-de-Paris. It is dusk, and it’s as though the beauty and the light was meant just for her. She feels euphoria, she feels magic, she feels loved. She smiles while she tells me this. I take notes and ask for more as the sun sets and the grasshoppers start to sing.
When we finish our session, we’ve figured out how she’s going to approach the job interviews she has. She yawns because after the initial excitement, she is feeling exhausted. I am energized. I show her the mission statement we’ve come up with, her strategy for the sales calls, and how to answer the questions they have.
“Do you like this approach?” I ask. “Does this feel aligned and true?” She nods and says she loves it. She feels confident about asking for twice the fee she was charging just a few months ago. I feel confident about it too.
We fold up the blanket and walk to the car. “Do you like doing this stuff?” She asks. I nod.
“It’s so fun,” I say. “It makes me feel so excited to figure this out.” I want to hide my eagerness, but I try to trust myself that it’s okay to feel eager right now. I remind myself that my eagerness is connected with the gifts and skills I have that will help her double her salary in a few weeks.
I wake up in the middle of the night and my inner self brings up an image of a champagne bottle that is being uncorked. I understand exactly what it means and write it down. When I wake up in the morning, I look at this note: everyone needs to find their Heart Story.
I don’t know how to make it happen fast enough, but with each idea that floats to my mind I try to take action. I text family members and friends. I open up more coaching sessions for the people I know and love to find theirs. I want to try working with people who don’t necessarily call themselves creative. I want to work with people who have never heard of the jargon of my industry. I just want to work with people who feel frustrated and lost in their work. I have this feeling in my gut that everyone must find their Heart Story. So I start following every idea I have.
Session after session, family members and friends are telling me that they’ve found so much clarity, so many answers, so many things they understand about themselves and what they’re meant to do. It feels good, but not enough. I reach out to every name that comes into my mind. When I finish a session with a friend, I tell them I’d be happy to work with their husband if they’re interested. I work with men for the first time, and they feel the same kind of clarity locking into place. It turns out that everyone I talk to feels stuck somehow. I work with fitness instructors, real estate agents, tech salesmen, nurses, lawyers, academics, and more. They are finding incredible answers.
I develop a training I can record so anyone can find their Heart Story.
Michael looks over my draft before I record it. In the middle of reading, he exclaims that it is giving him chills. I am delighted, but I feel myself hesitating.
Can I really believe him? Can someone so insensitive and selfish create something so beautiful?
“This is the best thing you’ve ever created,” he continues. “I want to send this to everyone in my family, I want to send this to everyone I’ve ever known and I want them to know my Heart Story and I want to know theirs…everyone HAS to do this. They NEED to do this.” He gets up from the computer and starts pacing around the house. “I think missionaries in our church should be going around knocking on doors and asking people to do THIS.” He goes into the living room with his arms raised. “I’m all pumped up! I’m feeling a little overwhelmed but in a good way!” I’m watching him and am so excited that he feels this. I am smiling.
But I don’t know what to do with my hands. What are you supposed to do and feel when you’ve created something that’s good? Most people I know would roll their eyes and point out all of the problems about how it’s not perfect. But at this moment, that would be a lie if I did that. When I wrote this, I felt it pouring out of me. However you want to say it, I was in flow, I was in contact with source energy, I was working under divine inspiration, I was in the presence of a muse, that’s what was happening.
But how am I worth of that when I am selfish and insensitive? I’m waiting for someone to come in and put a stop to all of this madness. To clean it all up.
I feel like I should be the one to put a stop to all of the madness.
I hug Michael, trying to open my heart to receive everything he has just given me. But it slides off. I can feel my throat constricting. I tell my coach all of this and even as I share it with her, I can feel my throat getting more and more sore. Like it’s closing up. Writing it now, I feel the same.
I tell her that I’m worried about getting more positive feedback. What do I do with their responses? How am I supposed to respond? Why do they always make me feel bad about myself?
I tell her about my birthday and how Michael woke me up with breakfast in bed and how I was disappointed that he brought me a frittata instead of french toast. And that I was offended that he dared to put maple syrup on it and how I asked him to get me a fresh piece. The day continued similarly from there. A few weeks later on his birthday, he received with only love and gratitude all day.
“I have a receiving problem,” I tell my coach. She tells me that my reactions are a projection of how I feel about myself. She also tells me if this is the way I receive, that every time I receive positive messages about the Heart Story, I’m going to feel exactly like I did on my birthday. I’ll feel an inner grimace. A disappointment. I know immediately that she’s right. I don’t know if I’ve ever received a message or a gift and thought anything other than, I’m not good enough, I don’t deserve this, I should be stopped.
I decide to consult my inner self about this. I find her with her back turned to me, walking away. I ask her to come back. She doesn’t. I am curious so I follow her instead, through psychedelic caverns and dark caves. I decide I’m no longer going to be the one to stop me. I shout this awkwardly toward her back, trying to catch up to her rapid, effortless pace.
I ask my friend, Ana (the one with the cathedral ceiling), to read this essay and she replies in written messages while I’m at the playground with my kids. I ask her what it was like to read about our coaching together. Her answer surprises me. “I wish you would have been bolder when I sent that board.” I am taken aback, but I continue to read. “You have a knack for seeing people. Like SEEING people. But you are afraid of offending or stepping on toes. If you would’ve said, ‘Ana, this is empty. Hollow. Not you,’ I would have felt seen and loved.”
I am surprised by this. I’m not sure what I expected, but I didn’t expect her to push against my attempts to protect her feelings. She tells me that when I don’t trust myself and share what I see, it’s just a sheer, sterile illusion of love. Not real love.
I put my phone in my pocket for a minute to help my daughter climb up a ladder while I consider this. I feel unnerved. Could I really show love this way? Could my love actually be received as such, and not as the unwelcome ravings of an insensitive, selfish jerk? It’s a thought I’d never considered before. I feel something in my chest release.
We message back and forth more and I learn that my hesitancy is actually selfish and insensitive. I’m caring more about the potential discomfort of myself, instead of loving someone deeply by guiding them to step into their potential. She gives me ideas to frame how to share what I see so that I can help people feel safe and loved as they learn to step into their potential.
“I think I can do that,” I reply back, and then I load my kids in the car, and drive home.
I practice receiving as I get ready to launch the Heart Story training that anyone will be able to watch for free. I receive a message from a student that says she’s gone from producing and selling 5 paintings a year, to producing and selling 30 paintings a month. My immediate reaction is to feel like I’m not good enough to be associated with this. What if this painter finds out that beneath it all, I’m the bad one? What if she realizes it’s all been a ruse?
My coach tells me instead to ask myself, “what would it be like to receive this?” I close my eyes. Another dandelion seedling floats up. Her story is not a judgment about me, it’s simply a statement. It’s also an appreciation for me sharing what has been created through me. I breathe. I open my eyes, and I congratulate her.
I am beginning to accept that no matter how much these personality tests insist that it’s impossible, I fit into multiple categories. I am driven and kind. I am a follower and a leader. I am analytical and compassionate. I am ambitious and sensitive. I am selfish and generous. I am cutting and sweet.
All of this makes sense to Michael, who somehow understands me without my explaining. I finish a long-winded explanation of my latest breakthrough and he smiles and says, “yeah, I knew that about you already.”
“If you knew, it would really help if you could just tell me,” I say. He shrugs and says he isn’t thinking about it in words, but he feels all of it. It’s as though he has wisdom that just sort of passes into his heart with no words at all. It doesn’t occur to him that this wisdom could be translated into language and transmitted from one mind to another through words. I tell him that the triumph of my breakthrough is not in the knowing of it, but the ability to communicate it; that is the triumph.
On a call with my friends, I tell them I feel scared about spreading the Heart Story. They ask me why. They have seen all of this unfolding and they only feel excitement for me.
I tell them it feels like I’m walking on the pinnacle of the rooftop of a house, and it’s foggy. I don’t know what’s really going on to the left or to the right of me, and it wouldn’t help me to know anyway. All I know is that I can see a few steps ahead on this roof. And all I know is that I must walk forward one step at a time.
Emma Natter is a business coach and writer. Her work intersects entrepreneurial strategies with the creative process so career hopefuls can find success, impact, fulfillment, and confidence in going their own way.
I’m Emma Natter, a path-to-success paver and art-trained business coach who first shattered her own career expectations by selling out of handmade styling goods from her little NYC apartment. Now as a strategist to thousands of creatives, I teach you to harness your passion so you can do the same.
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