My mother always taught me to write thank you notes.

Whether it was for a bracelet from my grandmother that I didn’t really like, a trip to stay at a family member’s home, or a fun night at a friend’s house, I was always taught this simple lesson: write a thank you note. I used to think it was formulaic, dry, disingenuous—why would I thank someone for a present that I didn’t really like, or a family trip I didn’t really want to go on in the first place? Wasn’t this gesture just a forced product of my WASPY upbringing—full of dinner-table-niceties and smalltalk—and not an actual, genuine response to the gift? I was a cynical, always-questioning-authority-young-person, who didn’t like being told what to do. But for some reason, when it came to thank you notes, I did it anyway, despite my grievances. On sage colored stationary monogrammed with my name, on lined notebook paper, on collaged magazine cutouts, I would craft letters of gratitude to grandparents, relatives and family friends. I would thank them for their thought, share a small anecdote, and express hopes to see them again soon. I would sign my name at the bottom and send it off, checking an item off of my to-do list. And for many years, thank you notes were just that—the completion of a task.

And yet, somewhere along the way, my thank you notes started to merge into something more. Letters sent back-and-forth with my aging grandfather, as pen pals. Father’s Day cards sent to my dad as my annual opportunity to open up to him. Thank you notes sent to hiring managers to show them that, though I might not always have the perfect interview responses or resume, I do have it in me to do something thoughtful, and genuine, and from the heart.

These days, in our fleeting digital world, greeting cards are all we have left of that genuineness, and sometimes all we have left of each other. They are a way of sidestepping the screen—that constant influx of images and information and words coming at you one after another after another—and entering into the tactile, the tangible, the real. Someone had to touch them. Had to take out a pen, press it into a piece of paper and make those interesting shapes we know of as letters. Had to hope for enough ink. This person, this real person, comes through to you in a greeting card—comes through in their swooping handwriting, their smudges of ink on the side, their lopsided stamp application. Sending a greeting card is sending a piece of yourself.

And so, it is for this reason that I am so grateful to have stuck it out with greeting cards. I’m so grateful for every time I have had the opportunity to send a thank you note to my boyfriend’s mom (who now jokes that she could offer me a tissue and I’d write her a thank you note). I’m so grateful for every time I get to make a friend a birthday card with an inside joke, or tuck a small love letter under my boyfriend’s pillow. And, I’m so grateful for every time I get to help my customers do the same.

A thank you note is not just a thank you note. A greeting card is not just a greeting card. It is a reaching out, a hand outstretched in the dark, a flag planted in the moon. It was our way of saying “I was here.”

I guess I have another thank you note to send.

When I started this whole thing it had nothing to do with greeting cards.

It was January, it was my birthday, and so I bought myself a set of watercolor paints with money from a gift card I had received. I was going through some internal struggles at the time and just needed some inspiration. So I started to draw these small, simple, caricature-style self portraits, depicting myself in a way that was strong, creative and empowered. Things I felt about myself but was having trouble gaining access to at the time. So I drew them into being. I had no formal training; I didn't watch instructional Youtube videos; I just drew. And slowly, over time, I started developing a style that was mine.⁠ ⁠

It wasn't until months later, in the middle of the pandemic, lying on the floor, that the idea came to me to turn these little drawings into greeting cards. It didn't come to me in a dream, it didn't come to me in a vision from my higher self, it came to me from my sweet boyfriend who had seen me sit in my room for hours bent over these small card-shaped paintings, only to complain to him later about not having something to do that felt like mine. I had been searching for it for months--something that would give me purpose and joy and meaning--as if it were some faraway thing. But, when Matt said that to me, to make my paintings and sell them as cards personalized to the customer, it was the tiniest tap on the shoulder, showing me that that thing had actually been right in front of me the whole time.⁠ ⁠

They say necessity is the mother of invention. They just don't always say that sometimes, the necessity lies in the inventor herself.

“I Think I’ve Always Been an Entrepreneur,”

I thought to myself the other day, on a run down my favorite street in the neighborhood. Just as I had that thought, I heard a quiet voice from behind me, yelling out “Water! Water! Water!” I looked and, yes, there was a little boy sitting in front of a table selling bottled water to passersby. Sweat was pouring down my face and I wanted to keep going, but I had to stop to say hello to this little boy. I didn’t have the money to buy a water from him but I wanted to take the time to encourage him for his efforts. I told him to keep it up. What I didn’t tell him was that he reminded me of myself.

I too used to set up shop on my front lawn, yelling out sales calls to passersby. It began on Nantucket, selling powdered lemonade and Chips Ahoy cookies taken out of their package and put on a nice plate. Sometimes I would even paint shells and sell them. Sometimes I would end the day with cups filled with cash, others I’d leave with pockets full of sand. But every summer, I would get out there with my little stand and wait.

I’ll never forget going into the shoe store in town one year and paying for a pair of blue flip flops—worth $20—all in coins. While the cashier looked at me like I was crazy, I could only beam back pride, for I had earned every penny I put on that counter. It went on from there. I started babysitting, and put up posters around ‘Sconset advertising my skills. I remember walking around with a wallet so fat with cash that it couldn’t even fit into my back pocket. I started a savings bank in my early teens and have slowly been adding to it, bit by bit. I have almost always had a job and I have almost always brought my entrepreneurial sense to that job—finding a way to make whatever business I worked for just a little bit better.

I think I’ve always been an entrepreneur.

Which is why, I thought to myself running down the street drenched in sweat, I’ve always struggled in the mainstream. It’s why I went to three different colleges, why I wandered the world looking for my purpose, and why I’ve still struggled to find it. I’ve struggled in the mainstream idea of success—that classic “go to a good college get a good job make a good living” notion—not because I am not meant to be successful. Not because I don’t have talent, or creativity, or a solid work ethic.

I’ve struggled because I’ve been trying to use that talent, creativity and work ethic in the wrong places. I’ve been trying to shove myself into someone else’s box or business, rather than thinking of what I uniquely bring to it. Rather than creating my own.

So, I am grateful to be here doing just that—whacking through the weeds of what it means to be an entrepreneur, a small business owner, and an artist, all at the same time.

This blog will uncover just that, and more, in my journey of building a business, one step at a time.

Thank you for coming along for the ride.