There’s something about year three in business that no one really talks about.
You’ve done enough to prove this isn’t a phase. You’ve built something real. There’s traction—small wins, moments that feel like confirmation. But the growth? It’s slow, for me...painfully slow. And somewhere along the way, you start measuring your worth against numbers that were never meant to define you—sales, engagement, visibility. I’ve been catching myself doing it more than I’d like to admit. And layered on top of that—rejection. Not one big, dramatic no. But a steady rhythm of them. Emails unanswered. Opportunities that almost happen. Doors that don’t quite open. I try to believe in the idea of redirection, but if I’m being honest, sometimes it just feels like… rejection.
This winter didn’t help. It was long. Dark. Heavy in a way that settled into my body. And when I really sit with it, I know it’s not just the business. It’s everything. Moving somewhere new and trying to build a life again from scratch. Navigating new dynamics at home. Grieving the sudden loss of my father. Feeling disconnected from my body. Turning 37 and becoming acutely aware of time, of vulnerability, of dependence in ways I’ve never had to confront before.
It’s not one thing but sometimes it feels like death by a thousand cuts.
And for the first time, I’ve felt something I don’t fully recognize—this low, quiet heaviness that lingers. Maybe it’s burnout. Maybe it’s delayed grief. Maybe it’s just what happens after a year of constant upheaval. I don’t have a clean answer for it. I wish I did. What I do know is this: I can’t stay in this (preverbal) space.
As tempting as it sounds to disappear under the covers and opt out for a while, that’s not an option. So I’ve been doing the simplest things I can think of. Moving my body every day. Walking outside, even when I don’t feel like it. Putting space between me and my phone when the comparison gets too loud. And most importantly—I’ve been creating. Not for the algorithm. Not for sales. But because it feels like a way out.
I’ve been picking up my camera more. Staging small, strange, beautiful moments. Playing with light, objects, composition. Trying to build a world—a visual language that feels like mine. A lens through which I can explore beauty, tension, emotion, and meaning. Something deeper than product. Something more expansive than just “content.” It’s been grounding in a way I didn’t expect.
Maybe that’s the thread I keep following—the idea that art can pull me out of this. That creating, studying, making… is less about the outcome and more about the act itself. A way to reconnect. A way to move energy. A way to remind myself that I’m still here, still capable of building something meaningful.
I’ve also been thinking a lot about gratitude. Because the truth is, I am deeply grateful. For my family. For the people who support this brand. For every single order, every message, every person who chooses to be here. It means more than I can articulate.
But gratitude doesn’t cancel out what I’m feeling. Both can exist at the same time. I can be grateful and struggling. Hopeful and exhausted. Committed and unsure. That’s the part no one really prepares you for.
So this is me, being honest about where I am. Somewhere in the middle. Not at the beginning anymore, but not where I want to be yet. Figuring it out in real time. Learning how to keep going without hardening. Learning how to stay open, even when it would be easier to shut down.
Giving up has never been an option for me. So I won’t. I’ll keep creating. Keep showing up. Keep building—slowly, imperfectly, honestly. Trusting that something is taking shape, even if I can’t fully see it yet.
And maybe that’s what this season is about.
Not the breakthrough.
Not the highlight reel.
But the quiet, invisible work of becoming.
Con Amore,
Anna
