A Journey from Doubt to Dawn

I remember waking up one winter morning, heart pounding before sunrise, notebooks scattered on my kitchen table, a half-empty mug of cold coffee at my side. I had stayed up late tinkering on an idea for a new online shop—one I was passionate about but terrified to launch. In that quiet, uneasy moment I whispered to myself:

Am I really cut out for this? 

Doubt felt heavy in my chest, but I took a deep breath and carried on.

I’m Joice, and two years ago I was working a steady office job, daydreaming about starting something of my own. Evenings, I’d sketch ideas on napkins and read success stories of other women entrepreneurs, trying to find courage. My big idea was simple: a small line of handcrafted planners and journals with designs inspired by women’s stories. I poured every spare minute into it—after dinner I drafted logos, on weekends I met with a graphic designer friend. I was fueled by excitement, yet terrified that I’d mess it all up.

Soon enough, reality hit harder than I expected. The first thing I did was set up a little website. I spent two months perfecting it, polishing product descriptions, and ordering an initial batch of planners from the printer. Then, one day, I launched. I shared the link on social media and waited. For the first week—nothing. Not a single sale, just silence. Each morning I’d wake up and check the page views: a handful of visitors, no purchases, no messages.

That silence turned loud. I started questioning every decision: Is my design good enough? Am I missing something? Maybe no one even wants this. At night, I’d lie in bed, eyes wide open, replaying every conversation where someone said starting a business was crazy. A part of me believed I should just give up. My fears whispered that I was foolish to think this could work. My husband —kind as he was—quietly hinted that maybe stable income wasn’t everything, but even that gentle reminder felt like pressure.

Then came one of those nights where everything broke down. I sat on the floor of my bedroom, papers from the past three months crumpled around me, tears threatening. My planner samples were still unopened on my desk. I muttered to myself, exhausted: Maybe I’m not cut out for entrepreneurship. Maybe I should just stick to what I know. That moment was dark and heavy, but something inside me wouldn’t let me fully give in. Between the sobs, I found a small spark: I still believed, somewhere deep down, that this idea could matter.

The next morning, I did something tiny but important: I reached out. I emailed a fellow creative friend I respected, someone who had quietly launched her own small business. I wrote: “Can I pick your brain? I feel stuck and would love some advice.” She replied almost immediately, and we met over coffee. The advice she gave was simple yet eye-opening. She said, “You know, Joice, sometimes it’s not about jumping off the deep end immediately. Let’s break it down: what’s one small thing you can do this week to move forward, without pressure to succeed overnight?”

I realized I had been trying to sprint marathons before I even knew how to tie my shoes. We talked for an hour, and I felt a clarity creep back in: instead of obsessing over instant sales, I could start by building an audience and connecting with people who cared about what I was making. Small steps. Maybe an Instagram post about why I started this, maybe talking to a local bookstore about displaying my journals. Just one thing at a time.

That afternoon, I drafted a new plan: I would reach out to local shops, set up a simple booth at a weekend market, and share my story online. I created a little post about why I design planners—about my grandma who scribbled recipes and dreams in notebooks, about how a well-thought-out journal had once given me courage to face a tough day. When I posted it, I held my breath. To my surprise, friends and strangers started commenting: “I’m ordering one!” “This is beautiful, I needed this!” The first pre-orders came through slowly, then a few more. It wasn’t a flood of money, but each tiny “ding” of a sale made my heart skip.

Soon I found myself invited to a weekend craft fair at a local cafe. I was terrified to stand behind a table and pitch my own work, but I said yes. That morning, as I set up my modest display, I felt butterflies. Throughout the day, people stopped by. Some lingered, some only smiled and walked on, but a few bought a planner, and others asked questions about me. When a young woman at the end of the day said, “This planner got me excited about starting my own project, thank you,” I realized something profound: even small gestures from one person can give strength to another.

There were still tough days. Once, an entire shipment of planners arrived damaged because of a shipping mix-up. I sat in my office crying at the sight of ruined covers. I could have easily thrown in the towel. But instead, I did something weirdly comforting: I made lemonade—I mean, figuratively. I called the printer, explained what happened, and we came up with a solution to send me replacements faster. I shared my story of the mishap on my blog, and to my surprise, the transparency only drew more support from my small but growing community. People appreciated the honesty and even offered tips on better packaging.

Along the way, I learned lessons I never expected. I learned that fear doesn’t magically disappear—it just becomes quieter when you have a purpose louder than your doubts. I learned to celebrate the smallest wins: that first sale, the first message from someone inspired by my story, the first time I could confidently place an order for more planners because it was financially safe to do so. Every time I pushed past an obstacle, a little more confidence rebuilt itself within me.

Two years in, I’m not some overnight success story on magazine covers. But I am running a stable little business that supports me—and now even one part-time assistant—doing something I genuinely love. I’ve seen my designs in living rooms and offices of people in different cities. I’ve built a tiny community that exchanges ideas through the planners I create. When I look back at that scared girl with the notebooks on her kitchen table, I see someone I’m proud of.

To you, reading this,

I want to say: I see you. Maybe you’re up late, staring at a project that feels overwhelming, wondering if all the “no’s” mean you should quit. Maybe you’re scared stiff of taking the next step. Trust me, I’ve been there. But your story isn’t over yet. Every stumble, every tear, every morning you decide to rise and try again is a chapter in your strength. Build slowly, ask for help when you need it, and let every setback teach you something. You might not be a success story… yet. But what if every small effort you make today plants the seeds of something amazing tomorrow?

My journey taught me one final thing: that being an entrepreneur means more than making sales—it means daring to build a life that feels true to you. 

If you’re figuring things out as you go, remember that’s exactly how real journeys unfold. Embrace the uncertainty, hold on to that hopeful thread, and believe in yourself the way I’m learning to believe in myself. Our rises aren’t always swift, but they are rising. Keep going, one step at a time, and watch how beautifully your story can grow.

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