I do. For the longest time, though, I didn't. I forgot how. I lost my connection to nature, and with it the understanding that everything is connected. I leaned in to science and reason, and forgot to leave room for wonder. 

Mighty oaks from little acorns grow. Tiny oaks, too. I started Tiny Oak Jewelry in July of 2021. Early in the pandemic, I had begun to revisit my old hobby of making beaded jewelry. With plenty of time on my hands, I watched a lot of videos and learned a variety of new techniques, and I wanted to try them all. My little hobby began to grow expensive. I hoarded craft store coupon codes and eagerly awaited sales. I outgrew my dining room table and converted an enclosed porch into a studio. The decision to start selling came naturally, and with social distancing in full force, it made sense to go online. Tiny Oak Jewelry was born.

Soon, I had a collection of wholesale accounts, many with vendors I'd admired for years. A whole new world of beads, findings, chains and trinkets was opened up to me. I was quite literally like a kid in a candy store, and I quickly gorged myself. There was so much to buy, and so much to learn! I wanted to master every technique. I took on metal clay, and then metalsmithing. I bought a pewter ingot in hopes of trying my hand at casting. I learned how to solder jump rings and set cabochons. 

My ambitions began to outpace my budget. I took part in a couple of art markets and did pretty well, but my online sales were virtually non-existent. I had visions of vast collections of playful, artistic jewelry crafted from the finest gemstones and precious metals—yet still affordable, somehow. I was certain that if I could only... I would succeed. If I could only reach the right people. If I could only afford better materials. If I could only master more techniques. If I could only.

I began to focus on marketing. Soon, I was spending more time crafting social media posts than I was creating jewelry. I began to lean heavily on AI for text and image creation. Worried that my pieces lacked cohesion, I began designing entire collections, then scrambling to put them together. I found myself having to compromise at every turn—spending more than I'd intended, or settling for something less than what I wanted.

And I still wasn't making online sales. 

I had built a beautiful website. My product photos left much to be desired, but I was getting better. I was throwing myself into marketing, churning out multiple, beautifully formatted social media posts each week. I was blogging regularly, and sending lovingly crafted emails to my small subscriber base, once a week, right on time. My brand was tight—even my teen boys thought so. What was I doing wrong?

Everything. Literally, everything.