The Most Courageous Thing You Can Do
A love letter to the brave ones who share their work with the world
Last Sunday, I shared one of the most vulnerable pieces of my writing—and it landed somewhere tender for more people than I imagined. Messages poured in from both friends and strangers, all saying the same thing: me too. That they’d felt it. That they saw themselves in my words.
One message in particular caught me off guard—the kind that makes your throat catch and your eyes well up without warning. Not because it praised the writing, but because I felt seen. Like someone had pulled out a chair for me at their kitchen table. I hadn’t realized how disarming that would feel. Honestly, I had braced myself for a vulnerability hangover—not connection.
And yet, connection is what I found. Every time we open the door of our hearts, we take a chance—that who we are and what we share will be received with gentleness. You tidy the cushions, put out the flowers, light a candle. You let people into the space you’ve made and hope they’ll handle the fragile things with care. But some part of you is still standing in the doorway, holding your breath.
When I choose to be vulnerable, I feel that flash of doubt. I wonder: Is this too much? What will they think? I imagine the eye rolls. The quiet unfollows. The familiar whisper: Who does she think she is to take up space like that?
But that’s just it—we’ve forgotten that taking up space is the whole point. It means allowing yourself to exist fully, rather than shrinking to make others comfortable. It’s trusting there’s room for your perspective. That what you bring has value.
Sharing your voice, your vision, your heart out loud—that’s how you claim that space. Because that’s what art does. It says: I’m here. I felt this. I lived that. I made this. It’s a refusal to disappear—and a hope that someone will bear witness.
To be clear, art isn’t just what hangs on the walls—it’s any way we bring soul into the world. It’s how you prepare a meal, arrange your words, style a room, or raise a child. It’s how you get dressed in the morning or create a quiet corner that feels like home. It’s your eye for detail, your instinct for beauty, your desire to make something meaningful where there once was nothing. It’s all art—our way of giving shape to what’s hard to name, of letting the soul leave its fingerprint on the world.
One thing about me? I often feel fear. Fear of creating something that might fall flat. Fear of sharing too much, or not enough. Fear of pushing “publish” on these Sunday letters. I get anxious walking into crowded rooms, boarding planes, or standing in elevators. But I do it anyway. I’ve learned not to let fear be the reason I stay unexpressed.
One of the ways I express my art is through interior design. I started my design studio over eight years ago, and still—before every presentation, every installation—I feel that twinge of uncertainty. Will they like it? Will they see the vision I intended for the home? Inviting someone into a space I’ve created is vulnerable. It’s personal. Every choice is a layer, every project an unveiling. But I keep showing up. Because design, like writing, is ultimately about revealing something true. It’s about caring deeply. It’s about turning a blank space into something that speaks.
Creating—truly creating with honesty and authenticity—doesn’t just ask for our skill. It asks for our courage. And that’s the part no one sees.
Risk is part of the deal. Playing it safe might feel more comfortable, but it rarely leads to growth. Every meaningful chapter of my life has started with a leap—moving to Italy after college, leaving a corporate job to start Rue Magazine at 27, and in love, saying yes to my heart… and just as bravely, saying no when it was time to walk away. None of it was guaranteed. But each choice taught me something I couldn’t have learned by staying put.
You don’t have to start with a grand leap. Begin small. And instead of bracing for the worst, imagine what might go beautifully right. When I was building Rue—depending on its success to pay my rent—I used to whisper to myself, Leap, and a net will appear. It became a quiet mantra, a reminder that courage creates momentum. And if there’s one truth I keep repeating to my children, it’s this: In life, you get what you have the courage to ask for.
That might be the truest thing I know about bravery: it’s not the absence of fear—it’s motion in the presence of it. It’s inching forward with shaky hands and an open heart. And when you create something from that place, it’s sacred. Even if your work is met with silence. Even if someone rolls their eyes. Or your inner critic nags, Why did you share that?
I know what it’s like to want to keep your creations tucked away. Some never make it past the saved drafts, the secret Pinterest vision boards, the quiet daydreams—and that’s okay. There’s a tenderness in protecting what feels sacred. But silence becomes its own kind of ache. And for me, even when it’s scary, I’d rather crack a window open and see what happens.
Here’s the truth: the ones who dare to share—the ones who take up space with their art—will be judged and misunderstood. That’s part of the deal. But judgment doesn’t mean you did it wrong. It means you were brave enough to open the window.
You know that famous Roosevelt quote? It’s not the critic who counts—it’s the one who steps into the arena, dust-covered and heart-exposed, daring to try. To me, it’s like opening a door to the most intimate room in your home—hoping the person who enters doesn’t upend the things you’ve so carefully arranged. You’ve let them into the room where the good stuff lives.
That’s you.
You’re in the arena.
You’re doing the courageous, unglamorous, deeply vulnerable work of being seen through your art.
And even if no one claps—even if only one person reads your words or sees what you made—it still matters. Because the act of creating changed you. It gave form to something tender and raw—something rattling around the attic of your heart—and placed it gently in the light where you could finally see it clearly. That alone is reason enough.
But here’s why sharing your creativity matters to the world: because art connects us. It stirs something in others they haven’t yet found the language for. It returns pieces of ourselves we didn’t know were missing—or introduces us to a version we hadn’t yet met. It creates a quiet ripple that moves through the world, one person at a time.
Art reminds us we’re not alone.
It turns a quiet room into a shared one.
And don’t we all need more of that?
So if you’re feeling the vulnerability hangover right now or if you’re tempted to retreat, please hear this:
You’re on the path.
You’re doing it.
Keep showing up scared.
And when doubt finds its way in, here’s something to carry with you:
I feel like I’m too much. Your depth is your gift.
I feel like I’m not enough. Even when you doubt it, your worth remains intact.
Someone else already did it better. No one else can do it quite like you.
I’m not growing fast enough. Growth doesn’t have to be loud to be real.
People are judging me. The ones who get it will stay.
I should be further along by now. You’re right on time.
I don’t feel qualified. Your lived experience is your expertise.
I don’t have a niche. You are the throughline.
I’m not polished enough. Real is more powerful than perfect.
It’s already been done. But not like this.
I’m too sensitive for this. Your sensitivity is your superpower.
x Crystal
Images featured are from a recent design project of mine.
You can find me on Instagram here, and explore the full archive of past letters here.
“we’ve forgotten that taking up space is the whole point” THIS !!! 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼