A Letter to Myself (The Truth About Building a Life Online)

cricket, the glue to our family.

You’re sitting on the floor of your barely renovated apartment. You’re staring at your laptop again, the same one you’ve used for years now. Greta is asleep in the next room. Chris is tinkering with something in the kitchen, probably fixing a door or learning how to do cook a new dish. The walls are bare, the furniture is mismatched, and the lighting is terrible. You’re about to hit publish on a blog post that feels so small but so personal. You wonder if anyone is even reading.

I remember her. I remember you. I want to tell you a few things.

You think you're just writing a blog about painting cabinets or trying a new throw pillow combination, finding ways to love where you live. But what you're really doing is inviting people in. Into your home, into your life, into your imperfections. And that kind of openness? That kind of vulnerability? It's the hardest thing you’ll ever do.

You think only having a $20/month budget for DIYing is never going to work, but you’ll inspire millions with those painted floors, unique finds, and late-night projects no one saw but you. You’ll prove that creativity isn’t about how much you spend—it’s about showing up, being resourceful, and turning what you have into something worth sharing.

There are going to be days when you want to close the door. When the internet feels too loud, too cruel, too dissecting. There will be comment sections that take your breath away, not because they’re beautiful, but because they cut you open. There will be people who hate watch you and DMs and even brands who don’t understand what you’re trying to build. You’ll hear that you’re too much, too big, too opinionated, too soft, too confident, too quiet, too everything.

And yet. You’ll keep going.

Because what you don’t see yet, what you couldn’t possibly know sitting on that floor, is how many lives you’ll touch. How many people will look at your home and your work and feel a little less alone. They’re not looking for perfection. They’re looking for permission. Permission to start. Permission to try. Permission to do something badly before doing it well.

You’re going to figure out your style, and then you’re going to outgrow it, and then you’ll reinvent it all again. You’re going to launch products and courses and a brand that feels so deeply personal it will almost hurt to share it. But you’ll share it anyway, because it’s not just about you. It never was.

You’ll hire your sisters. You’ll hire your best friend. You’ll build a team that becomes like family, and then you’ll build an actual family with people watching from every corner of the internet. Your kids will grow up in front of strangers who become supporters. Your wins will be public. So will your losses, (the cabin IYKYK).

There will be moments when the pressure will sit on your chest so heavy you’ll wonder if it’s time to quit. You’ll fantasize about moving to the middle of nowhere and never logging on again. You’ll watch people copy your work, your words, your ideas. You’ll wonder if the internet ever leaves space for originality.

But you’ll also walk through stores and see your face on a product you designed. You’ll stand on stage and speak to rooms full of women who saw you and believed they could do it too, and they did. You’ll get messages from people saying your blog helped them through postpartum depression or inspired them to leave a job that was draining them. You’ll build something that your daughters will be proud of. You’ll build something real.

You’re going to grow slowly. Painfully slowly sometimes. While others shoot past you in numbers and brand deals, you’ll question if slow and steady actually wins anything. But keep showing up. Post when you don’t want to. Write when you’re tired. Be honest even when it would be easier to just play the algorithm’s game.

Here’s the secret: you’re not building a following. You’re building a legacy.

You’re building a life where your work gets to exist alongside your values. You’re building a space where women learn to be unapologettically themselves and not feel like they have to dilute themselves to “fit in” anymore. You’re building a path that other creators will walk after you.

And one day, someone’s going to ask you, how did you do it? And you’ll smile and say, I didn’t stop.

I kept showing up.

I didn’t wait to be perfect.

I just kept building.

So keep going, Julia. Keep painting, writing, sharing. Keep listening to the quiet whisper that says, this matters. Because it does.

You don’t need to go viral. You just need to go. And go. And go again.

You will be tired. You will be overwhelmed. But you will be proud.

With love,

Julia (You, but stronger).