If there’s one risk I’ve always wanted to take—but haven’t yet found the courage for—it’s to start my own business. Not just any business, but something that feels deeply mine. Something that carries my heart, my voice, my vision—something I can pour meaning into, the way artists pour themselves into their craft.

Maybe it’s because I’ve spent most of my life in structured systems—clocking in, following routines, working within the safe boundaries of stability. And I’m grateful for that. Nursing, after all, gave me purpose. Writing gave me voice. But sometimes, I feel the quiet tug of another dream—one where I create something that doesn’t just serve others, but also reflects who I truly am.

I imagine a small studio café filled with books and art prints. A corner where people can read quietly, sip coffee, and find pieces of themselves in the pages or the paintings around them. A place that feels like an exhale. Maybe I’d sell poetry prints, handmade journals, and little souvenirs that carry stories—reminders that gentleness and creativity still have a place in this hurried world.

It’s a beautiful dream. But dreams, when they turn into plans, begin to look like risk. There are fears that follow—what if it fails? what if I’m not ready? what if the world isn’t kind to what I create? These thoughts come like shadows, and I admit, I’ve let them linger too long.

Because starting a business is not just about products or profits—it’s about faith. Faith in your vision. Faith in your ability to begin, even when the path is uncertain. Faith that passion can be stronger than fear.

I’ve met people who’ve built something from scratch—some big, some small. And they all say the same thing: you’ll never feel ready. You just start. You learn, you fall, you adjust. You become braver with each mistake. You learn that failure isn’t the opposite of success—it’s the foundation of it.

Maybe that’s the kind of courage I want to practice. The courage to begin something that doesn’t come with guarantees, but with meaning. The kind of work that feels like planting a seed without knowing if it will bloom—but doing it anyway, because the act of planting itself feels right.

One day, I’ll take that leap.
One day, I’ll stop waiting for the perfect moment, because I’m starting to realise—it doesn’t exist.
The perfect moment is simply the one when your heart says, it’s time.

And when that day comes, I’ll begin—not because I’m fearless, but because I’m finally done letting fear decide what’s possible.

Because maybe that’s what real success is:
Not just making something that lasts, but building something that feels like you.