It’s been nearly a decade since I first stared into the horizon of starting a solo practice. At that time, it felt like I had no other choice. I was the editor-in-chief of a magazine whose panache and people I deeply loved, but I told myself print would have no place in the new world, and I didn’t want to be the one telling my people the new world wouldn’t have a place for them.

On the other hand, storytelling—I told myself—will always be valued no matter the changing waves of industrialism. Stories were told when cavemen first discovered fire and will continue to be told through scorched earth. Brands need to humanise themselves to build trust, since trust is, kinda, a currency. Creativity, content, and communications are some of the many skill sets that can help build that trust. I have considerable experience with all that, so one plus one equals two and all that jazz.

I was like a naive sailor who had never dipped his foot in the ocean of entrepreneurship and expected the currents and its creatures to grant him some form of respect.

So, there I was, staring into the horizon, persuading myself to take that leap of faith with all this talk about cavemen, currencies and a crazy idea. I told myself I wouldn’t mind braving the rough seas and going out on my own (although I hadn’t considered what I would need to find courage for in the first place). I was like a naive sailor who had never dipped his foot in the ocean of entrepreneurship and expected the currents and their creatures to grant him some form of respect. I went ahead. Dove headfirst. Ready to get a head start. From editorship, I set sail on another kind of ship—solopreneurship. The journey has been beautiful, but also brutal.

If you’re thinking of starting your own thing, I say go for it. That’s the only way you’ll know for sure if it’s for you. That’s the only way you’ll learn. That’s what I told myself, and over the decade I can confirm that nothing will ever be for sure; so far, I’ve been learning what I wanted to and, very rarely, what I should have. The challenges are never abstract. They are telling. They are obvious. They are right under your twinkly nose. We have the proverbial blinders and blind spots for a reason. They’ve worked and kept us safe so far. But to go further, to be better, we must learn and unlearn in equal measure.

I love the work. I love writing. I love telling stories. Ironically, the skill I’m supposed to sell became a problem because I didn’t care about selling the skill.

I love the work. I love writing. I love telling stories. Ironically, the skill I’m supposed to sell became a problem because I didn’t care about selling the skill. Yeah, you get it. When you love crafting and spend all your time perfecting it—whatever “perfect” means to you—you have less time to be entrepreneurial. It’s called entrepreneurship, not craftsmanship. You need to decide whether you want to make ships for a living or captain your new ship. You must decide if you’d prefer to work on the business or work in the business.

My fantasy was to run a content agency. But you cannot build an agency if all you care about, like me, is the best way to tell a brand’s story without saying anything about the brand. I was trying to put on a magic show that would take everyone’s breath away, yet no one would ever see it because I didn’t bother to promote it. I was lucky enough to enjoy commercial success through word of mouth. But word of mouth isn’t something to drool about, just like playing the lottery wouldn’t make you feel like a winner. It’s inconsistent and unsustainable, and no matter how much work keeps my back straight and proud, the end of a project leaves me slumped over with crippling anxiety about where my next dollar will come from.

Sometimes, you’ll need to face the brutality of what you hate to keep the beauty of what you love alive.

In one year of solo practice, I made nearly a quarter of a million dollars. If you asked me how that happened, I would refer you to my chief financial officer, who, as you’ve guessed it, doesn’t exist. I don’t know how that happened. I don’t know how to replicate it. It was all dumb luck, I guess. But none of that matters more than accepting the reality of what made me fall in love, find joy, and feel blessed by the work that I do. Sure, if you have to, do the other stuff you hate—the selling, the pitching, the singing and dancing about your craftwork. Sometimes, you’ll need to face the brutality of what you hate to keep the beauty of what you love alive.

I don’t think that you are drowning. I think that you are getting a little wet from being out at sea for the first time. That’s good. Take your time because time is all you have. Enjoy it.