I could have gotten stuck. Paralyzed at the thought it wouldn’t be perfect on its debut. Caught up in everything I didn’t know how to do yet. Finding one more thing to fix before I could possibly let anyone see it.
That’s how it was before. But I’ve learned too much. I know too much about how those patterns work to let them decide how this goes. And I know the power that lies in the small, repeated steps taken over time.
So here I am, recording my first-ever digital course. Do I have a clue on production, lighting, sound, and equipment? Not really.
Writing. Rewriting. Filming. Retake after retake, because apparently some words I’ve said my entire life are suddenly difficult to say now. Or I make it all the way through a section beautifully, only to stumble over the last two words. The. Last. Two. Words.
Then there’s the ambient noise that happens while recording. A random leaf blower goes by. Slowly. While the best part of the daylight slips by in the only decent recording space in the house. Or nearing the finish line for the day when a sudden eruption of cheers from neighborhood boys as they whoop it up over a spirited soccer game comes through the closed window. Early school release day. Of course. I didn’t know this because we’re no longer in the public school system. No fault of theirs. They’re outside having fun! Meanwhile, I’m inside waiting for the championship celebration to conclude so I can finish my thought.
Then comes editing. Another skill I’m learning as I go. While I am grateful for modern technology, even the basics take some figuring out when you’ve never done them before. Where do I cut? Does that flow? Did I just accidentally remove something I actually needed? Well. That didn’t work. Let’s try again.
Somewhere along the way, my microphone went from being stuck in my cleavage because my shirt was too flimsy to hold it, to being clipped to a ruler out of sight. We’re getting resourceful over here.
And it’s all useful. The awkward takes. The adjustments. Learning what works and what I’d do differently next time. I’ve been able to keep my humor about it. I can notice that something needs fixing without turning it into a whole verdict about whether I’m capable of doing this.
That part matters.
Because there have been plenty of opportunities to make this harder on myself. To decide I need to start over. To keep polishing something that already communicates what it needs to.
Instead, I’m taking the next useful step. And the next. Sometimes that means recording another section. Sometimes it means editing what I already have. Sometimes it means figuring out where to clip a microphone so I can get on with it. But here’s something I don’t want to gloss over: A step can be simple and small and still feel big to the person taking it.
I know this process can be broken down. I know I don’t have to finish everything in one sitting. I know I can learn the next part when I get there.
Maybe you have something like that in front of you. You can see a step you could take, but taking it feels bigger than it looks on paper. You don’t have to talk yourself out of that feeling before you begin. You can acknowledge it and still do the next useful part in front of you.
That’s what I’ve been doing. Here we are, about two weeks into recording and editing. I’ve kept at it, a little every few days, fitting it into my actual life. And now it’s almost done. There are still pieces to finish, and I’m still learning. But the course I could have kept revising and holding back is now getting close to being ready to release into the world. My hope is that it blesses the women looking for exactly this: help building routines that fit their actual lives, with room to adjust, return, and keep going.
A Small Step Can Still Feel Big
