Photo Courtesy of Drexel University

She called me on a Thursday night and said, “Hey, I need a favor.”
Some friends always need favors. She’s not one of them. She’s the kind who’s put together, adaptable, and rarely asks for anything. I can think of one other time she needed help—and it was serious.

So, I didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely. What can I do? How can I support you?”
She said, “Will you be my interviewee tomorrow for my content class?”  my heart dropped into my stomach, and with a stuttered pause, “Yes, of course.”

She reassured me: “I’m just going to ask you about being a creative, about Random on Purpose. I’ll send over some questions so you have an idea, but I might change some things.”
My heart raced. I felt nauseous but also honored.

“You want to talk about my business?” I thought. “It’s not even fully launched yet. You want to talk about my creative process? That’s complicated.”

I took a deep breath. She asked me to send a bio and headshot—very professional—and I agreed before ending the call. Then the panic set in. “What do I wear?” It’s always a question, but this time it mattered more. As a short  woman, I never know if people will see me as the speaker or assume I’m another student. I needed to wear something that said: I’m an adult. I am a guest speaker. I belong here.

The final winning combination, black pants (staple A), a T-shirt (staple B), and a blazer—because a blazer says I’ve done things, led meetings, spoke in front of rooms and had adult experiences.

I arrived early and peeked into the classroom. I remembered sitting in those seats, waiting for guest speakers, hoping they’d give me answers. College hadn’t been bad—I’d had good experiences—but I’d also felt terrified, unsure of my career, my life, and myself.
I’d focused on being a good student, a good writer, a good conversationalist. As an English major, I loved words, debates, and discussions, but I was always searching for someone who could reveal the path. The person who guaranteed the safety net.

Now, standing on the other side of the classroom, 18 years removed, I realized the path still isn’t completely clear. Were they looking at me now to share the path, the way, the safety net?

In a flash, my artsy headshot and bio lit up the screen.
I felt sick. It was all true, but it didn’t feel real.
Was I really the adult in the room now?
Then like the countless times before my masking self hid and my creative self emerged. The effortless part of me deeply wanting to connect.

The questions started.

What is your process for creating content?
“I create content for myself,” I said. “To figure out who I am. To process how I feel. It’s a really scary time to be alive, and every day brings something new to feel upset, sad, or frustrated about.”

I shared my experiences, lamented about the closing of the University of the Arts, my passion for writing, and the power of the letter.
I looked up at my headshot and bio again and told the truth out loud. 

“Being a creative is difficult, the desire to start my own business is terrifying, lonely but also not happening in a vaccum. I’m working as a caregiver for my mom, my last job wasn’t a fit and the bills never stop coming. I want to launch a letter writing service because I like receiving letters in the mail. I miss post cards, messages of encouragement. I want more in my mailbox than just bills and spam. So, I’m creating that space because I can’t be the only one tired, frustrated and mad–needing a bit of encouragement. As creatives, it’s our duty to fill the gaps in our world.”

In a world almost entirely digital, I crave something else. Among the stacks of bills and responsibilities, the weight of financial uncertainty, I longed for letters that weren’t about what I owed—but about who I was.

Letters changed my life. One got me into Bodine High School for International Affairs,  another got me off the waitlist at Franklin and Marshall.

Letters reminded me: we’re here, we exist, we matter. Even now, when I get a letter from a friend, I exhale. It’s a moment where no one demands anything from me—except my presence.

In a world that constantly screams, I want people to receive something quietly powerful and affirming.
Yes, I love newsletters and notifications too—but what about beautiful stationery, ink bleeding into the page, the texture of an envelope? Physicality grounds us. It makes letters precious.

Tell us about your creative practice. What is that like for you?
“Complicated,” I said. “I try to get ideas out however I can—jotted on a napkin, written in a journal, rambled into an audio note. Then I step back, outline, and seek feedback from people who take writing as seriously as I do.”

I talked about the importance of holding onto your point of view, unapologetically, and surrounding yourself with people who obsess over the same things, who are searching for the same answers. Community refines creativity.

Then came the big one: “Being in business for yourself is hard. How can we support you?”

I was caught off guard, “I tend to hold onto things too long, trying to make them perfect. But my birthday is May 11 and maybe this, talking to all of you is the reminder I need to simply do my best and let it go. So email me on or after the 11th. Follow me and if you don’t see anything hold me accountable.”

Whew! The maniacal beauty of the community is conspiring in your favor