Okay, let me just start by saying: I hate waiting.
And not in the cute, “Oh, I’m impatient because I’m ambitious!” way. No. I hate waiting like a cat hates water. It feels unnatural. Like a violation of some unwritten rule that says if you put effort into something, there should be a thing—a result, a payoff, a sign from the universe saying, “Yeah, keep going.”
But most of the time? Nothing happens.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. About how much of creating something new—whether it’s a business, a project, or even just a new version of yourself—is spent in this limbo where you’ve done the work, and now … you wait.
It’s maddening.
Take today, for example. I woke up, made coffee, sat down at my desk, and stared at the blinking cursor for 15 minutes. Not because I didn’t have anything to do—I have plenty to do—but because I kept asking myself, What’s the point? Is this going anywhere?
This isn’t my first rodeo, either. I’ve started businesses, sold them, started over again. And every single time, it’s the same thing. There’s this endless stretch of time where it feels like you’re just screaming into the void. Like, Hello? Anyone there?
And I know this is supposed to be the part where I tell you that it’s all worth it. That if you just keep going, the universe will reward your persistence. But what if it doesn’t?
Seriously. What if you work your ass off, put your heart and soul into something, and nobody cares?
I think about that a lot. Not in a depressing way (okay, maybe a little depressing), but in a “What does this really mean?” way. Why do we keep going when there are no guarantees?
I think part of it is ego. Let’s not kid ourselves—we all want to matter. To be seen, acknowledged, validated. But I think there’s more to it than that.
I think it’s about the act of creation itself.
There’s something weirdly magical about taking an idea—a half-formed, messy little thought—and turning it into something real. It’s not glamorous, it’s not always fun, but it feels … necessary. Like scratching an itch you didn’t know you had.
And maybe that’s why I keep coming back to this. To the waiting, the silence, the nothingness. Because somewhere in all of that is the space where things get made.
Of course, I say all this, and then I spend half my day checking my email to see if anyone’s responded to anything. Spoiler: they haven’t.
But that’s the game, isn’t it? You put something out there, and you wait. You tweak, you adjust, you keep moving, but mostly, you wait.
I don’t think I’ve ever been good at waiting. When I was a kid, I used to pull presents out from under the Christmas tree, carefully peel back the tape, and peek inside. Not because I didn’t like surprises, but because the waiting was unbearable.
I feel like that kid every day now. I make something, put it out into the world, and then immediately start peeling back the metaphorical tape, trying to see if there’s anything inside.
Spoiler again: most of the time, there isn’t.
But here’s the thing: every once in a while, there is. And it’s never the thing you expect. It’s not the big, flashy moment where everything clicks. It’s something small. An email from a stranger who says your video made them laugh. A comment on a blog post that makes you think, Okay, maybe this matters.
Those little moments—they’re what keep me going. Not because they’re enough on their own, but because they remind me that nothing is ever really nothing.
Even the silence, the waiting, the days where it feels like the universe has forgotten you exist—there’s something happening. You just can’t see it yet.
So, I guess that’s what I’m trying to say. If you’re in that space right now, where nothing is happening and you feel like you’re spinning your wheels in mud, you’re not alone. I’m right there with you.
And if you’re curious about how I’ve navigated this before, there’s a video where I ramble about it more.
But for now, I’ll leave you with this: nothing isn’t nothing. It’s just the part before something.
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