The Clip That Started This
Sinners just won the Oscars. No one's surprised — it's a great film. But what caught my attention wasn't the win itself. It was a clip circulating about Ryan Coogler, the director, and where he says his first real introduction to Irish culture came from.
Not a documentary. Not a trip abroad. A Disney Channel movie called Luck of the Irish.
He talks about the river dancing scene — this big, loud, joyful moment in a movie most people barely remember. And yet, there it was, quietly sitting in his mind for years. Quietly shaping the sensibilities of the man who would eventually make one of the most celebrated films of the year.
Luck of the Irish is not an Oscar-winning movie. Not by any measure. But it inspired one.
What You Think Doesn't Matter, Matters
I've never wanted my work out there. My code, my writing, whatever I'm making — it never felt good enough to share. The gap between what I imagined and what I actually produced always felt too wide, too embarrassing. So I kept things to myself. I told myself I'd put it out when it was good. When it was ready. When I could stand behind it.
But what if that's not the point?
Even imperfect work does something in the world. Maybe someone looks at your app, your documentation, your half-finished side project and thinks I can do something 10 times better than this in my sleep. And then they go and do it. That's still inspiration. You moved them. You gave them a reference point — even if that reference point was something to push against.
And if you never put it out, you never gave them that.
There's also something else that happens. You participate. You put yourself in the room. Like everyone at the gym who's sweating and struggling — you showed up. You did something. The person sitting at home trying to decide whether or not to get up and go in didn't do anything. I spent a long time being that person. Waiting until I was ready to be impressive before I'd let myself count.
The Watercolor
I've been picking up watercolor painting lately. I'm not skilled. I'm not even sure what I want to paint most of the time.
There was a day I got into a fight with my boyfriend as couples sometimes do. I needed somewhere to put it, so I picked up a brush, found a quick reference on Pinterest, and tried to copy it. It wasn't good. But if you squint hard enough, you can kind of see where the inspiration came from.
I put it on my mirror.
Now it catches the corner of my eye throughout the day, and I smile — because I made that. It's a small, crooked, imperfect little thing. And it gives me a piece of joy I didn't know I could feel. I didn't know I was allowed to feel that about something I made before it was perfect.
That painting is inferior by almost any standard. It's also mine. And it matters to me in a way that the imaginary perfect version never could, because the imaginary version doesn't exist. This one does.
People idolize greatness but not the mediocre work that got us there.
What I Decided at 30
I used to live in a loop: I'll start when I'm ready. I'll put it out when it's good. I'll count it when it matters.
The problem is nothing ever felt ready, good enough, or worth counting. So I never started, never put anything out, and never let anything count.
When I turned 30, I decided that everything I do from this point forward counts. The code, the writing, the bad watercolors. All of it. Not because it's perfect — it won't be — but because doing the work is the point. The work I put out might inspire someone. It might inspire them to do better. It might catch someone on a bad day and give them a small, quiet reason to smile.
I never thought my work mattered because it was inferior. So I held it back, and I never gave myself the chance to grow past that inferiority. But Ryan Coogler watched a Disney Channel movie about a kid who discovers he's Irish, saw people dancing, and carried that with him into Sinners.
That's enough proof for me.
The inferior work matters. Put it out.