So I’ve been thinking about this quote lately that’s been bouncing around in my head like a ping-pong ball – “Every artist was first an amateur” by Ralph Waldo Emerson. You know how sometimes a phrase just hits you at the weirdest moment? I was literally standing in line at the coffee shop yesterday, watching the barista create these insane latte art designs, when it clicked.

I mean, think about it. That barista probably started out making coffee that looked like brown soup with foam blobs floating on top. But there she was, crafting these delicate little leaf patterns that made me feel guilty for even drinking them. It got me wondering about all the times I’ve been too scared to try something because I wasn’t immediately good at it.

Remember when you were a kid and you’d grab those chunky crayons and just go wild on paper? The smell of that waxy residue, the scratchy sound against construction paper – pure magic. Nobody told us we were “bad” at art back then. We just created because it felt good. Somewhere along the way, though, we started comparing ourselves to others and suddenly our stick figures seemed embarrassing.

Here’s something that blew my mind recently: Vincent van Gogh didn’t even start painting until he was 27 years old. Twenty-seven! That’s older than some of my friends who think they’re “too late” to learn guitar or try pottery. The guy who gave us “Starry Night” was basically a late bloomer, and look how that turned out.

I’ve got this friend who always said she couldn’t draw to save her life. Like, she’d literally apologize before sketching directions on a napkin. But last year she got fed up with her corporate job and enrolled in an art class on a whim. The first few weeks were rough – I’m talking geometric shapes that looked like they’d been drawn during an earthquake. But something shifted around week four. Her hands started remembering what her brain was telling them to do.

Now her whole social media presence is dedicated to her botanical sketches, and honestly? They’re gorgeous. Not museum-worthy yet, maybe, but there’s something raw and honest about them that makes you stop scrolling. She told me the other day that she can actually smell the pencil shavings from sharpening her drawing tools now — it’s become this weird meditation for her.

The thing is, we live in this instant-everything culture where people expect to be TikTok famous after posting one video. But mastery is messy. It’s about showing up when your work looks terrible and doing it anyway. It’s about the calluses forming on your fingertips from guitar strings, or the paint under your nails that won’t come out no matter how much you scrub.

I read somewhere that it takes about 10,000 hours to truly master something — that’s roughly five years of full-time work! But here’s what they don’t tell you: those first hundred hours are usually the most fun because everything is new and surprising. You’re not worried about being perfect yet; you’re just playing.

So maybe Emerson was onto something bigger than just art. Maybe he was talking about giving ourselves permission to suck at things initially. To embrace that awkward beginner phase where everything feels foreign and your creations look nothing like what you pictured in your head.

What’s stopping you from picking up that paintbrush or learning that language you’ve been thinking about? Start amateur. Stay curious.

So here’s a thing I’ve been mulling over lately—like, while brushing my teeth, walking to the mailbox, and half-listening to podcasts I swear I’m going to finish. It’s this whole tug-of-war between withdrawing and continuing to show up and fight, especially now, when the political climate feels like it’s been microwaved on high for seven years straight and the smell coming out is… not good. You know?

I’ve had days where I’m like, That’s it. I’m outta here. Gonna delete every app, unplug my router, adopt a hedgehog, and disappear into the woods where no one uses the phrase “culture war” unironically. But then five minutes later I’ll see a news headline that feels like it was pulled from a rejected Handmaid’s Tale script and suddenly I’m hate-refreshing Twitter and typing angry emails to my senator. (Who never replies. Rude.)

It’s a weird place to live—this teetering between burnout and fury. Like, on one hand, withdrawing sounds so peaceful. Just cocooning up and pretending the world isn’t actively lit on fire? Tempting. But also… that’s exactly what a lot of folks want people like me to do. (And by “people like me,” I mean anyone who gives a damn about actual rights and not just rebranded control dressed up as “values.”)

There’s this scene in Andor—and yes, I’m about to get Star Wars-serious for a second—where Stellan Skarsgård’s character gives this monologue about sacrificing everything for the rebellion. He’s not shiny like Luke Skywalker. He’s bitter and tired and completely jaded, but he’s still in it. That kind of resignation-fueled resistance? Ugh. It wrecked me. Because that’s what fighting often looks like. Not banners and parades. More like missed sleep, shaky hands, and still deciding to keep going anyway.

And don’t even get me started on The Hunger Games. Katniss didn’t sign up to be the face of the revolution. She wanted to survive. Protect her sister. Maybe plant a garden someday. But the system shoved her into the spotlight, and she did what she had to do, even while unraveling emotionally like the rest of us would’ve. Sometimes courage looks like shooting an arrow at the freaking Capitol. Other times, it looks like not screaming in an interview with Caesar Flickerman.

Now, full disclosure—I do withdraw. I vanish for a bit, nap weird hours, eat toast for dinner. But the thing is, I always come back. I think we have to let ourselves pull back sometimes so we can actually sustain the struggle. We’re not machines. Even Batman had to take a beat and lick his wounds (and probably moisturize, honestly, because that cowl looks drying). Rest isn’t quitting. It’s sharpening your claws before the next round.

At the end of the day, I think it comes down to this: hiding is okay for a while. Recharge, recenter, maybe binge-watch something with emotionally satisfying comeuppance (Looking at you, The Fall of the House of Usher—justice, finally!). But don’t let that retreat turn into permanent exile. The world still needs your voice. Even if it’s wobbly. Even if it only squeaks out a vote or a shared article or one stubborn conversation with That Uncle at Thanksgiving.

Take care of you. Then get back in there and raise a little hell.

Catch you on the barricades (or in my blanket fort for now),
—R