I painted over my own heart. Then I painted it back.

I put mine back. Loud, obnoxious, all 24 colors. Your turn.

↑ If you want to hear the audio version of me processing - this is how I’m creating my podcast episodes and then refining them into Substack posts. I’m tired of scripted, polished, “if I can do it, you can too!” episodes/content/marketing. Maybe you are too? Sometimes it’s messy, but I’d take messy and real over polished and fake any day.

Last fall, I bought 24 colors and painted a heart on my office wall.

It radiated outward in rings, the way a tree does when you cut through the trunk and see all the years of its life laid out in circles. I loved it. The process of painting it, the two days it took, the way it felt to finally do the thing I’d been telling myself I was going to do for years.

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And then I stood back and felt something shift.

Is this childish? Is this unprofessional? Is this not the right look?

The right look for what, exactly? For some version of me that exists in someone else’s imagination? I couldn’t have told you. But I felt it clearly enough to go buy primer and paint over the whole thing.

What I felt after: disappointment and peace. Both. At the same time.

I think we usually let ourselves feel one or the other. The disappointment or the peace. The relief of having made a “safe” choice, or the grief of what we covered up. But both were there. Sitting right next to each other.

All winter I looked at that primered wall and could still see the rings. The texture of the paint underneath was still there, slightly raised, visible if you knew to look. I could feel it with my fingertips. I kept telling myself I’d go buy white paint and just clean it up properly. But I never did.

Because the truth is: it was supposed to be there.

Here’s what I did instead of repainting the heart: I went back to the craft store and bought more “acceptable” colors. Muted tones. A palette that would look polished and professional and still allow me to have a little fun. A compromise.

Those paints are still sitting in my office. Unopened. Because they were never going to get painted on that wall. They were the consolation prize — the thing I offered myself so I could feel like I was still honoring what I wanted while simultaneously making it something that wouldn’t embarrass me.

Sound familiar?

We do this in our businesses constantly. We feel pulled toward an offer, a message, a way of showing up, and then we back off just enough to make it acceptable. We meet ourselves “somewhere in the middle.” We offer the thing that’s sort of what our heart wants to do and sort of what we think we should be doing, and it’s actually neither.

And then nobody buys it. Or it doesn’t land. Or we can’t bring ourselves to actually talk about it.

And then we blame ourselves.

I love how the texture changes in black and white.

This weekend I repainted the heart.

All 24 colors. Back on the wall. Louder than before, honestly, because I now know what it feels like to live without it.

I never fit in a box. I never complied with rules just for the sake of complying. So why was I trying to now?

Here’s my question for you: Where are you offering the consolation prize version of yourself?

Where are you playing the part you think you’re supposed to play, making the thing a little more muted, a little more palatable, a little more acceptable to an audience that — let’s be honest — might not even be the audience you actually want?

The consolation prize paints are still going to be there. The question is whether you’re ever going to open them.

I’m genuinely curious where you are with this. Drop it in the comments or send me a message. I want to know what’s still sitting on your wall, covered over with primer, waiting.