If you’re one of my clients, you’ll know we’ve recently had a new kitchen put in at our flat here in the UK.
I’ve had to work from all corners of the flat, dodging the burly, loud builders as best I could—drills going, radios blaring, someone always shouting “Mate, pass me the saw!”
Ambience: zero.
Some days I escaped entirely and set up in friends’ spare rooms, trying to find a bit of calm. More than one client has asked, mid-session, “Where are you today?”
So when the dust finally settled—literally and emotionally—I thought, “Right. I’m going to tile the kitchen myself.”
Had I ever tiled before? Absolutely not. But this is very on brand for me.
It’s the same energy that once had me agree to swim across Lake Coniston despite, let’s say, modest swimming ability.
And the same thinking that led to me packing up our entire life, leaving my corporate job, and starting my own business—with a four-month-old baby in tow.
I just get an idea and go, “Yeah, why not?”
So tiling a splashback? Felt like a breeze in comparison.
Naturally, I prepped in the only way I know how:
Watched 17 YouTube videos.
Bought and borrowed the gear: electric tile cutter, adhesive, spacers, sponge, trowel, the works.
Told myself, “You’ve got this.”
And then tiling day arrived… and I completely froze.
What if I mess it up?
What if I ruin the wall?
What if I somehow glue myself to the backsplash and have to live there now?
Classic perfectionism.
That voice that shows up right when something feels important.
“You’re not ready.”
“Better wait.”
“Just research a bit more first…”
But I know that voice now. And I know that when it appears, I need to act fast—before it talks me out of doing anything at all.
So I made myself a deal:
Just do one tile.
Not the whole wall.
Not the fiddly edge bit.
Just one.
And I did. That one tile was enough to get me going. Then came the next. And the next.
Before long, I was halfway across the kitchen, slightly high on tile adhesive fumes, feeling really quite chuffed with myself.
So if you’ve got something you’ve been putting off, something that feels a bit too big, too new, or too much—try this:
Don’t do the thing.
Just do the first thing.
Your version of one tile.
Write one sentence.
Open the document.
Send the email.
Take the walk.
Ask the question.
Confidence doesn’t come first.
It comes after you begin.
You don’t have to feel ready. You just have to start.
