The Day I Realized Courage Was a Group Project

As an overachieving introvert

Photo by Antonino Visalli on Unsplash

I used to think asking for help meant I was failing.

I wore solitude like a badge of honor, the kind handed out to overachievers with trust issues and unprocessed trauma. I told myself I didn’t need support. That real creators suffer in silence and publish in perfection.

Turns out, that’s not courage. That’s fear in a fancy outfit.

Everything changed the day I sent a terrified DM to another writer on Substack. Not a pitch. Not a clever collaboration strategy. Just a messy little note that said:
“Hey… I love your work. I think we’re wrestling with the same challanges.”

And to my shock — she didn’t ignore me.
She wrote back with kindness. With curiosity. With humanness.

That DM? It cracked something open. And once I peeked through the cracks, I saw something that changed my creative life:

Courage isn’t something you build alone.
It’s something you practice in community.

The Lone Genius Lie

Let’s talk about the myth that’s quietly ruining thousands of creative journeys:

“If I were really good, I wouldn’t need anyone.”

That thought -> that sentence -> is a thief.
It steals joy, energy, and momentum. It convinces us that community is a crutch and collaboration is a concession.

But here’s what neuroscience says (and Brené Brown would back me up):
Our brains are literally wired for co-regulation.
We’re built for tribe-building, mirror neurons, and shared meaning-making.

When we isolate ourselves in the name of “independence,” we’re not being strong; we’re running uphill in the wrong shoes.

You know what’s actually brave?
Letting someone else into your process before it’s perfect.

My First Collaboration Attempt (Was a Total Disaster)

I’ll be honest. My first attempt at creative collaboration was… unsexy.

I reached out to a writer I admired and suggested we co-host a Substack webinar. I drafted a whole pitch deck. I overthought every sentence. I hit send. And then?

Crickets.

A week later, I got a kind-but-firm “no.” She said she was overcommitted. I told myself she just didn’t see the value. Then I told myself I was delusional for trying. Then I had a vulnerability hangover so intense I almost deleted my whole Substack.

But here’s the plot twist.

After I published an essay about that failure, three other writers reached out. Not with pity — with stories.

One said, “Oh my God, I’ve done that twice.”

Another said, “Let’s try something super low-stakes together.”

And just like that, I wasn’t alone anymore. I was in creative conversation.

The 3-2-1 Courage Method

After several flops and a few wins, I created a framework for reaching out to collaborators that doesn’t make me want to hide under a weighted blanket.

The 3-2-1 Method:

3 Genuine Compliments:
Not “love your work.” Get specific.
“The way you compared imposter syndrome to a clingy ex in that last piece made me laugh-snort my tea.”

2 Shared Struggles:
Find common ground.
“I’m also navigating consistency vs. burnout. It’s wild out here.”

1 Tiny Ask:
Start ridiculously small.
“Would you be open to a 15-minute voice note exchange about how we both approach first drafts?”

The magic here isn’t in the “yes.”
It’s in the connection that happens when you lead with appreciation, honesty, and courage.

The Coffee Chat That Changed Everything

I once joined a casual Zoom with five creators I met through Notes. No agenda. No pitch. Just vibes.

Somewhere between “my subject lines are cursed” and “is anyone else afraid of success?” we struck gold.

We realized we were all writing about the same core ideas: fear, growth, voice, and truth, just from wildly different angles.

So we started responding to each other’s pieces. Linking to each other’s work. Amplifying, not echoing.
And guess what?
Not only did our engagement rise — so did our courage.

That little crew became my creative nervous system. When I lost belief in myself, they lent me theirs.

What Emotional Intelligence Taught Me About Collaboration

Here’s the truth no one tells you:
Collaborating doesn’t mean giving up control.
It means sharing the emotional load.

When I learned to:

• Name my fears instead of hiding them

• Ask for feedback instead of pretending I didn’t need it

• Admit I was uncertain instead of overcompensating with overwork...

...I got better. Not just as a writer. As a human.

The best collaborations I’ve had weren’t built on strategy.
They were built on mutual emotional fluency.
We knew how to say:
“This is scary for me.”
“This is exciting.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing — but I’m willing to try.”

Plot Twist: Your “Competition” Might Be Your Creative Soulmate

The writer I DM’d that day? She writes about nearly identical themes as me: courage, voice, leadership.

Old Me: would have seen her as competition.
New Me: sees her as creative kin.

We started a monthly practice where we both write on the same prompt, share each other’s posts, and celebrate our differences.
No ego. No comparison. Just amplification.

We call it: Creative Boundaries With Benefits.

The rules:

• Don’t read each other’s drafts before publishing

• Always link to each other’s piece

• Reflect publicly on what we learned from each other

• Laugh about what went wrong

It’s not content strategy. It’s creative intimacy.

What Nobody Else Will Tell You (But I Will)

Collaboration isn’t about going viral.
It’s about staying sane.

It’s about having someone to message when your perfectionism is throwing a tantrum.
It’s about remembering that art isn’t made in vacuums; it’s made in vulnerable rooms.

The most successful creators I know aren’t the loudest or the slickest.
They’re the ones who dare to connect.

Your Turn (Yes, This Is the Bossy Part)

Pick one writer on Substack whose work moves you.
Send them a 3-2-1 message:
✨ A specific compliment
✨ A shared struggle
✨ A tiny ask — or no ask at all

Then watch what happens.

Because here’s the truth bomb:
Writing might be a solitary act.
But creating a sustainable creative life?
That’s a team sport.

And guess what?
The dance floor is open.
The music is playing.
You just have to be brave enough to ask someone to join you.

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To stop wanting to collaborate and actually start, join my Summer Camp June 2025 Session - and walk away with "I just launched my first co-created project with someone I admire."

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