Yesterday I met a young woman at the local cafe for a career chat. She wants to work in the fashion industry but doesn't yet know what role she would like to play. I tried to give her an honest telling of my life. A life that could be considered heaven or hell depending on your personality type. One of the lines that came out of my mouth stopped mid-air. I'm not sure it even made it to her side of the couch. I saw it turn around and float before my own eyes. My own handwriting, black ink, thin tip. I read it again to myself. One of the most wonderful parts about owning your own business is that it can be whatever you want it to be. It's you. I needed to hear this. I really needed to hear this. So often, actually most of the time, I feel as if I am about to be fired. I feel like god dammit, I'm doing everything I can for this business and it still doesn't make a sizable profit, it's still small, it's still Filly. Head hung low... it's not... some other business that is better. And sooner or later my boss is going to get fed up and give me the ax. When I said those words to her I really meant them. And so when I read those words I wanted to cry with relief. All this bullshit about faking it til you make it. Make what? Make yourself into JCrew? Make yourself into something that you are not? I can't. How about make yourself, and whatever you do, into the best version of your truth. Here at Filly I wrap your dress on the wooden trunk in the living room. Each sheet of tissue paper has a creased corner because three years ago the bulk package of tissue paper got caught in the door and it takes forever to use up a whole package. I snip errant threads and pick off specks of lint and fold and refold until the dress looks like a gift. And then, on the way to Fedex, Bello lays on the shipments and crumples them a bit so I slide them to the floor of the truck where they pick up a little dirt and the Check Engine light comes on on my way there and I listen to NPR and worry about the world and my place in it. Filly is me and I am not perfect. Filly is me and I am just right. Thank you, again, for the hundredth time, for knowing this all along.