I was moving some inventory the other day—specifically, a bunch of nail wraps—and I’ll be honest… I felt a little pang. Here I was, clearancing out an entire line of product that I had once hoped would take off. It hit me in that quiet, no-one-watching sort of way: Was this a failure?
But then—like a bolt of clarity—Edison’s quote came to mind:
“I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.”
And just like that, my whole perspective shifted.
You see, I don’t even use nail wraps myself. I live on a homestead in the River Valley of Arkansas. I’m elbow-deep in farm chores, critter care, and vintage restoration most days. Fancy nails? They don’t exactly pair well with feeding chickens or hauling hay. So why was I selling them in the first place?
Because I thought I should.
Because I thought they’d be trendy, easy to package, profitable.
But they weren’t me.
And that’s when it clicked: this wasn’t failure.
This was refinement.
This was honesty.
I looked over at my vintage items—the ones I love researching, photographing, and writing about like they were long-lost stories waiting to be told. That doesn’t feel like a job to me. That feels like joy. Like storytelling. Like purpose.
And then my mind—always a few steps ahead of my hands—landed gently on another shift that’s been growing quietly in my heart: my crystals. My stones. My metaphysical path.
It started small—tucking a Tiger’s Eye in my pocket for courage. Holding Amethyst when I felt anxious. And before I knew it, these stones became anchors. Not because they were “magic,” but because they reminded me of who I wanted to be. Like a Catholic with a rosary, I reach for my medicine pouch and hold it like a prayer. Each stone means something. Each one speaks. When fear or doubt creeps in, I don’t reach for answers—I reach for reminders.
And I realized something: this is what I want to share.
Not polish. Not perfection.
But something honest. Grounded. Intentional.
So I’m clearing the wraps—not because I failed.
But because I found one more way that didn’t work for me.
And now I’m making room for something that does.
My Shopify store won’t close. It’ll evolve. Into a space for those who need reminders of their own. A space that aligns with my values, my spirit, and yes—my business.
And maybe the next time you have to let go of something, you’ll remember Edison, too.
You haven’t failed.
You’ve just learned one more way that doesn’t fit you.
And that’s not a loss.
That’s progress.
