Lucy's Little Light: The Side Hustle I Was Afraid to Name

Okay. Deep breath. Today I want to tell you about Lucy's Little Light.

Six weeks ago, after I read a library book about small business and a YouTube video about soy wax, I melted my first batch of candles in a soup pot on the stove while Noah was napping. I poured them into little jars I bought from a restaurant supply place in Waterloo. I made a label on the free version of a design app at 11 p.m. with a glass of iced tea sweating onto the kitchen island.

The first one I gave to Megan. The second one I gave to my mom Diane when she drove over for Sunday lunch. The third one I lit on our bedside table and Mark said, 'Did you buy a fancy candle?' And I said, 'No, I made it,' and the way his eyebrows went up — friends, I lived off that look for a week.

Today I shipped my fifteenth order. Fifteen. To strangers. People I have never met, in Oregon and Maine and one in Texas, paid me actual American dollars for something I made on my stove between loads of laundry. I cried a little at the post office. The clerk pretended not to notice, which is the kind of small-town kindness I will never get over.

I want to talk to the woman reading this who has the idea in the drawer. The Etsy shop she hasn't opened. The newsletter she hasn't sent. The little thing she keeps telling herself she'll start 'once the kids are in school' or 'once we move' or 'once I lose ten pounds.' Friend, the kids will always be a thing. The move will always be a thing. The ten pounds will always be a thing. The thing in the drawer is the thing that's going to feed something in you nothing else can feed.

I am not making rent money yet. I made one hundred and eighty-three dollars in profit last month. After supplies. After shipping. After the design subscription I broke down and bought. One hundred and eighty-three dollars, and every one of them feels like a tiny flag I planted on the moon.

Today between the morning run (three mailboxes, friends, three) and Noah's preschool drop-off, I poured a new scent. Lavender and a tiny bit of vanilla. I'm calling it 'Porch Light.' I had to remind myself it's okay to name a thing after a feeling.

Worked at Miller's from eleven to three. Mr. Miller asked how the 'candle business' was going. I told him about the Texas order. He said, 'Atta girl,' and gave me a Werther's Original from the drawer under the register, which is his highest form of praise.

Picked up the kids. Emma drew a sign for me that says LUCYS LITTLE LIGHT in seven different colors of marker. I will keep it forever. It is taped above my pouring station, which is a TV tray in the corner of the laundry room, because dreams have to start somewhere and mine started next to a dryer.

It's almost six. Mark is home. The candles I poured this morning are setting up on the counter like little soldiers. Tomorrow morning I will trim the wicks and label them and box them and ship them, and the world will spin one more day. Whatever your little light is — name it. Talk tomorrow. — Lucy