The Cave, the Bud, and the Splintering

On dread, validation, and the slow beauty of becoming ready

It’s been several weeks since I’ve published anything here on Circular Unicorn.

I thought I was just taking a break. I told myself I was “regrouping,” waiting for something new to say. But that wasn’t quite it.

The truth is, I didn’t stop writing because I ran out of ideas.
I stopped because I was afraid of what writing would force me to face.

Because the next article, the next act, the next move—it isn’t just about putting words into the world. It’s about stepping into the one place I’ve been carefully avoiding.

There’s this moment I’ve been circling around, and I think you might know it too.
It’s the moment just before the leap. The moment you realize that all your clever detours, productive side projects, and well-intentioned planning have been protecting you from the thing you most need to do.

For me, that moment looks like standing in front of a cave.
A large one. Dark. Unmarked. And quiet in a way that hums.

And it’s mine to enter.

There are other caves nearby, smaller ones. Ones I’ve explored.
I’ve wandered into them and set up camp. Built out landing pages, designed community programs, sketched out partnerships, even started this newsletter.
All valuable. All meaningful. All real.

But not the cave.

And I know it. I’ve always known it.
But naming it out loud felt like too much until this week.

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A few days ago, I had an impromptu coaching session.
And what surfaced in that hour was the exact pattern that’s been driving me:

I seek validation like a lifeline.

Praise has always been my currency. My compass. As a child, I learned early that if I followed the rules, if I stayed quiet and did the right thing, I would be loved.

Adults would smile. They would say I was impressive. Smart. Well-behaved.

And that became my identity.
I wasn’t wild. I wasn’t loud. I didn’t test boundaries.
I got straight A’s. I cleaned my room.

I was a "good girl."

And I carried that into adulthood. Into jobs. Into motherhood. Into entrepreneurship.

Into this project.

I’ve spent the last two years building Electra. A product stewardship platform that I believe, with every fiber of my being, could become a billion-dollar force for circularity and climate sanity. A system that helps us stop wasting what we extract from the Earth. One that allows product manufacturers and product owners to take responsibility for the full lifecycle of the stuff they buy and release into the world.

But there’s a twist.

And I don’t just mean a narrative twist.
I mean something dimensional.
Sometimes it feels like I’ve stumbled onto a threshold between worlds.

Is this the Nether?
The burning underworld, full of lava, trash, oily residue, and the risk of mobs and desertification waiting to kill your dreams.

Is it the Aether—the modded utopia-dimension, spirited, land of healthy trees and forests and humans living peacefully in harmony with the planet, a place I’ve imagined over and over.

Because both of those sound like me.

Nether. Aether. Heather.

Maybe this isn’t just a cave. Maybe it IS a portal.
And maybe the reason it feels so hard to walk through is because the cave is me.

Either way—I have to go in.

I’ve placed myself on a path that denies me the very fix I’ve always used to survive.

There are no gold stars in this cave.

This is a marathon, not a sprint. A long, slow, patient build with little external praise, no clear feedback loops, and a painful lack of certainty. There’s no one waiting to say,

“Yes, Heather, that’s right.”

And I knew that before I started going this way.
And I chose it anyway.
Or maybe it chose me.

Because this isn’t just about business.
It’s about burning off the parts of me that were built for someone else’s approval.
Like the splintered edges of a marshmallow roasting stick.

It’s about choosing the thing that scares me most:

Asking people to pay for what I’ve built.

This is where the dread lives.

I don’t fear the idea failing; I fear what it would mean if it didn’t work, and I had to face, with all of you, a future without a plan for all of our junk. Are you kidding me?!

WE HAVE TO FIGURE THIS OUT.

But I’m scared you won’t come along with me.
I’m scared I'll be told NO so many times that I’ll have to stop.
I’m willing to put in all the time, energy, and money I have in the tank.
But when it comes down to it, I can’t go this alone.

I need customers to say

YES. I WANT THIS TOO.

But if I go out and ask solar panel owners,
“Will you register your panels with Electra?
Will you pay $400 to support this program and ensure your panels are reused or recycled?”

And they say no… what does that say about me?
About the years, blood, sweat, and tears I’ve poured into this idea?
Was it ALL Wrong? Was it all for nothing?

Worse yet—what if they say yes?

What if someone hands me real money, and now I carry the weight of responsibility?

The logistics. The recycling. The legal risk. The fear that I might not deliver.
That I’ll be exposed as not ready. That I’ll let someone down.

It’s safer to make another diagram or organize virtual sticky notes on a Miro board.
To pitch to prize judges who don’t ask for invoices. To think about it some more.

But the moment I put the offer out to customers, to real people, with real solar panels, I will cross a threshold.

And the cave gets real.

“The scarier it is, the more likely it’s the right direction.”

And that sums it up.

Because it’s not just scary, it’s the fear. The core one.
The one I’ve been organizing my whole personality around avoiding.

So now I stand here, on the threshold of that cave, heart pounding.
And right outside, like a beacon, is a cluster of bright red poppies.
Like they’re shouting, “Yep, this is the one.”

Have you ever really watched them bloom before?
Ever noticed how strange and fierce their emergence is?

It starts with this tight green bud, fuzzy and almost armored.
Then, one day, a seam appears.
A crack.
A red line where the pressure is pushing through.

Then it splits a little.
A sliver of color peeks out.
A petal or two unfurls slowly, like it’s checking to see if the world is safe.

And then, almost all at once, the bud explodes off.

It pops.

The cap falls away.
The petals fly outward.
The whole flower is suddenly there, full and wide and impossibly delicate.
Designed to be seen. To catch light. To attract pollinators.
To play its part in the continuation of life.

But it had to push through first.

And I think I’m at one of those moments.
The split.

I feel the pressure. The knowing. The readiness that doesn’t feel ready.

It’s not the pop yet. It’s the split.
The point where I can no longer stay sealed.
Where part of me is already reaching toward the world, even though the rest of me is still scared.

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So here’s what I’m doing next:

I’m going to stop wandering into the side caves.
I’m going to stop waiting for a permission slip.

I’m going to build a simple public campaign to invite solar panel owners…
Real people…to register with Electra.

Not a pilot. Not a prototype. Not a theory.

An actual offer.

I’ll find a way to reduce risk, like making it free at first, or offering a waitlist while I raise funds for logistics.

But I’ll ask.
I’ll put it out there.
Because this is what circularity means.

Not just reusing materials, but refusing to discard the ideas that matter.
The ones that take time. The ones that scare you because they’re real.

This is the post before the pop.
The moment when the bud splits, and the cave is waiting.

I’m going in.

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Where have you been splintering and exploring side caves?

What would happen if you paused, just for a moment, and named the big scary one,
And then took one step toward it?

Now is the perfect time.
Let’s go!

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