v.31 You Ain’t Original (And Other Things We Don't Want To Hear)
Welcome to Life, Created—a new [old school] blog for modern times. This twice-a-week(ish) dispatch is a space for us to dig deeper, share ideas, recognize microjoys and build community beyond the mindless scroll.
Picture by the gorgeous @KristenLoken
In a culture obsessed with going viral, creating buzzwords, and building personal brands (cue eye-roll), it can feel like the only way to matter is to be the most original voice in the proverbial room. We see it everywhere—on social media, in wellness, in business: the constant scramble to stand out, to be first, to say something no one else has said. And you know what? That pressure seeps in.
But what if our power isn’t in being the first—what if it’s in saying something in a way that actually lands? What if impact isn’t about originality, but about resonance? The kind that makes someone pause mid-scroll and think, “Yes. That.”
My work is not original. (Shocking, I know. But ego is real, y’all.) I’m not the first person to talk about mindset, joy, authenticity, or the deeply human work of shifting perspective. And for a long time, I thought I had to be. We’re conditioned to believe that to make an impact or be successful, we must be the first. The outlier. The unicorn. The trailblazer saying what no one else has dared to say. (Cue Star Trek voiceover: “To boldly go...”)
But I don’t believe that anymore.
Let me be clear: my work may not be original, but I am. There are plenty of people talking about mindset and joy—but no one else is saying it my way. No one else has lived my life or tells these stories in my voice. What’s original is the way I connect the dots. It’s my own lived experience. The way I speak it. The way I see people. That’s mine and mine alone. And it matters.
That originality comes to life in how I show up—in real rooms, with real people.
I speak in ways that feel familiar. In ways that make people exhale and say, “That. That’s exactly it.” I don’t try to sound brilliant or shiny. I’m not a sage on a stage, pretending to be all-knowing. I speak plainly. Honestly. In a way that invites connection—not hierarchy. If I do anything well, it’s making people feel a little more seen, a little more understood. That’s it. That’s the legacy I will one day leave behind. Not originality—connection. Not being first—being genuine.
When someone’s words move us, it’s rarely because they said something brand new. It’s because they said it in a way that felt real. Something clicks. It lands. It reminds us of what we already know. That’s what happens when we speak from lived experience, not performance. From honesty, not polish. Truth isn’t always pretty—but it is magnetic.
I’ve been talking about legacy a lot lately, especially as a childless woman in a childless couple. And it struck a chord—because so many of you reached out. My work, and how I show up, is my legacy. The way I love people and see people? That’s legacy too. And I know without question: I connect differently. That connection is my gift. And yes—you can have a gift and still not be original. That’s not a contradiction. That’s just being human.
Here’s some context. Over the past few years, people have sent me screenshots of posts and captions that sound eerily like my words in (or around) my last book, Microjoys. Messages usually come with a “Look! They’re copying you!” vibe. And yes—there’s even a brand (attempting to?) trademark microjoy gummies—which has nothing at all to do with me or my actual work. (Yep. Gummies. A word I literally wrote the book on. It’s weird. And… well, still weird.)
Do I care about my work? Deeply. Do I want it copied? Of course not. But this is what happens when your work resonates. People borrow. They remix. They repackage. I’m not going to lose sleep over every echo of my voice or usage of a word that I ‘coined.’ I can’t chase that energy. I won’t.
And honestly—we’ve all been influenced by someone. That’s what it means to create in community, instead of in isolation. Language gets absorbed. Ideas overlap. Inspiration moves through us. It’s not always intentional, but it is real. I try to name the voices that shaped me. And I appreciate when others do the same.
But even as we honor what’s influenced us, we also have to honor what’s ours.
We’re not for everyone. Our work—our voices, our way of showing up—won’t land with every person. And that’s okay. I’ve stopped twisting myself into knots trying to be palatable. (Actually, I don’t think I ever did that with much consistency.) I live fully in the spectrum of what it means to be human. My version of that—while true and sacred to me—isn’t for everyone. And neither is yours.
It doesn’t make the work any less meaningful. It makes it more honest.
Because in the end, it’s not about being the most original voice in the room.
It’s about creating impact for the people around us.
To reach them. To move them. To remind folks of something they already carry.
That is the work that matters—the work that lasts.
And the impact? It lives far beyond originality—because it lives on in people.
This week’s microjoy: Even as I struggle with this country politically, I can still be grateful for sunshine, palm trees, and a pool in March. Cold rain in New Jersey, warm sun in California—microjoys can live in small contrasts.
P.S. Per usual, if this resonated with you- PLEASE repost, comment, share and spread the word.
Welcome to Life, Created.
With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
