Start Smaller: A Manifesto for the Tiny, the Tender, and the True
I started to feel like I was hitting a wall at the halfway point of my book — that kind of quiet frustration that doesn’t scream, but sits heavy. So I stepped away for a few days. Not to quit. Just to listen. And in that pause, this manifesto came through. A reminder to myself (and maybe to you, too) that beginnings don’t have to be big to be real. That slow counts. That small is still sacred.
Start Smaller: A Manifesto for the Tiny, the Tender, and the True
Start smaller.
Smaller than that.
Buy the notebook.
The next day, buy the pen.
Count the letters of your name.
Write as many words as you have letters.
Do that every day for a month.
This is how we begin again. Not in the grand pronouncement, not in the perfect plan, not in the curated launch. We begin in the quiet. In the nearly invisible. We begin in the corners of the day no one notices, where we find ourselves beginning to collect dust. We begin so small the world doesn’t flinch, doesn’t brace, doesn’t even look up.
Start smaller.
Smaller than what ego demands.
Smaller than what shame whispers is “too little, too late.”
Because starting small isn’t about insufficiency.
It’s about intimacy.
It’s a sacred refusal to treat our lives like productivity projects. It’s a way to build trust — not just with others, but with ourselves.
Buy the notebook. Use a beat-up one, if that’s what you’ve got.
Buy the pen. Or better yet, go with the one you found under your bed.
You don’t need a routine. Just a reach.
A scribble.
A signal: I’m still here.
Some days will flow.
Let them.
Do not interrupt grace because you’re waiting for grit.
Allow yourself to overflow onto the page or wherever you’re seeking to find yourself.
Challenge and hardship aren’t the only ways to reveal what you’re made of.
Joy reveals.
Ease reveals.
Play reveals.
Gentleness is evidence, too.
Your consistency does not have to roar. It can whisper. It can stutter. It can pause for three days and come back again, still whole.
We are not measured by scale.
We are remembered by attention.
And so I say again:
Start smaller.
Smaller than that.
Buy the notebook.
The next day, buy the pen.
Count the letters of your name.
Write that many words.
Do it again tomorrow.
Not for proof.
But for practice.
Not for product.
But for presence.
This is not about becoming someone else.
It’s about meeting who you’ve always been — gently, again and again, until the part of you that always leaves, decides to stay.
If this piece spoke to something in you—if my writing has ever helped you feel seen, softened, or strengthened—I want to gently ask for your support.
I’ve just begun my writing sabbatical in Sicily, where I’m tending to my health, my creativity, and the slow work of writing my book. I’ll be sharing more pieces like this, more glimpses into the journey, and more ways I’m learning to keep the fire lit—even in uncertain times.
Direct support is something I’m still learning how to ask for, and I’m practicing saying thank you more often, more fully. Your support helps me create spaciousness to write, rest, and keep building this work with care.
If you feel moved to contribute, here are the ways to do that:
Venmo: @Jamila-Bradley
CashApp: $JBradley8
Thank you for being here. Thank you for holding space. Thank you for helping me keep going.
"Do not interrupt grace because you’re waiting for grit"
What a line! Thanks for this essay, it is making me think
This is soo soo beautiful ❤️