Working in the Dark: A Naming Project That Wasn’t Mine to Finish
Sometimes, the most instructive projects are the ones that don’t end the way you imagined.
This one started as a favor—for a friend, for free. A beautiful setting. A vitally needed product offering. A new storefront on the verge of opening. I was asked to help name a new product line, define the tone of the brand, and support its early launch strategy.
The work began post-pandemic, at a time when launching small, local, organic product businesses felt both exciting and precarious. Costs were high. Attention was scattered. Markets were oversaturated. And yet, there was a persistent drive—in certain rural creative communities—to root something meaningful in the land and bring it to life through beauty, simplicity, and care. The energy was, and remains, hopeful, even if the logistics were uncertain.
I worked with care. I mapped storylines, wrote poetry, generated names and taglines, and riffed on tone. I offered structure where there wasn’t any, and suggestions that built on what was already emerging. A few things landed. Many didn’t. And that’s what stuck with me.
In the end, most of my ideas weren’t used. The product launched under a different name. The strategy veered in another direction. My role evaporated without formality. No feedback ever came. And yet, the process taught me something vital:
No matter how elegant your ideas are, they’re only useful when someone else is ready to receive them.
Notes for Founders in the Early Days
I never got direct feedback on this project, despite asking. The ideas I offered—especially around naming and brand voice—weren’t used, and I wasn’t approached to collaborate again. I’ve had to make assumptions about why. That’s been hard.
Maybe my approach didn’t land. Maybe the timing was off. Maybe the ideas felt too risky or too far outside the founder’s vision. I don’t know. And not knowing is its own kind of disappointment—especially when you're working from a place of care.
If you're a founder at the start of something new, here are a few questions that might help you decide if you're ready to bring someone else into your creative process:
Are you ready for outside ideas—even if they challenge your own?
It’s okay if the answer is no. But being honest about that up front saves time and protects the relationship.Are you looking for execution or exploration?
Hiring a strategist or creative partner when what you really want is someone to carry out a vision you've already locked in can lead to mismatched expectations.Can you offer feedback, even if it’s awkward?
This one is hard—I’ve been on both sides of it. But without it, collaboration can quietly dissolve, leaving both people unsure what happened.Are you open to making space for someone else’s process, even briefly?
If not, that’s totally fair. You might just need time to incubate the work solo.
I’m sure I made missteps on my side, too. But without a conversation, I never got the chance to learn from them.
One more thing: Lasting collaborations thrive on direct feedback in both directions.
That doesn’t mean everything has to be perfectly articulated from the start. But a willingness to name what’s working (and what isn’t) creates the conditions for trust, evolution, and real partnership.
Looking back, I think that’s part of why I was able to build such strong teams at Thicket, my former startup, even when the money wasn’t competitive. People stayed because we made space to learn from one another. Because feedback wasn’t just welcomed; it was built into the rhythm of the work.
Opportunities to grow in relationships are rare. When they show up, take them. You’ll end up with collaborators who stick around—not just because they believe in your vision, but because they know you’ll tell them how to support it.
Why I’m Sharing This
This experience, among others, helped shape the philosophy behind Tiny Little Cosmos. It reminded me that even the most thoughtful creative input can feel out of sync if the foundation of trust and shared vision isn’t fully in place.
That’s why I created Anchor & Action. Ir’a not just as a strategic planning tool, it’s a way to trial a collaboration, move through complexity together, and test the fit before committing to something larger. Why?
Because not every creative project becomes a portfolio piece—but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth doing.
Because clarity, structure, and deep listening are still part of the offering, even when the outcome isn’t adopted.
And because if you’re a founder or artist working through something messy and formative, you don’t need a perfect brand. You might just need a brief moment of guidance in the dark.
Anchor & Action is designed to be that space. It’s a short, focused container that helps you:
Test the waters of collaboration before committing to a long-term engagement.
Say what you're not sure how to say yet—about your idea, your vision, or your fears.
Clarify whether you want input, affirmation, or execution (or some blend of the three).
Build creative trust slowly, with shared language and mutual respect.
See your idea reflected back—not as critique, but as invitation.
It’s not always easy to know what you’re ready for. But even an afternoon of clarity can change everything. That’s the promise of Anchor & Action. And it’s the reason Tiny Little Cosmos exists in the first place: To help people and projects move through uncertainty with imagination, integrity, and care.
That’s work I’ll always say yes to—knowing that even a small beginning can be its own kind of clarity.
TL;DR: Gave it my all, got ghosted, built a whole planning framework about it. 10/10 would do again—but now there’s a sign-up form.
