A Note on leading from the inbox

If you haven’t listened to the audio note yet, I’d start there. That’s where this really lives. What I’m writing here isn’t meant to explain it better. It’s just me extending the conversation a little further.

I’ve been thinking lately about how easy it is to make something heavier than it needs to be.

Especially in business.

There are so many voices telling us how often to show up, how polished to sound, how strategic to be. It can start to feel stuffy and like everything needs to be optimized before it’s even allowed to exist.

And somewhere along the way, I realized that my relationship with email had quietly shifted.

It stopped feeling like something I needed to “do well.”

It started feeling more like care.

Care for the person on the other side. Care for the way I wanted to show up. Care for my own nervous system, honestly.

I don’t remember the exact moment it changed. I just remember noticing that writing emails felt different from everything else online. Slower. More spacious. Less performative. I could think out loud. I could admit when I didn’t have something perfectly wrapped up yet. I could write something that felt real instead of impressive.

Five years ago, I stepped away from social media because it no longer felt good in my body. That truth wasn’t something I wanted to negotiate with.

When I left, I didn’t know what would happen.

What surprised me was how calm it felt to build without that backdrop. My emails became quieter, but deeper. If someone opened them the day I sent them, great. If they opened them three days later, that was fine too. If they didn’t open them at all, no sweat.

This space changed something in me.

When someone gives you their email address, they’re not just clicking a button. They’re letting you into a part of their day that is usually reserved for people they trust, or at least people they’re willing to hear from.

And when I started honouring that tenderness instead of trying to prove something, everything softened.

If you’re feeling stretched by the way things are “supposed” to be done, maybe let yourself step back for a minute.

Maybe when you sit down to write your next email, don’t start with what you should share. Start with what’s actually been moving through you.

What has felt true lately?

What surprised you?

What stretched you and left you thinking about it afterward?

Write from there.

Let it be imperfect. Let it be human. Let it sound like you thinking…

You don’t need to smooth every edge. Tools can help tidy things, of course, but the pulse of what you’re saying should still feel like it belongs to you.

And you don’t need a huge audience for this to matter. Sometimes, a small handful of people who read thoughtfully and feel seen will carry your work further than numbers ever could.

I think we underestimate the power of steady things. Things that aren’t built for spectacle. Things that aren’t trying to catch attention before it disappears.

If you’re drawn to building something that feels grounded in your body, something that you own fully, something that doesn’t require you to be “on” all the time, your inbox can be that place.

It has been for me.

It’s been steady and steady has turned out to be far more powerful than I expected.

Warmly,

Stevie