I have spent the better part of a month preparing to start a podcast. You’ll notice I said preparing, not doing.
A month. Thirty-ish days. An embarrassing number of hours researching microphones and watching YouTube videos hosted by suspiciously enthusiastic twenty-seven-year-olds named Tyler who somehow have six-camera studio setups in their basements.
I have Googled phrases no normal human should ever Google:
“Best affordable wireless mic for beginners over 60 who are technologically terrified.”
“Podcast setup for people who still occasionally forget their passwords.”
I have ordered equipment. Returned equipment. Ordered different equipment. Downloaded apps, connected devices, disconnected them, reconnected them, and created accounts I’m fairly certain I’ll never find again.
And because I’ve apparently become a part-time production assistant in my own life, I went down a rabbit hole of questions I never imagined asking at this age:
“What is the best lighting setup to look refreshed?”
Not younger. At 68, I’ve earned these laugh lines—they came with stories. But maybe slightly less “I accidentally fell asleep face down on a throw pillow” tired?
Then came “Best camera angles for mature women” and “How to look more energized on video without Botox.” Suddenly I’m comparing ring lights like I’m producing the evening news. Warm or soft? Daylight? Do I need a diffuser? What is a diffuser? And why does one overhead light make me look wise and accomplished while another makes me look like I’ve been held hostage by poor life choices?
Honestly, I’m exhausted. Not from podcasting—from preparing to podcast.
Through all of it, I kept telling myself: I’ll start when everything feels ready. When the sound is perfect. When the lighting is perfect. When I know exactly what I’m doing. When everything feels—like Goldilocks would say—just right.
But here’s the truth nobody talks about: nothing new ever feels just right. Especially the things that matter. Especially the things that make us think, Who exactly do I think I am, trying this at my age?
And let me tell you something. At 68, I don’t have time to casually “circle back” in three years. If I overthink this much longer, the first episode of my podcast may double as my memorial service. “Welcome back to the show. Unfortunately, Sandy never actually recorded Episode One—she was still comparing microphones.”
Funny? A little. Uncomfortably true? Absolutely.
Because isn’t this what so many of us do? We wait. We research. We overprepare. We convince ourselves we’re being responsible when, if we’re honest, sometimes we’re just scared. Scared of looking foolish. Scared of what other people will think. Scared of getting it wrong. Scared of hearing our own voice and thinking, Do I really sound like that? (For the record: apparently, yes. We all do.)
But underneath all of it is something deeper. Fear of beginning. Because beginning means being vulnerable. It means not being good yet. It means messy. And messy feels awfully uncomfortable when we’ve spent decades becoming competent, accomplished, and respected.
Then something calls to us—a podcast, painting, writing, traveling solo, learning pickleball, starting over—and suddenly we feel like beginners again. And beginners feel awkward.
But here’s what I’m reminding myself: every confident person was once terrified. Every expert was once someone fumbling around saying, Where does this cord even go? You don’t arrive at confidence before you begin. You arrive at confidence because you begin. Messy, unsure, awkward, a little nauseous—and sometimes with Amazon receipts proving how serious your procrastination has become.
So I’ve decided something. I’m going to just hit record. Not because I suddenly stopped being scared, but because waiting for perfection is a terrible strategy for living. And if there’s one thing I know as I move deeper into this third act, it’s that dreams deferred too long have a way of quietly becoming regrets.
So let me ask you: what are you putting off? Over-researching? Over-perfecting? What dream keeps tapping you on the shoulder while you keep saying, Soon… when I’m ready… when it feels safer?
Because maybe the thing you’re waiting for isn’t confidence. Maybe it’s courage. And courage doesn’t arrive first. It shows up after the first messy step.
So whatever it is for you—maybe it’s time to stop waiting for “just right” and simply—
Hit record.
