My zine launch over the weekend was intense. Was it a success? I’m still processing, but I can’t stop thinking about it—probably because of how raw and vulnerable it felt. I stood at a podium and cried in front of more than 50 people. All of them were familiar—friends and family whose phone numbers live in my contacts. They saw me speak about the things I care most deeply about: design, music, art, community, and nature.

Despite rehearsing for hours, the delivery of my talk was shaky. Nerves got in the way, and some parts of my notes blurred as my eyesight dimmed. I had too many words. I stumbled. But I showed up fully. The emotion came pouring out when I shared an image of Dr Rosemary Milne—my mother-in-law and dear friend. I forgot to say just how close we were. Instead, I joked that she scared me because she was so cool. Her sons knew what I really meant. Maybe others sensed it too.

I choked up, reminded of another time I stood in front of people and cried—at my uncle’s funeral, trying to read a psalm through tears. That memory rushed back as I stood there again, voice cracking. I apologised for being emotional, and reminded the room that I was nervous because it felt like a safe space—and that’s something I had created.

Then I invited them to sing Rosemary’s lyrics with me:

“There’s a bear in there
And a chair as well…”

I began to settle. I told them about the dream I had 20 years ago, when Rosemary appeared and said, “You have all of this,” while gesturing to the parklands near our home. The phrase became the title of the zine. It holds meaning—gratitude, humility, and recognition of the abundance in our shared garden. A reminder that we’re surrounded by more than we often realise. That nature has wisdom to offer, if we’re willing to listen.

The “you” in You have all of this is all of us.

From there, things flowed more easily. I spoke about what’s in the zine—the wildlife I’ve documented in our laneway garden: flora, fauna, insects, arachnids. The list filled the screen, and I felt proud. I forgot to say it only includes what I could identify. I shared stories of bug snugs, spiders, and April—the star of the show. I made them look at her gnarly beauty and described her egg sacs, each the size of a Malteser.

I spoke about the importance of community in this building—past and present. Many of those faces were sitting in the room. I thanked them for letting me grow at my own pace, and for helping to create a sanctuary for both people and wildlife.

That night, I cried myself to sleep. I still feel emotional—sitting here in this quiet café, surrounded by the gentle blur of a mainstream playlist. I’m trying to be kind to myself for showing emotion on stage. It felt like a nightmare, but also something necessary. Would I do it again? Yes, of course.