2025 was one of the hardest years The Alt Market has faced.
Sales were slow. Creativity felt expensive. And everywhere I turned, there was pressure—subtle and loud—to change what I was making in order to keep up with what sells. To produce instead of create. To lean into mass-produced, trend-driven items instead of the messy, meaningful work that made this shop what it is.
When numbers are low, it’s easy to start questioning everything. Your vision. Your taste. Your stubborn refusal to become something easier to digest. There were moments this year when I wondered if staying creative was costing me too much—and if survival meant letting go of the very things I built this business on.
But The Alt Market was never meant to be safe or streamlined.
Running a small creative business in 2025 meant carrying constant pressure: pressure to conform, pressure to pivot, pressure to sacrifice originality for predictability. It meant watching what “worked” for others and wondering if I was foolish for not following the same path.
At the same time, life didn’t slow down to make space for any of it.
Teaching full-time while running a business means living in a constant state of overflow. My days were spent giving everything I had to my students, then coming home to invoices, inventory, planning, and creative work that required energy I didn’t always have left. Add in personal life—stress, exhaustion, responsibilities that don’t pause just because you’re overwhelmed—and some weeks felt like pure survival.
There were nights I questioned whether I could keep doing all of it.
2025 asked me to confront a hard truth: growth doesn’t always come wrapped in momentum or profit. Sometimes growth looks like endurance. Like holding the line when it would be easier to fold. Like choosing not to burn down your creativity just to make a sale.
I didn’t quit this year. I didn’t abandon the heart of The Alt Market to chase trends. I didn’t turn it into something unrecognizable just to feel successful.
And that matters.
Closing this chapter doesn’t mean the fire went out—it means it learned how to burn differently. More controlled. More intentional. Still alive.
As I step into what’s next, I’m carrying the lessons with me: that slow seasons don’t mean failure, that creativity is worth protecting, and that building something meaningful takes longer than anyone wants to admit.
2025 was heavy.
But the fire is still here.
And so am I.