The Courage To Try

We rarely recognize the moments that change us while they’re happening. A gift is just a gift. An instrument is just an instrument. A coffee shop is just a building. But, without notice, in time the smallest investments become the foundation for something we couldn’t have imagined yet.

The cookbook at the top of the page has significance, and I’ll get to it in a moment, but first, let me take you back to the fall of 2004.

I started beginner band a year behind the rest of my classmates due to my parents needing me to think over what all band would entail before they would commit to enrolling me. Needless to say, the desire stayed. One of the first memories I have of my first year is getting to select or try out instruments to learn. I had zero prior music experience, so I didn’t have a preference, I just knew I didn’t want to be what I viewed as a cliche at the time — a girl playing the flute or clarinet. (I have a niece who plays the flute now so, my opinion has been forever changed.) Our band director, Mr. Adcock, had already gone over all the different types and classifications of instruments, woodwinds, high brass, low brass, percussion, you get the idea. One instrument in particular stood out to me: The French Horn.

As some of you may know, it isn’t a very beginner-friendly contraption. The bell points backwards, your left hand presses the keys (I’m right hand dominant), and your right hand goes in the bell. Why does your hand go in the bell? Ha, great question. To have control of pitch. Yep. It isn’t just the slides and keys or even your embouchure (mouth muscle form). Things like how you hold your tongue and, you guessed it, your right hand positioning inside the bell are also factors for pitch.

Why in the world is that what I insisted on playing? Simply because it presented a challenge. I was already a year behind and had marching band staring me in the face the following year, so why not be sure the deck was stacked against me?

The looks exchanged between Mr. Adcock and Mr. Wetstone, the music sales rep, were comical when I insisted upon giving the French horn a go. Mr. Wetstone provided a mouthpiece while someone was sent to retrieve a dusty horn case. You see, my small school hadn’t had a French horn player in a few years, yet another sign that this wasn’t something someone simply did.

I was handed a mouthpiece and Mr. Adcock gave me the instructions, “Say ‘M’ and hold the corners of your mouth firm in that position. Great. Now, soften the middle part just below your nose and blow a steady stream of air but like you’re trying to get a hair off your tongue.”

I was skeptical, but followed his instructions. It tickled and I laughed. He encouraged me to keep going and then to do it again with the mouthpiece. Ever heard a kazoo? That’s pretty much what it sounds like to buzz on French horn mouthpiece.

Mr. Adcock’s brows rose in surprise and more looks were exchanged. “Haleigh, you just hit three octaves on your first try. That’s wonderful! Here, let’s see what you do with the horn.”

Excitement was radiating from him and it was infectious. I had never been cheered on or encouraged like this. Giddy isn’t the right word, but I was practically vibrating with emotion. I took a deep, steadying breath, reformed my embouchure, and blew.

The sound that came out was uncontrolled, obnoxious, and resembled the sound of an elephant blaring from its trunk. My immediate thought was, “Oh, no. That’s not right. I can’t play this.” But I hid it with laughter. When I met Mr. Adcock’s eyes, trying to mask the failure in my own, his were smiling. He told me to keep going, so I shook off the doubt and became the first French horn player my school had in years.

There are more moments with Mr. Adcock which my mind and heart hold dear and helped shaped me, but I’ll save them for another entry.

Twenty years later, nearly to the day, my husband and I finished building our coffee shop, Ink Drinker’s Cafe. (Ink Drinker is binomial for Book Worm) Neither of us had experience in the coffee world besides my nearly continuous consumption of the beverage. The whole venture began with my husband, Jamison, messaging me one night while I was working the graveyard shift, “Do you think we could make a living off coffee?” My immediate response, “Probably. It’s currently what’s keeping me living.”

Jamison did the research. He made the calls, one of which was to our bean suppliers, Boulevard Coffee Company. The people there became more than business partners to us. Jamison and I laid flooring, painted, installed lighting, equipment, etc. And then it was time to open. While Jamison continued working, I quit my job to operate our shop, only… I had no clue how to use an espresso machine, much less knew the difference in a latte or an americano.

Luckily, God put the right people in our lives. The owners of BLVD Coffee Co. gave me a two hour crash course at their shop and came to mine to calibrate my machine. Alyssa, one of the owners of BLVD, stayed longer than she intended. We talked about what to expect and she calmed my fears. Alyssa’s calm and steady voice telling me You can do this. You’re going to do great. was the mantra that got me through our opening weekend.

I was slinging cups and taking names. And orders. But I was also building confidence in myself and my abilities as I gradually learned flavor profiles for each customer and got into a rhythm. There were moments of pure chaos and my prep area would look like a coffee tornado came through, yet the line stayed constant. During those times, it was best to just ignore the mess as much as possible and do a massive clean up after the rush subsided.

Then, the twins were born about a year after we opened. We sold the shop and I’ve stayed at home since.

Finally, Valentine’s Day of 2025, my friend, Abby, gifted me with a cookbook, Baking Yesteryear by B. Dylan Hollis. This is the only cookbook I own. I enjoy cooking certain things, but if you asked my aunt, sister, and cousins prior to 2025, I was notoriously NOT a baker. I burnt every box of brownies I bought. I even had an Angel Food Cake explode in the oven. (This was not my fault. Something went wrong when they were packaging it. Too much baking soda or baking powder. I will die on that hill.)

Regardless, I couldn’t bake if my life depended on it, until Abby gave me this book of antique recipes. She knew I’d been wanting Hollis’ book and enjoyed watching his videos on Facebook as he recreated some of the whackiest concoctions from decades past. “A little bit of ‘nilla.”, “Moo Juice!” and “Better watch out… for George.” are constantly repeated by my kids and myself.

I couldn’t just let this incredibly thoughtful gift sit on my shelf. I had to at least try to make something. So, after flipping through the pages for days, I finally decided to give baking another whirl.

And turns out…

I can bake. And well.

I just have to do it in “True Haleigh Fashion.” The hard way.

I’ve since expanded my newly acquired skill to recipes outside of Baking Yesteryear. My husband is a huge fan of my banana nut bread.

“That’d sell for $40, easy.” Is what he says after his first bite, every time.

I expressed an interest in wanting to attempt sour dough to my sister, Brittany, and she gifted me with a starter kit and dough whisk for Christmas. I believe she was in cahoots with Jamison because he paired it with two Dutch ovens!

I persevered through the newborn phase of sour dough starter and my first two Artisan loaves were gorgeous! They tasted pretty good, too.

These moments — these seemingly small acts of investing in someone — had a ripple effect. Over time, they accumulated until they gave me the courage to invest in myself. That’s why writing a novel and self-publishing it without any prior experience didn’t feel impossible. The people in my life had been teaching me all along that I can do hard things.

Now, whenever I hear a French horn woven into a movie score, think of Mr. Adcock and his kindness. I pour a regular cup of drip coffee and am reminded of the frenzy between 6:30 and 8:00a.m. and how Alyssa’s steady voice carried me through it. I bake and smile when my home is filled with the aroma of the richest homemade brownies instead of burnt chocolate because Abby paid attention to what brought me joy and always seemed to add a little more laughter to my life.

And, because of all those small moments, I found the courage to try.

With gratitude,

Haleigh