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On loss, permission, and the unexpected gift of starting over.  April 2020. My second layoff. And somehow, the one that changed everything.
The first layoff broke something in me. The second one, in the middle of a global pandemic with the whole world shutting down, came with a strange kind of peace. Maybe because the uncertainty was everywhere, not just in my life. Maybe because I was finally ready to stop running from what I actually wanted. Six years later, I’m writing this from a business I love, a life I designed, and a community I’m deeply grateful for. This is what it really took to get here. 1. The second layoff felt different because I was different. My first layoff planted a seed — for the first time, I seriously considered starting my own business. But fear won, and I took another job instead. It felt like the responsible choice. Then the second layoff came. And this time, the world had slowed down too, so I surrendered to it. There were no jobs to scramble for, and honestly, that was its own kind of gift. I spent time with Lennon. We built LEGOs, made art, and I taught him how to ride his bike. In that quiet, something opened up. I stopped trying to force the next safe thing and started actually listening to myself. The seed from that first layoff was still there. It had just been waiting. 2. Grief can be a catalyst. That summer, we quarantined with my parents in Mexico. Within two months, my dad passed away. He was ten days from turning 70. I was turning 35. I remember thinking, if this is the middle of my life, how do I want the second half to look? I had been letting fear make my decisions for years. My dad’s passing was the moment I decided to stop. Not out of recklessness, but out of love. Love for the life I hadn’t let myself live yet. 3. I interviewed for a job and hoped I wouldn’t get it. While still in Mexico, I applied for a remote position. Even after everything, I almost fell back into the same pattern. Fear has a way of making the familiar feel safe. On paper, it made sense. Stability. Flexibility. "A safety net." But during that interview, I had a pit in my stomach. For the first time in my career, I sat across from someone and silently hoped they wouldn't pick me. That feeling was my intuition, and for the first time, I chose to trust it over logic. It was telling me something I was finally ready to hear. I didn't get the job. And I was relieved. 4. Security is an illusion. I had already lived that twice. Two layoffs taught me that a job title and a salary are not the same thing as safety. There is no guaranteed path. There is only the path you choose. Once I accepted that, betting on myself stopped feeling reckless. It started feeling like the most honest decision I could make. If it could be taken away anyway, I might as well be the one holding it. 5. Going all in meant letting go of other people’s beliefs about what I could do. The hardest part of building this business wasn't the strategy, the clients, or the systems. It was separating my own worth from the opinions of people who had never tried what I was trying. I learned that surrounding yourself with people who want to build the same things is crucial. Some of the most important relationships in my journey started with strangers on the internet, people who became business best friends, and eventually, lifelong friends and my biggest cheerleaders. I had to keep choosing that belief, even on the days I doubted myself most. 6. The wish became a reality. Slowly. And that was okay. In 2021, I became 100% self-employed, and I haven’t looked back. Not because everything went perfectly. It didn’t. But because I finally gave myself permission to find out what I was capable of. Six years later, that quiet wish I made during a pandemic, to build something that was truly mine, is my everyday life. The truth I didn’t expect I didn’t realize I was also paving the way for my son. When I made the decision to go all in, I thought I was doing it for myself. And I was. But somewhere along the way, I realized I was doing something I never planned. I was showing Lennon what it looks like to bet on yourself. He is growing up watching his mom build something from nothing. Watching her choose courage over comfort again and again. And my hope, the quiet, deep one, is that when it’s his turn to stand at a crossroads, he remembers that dreams are worth pursuing. That hard work aimed at something real can actually get you there. That possibility isn’t just a word. I didn’t set out to be that example. But maybe that’s the most meaningful thing I’ve ever built. If you’re in a hard chapter right now, a layoff, a loss, a crossroads, I’m not going to tell you it’s all part of a plan. But I will say this. Sometimes the hardest chapters shape the best beginnings. I wouldn't trade the layoffs, the grief, or the fear, because every single one of them shaped who I am today. And I am deeply grateful for that.
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