The Cost of Becoming

We’re about to invest heavily — in bricks, in vision, in the kind of commitment you don’t make lightly.

It’s not the first bold move I’ve made. I’ve taken risks before — some that, in hindsight, looked like madness dressed as confidence. But they worked. Maybe not always how I planned, but they carried me forward.

Still, this is different.

In the past, I’ve always kept one foot in and one out. A backup plan in my back pocket. Now? We’re all in. Everything we’ve built, saved, dreamed — placed into one thing. No sidestep. No buffer.

And that tightness I feel in my chest? It’s not because I think we’ll fail.
It’s the quiet, relentless pressure of what if we don’t get it right the first go?

What if we miss something?
What if we learn too late?
What if belief alone isn’t enough to cover the gaps in between?

I’ve never been reckless. I’ve been bold. And I’ve questioned that boldness — sometimes confusing it with overconfidence, sometimes calling it madness. But it’s never been uncalculated.

Except now, I catch myself running the numbers with clenched teeth and a racing pulse.
Because the truth is: we’re funding a full year in advance — not just business expenses, but our salaries too. We’ve built the buffer. We’ve done the math.
And yet… the voice inside me still whispers, what if?

What if the wrong month hits at the wrong time?
What if we underestimated how long it takes for good work to stick?

This isn’t imposter syndrome. I’ve lived too much, built too much, failed and risen too many times to not know my worth.

This is something else.

This is the fear of being forced to go back.
Back to boardrooms where voices like mine are muted.
Back to industries where “emotional” is just a prettier way of saying unfit for leadership.
Back to being tokenised, tolerated, and overused.

I didn’t come this far to end up there again.

This isn’t about ego. It’s about liberation.
It’s about owning something that isn’t subject to someone else’s mood, power, or bias.
It’s about proving to myself — not the world — that I can build something that feels aligned with who I am now, not the version I contorted myself into for so many years.

And yes, I’m afraid.
Not of the work. Not of the vision. But of the cost.

Because when you’re a mother, a wife, and a founder — the lines blur.
Everything personal becomes professional.
Every risk feels like a risk to the people you love.
And that weight? You carry it even in your sleep.

But here’s what I’m learning:

Fear doesn’t always mean stop.
Sometimes, it means pay attention.
Sometimes, it means you’re doing something that matters.

And maybe — just maybe — the fact that I’m asking these questions is proof that I’m not being reckless.
I’m being reverent.
I’m being awake.

So we move forward.
With all the spreadsheets, all the gut checks, all the conversations at the kitchen island.
We move with both fear and faith.

Because when you’ve been silenced long enough, building something of your own isn’t just business.
It’s redemption.