Good Things are Coming

Starting a business is, at its core, an unsettling idea. It requires a willingness to step away from the structure most of us are taught to depend on and to accept a level of uncertainty that can feel deeply uncomfortable. For many people, that discomfort is enough to keep the idea at a distance. It is easier not to consider it too seriously than to confront what it might demand—financial risk, personal accountability, and the absence of a clearly defined safety net.

I was no different. For most of my life, I followed a more conventional path, one that offered predictability, even if it did not always offer fulfillment. There is a quiet reassurance in knowing what your days will look like, in receiving a steady paycheck, and in believing that consistency will eventually lead to something better. And yet, beneath that structure, there was always a persistent sense that I was meant to be building something of my own.

It took me 45 years to act on that feeling. In many ways, it feels as though everything that came before was leading me to this point, even if I did not recognize it at the time. This is where my story truly begins—not because nothing meaningful happened before, but because this is the moment when all of those experiences began to converge into something purposeful.

Real estate, unlike many other things in my life, was not a slow discovery. It was immediate. As soon as I was in a position to even consider buying property—when saving money became more than just a necessity and started to feel like a means to something greater—I found myself drawn to it almost instinctively. I was constantly looking at listings, studying properties, imagining possibilities. It was not casual interest; it was a sustained and focused curiosity that felt, even then, like something more significant.

In 2015, I purchased my first condo. It required a level of discipline and commitment that left my savings largely depleted, but it did not diminish my interest—in fact, it intensified it. Even after closing, even after stepping into the reality of ownership, I continued to search. I kept looking at properties as though I were preparing for the next step, even when I did not yet know what that step would be or how I would reach it.

I chose to keep the condo rather than sell it, and in doing so, I began to understand real estate in a more practical sense. Managing the property, navigating the responsibilities that came with it, and watching its value change over time provided a kind of education that no amount of reading could replicate. It became clear to me that this was not simply an isolated investment, but a foundation—something that could support future decisions and open doors that had previously felt out of reach.

Life, however, does not unfold in a straight or uninterrupted trajectory. As my interest in building something through real estate was growing, other priorities emerged. I stepped back to focus on starting a family, and like many people, I found myself balancing personal aspirations with the practical demands of daily life. The 9-to-5 routine remained a constant, even as it became increasingly difficult to ignore a lingering sense of dissatisfaction. There was a rhythm to those years that felt both necessary and limiting—waking up, going through the motions, and quietly wondering whether there was something more beyond the horizon.

At the same time, I carried a deep desire to expand my family. Wanting a second child became one of the most defining motivations of that period, and pursuing it led me into the world of IVF. It is difficult to fully convey the extent of that experience to someone who has not lived it. It is physically demanding, certainly, but the emotional and mental toll can be even more profound. It requires a kind of sustained hope that does not always feel natural, especially when faced with uncertainty and repeated challenges.

There is a particular vulnerability in wanting something so deeply while also recognizing that it may not happen easily, or at all. I found myself constantly evaluating whether I was doing enough, making the right choices, or simply asking too much of my body and my circumstances. And yet, despite the exhaustion and doubt, I continued to believe that it would work out.

At 44, I gave birth to my second child.

In that moment, there was a profound sense of completion. Our family was whole. The long, difficult climb that had defined so much of the preceding years had, at last, reached its summit. For the first time in a long time, I felt that I could look forward instead of constantly striving to reach a milestone just beyond my grasp. I believed, perhaps naively, that I could now shift my focus toward the future we would build together.

That moment brought a depth of joy that is difficult to articulate, but it also introduced a new and unexpected set of challenges. In the months that followed, I began to recognize patterns in myself that had been present for much of my life but had never been formally addressed. Difficulties with focus, organization, and mental clarity—things I had long attributed to stress or personality—became more pronounced. With the added layers of perimenopause and postpartum changes, those struggles intensified in ways that were impossible to ignore.

The physical demands of caring for a newborn only compounded the situation. Breastfeeding meant waking every two hours, night after night, with little opportunity for sustained rest. Sleep deprivation became the norm rather than the exception, and with it came a persistent sense of brain fog, physical discomfort, and fatigue. My body felt strained, my mind felt scattered, and even simple tasks required a level of effort that often felt disproportionate.

Despite all of this, I maintained a quiet conviction that the experience, as difficult as it was, would ultimately be worthwhile. There was meaning in it, even when it was hard to see clearly. Still, I could not ignore the growing list of concerns I was carrying, and eventually, I brought them to my doctor—everything at once, without filtering or minimizing. Issues with attention, concerns about my weight, and physical symptoms that I could no longer dismiss as temporary or insignificant.

What followed was a series of referrals: a psychiatrist, a diet clinic, and a gastroenterologist. Each appointment offered a piece of the larger picture, and I moved through them with a mixture of curiosity, apprehension, and a quiet hope that clarity—whatever form it took—would be better than uncertainty.

The answers, when they came, were both validating and deeply unsettling.

The diagnosis of ADHD, in particular, brought with it an unexpected sense of relief. For much of my life, I had carried an underlying belief that I was somehow falling short—that I was less focused, less disciplined, or simply less capable than I should have been. To have an explanation, one that reframed those struggles not as personal failings but as something real and identifiable, was profoundly validating. It did not solve everything, but it gave me a framework. It offered language, strategies, and, perhaps most importantly, a sense that I was not simply lacking.

The experience at the weight clinic was different, though not without its own form of support. Much of what I was told were things I had heard before—principles and habits that were familiar, if not always consistently applied. There was no dramatic revelation in that process, but there was something quietly meaningful in the fact that someone was paying attention, offering guidance, and, in a small but important way, rooting for me.

And then there was the final diagnosis.

Unlike the others, it did not come with a sense of explanation or manageable next steps. It arrived with a weight that was immediate and undeniable, one that reframed everything around it.

I was diagnosed with colon cancer.