Precipice

The word precipice has taken on a particular meaning in my life—one that extends far beyond its literal definition.

During IVF, I lived on the precipice. Not in fear, but in anticipation. Every step forward carried the possibility of transformation: the beginning of parenthood, the formal crossing into a new phase of adulthood, the quiet but profound shift into building a family. It was a space defined by proximity to change—close enough to imagine it fully, but not yet able to claim it.

That same feeling has followed me into this next chapter.

Building a business requires a similar tolerance for the unknown. You learn, you adjust, you take deliberate steps forward, and yet there is a persistent sense that you are always just on the edge of something. Not quite there. Not quite settled. Constantly approaching, refining, recalibrating. The work itself becomes a process of standing at that edge—understanding that progress is not a single leap, but a series of incremental movements toward something not yet fully realized.

That is where I find myself now.

On the precipice.

Not at the beginning, and not at the end, but at a point of transition where the direction is clear, even if the outcome is not fully formed. It feels like turning a corner just as you realize there is another one ahead. It feels like solving one problem only to uncover the next layer beneath it. It is forward motion, but with an awareness that growth is continuous and unfinished.

There is something grounding in that realization.

For much of my life, I did not aspire to extraordinary outcomes. I did not wish for perfection or idealized versions of success. I remember, even as a teenager, blowing out birthday candles and wishing simply that “everything would turn out okay.” Not exceptional. Not extraordinary. Just okay. Because “okay” represented stability—a middle ground where uncertainty softened and life felt manageable.

Over time, I came to understand that this was less about the wish itself and more about intention. It was a way of directing energy outward, of attempting—however quietly—to influence what had not yet taken shape.

And much of my adulthood has, in fact, been defined by waiting.

Waiting for outcomes determined by others. Waiting for medical answers. Waiting for clarity around health, fertility, and circumstances that were, at times, entirely outside of my control. When my oldest son spent his first weeks in the ICU, there was nothing to do but wait. No amount of effort could accelerate the outcome. There was only endurance.

I once told my oncologist that I had become a professional at waiting.

But this feels different.

Now, the waiting has been replaced—at least in part—by movement. There is momentum, even if it is measured. There is direction, even if it requires constant adjustment. The early foundations of a portfolio are in place. Opportunities are being identified, evaluated, and pursued. The dial moves, sometimes slowly, but it moves.

And with that movement comes a different kind of belief.

Not the passive hope that things will simply turn out okay, but the active understanding that something is being built, step by step, decision by decision.

I am still on the precipice.

But now, it is not a place of waiting.

It is a place of creation.

And I have a growing sense that the person I will become on the other side of this—years from now, looking back—will recognize this moment not as uncertainty, but as the beginning of something worth building.