I’ve always read about the intensity of taking the leap into entrepreneurship, but reading about it and doing it are two very different things.

You picture freedom, flexibility, purpose. And some days, that’s true. But other days, it’s you sitting in your car after a signing, refreshing your bank account and doing math in your head—again. It’s realizing the brand-new printer you just bought isn’t built for the kind of volume this job demands, and now you need a more expensive one just to keep going. It’s staring at a GoFundMe draft and asking yourself if being seen that vulnerably is part of the price too.

No book or blog post prepares you for that.

(If you feel led to support my journey as I build this business from the ground up, here’s the link to my GoFundMe campaign. Every bit of help gets me one step closer to making this sustainable—for me and my girls.)

When I got clear on what I actually wanted—peace, purpose, and a life that felt aligned—it came with a price tag I wasn’t fully prepared for.

The truth is, I didn’t have a pile of savings sitting there waiting to fund this new chapter. What I had was a 401k I’d built over years of grinding in high-pressure jobs, especially in the mortgage industry. I cashed it out, knowing full well it was meant to be my safety net for retirement. Instead, I used it to buy myself six months of space—space to heal, to breathe, and to figure out what the hell I was doing with my life.

I didn’t just sit still during that time. I went to Costa Rica for a retreat that gave me space to face everything I’d been avoiding. I spent Christmas in Colorado with my family, even though I probably should’ve been budgeting more carefully. But I was burnt out in every way, and I knew if I didn’t step away, I’d stay stuck in survival mode, going through the motions just to keep the lights on.

I’ve made good money—really good money—for over a decade. Especially these last six years. I know I could walk back into the mortgage industry tomorrow and pick up right where I left off. But the question I kept circling back to was: Do I really want to go back to doing what nearly broke me?

That’s the cost no one talks about. It’s not just the money you spend to walk a new path—it’s the comfort, the certainty, and the identity you have to leave behind to walk it at all.

There were plenty of moments in the past where I could have made a change—but I didn’t, because I was scared to lose what I had. A steady income. Health insurance. The ability to say “I’m doing well” and have the paycheck to prove it. But I was exhausted. I was constantly pouring from an empty cup, pushing through anxiety, depression, and disconnection just to make the next sale and hit numbers.

That version of me looked successful on paper, but inside I was drowning.

And even now, it’s not like the mortgage industry stopped calling. I’ve been in it for so long that I still get client and realtor referrals regularly. I’ve had to take those calls—calls that used to mean easy money—and say, “I’m no longer in the mortgage industry.” Every single time, it feels like I’m throwing money in the trash. Literally had one today.

There’ve also been offers. Just last week, I had conversations with two mortgage brokers and seriously considered going back in—at least part-time—thinking maybe I could balance both. But after weighing it out, I realized taking that on would mean splitting my focus when I already know my notary business requires everything I’ve got right now. Saying no wasn’t easy. But it was necessary. Because the truth is, I didn’t walk away just to keep one foot in the door.

It’s not easy to walk away from what’s familiar—especially when the money is good and the path is well-worn. But clarity means choosing what’s right over what’s easy. And even on the hard days, I haven’t regretted choosing this.

Would it be easier to go back to a life I already know how to do? Of course. But I’ve finally stopped asking what’s easy and started asking what’s worth it.

Since choosing this path, I’ve had to face every fear around money, identity, and stability I spent years trying to outrun. But I’ve also built something that reflects who I really am. I’m building relationships on my terms. Serving people in a way that feels personal and grounded. Showing my daughters what it looks like to bet on yourself—even when it’s messy, uncertain, and slower than you hoped it would be.

And doing all of this as a single mother adds a different kind of weight. There’s no fallback plan. No one else to pick up the slack if I burn out, drop the ball, or fall behind. If I don’t pay the bills, they don’t get paid. If I don’t show up, it doesn’t get done. That level of pressure never leaves the room—it sits on your chest while you try to sleep, and stands behind you while you work. But it also sharpens your sense of purpose in a way nothing else can. I’m not just doing this for me. I’m doing this so my girls grow up watching a woman who refused to settle for survival.

There’s still so much I’m figuring out, and I’m not going to pretend I have it all together. But I know I’m on the right path. I feel it in the way I sleep better at night. In the way I show up more present. In the way I don’t dread Mondays anymore.

Clarity may come with a high cost. But confusion? That nearly cost me everything.

And if I had to choose again, I’d still pick this. Every single time.