After a decade of raising my kids full-time, my husband’s business went under when the recession hit, and suddenly, I had to go back to work. I was terrified.
The world had accelerated in the years I’d been out. Technology had raced ahead. My résumé was still on a floppy disk — which, for anyone under 35, is basically the VHS of job hunting: a format no one had the machine to play anymore. And the industry I had spent my twenties in — public relations — had changed too. I was in my forties, out of practice, and full of self-doubt.
One moment from that season will stay with me forever: I gave a homeless man $20 in the market parking lot. Later that same day, I pulled up to my big house on a tree-lined street in a fancy L.A. neighborhood — and my phone buzzed with a bank alert: my account was overdrawn by exactly $20. That’s when I learned something I’ve never forgotten — you never know the private struggles people are carrying, no matter how polished their life might look on the outside.
That night, I sat in the bar of the tennis club where I played. A businessman nearby asked if anyone could recommend someone who could do marketing for him. And I heard myself say: “Me. I have a PR firm.”
It was a lie. I didn’t have a PR firm. But I needed the gig. It was reckless. It was fearless. And I was full of fear. But in that moment, I realized that there is no courage without fear.
Here’s the miracle: that one leap turned into the truth. I still work with that client today. And over time, that moment became the seed of a successful PR business.
It was not easy. I lost sleep. I battled imposter syndrome. I carried the constant push-pull of needing money and wanting to be with my kids. But I also learned something I carry into my coaching today: fear and courage often live in the same breath.
And this isn’t just about re-entering the workforce. It’s about any moment when life cracks open and asks: Who are you now? What’s next? Whether it’s the end of a marriage, the heartbreak of a breakup, or another life transition like career change, empty nest, or loss — these are all crossroads. They shake the ground and whisper the same lie: “You’re not ready.”
But here’s the truth: you don’t have to feel ready.
You don’t need the perfect plan, or the shiny résumé, or the flawless script. You only need one brave, messy, imperfect step. Sometimes the step that terrifies you most is the one that creates your new life.
Fear doesn’t mean you’re failing. Fear means you’re human.
And courage is simply deciding to move anyway.
