I never imagined that my third year in business would be defined by chaos. Everything I had built seemed to unravel at once, and yet, paradoxically, this was when the seeds of transformation were sown.
The leap from zero to $1,000,000 revenue was fast—so fast I could hardly catch my breath. I saved up $10,000, and off I went, diving headfirst into entrepreneurship. Looking back, I can admit I had no idea what I was doing. I had no business degree, no mentor, and no accounting background. I was a nurse, and apart from my time in management, that was all I knew.
What I did know was that healthcare was broken. I’d spent my career working for bosses who couldn’t understand what it felt like to be in the trenches, day in and day out. I wanted to be different. I wanted to be the voice for healthcare workers, to stand in the gap between them and those disconnected decision-makers.
With growth in revenue came growth in staff. By the end of the second year, we had hired over 70 staff across two states—a monumental challenge for someone still learning the ropes. I searched tirelessly for the right team. I went through two accountants who failed me, leaving a residue of distrust. It wasn’t that I believed no one could do the job as well as I could—I believed no one could be trusted to handle my finances. I didn’t realize then how limited my mindset was. I didn’t understand that I could reach far beyond my immediate surroundings to find the right people.
At the time, I had two managers and myself. The staff we hired were self-sufficient, which helped, but I couldn’t escape the anxiety of rapid growth. I learned one important lesson during that time: my moral values mattered. I refused to sacrifice reliability and dedication for numbers. I may have cost the company $9 million in potential revenue our first year by being selective, but I don’t regret it.
Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of why I started the company. I fell into the trap of material success—buying the expensive house, the cars, and other things I thought I needed to feel accomplished. Classic mistake. But in hindsight, I’m grateful. When everything fell apart, those things gave me a sense of security. They provided a way to keep a roof over my kids’ heads and, if necessary, something to sell to survive.
By the middle of the second year, the rapid growth began to overwhelm me. I went from earning $30,000 a year to writing out $50,000 a week in payroll. At the same time, I was flipping a house I owned, purchasing a new home, and dealing with the emotional fallout of a relationship ending. To make matters worse, I lost two beloved dogs—one who had been my companion for 13 years.
The business struggled as my management team quit, leaving me to pick up the pieces alone. It felt like my life was unraveling in every direction. And then, my health began to deteriorate.
For six months, I knew something was wrong. I pleaded with doctors for a respiratory sample, but they dismissed my concerns. I kept pushing forward until February 2024, when everything came to a head. I was rushed to the hospital by ambulance with an amylase level of 8—dangerously low compared to the normal cutoff of 30. My pancreas was on the verge of failure.
I was perplexed. I hadn’t had a drop of alcohol in over a decade, yet here I was, facing a life-threatening condition. It was the culmination of years of misdiagnoses and unaddressed health issues, including a previous incident where I had to demand a spinal tap to prove I had meningitis. That misdiagnosis had led to five years of rheumatoid arthritis treatment—unnecessary, as it turned out.
The day I was rushed to the hospital, I had been lying on the bathroom floor for over an hour before finally letting my kids call for help. In the ambulance, as my pain soared, I remember thinking, for just a split second, how much easier it might be to give up. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave my kids.
The weeks that followed were a blur of survival mode. At that time, I had been on Norco for five years—168 pills a month, six a day. But as I began antibiotic therapy for the respiratory infection, my body started to heal. Slowly, I reduced the medication until I was nearly off it altogether. Eventually, the doctors determined I didn’t have rheumatoid arthritis but post-infectious arthritis. The exact cause remains uncertain, but the relief was undeniable.
It was during this time, amid the turmoil and pain, that I found something that would change my life forever. It started with a book: Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill.
As I read Hill’s words, something inside me shifted. I began to see my struggles in a new light. What if these challenges weren’t meant to break me but to prepare me for something greater? What if the pain and chaos were leading me to transformation?
That book sparked a relentless curiosity in me—a hunger to understand the mindset of abundance and success. It marked the beginning of my spiritual awakening, a journey that would redefine not just my approach to business but my entire sense of self.
Conclusion:
Every crisis holds the potential for awakening. It is in our moments of greatest vulnerability that we discover our hidden strength. Reflect on how your own challenges have shaped you and consider the growth that lies on the other side of adversity. What will your awakening look like?
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