The Unapologetic Version
Putting Art on the Body I Could Have Lost
"I'm being the raw before it's the it thing. Because people know they like it, but few are willing to loosen the hypothetical tie enough to actually post about it."
This week I had to re-Becca-fy my own work. Again.
I expanded Chapter 4—the three-year grind before I quit corporate—and when I read it back, something felt off. It sounded too polished. Too clean. Too careful.
The title is literally How to Be Corporate with Your Pants Down. PANTS DOWN. Not "sorta professional while keeping it mostly together."
So I went back through and put myself back in. The profanity. The panic attacks in Starbucks parking lots. The catastrophizing at 3 a.m. The "I'm an expensive bitch who is uncomfortably obsessed with money" admissions.
The real shit.
Because polished isn't honest. And honest is what this book needs to be.
The Stomach Tattoo Question
Getting a DIEP flap for my breast cancer in 2024 was horrid.
For those who aren't surgical (though I know many of you are), after my double mastectomy they rebuilt my breasts using blood vessels harvested from my abdomen along with the fat to reconstruct.
A boob job and tummy tuck at the same time? Sounds ideal, right?
Except you're in a recliner for 14 weeks. Can't use your arms. Can't engage your core. For a mover like me, that was a special kind of hell.
My plastics doc gave me an abdominal corset (bless him). And a year later, after putting in the work—emotionally and physically—I finally started seeing results in the last six months.
Rock-hard abs weren't something I imagined in my wildest dreams. But here they are.
They weren't just "surgically made." They were earned. Blood, sweat, drains, tears. All of it.
So when I thought about getting a stomach tattoo, I waffled.
"Is that what a classy broad does?" (My mom would hate it.)
Versus: "You love it. It's out there and unsanitized. Kinda like you. So why the hell not?"
I spent years keeping things polished. Saying the right things. Building the right image. Keeping it all appropriate.
But here's the thing: I have abs I could have died without. (Man, that sounded dramatic AF.) Abs that represent survival, not vanity. Abs that tell a story.
Should I finish my left arm sleeve when I get inked this week and "keep it safe"?
Or go full Becca mode and get the stomach tattoo I've silently been eyeing for a year and haven't told anyone about, because, well, judgement?
Wednesday I got the stomach tattoo. And for the record, getting your stomach tattooed the day before Thanksgiving? Shit decision in retrospect.
What This Has to Do With the Manuscript
Here's what I'm betting on:
Right now, everyone's content sounds the same. Polished. Perfect. Structured.
A lot of it isn't even written by humans anymore. And people can tell.
I never used to post super raw content. It was more corporate, more edited. But I posted to educate, connect, and gain exposure that led to business—before building a personal brand was "the it thing" everyone talks about now.
Eight years ago, people told me posting vulnerable content on LinkedIn wasn't professional. Today, everyone does it. (People told me LinkedIn was the boring platform, where people just go to find a job, and the content sucks. People were mostly consumers not creators in that space. And people saw it as a nice-to-have networking space for professionals. Today everyone posts IRL meetings and raves about how LinkedIn changed their lives and businesses. No shit Sherlock. It took other people de-risking it as a platform worth recognizing and now everyone is all up on it.)
I think we're about to see the same shift with how raw people are willing to be. I'm being the raw before it's the it thing. Because people know they like it, but few are willing to loosen the hypothetical tie enough to actually post about it. They play it safe.
AI will be monetized. It'll be used for so many positives. But when it comes to telling YOUR story, sharing YOUR experience in AI-polished talk, creating media without any of who you actually are? That will be rejected. That will diminish credibility big time.
People will crave unfiltered. Unpolished. Actually human.
Not "authentic" in the buzzword way where you're still carefully crafting every word. Actually authentic. The kind that makes you a little uncomfortable because it's so honest.
That's the version I'm writing.
Not because I think it'll be easier to sell. Because it's the version that's true.
The Chapters I Almost Didn't Write
This week I finished two heavy chapters.
Chapter 3: Twenty-Six Days (Dad's death, 26 days after Mom)
3,327 words
Covers the phone call, the tequila at 10 a.m., the hospital goodbye, the 26 days between losing them both
Surprisingly, this felt less turbulent than I expected. Maybe because I've already cried through the worst of it. Maybe because enough time has passed. Or maybe some chapters just flow easier than others.
Chapter 4: The Bloody Beginning (the three-year grind, 2018-2021)
3,217 words
The parallel life—corporate by day, building by night
Sitting on dialysis floor with customers, 72 Twinkle Twinkles to get Josey to sleep, reading trashy romance novels to pass out
Hiring the coach who told me "three months, not three years"
The catastrophizing: what if I fail, what if we're homeless, what if I have to go back to sterile processing
Both chapters required me to sit in the mess. The grief. The fear. The reality that I had no idea what I was doing but did it anyway.
And when I tried to write them polished, they lost the truth.
So I went back and made them messy again.
Because that's what happened. It was messy. I was scared. I didn't have it figured out.
And that's the story worth telling.
Why the Tattoo Matters
The stomach tattoo isn't just about ink. Even though I clearly have a tattoo problem. 🙃 And maybe you think it's a "midlife crisis" or "what happened, she used to be so different?" Don't worry, my whole body won't be covered and no I will NEVER tattoo my face or neck.
It's about choosing unapologetic over safe.
It's about putting art on a body that survived cancer, surgery, reconstruction, 14 weeks in a recliner, six months of work to earn what I have now.
It's about doing things my way instead of the way that looks good to other people.
Just like this manuscript.
I could write a polished business memoir. I could make it sound like every other "I quit my job and built a business" story out there. I could sand off the rough edges and make it palatable.
But that's not the book people need.
They need the one where I admit I almost didn't leave because I was terrified. The one where I share the 3 a.m. spirals about being homeless. The one where I don't apologize for the profanity or the mess or the lack of class.
Because that's what actually happened.
And honest is what will matter when everything else is filtered.
Manuscript Progress
This week I expanded two chapters and finished a third.
Chapters completed: 5 of 18 (28%)
✅Chapter 3: Twenty-Six Days - 3,327 words
✅Chapter 4: The Bloody Beginning - 3,217 words
✅ Chapter 5: The Middle Finger Call - 2,441 words (just finished)
Chapters remaining: 13
Timeline: 2-3 weeks to complete all edits
Words added through expansions: ~14,000+
Target manuscript length: 65,000-70,000 words
What's Next
Next week I tackle the chapters about building the business, the first major fuck-up, and the moment I realized I'd built a prettier cage.
The HR Zoom where I quit. The fear. The doubt. The "holy shit what did I just do" panic.
All of it unfiltered.
Because if I'm going to tell this story, I'm telling it the way it actually happened.
Manuscript stays raw. Voice stays mine. Tattoos included.
Be you. Unapologetically.
