When Your Own Business Gives You the Ick
“Leaving isn’t the same as arriving. And building something new doesn’t automatically mean you built something different.”
Corporate Exit Diaries - October 31, 2025
I wrote two chapters this week that made me want to punch past-me in the face.
Not because they were hard to write. Because they forced me to admit something I've been dancing around for months: I'm really good at building cages.
Chapter 4: how I started my business after my parents died and corporate life became unsustainable.
Chapter 9: how that shiny new business turned into another version of what I escaped.
Both true. Both necessary. Both uncomfortable as hell.
The Chapter I Didn't Want to Write
Chapter 9 sat in my outline for two weeks before I touched it.
The title alone made me squirm: "Building a Prettier Cage."
Because here's what I had to admit in 1,366 words: I left corporate for freedom, started a business doing work I'm good at, landed seven clients, made decent money... and built the exact same trap with different branding.
I wrote about the honeymoon phase. That first year where everything felt like validation. Where saying yes to everything felt like opportunity. Where "I'm my own boss" masked the fact that I was now working FOR seven companies instead of one.
The content I was creating—the thing people paid me for—started sounding exactly like the generic corporate speak I used to hate as an employee.
My own business gave me the ick.
And I had to write a whole chapter about how I did this to myself. On purpose. While thinking I was being smart about it.
What the Honeymoon Phase Actually Hides
You know what nobody tells you about starting something new?
The excitement is a liar.
New job. New relationship. New business. It all feels amazing when it's shiny. You overlook red flags because you're high on possibility. You ignore the warning signs because finally, FINALLY, you're doing the thing you said you'd do.
I spent the first year of my business so grateful to not be in corporate that I didn't notice I was recreating all the same patterns.
Overdelivering. Saying yes to everything. Building my schedule around other people's needs. Diluting my message to appeal to more clients. Working harder instead of smarter.
Just like I did as a rep.
The only difference? I got to call myself an entrepreneur while doing it.
Here's the brutal part: I was GOOD at it. The clients were happy. The money was consistent. I had proof of concept. By every external measure, I was successful.
But internally? I was bored out of my fucking mind.
Because competence isn't the same as fulfillment. And building something profitable doesn't mean you built something you actually want.
The Chapter That Made Me Cry
Chapter 4 was harder for different reasons.
"The Bloody Beginning" forced me to revisit the moment I actually started the business. Not the romanticized version. The real one.
Reality number one: I hit a grief wall after my parents died. Heavy as fuck. Couldn't keep working 14-hour days without the built-in childcare they provided. Something had to give.
Reality number two: I didn't quit corporate because I had a brilliant business plan. I got forced out. Landed a big client that was a competitor to my employer. Had to choose: keep the corporate job or take the leap.
Fear made the choice, not courage.
I was scared shitless. Worried the big client would leave. Worried I'd fail and have to go back to sales. Worst case scenario: ending up back as a sterile processing tech because I crashed and burned so badly.
My pride and ego wouldn't let me.
So I said yes to the client and started making exit plans from corporate.
Here's what I learned writing that chapter: I didn't start my business from a place of confidence. I started it from a place of "I've already outgrown this current life and I have to burn the bridge so I won't go back across it."
That's not the entrepreneurship story people want to hear. But it's the truth.
Why These Two Chapters Matter
Chapters 4 and 9 bookend something important.
Chapter 4: the messy beginning. Starting from grief and necessity, not inspiration.
Chapter 9: the messy middle. Realizing the new thing became the old thing with better lighting.
Together, they tell the story nobody wants to admit: leaving isn't the same as arriving. And building something new doesn't automatically mean you built something different.
I thought I was writing a book about finding freedom. Turns out I'm writing a book about outgrowing every version of yourself—even the ones you built on purpose.
These chapters proved it. I escaped one cage, built another, and I'm still figuring out what comes after you realize you keep doing this to yourself.
The Pattern I Can't Unsee
Here's what became painfully clear while writing this week:
I'm really good at identifying what's wrong and building the logical solution. What I'm bad at is recognizing when "logical" becomes another prison.
Corporate felt suffocating → Start a business (logical!)
Business needs clients → Say yes to everyone (logical!)
Multiple clients = good income → Keep saying yes (logical!)
More clients = more revenue → Dilute message to appeal to everyone (logical!)
All logical steps. All leading to the same trapped feeling I started with.
The problem wasn't corporate. The problem was me thinking competence equals purpose. Me choosing comfortable over calling. Me building what made sense instead of what mattered.
And now I'm sitting here with a manuscript that forces me to admit: I've been doing this my whole career.
Sterile processing tech → Medical sales → Business owner → Still feeling like I'm wearing someone else's life.
Different cages. Same builder.
What This Week Actually Taught Me
Writing is brutal honesty on a deadline.
You can't hide from yourself when you're documenting your life in 2,000-word chapters. You can't pretend you had it all figured out when the evidence is right there on the page: you didn't.
Chapter 4 forced me to admit I started scared.
Chapter 9 forced me to admit I'm still figuring it out.
Neither one is comfortable. Both are necessary.
Because here's the thing: people don't connect with your wins. They connect with your honesty.
They don't want to hear "I built a successful business doing X." They want to hear "I built what I thought I wanted and it still wasn't right and I'm still sorting out what comes next."
That's the real story. The one worth writing.
Where I Am Now
Two chapters down. Three to go.
Chapter 10: The Staircase You're Still Climbing (every step prepared you for the next)
Chapter 14: What Cancer Actually Taught Me (not the platitudes version)
Chapter 18: What I'm Actually Building (even though I don't fully know yet)
The newsletter launches Sunday. First issue already written. "Being Really Good at the Wrong Thing."
The manuscript is 2/5 of the way through new chapters. The revision timeline is holding. The voice is consistent now—no more business advice Becca fighting with real Becca.
And most importantly: I'm not hiding from the uncomfortable stuff anymore.
Because the uncomfortable stuff is the point. The admission that I built this cage. The honesty that I'm still figuring out what comes after. The documentation of someone who keeps outgrowing the life they build.
That's the story worth telling.
Not "here's how I did it so you can too." But "here's how I'm doing it, messily, in real time, without knowing how it ends yet."
People don't need another blueprint. They need permission to be messy while building.
And that's exactly what I'm giving them—one uncomfortable chapter at a time.
The Thing About Honeymoon Phases
They end. Always.
The sparkle fades. The newness wears off. The patterns you thought you escaped show up wearing different clothes.
And you're left with a choice: quit, stay and stop trying, or push through and build something actually different.
I'm choosing option three.
Even when it means admitting I've been building the wrong thing. Even when it means cutting 30% of a manuscript I spent six weeks writing. Even when it means showing people the messy middle before I have the polished ending.
Because waiting to be ready is just another cage.
And I'm done with those.
