Born Different

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was born with a fire inside of her.

As a child, it crackled happily.

She was curious, adventurous, and brave. She asked questions, explored new ideas, made magnificent messes, and imagined worlds that didn't exist yet. When she fell down, she got back up again. When she wandered too far, someone gently guided her home.

Her fire was celebrated.

It helped her learn, connect, create, and dream.

But as the little girl grew, she met people who didn't know what to do with a fire like hers.

They thought it was too bright.

Too busy.

Too curious.

Too much.

Sometimes they asked her to make herself smaller.

Sometimes they praised her most when she stayed quiet.

Sometimes they didn't mean to dim her fire at all. They were simply trying to teach her how to fit into a world that felt more comfortable with steady candles than wild campfires.

So she learned.

She learned to apologize before speaking.

She learned to ignore her instincts.

She learned to choose practical over joyful.

She learned that blending in felt safer than standing out.

Little by little, she stopped feeding the fire.

It never disappeared.

But it became harder to find beneath the ashes.

The little girl grew into a woman who was successful by many definitions but quietly exhausted by them.

She spent years meeting expectations, checking boxes, and doing what seemed sensible.

She became very good at surviving.

And somewhere along the way, she forgot that she had once been someone who explored the world simply because she was curious.

Then something changed.

For some people it's a new baby.

For others it's burnout, grief, illness, a career that no longer fits, or the quiet realization that they don't recognize themselves anymore.

The catalyst is different.

The invitation is the same.

There has to be another way to live.

So the woman began looking for people whose fires were still burning.

She found artists and accountants.

Tradespeople and therapists.

Teachers and researchers.

Parents and students.

People building businesses, communities, careers, and lives that looked nothing alike but shared something important.

They weren't trying to become someone else.

They were becoming more themselves.

They built work around curiosity instead of fear.

Around values instead of expectations.

Around contribution instead of performance.

Around enough instead of more.

Some people called them entrepreneurs.

I think they were simply people who had decided to trust their own fire again.

With shaky courage, the woman joined them.

Not because she wanted a business.

But because she wanted a life that felt like it belonged to her.

Each small decision became another piece of kindling.

Trying something new.

Asking a question.

Charging a fair price.

Resting.

Changing her mind.

Finding people who made her feel more like herself instead of less.

Her confidence didn't return all at once.

Neither did her curiosity.

But over time, the fire grew warm again.

Years later, she realized something she wishes someone had told her much sooner.

The fire was never gone.

It had simply spent years keeping her alive.

The woman in this story is me.

And, in different ways, it's so many of the people I've had the privilege of working with.

They arrive thinking they need a better business plan, a better website, or a better marketing strategy.

Sometimes those things help.

More often, they need something much quieter.

Space to ask different questions.

Who am I when I'm not trying to fit?

What kind of work gives me energy instead of taking it away?

What kind of life am I trying to build?

What would happen if I trusted my own curiosity again?

I don't think entrepreneurship changes people.

I think it can give us permission to become who we were always meant to be.

If your fire feels dim, I don't think it's gone.

I think the embers are still there, waiting for enough safety, enough curiosity, and enough room to burn brightly again.