Fifteen years ago, I found myself at drinks with two women at least a decade older than me. We weren’t close. I barely knew them, but after a cocktail or two, the conversation loosened up when, suddenly, one turned to the other and blurted out: “Oh my god, have you noticed your pubic hair is disappearing?” At the time, I had no idea what they were talking about, and frankly, I wanted out. Two “old ladies” discussing their changing bodies? I either needed another martini or an excuse to leave early.

Fast forward to today: ask me anything. Yes, even about disappearing pubic hair. What I once dismissed as irrelevant, I now recognize for what it was: an invitation to pay attention. Not necessarily to the subject itself, but to the deeper truth underneath. The subtext? The ever present intersection of being female and aging, the unsettling sense of disappearance. Of identity, of visibility, of relevance.At what point are we considered too old to matter? Too old to make a difference? Too old to reinvent ourselves? Maybe it happens when your hair thins-everywhere-or maybe when you sell the company you’ve poured yourself into for 36 years. You had your chance. Now, go away.

A few weeks after the news of my company’s sale broke in a major trade publication, I got a call. It was from a guy I barely knew, someone who, years earlier, had sold a restaurant business he built from scratch. He’d walked this road before me. His advice was simple: “Go away for a week. Take walks. Get off social media. Read. Journal. Do nothing if you want. You deserve it.”

So, I went away.  I retreated to the mountains of Colorado, and I stayed away for a good deal longer than his suggested week. While adult children and friends came and went, my husband could only visit briefly. For the most part, I was alone.

I walked. I hiked. I went to yoga and Pilates (once each). I didn’t scroll. I read. I listened. I wrote. I met strangers and one or two actually turned into friends. But most of all, I sat in the mess I had created, the aftermath of my exit. I sat in the silence after the noise of running a company had ended.

Selling a business is painted as the ultimate mic-drop moment for any entrepreneur. The mythology goes: you build, you scale, you sell. The sale is the holy grail. The reward? You ride off into the sunset, preferably with a bottle of very expensive champagne to enjoy on a very expense mountaintop.

But what if you don’t want to go away? What if hiking Ajax Mountain with a bottle of Dom isn’t your idea of closure? What if you’re not done yet?

So yes, I walked. I hiked. I read and I wrote. I met new people. I discovered what it felt like to sit in the in-between. And then. I started again. I'm building something new. And, now, welcome to my new website.