How I Burned Down My Own Brand

Sometimes the thing you’re building isn’t wrong. The identity you think you need in order to build it is.

I launched a perimenopause brand.

The problem was, I wasn’t a perimenopause expert. More importantly, I never wanted to become one.

So, in hindsight, this was a very strange thing for someone who isn’t a doctor, a nurse, a dietitian, a physical therapist, a personal trainer, a hormone specialist, or really any kind of “-ist” to do.

It made perfect sense at the time, though.

A couple of years earlier, I’d climbed Kilimanjaro. Training for that mountain accidentally introduced me to a world of information about women’s health that I wish someone had handed me in my thirties.

I couldn’t stop thinking about how useful it all was.

I didn’t want to become an expert. I just wanted more women to know what I’d learned.

So then I did exactly what every business podcast—and my old business degree—tells you to do.

The market research.

The customer avatars.

The Google search volume.

The competitor analysis.

The psychology of color palettes.

The positioning.

The campaign planning.

The idea had turned into an obsession.

Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that if I just kept going, eventually I’d start to feel qualified.

I. never. did.

And the thing is…I wasn’t phoning it in.

The guides were beautiful. I obsessed over every page.

I designed an entire deck of Venvylets that I’m still so ridiculously proud of.

I spent an embarrassing amount of time convincing myself the color palette needed exactly the right shade of teal.

I really cared.

Maybe…too much.

But over time, every conversation started sounding exactly the same.

I’d be at brunch with my girls or having dinner with my family. They’d ask how the business was going, and I’d light all the way up talking about the guides and the Venvylets.

And then, almost without realizing it, I’d start apologizing.

“I’m not a doctor…”

“Obviously this isn’t medical advice…”

“These are just supportive tools…”

“Definitely check with your doctor…”

I wasn’t saying those things because lawyers were forcing me to. I was saying them because they were the truth.

Over. And over…and over again.

Until eventually I realized something.

I didn’t feel like the founder of my own business. I felt like I was apologizing for it.

One night, somewhere in the neighborhood of 2am…which, historically speaking, is when I make both my best and worst life decisions, I just started deleting things.

No…no, that’s not right. Not “things.” 

I started deleting everything.

It started with Facebook.

Then Instagram.

Then page after page of the website.

It wasn’t strategic.

It wasn’t brave.

I was just…exhausted.

It took me almost a year to understand why I’d been avoiding marketing.

It wasn’t because I hated marketing (although, I kind of do). 

But every time I opened Instagram, I wasn’t trying to find customers. I was trying to convince myself I’d earned the right to have a business in the first place.

I wasn’t trying to sound like myself anymore. I was trying to sound like someone whose opinion deserved to exist.

Someone with credentials. Someone with certainty.

Someone who never had to begin a sentence with, “I’m not a doctor, but…”

The weirdest part was how much lighter I felt, almost instantly. 

And when I finally dragged myself to bed, I slept better that night than I had in months.

Not because I had a new plan. I absolutely did not.

I’d just blown up the business I’d spent a year building. I had no idea what came next.

But for the first time in months, I didn’t wake up already dreading the work ahead.

I woke up curious.

I had no idea what I was going to build instead. I just knew I wouldn’t have to pretend to be someone else to build it.

Looking back, I don’t think I built the wrong business.

I built a business that required me to become someone I never wanted to be.

Once I admitted that…

Burning it down didn’t feel reckless anymore.

It felt like relief.