Trying something new is always scary; fears held me back for many years. The what-ifs dominated my mindset: What if I was not liked, or, worst of all, what if I failed? I was not the typical person you would expect to start a business.

Researching starting a business is the easy part. I took classes, developed spreadsheets, and made plans; organization is one of my strengths. But the next step, actually creating the business and working with clients, was terrifying. I constantly asked myself if I could be a wedding planner and run my own company.

Initially, I kept my full-time job. I was full of doubt about my ability to make any money in this new venture. Quietly, I took clients and worked after hours and on the weekends. This lack of confidence meant I charged too little, and I did not have confidence in my abilities. That first two years before every wedding, I would throw up and be unable to eat anything. I began to dread the panic that I knew would rise as the clock got closer to the ceremony and reception time.

Then I had my first successful wedding, another, and yet another. I received handwritten notes saying how happy the couples were and that they couldn’t imagine their wedding without me. I started getting less anxious on wedding weekends.

My day job became tedious, and I felt disconnected and bored. However, I came alive after work. I scheduled client meetings, catering tastings, and networking events, and soon, I began to refer to my profession as a wedding planner and business owner.

My annual review is where I told my boss I was leaving. I always worked well with him and told the truth. My calling was no longer in a cubicle in a corporate job. It was being independent, running my own business, and planning weddings. He looked at me and said, “I cannot even counter with a better salary or promotion, as you will have neither. But I am happy for you, sad for us.” With that, I left the comfort zone of an air-conditioned office, 401K matches, and a guaranteed paycheck every two weeks.

Had I not taken that leap of faith right then and there, I may not have ever taken it. The atmosphere was right for the risk; I was young, the economy was booming, and I had a supportive partner. It was as if the universe conspired to provide the right time and place for this new venture.

You always hear about the financial investment in entrepreneurship. What needs to be talked about more is the emotional investment. You get attached to logos, taglines, mission statements, and website copy. Couples that entrust you on one of their most important days become friends. Fellow industry professionals become confidants, casual Instagram followers, or arch-nemesis. You find yourself advising newer planners, telling them what you would have done differently, and teaching them how to be successful. You realize they look up to you, you of all people, the person you thought would fail.

I began this journey 18 years ago. Two years ago, I sold my business to one of my employees. It was hard letting go, but I knew it was time.

When an international pandemic occurred, many canceled or postponed weddings. Deftly negotiating this financial and emotional minefield for clients was one of my most significant accomplishments. There wasn’t a playbook for making this work. I didn’t have the luxury of perfectionism, but I had the confidence I sought once I let go of expectations. I could say I was a damn good wedding planner.

This pandemic earthquake fundamentally changed the industry, but more importantly, myself.

I began to reevaluate my priorities and my feelings about the business. I realized that, much like when I quit my corporate job, I was ready for something new. I didn’t dislike wedding planning worse; I didn’t have any feelings about it either way. That was my cue to leave.

I left with the professional designation of Master Wedding Planner. My company, Red Letter Event Planning, was listed as a preferred vendor at most of the area’s venues and had hundreds of five-star reviews and referrals from past clients. More importantly, though, I left satisfied that I had built something successful and resilient. I no longer was the anxious perfectionist who wondered if I was good enough.

Taking the risk of starting and building was nerve-wracking, but it was one of the best things I have ever done.