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Sometimes you have to fall apart to understand what success really means. The breaking is necessary, if not inevitable. It's the universe's way of saying, "This isn't working anymore."
I know this because I lived it. I co-lead a multi-billion dollar wealth management firm, but I grew up in a family that struggled financially. The distance between those two realities lives in my bones. It shapes how I show up, how I lead, and most importantly, how I finally learned to rest. But more than that, it informs every decision I make about making financial planning accessible to those who weren't born with trust funds and family connections.
But let me back up.
Money was always loud in my childhood home and it wasn’t because we had so much of it. The conversations about it weren't quiet discussions over investment portfolios; they were stressed voices and worried faces around the kitchen table. I started working at fifteen, always had my own paycheck. There was pride in that – being able to pay for my own things, not adding to the family's burden. But there was also a lesson being etched into my bones: you have to work harder, do more, be more.
I put myself through college. And it was there, sophomore year, that the universe dropped the first breadcrumb on the path to my future. I landed a job as a receptionist at a financial services firm. Nothing fancy, just three guys helping people with retirement planning. But I'd watch these clients walk in with huge binders full of statements, shoulders heavy with the weight of uncertainty. A few meetings later, they'd walk out with a plan, relief visible on their faces. Coming from a family where money discussions were always loud and stressed, this transformation struck me deeply. You could actually control money instead of letting it control you.
That realization changed my path in life.
I switched my major to financial services, and twenty years in the industry followed. I climbed from receptionist to director of client services to financial advisor. Worked at Morgan Stanley and Smith Barney. Became a portfolio manager in Los Angeles. Each step up the ladder was a validation of that fifteen-year-old girl who believed working harder was the answer to everything.
But somewhere along the way, I started hearing this narrative that millennials were scared of money. And something in me rebelled against that characterization. Because I knew that it wasn't about fear. It was about access. About education. About having someone speak to you about money in a way that didn't make you feel small or stupid or wrong.
So in 2013, I launched Workable Wealth virtually – before virtual was cool and Zoom was a household name. Before anyone believed you could build real relationships through a screen. I focused on my generation, on making financial planning accessible and understandable. Built my own clientele. Wrote a book. Started a podcast. Got quoted in the media. Collected accolades like breadcrumbs marking my path forward.
I was doing it all, living the dream. The fifteen-year-old me would have been so proud.
And then I had kids.
That’s when I learned that the weight of being a mother, breadwinner and founder can be crushing. Each of those roles as a standalone is if we’re being honest. Not just the responsibility of providing for your family, but the constant mental gymnastics of trying to be everything to everyone. During and post my first maternity leave with my daughter, I wrote a book while recovering from a medical emergency. With my second child, my son, I took on thirty new clients that year. I missed much of his first year of life because I was so busy growing the business. The guilt was suffocating, but so was the pressure. When you grow up with financial scarcity, there's this voice in your head that never quite goes away: "What if it all disappears? What if you can't provide? What if you fail?"
The shoulds were deafening. I should want to be more present. I should not want to be working this much. I should be satisfied with what I have. I should, I should, I should.
When Abacus recruited me in 2019 to be their Chief Marketing Officer, I told myself a story: This would give me more freedom, more flexibility. I wasn't actively looking to merge my company, but I always told my clients to know what was in their back pocket. To understand their options. So when the opportunity presented itself, I had to explore it. And what I saw was a chance to make a bigger impact, to teach other advisors what I was doing, to reach more people. To sit at a bigger table.
(Spoiler alert: That "more flexibility" thing? That's not how it worked out.)
Then 2020 hit. Being a leader through a pandemic with young children at home was not on my life’s vision board. I have a vivid memory: I'm on the phone with our company president having a heated discussion while my 2 ½ year old son is on the toilet and I’m trying to physically prevent him from peeing all over both me and the bathroom. Your brain breaks a little in moments like these. Your body stores it all, even when your mind is too busy to process it.
By 2022, I was Co-CEO. From the outside, it looked like I had it all figured out. Another girl from humble beginnings making good. The American dream in action.
Then came my sabbatical.
I had grand plans. I was going to learn Spanish. Travel. Find myself. You know, all the things society tells you a sabbatical should be. Instead, it became an unraveling.
Week one: surprise half-days of kindergarten. Because apparently, no one tells you that your kid's first week of school is only three hours long. So instead of starting my rest, I was coordinating childcare and offering to watch other parents' kids too – because that's what we do, right? We help. We step up. We handle it.
Week two brought a family health scare. Week three was overcommitted. Then our planned trip to Maui literally went up in flames two days before we were supposed to leave. Instead of canceling – because heaven forbid I actually listen to what the universe was trying to tell me – I booked our family a last-minute trip to Costa Rica.
Where my daughter got food poisoning and my son threw up in the shuttle to the airport.
That's when my body said: enough.
The panic attack hit in that shuttle. Another followed two days later. My body was done carrying what my mind refused to put down. My boundaries had been like Swiss cheese – everything just flowing through, nothing actually being contained. I had been so busy being strong, being capable, being the girl who could handle it all, that I had forgotten how to just be.
Here's what I learned in the aftermath: Rest isn't something you achieve. It's not another goal to check off your list. It's something you practice, like meditation or gratitude or love. It's a skill you have to develop, especially if you've spent your whole life believing that your value lies in what you can produce.
Like a plant, I needed the basics: hydration, nourishment, sunlight. I deleted social media from my phone because I realized how much the endless scrolling was feeding my anxiety. Started meditating five times a week. Made my Mondays and Fridays sacred – no meetings, no exceptions.
I learned to pause. To feel. To notice when my body was trying to tell me something before it had to scream. I approached my own healing like a type-A overachiever at first – reading books, journaling, trying to "fix" myself. But here's the thing about healing: it doesn't work like that. You can't optimize your way through trauma. You can't spreadsheet your way to peace.
Now, I journal at least once a week. Meditate daily for ten minutes. Walk my kids to school most mornings. Listen to the 10% Happier podcast. Workout five days a week. Small things, really. But they keep me moving forward, keep me grounded in what matters. They help me remember that the path to belonging – to yourself, to your work, to your life – isn't about pushing harder. It's about learning when to soften. When to yield. When to let the sun warm your face and trust that the world won't fall apart if you take a moment to feel it.
The greatest irony? None of these changes affected the business. Abacus didn't suffer because I finally learned to honor my boundaries. If anything, I became a better leader because I finally understood: you can't pour from an empty cup, and you definitely can't lead from one.