On the morning of Jan 4, 2016, I was nervous, anxious and terrified. I walked into work restless, palms sweaty but had a sly smirk stretching from ear to ear that I couldn’t wipe off my face. It was an exciting day, scary but liberating, and a date that would go down in history. It was the day I would quit my 9-5 to become a freelancer. I knew it would be the last day ever, of working a dissatisfying full time job, while fulfilling someone else’s dreams, even though I had my own.
A plan was set up to have consistent freelance work by partnering up with a woman who stood very solidly in her private client styling career. I mean, she was working with the wealthiest women in Manhattan. There scent of money was so strong, it was obnoxious. I wasn’t in the least bit concerned, I trusted her and after numerous business and planning meetings, I took the leap of faith to change my reality for good. It was happening and at some moments it felt too good to be true. It was too easy, she was too giving she was offering me too much help to start my own business.
Fast forward to three months in, she backs out on our deal. The steady stream of work she promised me was taken away from me in a matter of seconds.