The Woman on the Ferry: Chapter 1

The Accidental Beginning

Dear Readers, Welcome to my draft of chapter 1 of The Woman on the Ferry: A Journey of 1,000 Miles to Redefine Success and Discover Joy. If you haven’t yet, you can read the Introduction for free here.

Week 1: The Accidental Beginning

The realization hit me like a freight train: my six-year entrepreneurial journey was over. I'd always prided myself on my resilience, but this time, I knew it was time to quit. As I reflected on the rollercoaster ride of my business venture, memories flashed before me—the intoxicating highs of launching new programs and the crushing lows of crickets chirping in response. Year after year, the business bled money. Now, in the wake of a disastrous summit and my waning desire to pivot yet again, I finally admitted defeat.

So Now What?

Four years ago, I'd taken a leap of faith, selling my house and embracing the nomadic life in an RV. I discovered a profound joy in traversing the country, working from wherever the road took me. But last fall, seeking stability and a fresh start, I'd settled into an RV resort in southern California. My goal? To breathe new life into my business and jumpstart my speaking career. Los Angeles, San Diego, and Las Vegas were all within reach—surely, I could drum up interest there. And so I stayed, rooted in one spot for nine months, watching ambulances become a regular fixture in the 55+ community I'd sworn I'd never join. As the days turned into weeks and then months, the irony wasn't lost on me: I'd traded the open road for a stationary life, all in pursuit of a dream that seemed to be slipping further away.

Looking back, I'm not sure what to make of the business. I'd done everything by the book—invested in courses, hired coaches, created stellar products. But in the end, I was a one-woman show wearing too many hats, and the crucial marketing and sales roles never quite fit. I was the visionary, the idea machine, the go-getter. But my creations, no matter how brilliant, couldn't sell themselves. And I, for all my strengths, never mastered the art of self-promotion. Perhaps it was the ingrained humility, the voice that whispered people would discover my brilliance on their own. But in the crowded marketplace of ideas, whispers rarely carry far enough to be heard.

As I contemplated my future, a surprising realization dawned: I wasn't in as dire straits as I'd thought. Despite the business failure, I was debt-free with a robust retirement fund. Financial ruin wasn't knocking at my door. And more importantly, I knew what set my soul on fire—travel, hiking, communing with nature. My RV stood ready for the next adventure. What if, this time, I left the business behind?

The epiphany hit me like a bolt of lightning: I had nothing to lose. The business hadn't been making money anyway. Without it, I was in the same financial position—but with lower expenses and an abundance of time. This new reality was starting to look not just attractive, but liberating.

Back to Metrics

Hiking had always been my North Star, but I'd neglected it for far too long. So I set myself a challenge: 1,000 miles in five months. It was ambitious, perhaps even daunting, but I knew it would pull me away from the laptop and back into nature, where my heart truly sang. Then, I caught myself and laughed. Here I was, writing a book about transcending external measures of success, and my first act was to set a goal based on... external measures. The irony wasn't lost on me.

But here's the truth: I can't go cold turkey on metrics. I love my spreadsheets, my goals, my charts. That satisfying checkmark after completing a task? It's my own personal dopamine hit. Yes, it makes me feel successful. But this 1,000-mile goal? It promises more than just a number. It offers fitness, joy, and clarity—the tools I need to navigate this new chapter and redefine success on my own terms.

Ready... Set... Hike!

I don't know about this 1,000-mile quest. Maybe it's way too much for me? When I looked at last week's walking mileage, it was 4.6 miles. Yes, for the week! That's less than one mile a day. I had spent way too much time in front of the laptop, moping around since the disaster of my summit. How can I expect to go from 4.6 miles a week to more than 45 miles a week? The math was daunting:

1,000 miles in 5 months:

• 200 miles per month

• 45.5 miles per week

• 6.5 miles per day

And that didn't account for travel days—days spent driving the rig to a new destination and setting up camp. I'd be lucky to walk a mile on those days, and I had 15 of them. Then there were the inevitable bad weather days and "I don't feel good" days. This quest was starting to feel impossible.