The Unspoken Cost

Last night, my children reacted to restaurant to-go boxes the way most kids react to Christmas morning.

Wide eyes. Big smiles. Commentary between bites.
“Mom, this is so good.”
“Can we do this again?”
“Why haven’t we done this in forever?”

And that’s when it hit me: it had been months. Actual months. Long enough that eating out felt like an event instead of an afterthought.

That’s one of the quieter costs of building a business—the kind no one really talks about because it doesn’t fit neatly into a success story.

For the last six months, Dan has been sleeping in his vehicle so we can save every penny to make our dreams work. Not for drama. Not for a story. Just because sometimes that’s what the math demands. Meanwhile, we’re living inside the fabric shop, learning firsthand that “mixed-use space” is a very generous phrase.

We’re going without the little comforts that make a house feel like a home. And some of the big ones too. Like a shower that doesn’t require strategic elbow placement.

Our current shower is two feet by two feet. On a good day, it works. On a bad day, it reminds you exactly how many things you’ve given up in the name of forward motion. Something’s got to give—but not yet.

And here’s the funny part: we’re okay.

Tired, yes. Occasionally smelly, also yes. But okay.

Because we can see the finish line.

We can see a life together on Main Street. Businesses we’re proud of. Work that matters to us. A family raised with the same values our parents and grandparents passed down—hard work, sacrifice, showing up even when it’s uncomfortable.

That vision carries us through a lot of small inconveniences. And a few big ones.

Building a business doesn’t just cost money. It costs comfort. It costs convenience. It costs the easy version of life—the one where dinner is spontaneous and hot water never runs out.

But it also gives you something rare: perspective.

My little stinky bunch

It teaches your kids that things don’t magically appear. That dreams take effort. That sometimes the best nights are the ones where you sit close together, laugh a little louder, and appreciate what you have because you know exactly what it took to get there.

Last night, watching my kids savor every bite of local Tex-Mex, I felt grateful. Not just for the meal, but for the reminder that this season—hard as it can be—is temporary. Purposeful. Full of meaning, even when it’s uncomfortable.

We’re not there yet. But we’re on our way.

And for now, that’s enough.