It’s been just over six months since I left corporate life behind. After more than two decades—26 years, in fact—inside large organisations, I took the leap into solopreneurship. I knew the move would be significant, but I hadn’t fully appreciated how deep the shift would run.
Leaving corporate isn’t just about walking away from a salary or a structured work environment. It’s far more layered than that. Yes, there’s the financial security of a predictable income. Yes, there’s the daily support that comes from having departments, teams, and well-defined systems around you. And of course, there’s the human connection—being part of a team, a bigger engine.
But the real transition began the moment I asked myself: what is financial security, really?
I used to think it meant having enough money set aside to provide certainty—a sense that the future was somehow “handled.” But the more I sat with it, the more I saw how elusive that certainty really is. We can accumulate wealth and still be deeply insecure. Life has a way of disrupting even our best-laid financial plans. So what exactly was I securing? Against what?
The harder I looked, the more I realised this: what I truly value isn’t security. It’s meaning.
I’m grateful for all those years of financial stability, but they never defined me. They propped up a lifestyle, sure—but they didn’t align with the deeper question of who I’m here to be.
And so I found myself in a new space—one where I’m not chasing financial security as much as I’m exploring personal alignment. I’ve chosen to serve men in leadership, particularly those navigating midlife transitions. I’ve chosen to work with teams who want to operate with more purpose. And yes, I’ve also chosen the path where income isn’t guaranteed, where consultants often joke we’re only three months from bankruptcy.
But with that comes something else: energy.
I wake up in the morning with more clarity and conviction than I have in years. I even joke that every area of my life is thriving—except my bank account, which is currently on a bit of a fast.
It’s forced me to re-evaluate what I actually need. What I used to call “essentials” now feel more like clutter—things I’d acquired out of habit, comfort, or image rather than true necessity. Letting go of them hasn’t been easy. There’s a kind of tearing that happens when you start removing long-held routines, possessions, and assumptions. But as painful as the initial letting go can be, it’s been liberating. I feel lighter. Less distracted. More focused.
I’ve also had to confront my own conditioning. I catch myself feeling guilty if I’m not at my desk during “normal” business hours—even though I often work early mornings, nights, and weekends. I’ve always said it’s not about the hours; it’s about the outcome. And yet, decades of programming still whisper, “you should be working.”
More than anything, this journey has confronted me with fear.
Fear of failing.
Fear of financial instability.
Fear of changing too much, too fast.
But in confronting those fears, I’ve also uncovered truths. Some fears are based on things that were once true, but no longer are. Some are lies I’ve believed about myself. And some are just outdated assumptions I never questioned until now.
This is the quiet gift of stepping out of the familiar: it gives you a chance to rewrite your way of being.
From that space, new opportunities have begun to emerge—opportunities that once felt too distant to even contemplate. I’m not clinging so tightly anymore. I’m more open to what might arise. I’m learning to walk with fear, but not be led by it.
The first six months of solopreneurship have brought deep internal shifts. Mindset. Lifestyle. Priorities. And while there’s still a long way to go, I’m profoundly grateful. Not because the path is easy—but because it’s honest.
This isn’t a critique of the corporate world. It’s simply an honest look at how I was living inside it, and the changes that became possible only when I left.
Now, I look ahead with a new perspective—on life, on purpose, on what I actually need to make meaning. I still care about money, but I no longer serve it. I’m more curious about where my skills, experience, and calling might be needed. And for the first time in a long time, I feel truly alive.