I was five years old when I first learned I wasn’t enough to stop bad things from happening.

Standing outside our house in the middle of nowhere, my small hand wrapped around the cold metal doorknob, turning it again and again, knowing it wouldn’t open.

I had been locked out deliberately, but I could hear everything.
The shouting.
The thuds.
My mother’s cries.
My father’s rage.

Each sound traveled through the walls and into my bones, where they would remain for decades.

I walked over and stood on the sidewalk outside the bay window with my hands over my ears, unsure when it would end.

The memory emblazoned like a slow-playing movie in my mind, one I played thousands of times deep into my forties.

These traumatic events weren’t isolated to just my mother. They continued to happen throughout my childhood.
Nine more years of feeling powerless, of watching, of promising myself that I could fix things if I tried harder or could be better.

Suddenly I was fourteen, almost 15.

That day, I heard my sister crying—she was 12. I’d listened to the same sounds for years, but something in me snapped this time.

I wasn’t that helpless five-year-old anymore.

I rushed to defend her, finally taking the stand I couldn’t take before.

But by then, those patterns of fear and unworthiness were deeply ingrained.

That frightened five-year-old part of me remained frozen while the rest of me grew up, moved forward, and built a life.

Fast forward thirty years. I’m standing on a stage in front of 350 successful entrepreneurs.
The lights are warm on my face, and the energy in the room is electric.

Our event—a vision brought to life—is a resounding success.
Applause washes over me as I finish explaining a concept that has helped transform businesses around the globe.

I should feel triumphant.
Instead, a familiar flutter of anxiety ripples through my chest. A voice whispers: This won’t last.
You don’t deserve this. Something’s about to go wrong.
And historically, something always did.

But it wasn’t bad luck—it was me.
Time and again, I ignored my intuition or gut instinct.

Despite the knot in my stomach or the quiet voice warning me something wasn’t right, I would convince myself that their impressive credentials and promising opportunities outweighed my concerns.

It was a pattern I’d repeated throughout my entrepreneurial journey.

Building something remarkable, then watching it struggle or crumble because I’d given my power away to someone who never had my best interests at heart.

Each time, I’d call it bad luck.
I’d start over, rebuild, and somehow return to the same situation each time.
“Why do you keep choosing people who don’t value you?”
My mentor asked me during one of our coaching sessions. He’d been working with me for almost a year.
“I don’t choose them,” I insisted, defensiveness rising in my throat. “I’ve just had a couple of strings of bad luck.”

He let the silence stretch between us, his eyes kind but unwavering.
“Once is bad luck,” he finally said.
“Multiple times is a pattern. And patterns usually have roots.”

“What kind of roots?” I asked… though something in me already knew the answer.
“Usually the kind that go all the way back to childhood,” he said gently.
And there it was—that five-year-old boy at the locked door, believing that if he could just be better, try harder, he could earn enough love to keep everyone safe.

“I think you’re still trying to earn love or validation,” he said when I finished sharing.
The realization hit me like a physical blow.
My eyes stung with tears as years of “bad luck” suddenly resolved into a clear pattern of my own making.

“The problem isn’t that you’re unlucky in business, or life…”
“There’s a part of you—that five-year-old part—that doesn’t believe you deserve success.
And every time you start to achieve it, that part gets scared and finds a way to return you to what feels safe—the familiar struggle to prove your worth.”

That suffering equals strength. And that…
I am the only safe place for me… and I must place a barrier around connection to stay safe.

That session changed everything almost four years ago.

I began to understand that my business bumps and challenges weren’t separate from my personal journey—they were direct reflections of it.

The five-year-old boy locked outside, helpless and afraid, had been making my business decisions from a place of unworthiness and fear.

I started the painful, beautiful work of reclaiming those frozen parts of myself.

I began a conversation with that young boy through therapy, meditation, and deep inner work.

I listened to his fears. I honored his pain.

I showed him that we were safe now, strong, and worthy of success. The process has been uncomfortable.
There were days I wanted to retreat to my old patterns—they were painful, but at least they were familiar.
But I keep going, integrating, and thawing those frozen parts.

As the adult now, I have become equipped with awareness to sit and support that little child who lacked the tools or understanding to process his experiences.

Which brings me back to that stage, the applause, and the familiar flutter of anxiety.

But this time, something is different. This time, I recognize it for what it is—that five-year-old part of me getting scared, waiting for something to go wrong.

Instead of ignoring or pushing through, I take a breath and internally acknowledge him: I hear you. I feel your fear. But we’re safe now. We’ve done the work.
We are building this right, with the right people who truly value us. We deserve this success.
The anxiety hasn’t disappeared completely—integration is a process, not an event—but it softened.

I am not afraid of it; it creates resilience and mental toughness for the inevitable challenges of continuous change.

And for the first time, I am able to truly celebrate success without waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I trusted my intuition and walked away from deals that didn’t feel right, even when they looked perfect on paper.

First, I chose to focus on becoming the person who could create something that will last.
Why put things back together to satisfy the ego but be miserable with what I preserved?

The result I committed to wasn’t just financial success, but sustainable, fulfilling success.
The kind that doesn’t leave you drained or looking over your shoulder. The kind that comes from leading as a whole person.

Here’s what I’ve learned on this journey from pain to purpose:
As entrepreneurs and leaders, we don’t leave our childhood wounds at the door when we enter the boardroom.

Those unintegrated parts of ourselves—the ones frozen in time by trauma or pain—don’t just disappear because we’ve grown up or achieved success.

They continue to influence our decisions, our partnerships (business and personal), and our relationship with “success” itself.

When we operate from these wounded places, we create businesses that reflect our wounds.

We hire the wrong people, and often sabotage our success just as it’s beginning to flourish.

But when we do the work of reclaiming and integrating all parts of ourselves—especially those frightened, frozen parts—we create from wholeness.

We make decisions from clarity rather than old patterns.

We choose people who complement our vision rather than replay our traumas.

The hero’s journey isn’t just about moving forward—it’s about going back to retrieve the parts of ourselves that got left behind.

Only when we bring those parts along with us, when we thaw what’s been frozen, can we achieve success that truly fulfills us.

Because true success isn’t just about what you build in the world.
It’s about rebuilding yourself, completely and authentically, so that what you create comes from wholeness, not wound.

That five-year-old boy still lives in me.

But he’s no longer locked outside in the cold.

He’s right here with me, integrated into the man I’ve become. And together, we’re building something that will last.

No sorrow or pity is warranted nor wanted; I have created and co-created my entire journey and take 100% responsibility for all of it.

Otherwise, I blame someone else?… Then they are the only ones with the power to change it.

The darkness we face is often the doorway to our most incredible light.

But we must be willing to enter it, to sit with it, and to bring back what we find there.