From the Stage to My Life
For twenty-five years I showed enterprise teams how to find the money already sitting in their data. Then the lessons stopped being something I taught from a stage — and became something I lived. Once on a remodel of my own. Once in a field full of alpacas. Same idea, both times: you don't chase. You make it safe to come to you.
On the stage — a Fuji Xerox panel, back when the method was something I taught.
The layoff came before I was finished.
Before retirement was ready. Before the work felt done. Before twenty-five years of method had found the people it was actually built for.
That kind of ending forces a choice: go quietly, or go build the thing you'd spent a career pointing at. I'd spent twenty-five years showing other people the money already sitting in their business. It turned out I had never once had to find my own.
This isn’t a startup. It’s a reclamation — of the knowledge, the work, and the impact that was always possible but never quite delivered to the people who needed it most.
So I went home. And the two things that happened next taught me more than the stage ever did.
What My Alpacas Taught Me
People often ask what my alpacas taught me about transitioning from a Fortune 500 company to my own small business. The answer isn't what most people expect.
Alpacas are flight animals — their instincts tell them to keep their distance, stay alert, and run when something feels uncertain. Just as in business, trust isn't automatic. It's earned.
At that stage I wasn't sure I could trust that the same principles applied whether the company was big or small — so the trust went both ways. They reminded me to make myself available, and they taught me to trust the process.
When it was Jasper's turn to be sheared, I walked out into the field to get him. Most people bring a rope and chase until the animal is caught. I simply knelt down to his level and waited, calmly, for him to come to me. The rest was easy. We walked into the barn together. No rope was necessary.
Becoming My Own General Contractor
For years I helped clients navigate important decisions. Then one day I became the contractor.
Managing a major remodel on Orcas Island taught me something no business book ever could. We had to start the project in November — when the rainy season begins in the Pacific Northwest — because the roof fell in. The house needed a total remodel. We budgeted six figures to complete the job in six months. Everyone thought we were crazy.
A tight timeframe, on a remote island, when every contractor was taking time off from the busy season? Impossible. So we did the work ourselves, along with two part-time handy-helpers. Finished under budget. In only five months.
When it's your money, your vision, your risk, and your future, clarity matters differently.
That's why BridgeWorks starts with understanding before action. I'd been showing other people their numbers for twenty-five years. Standing in my own gutted house, those same numbers finally mattered to me the way they matter to you.
You don't catch trust with a rope. You kneel down, and you let it come to you.
A remodel and a farm taught me the same thing twenty-five years of marketing already knew: the number comes first, the path comes second — and the people you're guiding have to walk it themselves. That's the BridgeWorks Way.
Both sides of me are on your side of the table.
Whether you're working a truck or a farm, the Briefing is the same first step: we sit down, look at your real numbers, and talk about what they mean.
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