You didn’t just start a business.
You built a world.
Brick by invisible brick—
every dollar stretched, every idea fought for,
every sleepless night passed like a prayer.

You missed birthdays.
Let calls go unanswered.
Ate meals cold—if at all.
Because you believed in it.
And sometimes belief is all you have to live on.

And now it’s gone.

Quietly.
Abruptly.
Or maybe it died slow,
with warning signs you couldn’t afford to look at too closely.

And no one sends condolences for that kind of death.

There’s no obituary for closed doors.
No cards that say “Sorry for the loss of your livelihood.”
No casseroles or candlelight vigils for something that only existed because you made it exist.

But it was alive.
It had your name, your voice, your sweat woven into every piece of it.
It was your second skin.
Your other child.
The proof that your dreams weren’t just noise in your head.

And now?
Just silence.

You scroll past announcements of promotions, launches, wins—
and feel like you’re mourning in a room no one else knows you’re in.

You don’t even know how to talk about it.
Because grief that isn’t wrapped in death still feels like it needs permission.

But this loss?
It’s real.

You lost a version of yourself.
The one who believed.
The one who kept trying.
The one who thought maybe—just maybe—this thing would catch light and stay burning.

You did everything right.
And still, it slipped away.

Now you’re left with the weight of the dream
and nowhere to put it.