It’s a reference to Ted Lasso, a show that somehow found a way to be funny, emotional, wise, and comforting all at once. If you’ve seen it, you know the scene. Ted tells a player to be a goldfish—the happiest animal in the world—because it has a 10-second memory. No dwelling. No spiraling. Just onward.

It stuck with me. Because some days, that’s the only way I know how to keep moving.

Running a small business is not for the faint of heart. We don’t have massive budgets. We don’t have teams of analysts or endless capital or national infrastructure. We have ourselves. Maybe a small crew. And a dream we’ve been trying to scale into something sustainable—not massive, just enough. Enough to take care of our families. Enough to find freedom. Enough to do work we’re proud of and live a life we actually enjoy.

That’s all I ever really wanted.

I never set out to build a Fortune 500 company. I set out to do what I’m great at—branding, advertising, storytelling—and to do it well enough that I could support my daughters, provide for my family, and create some peace in the process. It hasn’t been easy. It still isn’t. But it’s real. And it matters to me.

And like many business owners, I’ve found myself becoming an expert in my craft, but not always in the business of being in business. We get good at the work—we become trusted plumbers, electricians, stylists, mechanics, agents, creatives—but no one trained us to weather the unpredictability. To understand the psychology of why people say yes or no. Or worse—why they say maybe, get excited, meet with us, and then disappear.

That’s the part they don’t warn you about. The silence after the excitement. The “let’s do this” that turns into nothing. And we don’t always get the luxury of feedback. In fact, most of the time we don’t. People go quiet. And you’re left guessing whether it was something you said, something you didn’t, or something that never had anything to do with you in the first place.

And I’ll be honest—it wears on you. Because you’re not just trying to win business, you’re trying to build trust. Trying to create stability. Trying to create a life.

For me, Bahlr isn’t just a company. It’s an extension of who I am. I built it from the ground up. I’ve put in the time, the all-nighters, the client calls, the pitches, the rejections, the reinventions. I’ve taken it seriously, because I take people seriously—the people who trust me, the ones who come through the door, the ones who hand me their brand and say, “Can you help me tell my story?”

And the truth is, I can. I know how to do that part. I’ve gotten really good at it. But that doesn’t mean I’m immune to the hard days. The unknowns. The financial stress. The balance between payroll, vendors, equipment, growth, and just… peace. That’s what I’m always chasing—peace. For me, for my family, for the people I care about.

So yeah, I’ve been rejected more times than I can count. I’ve stressed, worried, overthought, and second-guessed myself into the ground. But I’ve also found something powerful in the process: the ability to let go faster. To forgive outcomes I’ll never understand. To release the stuff that used to haunt me for weeks.

Because I can’t carry it all and still lead well. I can’t stay stuck and still build something meaningful. That’s why that be a goldfish line hits me every time.

It’s not about pretending nothing hurts. It’s about remembering not everything needs to be held onto.
So if you’re in this world of small business—if you’re running your thing, holding it all together with grit and tape and hope—I just want to say: I get it. You don’t need to scale to the moon to prove anything. You’re already doing something most people never try. You’re carrying dreams and risk at the same time. That’s brave. That’s enough.

Just keep showing up. Keep believing. Keep letting go of what doesn’t serve you. And when the rejections come—and they will—try your best to be a goldfish.