Momentum vs. Meaning: My Business Update No One Asked For

In the stillness that followed the culmination of momentum climaxing after my first six months of building this business, I realized something that felt both painfully obvious and completely disorienting:

Progress isn’t always found in easily identifiable proof.

Sometimes “proof” is motion; compounding harm you’ve trained yourself not to feel.

And since January, there’s been a lot of motion over here. I’ve left a job, launched a private podcast, hosted my first workshop, started a new company, signed a mix of dream clients, experimented with sliding scale, and spent $250 on ads that brought in 13 webinar signups, 30 registered attendees total, 7 live attendees, and 2 conversions.

I’ve built an email list of 100 humans through the slow accumulation of trust, resonance, and timing. (And also, my dad is the one who clicks every single link in every single email. Thank you, dad!)

I’ve grown my Instagram by 132 people and lost 41. Which isn’t impressive by any standard. I’m still under 1000 followers, as of today, but it’s honest. I share things people sometimes don’t want to see. And I’ve decided not to contort myself to be more palatable.

But what about the progress that is less tangible, and looks a little bit less like motion—and more like return?

I’ve also slept through the night more times than I did in all of 2023.

I’ve laughed harder with my children and snapped far less. I’ve worried less—which really makes no sense since I’ve had no “stable” income. I’ve fought less with my husband, and said yes to more fun. I’ve also said no more easily. I’ve felt more rooted, more regulated, and more like myself.

And if I didn’t write that down, you’d never know it because there’s no dashboard for that. No brag slide. No funnel or flywheel or monthly report or PR list.

Which is why I need to say this next part clearly:

If I had judged the success of this season by the speed of my growth or the size of my list or the performance of a single launch—I would’ve missed the truth entirely.

What I’ve been building isn’t for a single moment in time. It’s my messy, imperfect attempt at exploring a new model.

And that model is asking me for a new metric system.

The dominant culture teaches us that motion equals mastery.

That progress proves something.

That forward is the only direction worth celebrating, and fast is the only speed that matters.

But that belief—this fallacy of progress as proof—isn’t neutral. It’s extractive, built on the assumption that growth should be constant, that clarity should be instant, and that output is the most reliable sign of value.

And that story doesn’t just harm our businesses.

It doesn’t just distort how we lead.

It hollows out how we live, steals our breath, distorts our discernment, and it severs us from the slower, truer rhythms that actual sustainability demands.

It’s what’s driving the collapse so many founders and leaders are whispering about behind the scenes. It’s what’s behind the rising tide of burnout and disaffection—especially among those who were once told that ambition would be enough to save them.

According to Deloitte’s 2024 Well-being at Work report, nearly 40% of workers say they feel burned out "always" or "often." That number rises to 46% for Gen Z.

As much insulting rhetoric as there is about Gen Z, I do not blame them. This isn’t because they don’t care. It’s because they’re tired of being asked to care more than what their systems are designed to hold.

And they’re not buying what we bought.

Where earlier generations were told to “lean in,” Gen Z is quietly, and sometimes explicitly, saying no.

A 2023 LinkedIn study found that over 70% of Gen Z workers now prioritize work-life balance over advancement. In fact, fewer than 40% believe traditional career paths offer any kind of meaningful security.

They’re not just rejecting hustle culture, they’re rejecting the premise that their worth should be proven through productivity. They’re proclaiming, in both word and deed, that their time and energy do not exist to be optimized. That burnout should not be a rite of passage. 

They understand something essential—something it took me far longer to remember. (And I use remember intentionally, because we are not born to live this way. Of that, I am convinced. We learn it.)

These systems weren’t built to sustain us; they were designed to burn us out—wear us down like fast water over jagged rocks, smoothing them to slippery, sludge-covered stones—until over time, “the older you get, the more conservative you become” remains true.

Not because of belief, but because of depletion. Because burnout makes organizing feel impossible; exhaustion protects the status quo.

They want something different. And frankly, so do I.

Because I’ve lived the other side. In January of 2023, during my working maternity leave, I paid four actual figures for a burnout class. I couldn’t imagine going on as I had been, and I’d bought—hook line and sinker—that the burnout was my fault. And if it was my fault, I could fix it. 

But what I learned was this: I’d been complicit in my own burnout, but it most certainly wasn’t my fault.

I know what it feels like to accumulate all the markers of progress and still feel like something essential is missing.
I got very, very good at building momentum in public while unraveling in private.

As I hit my goals, I felt further and further away from myself than when I started.

And I also know what it feels like to slow down long enough to ask better questions.

Questions like:

What am I actually building?
Who is it for?
What am I sacrificing to keep it growing?
And is that sacrifice still worth it—or is it actually complicity in disguise?

Because let’s be honest: the past decade-plus has been a collective unraveling, as more and more of what was once hidden has become impossible not to see.

Even when I could have seen beyond it, I didn’t.
Not fully. Not yet.

But over the years, as I brushed up against history, as I watched movements swell and silence break followed by visibility that breaks us all open— it became impossible not to see.

2016 split open the public conversation around hidden harm.
2020 exposed the fragility of the systems some of us trusted, but many knew not to.
2023 made it impossible to look away from what we fund, what we silence, what we normalize.

And maybe for some, it was impossible not to see long before then.
And maybe for others, it's still impossible to see.
I'm not here to judge either way.

But I am here to say this: When it all feels too big, I come back to my own sphere of influence.

The world is shifting beneath us, and still—this culture tells us to optimize, monetize, scale. To keep proving that we’re worthy of existing inside a machine that was never built for our wholeness.

And when it all feels too big to hold, many folks shut down. They get smaller, go silent, and grip whatever small semblance of control they still have. 

I don’t blame anyone for that. We are all cut from different cloth with different histories, privileges, and survival strategies. I had the ability to walk away from a salaried role thanks to two different 401ks—neither massive, but enough to buy me time—and I know not everyone can. That isn’t failure of any one person. It’s a reflection of the structures we’re navigating.

And still, I’ve chosen to do the opposite.
To ask harder questions.
To tell the truth before the story is shiny.
To divest from institutions, industries, and incentives that ask me to trade alignment for acceleration.

And while that choice has cost me (and let’s be honest “asking better questions” isn’t a solution to climate collapse, genocide, or systemic extraction)—it has also returned me to myself. And by returning to myself, I can contribute to solutions.

Here’s the part I think a lot of “build in public” stories skip:

It’s not just the metrics that shift—it’s your metabolism.

You start to notice the places where the old way still lives in your bones. 

Those “old ways” may be where urgency drives your calendar and where your nervous system still confuses exhaustion for excellence.

And if you’re not careful, you’ll recreate everything you swore you were leaving behind.

Because it’s not just about what you’re building. It’s about how.

And for me, how means rejecting the fallacy that momentum alone means alignment.

It means asking not just, “Is it working?”—but “At what cost?”

It means honoring the fact that some kinds of growth are really just new names for old extraction.

It’s easy to confuse exhaustion with evidence—
visibility with vitality—
motion with meaning.

But in a culture that rewards urgency and extraction, stillness is its own kind of protest.

Pausing is its own kind of power, and refusing to center performance as proof of purpose is a sneaky form of liberation.

This year, I’ve chosen to build slower.
Not because I don’t believe in the vision—but because I finally respect the weight of it.
Because I want to be here long enough to actually live the life I’m building.

So no, I’m not ahead of schedule. I don’t have a viral moment to point to or a revenue milestone to celebrate this week.

But I am no longer outsourcing my sense of success to numbers that flatten the truth of what I’m holding. I’m not hollowing myself out to meet someone else’s definition of momentum.

I’m no longer pretending I can think my way into clarity—or brand my way out of complexity.

I am choosing a different rhythm. One that accounts for capacity, honors contradiction, and doesn’t need to be impressive or finessed to be true.

If you’ve been measuring your worth by your momentum, I want to offer this reframe:

Not all progress is proof.
Not all growth is good.
And not all visibility is aligned.

You are allowed to grow slower, grow sideways, or stop growing altogether for a season and tend to what’s been abandoned in the name of progress.

And if you can’t stop right now—if you’re holding too much to slow down—I see you too. That’s not your fault. That’s a system doing exactly what it was designed to do.

Maybe, no matter where you are, you’re not behind.

Maybe you’re healing yourself so you can help heal the collective.

xo,
Brittany

P.S. I also want to share a few words I’ve received from this community that have fueled me to keep going. Building in the void is hard—and your comments, replies, and care have reminded me that resonance is traction. Even when it’s quiet.

Words from Co-Op’s first workshop:
“This gives me a flexible and fluid way to build this next product and business.”
“Structure isn’t just strategy—it’s care.”
“I loved these questions—I’m bringing them to my team.”
“Word choice matters—that was a great clarification.”

Words you’ve shared about COO-fessions:
“Loved your new private podcast series! Also now I have like five more books on my TBR list!”
“The podcast is so good!! I’ve listened to several episodes today in the car!”

Words about This Isn’t Working:
“I love your newsletters. You are speaking to such a real part of life & business.”
“This message is so on-point and is exactly what is missing.”
“I always appreciate someone that can put into words exactly the reality of it all. It really resonates.”

And, if you’re still reading… word from me to you:
Thank you—truly—for being here.

Your presence, your resonance, your reflection… it means more than you know.

This journey has been raw and real and healing in ways I didn’t expect, and I’m so grateful to be walking it alongside you.