Once I sold that yoga franchise, I felt the weight of the world lift. I'd been bleeding $10,000 a month, so technically, stopping the bleeding was the biggest raise I'd ever gotten. It just happened to land me at zero. I'd dodged a bullet and I knew it. I'd already talked to a bankruptcy lawyer, already had the conversation with my family about having to sell the dream house. The look on their faces when I said that is something I won't forget.

I tried everything to avoid going back to corporate. I assessed my skills, my passions, and thought hard about how to monetize them. Turns out nobody was paying market rate for snowboarding and dirt bike riding. So I went with the next best thing; hobbies that might actually generate revenue.

I’d spent my entire adult life smiling all weekend while I tended to my yard and garden. If I could turn that into a business, I knew I would love it. So I started the world's smallest landscaping company. I bought a fully battery-operated lawn care outfit (mower, weed whacker, blower) and marketed myself as the "quiet gardener." You'll barely know I'm there. I quickly scored a fall cleanup job and I was in business.

I ran out of battery about three hours in and finished the last hour with hand tools.

Every battery died. So did every shred of my dignity.

I listed that equipment on Facebook Marketplace and used the money to buy used gas-powered gear. That unlocked actual customers. I was building a real book of business with a walk-behind mower, a weed whacker, and a backpack blower; the whole operation. I also discovered something about myself in the process: I genuinely liked helping people, which meant I kept charging less than I should have. I had subconsciously become the low-priced lawn guy while delivering full service. But here's the thing, I was happy. Outside all day, earbuds in, podcasts rolling. I loved it.

I could have scaled that business. I believe that. But two things stopped me. First, I was too old to run a solo operation five or six days a week with a walk-behind mower. My body was sending memos my ego wasn't ready to receive.

Second, I had somehow failed to account for the fact that lawns stop growing in winter. Winter arrived. Income stopped. It turns out my business model was heavily dependent on photosynthesis.

I panicked.

I started applying for corporate jobs, hating myself a little for it. But the eight-month landscaping hustle wasn't going to be the answer and Christmas was coming fast. I couldn't stand the idea of telling the kids that Santa might be skipping our house this year. So I applied to deliver for Amazon. The interview was essentially: when can you start? I started the following week and immediately found myself walking nine or ten miles a day in three-minute increments. Mentally effortless. Physically brutal for a fifty-year-old man who thought he was in decent shape. Every morning after a shift, I woke up to discover which body part was angry with me.

It saved Christmas though.

I was making a quarter of my old corporate salary with zero office politics, zero performance reviews, and zero soul-crushing strategy meetings. And here's the part that surprised me — I was happier. Broke, exhausted, and happier.

I settled into delivering packages and started stacking small side hustles alongside it. Physically wrecked every night. Emotionally recharged in a way I hadn't felt in years.

But underneath all of it, my wife and I had been having a different conversation. A quiet one. About the dream house, what it actually cost us, and whether we were ready to let it go.

Turns out we were.

More on that next week.

— Dave Otani

It's not too late. Let's move.