I never planned to have a company. I was a 19-year-old anthropology major who successfully failed math and largely rejected the idea of capitalism when I found a recipe for lip balm.
I made some in my mom’s kitchen using beeswax from her neighbor and shared them with friends, who told me I should sell them. I considered it an adventure, not an enterprise.
Yet I couldn’t stop. I poured Mad Gab’s Lip Lube by hand, scavenged wood for displays from a coffin factory, and peddled to natural food stores from the trunk of my car using Yellow Pages and maps.
Demand followed, confirming my path. I appeared on QVC in the home-shopping heyday of 1997 and sold out. L.L.Bean, Nordstrom, and Anthropologie became customers. A scrappy marketing mailing of 80 envelopes yielded coverage in Vogue, Elle, and Seventeen.
What began as a trickle of interest became a flood that consumed my life.
I had babies and stopped growing my company
As my business grew, life happened. When I got pregnant shortly after my wedding, I assumed I’d fold a baby into the mix. A few hours after giving birth to Silas, I was on the phone with my tin supplier, handling a packaging emergency. I put a pack-and-play and changing table in my office, slapped my hands together, and figured I had everything covered.
But as I nursed from my office chair, surrounded by chaotic success, I heard the voice of a wise older woman I once met on a panel. “The idea of balance for working mothers is ludicrous. You pick the priority of the moment, the day, the month. Do that well. Work the rest around it.”
She was badass, and I trusted her advice the way I’d always trusted my gut. There was only one shot to be the mother I had dreamed about. I had to admit I couldn’t do it all. I had to pick my priority. Easy.
I let things drop. I didn’t raise capital. I only did some trade shows. I kept overhead low. I brought my second son, Jasper, to a show at the Javits Center when he was 4 months old, where I fielded mixed comments, some supportive, some blatant judgement. My small staff of students, artists, and moms worked for wages I could afford in exchange for uber-flexible schedules, a novelty in the early aughts. Everyone’s children were welcome. I left every day to meet the bus and was unavailable until the next morning.
I designed my own schedule
As a dual-income household, I was able to prioritize my kids over profits. Mad Gab’s potential was obvious, and our growth slowed and then plateaued. I signed up for exhaustion instead of guilt. I had the luxury to design my schedule; I wouldn’t waste energy feeling guilty about things I couldn’t. I felt grateful to have a place to be myself, to be creative, to work in community.
When I divorced at 41, I had to figure out if Mad Gab’s could provide for us or else stop and get a job. It was another option that I, a reluctant businesswoman and fierce mother, didn’t take. With support from family, friends, and mentors, I decided to grow the business seriously. By the time the boys were in high school and college, Mad Gab’s was profitable and thriving.
This year, I said goodbye to a recently graduated Jasper as he headed off to Europe, and Silas will graduate from nursing school. Mad Gab’s will double in size this year, and I sleep well at night knowing my boys have become good men. I’m proud of what I managed to keep alive while the kids were growing amidst chaotic, serendipitous, creative, and painful circumstances.
But most of all, I’m proud of the relationship I have with the boys, and how their upbringing has shaped them. Someone recently made a comment about growing up with a mom who had her own company, guessing, “She must have been at work the whole time!”
Jasper responded with a puzzled look. “No way, Mom was always there.”
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