The day my business collapsed, the world did not end loudly. It ended quietly, with unpaid invoices, returned cheques, and a landlord knocking on my office door asking for arrears. What had taken me four years to build fell apart in less than three months.
A bad partnership, a delayed shipment, and cash flow mismanagement were enough to sink me. But what hurt more than the financial loss was the laughter.
Some of them were people I once called friends.
Others were distant relatives who had always felt uncomfortable with my progress. When news spread that I had closed my office, the whispers began. “He thought he was too smart.” “We knew it wouldn’t last.” “Let him feel the real world now.”
I overheard two former colleagues laughing in a café, joking about how I had “returned to earth.” Someone even said, “Let’s see who he networks with now.” For a few weeks, I avoided public places. My confidence had cracked. My phone was quiet.
Opportunities disappeared. I had to move back into a smaller house and let go of the car I once proudly drove.
The humiliation felt heavy. But in that emptiness, something shifted.
I realized I had spent too much time building visibility and not enough time building stability. I had built fast, but I had not built deep. That insight became my turning point. Instead of defending myself publicly, I went quiet.
I reassessed my skills. I mapped out every connection I had built over the years not just clients, but mentors, suppliers, industry peers. I reached out humbly to a few trusted contacts, not to beg, but to learn where I had gone wrong.read more..https://drbokko.com/
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