It is kind of wild to think about trying to build a brand without the internet, without LinkedIn, without the ability to find manufacturers, suppliers, and ingredient partners from your laptop. In theory, it should all be easier now. You can identify companies faster, find contacts faster, research capabilities faster.

And yet, getting people to actually respond is another story.

Some never reply. Some reply once and ghost you. Some seem interested until the conversation starts requiring actual follow-through (ugh, work is hard, ha). In a world where people are actively looking for business, partnerships, and revenue, it is amazing how hard it can be to get something as simple as a sample moving.

I know part of it is scale. Right now, I am small. I am not placing massive orders. I am not walking in with a giant purchase commitment and a forecast that makes everyone perk up. I get that.

But still. Sometimes it feels like pulling teeth just to get the basics.

And sourcing is never just sourcing. It is not a clean checklist item where you find the ingredient, get the quote, receive the sample, and move on with your life. It is layers. It is timing, communication, credibility, minimums, shipping, and a constant need to keep momentum without getting attached to any single path too early.

That is the part I did not fully appreciate at the start.

You can feel like you are making real progress. Calls are happening. Samples are moving. Conversations sound promising. You start to think, okay, this is working. This is finally starting to take shape.

Then one thing breaks.

In my case, a supplier for one of our more unique ingredients went out of business.

Just like that, a path that seemed clear no longer existed.

That is the kind of moment that can make early-stage building feel especially fragile. When you are big, a disruption is a problem to solve. When you are small, it can feel personal. Like the universe would like to remind you that no plan is safe for too long.

But I am learning this is part of it.

Building a brand is not a straight line. It is progress, interruption, adjustment, regrouping, and then progress again. Two steps forward, a little step to the side, and the dance progresses.

Sometimes it is just sourcing.

Sometimes it is just business.

And sometimes the work is less about finding the perfect partner immediately and more about staying in motion long enough to find the right one.

That takes more persistence than glamour. More follow-up than genius. More resilience than most people talk about when they glamorize entrepreneurship. Recently someone who was supposed to be trustworthy, told me to pivot if I can’t find the right supplier for the ingredient. Hard pass. This is a critical ingredient and I’ll figure it out before I abandon the direction.

I still believe the right partners are out there. I still believe the right formulation is possible. And I still believe that small does not mean insignificant, even if it sometimes gets treated that way in the process.

It just means I have to keep proving I am serious.

And I am.

Not people who talk about it. People who actually do it.

That started early. My family owns a gift and engraving store, so entrepreneurship never felt abstract to me. It had a cash register, inventory, customers, long hours, and the kind of pride that comes from building something yourself.

And over the years, that circle has only grown.

My best friend built Floral Crush, a premier event floral company in Los Angeles. My dear friend and her husband built Carousel into one of the top creative studios in San Diego. One of my favorite travel friends started PRESS hard seltzer from her kitchen. Two friends recently published their first books, one about the Milwaukee mafia, The Sins We Inherit, and the other about New Jersey diners, The New American Diner. (There is probably a strange Venn diagram hiding in there somewhere.) Another friend published a leadership book, speaks professionally, and is already onto the next one. One of my favorite chefs launched her own line of finishing salts and hosts private cooking lessons out of her new home.

The list keeps going.

What stands out to me is not just what they built. It’s that they went for it.

They had a point of view, a skill, a passion, or an idea they believed in enough to put into the world.

I think about it a lot when I’m driving and passing businesses, restaurants, shops, offices, studios, and storefronts. Every one of them started as someone’s idea. Someone’s gamble. Someone’s talent put into motion. A family bet. A personal conviction. A decision to stop just thinking about it and actually build.

I find that deeply motivating.

It reminds me that entrepreneurship is not reserved for some special class of people. It belongs to the people willing to back themselves. The people willing to be uncomfortable, visible, responsible, and all-in.

Being surrounded by builders has made that feel normal to me, not impossible.

And if I’m honest, it’s made me want more.

I do not want to just admire what other people are building. I want to be on that list. I want my Brand to be one of the brands people point to and say, that started as an idea, and look at it now.

That kind of ambition does not scare me. It energizes me.

Because every time I look at the people around me who have built something of their own, I see the same pattern. They cared enough to begin. They had the guts to keep going. And they trusted that what they were building deserved a real shot.

I’ve always thought better when my mind has room to wander. Maybe that started years ago when I was a swimmer, pushing through long laps with nothing to do but breathe and think. There is something about quiet repetition that clears space for the important thoughts to rise to the surface.

This morning, the thought wasn’t about product, pricing, or timelines. It was about people. More specifically, the people I’m choosing to have around me as I build this brand.

That is one of the most rewarding parts of being a founder. I get to be intentional.

When you work inside a corporation, you inherit teams, processes, and dynamics. When you are building your own brand, you get to choose the people who bring the right talent, the right judgment, and just as importantly, the right energy to offer fuel and balance. That matters more than I think people realize.

I chose a copywriter in Scott at SVH Creative who has been sharp, thoughtful, and easy to trust. I also have former coworkers who have become something even better over time: trusted friends I can call to pressure test an idea, gut check a decision, or just remind me I’m not crazy.

And mentors matter too. Jose Corella has pushed me to try things I might not have done on my own, including this Substack. Sometimes what you need most is someone who sees your potential clearly enough to challenge you a little.

What feels different now is the momentum. Not frantic motion. Not forced productivity. Real momentum. The kind that comes from clarity, good people, and a growing belief that this thing is taking shape in the way it’s supposed to.

The best part is that I get to decide. I get to choose the pace, the partners, the standards, and the direction. That freedom is also responsibility, of course, but right now it feels like the kind I’ve been ready for.

That is what makes this worth it. Not just the possibility of building something successful, but the chance to build it with intention and with people I genuinely want beside me.

And yes, one day my Brand will cover the water bill.

For me, that moment was naming it.

Up until then, it was “the brand I’m working on.”
“The idea.”
“The thing I think I’m going to build.”

Naming it changed the temperature of the room.

Once it had a name, it wasn’t optional anymore. It wasn’t a thought experiment. It wasn’t something I could casually revisit when I had time. It felt closer to how you describe a child than a concept. Suddenly, it needed to be protected. Guided. Grown into.

A name makes something accountable.

But naming isn’t poetry. It’s architecture.

The name had to hold more than a product. It had to support my growing three-year roadmap. It needed to stretch across categories without breaking. It needed to feel consumer-facing, not insider-clever. It had to sound like a brand, not a project.

That’s a lot to ask of a few syllables.

I ran through dozens. Some sounded sharp but narrow. Some were memorable but boxed me into one lane. Some I loved intellectually but knew wouldn’t resonate outside my own head. I had so many sticky notes of names, waiting for one to call me.

Because here’s the truth: you don’t name something for yourself. You name it for the consumer encountering it cold, with no backstory.

I have a friend, an exceptional consumer researcher, run a quick study for me. Hearing the reactions was both humbling and fascinating. People either leaned in immediately or hesitated. Certain associations I thought were obvious weren’t. Certain reactions I didn’t anticipate showed up fast.

It was a reminder that brands live in other people’s minds, not yours.

Then came the softer test: telling people close to me.

Did they light up?
Did they tilt their head?
Did they politely say, “Interesting…” which is code for “Christina, what are we doing here?”

You can tell when someone gets it. There’s a beat where the idea clicks. And when it clicks, you feel it in your body. The name stops being a gamble and starts feeling inevitable.

That was the good part.

The less glamorous part was everything that followed.

Trademark searches. Competitive scans. Looking not just for present conflicts, but future ones. Could this scale? Could this collide with someone in an adjacent category two years from now? Would I regret this when the brand grew beyond its first SKU?

Naming something may feel emotional, but protecting it is procedural.

Personally, digging through the trademark database is a bit of a rabbit hole, or maybe a graveyard. So many TM’s that may exist or perhaps have gone off to pasture. A little intimidating and a little bit of ‘deep breath - you got this’ type of moment.

But that friction matters. It forces discipline. It makes you ask whether you love the name and why. This process takes time, like over six months, something I didn’t anticipate. (Plus, all the scammers out there trying to claim they are part of the USPTO… my goodness…)

Once I cleared those hurdles, something shifted.

The brand wasn’t just an idea anymore. It had legs. It started to organize decisions around itself. Visual identity suddenly mattered more. Tone mattered more. Even spreadsheets felt different. Instead of modeling “a product,” I was modeling this brand.

Naming didn’t finish anything.

It started everything. An exhilarating feeling!

And it led me straight into the next exciting challenge: turning that name into something visual. A logo. A mark. A face.

It turns out, drawing the thing is harder than naming it. And I needed to call in reinforcements for help. And they cost money.

That’s where we are headed next.

No one talks much about the part where you’ve decided to build something, but nothing looks built yet.

There’s a popular narrative about “starting”: the spark, the leap, the decisive moment. That part gets airtime. What comes next is quieter and far less cinematic. It’s weeks of half-formed ideas, browser tabs multiplying like rabbits, and a persistent feeling that you’re busy without being sure you’re moving.

That was the middle I landed in. And I’m coming out of the fog.

I had the conviction: strong, clear, non-negotiable. That I wanted to build a brand, not just a business. I knew the category. I knew the consumer insight. I knew what I believed was missing. On paper, this should have looked like a slam dunk.

In practice, it felt like circling.

I effectively toggled between confidence and doubt. One hour I was outlining what this brand could stand for and constructing the brand architecture like it was the next Aqua Skyscraper - fluid, strong, balanced; the next I was questioning whether the market was too saturated, and whether I was being naïve to think I could add something meaningful.

There were days where “progress” meant reorganizing notes I had already reorganized once before. Days where I mistook motion for clarity. Days where I told myself that once I had the right structure, just one more framework tweak, one more late-night mental pass, everything would just click.

It didn’t. Not immediately.

What I eventually realized is that the messy middle isn’t a failure of discipline or vision. It’s a transition phase and a marvelous one to experience. You’ve left the certainty of your old identity, but the new one hasn’t fully formed yet. That gap is uncomfortable. Especially for capable people who always feel grounded, who always know their next step - and people around you expect that of you, too. It feels a bit reckless and a bit freeing.

And yet, this part matters.

Because it’s where you’re forced to confront what you actually care about. It’s where you learn the difference between ideas that sound good and ideas you’re willing to wrestle with. It’s where you build the muscle of continuing without external validation. I am fortunate to have my husband challenge my thoughts and push me to make the idea stronger, and sometimes I would take it quite personally if he didn’t “just agree” with my direction.

Nothing about this stage looked impressive from the outside. There were no announcements, no website, no clean story to tell. No one cheering you on because either they don’t know what you are secretly building behind the scenes or they don’t understand why this takes so long. But internally, something was happening: I was clarifying my standards. I was learning what I wasn’t willing to compromise on. I was discovering how I make decisions when there’s no template to follow and I’m truly the boss lady.

That’s not wasted time. That’s foundation work.

The irony is that once things start to look like progress, this part starts to disappear from the narrative. It gets edited out in favor of flashy fun. But if you’re in it right now and feel like you’re floundering more than flying, I believe there’s a good chance you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

The messy middle isn’t a detour.
It’s building a roadmap to help the next steps become clear once again.

And that’s a marvelous feeling.

So that’s where I started.

I wrote. I outlined. I reorganized. I rewrote again. A plan that free-flowed out of my brain. I tried to articulate what this was, not just what I wanted to make, but why it mattered, and who it was really for. The act of writing didn’t magically give me answers, but it did something just as important: it made the questions visible. And allowed me to jump to the ‘fun’ stuff when my brain needed a break.

Clarity doesn’t arrive fully formed. Sometimes it was on pages 1, 3 and 10, but wasn’t obvious right away.

Once things were on paper, I tried to say them out loud (that’s embarrassing at first - even when no one is around!). That’s when the elevator pitch phase began, awkward, slightly rambling, and highly revealing. I learned quickly where I was confident and where I was still hiding behind vague language. Every time I stumbled, it showed me what I hadn’t actually decided yet. My husband and kids enjoyed listening to me babble.

That part was uncomfortable. Necessary, but uncomfortable.

I also had to decide who to tell, and how much. Not everyone needs the full download. Early ideas are fragile. They need encouragement more than critique, and discernment matters. I shared selectively, looking less for validation and more for resonance. Did people get it, even if I didn’t explain it perfectly yet?

At the same time, I was quietly building confidence, not from external approval, but from repetition. Every time I put words to the idea, it felt a little more real. Every time I explained it, I trusted myself a little more.

This wasn’t about convincing others. It was about convincing myself.

Getting started, I’ve learned, isn’t about having everything figured out. It’s about deciding to move forward anyway with enough clarity to take the next step, and enough self-trust to know you’ll keep figuring things out along the way.

That decision, that internal click, is what fueled me to move forward. To begin turning intention into action.

And then came the part no one glamorizes.

The floundering. The circling. The weeks where nothing looked like progress, even though something important was happening underneath. That’s what I’ll write about next…the marvelous messy middle that followed getting started, before anything looked built, branded, or obvious.

It turns out, starting is only the first threshold.

What comes after ‘the paper exercise’ is where the real work begins.

This started at the dinner table. Like most families, we wanted food that felt familiar and comforting, but also aligned with how we actually want to live. Healthy, but not over-engineered solutions. Just food that works on busy nights, with real schedules, and with ingredients I don’t have to explain or excuse.

The more I paid attention, the clearer it became: this wasn’t just about a product. It was about intention. Plenty of companies can put something new on a shelf. Fewer take the time to decide what they stand for or who it is for before they start selling.

That’s the difference between a business and a brand.

I’ve spent my career building and growing brands. I understand how they earn trust, how they scale, and how quickly they lose relevance when decisions stop being made with the consumer in mind. I know the terrain… what’s hard, what’s expensive, what’s easy to get wrong.

This time, I wanted to answer to the ultimate boss: the consumer. Not a board. Not a forecast. Not a quarterly update. Just the person deciding whether something belongs in their cart and on their table.

That clarity feels strong. The rest of it? Less predictable.

Because I’ve never done this alone before.

I’m used to incredible teams, people who handled the actual media buys, content production, legal details, and operational complexity. They just made the things happen. I was surrounded by specialists (and budgets!). The machine worked because we were a team.

Now, I’m the machine.

I’m researching trademarks and registering entities. I’m making brand content and opening spreadsheets in the same afternoon. I’m learning where precision matters and where momentum matters more. I’m bootstrapping, prioritizing, and owning every tradeoff.

It’s exhilarating. And it’s humbling.

There’s no delegation buffer here. No one just taking care of it. Just experience, judgment, and a willingness to make decisions with less than perfect information.

But this is the part that matters to me most: none of this feels reckless.

It feels intentional.

I’m not wandering into unknown territory. I’m walking familiar ground without the usual safety nets. I know the terrain, and I’m choosing to walk it anyway.

Because I believe in what I’m building. Because my family is the first consumer. And because brands built with clarity from the start are the ones that last.

In the next post, I’ll write about where I actually began: not with spreadsheets or forecasts, but with vision. Why I started by defining the brand, its point of view, its boundaries, its reason for existing, before I named anything or priced anything. It turns out, that vision is what made everything else feel tangible… even when the spreadsheets finally came out.