Getting a company acquired feels less like a finish line and more like closing the last page of (in my case) a very short book.

You spend years inside it. Three, in my case. Living with the characters, the problems, the rhythm of the days.

Some chapters move quickly. Others drag. You try to rewrite sections you were sure were finished only to leave chaotic markings everywhere.

On reflecting, I noticed you really miss things you should have seen earlier. I made an unbelievable number of mistakes, just so so many stupid ones. The kind you only recognize once you’ve already turned the page. And yet still, the story however broken still seem holds.

When it ends, there honestly isn’t a rush at all. Just a quiet recognition that the book is complete. It said what it needed to say.

What surprises me is how little the mistakes dominate the ending. They’re there, clearly. But they feel like part of the texture, not the point. They taught me how to pay attention, how to recover, how to keep going without pretending I knew more than I did.

Finishing a book doesn’t mean you’re done writing. It just clears the desk. Makes space. You close it gently, set it aside, and notice there’s a lot of room in front of you again. That’s where I am now. The story is finished. Shorter than expected. Messier than planned. Still beautiful in its own way.

I’m in the fortunate position of having too many options on what to do next and frankly motivated by pure ambition and impact versus just money this time. I feel full.

Luckily for me, I’m already writing the part (it’s a secret), and what’s next already feels so much bigger.