No big white wedding, no hundreds of guests (if only I knew that many people), no walking down the aisle with everyone turning around to look at me.

Just me, my husband, my best friend and his brother at the registry office.

We went for dinner afterwards, stayed in a gorgeous Airbnb and that was that.

Oh, and the reason we got married?

Business. Romantic, I know.

A rather expensive alternative

We’d been engaged around 9 months, so getting married wasn’t exactly a new idea.

Being honest I would have married him on our second date, that being said it wasn’t for the institution of marriage, more so I knew I wanted to spend my life with him.

The wedding itself was another matter…

We own a property business together, and at some point we started having conversations about what would happen if one of us died, morbid but the reality of life right?

Our concern was that without the right “arrangements” in place, dealing with inheritance complications, family members and potentially having to buy out someone else’s interest in the business.

Do we think our families would ever make things difficult?

Probably not.

But money and death can do strange things to people, and neither of us particularly fancied finding out.

So we looked into wills, deeds of trust and the other legal arrangements we’d need.

We were quoted £6,000

During one of those conversations, marriage came up as an alternative that could simplify some of the arrangements.

Now, marriage isn’t a substitute for proper estate planning, and there are still legal considerations around company shares and inheritance… but for us, it prompted a fairly straightforward conversation.

We chose option B.

And suddenly there was a little more urgency to the whole thing, if we’re going to get married to protect what we’ve built together, we might as well do it before one of us dies.

Again, very romantic.

The wedding we almost had (here comes the politics)

I should probably explain that I’m not entirely against weddings.

In fact, there was a very specific version of a wedding that I would have loved.

Just fifteen of us.
Thirteen guests, plus the two of us.

I loved the idea.

But then came the politics.

This person wouldn’t stay overnight. That person was having a baby. Someone else might not be able to make it.

And before we’d even booked anything, I was already thinking about the amount of money we’d be spending to organise a weekend that people might not actually attend.

I know people have lives. I know circumstances change. I’m not suggesting anyone should rearrange their entire existence for somebody else’s wedding (although it is only one weekend out of our WHOLE lives).

But equally, why would I spend thousands of pounds creating an experience that wasn’t going to look anything like the one I wanted?

And that was the point where I decided that if I couldn’t have the wedding I actually wanted, I wasn’t particularly interested in having one at all.

So we didn’t.

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Why do we do any of it?

I’ve always had quite strong opinions about weddings.

Not marriage necessarily, but weddings.

Why does the bride traditionally wear white?
Why does her father give her away?
Why does she take her husband’s surname?
Why are we wearing garters?

And why, in 2026, are we still following traditions without necessarily questioning where they came from or whether they mean anything to us?

Some wedding traditions have histories rooted in ideas about women, ownership and marriage that I personally don’t identify with.

Of course, traditions evolve. A father walking his daughter down the aisle might be a genuinely meaningful moment for them both. A white dress might simply be something a woman has dreamed of wearing since she was little.

And that’s absolutely fine.

I’m not suggesting everyone should abandon tradition, I’m suggesting we should at least ask ourselves why we’re following it.

Because I think a lot of people get engaged and immediately start planning the wedding they’re supposed to have.

The venue. The dress. The bridesmaids. The seating plan. The flowers. The hen do. The guest list that somehow doubles because somebody might be offended if they aren’t invited.

Before you know it, you’re spending an extraordinary amount of money trying to make everybody else happy, and somewhere in all of that, I wonder how often people stop and ask themselves what they actually want.

Maybe you genuinely want the enormous white wedding.

Lovely. Do it.

But maybe you want to get married in a registry office wearing a tracksuit.

That’s fine too.

The point is that it’s your marriage, your way.

I’m not losing my name, and neither is he

One of the things we did differently was our surnames.

I didn’t take my husband’s surname.

Well, technically I did, but he took mine too.

We both double-barrelled our names, and we both now have exactly the same surname.

Because to me, marriage wasn’t about becoming somebody else’s wife at the expense of who I already was.

And equally, it wasn’t about him losing his identity either. We were two people choosing to become a partnership.

So why should only one of us change?

I know plenty of women are perfectly happy taking their husband’s surname, or visa versa and I have absolutely no issue with that.

But I wanted us to make the same commitment to each other.

It was a small decision, but probably one of the parts of getting married that meant the most to me.

A Wednesday afternoon in March

So there we were.

A Wednesday afternoon, the middle of March, getting legally married with the two witnesses we were required to have.

My best friend and his brother.
No big announcement beforehand.
No elaborate Instagram reveal afterwards.

In fact, I’m not entirely sure I’ve ever properly announced that we’re married.

There was a fairly nonchalant photograph in a photo dump that could have been a wedding picture or could just have been me wearing a nice outfit.

If you know, you know.

One of my friends had actually joked over brunch that she wouldn’t be surprised if the next time we met up, I’d got married.

Which is exactly what happened.

I think most of my friends weren’t particularly surprised.

My family, perhaps understandably, were a little disappointed not to be involved.

And I do understand that, but the day wasn’t about excluding anybody, it was about doing something in a way that felt right for us.

Afterwards, we went for dinner and spent the evening in a beautiful Airbnb.

I remember sitting there together, reading the cards we’d received and just enjoying having time with each other.

No entertaining guests. No worrying about whether everyone was having a good time. No running through a schedule wondering whether we were already twenty minutes behind.

Just us.

And I think that’s probably my favourite memory of getting married.

Not the paperwork or the ceremony.

Just the two of us, sitting together at the end of the day.

But there’s a little part of me...

Here’s where I contradict myself.

Because despite everything I’ve just said, there’s a small part of me that’s sad we didn’t have a wedding.

Not the traditional wedding with all the politics and expectations.

But the version I’d imagined..

I would have loved that, and sometimes I do feel a little sad that we didn’t experience it.

But then I think about the reality.

And I find it incredibly difficult to justify spending £50,000 or £60,000 on a wedding when that money could go towards an investment that might generate income for years to come.

That’s not to say a wedding is a waste of money.

If it’s something you’ve always dreamed of, and you can afford it, then the memories might be worth every penny.

But for me, the numbers are hard to ignore.

Especially when I think about how small my circle actually is.

I could probably count on my hands the number of people who remember my birthday without being reminded.

I don’t mean that everyone has to remember my birthday to deserve an invitation, it’s more about the bigger question of who we’re actually doing these things for.

And whether we’re prepared to spend money, time and energy on something because we want it, or because we feel like we should.

The bit I keep coming back to

I don’t think everybody should get married the way we did.
I don’t think everybody should double-barrel their surnames.
I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting the enormous wedding.

What I do think is that we should get a little more comfortable questioning things.

Why do I want this?

Is it because it genuinely matters to me?

Or is it because it’s what everybody else does?

I think those questions apply to far more than weddings.

Careers. Houses. Relationships. Children. Money. The way we spend our time.

There are so many decisions we make because we’ve grown up believing there’s a particular way life is supposed to look.

And sometimes we get so caught up in following that version of life that we forget we’re allowed to want something different.

We got married for business reasons.

But we also got married because we loved each other, wanted to protect what we’d built and knew we wanted to spend our lives together.

We just didn’t feel the need to spend money and put on a show to prove it.

And if I could take anything away from the whole experience, it’s this.

You don’t have to do something just because it’s what you’re supposed to do.

You can ask why.

L x

We sold our four-bedroom detached house (our first home together), bought somewhere smaller and reduced our mortgage considerably.

Our monthly outgoings dropped by around £800.

Except within three months of moving into our new house, we wanted to move again.

And 18 months later, we’re still trying to undo the decision.

Turns out, just because something makes perfect sense on a spreadsheet doesn’t mean it’s actually a good idea.

Who knew?

The house we probably shouldn’t have sold

Meeting someone and being an hour apart meant someone had to make the move, so I did, I sold my house and we bought our first home together.

Nothing crazy, nothing wild, a four bedroom detached new build, a great plot with a big driveway, garage, plenty of space (too much or so we thought) and in an area that ticked a lot of our boxes.

But after about 18 months, we started questioning whether we really needed it.

There were only two of us. We didn’t want children, and the dog we’d briefly had hadn’t worked out because I discovered I was allergic.

We had a guest bedroom that had been used once, another bedroom that was practically empty and a garage full of things we probably didn’t need.

We were essentially paying for a four-bedroom house and using about half of it.

And because we’d started investing in property, we’d become quite accustomed to looking at houses through a financial lens.

Purchase price, mortgage payments, running costs, potential returns.

Everything had a number attached to it.

So naturally, we started wondering what would happen if we applied that same thinking to our own home.

We could reduce our mortgage, free up some disposable income and put more money towards the things we wanted to do.

Travel, invest, build businesses.

All the things we were working towards.

And the more we looked at the numbers, the more obvious the decision seemed.

Why wouldn’t we downsize?

A very convincing spreadsheet

I love a spreadsheet, probably more than the average person should.

And when it comes to money, I’m quite practical. I like knowing what things cost, where our money is going and whether there’s a more sensible way of doing something.

Around this time, we’d started investing in property and had recently bought a smaller property to rent out, and looking at the mortgage payments on that property compared to our own got us thinking.

Why were we paying so much for a house when we barely used half the space?

We started looking at what downsizing could mean for us financially. Lower mortgage payments, fewer monthly outgoings and more disposable income to invest, travel and generally enjoy life.

It made sense, didn’t it?

We didn’t need four bedrooms, we weren’t planning on having children and there were plenty of other things we’d rather spend our money on.

So naturally, out came the spreadsheet.

We started looking at smaller properties, which turned out to be quite amusing in itself.

When you call an estate agent and tell them you’re looking to downsize, they generally assume you’re a middle-aged couple whose children have flown the nest, looking for somewhere a little smaller to retire.

Not quite the case here.

We were two people in our twenties, actively looking to reduce our mortgage and the amount of space we had.

Meanwhile, everyone around us seemed to be doing the opposite. Buying bigger houses, taking on bigger mortgages and working their way up the property ladder.

And there we were, trying to climb back down it.

Perhaps not the most conventional decision, but we were pretty confident it was the right one for us.

Everything seemed reasonable.
We’d done the calculations.
We knew exactly what we were doing.

Or at least we thought we did.

Turns out you actually have to live there

I cried (sobbed actually) when we handed over the keys to our old house.

Which, in hindsight, probably should have told me something.

We then spent around three months living in an Airbnb while waiting for our new home, with half our belongings sitting in storage.

Eventually, moving day arrived.

And within about three months, we both knew we’d made a mistake.

There wasn’t some dramatic argument or one particular moment where everything went wrong. We just weren’t as happy.

The house itself was fine.

It was smaller, obviously. We no longer had the garage or the same amount of space, but we’d expected that.

What we hadn’t properly considered was everything else.

The location. The lifestyle. The little things we’d become used to without even realising.

We’d loved being able to go for a walk, pop out for coffee, head to the gym or go somewhere nice for dinner without much thought.

Our old house had been in an area we genuinely enjoyed spending time in.

And while our new house wasn’t necessarily miles away from everything, it just didn’t feel the same.

In theory and on paper everything made sense but we hadn’t really considered what our actual day-to-day lives would look like.

What would we do on a Saturday morning?
Where would we go for a walk?
Would we enjoy spending our weekends here?
Would we still have the lifestyle we’d become accustomed to?

Those weren’t questions we’d put on the spreadsheet.

Which was probably the problem.

We’d spent so much time calculating what we’d gain financially that we hadn’t really considered what we might lose.

And suddenly, the financial savings didn’t feel quite as exciting.

So, naturally, I made another spreadsheet

Once we’d accepted that we wanted to move again, I did what any reasonable person would do.

Opened Excel.

I think I came up with about multiple different scenarios.

Sell the house and buy somewhere else.
Sell and rent.
Rent our house out and rent somewhere ourselves.
Sell it to our company and rent it out.
Stay put for a few more years.
etc etc

Each option came with its own calculations, costs and potential complications.

Which is quite funny, considering the spreadsheet was partly responsible for getting us into this situation in the first place.

But moving house isn’t exactly something you can undo overnight.

We had jobs, a property business, investments and other financial commitments to consider.

And then there was the cost.

By the time we’d accounted for the estate agent fees, solicitors, stamp duty, moving expenses and everything else involved, we’d spent upward of £15,000 on the process.

Add in the Airbnb, storage and the prospect of paying to move again, and it was becoming a very expensive little experiment.

All to save £800 a month.

Brilliant.

But we’d made the decision, and there wasn’t much point dwelling on it.

We weren’t going to rush into buying another house simply because we wanted to get out of this one.

That seemed like a fairly reliable way of making another expensive mistake.

So we’ve stayed.

For the last 18 months, we’ve carried on with our lives, worked on our businesses and tried to figure out what we actually want next.

And now our house is on the market.

Again.

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This time, we’re looking for more than a house

One thing that’s changed is the way we’re approaching our next move.

Previously, we’d started with the numbers.

This time, we’re starting with how we actually want to live.

We recently viewed a house, opened the back door and looked out onto a field.

And we both just felt something.

I could picture going for walks, getting a coffee on a Saturday morning, enjoying the countryside and actually wanting to spend time in the area.

It wasn’t about how many bedrooms the house had or whether it was the most financially efficient option.

It was about being able to imagine our lives there.

I’d also love somewhere with a bit of character.

We’ve spent a lot of time renovating properties for our business, and I quite fancy having somewhere we can put our own stamp on.

Preferably without having to move again in three months.

Obviously, the finances still matter.

We’re not suddenly going to ignore mortgage payments or buy something completely ridiculous because it has a nice view.

I’ll still be making spreadsheets, probably several.

But I think we’ve realised there’s a difference between buying a property as an investment and buying somewhere you actually want to call home.

And perhaps we should have treated those decisions a little differently.

Would we do it again?

I’ve thought about this quite a lot.

Especially when we’re back in the area where we used to live, or I see an old photo of our house.

There are definitely moments where I think, fuck, why did we move?

If someone offered us our old house back tomorrow, with the bigger mortgage and higher bills, would we take it?

Hands down, yes.

But I wouldn’t want to go back and lose everything that’s happened since.

Because as much as we’ve regretted the move, downsizing also gave us opportunities we might not otherwise have had.

And I suppose that’s the frustrating thing about hindsight.

You can look back and recognise that a decision was wrong, while also acknowledging that some good things came from it.

Would I have preferred to learn all of this without spending quite so much money?

Absolutely. But here we are.

Our house is on the market, we’re viewing properties and hopefully, at some point, we’ll find somewhere that feels right.

I don’t know exactly what that looks like yet.

But I do know that the next time we make a decision about where to live, I’ll be spending a little less time looking at the spreadsheet and a little more time thinking about what we actually want from our lives.

And if we get it wrong again?

Well, at least I’ll have something else to write about.

I don’t tend to do anything by halves.

L x

I’ve just never been that girl, the one who gravitates towards babies, volunteers to hold them or gets particularly excited when it’s topic of conversation.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for people, I understand that for some women, becoming a mum is something they’ve dreamed about their entire lives.

It’s just never been something I’ve dreamed about.

I’ve never pictured myself with children, don’t get me wrong I still have a list of baby names, but I'm just not maternal, never have been.

And at almost 30, that hasn’t changed.

Which apparently is quite difficult for some people to believe.

You’ll change your mind when you’re older

I remember being about 20, having a conversation with my boss about children.

I said I didn’t want them.

The response was pretty much what you’d expect.

“You’ll change your mind when you’re older.”

I’m still in touch with that boss actually, and here I am, almost a decade later, still waiting for this supposed “change of heart”.

It doesn’t offend me when people say it. I understand why they do. Having children is such a normal part of life for so many people that the idea of someone deliberately choosing otherwise probably seems strange.

But I do find it interesting that you can know you want children at 20 and nobody questions it, yet knowing you don’t want them is apparently something you can’t possibly be sure about.

I’ve never felt like I’m missing something.

As more of my friends have started having babies, I’ve never found myself feeling behind or wondering when it’ll be my turn.

If anything, it’s made me more certain about the life I want.

And that’s not because I think there’s anything wrong with theirs.

I just don’t want it for myself.

It’s alright for you, you don’t have kids

This is something I’ve heard more than once.

Usually in conversations about money, holidays, going out or having the freedom to do something spontaneously.

“It’s alright for you, you don’t have kids”

And I always find myself thinking, well, yeah. That’s kind of the point.

Not having children isn’t some fortunate accident that’s happened to me. It’s a conscious decision about the life I want to live.

I like being able to decide on a Friday that we’re going away for the weekend.

I like adults-only hotels, booking holidays without considering school terms, going out for dinner because we fancy it and having money available to invest in the things we’re building.

I like having the freedom to make decisions that only really affect the two of us.

Of course, that doesn’t mean life is entirely without responsibilities. We’ve got full-time jobs, a property business, financial commitments and enough going on between us to make most weeks pretty chaotic.

But they’re responsibilities we’ve chosen, and for the most part, ones we can change.

I know there are parents who travel, build businesses and do all of these things too. I’m not suggesting children make any of it impossible.

It’s just that, for me, they would change the way I want to experience those things.

And I’m quite happy with the version I’ve chosen.

I sometimes think about how different our lives would look with children.

The weekends spent taking someone to football or dance lessons. The nursery fees. The school runs. The logistics of doing anything remotely spontaneous.

In fact, occasionally we’ll be walking around a supermarket, hear a child having an absolute meltdown, look at each other and think, thank fucking god we don’t have kids.

Which probably sounds terrible.

But I suspect plenty of parents have looked at our lives and thought there are things they’d absolutely hate about those too.

Different people want different things. That’s fine.

The conversation I was nervous to have

When I first met my partner, there was something I knew I would eventually have to tell him.

I didn’t want children.

It was important to me that whoever I ended up with understood that from the beginning. I wasn’t going to enter a relationship assuming I’d eventually change my mind, or expecting someone else to sacrifice something they really wanted.

What I didn’t know was that he had his own conversation he was nervous to have with me.

He’d previously discovered that he couldn’t have children.

It was something he’d been worried about telling someone new, understandably, particularly if they had always pictured themselves becoming a parent.

And there I was, worrying about how to tell him I didn’t want them in the first place.

I suppose that’s quite an unusual thing to discover about each other early in a relationship.

He’d thought about having children in the past, so I don’t want to pretend our circumstances or experiences were identical. But we’ve talked about what we want our future to look like, and we’re happy with the life we’re building together.

I think about that sometimes.

Not necessarily the same career, interests or ambitions, but the things that shape your everyday existence.

Because children aren’t exactly something you can compromise on by meeting halfway.

And I wouldn’t have wanted either of us to.

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But what if you regret it?

This is probably the question people ask most often.

And yes, of course I’ve thought about it.

I’d be lying if I said the thought had never crossed my mind.

But whenever I wonder whether I’ll regret not having children, I eventually realise that the worry doesn’t really come from wanting them.

It comes from being told that one day I might.

There’s a difference.

I don’t sit around imagining a future family I’m going to miss out on. I don’t feel sad when I think about growing older without children.

I don’t worry about who will look after me when I’m 70, either. I’ve never particularly liked the idea of having children with the expectation that they’ll be responsible for you later in life.

And if we’re talking about regret, couldn’t that apply to almost any major decision?

People regret careers, relationships, marriages, houses, moving countries.

We’ve certainly made a few expensive decisions we’d do differently if we had the chance.

But you make decisions based on what you know and what you want at the time.

And right now, I’ve spent almost 30 years being pretty certain about this one.

Could I change my mind?

I suppose anything is possible.

But I’m not living my life expecting that I will.

If I ever did change my mind, I’d want to have travelled, experienced life and built enough financial freedom to raise a child on my own terms.

But even writing that feels like I’m describing a hypothetical life rather than one I actually want.

Because I’m not working towards it.

A different version of life

I sometimes wonder whether my parents are a little disappointed.

Not in me, necessarily, but perhaps in the fact that they won’t experience being grandparents through me.

And I can understand that.

There are things you probably imagine for your children as they grow up, just as there are things you imagine for yourself.

But somewhere along the way, you have to accept that those things won’t always look the same.

I’ve never particularly wanted the traditional version of life.

The typical “2.4 lifestyle”, the marriage, the children, the annual summer holiday, the retirement you’ve spent 40 years working towards.

Well, I did get married.

But the rest? I’m not convinced.

I’d rather spend the next few decades building, travelling, enjoying the money we earn and having the freedom to change our minds about what comes next.

Maybe that sounds selfish.

I’m quite comfortable with that.

But surely there’s room for different versions of a fulfilling life?

Some women dream of becoming mothers.

Some dream of building businesses, travelling the world or having a home full of dogs.

Some want all of those things.

And some have absolutely no idea yet.

One of the things I say all the time, much to my partner’s amusement, is that everything in life is a choice.

Obviously, not every circumstance is within our control. Life doesn’t work like that, but there are decisions we do get to make about the direction we want our lives to go.

And choosing not to have children is one of mine.

I’m not waiting for the moment I suddenly develop maternal instincts.

I’m not secretly worried that everyone else is moving ahead without me.

And I’m not writing this to convince anyone that their decision to become a parent was wrong.

I just think it’s worth talking about the fact that there are women who genuinely don’t want children, have never wanted them and are perfectly happy with that.

I’m one of them.

And I’m quite looking forward to seeing what the rest of my life looks like (one day as a dog mum)

L x

Which, when I actually say it out loud, sounds a little ridiculous. Perhaps even a bit arrogant.

But it’s true.

More of what, exactly? That’s the part I’ve spent most of my twenties trying to figure out.

I’ve always known I wanted to do something different, something outside of the hamster wheel of the nine to five.

I mean, we could get into whether this is all a simulation and the purpose of life, but perhaps that’s a little deep for now.

Really, I think what I’ve been chasing all these years is choice.

The freedom to wake up, go to the gym, grab a coffee and decide what the rest of my day looks like. To spend a month working from Italy, take my parents out for lunch on a random Tuesday or finally get a dog I have always wanted (spoiler I don’t want kids).

Nothing particularly outrageous, just the freedom to choose.

Which is slightly ironic, considering how much of my time outside work I currently spend working.

A perfectly good career

I’ve worked hard to get to where I am in my corporate career.

In my early twenties, working my way up the career ladder was a huge priority. I put in the work, took it seriously and probably thought that was the end goal for my life.

And I’m glad I did.

The experience, exposure and people I’ve learnt from have been invaluable. I don’t think I’d be in a position to try building something of my own without them.

But I remember sitting at the back of a seminar recently, looking around the room and genuinely thinking

I don’t know what I’m doing here.

Not because I’m not committed to my job, I am, and I’m good at what I do.

I just know I don’t want to be doing it forever.

And I think there’s a difference between appreciating the learnings of your career and deciding it’s what you want to spend the rest of your working life doing.

This feeling isn’t new, either.

I remember sitting in a work canteen at twenty years old, confidently telling a colleague that this time next year, everything would be different. I wouldn’t still be sitting there.

At the time, my grand escape plan was forex trading.

Spoiler, I did not become a forex trader.

But that feeling never went away. It’s just taken on about a hundred different forms over the last almost ten years.

Some ideas I’ve acted on. Others I’ve moved on from before giving them a proper chance.

And then there are the things I’ve actually followed through with.

From ideas to actually doing something

Property has been one of the bigger ones.

I’ve always had an interest in it. Scrolling Rightmove is practically a hobby, and I bought my first house at twenty-three.

A book I read three years ago changed how I thought about money and investing, and eventually that interest turned into something more.

Raising private investment, buying and renovating properties, becoming a landlord and, more recently, taking on a commercial-to-residential development.

I remember collecting the keys to a building we’d purchased. Around 300 square metres across four levels, sat empty for years.

Standing there looking at what we’d taken on, there was definitely a moment of, Fuck. Now we actually have to do this.

We’d raised investment, had lenders to repay and committed to developing a building on a scale we’d never attempted before.

And somehow, through unexpected problems and a lot of learning, we did it.

It’s now a mixed-use property with residential accommodation alongside the commercial space.

Although there’s plenty more stories from this project for another time.

The slightly unreasonable number of side hustles

Alongside property and corporate life, there’s been everything else.

This year alone, I’ve tried more ‘side hustles’ than I care to admit.

UGC, Etsy, digital products, print on demand, affiliate marketing, dropshipping. The list goes on.

At one point I even considered whether I should sell pictures of my feet online.

Did I? I guess we’ll never know.

Have they all worked? Absolutely not.

Some have made money, some haven’t, and others have taken far more time than they’ve been worth.

An example I am sure we have all thought might be worth trying if it’s as easy as the ‘gurus’ make out online, digital products. I’ve spent hours creating, researching and listing products for returns that haven’t justified the time just yet.

But I think that’s the reality of trying things.

I’m particularly good at coming up with ideas. It’s connecting the dots and seeing them through that I sometimes struggle with.

And yes, perhaps I’d have seen different results if I’d committed to certain things for longer.

But I’ll never really know.

What I do know is that this year I’ve spent less time thinking about what I could build and more time actually trying.

Which brings me to the latest one.

And then there’s Nevoir

A little while ago, I was looking for a product I wanted to buy.

I knew exactly what I wanted, how I wanted it to look and roughly what I wanted to spend.

But I couldn’t find it.

So I thought, Fuck it, why don’t I try building it myself?

And that’s how Nevoir started.

A brand I’m building around considered pieces for everyday life.

I’ve always wanted to build a physical product brand. The branding, the marketing, the psychology behind why people buy what they buy. It’s something I find genuinely interesting.

Right now, that means navigating suppliers, developing products, building a website and figuring out how to launch without committing an unreasonable amount of money to stock.

And if I’m being honest, I have no idea how this one will turn out.

But I’m excited about it.

Be the first to know

For now, I’m still very much in corporate. I’m committed to my job, and I certainly don’t have a resignation letter sitting in my drafts.

But when the working day finishes, there’s usually something else going on.

A property viewing, another supplier conversation, an idea, something that’s gone wrong or another attempt at figuring out what could work.

And I guess that’s what I want to share here.

Not a perfectly packaged story about how I escaped the nine to five and built a successful business in six months.

Because I haven’t, and far from it right now.

The things that work, the things that don’t, what they cost and what I’ve learnt along the way.

There’s something quite scary about putting all of this into writing. What if I’m still sitting in a corporate job in five years?

I don’t necessarily think that would mean I’d failed.

But I’d be disappointed if I looked back and knew I hadn’t given myself a proper chance.

So here I am, building something after five.

Whether any of it gets me where I want to be, I guess we’ll find out.

Like most of us, there’s usually a lot more going on behind the scenes, a corporate career, a property business, countless side hustles and a slightly unreasonable number of thoughts.

I suppose there’s always been a part of me that wanted to share more, even if that is a little scary.

This isn’t an I’ve got it all figured out kind of thing. Far from it, more a collection of thoughts, reflections and documenting things as I go.

What am I doing? What do I want? What else is possible? What else is out there?

So, welcome to Several Versions Later.

What I’ve done, what I’m building, what I’m navigating and all that comes with it.

Not all of it, obviously, but perhaps a little more than usual.

Lois x

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