The Almost-Ready Launcher

A Story About 'The Dana'

She had unmanicured nails and unmistakable proof. She just couldn't see it yet.

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This is the first in a series I'm calling She Built It Anyway.

Because that's what we do, isn't it? We build things. Businesses, teams, families, entire lives—often without the permission we're waiting for. Without the credentials the world says we need. Without anyone handing us a manual or a mentor or even a moment of certainty. For 2026 I wanted to give you stories you could relate to, recognize, and grow though. 

These stories are about the women I've met—the women I’ve cared for and the woman I've been—at different crossroads of building something from nothing. Each one is a character. Each one is real. Each one might be you. 

BONUS: Further down, you’ll find a link to working through these career lessons, it’s included.  

I know these women because I've been them. All of them. Sometimes in the same week.

So if you read this and feel something twist in your chest—something between recognition and relief—good. That's the point. You're not alone in whatever version of 'almost ready' you're stuck in right now.

Let's begin with The Dana.

•  •  •

The conference room door was supposed to be closed.

She was coming back from the bathroom, heels clicking against the tile floor, when she heard her name. Not the way you want to hear your name—warm, respectful, in context. The other way. The way that makes your stomach drop before your brain catches up.

She stood frozen. Hand on the door handle. Listening to the people she'd hired, trained, and bent over backward for describe exactly why she wasn't qualified to lead them.

This is The Dana.

And the worst part wasn't what they said. The worst part was that a piece of her—the piece that had been cultivated by every overlooked promotion, every interrupted idea, every time she was the smartest person in the room but somehow still invisible—believed they might be right.

I had a moment like this once. Maybe not a conference room—mine was a hot yoga studio.

I'd arranged a private session for my team. Something special. Something I thought would bring us closer. I showed up early, mat under my arm, genuinely excited.

The room stayed quiet.

Not because no one could come—because very few were actually going to. And no one had told me. They'd made a collective decision, somewhere in the spaces I wasn't invited into, that I wasn't worth the courtesy of honesty.

That's when I learned something The Dana knows too: being the boss doesn't mean you're in the room.

•  •  •

The Credentials That Don't Count

Let me tell you what The Dana has that nobody puts on a resume:

She has clients who've followed her for years—not because of her systems, but because of how she makes them feel, Seen. Understood. Safe.

She has instincts that can't be taught. The ability to read a room, anticipate needs, and create psychological safety so complete that people confess their real problems to her. Not the polished problems. The real ones.

She has hands that have built things. Maybe they're not manicured. Maybe the cuticles are ragged from work that doesn't happen behind a desk. But those hands created something. Something real. Something the critics in that conference room couldn't build on their best day.

But here's what The Dana also has: a mental Rolodex of every time she wasn't enough.

The bombed meetings. The "experts" who took her money and gave nothing back—who used her as filler income while they built their real businesses somewhere else. The moments she walked into rooms and felt, viscerally, that she was supposed to be serving coffee, not running the show.

I've hired those experts. Paid for programs that promised transformation and delivered PDFs. Invested in people who saw my ambition as a revenue source, not a mission worth supporting.

The betrayal isn't just financial. It's the way it confirms every quiet fear you've had about yourself. That you're not really a leader. That you just got lucky. That any day now, someone's going to figure out you don't belong here.

•  •  •

The Fashion of Almost-Ready

You can always spot The Dana by what she's not wearing.

Not the power blazer. Not the statement jewelry. Not the shoes that announce her arrival before she enters a room.

She dresses capable, not commanding. Professional, not powerful. She's always slightly underdressed for who she actually is—because somewhere along the way, she learned that taking up space was dangerous. That being too visible invited criticism. That blending in was safer than standing out.

Her wardrobe is a reflection of her self-perception: almost ready. Not quite there.

One more certification, one more system, one more vote of confidence away from deserving the role she's already playing.

Here's what I've learned from 25 years of watching women transform in my chair: the clothes don't make the leader. But the act of dressing like one? That's a declaration. A decision. A way of telling yourself—before anyone else sees you—that you belong in the room.

•  •  •

The Dream She Doesn't Talk About

Ask The Dana what she wants, and she'll give you the acceptable answer. Growth. Impact. Success.

But lean in. Create safety. Wait for the real answer.

What she really wants? Family. Legacy. Something that outlasts her.

She's not building for herself. She's building for them. Her kids. The next generation. The fantasy of Thanksgiving thirty years from now, grandchildren running through a business that started with her hands—those unmanicured, capable, proof-building hands.

But there's a fear under that dream. A fear she barely lets herself think:

What if they don't want it?

What if she builds this whole thing and her kids say "no thanks, Mom" and she has to figure out who she is without the mission?

I think about this too. Five kids. A salon I've poured a decade into. The constant question: am I building something they'll want to inherit, or something I'll need to let go of?

Both answers require the same thing: trusting that the building was worth it, regardless of who ends up with the keys.

•  •  •

What She Needed to Hear

Here's what I would tell The Dana if she were sitting in my chair:

The proof is already there.

Not in the manicured nails you don't have. Not in the meetings you bombed. Not in the validation of people who never understood what you were building.

The proof is in the clients who stayed. The instincts that saved you. The hands that built something from nothing.

The people in that conference room? They're not your measure. They're your evidence. Evidence that you built something threatening enough to talk about. Something they know, in their bones, they couldn't build themselves.

Family-first isn't small thinking. It's the longest game there is.

You're allowed to trust yourself now. Not when you're ready. Not when you're polished. Now.

The proof is right there. You just need someone to help you see it.

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This is The Dana. Maybe she's you. Maybe she's the woman you were five years ago. Maybe she's the version of yourself you're still fighting to outgrow.

Either way, she built it anyway.

[Do you see yourself as a 'Dana'? Here's a free worksheet to help you visualize your next move!]

Want more? Next up: The Meredith—the one in the trenches who needs permission to want out.

Let’s chat, what part of this spoke to you? Find me @quinn.vise

🤍 Quinn

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T H E C U L T Introduction: 

New here? Let me introduce you to the women I write for.

After 25 years behind the chair, I’ve held space for thousands of women. The Meredith, The Dana, The Joanna, and The Margot were born from them.

Find yourself in one. Or all four.