On paper, it made no sense. A decade in financial services: reconciliation systems for Bank of America at Aon. Private-equity research machinery at Morningstar, after the PitchBook acquisition. AI-led banking transformation. Multi-million-dollar machinery, and I helped keep it running.
Then I'd come home and stare at a sink of dishes like it was Everest.
Smart enough to manage complexity for a living. Unable to answer a text for three weeks. Nine planners, all blank after page 3. In between, I ran delivery for a zero-to-one product agency — five-plus startups shipped, teams of ten-plus. I could build systems for anyone except me.
The diagnosis wasn't the breakthrough. The breakthrough was a sentence: I wasn't running a broken brain. I was running a survival blueprint nobody ever designed.
So I did the only thing I actually know how to do: I treated my life like a failing project. Root-cause analysis. Scope minimization. Risk mitigation — for my own triggers. I took the enterprise frameworks I'd built for banks, stripped the bloat, and rebuilt them for a brain that runs on interest, not obedience.
A system that survives a bad day is worth a hundred that only work on good ones. The one that survived mine became an app.