For a long time, doing it alone felt like freedom.
The first 15 years of my career were built inside of systems—and relationships—where my power was controlled by someone else.
First, inside of corporate America.
Then, inside of the first company I co-founded.
I knew what it felt like to have my choices restricted by other people’s authority.
To develop my ideas inside structures where they could never be fully realized.
To depend on people and institutions for access, resources and permission.
To defer my intuition to someone else's "expertise."
Eventually, I wanted out.
And when I left, I went as far in the opposite direction as I could.
I built my current company alone.
I made the decisions.
I owned the ideas.
I controlled the direction.
I protected what I was creating.
I didn’t negotiate my vision.
I didn’t ask for permission.
I didn’t depend on anyone.
It felt like freedom.
Until it didn’t.
Because somewhere along the way, I confused autonomy with solitude.
And autonomy can betray you.
Especially when it's forged as a response to captivity.
When you lose yourself inside of a relationship, partnership, company, family or institution, independence feels like safety.
You tell yourself:
I will never give someone that much power again.
I will make all decisions.
I will protect myself.
I will control everything.
And sometimes, we need that season.
We need to discover that we can leave.
We need to learn that we can choose.
We need to show ourselves that we can survive.
There is liberation in proving you can do it alone.
But eventually, I can do this alone becomes I must do this alone.
And those are radically different statements.
The thing that once gave us freedom becomes a different cage that our new identity builds.
And the identity that saved us during one chapter now confines us inside another.
Trust me, I know.
I have done it alone.
Built the company alone.
Made the decisions alone.
Created the ideas alone.
Held the vision alone.
Carried the risk alone.
I have answered the question of whether or not I can do it all alone.
I can.
But I don’t want to anymore.
And admitting that has forced me to wrestle with a deeper question:
How do I let others back in without abandoning myself?
Because there is a difference between dependence and interdependence.
Between being supported and surrendering.
Between receiving resources and relinquishing power.
Between belonging and disappearing.
That is the equilibrium I have been searching for.
Not dependence.
Not independence.
Interdependence.
Not captivity.
Not isolation.
Freedom.
That third option isn't achieved through solitude.
It requires sovereignty.
Sovereignty says: I remain the authority of my own life while in relationship with others.
This sounds beautiful in theory.
In practice, it asks harder questions.
Can I be deeply resourced without becoming restricted?
Can I have infrastructure without surrendering authority?
Can support expand my imagination without owning it?
Can other people carry parts of the work without me losing authorship?
Can I receive expertise without automatically deferring to it?
Can I belong to something without disappearing inside it?
Can I allow other people's perspectives to matter without confusing them with approval?
Can I be held without being contained?
These aren’t only questions about work.
They exist inside of marriages.
Friendships.
Families.
Communities.
Partnerships.
Every relationship asks us to balance belonging to ourselves and with one another.
And there's a predictable progression many of us move through.
Dependence.
↓
Independence.
↓
Interdependence.
Dependence says:
I cannot do this without you.
Independence says:
I cannot safely do this with you.
Interdependence says:
I can do this without you.
And I can choose to do this with you.
My power exists in both.
That feels like freedom to me.
Maybe the next evolution of autonomy isn’t learning how to need less.
Maybe it’s learning how to receive more without giving ourselves away.
I don’t want to do this alone anymore.
Sharing this truth with you would have terrified an earlier version of me.
Because I thought it made me look weak.
She fought incredibly hard to prove that she could.
I am grateful she did.
She got me here.
But I don’t have to keep proving something I already know.
I can do it alone.
Now, I want to discover what's possible when I choose not to.
If my writing has made you feel seen, I want to make sure I can keep doing it.
xoxo,
Erin
