In the In-Between

When Buying a Business Becomes an Existential Crisis

For over a year now I’ve been hunting for my next business to buy.

On paper, this should be easy. Find something that makes money, run the numbers, negotiate a deal. I’ve done this before—successfully. I know how to analyze NOI, SDE, and all the acronyms that make businesses either viable or a ticking time bomb.

But this time, I’ve been stuck. Opportunities of all shapes, sizes, and flavors have landed on my desk—some practical, some unexpected, some downright bizarre. It’s fascinating how many ways there are to make money. And yet, with each one, there’s been a quiet but insistent not this one—a gut-level rejection, a swipe left despite impressive numbers.

At first, I thought I was being too picky. Maybe I was overanalyzing risks, getting lost in the details, or hesitating out of fear. But the deeper I dug, the more I realized my reluctance had nothing to do with logistics.

Now, after months of searching, I find myself courting an unsexy little bar that runs absentee, pulls in solid cash, and meets my commuting limits. By all accounts, it checks the right boxes. So why am I still hesitating?

Because this decision isn’t just about choosing a business—it’s about choosing who I will be within it. For years, my businesses weren’t just ways to make money. They were expressions of my creativity, my problem-solving, my ability to create something from nothing. They gave me purpose, structure, and a way to shape my identity. And now, for the first time, I’m staring at an opportunity that doesn’t ask me to build—it only asks me to own.

And that’s when it hit me: I wasn’t just looking for a business. I was looking for myself.

The Griefs Beneath the Search

Midlife has confronted me with a rapid-fire series of quiet but profound losses. I lost a business I built, a role that once defined me, and with it, a community that gave me a sense of shared purpose, connection, and support. At the same time, my role as a mother is shifting. My youngest will be leaving home soon, and the identity I carried for so long—as a nurturer—is slipping away.

And because I apparently like a challenge, I threw in two international moves just to keep things interesting—nothing like uprooting your entire life (twice) to really drive home the concept of dislocation. The universe, it seems, wanted to see how I’d handle all my anchors getting toppled at once.

Photo by Saurav S on Unsplash

No wonder this business search has been so hard. It’s not just about finding another income, it’s about figuring out who I am when I’m no longer in motion, no longer building, no longer essential in the same ways I once was.

I’ve been searching for something to fill a void that can’t be solved with revenue and margins alone. It’s not just about owning a business—it’s about all the feelings, all the existential needs it represents: purpose, connection, safety, creative expression, community. That’s a lot of weight to put on any poor enterprise, let alone a lowly dive bar in a small coastal town in the Pacific Northwest.

It’s not just that I need a business. It’s that I need to feel rooted in something again.

The In-Between: A Place No One Talks About

Right now, I’m in a season of not knowing. The old structures of my life—my business, my partnership, my full-time role as a mom—are gone or shifting. But the new structures haven’t fully formed yet.

I feel untethered—not quite here, not quite there. I’m in midair between two trapeze swings.

And I don’t like it.

I’m someone who likes clarity, action, movement. I like having a plan, a direction, a business to throw myself into. But right now, there is no “obvious” next step. Just… waiting. Just sitting in this weird in-between space where everything feels unresolved.

I think this is why I’ve been pushing so hard to find the “right” business—because if I could just land on something, I wouldn’t have to sit in this midair discomfort anymore. I wouldn’t have to face the fact that I don’t know exactly what’s next.

But what if the real work isn’t finding a business?

What if the real work is learning how to be okay in the in-between?

Or what if this is the right business—but not for the reasons I think? Can I allow for the possibility that it might be an unexpected stepping stone to the next thing, something I’d never find if I didn’t make this move? Can I relieve it of the impossible burden of holding all my existential hopes and dreams?

Why do I rush to the destination instead of embracing the journey?

Photo by Matt Walsh on Unsplash

Despite the discomfort of this liminal space, I have discovered some truths:

1. I don’t want to choose endurance over ease anymore. I’ve spent my life making things work, suffering through challenges because I could. I don’t want to do that again.

2. I don’t want to say “yes” just to quiet the discomfort. But I also don’t want to say “no” out of fear that this isn’t my “forever” business.

3. Maybe this bar isn’t meant to be my purpose—but maybe it’s meant to give me time to find it. Maybe it’s not the thing I build, but the thing that buys me the space to build something later, when I have more freedom.

The Real Work: Grace Instead of Certainty

I can’t solve my entire life today. I can’t force clarity. But I can give myself a little grace while in the void:

• I can give myself permission to grieve what’s gone.

• I can make this decision from wisdom, not just fear of being stuck.

• I can hold onto the truth that no endeavor has to be forever—it could just be a next step.

Because I know this: I will build something meaningful again. Maybe not today. Maybe not this year. But I am not done creating, connecting, and building something that feels like home.

For now, maybe I’ll be camping out in the in-between a little longer. And maybe, that’s okay. Or maybe I’ll put my trapeze skills to good use and join the circus. Too soon to tell.

Photo by Alex Gagareen on Unsplash