I am not an entrepreneur
I am not an entrepreneur | Post 1
I am not leaving my corporate job. I am running a global legal and compliance function and building a company at the same time. This is what twenty years of telling myself I was not entrepreneurial cost me, and what I have built in the hours nobody else could claim. I have had a great career. I have also lost time I will never get back. Both things are true.
For most of my professional life, work has been my safe place.
In every period of difficulty, sadness, insecurity, or self-doubt (and there have been more of them than the version of me you meet at a conference would suggest), work was the room I could walk into and be good. Respected. Useful. The place I inspired others and where the rest of the world stopped mattering for a few hours. I have spent over two decades being good at what I do.
That is not a complaint. It is a piece of self-knowledge I have only recently been willing to say out loud.
Twenty years of commercial contracts experience. General Counsel. Wife. Mother of two. Sister. Friend. The person people call at 11pm when they have been sent something they do not understand.
I am also, apparently, a founder. Which is a word I still cannot say out loud without wincing.
I never set sights on General Counsel. I never sat with a career coach and decided, by thirty I will run a legal function, by forty I will be on an executive committee, by forty-five I will report to the CFO. I worked hard. I worked smart. I led with empathy. I was repeatedly given stretch problems, and then a bigger stretch, and then a bigger one. Each time I solved them and was given the next one. The title arrived. The seniority arrived. The SVP role arrived. Odd to admit, I was almost embarrassed by it.
When people commented (‘you’re doing so well’, ‘that’s a senior role’, ‘that’s a serious title’) I would shy away. I’d downplay it. I’d find a way to redirect the conversation. Because somewhere in me, the version of me that pictured a successful career, the one with the corner office and the deliberate strategy and the relentless climb, did not feel like me, and yet it was. And so I kept telling myself something I had been telling myself my whole adult life.
I am not an entrepreneur.
I have said this to myself for twenty years. Said it in meetings. Said it in interviews. Said it to my husband. Said it to my own reflection when I had to talk myself out of considering anything that smelled remotely like starting a business. I am not entrepreneurial. That is not who I am. That is for other people. The bold ones, the loud ones, the ones who started young and never stopped. Not me.
The contradiction
It took me a long time to see this. Longer than it should have.
I left the UK at twenty-four and moved to Sharjah, UAE to start my career. I had no scaffolding there. I built one. A few years later I crossed Europe. Different countries, different languages, different cities, and learned about a technology I had never heard of called solar photovoltaics. I sat in rooms with the founding team of a renewable energy startup and helped them connect the first solar PV farm in the UK to the grid. I was in my late twenties. I was, in every way that mattered, in a startup.
Then I joined the company that has been my professional home for fifteen years. I came in and built a global legal and compliance function from scratch. I hired people in cities I had never been to. I wrote the playbook as I went. I built systems where none existed. Today I run that function across the world, through enterprise-wide change and a strategic shift driven by geopolitics and the AI industrial revolution.
I have spent fifteen years describing this role to people as “the chance to work inside a global corporate but build my own startup at the same time.”
And then, in the next breath, I have said: “I am not entrepreneurial”.
I built a startup. I built it inside someone else’s company. I called the building “not being entrepreneurial.”
The contradiction was sitting in my mouth every time I opened it and I genuinely did not hear it.
The year
Then I had one of those years.
I lost two dear friends within months of each other. Managing, as a family, devastating diagnoses of two people I love. I was diagnosed with breast cancer two years ago. Caught early. Treated. I am fighting fit. But last year… something changed.
The thing that turned me was the cumulative weight. The reality that none of us is promised time. That the most important thing, the only finite resource, is the one we spend the most carelessly. My children are ten and thirteen. They need me in completely different ways now than they did even a year ago. My parents and parents-in-law are getting older. The two ends of family life are pulling at the same time, and they will keep pulling, and at some point the pulling will stop.
I looked in the mirror.
I asked questions I had not asked since I was twenty-four.
What do I actually have to offer the world?
What can I contribute, build, create?
Were the people who kept telling me I was doing well right all along, and was I the one not listening?
Am I tenacious? Am I courageous?
Courageous enough to start my own business?
What I did next, and who I did not tell
I started building.
Not loudly. Not with an announcement, but in the hours nobody else could claim. After the kids were asleep, after the work emails, after the evening calls. I opened a laptop and began.
I told no-one, so as to protect something that did not yet exist from the gentle, well-meant observations that would have ended it before it began. “You’ve already taken on too much.” “Is this the right time?” “You’ve been through so much.” “Why don’t you take the product in this direction?” Every one of those sentences was true. Every one of them was said with love. And every one of them, said eight months earlier, would have knocked me off my game so completely that I would not be writing this now.
I had to protect it until I knew what it was.
So I built. Alone. Eight months. Most nights. The house asleep around me. The only voice in my head was mine.
What I was building was this.
Every week, sometimes every day, someone would send me a contract. A friend. A friend of a friend. A designer. A consultant. A woman who had just gone freelance and did not know what she had signed. I would read it. I would tell them what to fight for. They would go back and fight for it. And it would work.
Every time, I thought: there are millions of people who do not know a lawyer to send this to.
So I built one.
Upload a contract. Get a report that tells you what a General Counsel would flag, what they would push back on, what to sign only with your eyes wide open. Not legal advice. Something more useful. Someone in your corner who has read a thousand of these before.
I wrote prompts. I tested outputs. I sketched product flows. I read everything I could find about people who had done this before. I leant on Perplexity Computer, my partner in crime. I shipped. I broke things. I fixed them. I shipped again.
Eight months in, at 1am on a weekday, I was downstairs in the lounge. Reading lamp on. An empty wine glass on the table. The house silent. I deployed the last piece of code on what had become a working MVP. And then I registered the company.
BeforeYouSign Ltd.
The confirmation came on the screen. I just smiled. My heart was racing. I’m actually doing this.
I told Jerry the following evening. Then the kids. He was incredibly proud. Surprised, I think, by how much I had built singlehandedly: the framing, the concept, the target audience, the detailed legal prompts, the marketing strategy, the logo, the domain, the UI. All of it. The children were over the moon.
What I had already done
While I was asking myself those questions in the mirror, and through every one of those eight midnight months, the answers had been sitting in plain sight.
My brother and I had built a personal training business together. Spartan Workouts. We built it because we wanted to, because we were good at different parts of it, because it felt like something worth making together. We did not call ourselves entrepreneurs while we were doing it. We were just building.
I had built a global legal function from a single chair.
I had connected the UK’s first solar farm to the grid as part of someone else’s founding team.
I had crossed continents at twenty-four with no plan.
If I had read this CV about another person and they had told me they were not entrepreneurial, I would have laughed.
What it cost me, and what it didn’t
I want to be honest about both halves of this.
It cost me imposter syndrome. Years of it. Quiet, internal, persistent. The kind that does not announce itself but reroutes your decisions in a thousand small ways. It cost me opportunities I did not see, because seeing them would have required believing I was the kind of person they were offered to. It cost me time. I am 45 and I am beginning a chapter I could have begun at 35.
But it has not cost me my career. That is the part the ‘corporate-escape’ literature does not often hold honestly. The fifteen years at the company that has been my professional home have been some of the best, most stretching, most genuinely formative years of my adult life. I have built things there I am proud of. I have led people I love. I have been trusted with work that almost nobody else gets to do. The mantra I told myself was wrong. The career I built while telling it to myself was not.
Both things are true. The mantra cost me. The career did not.
Midnight Founder Hours
I am still building.
Not for eight months in secret anymore. Out loud now. With help. With a name on the door. With a publication that publishes a clause-by-clause breakdown of contracts I have spent two decades reviewing, and a separate set of writing, this one, about what it has taken to get here.
I have not stopped my day job. I am not planning to. The role I hold is a privilege and a responsibility, and the work there is at one of the most interesting inflection points I have seen in fifteen years. But somewhere alongside it, in the hours nobody else can claim, I am doing the thing I told myself for twenty years I could not do.
If you are telling yourself the same thing
If you are reading this and the mantra has been in your head for years, let me say two things.
The first is that the evidence is probably already in your life. The startup-shaped work you did inside a corporate. The thing you built on the side. The roles you accepted that no one else thought possible. The places you moved to with no plan. Look at the evidence the way a stranger would.
The second is that you do not have to leave to build. The corporate-escape literature is full of people who left. Some of them needed to. Many of them romanticised it. You can stay in your role and still become the person you were always going to be, in the Founder Hours.
You do not need permission. You especially do not need it from yourself.
What this series is
I am writing this in public for two reasons.
The first is that the people I most want to reach are the ones who are telling themselves the same thing I told myself. That they are not the kind of person who builds. That this life is for other people. That the title they have earned is somehow accidental and the next thing is somehow forbidden.
The second is more selfish. Writing it down makes it true. It commits me. There is a version of this story where I do not finish what I have started, and writing the story publicly is one of the things that makes that version less likely.
This is Post 1 of a series called I am not an entrepreneur. There will be five more, every other Wednesday from now through December. They will cover what I have built, what I have got wrong, what corporate has taught me, what corporate has cost me, and where this is going.
If you are still telling yourself you are not entrepreneurial, look at your own CV the way you would look at a stranger’s. And then tell me what it actually says.
Louise