Instead, my eyes snag on the last entry on page one. “Dream Job: Work For Yourself.” There’s a picture of a woman in Nike gear standing in her own tiny gym, high-fiving a client. There’s a lightness in her face, like she’snot faking it. I click, half-expecting it to be a scam, but instead it’s a blog about starting your own private practice as a PT, with step-by-step guides for people like me—people who got the degree but not the full shebang.
I devour the first two posts in minutes. How to get licensed without losing your soul, how to niche down so you’re not competing with Gold’s Gym on day one. The more I read, the more my fingers start itching to type. I can see it, weirdly. A space of my own, not a soulless office with motivational posters and clock-watching supervisors.
I want to help people, but I want to do it on my terms, in my own environment. I want to know I can take time off when I’m struggling, or travel when my friends have exciting exhibits in London for example. I want to have only myself and my own expectations to deal with.
By the time my second cup of coffee is gone, I have a color-coded Google doc called “Next Steps”—because I’m still a Type A personality—and five open tabs on LLC formation and marketing. Maybe it’s the post-reunion euphoria talking, but the idea of building something from scratch is—dare I say—kind of thrilling.
Still, I know myself. My brain’s default setting is “dream big, panic bigger,” so if I don’t tell someone about this I’ll talk myself out of it before lunch. I hit save, closethe laptop, and head to the main house for breakfast and a good old mom talk.
The kitchen is bright and warm as usual, the smell of buttery toast overwhelms my olfactory senses and makes me drool. Mom is still in her robe, humming along with some lo-fi playlist and scrambling eggs like it’s a competitive sport. She doesn’t look up when I come in, but she does slide a mug of coffee across the counter in my direction.
“Morning, superstar. Big plans for today?”
“Just hanging out, maybe going for a walk later,” I say, playing it cool. “Thanks for the coffee.”
She gives me the side-eye but lets it go, piling eggs onto a plate and joining me at the breakfast bar. There’s a beat of comfortable silence as we eat. I decide to rip off the band-aid.
“So I, um, had a really good day yesterday.” I’m instantly annoyed at how small my voice sounds.
Mom perks up. “It was lovely to see the girls again.”
I nod, chewing. “It was…honestly, really good. Better than I thought it would be.”
“I’m happy for you, honey,” she says, and I can see she means it. “You’ve worked so hard to get back to this point.”
I swallow, then take a breath. “It got me thinking, actually. Like, maybe I should start looking at next steps. Career-wise.”
She puts her fork down. “That’s amazing, Sloane. Have you got something in mind, or…”
I half expected her to tell me to take some more time recuperating and readjusting before putting myself in a stressful situation. The truth is, I’ve already put myself inthemost stress and anxiety-inducing situation by talking to my friends, and I survived it.
“Okay, so, I know I got the degree but bailed on grad school because of, you know—” I gesture to my head, “but I was thinking…what if I went a different route? Like, opened my own practice? Or did personal training?”
Mom’s expression goes full proud parent, but she checks herself. “That sounds awesome. But isn’t it a ton of work to start a business?”
I shrug. “Yeah. But I think it’d be worth it.”
She laughs. “I’m so proud of you, baby, and yes, I think if it makes you happy, it would be worth it.”
“But I don’t know if it’s realistic.” I don’t even try to hide the fear. “What if I’m just…not cut out for it? What if I have another breakdown?”
Mom gets that look—the one she wore every time I scraped a knee or came home in tears after a bad day at school.
“Sloane, if you can get through this year, you can get through literally anything. And you have me and your dad. We’ll help however we can.”
I can feel my throat tighten, but I blink it away. “Thanks, Mom. Seriously.”
She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Just promise me one thing. Don’t try to do it all at once.”
I snort. “Trust me, I know I need to go slow.”
We eat the rest of breakfast in silence, but it’s a good silence; a plotting, planning silence. By the time I’m finished I’ve got a rough timeline in my head. First I need to research licensing and build a website. Second, see if anyone in town actually wants a personal trainer or sports physio.
I rinse my plate, refill my coffee, and head back to the pool house with a sense of purpose. On the walk, my phone vibrates—a text from Eden. It’s a link to a charity run for the local LGBTQIA+ center in town, along with a message.
Eden
I said we’d start slow, didn’t I? Join me? No pressure if you’re not up for it. But I hope you are.
