2085.
That’s the number of Mondays I have left, according to the calculation I’ve pinned above my desk. The figure, down by 13 since I began keeping track, serves as a weekly reminder of the limited time we all have. I owe this revelation to Jodi Wellman’s website, Four Thousand Mondays, and her book You Only Die Once. It’s worth checking how many Mondays you have left too.
In these last 13 weeks, I’ve packed in quite a bit—taking a family trip to France in our camper van, starting a strength-training regimen that’s long overdue, and, most notably, launching my new business venture, Trove. On the horizon? Perhaps a motorbike, though an e-bike might be more prudent (and less likely to lead to divorce).
This midlife awakening—or crisis—began a few years ago with an unexpected phone call. A friend of mine had met someone in a coffee shop and was starting an electric vehicle (EV) business. They wanted me to join, to help build the sales function from scratch. It sounded tempting, but at the time, I had 16 years of experience in the wine trade, a career I was deeply invested in. The pandemic was raging, and I had a family to support, alongside my full-time working spouse. Out of curiosity, I met with them, and I was struck by their enthusiasm and freedom—the autonomy they had to create something new. Our values aligned perfectly: they placed trust in people, had a clear vision of a low-emission future, and were open to experimentation.
Within a few years, the business was a success, sold to a multinational eager to prove its commitment to EVs. I was proud of what we had built. However, with the acquisition came the arrival of corporate life again. The nimble, innovative approach we had fostered was swiftly replaced by bureaucracy. Decision-making was slow, the autonomy was gone, and our well-crafted pipeline was discarded.
The excitement I once felt began to wane. I stopped jumping out of bed in the morning; instead, I found myself lacking motivation and having to drag myself to the office. This wasn’t new to me—I’d worked in various organisations, from small businesses to large PLCs. But this time, I recognised what was happening: I had become detached from my internal compass. In the past, there were always explanations for that feeling—“It’s a new job, you’ll learn”; “It’s just experience for now”; “You’re exhausted from having kids”; “It’s the pandemic, everyone feels this way.”
But now, having experienced what work could be like when values and vision align, I wanted more. I craved the alignment of values, the autonomy to shape my work, and the flexibility to prioritise my energy and creativity. I was increasingly skeptical that I would find this again within someone else’s organisation—and I was unwilling to spend 52 of my remaining 2098 Mondays in a place where my values didn’t resonate.
This isn’t to say the companies I’ve worked for weren’t valuable in their own way. Each had its strengths, and I’ve learned much from the people and experiences that have shaped my career. The best of them had something in common: a clear mission, vision, and values. When employees don’t align with those values, achieving the mission becomes increasingly difficult.
So where am I now? I’m sitting at my desk, gazing out at the garden with a sense of clarity about what comes next. I want to help others who, like me, feel adrift—uncertain about what to do or how to make it happen. I want to contribute to a world where people feel empowered to start something meaningful, whether it’s the next tech unicorn, a local wine shop or community project. I want the flexibility to invest in my family’s wellbeing, putting them first, not work. And I want to contribute to my community, leaving the world just a little better than I found it.
Is this overly idealistic? Perhaps. Likely to fail? Quite possibly. But worth the attempt? Absolutely.