Shutting down my first company broke me.

Just a few months earlier, I had tried to raise a seed round to kickstart our new company. I applied to a few accelerators in hopes of securing capital to launch the startup. Accelerators at the time were mentor-based programs intended to give startups both support and capital. There was a catch. There always is. If we got in, we’d have to move to where the program was located for three months. It felt like a small price to pay for the financial security.

We spent months building up enough cushion for my husband to leave his corporate job and join me as co-founder. We went from a steady paycheck to watching our bank account dwindle month after month. The risk was real. Limited funds. No insurance. Yet, this challenge exhilarated me.

I got the call that we had been accepted into an accelerator. It felt like I won the lottery. In some ways I did. The accelerator offered us $25,000 for 6% of the company. The money was good, but the validation from someone who saw potential in the idea was even better. I felt like a real entrepreneur. Within weeks of the call, we put our house up for rent, packed our bags, grabbed our puggle, and moved to a Detroit apartment.

I started the program, preparing for its end. Figuring out this building-a-business thing, while simultaneously fundraising.

The next few months came on fast. We cashed out our 401k and savings account. We put everything into the company. We watched each dollar disappear. The financial pressure mounted: late-night anxiety, followed by pursuing investors all day. Then, I got the call. My husband was on the ground in pain.

After initial denial, a trip to the doctor revealed the news we knew we couldn’t afford. The recommended surgery to repair his ruptured Achilles would wipe out what little money was left in our bank account.

Our Achilles heel was staring us in the face. The money we held onto so tightly was gone. We were broke.

Three months later, we packed up and left Detroit, tail between our legs. We moved where no married couple wants to, back in with my parents, setting up camp in my childhood bedroom.

Studies show that what holds us back from what we want in life is not the need for more money but the fear of losing what we already have. A rope I clung to so tightly it left burns on my hands as I fell down.

There we were, on my parents' couch, with tears welling up in our eyes. How did we get here? How in the world could we get back up?

For months, I wrestled with what failure meant to me. A slow truth surfaced: the company failing didn’t mean I was a failure.

The breakthrough: We weren’t broke, we were broke open.

It all looked different from the bottom, clearer. At my worst, I had a husband who loved me, a family who offered help, and parents who took us in. We had no money, but we had everything we needed.

Up until that point, money had dictated the way we lived. Somewhere between a safe place to land and being surrounded by people helping us pick up the pieces — Money lost its grip on me.

After our startup failed, we had a choice. Go back to stable, corporate lives (the ones we were told we were crazy to leave). Or move forward, trusting what we learned and embracing our own imperfections.

With nothing to lose, literally, we chose the latter.

I thought success would give me financial freedom. Unexpectedly, I found more freedom in this broken space. When fear became a reality, the monster of failure was scaled down to size. And letting go of perfection was a truer success, I didn’t see coming.