Big changes happen in small moments. 

I sat on the edge of the bed—half tanned, half burnt, and still in my swimsuit. We were supposed to be on vacation but after Cladwell’s meteoric fall, my husband and I were negotiating to buy it outright. We didn’t want to let it die, we wanted to keep it alive. After waiting to hear if we had a deal, the call finally came. Speakerphone turned all the way up, his voice crackled through, “We’d like to keep a percentage of the company, and have a seat on the board.” 

I shook with anger. We’d been negotiating for weeks and this was the first we were hearing of anyone having a vested interest in staying involved. It became clear that we were no longer negotiating price, but something much bigger—their reputation.

What the other investors wanted has become known in the business world as “schmuck insurance."   Schmuck is a coarse Yiddish term meaning “foolish jerk.” And no one wants to look like one when the company they sell becomes more valuable without them; they want a type of insurance as a way to protect their reputation. This was the classic way of doing business: minimize the risk and protect your own backside at all costs. 

A wise person once said, “A fool knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.” 

I knew having financial investors who no longer cared for the company would come at a great cost. In my opinion, the collapse of Cladwell came when the least personally invested had the most power. The value of running Cladwell untethered to the past was far greater than the dollars investors might contribute. 

I had a vision for Cladwell. I believed in it. And I refused to trade it for a crappy consolation prize. If I was willing to take the risk it needed to be on my terms. 

Right there on the edge of the bed, swimsuit and all, I found the courage to stand my ground. Big change, small moment. And the birthplace of the Cladwell as you know it.