That month, our combined income dropped 40%. We ate rice and black beans four nights in a row. Marcus picked up a one-day gig helping Denise build shelving at the coffee shop. $200 cash, paid same day.
I took on a rush project for a real estate agent in Pflugerville who needed Instagram content. $300 for 15 posts. I made them in one night, fueled by instant coffee and a feeling that hovered somewhere between determination and dread.
One evening, while Marcus was on a call with a potential new client, I walked into the bathroom, shut the door, turned on the faucet, and cried.
Not the graceful kind. The kind where your whole body folds and the sound that comes out doesn’t sound like you. I pressed my face into a towel and let it happen.
The bathroom was small: white tile, yellowed grout, a faucet that dripped every 3 seconds.
When I came out, Marcus was still on his call. I washed my face, opened my email.
One new message from Lorraine Voss.
Your food truck campaign was surprisingly sharp. I’ve been watching your recent work. Come to my office Thursday. I might have something.
I read it three times, then a fourth.
I didn’t know it yet, but that Thursday meeting would change the trajectory of everything.
Lorraine Voss worked out of a third-floor office in a co-working space on Rainey Street. The kind of building where every suite had a different startup name on the door and the communal kitchen always smelled like someone’s overambitious pour-over.
Her office was small, immaculate, and deliberately spare: a standing desk, two chairs, a single orchid on the windowsill, and nothing on the walls except a framed cover of Ad Age from 2014 with her name in the subheading.
She was 52, silver bob cut with surgical precision, navy blazer over a white tee, no jewelry except a Cartier Tank watch on her left wrist that caught the overhead light every time she moved her hand—which was often, because Lorraine talked the way she worked.
Direct. Fast. No wasted motion.
“Your Big Tony’s Brisket campaign increased their weekend foot traffic by 34%,” she said before I’d fully sat down. “I called Tony. He confirmed the numbers. That’s not luck.”
She paused, looked at me the way a contractor looks at a load-bearing wall, assessing what it can hold.
“But your pricing is amateur. You charged $800 for work worth $4,000. You’re not doing yourself any favors by being cheap. You’re telling clients you don’t believe in your own value.”
The words hit closer to home than she knew.
“Here’s what I’m offering. I have two hospitality clients—a boutique hotel in the Domain and a bed and breakfast out in Hill Country. Both need social media strategy and brand refreshes. I’ll refer you if, and only if, you come back to me with a proper proposal, proper pricing, and a registered LLC. Not a freelancer with an Upwork profile. A business.”
She checked her watch.
“You have 48 hours.”
I stood. My hands were shaking. “Thank you, Lorraine.”
“Don’t thank me. Earn it. I don’t refer sloppy work.”
I walked to my car, sat behind the wheel, and called Marcus.
“I need you to help me register an LLC tonight.”
That night, Marcus and I sat at the wobbly IKEA table with his laptop open to the Texas Secretary of State website. The filing form for a limited liability company was surprisingly simple.
Name, registered agent, address, purpose. The fee was $300.
“We have 700 in the account after rent. That’s almost half of what we have left,” I said.
“It’s an investment,” Marcus said. “Not an expense.”
I typed the name into the field: Huitt Creative LLC.
Marcus looked at me. “You’re using your family name.”
“It’s my name, too. And I’m going to make it mean something different.”
He didn’t argue. He clicked submit.
$300 to file—more than half of what my mother thought I was worth at Meredith’s wedding.
Over the next 48 hours, I built two proposals on Google Docs: one for the Domain Hotel, one for the Hill Country Bed and Breakfast.
I priced each project at $4,500. My fingers hesitated over the numbers. Lorraine’s voice echoed: You’re telling clients you don’t believe in your own value.
I kept the price.
