The Woman Who Built Wicked

She had no idea what was ahead of her when she started.

In those early days, she thought starting a business was about building something new — but what she was really doing was finally creating a space that could see her. The real her. The one hiding in baggy T-shirts, praying no one would notice, feeling like a fraud in a room full of "after photos." She could outwork anyone, but she still wasn't the "ideal client." Not pretty enough, not thin enough, not branded enough. Just... invisible.

That's where Wicked Fitness was conceived. Not from a perfect vision board or a slick business plan. It was born from something rawer — anger, exhaustion, heartbreak. Born from being the underdog, the misfit, the girl with the rebel heart who didn't want to be fixed, just seen.

She didn't build Wicked for six-packs and selfies.

She built it for the woman crying in her car before walking into the gym. For the girl who'd never felt like she belonged in a fitness ad, a locker room, or even her own damn skin. Most of all, she built it for herself — the woman she'd been, the woman she was becoming.

The journey wasn't easy. It never would be. She juggled more than any human should — kids pulling at her sleeves, a marriage that needed tending, community obligations, another business running on the side. She fought for her name, her space, her damn right to be there. Doubt became her unwelcome companion, whispering questions that kept her awake at night.

2020 nearly broke everything. When the world cracked open and the finances hit rock bottom, she learned something that no business school could teach: Hope is louder than fear when it's tied to purpose.

She witnessed it firsthand — transformation that went deeper than the surface. Women walked through her doors carrying invisible weights, and something shifted in that space she'd created. They began to heal, to change, to take up space for the first time and refuse to shrink again — physically, emotionally, spiritually.

The ripple effects spread. To their daughters. Their friends. A quiet generational shift that couldn't be measured in profit margins but felt like revolution in the lives it touched.

That's what kept her going through the sleepless nights and tear-stained business plans.

She wouldn't become a millionaire from Wicked. There would be no yacht retirement funded by her fitness revolution. But what she did create was something more valuable than wealth.

She started a movement.

She became the woman she'd needed when she was younger — and offered that same fierce acceptance to every other woman who felt too loud, too soft, too big, too broken, too much. In a world that profited from women's insecurities, she built a sanctuary where being human was enough.

Years later, when she looked back at that scared girl in the baggy T-shirt, she could finally see the truth: She'd already won the moment she decided to begin.

Her goal had been simple — change one life. And she had. Starting with her own.

The sleepless nights mattered. The doubts and tears carved out space for something beautiful. She mattered.

Wicked may not have changed her life in the ways she'd imagined, but it changed lives — and that became a legacy no one could take from her.

She kept going, carrying more scars now, a hell of a lot more strength, and zero regrets.