My parents had a very traditional idea of what “a good life” looked like. They pictured nursing, teaching, maybe social work. Something stable, something familiar.
When I told them I wanted to study computer science, my father laughed like I’d made a joke at the dinner table.
“Technology is a phase,” he said. “You need something practical. Something that will still matter in twenty years.”
My mother worried about whether I’d be “happy” in a male-heavy field, but what she really meant was whether I’d still be “marriage material,” as if my future depended on being chosen by someone.
They refused to help financially.
So I helped myself.
I took out loans. I worked two jobs. I waited tables and tutored. I carried a full course load and slept whenever I could steal an hour. I learned to write code in the kind of exhaustion that makes your eyes burn, fueled by cheap coffee and stubborn determination.
I was not trying to prove them wrong. I was trying to prove myself right.
Becoming a Self-Made Entrepreneur
After graduation, I joined a small tech startup. The pay was modest and the hours were demanding, but I learned quickly. Software development. Operations. Product planning. Everything that makes a business run.
A mentor at the company saw what I could become and pushed me hard. Within three years, I had moved up and helped land a major client.
At twenty-seven, I took the leap that changed everything.
I quit and launched my own company.
The idea came from my roots. I built customer management software specifically for auto repair shops. I understood that world, the pressures, the pace, the need for systems that actually worked. I liked the thought of creating something that could support businesses like the one my grandfather ran.
The first year was terrifying. I worked from my apartment. I lived on noodles, grit, and faith in my own ability. I questioned myself daily.
But the business grew. Slowly at first, then faster.
Three employees became fifteen. Fifteen became fifty. Within a few years, we served clients across the country. Eventually, investors bought a stake in the company and the number on the contract still doesn’t feel real to me.
And along the way, I started building my classic car collection.
The Classic Car Collection That Told My Story
Each car I bought came at a turning point in my life. Not because I was “celebrating” in a flashy way, but because I wanted physical reminders of what I had achieved.
The first was a 1967 Ford Mustang, close to the one my grandfather restored. It was not in perfect shape. It needed work, attention, time. Restoring it felt like stepping back into childhood.
Then came a 1974 Jaguar E-Type, deep green, smooth lines, the kind of car that looks like it belongs in a different era. I bought it after my company had its first profitable year. Driving it with the windows down, I felt the kind of calm I rarely felt while running a business.
I found a 1973 Porsche 911 Carrera RS tucked away and neglected, and I spent more than a year bringing it back. The moment it ran properly, the sound of the engine felt like a reward you can’t fake.
Over time, the collection grew. A Mercedes-Benz 300SL Gullwing. A 1988 Ferrari 328 GTS. A 1963 Corvette Stingray with the split rear window. A 1964 Aston Martin DB5. A rare 1981 BMW M1. A 1989 Lamborghini Countach. A first-generation 1992 Dodge Viper RT/10.
Altogether, the cars were valuable on paper, but that wasn’t the point. Their real value to me was personal. Each one was a chapter. A memory. Proof that I kept my promise to the sixteen-year-old girl in the rusty Taurus.
I joined a classic car club and met people who understood. We hosted charity shows. We raised scholarship money for women entering STEM careers. I did as much maintenance as I could myself because it centered me, the same way it did when I was young.
Those cars were not toys.
They were my life, made tangible.
