CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SETH
I spend the rest of the afternoon researching.
Not work. Not emails. Research on how to actually step back from a company I founded.
Succession planning. Leadership transitions. Founder exits. I read articles and case studies, download white papers, and take notes in a fresh document.
Some founders step back, and it works. They transition to advisory roles, let new CEOs take over, and build lives outside the office. Others try and fail, either getting pulled back in or watching their companies collapse without them.
The ones who succeed have a few things in common:
They build strong leadership teams first
They make clean breaks, not gradual fadeouts
They have something else to pour their energy into
They let go of control
That last one is my problem. I don't know how to let go.
But perhaps I can learn.
I open a new document and start writing. Not a business plan. A life plan.
What staying looks like:
Resign as CEO, transition to board member only
Allen becomes CEO (he's ready, I've been holding him back)
Quarterly board meetings, that's it (Jennifer has my permission to hide my car keys if I get out of hand)
No daily operations, no crisis management, no emergency calls
Build a remote work setup here, but for NEW projects, not the company
Maybe consulting for other startups? Advisory work? Something that uses my skills without consuming my life
Focus on health: maintain the routines that worked
Build a life with Jennifer
Then, I start a second list.
What that actually requires:
Formal succession plan (6-month transition)
Restructure my role and compensation
Train Allen on CEO responsibilities I've been hoarding
Set HARD boundaries with board (no calling me for day-to-day)
Get buy-in from major investors
Probably therapy (fuck, I probably need therapy)
Prove to Jennifer this isn't just talk
The second list is harder. Scarier. These are concrete steps, not vague intentions.
But they're also... possible? Maybe?
I keep writing, thinking through scenarios, planning contingencies. By the time the sun sets, I have ten pages of notes. It's not perfect, but it's a start.
A real start.
***
That night, I force myself to eat a proper dinner. Grilled chicken and roasted vegetables from the meal plan on the fridge. It's not as good as when Jennifer and I make it together, but I manage to eat it all. I need to get and stay healthy for any of my plans to work.
I take my evening blood pressure: 143 over 90.
Still elevated. Still wrong.
I need her. Not just because she makes me healthier, but because I want her here. Physically ache for her in ways I have never longed for another person before.
But I can't call her yet. Not until I've actually done something, not just planned it.
I lie in bed that night and stare at the ceiling, and I make myself a promise.
Tomorrow, I start. Tomorrow, I have the hard conversations and prove that I can choose differently.
And then, only then, I'll call her.
***
I wake up precisely at seven, and instead of feeling stressed, I’m calm. Today is the day. No more thinking. Today is about action. I’m taking my life back so I can start the life I want with the woman I love.
I take my morning meds, check my blood pressure (141/89—still high but stable), and make coffee. This time I pour only a single mug, but I’m hopeful that soon I can pour two.
Opening my laptop I schedule a video call with my board. Emergency meeting, I label it. Today at 2 p.m.
Allen calls within five minutes.
“Seth, what's going on? Are you okay? The hospital-”
“I'm fine. Stable. But we need to talk. You, me, and the full board.”
“Okay...” He sounds worried. “What's this about?”
“Succession planning. I'm stepping down as CEO.”
Silence on the other end. Then, “What?”
“You're going to be CEO, Allen. It's time. We'll do a formal transition over the next six months, but I'm stepping down.”
“Seth, you just had a health crisis. You're not thinking clearly-”
“I'm thinking clearly for the first time in years.” I lean back in my chair, elated at how good I’m feeling.
“I nearly died five days ago, Allen. And you know what I realized?
The company will be fine without me. Better, probably.
You've been ready to take over for two years.
I've been holding you back because I couldn't let go.”
The line goes silent, and then he says, “I don't know what to say.”
“Say you'll do it. Say you'll take care of the thing I built while I figure out how to actually live.”
Another pause. Then, quieter: “Okay. Yeah. Okay. I'll do it.”
“Good. I'll present the transition plan to the board this afternoon. We'll need to work out the details, the timeline, and the compensation restructuring. But Allen? Thank you. For being ready. For being someone I can trust with this.”
After we hang up, I sit for a moment in the quiet cabin and feel something I haven't felt in years.
Relief.
I spend the morning building the transition plan. A real one, with timelines and deliverables and clear handoff points.
Month 1-2: Announce transition, begin leadership training
Month 3-4: Allen shadows all CEO responsibilities, I step back from daily operations
Month 5-6: Final handoff, I transition to board member only
I outline what I'll keep (board seat, equity stake, strategic advisory when requested) and what I'm giving up (everything else).
It's comprehensive. Detailed. The kind of plan I'd demand from anyone else proposing a major organizational change.
By 2 p.m., I'm ready. More than ready, I’m eager.
The board call is... intense. Some members are supportive. Others are skeptical. A few are openly hostile, convinced this is a mistake, that the company needs me, that I'm abandoning ship.
But I hold firm.
“I'm not abandoning anything. I'm ensuring continuity. Allen is ready. He's been ready. And I need to step back before this job kills me. Literally.”
By the end of the call, I have tentative approval. They'll vote formally next week, but the consensus is there.
I'm really doing this.
After the call, I should feel anxious. Uncertain. I just gave up the thing I've built my entire adult life around.
Instead, I feel lighter.
I check my blood pressure: 136 over 86.
Which is shocking. It should be through the roof. Guess my mind and body are finally becoming more aligned.
I take the walk I couldn't bring myself to do yesterday. The trail feels lonely without Jennifer, but I do it anyway. Thirty-seven minutes. My watch is pleased.
Back at the cabin, I sit down with my laptop and open a fresh document. I don’t see myself ever giving up on planning.
It's who I am.
But this time, I'm using that compulsive planning for something that matters.
Operation: Choose Life (subtitle: How to Prove I'm Not an Idiot)
I work through the night, researching and planning and documenting everything:
Phase 1: Company Transition (Months 1-6)
Detailed succession timeline
Leadership training schedule
Communication plan for investors, clients, employees
My new role: Board member, quarterly meetings only
Hard boundaries: No emergency calls, no crisis management
Phase 2: Relocation (Months 2-3)
Research properties in town
Home office setup for remote advisory work
New routines and structures
Healthcare: Transfer to local doctors, continue cardiologist remotely
Phase 3: New Life (Month 6+)
Explore consulting opportunities (limited, controlled hours)
Potential investments in local businesses (including resort?)
Long-term health maintenance plan
Build life with Jennifer
Phase 4: Accountability
Weekly check-ins with therapist (need to find one)
Daily health tracking continues
Monthly reviews: Am I keeping my commitments?
Exit clause: If I slip back, what's the intervention plan?
I include data. Research. Links to articles about successful founder transitions. Floor plans for potential home offices. Comparisons of local therapists. Even heart-healthy recipes I've found online.
By 3 a.m., the document is forty-seven pages long.
It's excessive. Obsessive. Completely over the top.
It's perfect.
I take a break, check my blood pressure one more time: 132 over 84.
Almost back to normal.
Because I'm not stressed. I'm not anxious. I'm certain.
This is what I want. This life. This choice. Her.
***
The next morning at 8 a.m., exactly on time for when Jennifer used to arrive, I'm showered, dressed, and sitting on the deck with coffee.
The forty-seven page document is now printed and sitting on the counter in the cabin, compliments of Mrs. Avery, who I had a very long conversation with last night.
I watch the driveway even though I know she won't come. She told me to take the time I needed and to call her when I'd decided.
I've decided.
I pull out my phone and look at her contact. My thumb hovers over the call button.
But then I have a better idea.
I text her instead: Can I come to you? I need to show you something.
The three dots appear immediately. She's been waiting.
What is it?
A report.
A longer pause this time.
A report?
You'll understand when you see it. Can I come over?
Another pause. Then: Okay. Give me an hour.
She gives me her address, and I finish my coffee, reflecting on how vastly my life has changed and all the further changes coming up.
Before I leave I check my blood pressure one more time: 128 over 82.
I grab the report binder, my laptop, and my car keys.
Time to prove I can choose differently.
That I choose life and her, always her.