My ma worried in her own way. I would ask her to drop me off at meetings on her way to taking my younger sister to school. She would ask about the progress of the business and, when I needed it, slide $5 to $20 my way for gas.

My father worried that the business wasn't making visible money fast enough. He saw the hours I put in, the events and conferences I attended, the admin work and how many calls I took.

What he didn't see was the money, the help and the opportunities that should follow so much effort. So one day he said, "Don't you think it's time to get a real job?" That cut. He couldn't see what I saw, and for the first time I understood what it felt like to be a lonely founder.

I understood why Africans come home from abroad, start something, and give up for a "regular job." It was the first comment my dad made, but not the last. "Do you want me to see if any of my former colleagues are hiring someone with your profile?" "Do you mind sending me your CV so I can send it to my friends?" Slowly, these questions, helpful and caring as they were, became pressure points.

I realized that my early days weren't bearing the financial fruit my family expected. I had spent a year and a half building Kivu Brand and was barely covering expenses, let alone affording help.

I was in a classic chicken-and-egg scenario: to increase our visibility and the number of pitches we did, I needed help; to get help, I needed money; and I wasn't making enough to hire anyone full time.

So I struggled, and my parents got a front-row seat for almost two years. Their concern was well placed: a previously successful, always independent daughter was back home, struggling to get a nebulous idea off the ground.