In 2015, I gave birth to two things: a child and a company.
It was spring in Portland, Oregon. Like the rest of the Pacific Northwest, the earth was preparing for renewal. Tulips were pushing through the soil, roses were beginning to bloom, and ducklings seemed to be hatching everywhere.

The world was preparing for new life.
And so was I.
That spring, I became a mother.

In those first few days, I was overwhelmed with love for this tiny human I had brought into the world. But alongside that joy was another feeling—strange, unmistakable, impossible to ignore.
Clear as day.
Sure as hell.
Loud as thunder.

This child was not going to be my only act of creation in this life.
A few weeks later, I found myself deep in the haze of new motherhood. I was exhausted, sleep-deprived, and healing physically and emotionally. Anyone who has been through those early days knows they are equal parts beautiful and chaotic.

And somewhere in the middle of breastfeeding, diaper changes, and trying to soothe what I was convinced was the world’s most colicky baby, a voice kept appearing in my mind.
“You should start another business.”
The timing was absurd.

I could barely figure out how to breastfeed properly. I couldn’t remember the last time I had slept. Yet the idea refused to leave me.
“You must start something,” the voice insisted.

For years, I had been drawn toward textiles and home décor. My family had been in textiles for generations, and despite exploring different paths, I always felt pulled back to that world.

One afternoon, while my baby was finally asleep, I opened my laptop and decided to stop overthinking it.
I’ll just register the company.
I filled out the forms online. Then came the question every founder eventually faces:
Company name?
The baby was starting to stir.
“Quick, think of something!”
I looked around. We were on the Pacific Coast.
Pacific Cotton Company.
I typed it in.
It was available.
And just like that, my company was born.

That year, I gave birth to two things: a child and a company.
The next question was obvious.
What exactly would we sell?
I knew one thing with certainty: I didn’t want to create the same products everyone else was making. When businesses compete on identical products, they often end up competing only on price.
Instead, I wanted to build something rooted in quality, design, and craftsmanship.

Textiles weren’t just a business for my family—they were a craft. We understood weaving, materials, and manufacturing deeply. That became our foundation.
But another challenge emerged.

How would we sell?
The textile supply chain is notoriously complex. Products move through agents, importers, distributors, warehouses, and retailers before they finally reach the customer. The process is slow, expensive, and layered with inefficiencies.
What if we removed most of those layers?
What if a product could move directly from the factory to the customer’s home?
That question led us to build a manufacturer-direct model.
We produce our textiles in Madurai and ship them directly to customers around the world. No unnecessary intermediaries. No massive inventories sitting in warehouses. Just a radically simplified supply chain designed around efficiency and customer value.

Many people told me it wouldn’t work.
But the calling that had appeared during those sleepless nights wouldn’t leave me alone.
So we built it.
And it worked.

The company grew many times over. Today, we are the largest producer of a particular category of bedding, built on a simple idea: challenge an old system that no longer serves people.

The recognition followed. Awards arrived. Publications wrote about the business. Growth charts climbed upward.
But something unexpected happened.
The excitement never lasted very long.
Success felt satisfying—for a few moments.
Then the same question would return.
What’s the purpose of all this?
Is it profit?
Is it growth?
Is that really why a company exists?
If profit were the ultimate purpose, why didn’t it fulfill me the way I expected?
And growth—growth for what?
It’s a question we rarely ask.
Growth alone isn’t inherently good. Many businesses grow while losing money. Cancer grows too.
So what was the purpose of my company?
More importantly, what was my purpose?
The answer arrived slowly, through the everyday experience of running a business.

Today, our company employs hundreds of people, many of them women from nearby villages around Madurai.

It is a region where water scarcity has long shaped daily life. Traditionally, the burden of securing water falls on women, and some of our employees were walking nearly ten kilometers every day just to fetch water for their families.
So we installed a reverse-osmosis water plant in the village.

Now they don’t have to.
We provide healthcare support for our employees.
We built toilets for girls in the local school, and attendance among female students improved dramatically.
We are building a crèche so working mothers have a safe place for their children during the day.

The children of many of our employees receive scholarships to study at leading institutions such as Thiagarajar College of Engineering and Thiagarajar College of Arts & Sciences. They are becoming engineers, mathematicians, scientists, professors, and professionals whose futures will look very different from those of previous generations.

When one employee’s child required life-saving heart surgery, we stepped in and ensured they received the care they needed.
And somewhere along this journey, I finally understood why that calling had come to me all those years ago.
Entrepreneurship is not just about creating products.
It is not just about generating profit.

When a business improves the lives of the people around it—the women who work there, their families, their children, and their communities—it becomes something much bigger than commerce.
It becomes creation.

That was the second act of creation my life was calling me toward.
Yes, my company makes beautiful products.
Yes, it generates profit.
But profits were never the purpose.
Profits are the fuel.
The real purpose is people.