• Jatee Kearsley's bakery, Je T'aime Patisserie, gained fame after a viral feature on Righteous Eats.
• Going viral changed the trajectory of her business but took a toll on her mental health.
• Kearsley says she wouldn't want to go viral again, even though that may sound ungrateful.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Jatee Kearsley, the owner and pastry chef of Je T'aime Patisserie, which offers a "Black girl twist" on French pastries in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. It has been edited for length and clarity.

In April 2024, I sat in my bakery with my Bible study group and told them I had $2,000 in my bank account and no idea how I was going to pay my employees the next day.

When I opened my bakery a year prior, I knew it would be hard. I had taken out loans. I had put in my own savings. I understood that small businesses require money for everything: rent, ingredients, payroll, insurance, and taxes.

Still, nothing prepares you for sitting in your own store and realizing you might not be able to cover payroll. Then, the day after meeting with my Bible study group, everything changed.

We were featured on Righteous Eats, a social media feed run by Jaeki Cho and Brian Lee that features New York City restaurants. The video went viral, and by the following weekend, my bank account looked completely different.

Going viral was a blessing. I will never pretend it wasn't. It changed the trajectory of my business. However, I don't think people talk enough about what going viral does to your mental health.

For me mentally, I don't want to go viral again. That might sound ungrateful, but it's honest.

Going viral didn't make the work easier

On a normal day before going viral, my team and I of about four, were making, on average, 200 croissants a week. After we went viral, demand shot up to about 200 croissants every other day.

I specifically remember selling four chocolate croissants the day before going viral and then 30 the day of. We make all types of croissants from scratch: chocolate, almond, ham and cheese, blueberry cheesecake, and more.

We laminate the dough, hand-roll each one, proof them, bake them, and fill them. Going viral didn't make our team any bigger, and I had to loop in friends, family, and volunteers to help fill orders and deliveries.

There were weekends when it was just me and one other person in the bakery at 6 a.m., trying to keep up.

Other days, I was filling 160 mini croissants for catering orders on top of regular production. I've even hand-rolled croissants on my day off because there was no one else to do it.

Going viral brought more customers, but it also brought higher expectations

People would leave reviews saying they waited hours, only to find we were sold out. I didn't want to disappoint anyone. So I slept on a bench in the bakery for a week straight after going viral to make sure I was keeping up with the demand that was needed during that time.

There's also the emotional weight that comes with virality. When we went viral the first time, it was exciting. It also meant strangers had opinions about everything: my prices, my neighborhood, the fact that I accept Electronic Benefits Transfer.

I accept EBT because I know what underserved, overlooked communities of people are dealing with. And I never wanted there to be a moment where someone walked into Je T'aime Patisserie and wasn't able to afford it.

I specifically wanted Je T'aime Patisserie to be in a neighborhood where people don't have things. Historically, Bed-Stuy is an underserved, overlooked food desert.

So, it was super important for me to make sure that my food impacts the neighborhood by providing high-quality, fresh pastries. People thought that accepting EBT was going to ruin my business, but it actually helped.

Everything I have achieved with my shop is because I accept all types of people in my store, including EBT and SNAP holders.

It's not about the money or going viral

I know this is Business Insider, and we're supposed to talk about numbers. But if I'm being honest, this has never been about the money for me.

If this were just about money, I would make different decisions. I would raise my prices more aggressively. I would stop worrying about whether a single mom can afford a croissant. I would probably choose a different neighborhood.

But I opened in Bed-Stuy on purpose. People told me my bakery "belonged" in Manhattan. I disagreed. I wanted someone who has never tried a fresh croissant or a quiche to walk into my shop and feel like they deserve it.

Financially, EBT makes up a small percentage of my revenue. But the support and gratitude from those customers mean more to me than the dollar amount ever could.

If I could run this business without making money, I would. Unfortunately, that's not realistic in New York City. You need money to survive. But my passion has always been about helping people and impacting my community.

• I booked a trip to an important work conference to network and meet with potential clients.
• When I got to the Hartsfield-Jackson Airport in Atlanta, I saw the long TSA lines and waited hours.
• I missed my flight and the conference, which cost me business opportunities.

This wasn't just a missed flight. It was my path to a room full of investors at the Transform conference in Las Vegas. It was the kind of access that matters when you're building a new coaching business, and every connection could change your trajectory.

The night before, there was a moment that now feels like eerie foreshadowing. My husband asked what time to set the alarm for so he could take me to the airport. He thought my flight was at 7:35 a.m., not 7:35 p.m. We laughed it off.

In retrospect, we probably should have gone with his plan. If I had gotten there 12 hours early, I might've made that flight. Instead, I did what most of us do. I planned carefully.

Before leaving, I asked my 17-year-old to check TSA wait times. He said it was 45 minutes. I smiled, thinking that sounded too good to be true. From experience, a posted 45-minute wait usually means closer to two hours. I accounted for that.

What I didn't account for was five.

The TSA line wrapped around baggage carousels

By the time I reached Hartsfield-Jackson Airport on Sunday afternoon, the line was too long to be just 45 minutes. It wrapped around baggage carousels and thickened into a dense, slow maze past carousel nine.

I tried to be patient, but none of us was going anywhere. I kept checking the time on my Fitbit, then on my phone, as if one might offer a different reality. I was trying to make sense of what I couldn't control.

That's when something shifted. I couldn't move the line, but I could choose how I met the moment — whether I spiraled into frustration or grounded myself in what I could still impact.

While still in line, I pulled up the Delta app to rebook. Every flight to Las Vegas on Sunday night was sold out. At the same time, I started texting with Delta customer service. They advised me to go to the baggage help area and request that my luggage be removed from the plane.

They submitted the request. I waited, hoping there was still time. Then the status on my FlyDelta app changed to "On board."

I never made it to the gate, but my bag did. While I was returning home, my bag was in Vegas, living its best life without me.

This wasn't just any trip; it was a room I needed to be in

For someone building a new coaching business, the kind of access I would have gotten at the conference is essential.

Transform is a conference focused on the future of work. This year's theme, centered on the Human + AI equation, brings together founders, investors, and leaders to explore how organizations are evolving in real time.

Through curated meetings, hands-on sessions, and structured networking like FastPass, conference attendees are matched with the right people rather than the casual introductions many conferences offer. That was the part I was most excited about.

I had four pre-planned meetings scheduled. Those were conversations that could have turned into partnerships, clients, or long-term collaborations.

I also invested time and resources into being there. While my conference ticket was covered through a volunteer role and I now have a flight credit with Delta, I am still working through hotel charges and other trip expenses I never completed. I rescheduled existing clients to make space for the trip, which means a delay in guaranteed revenue.

More than that, I can't stop thinking about the potential revenue and relationships that could've come from simply being in the room. As an entrepreneur, those moments matter. They are often where momentum begins.

These TSA delays are affecting all of us in different ways

What I experienced isn't unique. Long security delays are causing people to miss flights and opportunities that may never come back. Those impacts show up in the quiet ways our lives are rerouted: a room we never enter, a conversation that doesn't happen, or a deal that doesn't get made.

We call delays inconveniences, but sometimes they cost access. And in business, access is everything.

Behind every long line is a real cost: time lost, plans disrupted, or opportunities missed. We don't always see those costs. But we feel them.

• Taylor M. LaSane built a career coaching side hustle while working at Google.
• Last year, she accepted a voluntary buyout to focus on her business full-time.
• She shared why she made the leap — and her advice for others weighing major career moves.

Last June, Taylor M. LaSane faced a decision she'd been weighing for years: whether to walk away from her six-figure salary at Google to go all in on the career coaching business she started three years earlier.

Google had just offered voluntary buyouts to some US-based employees, including those in the finance organization where she worked, positioning the program as an option for workers who didn't feel "all in" on the company's direction.

LaSane said her buyout offer included just under six months of severance pay. While the payout would help ease her transition to entrepreneurship, the risk was still significant. She said her income from the business was roughly 10% of what she earned at Google — and she had to weigh the financial implications for her husband and their twin toddlers.

Around this time, LaSane learned about the unexpected death of her uncle at the age of 62. She said he had recently retired and been looking forward to having time to "relax and actually live." His death, coupled with the buyout offer, made her question how long she was willing to wait to pursue her own plans.

"It was a reminder that life is too short to wait for permission," said LaSane, who is 32 and lives in Atlanta.

She ultimately decided to apply for the buyout and, after being accepted, took the offer — with her employment formally ending in October.

Over the past year, I've interviewed more than a dozen workers like LaSane, many of them from Big Tech companies, who chose to quit their jobs without having another role lined up. Some eventually landed at another large company. Others stepped away from the corporate world entirely — joining smaller firms, launching their own ventures, pursuing career pivots, or focusing on personal priorities, such as parenting.

These people have become outliers in an economy where workers are quitting at one of the lowest rates in the past decade — a trend fueled by a hiring slowdown across tech and other sectors that has left many holding tightly to their jobs with few appealing alternatives.

Those who walked away told me they did so for a range of reasons: concerns about job security, changes in workplace culture, entrepreneurial ambitions, or a desire for more meaningful work. The common theme: they were seeking greater long-term control over their careers.

TikTok visibility and motherhood slowed the business

In addition to LaSane's main role at Google, she volunteered as a career coach through an internal program for Google employees. She said she enjoyed the work and led as many as eight 40-minute coaching sessions in a given week.

In 2022, after seven years with Google, her growing interest in coaching — among other factors — began laying the foundation for her eventual exit.

That February, she began making career-focused TikTok videos. Around the same time, she began questioning whether her role was the right fit for her after she worked hard for a promotion, earned it, and still felt an "empty feeling."

"I was taking meetings at 2 o'clock in the morning, my hair was falling out, it was not a great time," she said. "And then I got the promotion, and I felt worse than I did before."

After reassessing her priorities, she took another step toward career coaching. In May 2022, she formally launched SHYNE, a coaching company focused on helping corporate professionals navigate career transitions. Later that year, in October, she earned a certification in leadership and performance coaching from Brown University.

From there, LaSane began taking on clients in her spare time and generating a modest income. But two factors held her back from pursuing the business more aggressively: the time constraints of juggling a full-time job and her growing concerns about the visibility of her growing TikTok presence.

LaSane said a few Google colleagues mentioned seeing her videos, and while she was never discouraged from posting, she worried about the potential career implications of being so visible online. So she decided to scale back her posting.

"I think I was trying to balance having a business on the side, but also managing the internal corporate brand," she said.

In 2023, another development pulled her away from her side business: she became pregnant with twins. In May of that year, LaSane took a break from the business that lasted until around September 2024 — spanning her pregnancy and about 10 months away from work, including eight months of company-provided maternity leave and two months of vacation and medical leave. When she returned to Google in the fall, she also refocused on growing her business.

Going all in on entrepreneurship

LaSane decided to trade TikTok for LinkedIn as her primary platform — and leaned more into group coaching and live events. Then in early 2025, she began questioning more seriously whether her position at Google was still the right fit, as organizational changes — including a growing emphasis on AI — left her increasingly uncertain about her responsibilities and long-term path.

At the same time, she believed in her business's potential — and felt the eight to 20 hours a week she could devote to it outside work and family obligations were limiting its growth. She also weighed her job security at Google, which she felt wasn't guaranteed.

"Big Tech layoffs are happening everywhere, so it wasn't like staying there was necessarily any more stable than leaving," she said.

So when she learned about Google's buyout option and mulled it over, she decided to apply and was approved. After assessing her family's financial situation — which included her husband's income and her business earnings — she accepted the offer.

LaSane said that, on the whole, Google was a "great company to work for," adding that the community she built there is what she'll remember most fondly.

In recent months, LaSane said her business has evolved from a focus on one-on-one coaching into a "career studio" with workshops and group coaching programs. She's not currently taking a personal salary from the business, but said individual events and programs have generated revenue. She said last year's Dream Day event — a live coaching workshop — brought in about $3,000 in revenue.

LaSane said she wants to give herself at least a year to pursue the business full-time before considering a pivot back to the corporate world.

"I thought about the story I wanted to tell my kids," she said. "That she took this kind of risk and was willing to bet on herself in this way — that's the story I want them to know. So I think bailing out too soon wouldn't fit the narrative."

Among her top pieces of advice for people navigating their careers: Chase the purpose and future you want — not the one you think you're supposed to have.

"If you get clear about that, everything else will fall in place," she said. "That's what happened for me."

• Allison Sheehan ran a baking business while working in private wealth at Goldman Sachs.
• She left Goldman after she said the firm told her she couldn't keep her online brand.
• Now, she's using her Wall Street skills, like capital allocation, to scale her cake business.

This as-told-to is based on a conversation with Allison Sheehan, 26, a former analyst for private wealth at Goldman Sachs and student at Northwestern's Kellogg School of Management, where she's building her baking brand, Alleycat. Business Insider has verified her roles at Goldman and her current school enrollment. The interview has been edited for length and clarity.

Baking cakes started out as a college hobby — I'd make them for my sorority sisters and, once word got out, the broader Dallas community. When I landed a job in operations at Goldman Sachs in Utah, I stopped baking entirely, though I still longed to build up my cake empire. I had no family, no friends, no nothing in Utah, and was focused on getting transferred to New York.

I eventually got a job in the wealth management unit in New York. It was a part operational, since I was opening accounts and managing money, but also client-facing, which I loved.

As soon as I got to New York, I restarted my baking social media accounts, which had around 500 followers at the time, and announced that I was back in business. Orders picked up, but I didn't have time for all of them, so I capped it at three cakes a week, creating a scarcity model. I sold out weekly for about 6 months before expanding to up to 10 cakes.

That's when I started struggling to fit everything in, but I was getting good traction, making cakes for companies and fashion houses, like Goop. A typical day meant waking up at 5 am to frost a cake, going to the gym, going to work, baking a cake, going to dinner with friends, and going to sleep. I spent all my spare moments invoicing clients or editing videos. In 2023, my friend's boyfriend said I should post under the handle "investment__baker," but I was careful not to mention anything about where I worked or my exact job.

I learned valuable skills at Goldman

Goldman's high-stakes hustle culture has helped me build the brand — I had to be responsive, communicative, and accurate, all skills I use now. I always quickly consolidate my notes and immediately flag any concerns to product developers or suppliers. On the communication front, I'm able to connect people across the supply chain, from technical food scientists to more creative-minded brand designers. And when it comes to accuracy, I'm precise about costs, even on volatile products like cocoa, and margins.

In wealth management, I learned a lot about capital allocation, helping clients balance their portfolios and plan for expenses. But I learned just as much from my own failures.

After I started taking on more orders, I rented a commercial kitchen on the Lower East Side to bake and teach workshops. It solved logistical problems but drained my bank account. Every penny I made from baking went toward rent, and I eventually had to return to my apartment. That was definitely not a good capital allocation strategy, since it almost left me broke.

Goldman gave me an ultimatum

At that point, I knew I needed to go all in on my business and decided to apply to business school. Studying for the GRE while working and running the business was unsustainable.

My health deteriorated, and I broke down at work, having a panic attack and sobbing to my very understanding VP. I went home to Wisconsin for two weeks, shut down all of my social media accounts, and brought my brand to an awful, screeching halt.

Six months later, I reopened the account, with 2,000 fewer followers and almost no DMs. The momentum came back quickly, though, until, boom: Goldman's compliance team called me in and asked me to delete all of my content or leave the firm. They said the word "investment" on my social handles alluded to my job, and I had to delete everything. After finishing my business school interviews a few months later, I un-archived all of the content, got called in again, and quit.

I couldn't waste the five years of time and energy I'd poured into this business.

Goldman is still helping me now

I've scaled back my custom cake business and am focused on building my consumer packaged goods products: dry cake mixes and frosting, like the kind you can scoop out of the jar. I've finished the formulation, secured suppliers, and gotten my nutritional label approved, but I'm still struggling to find a manufacturer.

Small brands have to convince manufacturers they're a worthwhile investment. From their perspective, why spend time onboarding a tiny Instagram baker who could easily fail?

That's where Goldman has come in. Beyond knowing how to build a nice deck and balance a budget, my background at such a prestigious firm lends me credibility. It comes up in conversations, and I'll include it in presentations, since I'm proud to have worked there. The firm is relevant to my online brand, too, since I still post as the investment baker and share investing advice.

I'm making a fraction of my Goldman salary, but I'm fundamentally a creative person. I couldn't spend my life behind a desk. When I started, my goal was to make a cake for a celebrity, which I've done multiple times, including for Brooke Shields. Now, I want to bring home baking back — and revolutionize the grocery aisles.

• Clémence de Lutz owns Petitgrain Boulangerie, one of LA's most popular bakeries.
• On opening day in 2024, she sold out of croissants in about an hour. Today, there's often a line out the door.
• She credits her small business's success to social capital, intentional hiring, and radical hospitality.

When Clémence de Lutz answered my phone call at 1 p.m. on a Friday afternoon in late February, she'd already been awake — and working — for 12 hours.

De Lutz owns Petitgrain Boulangerie, a tiny bakery tucked between a delicatessen and a nail salon on Los Angeles' iconic Wilshire Boulevard. Five days a week, her alarm goes off at 12:48 a.m., giving her just enough time to get out of bed, walk the 10 blocks to the shop, and start shaping croissants by 1 a.m. She relieves her 23-year-old daughter, who works the 5 p.m. to 1 a.m. night shift.

Those early hours aren't for show. They're key to good business.

The most foot traffic happens between 8 a.m., when her bakery opens, and 10:30 a.m., she explained: "If we don't have enough things to sell because we shaped too late or they went into the proofer too late, then we lose money."

From 1 a.m. to 3 a.m., she works alone in the kitchen.

"It's my favorite time of day," said the mother of three, "because I just listen to true-crime podcasts."

At 3 a.m., a second baker arrives, followed by three more, staggered at 4 a.m., 5 a.m., and 6 a.m. Front of house clocks in at 7 a.m., and the doors open an hour later. Regulars often line up well before then to secure their favorite pastries, including the most popular item: the plain croissant.

On Fridays, she typically works a half-day and focuses on business development. The Friday we chat is different.

"This week, I'm short-staffed," she told me, stepping out of the kitchen to take the call. "I have a nice, healthy 45 minutes ahead of me. I'm just waiting for things to rise in the proofer."

De Lutz was born in Paris and moved with her family to Washington, D.C., when she was eight. Summers were spent selling ice cream and washing dishes at the inn and restaurant her grandparents owned in the south of France. "My parents would just drop us off for the summer and be like, 'Work for tips,'" she recalled.

She studied film and anthropology at Syracuse University, then moved to Los Angeles with plans to make documentaries. She tried the corporate route first, taking an executive assistant job at Fox, but it didn't last. "I just couldn't find my footing until I went back into food in my early 20s and was like, 'Oh, this is what feels normal,'" she said. "Chaos feels normal."

Turning a cubicle cookie side hustle into a career

While a desk job wasn't a great fit for de Lutz, it led to a side hustle that would change the course of her career. She'd collect cookie orders from coworkers throughout the week and deliver her handmade creations on Fridays. Her cubicle cookie business eventually landed a spot on KCRW's "Good Food," an appearance she says "changed my life." She quit her job, rented a commercial kitchen, and began working as a ghost pastry chef for restaurants. Baking evolved into teaching and consulting. For years, she helped other bakeries build menus and streamline systems, work that also served as real-time education on what it takes to succeed in the industry.

When the opportunity to run her own bakery fell into her lap — a friend she'd consulted for called her up and said, "Hey, I'm retiring, do you want my space?" — she jumped.

Taking over an existing kitchen space in LA typically comes with expensive delays and red tape. In Los Angeles County, she explained, commercial kitchens that sit empty for 90 days or more can trigger a permit reset. So, "when you find an owner who is willing to work with you and close the day before you want to open and just kind of negotiate key money for buying out the equipment, you can never pass that up."

She has lived lean, she said, with no credit card debt or loans, so the risk of opening felt manageable.

"The values I grew up with have very little to do with money. In France, it's not customary to value money or wealth. It's really valuing being a tradesperson, being an expert in your field," she said. "Taking risks was always easy because I had nothing to lose."

Opening day: Selling 300 croissants in 1 hour

Petitgrain opened in May 2024. From the start, demand outpaced production.

Opening day, she made about 300 croissants. They didn't last more than an hour. On day two, she about doubled the number and sold out again.

Since opening, the bakery has drawn steady crowds from Wednesday through Sunday, the days it's open. Today, the operation is close to its ceiling.

"We're pretty maxed out," she said. Her 870-square-foot kitchen, equipped with one double-stack oven and one small proofer, produces 32 "books" of croissants a day. A book yields roughly 24 to 30 croissants, putting the daily volume at 700 to 900. Though the croissant is the top seller, she offers a variety of other pastries, including cinnamon, cardamom, and sausage rolls, as well as cookies, quiche, and scones.

The business worked from the get-go because she understood her baseline costs and built for sustainability. It helped that her landlord was committed to renting to small businesses at below-market rent, she added: "Rent is $4,100 a month, and we knew how much we needed to make to make rent."

Early on, she kept a second job teaching baking classes, but within a couple of months of opening, she sold her share of the cooking school to focus fully on Petitgrain.

De Lutz said Petitgrain's average monthly sales have climbed about 131% from 2024, when she first opened, as the team slowly increased production. Small upgrades, such as undercounter freezers, have helped drive another 20% in growth over the last few months, she added.

Her secret sauce: Social capital and 'radical hospitality'

Having ripped open one of her flaky masterpieces myself, it's hard to agree with de Lutz when she claims her croissants are "overhyped."

"I'm not kidding," she said when I chuckled. "I wake up every morning at 12:48 a.m., and my first thought is: 'How can I live up to this hype?' It's a lot of expectations, but it's sort of what drives you to be excellent."

A big part of her immediate success, she believes, was timing. When Petitgrain opened, interest in croissants surged across Los Angeles.

"Everybody all of a sudden wanted to write about croissants," she said. "It was just really lucky timing."

Less visible, and perhaps more impactful than trends, however, were the relationships she'd built from being in the food and hospitality community for so long. Social capital, she said, is "the most important part of my story." While it's hard to quantify, "I think that has the biggest return."

Her hiring model and teambuilding strategies are unique. At Petitgrain, she practices what she calls "both-of-house" training: everyone in back of house learns front of house, and everyone in front of house works at least one back-of-house shift weekly.

That way, "everyone understands the product better and has respect for their team members," she said. She also rejects a traditional hierarchy and instead aims for shared accountability, anchored in wages.

"My business model is based on generous hospitality," she said. "Everybody needs to earn a living wage, not like $20 an hour. Everyone here, with tips, is making at minimum $30 an hour. I don't want anyone to have to work a second job."

To make that work, she runs a tip pool, and she protects it. She refuses to hire ahead of revenue.

"Because the tip pool is such an important part of everybody's paycheck, I'm really cautious," she said. "I cannot bring in a new team member until we grow sales between 6 and 8% at a time because, if I add an extra person before revenue grows, everybody's tip pool gets diluted."

As of early 2026, she has a team of 13 bakers and baristas. When she does hire, credentials aren't her priority. She's looking for kindness, hustle, and curiosity.

"I don't care if you went to culinary school. I don't care if you worked at a Michelin-star restaurant," she said. "Honestly, it's not hard to make a croissant. It really isn't. But if you are curious, if you are humble, if you work hard, you'll figure it out. And 99% of the time, that yields a really great team."

Underneath all of it is what she calls her core belief system: radical generosity, expressed through radical hospitality.

"There's never a time when I have been radically generous and regretted it," she said.