Our Mission

We are now running programs that no longer turn a profit—just barely surviving. If you can even call it that. Our business model is failing, and we go into the negative every single month. We were never looking to make a ton of money—we just wanted to earn a livable wage while running amazing, high-quality programs for families. But even that now feels out of reach.

That means we can’t afford extra staff to cover time-off requests or sick days. The owner—me—might not even take a paycheck anymore. Classrooms are as full as licensing allows, and still, it’s not enough to cover monthly expenses or repay the loans we had to take just to survive the pandemic.

We’ve cut food costs. We’ve eliminated admin tools and extra support staff. Now, as owner and director, I wear every hat—I manage licensing, payroll, parent meetings, and enrollment. I also cover breaks, float between classrooms, and cook the meals.

We are stretching childcare centers to the breaking point, and it’s all starting to fall apart.

I followed my dream. I poured my heart into creating a preschool that would truly serve families—a place built on strong core values, where children are loved, nurtured, and inspired to learn through play. I built my center to be a home away from home, where families and staff feel like they belong.

But now, I feel like I’m drowning—without a life ring in sight.

We didn’t just start this business with passion. We started it with everything we had. We put our life savings into this—not just mine, but my parents’, too. They believed in me. They saw the potential this business had, and they believed in my vision so much that they helped loan me the money to start it all. This dream has been a family sacrifice, not just a personal one.

Now I am watching that dream—once a thriving business—slip through my fingers. I work impossible hours and still bring in no income. I feel like I’m hurting my own family just trying to keep this school alive. And I can’t even walk away—not without losing the home my husband and I worked so hard to get. My hands are tied. I can’t let staff go to save costs, because then I can’t maintain required ratios or stay compliant with labor laws. Every decision is lose-lose. There is no room left to cut. No backup plan. No relief in sight.

I’ve spoken to so many owners who are on the brink of closing. And here’s the part no one talks about: I am personally liable for the two buildings I lease for my childcare programs. If this fails, I don’t just lose my school—I lose everything.

Every day, my mind races trying to figure out how to fill enrollment gaps, how to raise the margins just enough so I can pay myself, support my family, retain my teachers, and still keep tuition affordable for the families who rely on us so they can go to work.

But here’s what’s even harder to swallow—we’re doing everything right.

I follow labor laws and licensing requirements. I run a beautiful, high-quality program. I work hard to make this a wonderful place to work. I used to offer so many benefits—but those have slowly dwindled away because there simply isn’t enough money. We can’t raise tuition again or we’ll lose more families.

We’re licensed, compliant, and constantly monitored by state agencies. We follow every fire code, every staff-to-child ratio, every regulation—while facing lower and lower reimbursement rates for subsidized families. Meanwhile, school districts get full funding to run “free” programs without having to meet the same health, safety, and oversight standards we do.

On top of that, new fire code interpretations are now limiting the number of infants and toddlers allowed under Group E licenses. This change—implemented without funding or consistent statewide enforcement—is making it nearly impossible for many centers to offer infant care, which is already the hardest and most expensive type of care to provide. Even if I wanted to grow my infant program, I’d be forced to either rebuild entirely or turn families away.

We were promised that Transitional Kindergarten (TK) expansion would include us. That mixed delivery would be part of the future. But instead, we’ve been excluded and undercut—left to compete with “free” programs funded by the same system that’s pushing us out. The more children we lose to TK, the more financial damage we take—and there’s no pathway to participate.

We were hailed as heroes during the pandemic. We stayed open for essential workers, took on loans just to survive, and navigated risk every day. And now, we’re being left behind in recovery efforts—buried in debt and fighting a system that seems designed to replace us.

Families love our program. Children thrive here. But love doesn’t pay the bills. High-quality care costs money. Our teachers—mostly women, mostly mothers—deserve a living wage. Our buildings need maintenance. Our programs need support.

And none of it is sustainable anymore.

I carry the emotional weight of it all—my staff, my families, my own children—every day. This is not just financial burnout. It’s mental and emotional. There are days I wonder if I can keep going. But I do, because I care too deeply to stop. I believe in what we do.

California says it wants women-owned small businesses to succeed. But everything about this system—from overregulation to unequal funding—makes that success nearly impossible.

I’m not just speaking for myself. I’ve talked to providers all over the state who are telling me the same thing: We’re barely holding on. And yet we are excluded from the very conversations and funding streams that decide our fate.

We’re not asking for a handout.

We’re asking for a fair chance to survive.

To be included.

To be valued.

Signed,

An exhausted business owner,

Preschool teacher,

And entrepreneur.