Last week I received dozens of emails from private equity firms. A minority are detailed and specific. They’ve clearly done their homework on my company, our market and on me personally. But most are generic, written so they could be sent to anyone. And I’m sure they are.
This was no different from the week before, or really any week for more than a year. We’ve always enjoyed a certain level of interest, but the volume turned up to 11 around January 2025 and hasn’t abated. Phone calls, voicemails, emails, direct messages and packages delivered with bound proposals, some of which have me admiring the weight of the paper stock.
I mentioned it to a friend, and his way of letting me know this is happening to every business owner was to tell me my company isn’t pretty or special. (It’s both, thank you). But his point stands: this is just the world we live in now. Everything is for sale. Anything can be an investment with a future return. I find this genuinely depressing.
But the attention can feel flattering. That anyone outside of me believes I built something of value feels good. And some of the multiples that get tossed my way make me pause. Is this the “liquidation event” I’m supposed to be looking for? Is selling the goal? I guess I’m doing it wrong, because my motivation has always been to create.
I know there is a place for private equity. I just didn’t know that place was everywhere, all the time, with everything. Right now, if I wanted to sell, PE is essentially my only buyer. The chances of selling to a competitor or another entrepreneur are slim. It seems like there are fewer of them, because PE is changing the game entirely. They’re like wealthy buyers moving into a charming European village and pricing the locals out. Not just with money, but with sophistication, speed and industry-specific dominance that independent buyers simply can’t match.
I don’t want to sell. But the steady flow of inquiries activates a subtle paranoia that I’m missing something. Am I standing at the intersection of right place, right time and transformative money, and not wired to recognize it? What stops me isn’t caution. It’s that I love what I do and this experience, as hard as it is sometimes, is not quantifiable. In a culture committed to monetizing every experience worth having, I find myself unable to apply that same logic to the businesses that give people’s working lives meaning. My entrepreneurial instinct finds opportunity everywhere: in problems, everyday frictions and “you know what would be great” moments. But that instinct has yet to point at the exit.
The business owners I know work hard to make money, and hopefully they make a lot of it. As owners, we tend to invest more than anyone knows and devote more than we realize. Because for most entrepreneurs, it isn’t just about money. If it were, we’d find easier ways to make it. The weight and responsibility are real, and they make the work meaningful. There isn’t a multiplier that captures the value of that experience.
For some of us, selling what we’ve built is the goal. But I hope more people look first to those who already know what we’ve built and understand the value. Maybe that’s a key employee, a loyal customer or a kid who grew up watching us figure it out. It’s the slower path, the harder one and it carries risk. But it’s the path we’re already on. And the returns defy measurement. ●
Jennifer Ake-Marriott is Owner and CEO of Redmond Waltz
