If West Virginia was the beginning, Texas Avenue was where survival set in.
Curious Collections’ first home was a 900-square-foot space tucked behind Barnes & Noble, near Tutor John. The ceilings were low. The layout was tight. People often told me the store was hard to find — and they weren’t wrong. Inside, it was far from polished. Records weren’t displayed the way you see them now. Antiques, glassware, and collectibles filled the space alongside vinyl. It wasn’t pretty, but it was real.
I was doing this alone.
I didn’t know how to run a business. I didn’t have a background in retail, accounting, or record stores. I was learning everything in real time while trying to keep a roof over my kids’ heads. Feeding my boys, paying the store rent, and keeping the lights on at home all depended on whether or not I could make this work.
Most days were hard. Some were brutal.
There were many days when the store struggled to do $100 in sales. I would sit behind the counter, sick to my stomach, wondering how I was going to pay the bills — not just for the store, but for our home too. The weight of that uncertainty followed me everywhere. Nights were the worst.
To survive, I worked three jobs.
During the day, I ran the store while my kids were at school. At night, I drove Uber — sometimes until 3 a.m. — and then turned around a few hours later to get my boys up and ready for school. When my kids were staying with their dad, I rented out our bedrooms to bring in extra income. Every dollar mattered.
I sold some of my dad’s collectible coins to help cover expenses. He had enough for us to survive, and enough left for my kids to keep — something that mattered deeply to me. Those choices weren’t easy, but they were necessary.
I didn’t take a paycheck. The store needed every bit of money it brought in. Burnout was real. Exhaustion was constant. There were plenty of nights I wondered if I was pushing myself toward failure instead of success.
But I didn’t quit.
Instead, I listened.
Customers kept telling me what they wanted. They came in for the records. They asked for more vinyl. They asked about new releases and whether this town would ever have a real record store. I paid attention.
Slowly, I began to pivot.
I let go of what wasn’t working and leaned into what was. Curious Collections started to change — not because I had a grand plan, but because I was responding to the people who walked through the door. The store evolved because the community shaped it.
That little space on Texas Avenue wasn’t about growth or success yet. It was about survival. It was about doing whatever it took to keep going, even when the fear felt overwhelming.
I didn’t know then if Curious Collections would make it another year — let alone ten. I only knew that quitting wasn’t an option.
And sometimes, that’s enough.
To be continued…