There is a particular kind of clarity that comes only from packing everything you own into a small Ford Focus and heading west. It was a move born not of a grand plan, but of a singular, powerful purpose: to find my place and grow in the cannabis industry, an industry that had always felt like home—one that had helped me manage a lifetime of crippling anxiety. With my cat, Kiki, as my co-pilot, I said farewell to the East Coast and made the rather abrupt decision to head for California.
- Cultivate, Multiply, Motivate
Landing in Northern California proved to be the right choice. My journey began in a dispensary, but it was in a distribution facility, alongside Trey and Jason, where I truly found my footing. I started by rolling pre-rolls and methodically learning the business from the inside out. Eventually, I managed the entire operation and found myself a partner in the company.
Alongside my role at Shasta Cannabis, I also assisted in managing pre-roll operations for another brand. But the demands of both businesses made it clear a choice had to be made; working multiple jobs was no longer an option. I went full-time at Shasta Cannabis.
We were a team of three, driven by a common purpose. Trey Sherrell, my mentor, was the best I could have asked for, a kind, brilliant person dedicated to his family and helping small farmers as a consultant. Jason Vine was the other cornerstone of our operation, a gifted engineer, a tireless visionary who was always willing to walk the extra mile. Together, we were doing it; getting into new dispensaries, helping local farmers, and moving a tremendous amount of product. The regular 18-hour days were demanding, but in a way that felt entirely worthwhile.
What I remember most about Shasta Cannabis isn’t the flower, though we were proud of that. It’s the community that lingers in my mind. We worked with a group of about six small farmers and partnered with a dozen dispensaries that carried our products; we even white-labeled for one of them. At one point, we were managing several of the farmers’ Metrc accounts, shouldering the administrative burdens so they could focus on what they did best.
It was a truly exhilarating period. I taught myself graphic design and social media marketing, sharpened my photography skills, and learned the intricacies (and frustrations) of Metrc. From choosing the perfect mylar bags to navigating state regulations and inspections, to packaging each eighth with care, I learned every facet of the business. My life had become a constant balancing act of sales, distribution, and cannabis. I loved every minute of it; my dream was unfolding before my eyes with every delivery to a retailer.
So when High Times contacted us about being a local spotlight in their Nor-Cal stores, my 16-year-old self, who had once pored over their pages with glazed eyes, was immensely proud. Here I was, little ol’ me from the middle of nowhere Georgia, who’d once been balancing too many plates as a server, was now being recognized by THE High Times. I felt like I’d beaten the odds. And for a while, I had.
High Times quickly became one of our most consistent accounts. Every couple of weeks, we’d load up thousands of dollars’ worth of product and deliver to their two shops in Nor-Cal. For two years, we were a steady presence: running in-store demos, laughing with budtenders, and chatting with customers. It felt less like distribution and more like being part of a community.
Actions Have Reactions
But dreams often collide with an unforgiving reality. The previous High Times team that elevated us stopped paying their bills. At first, we weathered it. We had other shops. We had hope. But when the cycle became one of endless overdue invoices, answered only by radio silence, the cracks started to show. The invoices, which had climbed to thousands of dollars, went unanswered for months and months, leaving us with a staggering deficit. We quickly realized we were not the only ones; this was a pattern, a quiet devastation impacting small operators across the industry.
Watching the Oakland store shutter without warning, employees blindsided, livelihoods erased, was gutting. We were fighting, but it was starting to feel like drowning. We pushed harder to expand, but the market had slowed, and we couldn’t afford to get to LA or San Francisco on a regular basis. Talk about a trying time, especially since we were trying to support the good people who worked at the local High Times stores, who were, in a way, part of our extended family. We all wanted the same thing: for everyone to succeed. It was a difficult chapter.
You Play With Fire, It May Hurt You
The most impossible moment, however, came with the decision to renew our license. We were faced with a choice that no small business should have to make: we could pay our farmers what they were owed or pay our state license fees. We could contribute to the ongoing problem of non-payment in the industry or we could hang it up and check out. For us, the decision was obvious. We paid our farmers, and the license was put up for sale.
Hindsight, of course, is a rather unkind companion, but I suppose there are some lessons you can only learn the hard way. I had lost my life’s work. It didn’t feel like I had just lost a job; I was grieving the loss of my former life.
As if to underscore the finality of it all, I found out I was pregnant. I was already at the edge, crushed by despair, hollowed by depression. For months, I existed in a fog, barely holding it together. I can say now with clarity that navigating that season of life would have been impossible without my partner, Chris. His support was the constant I leaned on, and for his love and encouragement, I am eternally grateful.
I found myself back at my old job, procuring pre-rolls, but I felt fractured and restless, and eager for a do-over. Therapy and the slow shift of hormones eventually cracked the darkness enough for me to see a way forward, but that rock bottom was absolute.
And then, like some strange narrative full-circle moment, the new High Times team gave me the opportunity to tell our story. Closure is a funny word; it’s rarely neat, but this came close. It’s a bit of a cliché, I know, but this felt like the kind that can only be earned after you’ve watched your world fall to bits. In a way, it wasn’t a second chance to do things over, but a chance to do something entirely new, to turn a painful ending into a powerful beginning.
We All Must Meet Our Moment of Truth
Because here’s the truth: I didn’t lose everything. I gained grit. I gained clarity. I gained a family. The dream I had built didn’t die; it simply evolved. Trey and Jason, my partners and now members of my tribe, continue to thrive. Trey, as a highly sought-after consultant still helping other small farms, and Jason, as a successful engineer. The bonds we forged in that business proved more resilient than the business itself.
And I’m still here, more present and still in love with the heart of this industry, even after it taught me a rather difficult lesson. With a camera in my hand, a college degree in my sights, and my daughter watching every move I make, I’m still beating the odds. Just in a different, and perhaps more meaningful, way.
This isn’t just a story; it’s a reflection of the challenges facing the cannabis industry as a whole. We shouldn’t look the other way while bills go unpaid, integrity is compromised, and small operators are crushed by fees designed for giants. Change isn’t optional; it’s necessary. Integrity and sustainability must become the foundation, not the exception. We can’t let greed set the rules for an industry born from community, care, and resilience. We need accountability. We need leaders who will stand with the small businesses—growers, hash makers, and distributors. Because if this industry is truly about community, it’s time to start acting like it.
The rent is overdue. The moment of truth is here. The future of this industry depends on us choosing to do right by one another. Anything less, and there won’t be a future worth fighting for.
Subheadings are direct lyrics from Gang Starr’s “Moment of Truth.”
This article is from an external, unpaid contributor. It does not represent High Times’ reporting and has not been edited for content or accuracy.
