The Happiest Day. And What Came After.

In 2012, my wife started her dance studio — by herself, with 13 students. Just a passion for dance and the dream of a safe space for her kids. A place to teach them not just movement, but life skills. To build not just strength, but confidence — things she had learned herself growing up with dance.

Seven years later, she had nearly 300 dancers, 12 teachers, and waiting lists for certain classes. She outgrew her original space and finally found a new, larger studio that would be her "forever" home. She found a broker, the lease was negotiated in June 2019, and after landlord delays, she finally opened on Friday, February 28th, 2020.

We were so excited.

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Two weeks later — like so many other tenants — her studio was shut down because of COVID.

But in the week before the lockdown went into effect, she worked 20-hour days. She researched virtual platforms. She drove to Apple stores before they sold out of tablets. She created online classes, rebuilt her entire database of nearly 300 students from scratch, and launched an Online Program — yoga, story time, ballroom for parents, painting for kids — just to keep the community together. Not a single class was missed.

But it worked. And I was so proud of her. Could we really make it through this? We thought we might survive. Her effort would pay off.

And it did. For a while.

But then enrollment slowly started to shrink as the weeks passed and families got tired of virtual classes. It gathered steam as lockdown fatigue set in. From nearly 300 students, she dropped down to 69 dancers.

And little did we know, the worst was yet to come.

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When she reached out to the property manager and landlord for guidance — to warn them of her enrollment losses — the manager literally told her: "This is a cost of doing business."

And: "The way the landlord looks at it, when you open a business, you're supposed to have a year's capital to get you through the hard times." Like we should have been ready for a 1-in-a-100-year pandemic.

And finally: "The landlord is going to get every penny."

We had spent everything on a brand new studio she only got to use for two weeks. We had so much regret. We had tried to talk with other tenants before signing the lease, but owners weren't there. We felt so alone.

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My wife decided to pay the percentage of rent based on occupancy allowed, even when that payment exceeded her actual revenue — because just because the government said we could open at 50% didn't mean parents suddenly felt safe. We understood that. We paid anyway.

Three years of litigation followed. Depositions. Legal bills eating up what little profit remained. Sleepless nights. She had kept every teacher on staff, paying them. She had done everything she could.

During the lawsuit, we showed that the landlord's own lease said in multiple places that my wife "must operate a dance studio and for no other use." The lease did not separately require the payment of rent during a force majeure event. And yet the landlord demanded everything — interest, penalties, attorney's fees. We tried to offer compromises. He refused. At least three other spaces in our own building sat vacant. We were still alive, willing to pay our above-market rent going forward. Still, he refused.

He knew small tenants don't have the resources to fight back. That the legal system moves too slowly for a small business. That the industry prevents tenants from effectively warning each other. He counted on all of it.

And he was right. After 13 years, my wife lost her studio.

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The commercial real estate structure is fundamentally unbalanced for small businesses. Landlords hold the leverage. They have the money, the experts, and the time. Brokers chase commissions. And retail tenants — making one of the most consequential decisions of their lives — have been alone and powerless.

Until now.

My wife is my inspiration. Retail Tenants Together is my mission.