• Small businesses on TikTok are telling their customers about their worst business struggles.
• "My small business is failing" and other messages have become common hooks.
• It's a good way to build authenticity, marketing experts say — as long as it's done smartly.

In the last couple of years, small businesses have littered TikTok with confessionals.

"My small business is failing," is how they often begin.

"If you've been following me for the last couple of months, you may think that it's not," craftsperson Laura Craine said in a post last year. "But in reality, I haven't received an order in weeks."

Another TikToker said: "On the outside, it might look like everything is going well and I'm making lots of orders, but I'm just not."

Ranging from straight-up claims of failure through to warts-and-all insight into the toughest days, each post aims to grab a precious few seconds of your attention, and maybe a portion of your cash.

They resonate well with users "who want to see more than the polished, curated success stories that once dominated social media and Instagram," Inigo Rivero, cofounder of UK-based TikTok marketing agency House of Marketers, told BI.

It also comes "as more small business owners are embracing radical transparency" on TikTok, Rivero added.

And in many cases, it seems to be working.

I remember thinking: 'I can't do this.'

Emma Molloy has long known the power of lifting the veil on her vegan-friendly doughnut business through TikTok, and being transparent about the ups and downs of making her four-year-old business work.

But the hardest moment for her company, Cat Burglar Dough Co., came in August. She had just given birth and was exhausted. Sales had been poor, and she had just learned that her maternity cover had fallen through.

"I was in a real corner and I remember just sitting there thinking, 'I can't do this,'" Molloy, 30, told BI.

She posted about her worries on TikTok, saying: "This month I've come closer than I ever have before to quitting," but added that she was determined to carry on.

A couple of days later, she was sitting on the floor with her baby when her phone suddenly started buzzing nonstop.

Notifications were flooding in. "Order, order, order, order," she said.

Over on Facebook, an influencer named Lisa Dollan — more familiar to her hundreds of thousands of fans as Yorkshire Peach — had just posted a glowing review.

"We had about £3,000 [about $3,800] worth of orders in a week," Molloy said, adding that the business turned a corner after that.

Business Insider wasn't able to independently confirm the amount.

Dollan didn't respond to BI's request for comment. It's unclear whether Molloy's emotional post prompted her reaction.

But some business owners told BI that posting some variant of "my small business is failing" has brought them unusual engagement, new customers, as well as encouragement at a time when they sorely needed it.

The pull of schadenfreude

Creative duo Caitlin Derer and Joseph Lattimer hopped on the trend in August, with a video that has been watched more than 1 million times.

"For us that's huge," they said.

They used the format as a vehicle to talk about how hard they were working and what they needed to turn the business into a success.

Their business, Collectable Cities, makes art toys for the high-end souvenir market, but the pair had reached the "soul-destroying" part of the business where practical issues turned the spark into a slog, Derer said.

"Then you see someone else make a video, where you can feel their pain through the screen and it's like, 'I should be also sharing some of this,'" she said.

The response to their video spanned thousands of comments, giving them exposure to new customers, as well as a wealth of feedback and suggestions.

Alice Bull, founder of Gratified, a TikTok-focused strategy and content agency, says she finds these kinds of posts compelling and has even ordered from businesses after seeing them. She characterizes it as a "storytelling hook," one of five tried-and-tested approaches that she says tend to produce results on the platform.

Bull regularly encourages her clients to not just showcase their products, but to pull back the curtain on their own stories.

"Telling stories, especially on TikTok right now, is one of the most powerful things you can do, particularly with a small business," she told BI.

"Anything you can do to connect with the audience that will potentially become your customers is absolutely vital," she added. "And one of the quickest ways you can do that is by being slightly dramatic."

She said that research shows that emotionally positive content gets the best engagement, but negative content has its own pull.

Indeed, one 2023 study that tracked the eye movement of TikTok and Twitter users suggested that viewers spend more time on negative rather than positive content.

It works because people immediately want to know what happened, Bull said. "You want to either experience that emotion with that person or understand what they went through" in order to save yourself from the same fate, she said.

It can also be a smart way of adding context to unpopular decisions like price hikes, Bull said.

Staying authentic

Done right, the hook can tap into the authenticism that has underpinned other TikTok trends in recent years, like deinfluencing and the "social media isn't real" hook.

But there's an obvious business risk to telling the world you're failing.

People who adopt this strategy need to weigh up the risk of harm to their long-term reputation with the benefits of appealing to people through honesty, Bull said.

There's also a potential ethical problem that comes with virality — if declaring your troubles is such an effective cash lever, there'll always be the temptation for successful businesses to exaggerate or even lie about their struggles.

Indeed, so many iterations have proliferated on the platform that it's been boiled down to something like a script, with audio from particularly successful versions borrowed by others, who simply paste it over their own visuals.

Rivero said that quality also matters.

"I'm not just going to buy a product just because I like the story," he said. "It needs to come hand-in-hand with a good quality product."

He added that a dropshipper who makes the same complaint as a one-person craft business is unlikely to get much sympathy.

Building trust

Laura Craine said that the massive response to her "small business is failing" post was part of what rallied her to carry on with her craft business when she was almost ready to close shop.

"At the time, my videos weren't doing great," she said. But this one took off, bringing her hundreds of new followers and a wealth of supportive feedback.

Craine's business, With Love And Dreams, preserves personal items like wedding blooms or human remains in resin to create memorial keepsakes.

The fact that she handles sensitive and irreplaceable items means her business depends on maintaining a deep wellspring of trust. Being completely authentic with her audience just made sense.

"I want people to see that I'm a real person," she said.

• Alex Teo, 36, left his corporate job to take over his family's joss paper business.
• The journey has not been easy in modern Singapore, where religious affiliations are declining.
• Teo's career goal is to reinvent the traditional business for the younger generation.

The latest smartphone, a three-story villa, and a private jet. Alex Teo has sold it all — for the dead.

Teo, 36, is the third-generation owner of Ban Kah Hiang Trading, one of Singapore's oldest joss paper businesses. They sell incense sticks, joss papers, and paper effigies — or paper replicas of real-life objects — which are designed to be burned as part of Chinese ancestral worship outside homes and in temples.

His grandfather opened the shop in the 1950s before his father took over in the early 1990s.

But it's an increasingly tough business to run in Singapore, where religious affiliations are waning. Many joss paper business owners of his father's generation have closed down because their kids did not want to take over, he said.

So, at 28, he stepped up. "I thought it would be a pity if I were not to continue it," he told Business Insider.

Now, he's on a mission to reinvent the traditional business for the new generation.

He had no interest at first

During traditional Chinese festivals, believers in Chinese folk religion burn joss paper — also known as "hell money" — as an offering to deities or ancestors.

Some also burn paper effigies of the latest products, such as cars and cameras, for their ancestors.

"The belief is that by burning these items, they will become 'real' in the afterlife and can also be used by their loved ones there," Terence Heng, a sociologist from the University of Liverpool, told BI.

Although Teo grew up helping at the shop, he was never very religious and had no interest in taking over. After graduating from college with a degree in business management, he worked for the public service and then an insurance company, assessing medical claims.

But things changed in 2016 when his dad got sick. His parents, then in their late 50s, asked him whether he could take over.

"I thought, 'Should I give up my corporate job? But I would have to give up some social life,'" he recalled, explaining that most people in the industry are significantly older, unlike the colleagues he had formed friendships with in his previous jobs.

Teo, who now has four kids, said his wife supported the career switch. "She thought that if I were to do my own business, I would have more time for her," he said.

He was also enticed by the thought of being his own boss.

"If I work hard in the corporate world, I can only wait for my bonus. But here, I'm the boss. If I work hard, I earn more money," he said.

The business of religion in modern society

Still, his journey has not been easy. Since taking over the business, Teo says he has seen retail sales fall as the younger generation drifts away from religious beliefs.

In Singapore, between 2010 and 2020, there was an increased proportion of residents with no religious affiliations across all age groups, data from the Singapore Department of Statistics showed. The same data showed that the percentage of Taoists and Buddhists — religious groups that use joss paper products — fell by 2.1% and 2.2%, respectively.

The decline in religious beliefs is part of a wider trend across the world. In the US, around 28% of adults described themselves as atheists, agnostics, or "nothing in particular" when asked about their religion — up from 16% in 2007, a 2024 Pew Research Center survey found.

Meanwhile, complaints about the environmental impact of burning joss paper have been simmering in Singapore.

In February, the Singapore government ran a second campaign to improve burning etiquette by encouraging people to pray in temples instead of outside their homes and to clean up after prayers, per a press release from the Alliance for Action.

Teo said that in the past, business at his family's retail shop would pick up during festive periods like Lunar New Year and the Hungry Ghost Festival but lull during other times of the year.

Running the retail shop also affected his parents, who worked over 10 hours daily and wanted to retire.

So, in May last year, Teo sold the retail shop to focus on wholesale distribution to companies and temples from their warehouse.

Teo saw it as an opportunity to invest more time in innovating their products to meet the needs of a changing consumer base.

"We had to think about how we can prolong tradition and culture to fit into the current modern mindset," he said. "If we were to continue to sell the traditional way like my dad did, I don't think we can be sustainable."

Keeping up with the times

In 2023, Teo partnered with his close friend, Chris Huang, who works in FinTech, to establish Base Genesis, a modern joss paper startup.

The pair invested a mid-five-figure amount to set up the business. While Teo focuses on operations, Huang oversees finances. They've since hired seven employees who work on branding, marketing, and livestream sales.

Their new business aims to innovate traditional joss paper products to appeal to younger generations — from packaging to sustainability.

Early this year, they were approached by MullenLowe, an advertising agency, to develop an eco-friendly hell note. The "Eco Hell Note" has a denomination with 48 zeroes — the largest possible denomination of money in the Chinese language. Instead of burning a stack of notes, burning one piece would suffice. Teo added that their note is ashless and smokeless, unlike traditional notes that create smog when burned.

"Burning joss paper is deep-rooted in our Chinese culture," he said, adding that a ban on the practice is unlikely to happen despite frequent complaints. "So we have to come out with a compromise to control the pollution and not become obsolete," he said.

Teo, who sources the paper from China, said the team had to experiment with different types of paper to determine which material is the most eco-friendly.

Developing such products doesn't come cheap. Although they have not decided on a price for their Eco Hell Note, their eco-friendly products are slightly more expensive. A pack of 500 "Eco-friendly Gentle Smoke Joss Sticks" costs 11.50 Singapore dollars, or $8.50. In comparison, a pack of 500 traditional sandalwood joss sticks costs SG$10.

"Everything takes time and money. You need to do a lot of research and development," said Huang. Each phase will come with additional costs, and it will take time for the company to grow, he added.

Their Eco Hell Note is not yet available for purchase, but the pair hopes that it will take off among younger Singaporeans once they launch it in time for Tomb Sweeping Day, a tradition for honoring ancestors in April next year.

Heng, who researches Chinese religions, said their eco-friendly products would be better received by the younger generation, who are more eco-conscious. While they are not as religious, they may keep up the practice out of filial piety.

"It does still align with the demands of ritualistic burning, where a physical object is transformed into a spiritual one. It's a really good first step in finding solutions to burning joss paper," he said.

Beyond innovation, Teo hopes to expand the business to the Western market, specifically to those who engage in these religious practices.

"We will maybe tweak the design to cater to their taste. For example, come out with a hell note in US dollars," he said.

These are more experimental ideas, Teo said. "But we are still keeping in mind the tradition and culture. That's what we are trying to preserve."

• Floating fish farms used to be a common sight along Singapore's coast.
• But now, their numbers are dwindling: As of October, there were 74 sea-based fish farms left, down from 98 in 2023.
• Local farmers say they face high operational costs and cheaper imports from regional competitors.

Once a week, Alvin Yeo hops onto a small, white skiff at Lim Chu Kang jetty and heads out to a farm on the water owned by his dad.

It's a breezy five-minute journey that takes him past dozens of similar floating farms along the Straits of Johor, which separates Singapore from the neighboring country of Malaysia.

Formed by interlocking planks held together with thick nails and buoyed by floating barrels, these platforms are living relics of the country's fishing village past.

The sun is harsh on most days, but the water is surprisingly calm, save for the waves created by the passing coastal guard boats patrolling the area. Towering apartment buildings loom in the background, a stark contrast to the weatherworn wooden platforms bobbing in the water.

Yeo's father — a former civil engineer — has been in the farming industry for almost 30 years, having started a fish farm in the '90s with his brother out of passion.

"My father is a hobbyist. He likes to rear fish," Yeo, 35, told Business Insider. "But he's not exactly a businessman, so the farm wasn't really making any money."

For small businesses like theirs, it's a constant struggle to stay afloat. Amid rising costs, environmental challenges, and a growing reluctance among younger generations to take on the demanding job, traditional farming in Singapore almost feels like a sunset industry.

Yeo is a rare exception.

Dwindling fish farm numbers

Around 2020, Yeo — a freelance musician — decided to join the trade. Together with his father, the duo separated from the original business to start Heng Heng Fish Farm.

Like most traditional farms, the fish are reared in open-net cages lowered directly into the sea.

While his father oversees the farm's day-to-day operations, Yeo mainly handles the business side of things.

Yeo is also trying to adopt more modern and sustainable techniques to their traditional farm, such as using solar panels for energy and introducing pelleted feed, which pollutes the water less than typical fish feed made from expired confectionary and other food by-products.

"I just felt that I needed to do it because I have feelings for the sea I grew up in. So I didn't want to see it just deteriorate as years go by," he said.

Much like street peddlers and traditional villages, the floating fish farms are a part of Singapore's cultural and economic identity that is rapidly disappearing as the city-state evolves past its fishing village origins.

The country's "kelongs" — offshore wooden platforms used to trap fish — used to be a common sight along the coast. The government stopped issuing new licenses in 1965.

Now, there are only four "kelongs" left in Singapore.

"With the dwindling catch from the wild and increasing cost of raw materials for maintenance of the 'kelong,' 'kelong' owners also saw the need to move toward fish farming as a viable commercial operation," the Singapore Food Agency, or SFA, told BI in a statement, adding that some of them have transitioned to coastal fish farms over the years.

Many locals still refer to these floating fish farms as "kelongs," even though they're not quite the same thing, Yeo said.

Fish farms are dwindling in numbers too, even as the resource-scarce country inches toward the deadline for its "30 by 30" goal — an initiative set by the Singapore government to be able to produce 30% of its nutritional needs by 2030.

Tough to beat prices from regional competitors

According to SFA data, there were 74 sea-based fish farms left in Singapore as of October, down from 98 at the end of 2023. This means about a quarter of these farms have shuttered in the past year.

Some farmers told the local paper The Straits Times that they had between June 2023 and June 2024 to take up a grant of 100,000 Singapore dollars, or $74,500, from the SFA to help them wind down operations. Those who had accepted the grant cited high costs, environmental conditions, and retirement as reasons for exiting the industry. The SFA did not share with BI the number of farmers who accepted the grant.

"To be competitive in the market, you have to be cheaper than imports. But it's hard to fight the cost of imports, especially from places like China, Indonesia, and Malaysia," Yeo said.

The cost of running a business in Singapore tends to be higher compared to neighboring countries, Kevin Cheong, an adjunct lecturer at the Singapore Management University who recently co-authored a study on sustainable fish farming in Singapore, told BI.

"Electricity costs, land costs, labor costs, all these things stack up against the consumer," Cheong said. "Primary production in Singapore, essentially agriculture, would be very challenging."

In Yeo's farm, the tilapia he grows can be harvested in six months. At the current scale of his production, he can harvest 12 batches of around 7,000 fish each in a year.

Since the floating farms are made from wood, their structure requires regular upkeep — and a metric ton of Chengal wood can cost up to SG$4,000, Yeo said.

"We don't really earn much. At the end of the day, it's just enough to keep the farm running," Yeo said.

A challenging environment

Beyond cost constraints, farmers are bogged down by the effects of the climate crisis.

Rising temperatures can lead to a higher incidence of disease outbreaks and algae blooms, Toh Tai Chong, a senior lecturer at the Reef Ecology Lab at the National University of Singapore, told BI.

Algae blooms are deadly for fish because they deplete the oxygen in the water and cause widespread fish death, he added.

"Open-pen sea-based farms are particularly susceptible because the fishes are reared in the natural environment, which is almost impossible to regulate," he said.

Farmers, in turn, have to grapple with worsening conditions.

"In my dad's era, fish didn't really have to be taken care of," Yeo said, gesturing at the bags of fish pellets behind him. "You could simply feed them till they got big, then sell them. But now, you have to feed and raise them."

Dean Jerry, an aquaculture professor who teaches at James Cook University's Singapore and Australian campuses, told BI that to cope with the changing environment, sea-based fish farmers have to rear more hardy species or invest in aquaculture technologies.

Many of these solutions are focused on closed-cage containment so farmers have more control over the environment, he said.

The challenge is compounded by the fact that most sea-based farms don't have mains power, he said. This means farmers will end up incurring extra costs installing diesel generators or solar panels to run these systems, he added.

"It's very, very costly to implement any sort of technological solutions because a lot of technological solutions will require power," he said.

The challenging nature of the job seems to have discouraged younger locals from stepping up to continue the trade.

Yeo, who only knows of one other farmer around his age, has two employees — a husband and wife duo from Myanmar who work and sleep on the floating farm.

"Local help is just impossible to get," he said.

Efforts to stay afloat

To help farmers sustain their businesses, the local government has stepped in with plans to overhaul the aquaculture sector.

In November, the government announced its Singapore Aquaculture Plan. Some new initiatives include increasing the supply of locally produced, genetically superior eggs and facilitating the exports of local fish to China.

"Our fish farms, as part of local production, cushion us from overseas supply disruptions and complement our efforts to diversify import sources of seafood," said Damian Chan, the CEO of SFA, per a media release.

The SFA told BI in a statement that farmers who are keen to increase their farms' productivity can rely on the SFA for advice and funding support for technology adoption.

On the other hand, the Singapore government will support those who choose to exit the industry by providing job-matching and training initiatives, it said.

Despite uncertainties about the aquaculture industry, some young farmers are finding alternate ways to stay afloat. Wong Jing Kai, who left his marketing job a decade ago to run Ah Hua Kelong, is one of them.

"Farming is considered a sunset industry," said Wong, 35. "Nobody wants to do it. So I'm like, if people don't do, I'll do it then."

But instead of being a wholesaler and pitting himself against more competitive imports, Wong opened Scaled — a seafood restaurant — and a fish soup hawker stall, to move his fish stock.

He can support his farm by supplying his own fish to his eateries, he said. "My plan is to have five fish soup stores and three to four restaurants on land. Then, I think we're more or less covered," he said.

Others, like Yeo, believe that the industry will survive as long as local consumers become more receptive to eating local fish.

"Of course, I hope to grow the business and be in this industry for a long time," he said. He hopes to have a high-tech fish farm one day — ideally on land, where conditions are less unpredictable.

"I take each day as it comes," he added.

• Alejandra Rojas started building her business as a finance mentor on social media as a side hustle.
• Rojas found a online business coach via their free workshop, then hired them for personal sessions.
• She said the coaching wasn't the right fit and made her doubt herself as an entrepreneur.

Seven years ago, I overcame a five-figure credit card debt. I got into debt through mindless spending during my early career as a finance professional in Washington, DC. It took me seven months of cutting expenses and tracking every dollar to pay off my debt.

As a finance officer, it wasn't easy to open up about my money mistakes, but I started sharing my story with people in my circle. Encouraged by their positive responses, I posted about it on social media and built a following.

I realized there was a need for better financial education, especially for women. I wanted to use my expertise to help others and build a flexible business but didn't know where to start.

I first encountered online business coaches through blogs and podcasts for digital entrepreneurs. I found a coach who positioned themself as an expert in building profitable businesses.

This coach offered a free three-day online workshop on how to create a compelling brand story. The workshop featured many of their affiliates — people I was familiar with from my research — and past students. After the event, the coach pitched a paid course on building your business around a strong brand message.

I found the free workshop very helpful and thought their course would help me clarify my story and sign clients. The initial course cost around $1,000.

By the end of the course, I still didn't feel confident about starting a business. The coach pitched one-on-one coaching program, a five-figure investment. I hesitated but thought this was the push I needed to succeed.

What the coaching promised vs. what it delivered

I had just finished paying off my credit card debt and was working full-time as a finance officer while building my business on the side. I didn't have savings to pay for coaching, so I used a combination of my credit card and monthly cash flow.

I researched other coaches, but I didn't want another general course. I'd already invested in this coach's course, so it like a logical next step.

The coaching program was an hourlong 1:1 session once a week over seven weeks. The program would help me refine my story, create a business strategy, and start generating revenue.

However, the sessions felt unstructured. Each week, I would discuss my progress and ask for guidance, but there was no overarching plan. The focus was on reviewing if I'd completed what we discussed in the previous session. Often, my coach would repeat similar concepts rather than introduce new strategies.

The investment was not worth it to me

During the third session, I expressed my frustration with not progressing and feeling overwhelmed. In between meetings, I mentioned that some of the advice, like sharing personal stories that didn't feel connected to my business, felt irrelevant.

That day, I told the coach outright that I preferred to spend time talking to people about their struggles instead of sharing my own stories.

To my surprise, the coach responded, "Maybe it's not working because you're too messy."

Part of this comment stemmed from my choice to skip some of the resources they had provided, like a sales tracking spreadsheet and a guide on how to win sales calls (because I wasn't making those calls yet).

It was also partly about me wanting to move ahead with multiple areas of my business instead of focusing on one thing.

The comment hit hard. I'd always been OK with juggling multiple projects, but for months after that session, I doubted myself. I believed that my "messiness" was holding me back.

Per the agreement, I couldn't cancel or request a refund, so I had to keep paying for the coaching program even though I was no longer invested.

I stopped working on my business for a while and focused instead on my 9-to-5. By the time the final payment went through, I felt frustrated I had spent so much money and relieved that I didn't have to revisit the tools and resources again.

After finishing my coaching sessions, I ditched the spreadsheets and went back to experimenting.

I followed my instincts and launched my business, The Brown Way to Money. Now, I run a platform that offers money management, financial literacy support and financial education dedicated to women entrepreneurs.

About a year ago, when I became pregnant I had to delegate tasks to what is now my team. I realized that my "messy" approach was actually my strength. People commented on how surprising it was that I could juggle so much.

What I wish I had considered before investing

I don't see my first coaching experience as a complete failure. It taught me that I am ultimately responsible for every business decision.

I've worked with coaches who have significantly contributed to my growth as an entrepreneur, but it took years before I felt ready to invest again.

By that point, I had a better understanding of my goals and what stage I was at with my business. This made it easier to hire a coach to help me build specific skills I couldn't develop alone.

Here's what I wish I had considered earlier:

1. Clearly defining my goals and desired outcomes: I now take the time to outline what I want to achieve with a coach. I discuss my goals with the potential coach beforehand to ensure we're aligned and have a clear path to reaching those outcomes.
2. Researching the coach's expertise and relevance: Now, I look into their social media, reviews and, when possible, speak with past clients to understand their approach. Their expertise needs to align specifically with the stage of my business and my goals.
3. Adopting a return-on-investment mindset: Instead of assuming the coaching experience will "work" on its own, I focus on how I can capitalize on the skills and knowledge I'll gain. I evaluate whether the potential ROI is clear and sufficient before committing.

• Chloe Tan, 30, quit her first job out of college as an auditor.
• She decided to help out at her parent's eatery, which serves Chinese home-style dishes.
• Seven years later, she expanded the business and opened New Station Rice Bar.

As a young adult, Chloe Tan followed the same path as many other Singaporeans in her generation: Go to college, get a degree, and then work a stable 9-to-5 job.

But three months into her first job as an auditor, Tan quit.

"I just remember not really liking it and not being excited," Tan, who has a degree in accounting, told Business Insider.

At the same time, she wanted to help her aging parents retire. They had spent the past three decades running a food store selling zi char, or Chinese home-style dishes.

So, upon quitting, Tan decided to help out at their shop, New Station Snack Bar. It didn't bother her that, at first, she had to take a pay cut of around 30%. "That was where our childhood was," she said, recalling how, as kids, she and her siblings would help with menial tasks like bringing napkins to customers or recommending dishes to eat.

This time around, however, her contributions to the eatery were different. For the next three years, Tan worked as a cashier, managed accounts, and did marketing. She was comfortable but felt like she wasn't doing anything fruitful.

Things changed during the COVID-19 pandemic. During lockdown, Singapore's offices and schools were closed, and dining at restaurants was not allowed.

In three days, Tan, with the help of her friends, launched a website and arranged island-wide food delivery. Singapore's land area is 284 square miles, about the same size as Austin, Texas. 

The struggles she faced during the pandemic showed her what she was capable of. "It kind of ignited a passion and a fire in me like, hey, you know what? Maybe I can do more things with my life," she said.

It was at this point in her career that she knew she could expand her family's business.

Her accounting skills came in handy

Putting her accounting skills to use, Tan started to work backward to figure out how much she could afford to lose.

She invested around 40,000 Singapore dollars, or $30,000, in her business. She kept costs low by opting for secondhand goods and was lucky to receive free equipment from some retiring chefs.

After almost two years of planning and renovation, Tan opened her restaurant in February this year. Located in Fortune Centre, an old mall in central Singapore, her shop is a 10-minute drive from her parent's restaurant. As a sister outlet, Tan named her new business after her parents' eatery: New Station Rice Bar.

Initially, her parents didn't take her seriously

Tan recalled her dad asking why she made her life difficult by expanding their family business.

"My father referred to his own business and said, 'Hey, my business is now OK. It's not like it's not making money. Are you not happy with that?''" she recalled.

But it wasn't about the money. "I didn't want to waste my 20s just being too comfortable where I was," Tan said.

When she worked at their eatery, her parents discouraged her from setting foot in the kitchen.

"They felt like it was not where a lady should be around. There's fire, there's smoke, and to be honest, it's not a very nice environment," Tan said. If she wanted to be in the food and beverage business, she should manage accounts or do marketing — not cook, they said.

Her parents were also hesitant about teaching her how to cook. But Tan was determined. She harnessed the help of a zi char chef from Hong Kong, whom she only knows as Chef Wing.

Over three years, she consulted Chef Wing in person to learn how to develop recipes, cook dishes, and craft menus.

She had two main takeaways as his apprentice: respect for your customers and respect for the ingredients.

"I learned that the thing about F&B is that as long as you put effort into it, people will be able to taste the value," she said.

The lessons she learned were proven right

Almost 10 months since she opened the 500-square-foot restaurant, New Station Rice Bar has seen a steady flow of customers. Students from a nearby art college pop in for an after-school snack, while office workers visit the store for lunch.

Like her parents, Tan sells zi char dishes. However, unlike traditional zi char eateries, Tan keeps her menu lean, with only six main dishes ranging from SG$8.50 to SG$9.50.

She's also modernized her dishes by deviating from traditional recipes. The chicken in her signature curry chicken rice, for example, is made with Japanese-style breadcrumbs, and the curry has a thicker consistency.

But the most popular dish is salted egg chicken rice — also a bestseller at her parents' restaurant. For this, she fries small pieces of chopped chicken and slathers it in a creamy, sweet, and savory sauce. It's served alongside rice and a fried egg.

Tan Jun Hong, a public servant, learned about the restaurant on Instagram and now visits it regularly.

He said the real draw is the nostalgia it invokes in him. "I grew up visiting old-school zi char stores that served simple, affordable home-cooked-style dishes that you see here," he told BI. "It brings good food and good memories together."

The challenges of being a boss

"Running my own business made me realize that sometimes you just got to stop being so obsessed over certain things," Tan said. She's learned to live — not under — but alongside anxiety, she added.

"Business is like this. Every day, you're putting out different fires," she said, whether that is not having enough manpower or having a freezer break down during service.

When BI visited the store on a Friday afternoon, a water pipe had burst. Tan simply sighed. This is what she means, she said.

Being a boss is worlds apart from being an employee, she added. "It's really about grit and perseverance. Even if I'm sick and don't want to wake up and come to work, I still have to come down because I represent my team," said Tan, whose team has grown from two to five.

Sometimes, Tan worries about whether her lifestyle is sustainable. She works 12 hours, six days a week, and on her days off, she returns to the kitchen to do prep work.

Her struggles are consistent with other Singaporeans trying to make their mark in the challenging F&B industry.

Cherry Tan, 29, left her job as a flight attendant to open a hawker stall with her husband. Her parents were uncomfortable with her career change. "Even until today, they asked me why I had to give up a comfortable job," she told BI.

She estimates that she took a 50% pay cut when she stopped working for Singapore Airlines and has had to get used to the long hours and challenging working conditions.

Similarly, Iszahar Tambunan, 45, left his job as a ship broker to take over his family business. Like Tan, he experienced the unpredictability of running a business. "Business is not always the same every day. It's a different challenge," he said.

Despite the unpredictability of being a business owner, Tan's dream of retiring her parents is still her end goal.

Her parents have also come to support her.

Her mom, Oon Seok Sim, said she's not worried. "At worst, she loses some money. At least she tried. If she never tried, she'll never know," she said. "And anyway, she's doing pretty great now."

Tan, whose business recently became profitable, said her favorite part of running a business is seeing results. "Right now, it's about seeing the business grow. You can see customers returning," she said.

"That makes me want to wake up every day and still do it."

• Dani and Evan Benton moved to Japan on a startup business visa in 2023.
• They bought an abandoned house for $6,500 and turned it into a guesthouse.
• The couple has also started a homestead with a farm and a beekeeping business.

After six years of running an urban farm and renting an Airbnb in New Orleans, followed by 15 months of travel and house-sitting around Mexico, Dani and Evan Benton were ready for their next adventure.

They knew they wanted to live a simple, rural life but still have access to modern amenities. Ideally, they would also be in an area with a nice climate where they could grow as much of their own food as possible.

Their goal had always been to start a homestead similar to what they had back in the US, and doing this in Japan seemed feasible, especially considering that the country has 8.5 million akiya, or abandoned houses, in rural areas for sale.

It helped that Evan also speaks Japanese, having studied the language in college.

Since they always loved old homes and were keen on the idea of renovating an akiya, they decided to take the plunge.

Applying for the startup business visa

In early 2023, the couple started working toward getting a startup business visa in Japan.

Their visa application required them to submit a proposal detailing their business plans.

In addition to their homestead — which would include honey production and a small-scale farming business — the couple also wanted to open a guesthouse. On the side, Dani, 40, was also planning to offer photography services.

They were drawn to Omishima island, which is over an hour away from Hiroshima airport, partially because it's one of the few areas where the startup business visa is offered.

"What the startup visa does is it encourages foreign people to move to Japan specifically to start small businesses," Dani, a professional photographer, told Business Insider. "You get residency, and you have six months to do things like open your bank account, incorporate your business, get everything funded, and obtain whatever licenses you may need."

One of the main visa requirements is that the couple invest at least 5 million Japanese yen, or around $32,450, into their business bank account or hire a minimum of two employees.

Their proposal was approved after a few revisions, and they were granted their startup business visas by the end of June 2023.

Transforming an akiya into a guesthouse

While they were sorting out their visa applications, the couple also purchased their first akiya, which would be turned into the guesthouse.

Their property-hunting process was smooth because they had been looking at listings even before they left the US. Their eventual plan was to have two akiya — one for the guesthouse and one as their own residence.

"We had a list of houses on Omishima that we wanted to check out in person when we finally made it here," Evan, 41, told BI.

While viewing an akiya — which they would eventually purchase as their residence — their real-estate agent showed them another akiya nearby that hadn't been listed online yet.

The latter was owned by a 75-year-old Japanese man who still lived in the neighborhood. His parents used to live in the house, but they died a decade ago. The house has been untouched ever since, and there were even pieces of furniture left behind.

"That ended up being the guesthouse that we bought," Evan, a former massage therapist, said. "We found our house first, but then we bought the guesthouse first."

They paid 1 million Japanese yen, or about $6,500, for their guesthouse.

"It's like the ultimate recycling project," Dani said. "It's literally saving a whole house and as much of the contents as we could."

Thankfully, the akiya was in pretty good condition, and they were able to live in it during the renovation.

"It was mainly cosmetic, so it was just a lot of things that took so much time to clean," Evan said.

The akiya even had a modern toilet that was already connected to the city sewage system.

"But we didn't have hot water for a long time, so while we were doing the renovation, we would have to go down to the public bath," Dani said.

The couple did the bulk of the work themselves and even documented the renovation process on their YouTube channel.

However, they did hire some contractors for assistance since they had a six-month deadline to get their guesthouse up and running.

"If we had had a whole year to do it, we could have done it ourselves," Dani said.

The couple says they spent about $19,000 on the akiya renovation and $5,000 on furniture, appliances, and other household items.

Guesthouse for rent on Airbnb

Dani and Evan aren't alone in being drawn to these old, vacant homes in the Japanese countryside. Due to the shrinking population and internal migration, Japan has millions of unoccupied houses in rural areas.

However, thanks to the low prices and the lack of restrictions on foreigners purchasing property, more and more foreigners are choosing to buy these old homes and breathe new life into them.

The couple's guesthouse is available for rent on Airbnb from 20,000 Japanese yen a night.

They hosted their first guests in November last year, and when their six-month startup business visa was due the following month, the couple obtained a business manager visa.

Omishima is in the middle of a series of six islands that are connected by a long suspension bridge known as the Shimanami Kaido, a famous biking route and tourist attraction.

There is a grocery store and a few local restaurants nearby, as well as a popular shrine and a samurai museum on the island, Dani said.

Like many places in Japan, Omishima is also very safe, Dani said: "We never lock our doors."

Now that the couple has gotten their guesthouse up and running, they'll be focusing their energy on turning the other akiya they bought — which is two minutes away — into their home.

"It was abandoned for 40 years, so it has a lot of work needed," Dani said.

In addition, they're working to establish their farm and honey production business.

"We enjoyed Mexican food and really missed it in Japan, so essentially, we're focusing on Mexican vegetables, growing tomatoes, tomatillos, and all kinds of hot peppers," Evan said.

As for honey production, the couple just harvested their first batch of honey from their 12 bee colonies, he added.

The couple has been living in Japan for almost two years, and the biggest lifestyle change they've noticed is that they're more connected with their local community than they were back in the US.

Not only do they know more of their neighbors, the couple also has closer relationships with them.

"Everyone lives in the same sort of concentrated area, and then they all go out to their fields and meet each other on the way," Evan said. "So we're always having saying hi to people in the street."

Have you recently relocated to a new country and found your dream home? If you have a story to share, contact this reporter at [email protected].