Let’s just say it plainly. I didn’t start Terri’s Lures because I had a perfect business plan. I didn’t start it because I woke up one morning thinking, “Yes, fishing industry mogul sounds right.” I started it because I needed something that felt real. 

I’ve spent years building things in rooms with fluorescent lights and too many opinions. Good things. Things I’m proud of. But somewhere in there I forgot what it felt like to make something that either works… or doesn’t. Fishing is brutally honest. You tie bait on. You cast it out. The fish vote. No committee. No performance review. Just water and truth. 

Terri’s Lures was my Gram June’s spirit long before it was mine. Gram June didn’t overthink. She made things. She fished. She lived. She didn’t need a five-year strategic plan to try something. 

So when life felt loud and weird and sideways, I went back to something simple. Tie. Test. Cast. There’s something grounding about standing by cold water before the world wakes up. Snow on the banks. The kind of quiet that doesn’t need fixing. 

Fishing isn’t just about catching fish. It’s about proving to yourself you can still show up. And here’s the funny truth: Starting this back up wasn’t some big brave leap. It was small. It was, “Okay. Let’s make one.” Then, “Okay. Let’s sell one.” Then a couple of sales that felt less like ‘financial momentum’ and more like ‘well… we’re officially in business now.'  

Because this isn’t about overnight success. It’s about building something that doesn’t make me shrink. Terri’s Lures is not just a lure shop. It’s a reset button. It’s a reminder that I don’t have to live inside boxes that don’t fit. 

It’s metal and feathers and memory and a little stubborn hope. If you buy a lure from me, you’re not just buying hardware. You’re buying early mornings. You’re buying second chances. You’re buying the belief that small, handmade things still matter. And that life really is what you make it. 

(Also, If you’ve never jabbed yourself while trying to attach a split ring, you haven’t lived. There’s always that split second where you think, “Well. This is how I go.” Then you shake it off, maybe bleed a little, and keep going. That feels metaphorical, but I’m not going to overthink it.)