Two Wednesdays ago, I wrote an essay called “Why I’m Letting You See More of Me” — the first one in this column — and a little while later, I got the first real subscriber reply I’ve ever gotten. Someone I’d never met, cheering me on. I read it three times standing at the kitchen counter.
And then I went silent.
I haven’t sent you a Margins in two weeks. I haven’t sent you a Workshop since April 19. Same reason for both — I needed a break, and I was using the systems.
I want to tell you what that means. Not because I owe you an explanation — you signed up for a newsletter, not a confessional — but because the reason I went dark is also the reason I’m writing today.
About 6 months ago, I started doing three things at the same time that I had no business doing at the same time. I was preparing to open my freelance law practice. I was building Batesly. I was debugging Codie. And somewhere in the middle of those things, I was also trying to be the kind of mother I want my kids to be proud of — present, organized, not eyeing my phone during school pickup. I was failing at one of those three on most days.
For a while, I told myself the problem was just volume. Three jobs is too many jobs — of course I was failing. But on the afternoons I had a clear two-hour block, I'd still fail at small things. Fifteen minutes to write a LinkedIn post on my way to a networking thing, and the post wouldn't get written. Twenty minutes between client calls to respond to the school email, and the email would sit. So it wasn't the minutes. Something else was wrong.
What I eventually figured out is that every task started from zero — I'd sit down with the fifteen minutes I had and spend the first five rebuilding what I already knew. What my voice sounded like that day, trying to pick up from where I left off. Who I'd already said what to. Which kid had an extracurricular that evening. What my standing answer was to the request for another volunteer gig something-or-other for the PTA. The minutes weren't missing; I just couldn’t get started (it’s hard to be inspired to write when you’re running on fumes).
So I built two AI systems for myself.
One that holds my voice — a Claude project that knows how I write, what I sound like, what I’d never say. Another that holds my life — a Claude project that knows my family, my vendors, my decisions, my rhythms. The first brainstorms with me and the second keeps organized.
The two weeks I spent away from this newsletter, I was using both of them to clear two weeks’ worth of accumulated everything. Email drafts I’d been putting off. School logistics I’d been winging. A memo I’d been promising myself I’d write. LinkedIn posts. An update for Batesly. A vendor renegotiation for the cleaning service. And — I’m noting this without irony — a stretch of actual rest, on purpose, for the first time in a millennia.
The part that I sat on for a while: I think a lot of the women I know would want these too.
I’m offering to build them for you, too.
Two offerings, in plain English
AI Writing System.
I build you a Claude project trained on your voice — your samples, your style, your patterns, your “I would never say that.” It writes LinkedIn posts, About sections, newsletters, recruiter replies, networking notes, conference bios — anything you’d rather not start from scratch every time. It knows you, brainstorms ideas, and drafts content for you to review and edit, saving you time. It gives you a significant jump start without being the automated "AI wrote this generic thing for me.”
The Build ($2,550, ~one week) is the core buildout.
The Build + The Reclaim ($3,150) adds a post-event LinkedIn refresh — new headline, About, three posts — done together in the handoff meeting.
The Upkeep (starting at $950/month) keeps it tuned over time: quarterly voice-sample refresh, new prompts, async support.
AI Chief of Staff.
I build you a Claude project trained on your life — your family, your vendors, your standing decisions, your patterns, your activities. It coordinates the calendar, manages the vendors, drafts the school emails, holds the recurring decisions, runs your standing cadences. The Chief of Staff function your business has, for everything else.
The Briefing ($1,550) is the strategic diagnostic — pre-call intake questionnaire, a 90-minute consultation, and a written 10–15 page Briefing on what’s working, what’s leaking time, and what a Chief of Staff would change first. Most clients move from The Briefing into The Onboarding. Some take the document and run with it themselves.
The Onboarding ($7,500, 4–6 weeks) is the full buildout. Briefing memory, calendar coordination, vendor management, decision support, communication drafting, project coordination, standing cadences.
The Standing ($1,250/month) is the ongoing relationship — monthly working session, quarterly Best Days refresh, new use cases as your life evolves.
Both live on rachelbender.co. Click Work With Me in the nav.
The Writing System is for professionals who write a lot but write the same things over and over. The Chief of Staff is for working mothers (or any parent) running businesses and households.
If you're not sure which one to choose (or whether either is a good fit), there's a free 15-minute discovery call. I'll point you to the right one — or tell you it's not a fit, in which case at least you'll know.
Why this lands in The Margins, not in a Workshop
Because I built both of these for me first. Not as products, but as scaffolding.
The product version exists because enough people have asked some version of how do you actually do all of this? — and the honest answer is, I don’t. The systems do a third of it. That’s a Margins story, not a Workshop story. The Workshop will catch up later with the tactical breakdown of how I built them.
Today is the announcement.
If one of these sounds like you — check out my website link above. If it doesn't, but you know a woman who'd recognize herself in this essay, please forward it to her.
What’s on your mind?
I want to hear from you on this one. If you’ve thought about hiring help — a human assistant, a coach, a chief of staff, a ghostwriter — and bounced off because of cost, fit, or trust, I want to know what stopped you. Reply to this email; I read every one. I’ll likely write the next Margins about what you tell me.
To the subscriber who replied after the first Margins: thank you. Your message was the first real sign that someone was reading. It's part of the reason I came back to this column instead of letting it lapse.
— Rachel
