Our Story

From Accounting to Artisan: A Retirement Renaissance

The morning I submitted my final research report, I felt an unexpected emptiness. Twenty-six years of analyzing balance sheets, modelling cash flows, and predicting supply chain movements—all leading to this quiet moment. But as I walked through my garden that afternoon, running my fingers over the lavender I'd been nurturing for years, something shifted. This wasn't an ending. It was permission to begin.

The idea had been germinating long before retirement, planted during those rare weekends when I'd escape the pressure of portfolio reviews and lose myself in my garden. I'd started making soap almost by accident—a gift for my sister using herbs from our backyard. She'd loved it. Her friends had asked for more. But there was never time, not with the demands of the firm.

Now, time was all I had.

A serene forest showcasing the beauty of nature and the importance of conservation.

The Gap in the Market

Mauritius has always been a paradox to me. Our island is blessed with incredible biodiversity, lush vegetation, year-round growing seasons. Yet walk into any supermarket, and the soap aisle tells a different story—imported brands, synthetic fragrances, ingredients you need a chemistry degree to pronounce. Where were the products that honored what grew naturally around us?

I started researching, approaching it like I would any investment thesis. Market size: every household in Mauritius uses soap. Competition: virtually none in the truly natural, handcrafted segment. Barriers to entry: surprisingly low for small-scale production. Consumer trends: growing awareness of skin health, chemical sensitivity, environmental impact.

The numbers made sense. But more importantly, my heart was in it.

The Garden Becomes the Laboratory

My garden had always been my sanctuary, but now it became my supply chain. The lemongrass I'd planted along the fence line? Perfect for its antibacterial properties and energizing scent. The aloe vera that thrived in the coastal sun? A natural moisturizer I could harvest fresh. The frangipani tree that my father had planted decades ago? Its fragrance became my signature scent.

I converted the old tool shed into a small production space, installing proper ventilation and work surfaces. My husband thought I was mad, measuring essential oils with the same precision I once applied to calculating debt-to-equity ratios. But he understood. He'd watch me tend to the turmeric plants—their golden roots destined for anti-inflammatory soaps—with a contentment he rarely saw during my working years.

The Learning Curve

Soap-making humbled me. In finance, I could model scenarios, hedge risks, predict outcomes. Here, every batch was an experiment. Too much essential oil, and the bars wouldn't harden properly. Wrong temperature, and the saponification process failed. I ruined dozens of batches before I found my rhythm.

I took courses online, joined artisan soap-making forums, connected with producers in France and India. I learned about cold-process versus hot-process methods, about superfat percentages and trace stages. My analytical mind finally had something tangible to apply itself to, something I could touch and smell and give to people I loved.

NaturVita Is Born

Six months after retirement, I sold my first bar at a local craft market. Coconut oil base, infused with vanilla from my neighbor's vine and coffee grounds from our morning ritual. A woman bought three bars, then returned an hour later for five more. "My sister has eczema," she said. "She can't use regular soap. Where have you been?"

That question became my mission statement.

I named it NaturVita—a blend of "nature" and "vita" (life, but also part of my name!), representing the living connection between my garden and the products in people's homes. Each soap told a story: the morning garden bar with rosemary and mint, the evening calm bar with lavender and chamomile, the tropical sunrise bar with ylang-ylang and orange peel.

The Unexpected Joy

What surprised me most wasn't the modest success—the growing list of regular customers, the invitation to supply a local boutique hotel, the organic certification I pursued with the same rigour I once applied to due diligence reports. It was the conversations.

People would tell me about their grandmother's traditional remedies, about skin conditions they'd struggled with for years, about wanting to support local production. One customer, a young women, told me my turmeric & pink salt soap was the only thing that didn't irritate her sensitive skin. She cried a little when she said it.

I'd spent decades moving millions in markets, but I'd never felt such direct impact.

Full Circle

Now, one year in, my days have a new rhythm. Mornings in the garden, harvesting what's ready, planning what to plant for next season's production. Afternoons in the workshop, creating small batches with the patience that retirement finally taught me. Evenings with my hubbie and kids, testing new formulations, brainstorming names, planning the small expansion we're considering.

Sometimes former colleagues reach out, asking if I miss the excitement of the markets, the thrill of a successful trade. I think about the excitement of discovering that moringa leaves make an excellent exfoliant, or the thrill of seeing someone's skin condition improve after using my products.

The truth is, I've traded one kind of growth for another. Instead of watching portfolios appreciate, I watch basil grow from seed to harvest. Instead of analyzing company fundamentals, I study the fundamental properties of plants. Instead of managing other people's wealth, I'm cultivating something more personal—a business built from passion, sustained by purpose, rooted literally in the soil of my home.

My hands, once soft from office work, are now marked by garden dirt and soap-making. They're rougher, yes, but they create things that didn't exist before. Things that help people. Things that honour this island I call home.

This wasn't the retirement I'd imagined during those long analytical years. It's better. Because it turns out that the best investment I ever made wasn't in any fund or stock or distressed asset.

It was in myself, my passions, and a small plot of Mauritian earth that had been waiting patiently for me to finally pay attention.