There’s a line from Star Wars that always makes me smile: “Judge me by my size, do you?”

Charlotte weighs five pounds. If you saw her on the exam table — shaved patches from procedures, feeding tube in place, body smaller than most people’s laptop bags — you might assume fragility defines her.

It doesn’t.

She has endured major surgery. Chronic illness management. Dental extractions. Medication routines that would overwhelm most humans.

And she still wakes up curious. She still walks to the window. She still leans in for a cuddle. There is a quiet defiance in that.

We live in a culture obsessed with scale. Bigger revenue. Bigger teams. Bigger valuations. Bigger exits.

But small doesn’t mean insignificant. Small doesn’t mean weak. In fact, small often requires more resilience.

Charlotte has no margin for error. No excess reserve. When something shifts, we notice immediately. There’s no buffer. And yet she persists.

In the SBA world, I see parallels all the time. Small businesses — true small businesses — are easy to underestimate. The operator with a few employees. The buyer purchasing a modest main street company. The entrepreneur without private equity backing.

From a distance, they don’t look impressive. But up close? They are often the ones with the strongest work ethic. The deepest community ties. The clearest sense of responsibility. They just need someone willing to look beyond size.

Charlotte doesn’t dominate a room. She doesn’t command attention. But she commands commitment. Because once you see her fight — really see it — you understand that strength isn’t about mass. It’s about heart.

I’ve had to learn humility through her. Humility in accepting that I can’t fix everything. Humility in cleaning her up when she can’t groom herself properly. Humility in rearranging my schedule around vet visits instead of pretending work is more important. It’s a reset of priorities.

Corporate life has a way of inflating our sense of control. Our sense of importance. Our metrics.

Then a five-pound cat reminds you that none of that matters in an exam room.

Titles don’t negotiate with biology. Money doesn’t buy back time. Accomplishments don’t replace presence.

Charlotte doesn’t care what I do for a living. She cares that I’m there.

And one day, when she’s not, no professional milestone will substitute for the moments I chose to step away from the grind and sit beside her.

That’s not anti-ambition. It’s perspective.

Don’t judge something — or someone — by size. Don’t assume fragility equals weakness. Don’t reduce value to scale.

Charlotte may only be five pounds. But she has taught me more about courage, advocacy, humility, and perspective than most boardrooms ever could. And every time I see her try — messy, imperfect, determined — I’m reminded:

The smallest lives can carry the biggest lessons.