This didn’t start out as a company.

It started as a quiet question, late on a Tuesday night, in our apartment kitchen, when my partner came home from work wearing that face—“I can’t take this anymore”—that I knew all too well. She didn’t need to say anything. I didn’t need to ask. I’d been there too.

The difference was, now I had time—or so I thought—because I had just crashed headfirst into a wall. I’d founded a company, done well, done poorly, and eventually… walked away. Startups are like that: rollercoasters without seatbelts.

And that night, I said:

“What if we build something together?”

We didn’t know exactly what. But we knew what we didn’t want anymore: rigid structures, bosses who don’t listen, processes no one follows, endless hours, salaries that fall short, promises that never show up.

That’s how POMO was born.

Not as a business, but as a lifeline. A way to prove that project management doesn’t have to turn you into a robot. That you can support companies without becoming their crutch. That you can build elastic structures—the kind that adapt to the moment, to the client, to the team, to real life.

What started as a way out of the hole became something that now brings in more revenue than she ever made in her old job. It grows, it mutates, it breathes. And the weirdest thing?

It helps.

It helps other people who, like us, are tired of banging their heads against the same invisible glass.

What’s an elastic structure?

It’s who we become when we stop pretending we’re made of steel. It’s understanding there’s no single way to do things. That a team can be five people on Slack across three time zones. That a Gantt chart can be an inside joke. That a PM can have tattoos, or kids, or be learning to code while leading a call with investors.

It’s knowing the future isn’t something you plan. It’s something you improvise—well.

And Buenos Aires has a lot to do with all of this. In this city where everything is too much and nothing is ever enough, starting something is an act of faith. You leave home with an idea and come back with a story. And if you can’t tell it well, someone else will make one up for you.

I write this today almost as an act of resistance. Because POMO didn’t just save my partner or me. It gave me back a sense of direction at a time when I thought I’d run out of chips to bet. It brought back the urge to build something.

And yes, it’s hard.

It’s fighting with the tax office and the exchange rate and with Mondays that feel like Wednesdays. It’s dealing with the uncertainty of every new client, the emails that never arrive, the meetings that stretch like chewing gum.

But it’s also the thing that makes me feel—sometimes late at night, when everyone else is asleep—that I’m doing what I’m meant to be doing. That if the world’s going to fall apart anyway, I might as well be building something when it does.

Today, after nearly walking away from the company I founded, I find myself back in the mud—but this time, with the shovel in my hand.

Still crashing, sure.

But doing it my way.

And if not like this—

then how?

The Lab