Lori Joyce doesn’t do half-measures. She built a cupcake empire before cupcakes were cool, starred in a hit reality TV show before the Kardashians turned the format into a global phenomenon, and now she’s redefining ice cream—on her own terms. But if you ask her what she’s really been after all these years, the answer is simple: the freedom to choose.

When I sat down with Lori, she was exactly as I expected—direct, warm, and completely unfiltered. “I’m an open book,” she told me, settling in. And that’s exactly what unfolded: a raw, honest conversation about freedom, expectations, and her fight to reclaim herself.

Lori’s story is one of relentless evolution—an entrepreneur who has spent decades not just building businesses but learning what it truly means to be free to do things her own way. Her journey isn’t about cupcakes or ice cream—not really; it’s about agency. And, as she’s learned through every reinvention, exercising freedom isn’t just the ability to choose anything—it’s the discipline to choose well.

Lori Joyce has never been afraid to make a choice, though. At every turn in the story, you can see resilience and reinvention. She doesn’t just pivot, she leaps—sometimes into success, sometimes into chaos, but always, always forward.

Lori 1.0: Awakening to choice

The first major pivot in Lori’s adult life came with a simple question. In her early twenties, while working a corporate sales job, her then-boyfriend asked her, “Wouldn’t you like more vacation time?” The question was a revelation —it had never occurred to Lori that she could design her own life according to what she might “like.” Raised by Croatian immigrant parents who worked tirelessly, she had always seen work as survival, not choice.

That realization changed everything. She quit her job, took a lucrative sales role in the decidedly unglamorous odour control industry, and moved to New York. In August 2001, she brokered what should have been her biggest deal yet. She later celebrated with a meal at Windows on the World, the restaurant atop the North Tower of the World Trade Centre. A week later, the towers fell.

She was sent back to help install fans at Ground Zero—part of a product line she represented. The technology was relevant and useful, and she felt a deep responsibility to put it to work where it was needed most. That experience changed her. Not long after, when her boss tried to cut her out of the major deal she had brokered, the pressure took its toll. She suffered a massive anxiety attack in Midtown Manhattan and woke up in a hospital. The doctor told her: her body had forced her to stop.

“Turns out, if you don’t make a choice, life will make it for you,” she says. And for the first time, she asked herself: If I can build success for someone else, what could I build for myself?

Lori 2.0: The cupcake empire that almost consumed her

This part of the story begins with an offhand remark in a New York taxi. Lori and her best friend Heather White had just picked up cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery—before it became a global phenomenon. As they rode back to their hotel, Heather casually suggested, “We should open a cupcake shop.”

Most people would have laughed. Lori called a real estate agent back in Vancouver.

By 2002, Cupcakes was open, its pink-and-brown storefront drawing customers in with nostalgia and indulgence. The timing was perfect— the gourmet cupcake craze was just taking off. The little Vancouver bakery became a cultural phenomenon. Wedding planners called. Newspapers featured them. Demand was relentless.
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"We were baking 24/7. We were maxed out," Lori recalls. "By 2007, we were doing a million dollars in revenue out of a tiny shop." At first, the success felt like a reward for taking a chance. She had chosen this path, leaving behind corporate security for the autonomy of building something of her own. This was freedom—or so she thought.

In this day and age, success demands more.

The expansion trap

In this day and age, success demands more. A second location followed, then landlords offered prime retail spaces, and investors pushed franchising. The question changed from “Can we make this work?” to “How big can this get?”

“Franchising is a system,” Lori explains. “But Cupcakes was an experience—you can’t systematize that.” Still, expansion seemed inevitable. They signed franchise agreements. Stores opened. But the more they grew, the less connected Lori felt to the business.

Then came television.

The Cupcake Girls

A production company approached Lori and Heather with an idea: a reality show about two best friends navigating business chaos. Heather was hesitant; Lori saw opportunity. “We couldn’t pay for that kind of exposure,” she recalls.

The Cupcake Girls debuted across North America, airing in 95 countries and winning a Gemini Award. “It was incredible. We had corporate advertising deals. We had momentum.” But momentum isn’t the same as control.
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The price of visibility

The show brought a level of scrutiny Lori hadn’t anticipated. The cameras kept rolling through business struggles and personal unraveling alike. “I was living two lives—one in front of the cameras as a confident entrepreneur, and another at home where I was ridiculed for it,” she admits.

Lori had spent her career fighting for the freedom to choose yet, somehow, she had found herself in a life she no longer recognized.

The tension grew unbearable. At work, she brokered deals and expanded the brand. At home, she felt like an outsider. The show didn’t create the fractures—it amplified ones that had been forming for years. Her marriage strained under the weight of it all. Lori had spent her career fighting for the freedom to choose yet, somehow, she had found herself in a life she no longer recognized.

Then, as the show was cancelled, Heather moved to the US — in an instant, Lori lost her business partner, her television platform, her marriage, and the structure that had defined her for nearly a decade. “I had been chasing success, but somewhere along the way, I stopped choosing for myself,” she reflects. “Everything was about what the business, the show, the franchisees needed. I didn’t realise how far I had drifted from what I needed.”

For the first time in a long time, she was ready to choose differently.

Lori 3.0: Ice cream and the brutality of grocery

Lori knew how to build a brand. Cupcakes had proven that. But when she pivoted to ice cream, she stepped into an entirely different world—one where brand alone wasn’t enough. In grocery, her company Better With was at the mercy of retailers, distributors, and an economic model that favoured scale over quality.

“I launched into 250 stores almost overnight,” she recalls. “Whole Foods was my first retailer. I thought I had cracked the hardest part—getting onto grocery shelves. But I hadn’t.” Turns out shelf space was just the beginning.

The million-dollar benchmark

In the grocery industry, success wasn’t just about having a great product—it was about hitting $1 million in revenue. “No one looks at you until you’re at a million,” Lori says. “That’s the benchmark.” Scaling a food business is expensive, and many great products miss their chance simply because they run out of money.

The grocery system isn't designed to nurture small brands; it is built to move volume. And without deep pockets or investor backing, survival is no longer about quality — it’s about endurance. Lori had two choices: keep fighting a battle she couldn’t afford or find a different way forward. 

Lori 4.0: Coming home

Lori had spent her early life running from her parents’ farm. She was looking for something else, something bigger. But after years of chasing growth—expanding Cupcakes, breaking into grocery, fighting for space in consumer-packaged goods—she realized the freedom she was after wasn’t just about having choices; it was about staying true to herself while making them.

Back on her family’s farm in Victoria, she suddenly saw it differently. She was different. This time, she wasn’t escaping—she was building. She knew she was exactly where she wanted to be.
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Choosing Better Acres

One day, while scrolling through social media, Lori came across a photo of a box of figs in a local magazine. At first, it didn’t register—until she recognized the hands holding the fruit. Her father’s hands. “It had taken 50 years for someone to recognize the work of the farmer behind the fruit.”

Her father had spent his life convincing people that his unwaxed, imperfect apples were better than the polished ones in grocery stores, giving them away just to prove it. But for years, he had been invisible—just another farmer, his labour unseen and uncelebrated.

And now, people were listening. “People were finally ready to hear this story. They were ready to really see and respect where their food came from.”

Lori had spent her own life building—first cupcakes, then ice cream, then a brand that was meant to stand for something more. Better With had made sense at the time. It was an extension of where she had been, a bridge from the past to whatever was next. But as she stood on the land where she grew up, something shifted.

She would keep making ice cream, but it wasn’t so much about being better with anything now (including cupcakes). It was about going back to where it all begins. The soil, the seasons, the hands that have spent lifetimes tending the earth and cultivating something real. Better Acres wasn’t just a rebrand—it was a return. A way to plant herself in the story that had been there all along.

Better Acres wouldn’t just be an ice cream shop. It would be a tribute—to her father, to her mother, to every farmer who had worked in quiet devotion, feeding people who never knew their names.

And Better Acres wouldn’t just be an ice cream shop. It would be a tribute—to her father, to her mother, to every farmer who had worked in quiet devotion, feeding people who never knew their names. To the hands that planted, harvested, and brought real food to life. Every ingredient would matter. Every scoop would carry the story of where it came from and the people who made it possible.

Building on her own terms

For years, Lori had pitched investors who admired her vision but weren’t willing to take the risk. Time and again, funding slipped through her fingers, making it clear that if she wanted to bring Better Acres to life, she’d have to do it on her own. And so she did.

Rather than fight for space in grocery aisles and navigate razor-thin margins, she pivoted to direct-to-customer sales—no retailers dictating placement, no waiting months for payment. With $100,000, she opened a store and turned it profitable within 30 days.

A brand with intention

For Lori, Better Acres isn’t about volume—it’s about integrity, sustainability, and respect. She made a clear decision: Better Acres would never compromise.

“Farmers are aging out. The next generation isn’t stepping in. People don’t realize how fragile our food system is. And by the time they do, it might be too late.”

Everything about the shop is intentional. When customers walk in, they see a mural of her mother’s Croatian church. “That’s where this all started,” she says. “That’s why my parents built the life they did. This shop isn’t just about ice cream. It’s about honouring that journey.” 

The walls display letters and photographs chronicling her parents’ journey. An image of Lori as a little girl with her mother, tending to their very first brood of chickens. A letter from Lori herself, thanking them for their sacrifices. At the heart of the shop, she built a fruit stand to showcase the seasonal fruits and nuts from their farm—a quiet tribute to the land that had always provided.
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“I want people to feel like they are stepping into my home. To feel the warmth, the heritage, the connection. This isn’t just a brand—it is personal.”

Her father had always said: “Good things take time.”

Growing up on a farm shaped Lori in ways she hadn’t realized before. Her father had always said: “Good things take time.” “You can’t rush a harvest.” “You work the land, nurture it, and then you wait.”

“I apply those principles to everything now,” she says. “I’m playing the long game. I don’t need fast success. I need real success—something that lasts.”

Lori 5.0: The freedom to choose, fully realized

Looking back, Lori spent her career fighting for the freedom to choose. Now, she’s choosing quality over speed, depth over breadth, and listening to her own voice rather than looking for external validation. “For the first time, I feel completely at peace with my choices.”

At 51, Lori is done chasing—she’s savouring

Of course, the journey isn’t over; in some ways, it’s just beginning. At 51, Lori is done chasing—she’s savouring. She’s done pushing—she’s choosing to be exactly where she is. And that feels a lot like freedom. 

Lessons in choosing wisely

• Bigger isn’t better—better is better. Scaling for the sake of scaling is a trap. “I thought freedom was about going bigger, but real freedom is choosing better.”
• Choose your constraints—or they'll choose you. Without boundaries, you lose control. Now, she chooses limits that serve her: quality over scale, sustainability over speed.
• Trust your gut—or regret it later. Every time she ignored her instincts, she paid for it. Now, if something feels off, she walks away.
• Play the long game. “Good things take time.” Slow, intentional growth wins over quick success.
• You don’t have to be everything to everyone. She builds for the people who get it—and that’s enough.
• Choose people who choose you. She no longer holds onto people who don’t hold onto her.