Sixteen Years of Almost Giving Up

I’ve been an entrepreneur for sixteen years.

That’s 192 months of risk.

5,840 days of grit.

And more sleepless nights than I could ever count—mostly because I believed too deeply (or, to be honest, was too stubborn) to quit.

From the outside, people see the highlight reel.

The wins. The growth. The features.

What they don’t see is what it took to get here—and what it took to stay.

They don’t see:

The wins that came one breath after I nearly walked away.

The launches that flopped—publicly and painfully.

The nights I stared at the ceiling wondering, what if this never works.

The friendships that couldn’t survive who I had to become.

The fear that still lingers, even with success—because peace isn’t promised just because the numbers look good.

This is the part no one puts on a pitch deck.

I started with nothing but hunger and hope.

There was no roadmap.

No investor deck.

No advisor to call.

Just me. Working late. Googling everything. Hoping someone would take a chance.

In the beginning, I did everything.

I answered every email, fulfilled every order, took every meeting, carried every ounce of responsibility. There were no vacations. No backup plan. Just me and the weight of trying to make something out of nothing.

And still, somehow, I kept going.

Since then, I’ve built multiple companies from scratch.

I’ve created jobs. Hired people. Lost people.

I’ve signed deals I once dreamed about, and I’ve walked away from others that didn’t feel right—sometimes against advice, sometimes against logic, but always for my sanity.

I’ve also burned out. More than once.

I’ve cried in bathrooms between meetings.

I’ve shown up to interviews while grieving.

I’ve launched campaigns during breakups, heartbreaks, and low points I couldn’t name at the time.

I’ve worked through depression, anxiety, imposter syndrome, and the kind of quiet fear that no one talks about. The kind that follows you into bed even when the business is doing well on paper.

Entrepreneurship looks like freedom, but it often feels like isolation.

There were years where I couldn’t tell if I was growing or just surviving.

I stayed in it anyway.

Not because I had it all figured out.

Not because I was fearless.

But because I couldn’t imagine walking away from what I hadn’t finished building yet.

According to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, about 65 percent of businesses fail within ten years. And after sixteen, I understand why.

It’s not the lack of ideas that breaks people.

It’s the emotional weight.

The long game.

The relentlessness of showing up again and again without applause.

Sometimes, what kept me going was the vision.

Other times, it was the responsibility—to my team, my family, the people who believed in me.

And some days, if I’m honest, I just kept going out of habit.

Momentum carried me when motivation couldn’t.

Eventually, something shifted. I started trusting myself more. I stopped chasing every shiny thing. I became more protective of my energy. I became someone I’m proud of.

And if you ask me what I’ve learned, it’s this:

The people who make it aren’t always the loudest.

They’re not always the ones with the biggest followings or the fanciest branding or the most charisma in a pitch.

They’re the ones who refuse to disappear.

They show up when no one is watching.

They build when it’s boring.

They keep going even when they don’t know what happens next.

Entrepreneurship has given me more than any title or feature ever could.

It gave me my freedom. My resilience. My clarity.

And maybe most importantly, a version of myself I fought hard to become.

If you’re in that place where everything feels heavy, where nothing is clear, and the road ahead feels endless—this is for you.

You’re not broken.

You’re just building something real.

Most people quit long before it gets good.

But if you simply don’t?

That can change everything.