I remember when I first started this. I used to tell people I was doing it for more control. More freedom. More time with my family. And now? I have all the responsibility and none of the freedom. That doesn’t feel like winning.
Most days, building two companies feels like holding my breath. Occasionally there’s clarity — a flicker of progress, the rare breakthrough. But mostly, it’s tension. A lot of hoping everything holds together just long enough to get to the next milestone.
I didn’t start the company to get rich. I started it because I wanted to build something that mattered. Something useful. Something I could point to and say, “That helps.” But meaning gets murky when you’re knee-deep in invoices, chasing payments, managing timelines, and wondering if the thing you’re building is going to break you before it pays you.
There have been more than a few days where I’ve let it consume me. Completely. Trying to figure this out — as a way to provide for my family — has too often become the most important thing in the room. And my family has felt it.
That’s the irony: trying to build something to protect them, while ignoring their other needs.
My wife and I have had our share of tense conversations — about money, time, and the emotional constipation I exhibit at regular intervals. She’s always been supportive, but the strain shows — for both of us. When I’m up at 4:00 a.m. responding to emails and still at my desk long after she’s gone to bed, it’s not subtle. It’s sacrifice, and not the good kind.
There are days when I’m not sure whether I’m building something or just burying myself under it.
There’s real tension: I want to do good work. I want to be a great provider. I want to create something valuable — maybe because of the validation I still seek outside of myself. I also want to be a good husband. A good dad. Someone who doesn’t just talk about values but actually lives them.
But it’s easy to lose your compass when you’re deep in the work — especially when the work feels endless and there’s no revenue yet.
I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve told my wife, “This month is going to be crazy.” Lately her response is, “When is it not? Your life has always been crazy.”
And she’s not wrong.
Sometimes it’s easier to stay caught in the momentum of building than it is to stop and ask: Is this really the best use of me right now?
What I’m learning — slowly, sometimes reluctantly — is that what you build starts to lose meaning if you’re always absent from the rest of your life.
I don’t mean to get overly philosophical, but does the world really need another superhero founder? Or is that just a cultural script we’ve all internalized so deeply that we forget to question it?
I certainly haven’t questioned it enough.
The business matters. What I’m building will pay the bills. It gives me work I actually care about. But when it becomes the only thing that gets my full attention, everything else starts running on fumes.
It’s not the first time this has happened. I start snapping at people. I stop taking care of my body. I shortcut conversations. Even my relationships start to feel transactional.
The justification is usually the same: just one more season. Just get through this hard part. Then I’ll breathe again. But there’s always another deadline. Another launch. Another contract to land.
It’s tragic how seasons turn into years when you’re not paying attention.
And I want to pay attention. I want to be someone who notices.
So I’ve started putting small practices in place. Saying no more often — still awkward, but I’ve done it a few times. I haven’t started closing my laptop, exactly, but I’m starting to walk away from it a little earlier. Little gestures that help reorient me. Remind me of who I actually want to be.
And yet, I still think about work constantly. I still let urgency override what matters most. I still forget. But when I do remember, it’s never because of some grand realization.
It’s because I’m sitting on the floor while my youngest tells me something about African leopards. Or because I’m listening to my fourteen-year-old explain his theories on the universe. Sometimes it’s just standing in the rain, remembering how much I used to love it. Watching a show with my wife, even when part of me still itches to get something done.
Those are the things that mark north on my compass.
I’m still trying to find balance. Still overcorrecting. Still sliding. But I’m watching more closely now.
Because building something matters.
But staying someone I recognize matters more.
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