“That’s nice, Chase,” she said. “But make sure you have a realistic backup plan.”
I remember the kitchen that day. Late afternoon sun. Lemon polish on the table. My father reading market pages on his tablet like the answer to my life might be hidden in the business section. Ivy perched on the counter painting her nails, barely listening. I remember nodding as if their skepticism didn’t matter. I remember deciding that if they needed me to fail in order to feel comfortable, I would stop interrupting the story they preferred.
That decision shaped the next decade of my life.
I built software in a one-bedroom apartment with a leaking window unit and a folding table for a desk. I coded through the night. I pitched investors who forgot my name before the elevator doors closed. I got ripped off by one cofounder, rescued by another, nearly ran out of money twice, sold one product too early, held on to the next one long enough, and eventually built something worth buying.
