Dear Young Me

Dear Young Me,

You have no idea what you’re doing.

And that’s okay.

You’re about to start a business with more guts than capital, more conviction than credentials. You’re going to make mistakes—plenty of them. But here’s what I want you to know: you’re going to love it.

Not the money (that doesn’t come for a while). Not the forms and insurance paperwork (those will drive you nuts). But the work itself—the rhythm of it, the people, the creativity, the challenge of doing something that matters—that part will light you up. It’s your version of bliss, and following it will change your life.

People are going to tell you to be more efficient. More professional. More like other companies. Smile and nod. Then go build something different. Build the kind of company you wish you had worked for. Let people talk directly. Treat employees like grownups. Trust them. Fight for loyalty. Reward heart.

There will be hard days. Nights when you’re lying awake, anxious about money or people or problems that don’t have easy answers. There’ll even be a stretch—maybe a year or two—when sleep doesn’t come easily. So you’ll get up at midnight, climb the stairs to your computer, and write technical manuals while the rest of the world sleeps. Then, around two or three in the morning, when the worries settle and the words run dry, you’ll finally feel tired enough to rest.

And you’re going to worry about your people. Not in a distant, managerial way—but in the way someone worries about family. You’ll carry their burdens sometimes. You’ll want to protect them. And that worry—that care—isn’t weakness. It’s the reason they’ll follow you.

Oh, and one more thing: Your dad is going to call your company “that little communist business.” Take it as a compliment. You’re doing something right.

Keep going. You’re on the path. You always were.

With admiration,
Older You