The Day I Realized I Was a Founder… Kind Of
I remember it like it was yesterday, though the calendar says 2006. I was 26 years old—delusional enough to believe I’d be the next Bill Gates, yet rational enough to know sweatpants and conference calls are a risky combo while driving. I had just spent two years polishing a 100-page business plan (like some massive English essay meets Excel wizardry). Finally, I landed seven credit union investors ready to fund my grand vision of disaster recovery (post-9/11) and eventual global credit union domination. As if one can casually combine “post-9/11” and “global domination” in a single business pitch.
Anyway, I was on a conference call in my car, making a left turn—yes, multi-tasking at its finest—when I got the news: They were in. The money was pledged, the checks were en route, and I was officially not just a “wannabe,” but a real, live founder and CEO. Suddenly, the weight of it all hit me. I thought, Oh man, I’m in charge. I briefly wondered if I should pull over and do my usual “New Deal Victory Scream,” but I figured I’d freak out the driver behind me. So I waited until I got home, sat in my car, screamed at the top of my lungs, flailed my arms, then calmly entered the house like nothing had happened. Classic founder move, right?
The Glorious (and Ill-Advised) Beginnings
When you’re 26 and flush with angel money, you assume you’re unstoppable. So of course, we signed a ten-year lease on a 25,000-square-foot office (because, you know, it was going to be huge). I’ll never forget the day I walked in, saw how cavernous it was, and thought, Wow, this is either the beginning of a glorious empire or I’ll be paying rent to house my broken hopes and dreams. Spoiler: Let’s just say that real estate was a bigger line item than we wanted. Live and learn, folks.
My concept was genius (in my head): a product called Rapid Recovery, which would let credit unions bounce back from any IT disaster in record time. We signed 20 clients in record time, too…except we never explained what it actually did. Or how it worked. Or why they might need it. The reality? We had no idea either. For three long years, we collected monthly fees while figuring out what to build. Not exactly the gold standard of project management. If I could go back in time, I’d at least have hammered out a one-pager or maybe told my first three employees, “Here’s the product. Here’s the timeline. Here’s a clue.”
My Secret Mission (That Nobody Knew)
Confession: I had this silent agenda that someday, we’d help credit unions crush big banks—practically “take over the world.” That was my reason for existing, fueling me 24/7. But I never told my team that. Or my investors. They’d invested in a disaster recovery solution, not my Plan to Defeat All Banks and Achieve Eternal Glory. It never dawned on me that we weren’t all on the same page—until, of course, resentments and confusion began piling up like unread emails.
Suddenly, my once-loyal employees were huddling, probably thinking, “Wait, is it just me, or did no one ever see a product scope for Rapid Recovery? Also, did Kirk literally think we’d read his mind?”
Early Team, Early Chaos
My very first hire was a guy I’d known from my previous gig, back when I was CTO. We had a rocky comedic start: once I used a secret hotkey to breeze through a boring task that I’d bet him he couldn’t beat me at…so he was stuck with the boring grunt work for 90 days. That small moment turned into a bizarre dynamic over the years—he always suspected I had more “secret solutions” up my sleeve. Combine that with my actual secret mission, and you start seeing how we got into trouble.
With my new staff, I never gave them the 100-page plan. Instead, I said, “Hey, you’re an engineer, you’re a project manager, you’re a random intern—off we go!” I’d be shocked every six months or so when the magic didn’t happen. Then I’d grumble, “Time to bring in someone else,” repeat cycle. Meanwhile, 20 credit unions were sending checks for a product they didn’t fully understand. In fairness, I don’t think I fully understood it, either. But boy, was I confident.
The First Pattern
About six months in, I realized I was doing this repeated, facepalm-worthy routine:
Hire a person.
Never actually share the ultimate grand vision.
Grow frustrated when they don’t deliver it (because they literally had no clue).
Fire or reassign them, start over.
Rinse, repeat.
I’d sit there thinking, Why aren’t they reading my mind? Surely my ambition to dethrone entire corporations was implied in the job description, right? Spoiler alert: No. It wasn’t.
A Teaser for Next Time
That leads me to the moral of this story (and a teaser for the next post): If you have a secret mission—like me, thinking I’d dethrone billion-dollar giants—tell someone. Tell your investors. Tell your employees. Heck, tell your barista. Because if nobody knows your bigger motives or goals, there’s no way they can help make them happen.
If I could talk to my 26-year-old self, mid-celebration-scream in the driver’s seat, I’d say, “Dude, just share the plan. Write it on a napkin if you must. But do it before you sign that giant office lease and hire three unsuspecting employees!”
So, stay tuned for the next blog where we dig into all the ways not to keep your biggest ambitions a secret. Because trust me, I have a few more stories up my sleeve—some that involve actual shouting matches, silent investors, and a product roadmap that probably needed a user manual the size of War and Peace. Until then, buckle up. It’s going to be a (mostly humorous) ride.
Final Thoughts
Why It Matters: Secret missions breed confusion and can lead to costly mistakes—like blowing a decade’s worth of rent on office space you barely need.
What to Do: If you’re starting a venture, articulate your “why” clearly to your team. Don’t assume they’re psychic.
Coming Up Next: How to spot you’ve got a secret mission before it derails your shiny new empire (and your patience).
Thanks for reading—especially if you’ve ever sat in your car screaming from equal parts excitement and sheer terror. I see you, fellow founders. And I salute you.
Disruption with a side of humor—Kirk Drake, signing off (until the next post).
