Letters

I have rebuilt the same business more times than I would like to count.

A good stretch would come, the month would land, and for a while I would let myself believe it had finally taken. Then it would slow, and I would find myself back at the foot of the same hill with the same rope in my hands. For most of ten years I read that as a failure of will. So I gripped harder.

It took me far too long to see what was actually happening. In every one of those businesses, I was the engine. And an engine, however good, has one hard limit no amount of grip can fix. It has no memory.