When my family skipped my TED Talk, I told myself I was done chasing their approval. Four years of silence later, my company hit a $92M valuation and my face landed on the cover of Forbes—that’s when my dad finally texted: “Family dinner at 7 p.m. Important discussion.” They thought I’d show up desperate for their praise. Instead, I showed up with my cap table, legal docs, and one simple truth: they weren’t investors… they were four years too late.

When my family skipped my TED Talk, I told myself I was done chasing their approval. Four years of silence later, my company hit a $92M valuation and my face landed on the cover of Forbes—that’s when my dad finally texted: “Family dinner at 7 p.m. Important discussion.”

They thought I’d show up desperate for their praise. Instead, I showed up with my cap table, legal docs, and one simple truth: they weren’t investors… they were four years too late.

My Family Skipped My Biggest Moment. But When My $92M Valuation Hit Forbes…

Part 1

The text came through at 3:47 p.m. on a Tuesday.

No greeting. No “How are you?” No name.

Family dinner at 7 p.m. Important discussion.

Fourteen words. A period at the end that somehow felt more aggressive than an exclamation point.

I stared at my screen for a full minute before setting my phone down on my desk beside the framed Forbes cover that had arrived that morning—still smelling faintly of ink and cardboard. My face on a glossy page. A headline that felt surreal even after all the work it took to earn it.

How this 29-year-old built a mental health empire.

MindBridge. $92 million valuation.

My father hadn’t spoken to me in nearly four years.

Neither had my mother. Neither had my brother, Tyler. Neither had my sister, Amanda.

Four years of silence, broken by an order.

The message came from a number I didn’t recognize. New phone, new line, a new way around the block I’d placed on his old number. If my father wanted access, he always found a route. He believed boundaries were for other people.

I should back up.

I grew up in Portland in a house where birth order felt like a caste system.

Tyler, three years older, was the heir. The one my father trained like a junior associate in his commercial real estate empire. Tyler got the big conversations at dinner, the inside jokes, the unspoken assumption that everything important would one day be his.

Amanda, five years younger, was the baby. The one my mother protected and praised and excused. The one who could do something impulsive and get called “spirited” instead of “careless.”

And me.

I existed in the middle like a missing rung on a ladder.

Visible only when I disappointed them or succeeded in a way they found inconvenient.

My father, Kenneth Putnam, built his fortune buying distressed properties after the 2008 recession. He loved reminding everyone that he saw what others missed, that he was smarter than the market, that he “made his own luck.”

My mother, Patricia, came from old East Coast money and never let anyone forget it. She spoke about “standards” the way some people talk about oxygen, like she assumed the world would suffocate without her family’s rules.

When I was sixteen, I built my first app.

Nothing revolutionary. A study tool that helped students organize assignments and deadlines. I worked on it in my bedroom at night while my family watched TV downstairs. I coded with headphones on, hands shaking with excitement, imagining maybe this time my father would see me.

One evening after dinner, I brought my laptop into the living room and pulled up the interface.

“Dad,” I said, voice nervous. “I made something.”

He glanced for ten seconds.

“That’s nice, sweetheart,” he said without looking up. “Tyler, tell your mother about the Henderson contract.”

The conversation moved on.

I closed my laptop and went upstairs.

College was supposed to be my escape.

I got into MIT on a full academic scholarship, something I was genuinely proud of. My parents attended the ceremony where I gave the valedictorian speech—but they left immediately afterward for Amanda’s dance recital. Tyler didn’t come at all. He was “closing a deal” in San Francisco.

At MIT, I found my people: students who stayed up until 3 a.m. debugging code, who understood that solving a problem felt better than praise ever did. I met Jade Morrison in a computer science seminar sophomore year—brilliant, relentless, raised by a family that actually celebrated her.

The idea for MindBridge came during finals week.

We were both exhausted and frustrated by how inaccessible mental health resources were—too expensive, too slow, too hard to navigate when you were already struggling. We didn’t want to replace therapy. We wanted a bridge to it: an AI-powered platform that could provide immediate support while connecting users to licensed professionals.

Not perfect. Not magic. Just something that could help sooner rather than later.

After graduation, we moved into a terrible apartment in Cambridge and started coding. I lived off internship savings. Jade maxed out two credit cards. We ate ramen, drank coffee, and worked sixteen-hour days until our eyes burned.

I told my family about MindBridge at Christmas nearly five years ago.

My father swirled scotch in a crystal tumbler and asked, “So you’re not getting a real job?”

“This is a real job,” I said. “We have a working prototype.”

My mother cut in. “Sweetheart, playing with computers isn’t a career.”

Tyler smirked like he’d been waiting for that line.

Amanda didn’t even look up from her phone.

I left two days later and told myself it didn’t matter.

It did.

Our first investor meeting happened in March. A small VC firm agreed to hear our pitch. Jade and I practiced forty-seven times. I wore the only professional outfit I owned—a navy suit from a thrift store.

We walked out with $500,000 in seed funding.

I called my parents from the parking lot, hands trembling with adrenaline.

My mother answered on the fourth ring.

“That’s wonderful, honey,” she said. “Listen, I’m heading into a junior league meeting. Can I call you back?”

She never did.

The next three years blurred the way startup years do.

We hired our first employees, moved into real office space, launched the beta. MindBridge resonated with people who needed help but faced barriers: cost, stigma, time, access.

We raised Series A. Then Series B.

Users climbed from thousands to hundreds of thousands.

We won innovation awards. We got praised by mental health professionals for being careful and transparent. We made mistakes and fixed them. We built safeguards.

I sent my family updates anyway.

Press releases. Links to articles. Screenshots of user stories that made me cry at my desk because it meant what we built mattered.

My mother occasionally sent a brief “Congratulations.”

My father never acknowledged any of it.

Tyler and Amanda stayed silent.

The hardest part wasn’t their silence.

It was the way my younger self kept hoping it would change.

Part 2

Running MindBridge taught me a lot of things MIT didn’t.

Like how leadership wasn’t a title—it was a muscle you built by having difficult conversations even when your stomach flipped.

Our CTO, Brenda Woo, came from Google. She was fifteen years older than me, calm, sharp, and intimidating in that effortless way true competence often is.

During her second week, she cornered me in the breakroom while pouring coffee into a company mug.

“You’re avoiding giving me feedback,” she said.

I blinked. “I’m not avoiding.”

“You are,” she replied, matter-of-fact. “I can see it in your body language during code reviews. You disagree with some of my architectural decisions, but you won’t say it directly.”

My face flushed hot.

“I don’t want to seem like I’m undermining your expertise,” I admitted.

Brenda laughed. “Wendy, you hired me because I’m good at what I do. But this is your company. If you think I’m wrong, you need to tell me. Being a leader means having hard conversations.”

Something in me shifted. A tiny correction.

I started speaking up more after that. Not perfectly, but honestly. Decisions got clearer. My team got steadier. My confidence stopped relying on whether someone approved of me.

Then came our first major crisis.

A user posted a viral accusation that our AI gave harmful advice during a mental health emergency. The post exploded on social media.

For seventy-two hours, our team lived on adrenaline and dread.

We pulled logs. Reviewed transcripts. Consulted our advisory board of licensed therapists. We found the truth: the user had manipulated the system deliberately, edited screenshots, and engineered outrage.

We issued a public statement with the facts. We implemented extra safeguards. We were transparent about limitations.

Some users left.

Many stayed because we didn’t lie.

But I was rattled.

At 4 a.m. one night, I sat alone in the office staring at user data like it could tell me whether I deserved to keep doing this.

Jade found me and sat beside me.

“You can’t prevent every misuse,” she said quietly.

“What if someone gets hurt because of something we built?” I whispered.

“Then we take responsibility and do better,” she replied. “But you can’t let fear of imperfection stop you from helping the millions who genuinely benefit.”

That night, an old instinct surfaced—the instinct to call my mother when I felt scared, to seek parental comfort like a reflex.

And then I remembered: she never asked how I was doing. Not really. Not once. She’d never cared about the hard parts, the anxious parts, the parts that didn’t look like a brag.

So I called Jade’s mom instead.

Patricia Morrison talked me through my panic like she’d been waiting her whole life to be the parent someone needed. She asked smart questions about safety protocols. She reminded me I was human.

“You’re not playing God,” she told me. “You’re building a tool. A good tool. Give yourself permission to be human.”

I hung up and cried in the office bathroom, not because I was weak, but because someone finally treated my work like it mattered enough to ask about the cost.

My family never did.

The bigger MindBridge got, the more formal everything became.

Series B brought new investors and new pressure. Board meetings. Scrutiny. Expectations.

One board member, Frank Castellano, reminded me uncomfortably of my father—dismissive tone, constant interruptions, the assumption his experience gave him ownership of the room.

In one meeting, he cut me off mid-presentation.

“These demographics have lower monetization potential,” he said. “Focus on premium features for higher-income users.”

I set down my remote.

“Our mission is democratizing mental health care,” I said evenly. “That means serving people regardless of income.”

“Mission is great for TED Talks,” Frank replied. “We’re here to discuss returns.”

“The returns are there,” I said. “Our data shows users across income levels engage with premium features when priced appropriately. And serving diverse communities builds trust and growth you can’t buy.”

The room went quiet.

Another board member, Patricia Okonquo, spoke up. “Wendy’s right. Short-term monetization versus long-term brand value. We’ve seen this across the industry.”

The discussion moved on, but Frank watched me differently after that.

After the meeting he said, “You’ve got spine. I pushed to see if you’d fold. You didn’t.”

It wasn’t an apology.

But it was confirmation that standing firm earned respect more reliably than begging ever did.

Around that time Tyler tried to reach me once—not through my personal phone, which I’d blocked, but through MindBridge’s general business line. My receptionist forwarded the note to my assistant.

Your brother called. Family matter. Wants to speak.

I stared at the slip for a long moment, then said, “Tell him I’m unavailable.”

That night, curiosity got the better of me. I looked at Tyler’s social media—curated perfection, charity galas, professional milestones, photos smiling beside his wife like nothing ever broke in our family.

But I also did what I’d learned to do in business: look deeper.

His firm was struggling. Clients leaving. Partnering at a midsized regional firm wasn’t the victory my family had always framed it as.

I wondered if that was why he called.

Then I closed the browser and went back to work.

Then came the TED invitation.

May 15th. Vancouver.

Standing on that red circle felt surreal. I sent my family details three months in advance. Then two months. Then one month. I called my mother.

“We’ll try to make it,” she said.

The day of the talk, I stood backstage smoothing my dress, heart pounding, watching attendees file in.

My family never showed.

Afterward, I checked my phone.

Nothing. No text. No call. No excuse.

The talk went viral.

Millions watched.

My own family stayed silent.

That night at 2 a.m., while my team worked to handle new user traffic, I made a decision.

I blocked their numbers.

All of them.

The last tap felt like grief and relief at the same time.

And then I built my life around the people who actually showed up.

Part 3

For four years, my family was a locked door.

Then Forbes came.

The Series C closed at a $92 million valuation. We turned down dozens of investment offers. Forbes wanted a profile. Then they wanted a cover story.

The reporter, Diane Shepard, asked sharp questions about everything—our business model, our safety protocols, my leadership philosophy.

At one point she said, “Your LinkedIn says you grew up in Portland. Tell me about your family’s influence.”

I’d prepared for that.

“My parents emphasized education and hard work,” I said, carefully vague. “I’m grateful for my foundation, but they aren’t involved in the business.”

Diane paused. “Your father runs a commercial real estate firm. Did he mentor you?”

“I learned more from doing,” I said. “Trial and error.”

Diplomatic enough.

The issue hit newsstands on a Monday morning in September.

My office erupted. Champagne. Copies everywhere. Someone framed the cover and hung it in the conference room. It felt surreal seeing my face on something I used to read in college as if it belonged to someone else’s life.

My phone exploded with congratulations.

Professors. MIT classmates. Industry contacts. Distant acquaintances. Even investors who’d passed earlier suddenly wanted to “reconnect.”

One message hit differently: Patricia Morrison.

Your parents must be so proud. Call me if you want to chat.

I called her that evening. We talked for an hour about success, family, and grief.

Some parents love their children but don’t know how to see them, she told me. It’s their loss. But that doesn’t make it hurt less.

“Do you think they’ll reach out now?” I asked.

Patricia didn’t hesitate. “Probably. Money makes people reconsider their positions.”

She was right.

My father’s text came through the next day at 3:47 p.m.

Family dinner at 7 p.m. Important discussion.

I didn’t respond immediately. I had meetings. Calls. Strategy sessions.

But the text sat in my mind like a splinter.

That presumption.

That belief that he could summon me now that I was valuable.

At dinner that night, Jade watched me push food around my plate and asked what was wrong.

I showed her the text.

She read it twice, then looked up. “Are you going to go?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

“They ignored your TED talk,” she said. “Ignored you for years. Now you’re on Forbes and suddenly it’s family dinner?”

“I know.”

“So why are you considering it?” she pressed, not unkindly.

I stared at my glass. “Closure. Confirmation. A chance to say what I never got to say.”

Jade nodded slowly. “Or you could block the number and move on.”

She was right.

But I couldn’t let the command hang in the air without seeing what it really was.

So Wednesday morning, I called my attorney, Ross Chapman.

“I need documents drafted,” I told him.

“What kind of documents?” he asked.

“Investment disclaimers. Liability waivers. Due diligence forms. Cap table summary.”

Ross paused. “Wendy… what are you planning?”

“Family dinner,” I said.

Another pause. “Do I want to know?”

“Probably not,” I replied. “But I need them legitimate because they will be legitimate.”

Thursday afternoon, Ross delivered a leather portfolio to my condo.

I chose my outfit carefully: tailored charcoal suit, understated jewelry, hair in a neat bun. Professional. Controlled. Unmistakably different from the girl who once begged for ten seconds of attention.

I ordered a car service and timed my arrival for exactly 7:00 p.m.

Not early. Not late.

Punctual like a meeting.

The house in the West Hills looked exactly the same—sprawling, expensive, landscaped like a magazine spread.

The windows glowed warm against the early evening.

I could see shadows moving inside.

My family gathering for an “important discussion.”

I rang the bell.

My mother opened the door.

She’d aged. More gray in her hair, lines around her eyes.

Her face cycled through surprise, confusion, then something that looked like delight.

“Wendy,” she breathed. “You came. You look wonderful. Come in.”

The house smelled like roast chicken and rosemary. Classical music played softly. Everything was frozen in the amber of my childhood: curated comfort, controlled conversation.

My father appeared from his study, smaller somehow despite the expensive sweater.

“Wendy,” he said. “Good. Everyone’s in the dining room.”

No hug. No greeting.

Just direction.

Tyler and Amanda were already seated with their partners.

Amanda stood and rushed over with outstretched arms. “Oh my gosh. You look amazing. Forbes cover, right? That’s so cool.”

I accepted the hug the way you accept a coat you’re not sure fits anymore.

Tyler nodded. “Quite the accomplishment.”

I didn’t sit.

Before anyone could pour wine or pretend this was normal, I said calmly, “Before we eat, I’d like to understand the purpose of this dinner. Your message said important discussion.”

My father cleared his throat. “Let’s eat first. Then we’ll talk about business.”

“I prefer to discuss business first,” I said.

His face tightened. “Wendy, don’t be difficult. Sit down.”

I stayed standing. “I can stand.”

The temperature dropped.

My mother forced a smile. “Sweetheart, we’re so proud. We wanted to celebrate as a family and discuss exciting opportunities.”

“What opportunities?” I asked.

My father leaned back, posture shifting into boardroom mode.

“Your company is doing remarkably well,” he said. “Ninety-two million valuation. We believe it would be an excellent addition to the family portfolio.”

There it was.

They weren’t inviting me to reconnect.

They were inviting me to be useful.

Part 4

“You want to invest in MindBridge,” I said.

“We want to support you,” my mother corrected quickly. “Family supporting family.”

I opened my portfolio and pulled out the first document.

“What investment amount were you considering?” I asked.

My father’s eyes brightened like he’d been waiting for me to speak his language.

“Two million,” he said. “Significant enough to demonstrate commitment. Strategic enough to secure meaningful equity.”

“Two million for what percentage?” I asked.

Tyler glanced at my father before speaking. “We’d need to discuss that with your financial people,” he said carefully.

My father waved a hand. “Given current valuation and our role as family… fifteen to twenty percent seems appropriate.”

I did the math instantly.

At our valuation, fifteen percent was worth nearly fourteen million.

They wanted to invest two million for equity worth fourteen million, and they thought DNA made that reasonable.

I kept my face neutral.

“Tyler,” I asked, “are you also interested in investing?”

Tyler nodded. “Jennifer and I could contribute. Five hundred thousand.”

Amanda chimed in quickly. “Derek and I could do two fifty. If there’s room.”

I handed the documents around the table.

“These are standard investment disclosures,” I said. “Due diligence, risk acknowledgments, legal protections. Every investor signs similar agreements.”

My father frowned as he skimmed. “This seems excessive for a family investment.”

“It’s standard,” I replied. “And the fact that you’re family makes this more important, not less. I have fiduciary responsibilities to my board and investors.”

My mother looked genuinely confused. “But sweetheart… we’re your parents.”

“Exactly,” I said calmly. “Which is why everything must be formal.”

They read in silence, paper turning, expressions tightening as they saw the list of risks: market shifts, regulatory changes, product liability, valuation volatility. The reality that investing wasn’t a favor—it was a gamble.

Then I said, “Before we proceed, I need to understand something.”

My mother started, “Wendy—”

I held up a hand. “This dinner is the first communication I’ve received from any of you in four years.”

My father’s jaw flexed. “That’s not entirely—”

“It is,” I said. “I sent press releases. Articles. Milestones. And I invited you to my TED talk in Vancouver.”

Silence.

“I gave you three months notice,” I continued. “Then two. Then one. I called you, Mom. You said you’d try to make it.”

My mother’s cheeks flushed. “We wanted to be there, honey, but your father had an important client meeting and Amanda had a conference—”

“My TED talk has been viewed forty-three million times,” I said evenly. “Forty-three million strangers watched me speak about the work I’m proudest of. My own family couldn’t attend.”

My father’s voice sharpened. “We can’t drop everything for every little event.”

Every little event.

I stared at him and felt something settle in my chest, cool and steady.

“You’re right,” I said. “Business demands are real. Which is why I’m curious about the timing of this dinner invitation.”

I pulled out my phone and opened a saved article.

“Your company’s Q2 report shows a twelve percent decline,” I said. “Tyler, your firm lost its two biggest clients. Amanda, your startup had its second round of layoffs.”

The room went still.

My father’s eyes narrowed. “What is this?”

“This,” I said calmly, “is me understanding why you texted me the same week Forbes printed my valuation.”

My mother’s voice rose, strained. “Wendy, you’re twisting this.”

“No,” I replied. “I’m naming it.”

I looked around the table at the people who had ignored me until my success became liquid.

“For years,” I said, “you dismissed my work as playing with computers. You skipped my milestones. You treated my career like an embarrassing hobby. And now that there’s money attached to it, suddenly it’s family dinner.”

My father leaned forward, voice hardening. “That’s not what this is about.”

“Then explain it,” I said. “Explain why after four years of silence, you reached out the same week my Forbes cover hit.”

No one answered.

So I opened my portfolio and pulled out the final document.

“This is our current cap table,” I said. “There is no room for new investment at the Series C level. We are fully subscribed.”

Tyler blinked. “Then why did you give us all those documents?”

I closed the portfolio gently.

“Because I wanted you to see what you missed,” I said.

I leaned slightly forward, letting the words land.

“The company you dismissed became successful enough that people compete to invest. We turned down forty-seven investment offers in the last round. Forty-seven people who believed in what we were building when you didn’t.”

My father’s face darkened. “So you came here to humiliate us.”

I shook my head once. “I came here to confirm whether you’d changed.”

My mother’s eyes filled with tears. “We’re proud of you—”

“Stop,” I said softly. “I don’t need you to lie to me.”

The calm in my voice seemed to upset them more than anger would have.

“I built something meaningful without your support,” I continued. “Without your guidance. Without your money.”

My father snapped, “We supported you your whole life. Paid for your education.”

“I went to MIT on a full scholarship,” I said. “You provided the basics required of parents. Roof. Food. Congratulations on meeting the minimum legal requirements.”

My mother made a strangled sound.

My father’s voice rose. “How dare you speak to me that way in my own house.”

I looked at him steadily.

“This might be your house,” I said, “but I’m not the daughter who needs your approval anymore.”

Amanda’s voice was small. “Wendy… we really are proud.”

I turned to her. I hadn’t looked at her long enough in years to see who she’d become, and now she looked like a stranger wearing my sister’s face.

“Are you proud of me,” I asked, “or proud of what I might do for you? Because there’s a difference.”

Amanda didn’t answer.

I looked at Tyler. “Has living up to Dad’s expectations made you happy?”

Tyler stared at his plate.

I wasn’t trying to hurt him. Not really.

I just wanted him to see the trap.

“I hope it has,” I said quietly. “I genuinely do.”

My mother whispered, “We love you.”

“Maybe you do,” I replied. “But love without respect, without showing up, without support when it matters… isn’t enough.”

I stood up straighter, picked up my portfolio.

“I deserve more than that,” I said. “And I finally understand I don’t need to earn my place at this table. I can build my own.”

I walked toward the door.

My father called after me, sharp and proud. “If you leave now, don’t expect to come back.”

I turned back once.

“I haven’t been back in four years,” I said. “Another forty won’t make a difference.”

He bristled. “We could have helped you succeed. Our connections, our experience—”

“I succeeded without you,” I said, and the truth made his face tighten like it was a personal insult. “That’s what you can’t accept.”

My mother stepped forward, pleading. “Please, sweetheart, can’t we work through this as a family?”

“A family shows up,” I said. “A family celebrates successes, not just the ones that benefit them financially. A family doesn’t ignore you for four years and then opt back in when it’s convenient.”

I opened the door. Cool evening air hit my face like clarity.

“I hope your businesses improve,” I said. “I genuinely do. But you’ll do it without using my success as your safety net.”

Then I walked out.

Part 5

The car service waited at the curb like I’d ordered it for exactly this reason: to make leaving feel clean.

I slid into the back seat and gave the driver my address. As we pulled away, my parents’ house receded in the side mirror until it vanished around a corner.

My phone buzzed.

Jade: How’d it go?

Me: Exactly as expected. On my way home.

Jade: Want company?

Me: Yes, please.

By the time I reached my condo, Jade was waiting in the lobby with takeout and a bottle of wine like she’d done this kind of rescue before.

We ate on my couch, and I told her everything.

When I finished, Jade set down her fork and said, “I’m proud of you.”

“For what?” I asked, tired.

“For knowing your worth,” she said. “For refusing to let them minimize your success. For building something amazing and not letting them claim credit for it.”

I took a sip of wine. “What if I’m being vindictive?”

Jade didn’t hesitate. “You’re being honest. There’s a difference.”

My phone buzzed throughout the evening—texts from my mother, calls from Tyler, a long email from Amanda I deleted without reading.

My father sent nothing.

Over the following weeks, the attempts decreased. My mother tried the longest, sending messages about holidays and traditions like she could glue us back together with nostalgia.

I responded politely and briefly, the way you respond to someone you wish well but don’t trust.

No, Thanksgiving won’t work.

No, Christmas isn’t possible.

No, I’m not reconsidering investment.

Six months later, a package arrived at the MindBridge office.

Inside was a framed photo of me at eight years old, smiling at something off-camera. A note from my mother tucked behind it.

You were always special. I’m sorry we didn’t show you that enough. Love, Mom.

I kept the photo.

I didn’t respond.

MindBridge grew.

We expanded internationally. We launched new features. We helped millions of people access mental health support who otherwise would have waited too long or not gotten help at all.

Forbes did a follow-up article. TechCrunch called me one of the top entrepreneurs to watch.

And I built a table.

Literally.

A huge custom dining table in my new house, big enough for thirty people. Once a month, I hosted dinners for my team, my chosen family—the people who showed up when it mattered. Jade. Brenda. Marcus. Patricia Morrison. The employees who believed in this mission when it was just an idea and two exhausted women in a terrible apartment.

Sometimes I wondered if I was too harsh that night.

Then I remembered standing backstage at TED, smoothing my dress, scanning the entrance for faces that never appeared.

I remembered every message I sent that went unanswered.

Every milestone met with silence.

I didn’t regret walking out of that house.

Two years later, our valuation hit $240 million.

We began preparing for an IPO.

Tyler stopped calling.

Amanda sent a social media friend request once. I didn’t accept it, but I didn’t decline it either. Not because I owed her anything, but because indifference felt better than fury.

My mother still sends occasional birthday messages. I respond briefly.

Because here’s what I finally learned:

You can’t force people to see your value. You can’t make them show up. You can’t earn love and respect from people who have decided you’re not worth the effort.

But you can stop waiting.

You can build your own success.

You can create your own family from people who celebrate your victories instead of showing up only when there’s something in it for them.

And you can walk away from their dinner table without regret, knowing the most important investment you ever made wasn’t the Series C round.

It was the moment you stopped investing your worth in people who refused to see it.