It was 10:04 in the morning when I opened the email.
The subject line was short, formal, and somewhat predictable.
It wasn’t the news I had hoped for.
I read it once. Then again.
And even though I’d been here before, it still hurt.

There are rejections that sting not for what they say,
but for what they represent.
Because behind every “no”, it’s not just an opportunity that falls —
it’s a small piece of faith in the path you chose.

My roots

I come from the bottom.
From a family where studying was a dream, not a tradition.
I was the first to go to university, thanks to a BCP scholarship,
and I chose Computer Science — not because it was fancy,
but because it offered something I’d never had before: stability.

Labs. Mentors. A network of people who talked about the future.
And for the first time, the future felt like something I could build, not just imagine.

My frustrated dream was always music.
But life, with its generous irony, taught me to tune other instruments:
patience, resilience, and silence.

Those three — without realizing it — became the pillars of everything that came after.

Building from the bottom feels different

When people say “entrepreneurship,”
they often picture garages, startups, and cinematic endings.
But starting from the bottom is not a Silicon Valley story.
It’s something else — rawer, lonelier, and far more uncertain.

It’s not a garage with investor backing;
it’s a one-room apartment with unstable Wi-Fi and an overheating laptop.

It’s not “fail fast” with no consequences;
it’s failing and wondering how you’ll pay rent this month.

It’s not a motivational “you got this”;
it’s a silent conversation with your own fear.

Starting from the bottom is learning to live with constant vulnerability.
With the anxiety of not knowing if your idea will survive until month’s end.
With the exhaustion that doesn’t show up in photos.
With the fear of being seen — by strangers, by judgment, by danger.
And with the loneliness of making decisions without a manual, without a mentor, without certainty.

My first five digits in the bank weren’t profit.
They were debt.
And as painful as that was, it was still a kind of investment —
the act of believing without any guarantee.

Entrepreneurship, even then, is a privilege

I don’t say this with resentment — I say it with awareness.
Because not all of us start from the same place,
and pretending otherwise would be disrespectful to those still trying.

It’s easier to build when you have a safety net, backing, or room for error.
But for many of us, entrepreneurship means betting our livelihoods.
It means there’s no second chance if something goes wrong.
And that completely changes the way you live the process.

Hard work isn’t enough.
The gaps don’t disappear through enthusiasm.
The system doesn’t balance itself just because you study, work hard, or lose sleep.

And sometimes, even when you do everything “right” —
when you deliver, adapt, and persist —
that “no” arrives to remind you that endurance also has a cost.
That resilience without rest turns into exhaustion.
And that even faith, no matter how strong, can run out.

Still, I keep going

I keep going because stopping would mean betraying everything it took to get here.
I keep going out of conviction, stubbornness, and dignity.
For the people who believe.
And, above all, for those coming after me —
the ones who still can’t see the way forward.

I keep going because I learned that giving up doesn’t fix the system —
it just keeps it the same.

But I won’t romanticize the cost.
There are days when the future looks blurry,
when fatigue outweighs hope,
and when sleep feels like a luxury you can’t afford.

Some days, purpose is the only thing holding the invisible together.

If you’re in that place, you’re not alone

I’m not seeking pity; I’m seeking honest conversation.
Because learning, building, and sharing knowledge shouldn’t be luxuries.

We need fairer conditions,
more human networks,
ecosystems where growing doesn’t mean barely surviving.

Talent isn’t what’s missing.
There are plenty of capable, curious, and creative people.
What’s missing is an environment that doesn’t punish those who try without a safety net.

We lack institutional empathy.
We lack recognition for silent effort.
We lack spaces where vulnerability isn’t a weakness,
but a form of humanity.

And until that changes, enduring becomes a quiet form of protest.

Today, the email said “no”

And even though that “no” weighed heavier than I expected,
tomorrow I’ll sit back in front of the screen.
With the same calm, the same faith, and the same stubbornness for the future.

To build.
To insist.
To keep learning, even when it hurts.

Because life doesn’t always reward the hardest worker —
but it always transforms the one who refuses to give up.

And that, even if it sounds small, changes everything.

If you can reach out a hand

A conversation.
A bit of feedback.
An opportunity.

Sometimes, one word is all it takes to make the difference between giving up or holding on.
Maybe today, you’ll be part of the network that keeps many of us standing.
Thank you for that.