If You've Ever Felt Like You're Failing While Everyone Else Wins, This is For You
The Truth About Building a Business While Barely Holding On
You keep building, keep showing up, keep pretending you’ve got it handled. But nobody sees the exhaustion underneath or understands why success still feels impossibly far away.
You’re working harder than you’ve ever worked.
Showing up every day.
Helping clients.
Creating content.
Shipping offers.
Everyone around you thinks you’ve got it handled.
Because you keep moving forward. You don’t complain. You just do the work.
But here’s what nobody sees:
The exhaustion that comes from building nonstop for years without the return you expected.
The financial pressure that sits in your chest every time you look at your bank account.
The medical bills that stack up while you’re trying to figure out how to make your business finally work.
The nights you lie awake wondering if this time will be different or if you’re just fooling yourself again.
You’re not failing. You’re not broken.
But you are carrying something nobody around you understands.
You’ve proven you can do hard things.
You’ve built businesses. ‘
Led projects.
Made money before.
Paid off debt.
Created something from nothing.
So you know you have the skills.
You know you have the knowledge, and the experience.
But somehow, right now, it’s not translating into the results you need.
And that gap—between what you know you’re capable of and what’s actually showing up in your bank account—is maddening.
Because if you can’t make it work with everything you’ve learned, what does that say about you?
Here’s the that’s hard to admit
When you’re a solopreneur dealing with real life—kids, financial instability, the pressure of needing this to work because going back to a job isn’t an option—the grind never stops.
There’s no vacation from the pressure.
No “off season” where you can rest and figure it out.
You have to keep building while the stress compounds.
You have to keep showing up while wondering if you’re running in place.
You have to keep pretending you’ve got it handled because admitting you don’t feels like failure.
And everyone around you assumes you’re fine.
Because you’re the one who always figures it out.
You’re the one who keeps going; who doesn’t quit.
So they don’t see the weight you’re carrying.
They don’t see the fog between where you are and where you need to be.
They don’t see you questioning whether you’re building something real or just prolonging the inevitable.
Maybe they see the cracks.
The worry etched in your face, the short temper that wasn’t there before, the way you’re always distracted, glued to your phone even when you’re supposed to be present.
But they don’t see the full picture.
Your family sees someone working harder than ever but still stressed.
Your friends see someone who’s “always busy” but never seems to catch a break.
And online? They just see the helpful posts. The systems. The frameworks.
Nobody sees the person behind it wondering if this time will finally be different.
Because you won’t let them.
You don’t want to complain. You’d hate to feel like you’re fishing for sympathy.
And you’re deathly afraid that the people you need to buy from you would shun your products and services if they saw through the facade.
So you hide it.
Bury it down and pretend everything is fine.
I saw a post this week that caught me.
shared how a client of his went from 297 subscribers to over 4,000 overnight with a single post.(It wasn’t really overnight. She’d been practicing and publishing for months to find her way.)
One line in particular resonated: “Your brain isn’t malfunctioning. It’s finally refusing to malfunction anymore.”
People identified with that deeply, and hundreds of them commented to let her know.
Derek broke down what made it work:
She named the pain her audience was carrying but couldn’t articulate.
She spoke to one specific person in one specific moment.
She gave them language for something they’d been feeling but had no words for.
And that’s what I’ve been trying to do.
But I keep stopping myself.
Because I don’t know how to talk about the real things without it sounding like I’m navel-gazing or fishing for sympathy.
The anxiety. The burnout. The depression. The chronic stress.
The financial instability that keeps me up at night.
The weight of raising kids with serious medical needs while trying to build something that finally works.
The exhaustion of building for ten years without the return I expected.
The grief of going from a life of adventure—living in five different countries, visiting 35+ more, constant movement—to a quiet, ordinary life back in Michigan where nothing feels exciting anymore.
How do you name those things without sounding like you’re complaining?
How do you be real without scaring off the people who might actually need what you’re building?
I don’t have that figured out yet.
But I know this:
The thing you’re afraid to say out loud is probably the thing someone else desperately needs to hear.
Not another framework or system to implement (though those have their place).
Just someone naming the weight you’re carrying that nobody else sees.
The exhaustion. The pressure. The fog. The fear that you’ll keep building and it still won’t be enough.
Because here’s what I think:
You’re doing your best.
You’re showing up even when it’s hard.
You’re building something meaningful even when you’re scared it won’t work.
And the fact that it hasn’t worked yet doesn’t mean you’re broken.
It means you’re still in the middle of it.
Just like me.
I don’t have this figured out.
I’m not writing this from the other side.
I’m writing it from right here in the middle.
Still building, still grinding, still wondering if this time will be different.
I wish I could sit here and write out the 3 or 5 or 7 steps to get out, with the confidence of knowing they worked for me.
But I can’t.
I’m building toward something, sure.
I have a plan for how I’m going to do it that I believe will work because I’ve seen it work for others.
Simple systems. Repeated over time. Getting a little better each day.
And then just white-knuckling it…
Holding on in desperation that it will finally work if I keep going and don’t give up.
Because the alternative is unthinkable.
When I was building the hotel, on the worst days I repeated to myself over and over: “The only way out is through.”
And that’s what I’m doing again now.
Not because I’m confident it’ll work.
But because I don’t know what else to do except keep moving forward.
But if you’re in the middle of it too, maybe that’s enough.
Maybe the realest thing I can do is stop pretending I’ve got it all handled.
And just show up as the guy who’s still figuring it out.
The guy who’s exhausted but keeps going.
The guy who knows he can do this but doesn’t know why it hasn’t worked yet.
The guy who’s tired of the mask.
Maybe that’s all you can do too.
Figure out where you want to go.
Pick the path you believe will get you there.
Keep going, even on the days you want to call it in and curl up on the couch and binge Lord of the Rings.
And be honest with yourself—and everyone else—about how effin hard it is.
Because pretending it’s easy doesn’t make it easier.
It just makes you feel more alone.
If that sounds like where you’re at, I’d like to know.
Reply or comment and tell me what you’re carrying that nobody sees.
Not because I have the answer.
But because maybe knowing you’re not the only one is enough for today.
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