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3 AM. The fluorescent lights hummed above us as I curled up on a “mattress” of cardboard boxes. Snoring, keyboard clattering, and hoarse counting swirled around me—Day 47 of our four-person startup.
To save costs, we crammed our company into an empty suburban warehouse. By day, we huddled around a single wooden desk answering client inquiries. By night, we knelt on the concrete floor packing orders. Those first 5,000 units? Every one sealed by our hands. Even now, fingernail marks remain etched into the floor cracks.
The turning point came with a crisis. Days before a major holiday, a key client canceled a bulk order, leaving us drowning in unsold inventory. I sat clutching the penalty notice until someone yanked the cardboard sheet off my shoulders: “If it won’t sell, we’ll break it down and rebuild!”
We dismantled the packaging, redesigned the bundles, and chased new channels through the night. Seven days later, when the inventory alert finally turned green, sunlight streamed onto the empty floor for the first time—we even slept past noon between the shelves.
Though we’ve long outgrown that warehouse, flecks of packing tape still cling to our old jeans like medals. Whenever I pass the old building, I gaze at the ceiling lamp with its thrice-replaced bulbs. It remembers how we gathered our galaxy from the cold, unyielding concrete.
3 AM. The fluorescent lights hummed above us as I curled up on a “mattress” of cardboard boxes. Snoring, keyboard clattering, and hoarse counting swirled around me—Day 47 of our four-person startup.
To save costs, we crammed our company into an empty suburban warehouse. By day, we huddled around a single wooden desk answering client inquiries. By night, we knelt on the concrete floor packing orders. Those first 5,000 units? Every one sealed by our hands. Even now, fingernail marks remain etched into the floor cracks.
The turning point came with a crisis. Days before a major holiday, a key client canceled a bulk order, leaving us drowning in unsold inventory. I sat clutching the penalty notice until someone yanked the cardboard sheet off my shoulders: “If it won’t sell, we’ll break it down and rebuild!”
We dismantled the packaging, redesigned the bundles, and chased new channels through the night. Seven days later, when the inventory alert finally turned green, sunlight streamed onto the empty floor for the first time—we even slept past noon between the shelves.
Though we’ve long outgrown that warehouse, flecks of packing tape still cling to our old jeans like medals. Whenever I pass the old building, I gaze at the ceiling lamp with its thrice-replaced bulbs. It remembers how we gathered our galaxy from the cold, unyielding concrete.