From Bar Fights to Boardrooms: How I Built a Business While Fighting to Be Seen

I never wanted to talk about race or racism.

It’s not because I didn’t experience it—I did. It’s because talking about it makes people uncomfortable. They’d think I was making excuses. That I was trying to play the victim card. But there’s no victimhood in acknowledging what’s real. And now, with the business sold, I can be honest about those moments without feeling like I need to justify myself.

The truth is, it began early. In fact, it started even before the business was officially incorporated. Jason Partridge , my business partner, and I were at a bar, having a drink and mapping out our plans. We were excited about what we were going to build—filled with that energy you get before a new venture. That’s when this drunk man stumbled up to us and started spewing racist garbage. The words don’t matter as much as the intent. He was out to humiliate, and he saw me as an easy target.

Jason almost fought him. Right there in the bar, he was ready to take this guy down. I held him back. It wasn’t worth it. But looking back, it set the tone for our partnership. Jason became this big-brother figure, always there to soften the blow when I faced that kind of prejudice. He couldn’t erase it, but he stood by me every time. And in a world where people constantly underestimated me, that solidarity was everything.

It wasn’t the last time it happened, either. A few years later, we found ourselves in Durham, North Carolina, visiting one of our clients, Burt’s Bees. We went out for a drink after the meeting, walked into this bar, and I got denied service. Just flat-out refused. Jason was livid. But there it was again—another reminder of what it means to look like me in spaces where people like me aren’t expected to be.

I guess the irony is that in business, I often downplayed who I was. In the U.S., I tried to avoid the immigrant narrative altogether. I didn’t want to be seen as “the other,” so I hid parts of my identity. I wasn’t just some guy from South Asia working yet another job in tech—I was the founder of a tech company, like any other entrepreneur. At least, that’s what I tried to project. It was a survival mechanism, and in some ways, it worked. But the weight of that constant masking takes its toll.

The Struggle to Belong

Those early days were hard. Not just because of the business challenges, but because of the constant battle to feel like I belonged. Entrepreneurship is lonely enough, but when you add that layer of feeling out of place, it’s isolating on a different level.

I was shy. Still am, to be honest. The kind of person who would rather sit in the background than be the center of attention. But in business, that’s not an option. You have to show up. You have to be the one shaking hands, making small talk, attending events. It’s a performance, and it takes emotional energy to play that part when it doesn’t come naturally. But you learn to do it because you have to.

Jason and I would walk into rooms full of well-dressed people with degrees from Ivy League schools, and we would feel out of place. I had an MBA, sure, but it wasn’t from one of those schools. And I wasn’t like them. I didn’t look like them. I didn’t act like them. I didn’t belong in their clubs. That’s where the imposter syndrome crept in.

Over time, though, you realize something: Everyone is pretending. Everyone feels insecure, no matter how sharp their designer clothes are. Our culture has this way of turning success into performance art—people show you what they want you to see. They hide the doubts, the failures, the uncertainties. It’s all smoke and mirrors. But once you see behind the curtain, it becomes easier to stop doubting yourself. You realize that everyone is just figuring it out, same as you.

Turning Insecurity into Power

That feeling of being underestimated never goes away entirely. And maybe that’s a good thing. It keeps you sharp. And it certainly propelled me to dive deeper into my own passion for social anthropology.?

People questioned me. VCs looked at me and said we couldn’t scale the business. Customers would sit across from me and ask where I got my PhD—because clearly, I must have one if I was talking about anthropology and algorithms. When I told them I didn’t have one, there was always this flicker of doubt in their eyes. Would they have questioned me like that if I were white? I’ll never know. But what I do know is that it fueled me.

In fact, it fueled both of us. We couldn’t rely on borrowed credibility. We tried bringing on big-name advisors to open doors, but only a fraction of that strategy worked. We weren’t going to get a break because someone else vouched for us. So, we had to build our credibility from the ground up.

And we did.

We delivered great work. We solved big problems for our clients. And in return, they referred us to their friends, their colleagues, their connections. Slowly, step by step, we built something undeniable. We weren’t flashy, but we were real. And that’s what mattered.

Luck, Timing, and the Rooftop Decision

I still remember that rooftop in Minneapolis. Jason and I were there after a meeting with Target and General Mills, two clients that were pivotal for us. We sat there, with the Mayo Clinic building in the backdrop, watching the sun go down, drinking wine, and reflecting on how far we’d come.

That’s when we made a decision that would change everything. We decided to stop selling our consulting services—the ones that were keeping us financially stable—and go all-in on our technology platform. It was a risky move. The consulting work was our safety net, our cash flow. But we knew that if we didn’t make the leap, we’d always be stuck in that middle space, never growing beyond a certain point.

It was part luck, part timing. We were in the right place at the right time. And maybe there was a little bit of that rooftop magic in the air. But once we made the decision, there was no turning back.

Building a Business, Building a Family

Through it all, Jason and I leaned on each other as the unlikely founders of a now rapidly growing business. He was the one person who I knew had my back no matter what. And that made the loneliness of entrepreneurship a little less suffocating. I honestly don’t know how solo entrepreneurs do it. Running a business is isolating enough when you have a partner, but doing it alone? I can’t imagine.

But even with Jason by my side, there were moments when it felt like the weight of the world was on my shoulders. As the business grew, so did the emotional strain. I found myself playing the role of therapist, not just boss. People would come to me with their personal problems, expecting me to solve not just the business challenges, but the emotional ones too.

It’s one thing to manage financial stress or deal with lost opportunities. But when you’re also carrying the emotional weight of a team, it gets heavy. And then there’s the balancing act of family life—managing children, grief, and the day-to-day challenges of being human. The business consumed so much of me, but I still had to show up at home, be present, be there for the people I loved. There were times when it all felt impossible.

The Mental Health Rollercoaster

The mental toll of running a business is one of those things no one prepares you for. You think it’s about strategy, execution, and finances. And it is. But what no one tells you is that you also become the emotional anchor for everyone around you.

As the company grew, I found myself spending more time managing emotions than managing operations. People would come to me with their problems, their anxieties, their fears. And there’s this unspoken expectation that as the founder, you’ll somehow make everything better. That you’ll fix not only the business but the lives of the people who work for you.

It takes a toll.

It’s a strange thing, carrying the weight of a growing company while also carrying the emotional burdens of a team. You’ve got your own problems to deal with—finances, rejection from lost opportunities, problems with technology. And then, on top of all that, you’ve got to be the one to give everyone else a sense of purpose, a reason to stay motivated.

It’s exhausting.

And that’s not even factoring in the personal sacrifices. I remember moments when the demands of the business collided with personal grief. Losing loved ones, dealing with family crises—all of it while trying to keep the company moving forward. You have to show up for everyone else, even when you don’t feel like you can show up for yourself.

The reality is, there’s no off switch. You’re the leader, and that means you don’t get to fall apart. Not when people are depending on you.

But that constant weight, that pressure to keep it all together—it starts to break you down. You lose pieces of yourself along the way. And by the time you realize it, you’ve already sacrificed parts of your mental health, your emotional well-being, just to keep the company afloat.

Defining My Own Success

In the beginning, success was about proving something to myself. I wanted to build something from the ground up. I wanted to show that I could create a business, that I could make something real out of an idea. Money wasn’t the goal. It never was.

But over time, something shifted. It wasn’t about proving myself anymore. It was about watching the company thrive. I remember hosting our year-end holiday parties and feeling this deep sense of satisfaction. Looking around, seeing the team laughing, sharing stories, celebrating what we had built together. It felt like family.

And in those moments, I realized that this was what success looked like for me. It wasn’t the financial metrics or the number of clients we had. It was the people. The sense of community. It was the same feeling I get when I watch my kids play together without fighting, when they’re helping each other instead of pulling each other’s hair out. That’s the real joy—the moments where everything comes together, and you realize you’ve built something bigger than yourself.

The % That Matters

There’s a hard truth you learn over time: for most of your employees, it’s just a job. And that’s okay. It took me a while to accept that. In the early days, I wanted everyone to care as much as I did. I wanted them to be just as passionate and just as committed. But the reality is, most people don’t see the company the way the founders do.

Then there are those for whom it’s much more than just a job—the ones who do care. The ones who stay late, believe in what you’re building, and take ownership of their role in the company’s success. These are the people you fight to keep. They’re the ones who will carry the company forward when you’re gone.

As Jason and I approached the exit, we spent more and more time focused on that portion of the company that really cared. They were the future. We wanted to ensure they had the tools, confidence, and leadership to take the company to the next level. Because at the end of the day, your legacy isn’t the product you build—it’s the people you leave behind to build the next version of it.

Canada vs. the US: A Tale of Two Worlds

There’s one part of my journey that still strikes me as odd: Despite building a business in Canada, we didn’t have a single Canadian client when we exited. Not one.

Instead, we had Fortune 100 companies in the US using our technology to drive their innovation efforts. And that wasn’t for lack of trying. We knocked on plenty of doors in Canada. But the response was always tepid. People didn’t want to take the ‘risk’.

In the US, the landscape was different. Despite their preconceived notions about my background or capabilities, people were more open to taking chances. They saw the value we brought to the table and made decisions based on merit, not on superficial factors.

Of course, the US has its own set of challenges—that's undeniable. But there's a distinct entrepreneurial spirit in the States, a willingness to embrace risk that seems to be lacking in Canada. People are more inclined to bet on you, even when the odds are stacked against you. They'll give you a shot, and that opportunity can make all the difference.

But in Canada? It felt like there was always a hesitation. A need to play it safe. And as an immigrant, as someone who didn’t fit the mold of what a “successful entrepreneur” should look like, that hesitation was even more pronounced.

It’s strange, isn’t it? A Canadian company with no Canadian clients. But that’s the reality of building a business across two very different cultures.

Legacy

In the end, it wasn’t about the flash. We never had a sexy business. We didn’t offer crazy benefits packages. We didn’t have VC money to throw around. But we built something real.

We consistently outperformed competitors with ten times the resources by focusing on what truly mattered: our clients, our team, and our product. When it came time to exit, we did so on our own terms, achieving results that most entrepreneurs only dream of.?

Looking back, I’m proud of what we built. Not because of the financial success, but because of the people we brought along the way. That 20%—the ones who believed in what we were building—they’re the real legacy. They’ll carry the company forward, shape its future, and make it something even bigger than what Jason and I imagined when we sat down in that bar all those years ago.

It’s strange to think that it all started with a racist drunk and a bar fight we narrowly avoided. But in a way, it feels fitting. Because from day one, we were fighting for something bigger than ourselves. And every time we got knocked down, we stood back up. Together.

That’s the real story. Not the exit, not the numbers. It’s the journey. The people. The resilience.

That’s what I’ll remember.