Not all wisdom comes through formal lessons. Some of the most profound insights arrive quietly — over a dinner, a walk down a city street, or a conversation you didn’t know would leave fingerprints on your life.
Years ago, when my partners and I were preparing to sell the company we had built together, I found myself lucky enough to be mentored by a man who had traveled that road before. He wasn’t flashy about it. He didn’t lecture. He simply shared what he knew — humbly, generously — as someone who had seen the heights and the heartbreaks firsthand.
I listened to everything he told me like my life depended on it. Maybe, in some ways, it did. Because when you build something with your own hands — when you pour your heart into it alongside people you respect and admire — the stakes feel impossibly high. It’s not just about the money. It’s about the people. The trust. The legacy.
Of all the insights he shared, one story stayed with me more than any other.
He told me about a great digital agency he had helped build in New York during the 1990s — one of the early success stories of the internet age. They grew fast. They went public. For a moment, they seemed unstoppable.
But like many businesses born in that first wave of digital gold rush, the success was fleeting. A series of bad investments and external pressures unraveled what they had built. Eventually, the company closed its doors.
That wasn’t the point of the story.
He told me about walking through New York years after the company was gone, strolling down familiar streets. One afternoon, he passed the old building where the agency had once been alive with energy and purpose. The building had been repurposed, the name long gone — but if you looked closely, you could still see the faint outline of the agency’s logo, a ghost image etched into the glass above the entrance.
He paused when he told me this part. Then he looked across the table and said:
"Justin, you’re going to be king of this world for a brief second. And then, you’re just the legacy of a logo etched in glass. Your stories of greatness? They’ll be worth a single dinner conversation. After that, they’re not that interesting anymore."
Those words hit me with a force I wasn’t expecting.
Not in a nihilistic way. Not in a "why even bother" way.
In a you get one shot at this kind of way.
In a make it count while you can kind of way.
I worshipped that piece of wisdom from the moment I heard it. I held it close every single day for the next seven years as my partners and I shepherded our company through growth, challenges, triumphs, and ultimately, a successful sale.
It kept me sharp when it would have been easy to relax.
It kept me humble when success could have clouded my vision.
It reminded me, every single day, that what we were building was fragile, temporary — and profoundly important because of that.
Because the truth is, every business, every team, every beautiful era has an expiration date. The energy changes. The players move on. The glass remains, sometimes faintly etched with what once was. But the heart of it — the soul of it — is only ever truly alive in the moment you are living it.
That dinner in New York gave me a gift I can never repay: the urgency to honor the work while it’s happening. Not just the outcomes. Not just the headlines. The work itself. The people beside me. The chance to get it right, even knowing how fleeting it would be.
It’s one of the reasons I write every day now.
Not because I’m trying to etch my name deeper into the glass.
Not because I believe the world needs another story about building and selling a company.
But because I know — firsthand — that the right piece of wisdom, offered at the right moment, can change everything for someone who's still in the fight.
I know what it meant to me to sit across a table from someone who had lived it — who could look me in the eye and remind me how precious and temporary these moments really are.
I write for the founder who’s carrying more than they can say out loud.
I write for the leader trying to hold the center when everything around them feels unstable.
I write for the dreamer wondering if the pain, the pressure, the sacrifices are worth it.
Sometimes, all it takes is a single conversation, a single paragraph, to shift the weight a little — to keep someone moving forward when it would be easier to quit.
That’s what was given to me. That’s what I hope to pass on, even if just once.
Because in the end, we’re all just temporary kings and queens of whatever castles we build. We all leave behind some faint etching in the glass.
The real legacy isn't the logo. It’s what we poured into it while it lived — and the stories, the wisdom, the humanity we pass along to the ones who are still building their own.
If even one person carries something forward because of what I leave behind — that will be enough.
And maybe that’s the best any of us can hope for.
If today’s story stayed with you—or reminded you why the work you’re doing matters, even if the world never fully sees it—I'd love for you to follow or subscribe on Substack, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify.
I post new reflections every weekday—and together, we’re building a space for leaders, dreamers, and builders who still believe in doing work that matters, not just work that trends.
The spotlight will always fade. The glass will always gather dust. But the impact you make while you're building? That’s the real legacy.
I'll be back tomorrow with more.
Until then—work with heart, build with humility, and lead like it matters.
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