Disrupting disruption with disruptive disruptions since 2010.
Having personal capital at risk in an investment or venture, theoretically aligning interests between founders and investors. It's the 'put your money where your mouth is' principle, except everyone's mouth is usually writing checks their bank account can't cash.
The intentional or unintentional obscuring of lines—whether between work and life, industries converging, or ethical boundaries getting fuzzy in your data practices.
In startup parlance, the euphemistic term for when your product actually reaches real users—or crashes spectacularly trying. The moment of truth between hype and reality.
A governing body that theoretically oversees your startup but mostly just attends meetings and questions your decisions, led by the investors who own significant stakes.
Emergency funding meant to tide a startup over until the 'real' funding round happens, often at desperate terms. Named after a bridge because you're hoping it doesn't collapse before you reach the other side.
The annual fee (typically 2% of committed capital) that VC fund managers charge to keep the lights on, whether or not they make good investments. The guaranteed money that pays for offices, salaries, and kombucha before carried interest kicks in.
A VC's strong belief in an investment thesis despite contrary evidence or market skepticism. The confidence to write a check when everyone else thinks you're insane—sometimes brilliance, often delusion.
The strategy of perfecting product-market fit and unit economics in one market before expanding broadly. It's the anti-blitzscaling approach that prioritizes learning over land grabbing.
A go-to-market strategy where the product itself drives customer acquisition, retention, and expansion rather than traditional sales teams. Users fall in love before ever talking to a salesperson.
Moving to build or sell products at a lower layer of the technology infrastructure, typically where margins are thinner but the market is larger. Often happens when companies realize their original niche is too small.
A fledgling company designed for rapid growth and scale, typically fueled by venture capital, caffeine, and the unwavering belief that this time will be different. These entrepreneurial ventures aim to disrupt industries, change the world, and achieve unicorn status—though most will pivot three times and run out of runway first. It's where innovation meets delusion in the most optimistic way possible.
The noble art of convincing individuals, corporations, and foundations to part with their money for your cause, institution, or startup dream. In education, it's what keeps universities building new buildings with donors' names on them. In nonprofits and startups, it's a full-time job disguised as networking events and carefully crafted pitch decks.
The soul-crushing moment when a founder's ownership percentage shrinks because the company issued more shares to new investors. It's weaker coffee, but for equity—you still own shares, they're just worth relatively less of the pie. Every funding round brings this special joy, where you simultaneously celebrate getting money and mourn losing control.
The romanticized art of starting businesses, taking risks, and pretending to enjoy working 80-hour weeks for the slim chance of eventual success. It's capitalism's version of the hero's journey, complete with failure, redemption arcs, and way too many LinkedIn posts about "grinding." Business schools teach it, VCs fund it, and most people quit it within three years.
Investors who prey on distressed startups, offering unfavorable terms when founders are desperate. They prefer the smell of burning runway in the morning.
A startup that aims to be both profitable AND socially responsible, as opposed to unicorns that prioritize growth at any cost. They're real, sustainable, and less likely to leave a trail of layoffs and burned capital.
The glossy sales document that makes every investment opportunity look like the next Amazon and every university look like Hogwarts, carefully balanced between legal obligation and marketing fantasy. In startup land, it's the formal document that transforms 'three guys in a garage with an app idea' into 'disruptive technology platform poised for exponential growth.' Every prospectus contains enough disclaimers to absolve everyone of everything while somehow still convincing you to hand over your money.
Any exchange of goods, services, or money, elevated to sound more important when preceded by 'business' or followed by 'cost.' In startup world, it's the holy grail metric that proves people are actually using your product for its intended purpose rather than just kicking the tires. VCs obsess over transaction volume, transaction value, and transaction frequency as if counting exchanges of value will somehow predict the future.
When a company or investor offers to buy shares from existing shareholders at a set price, providing liquidity without a full exit. A release valve for the equity pressure cooker.
The art of watering down your ownership stake in a company, usually because someone with deeper pockets decided your equity pie needs more slices. In the startup world, this happens when new investors come aboard and everyone's percentage shrinks faster than your enthusiasm during Series D. It's not personal, it's just cap table mathematics.
Selling existing shares to other investors rather than the company issuing new shares, allowing early shareholders to get liquid without diluting anyone. The financial equivalent of sneaking out the back door.
The mythical center where everything important supposedly happens, whether it's a transportation network, a startup ecosystem, or your company's Slack workspace. Every city with a coworking space now claims to be 'the next innovation hub,' conveniently ignoring that actual hubs require more than overpriced lattes and motivational wall decals. In practice, it's where resources flow in, get distributed inefficiently, and occasionally produce something useful.
In startup land, the terrifying gap between early adopters who'll buy anything shiny and the mainstream market that actually expects your product to work. Coined by Geoffrey Moore, this metaphorical canyon is where many promising startups go to die, usually because they assumed soccer moms would be as forgiving as tech bros. It's the entrepreneurial equivalent of realizing your mom's friends won't think your jokes are as funny as your college roommates did.
To abandon ship faster than a rat on the Titanic. In startup parlance, when a feature, product, or entire business model gets the axe because it's hemorrhaging money or nobody wants it. No ceremony, no fanfare—just gone.