The space elevator

Bootstrapping a business is not for the faint of heart. It's like being on a space elevator while others board rocket ships. Both may reach the same destination, but the rockets will get there faster — though with greater risk, including the chance of exploding midair.

The elevator ticket is cheaper — in many ways — while the rocket ticket demands a far higher price, often requiring collaboration and buy-in from others for some grandiose higher purpose.

The elevator's ascent begins as a slow, plodding fight against gravity, but gains steady momentum, while the rocket's liftoff is an explosive burst of speed — thunderous and violent.

The rocket launches surrounded by mesmerized crowds of strangers, watching the spectacle unfold —

"Are they going to make it?"

"They're so brave!"

Until the crowd's attention is captivated by the next ship.

And the next one. And the next.

It can be disheartening to look out the elevator window and watch rockets blaze past, disappearing into the distance. But turning around reveals something just as important: the things that matter — the people who matter — are right there on the elevator. No one had to be left behind to embark on the treacherous journey.

Perhaps the destinations aren't even the same. Maybe the elevator is headed somewhere that offers freedom and stability, while the rockets aim to reshape the world — or build a new one.

Some wonder if they should have taken the rocket after all. They watch the ships streak by, wondering if there's still a way to hitch a ride. But the forces required for that kind of acceleration are brutal. Not everyone — or their loved ones — can endure them.

Does the rocket ship let families go, too?

The rocketeer bets it all on making it to the destination, while the rider of the elevator makes small bets. The rider wins some and loses some, and they accumulate their wins along the way. The rocketeer on the other hand will either land with everything, or nothing at all.

But will the rider accumulate enough? (What is enough?)

So they stay on the elevator.

Sometimes a rocket surges ahead and fades from sight, leaving only questions. Did they make it? Does the rocketeer think about the elevator the way the elevator rider thinks about the ship?

And sometimes, a rocket surges by but becomes engulfed in flames — a brilliant, terrifying, and once again thunderous and violent burst of light that vanishes as quickly as it appeared.

"That could have been us," the rider thinks.

So they stay on the elevator.

No one knows when — or if — the elevator will reach the top. From the inside, it's impossible to tell. Maybe there is no top — just a series of endless stops, each one a choice to step off or keep going.

Sometimes, as the rocket ships soar by, the rider feels as if the elevator isn't moving at all — or isn't moving fast enough. (What is enough?)

But peering into the past, the movement becomes more clear — the momentum, built up over years and years, compounds.

So they stay on the elevator.

As long as they don't burn all the fuel — which in this case is also the food — they'll eventually reach their stop.

When? — I don't really know.