It was 4AM and I was getting out of bed to prepare for a call with someone on the other side of the world.
I could barely walk. My body felt tight, my head hurt, I felt nauseous. This feeling wasn't new — it had been there so long I'd forgotten what normal felt like.
I went to see a specialist. After a series of tests, the doctor looked up and asked: "Do you experience a lot of stress in your daily life?"
"No more than usual," I said.
"Tell me about it. What do you do?"
That question opened something up. What started as a medical consultation turned into something closer to a therapy session. I talked without a filter — to a stranger, which somehow made it easier. When I finished, the doctor shared her prognosis.
I wasn't surprised. I was relieved. Relieved because it made sense. I'd accumulated so much bottled-up stress that my stomach had started eating itself from the inside out.
So what happened?
I'd been running at full speed for close to eleven years. Building technology, launching companies, solving problems I genuinely cared about. It was always uphill but I thrived on it. I was constantly learning — which I love — and I had unrelenting grit because I believed in what I was doing. Hundred-hour weeks. Obsessing over every detail. That was just how it worked.
In 2020 I launched a company called Music Health. I'd spent years developing an AI that could analyse music the way our brain naturally does, and I wanted to use it to build hyper-personalised music experiences for better mental health. It was deeply personal to me.
We were also about to enter one of the strangest periods in modern history. Covid. A global shutdown. Building a health-tech startup during a pandemic.
A lesson I'd learned the hard way from a previous company: don't try to do everything alone. So I brought in a partner. Made them co-founder. The idea was simple — their skills filled gaps where I didn't have enough experience yet.
We built a team. Raised money during Covid. Won awards. Raised more money. Grew. And then, slowly, things started to unravel.
Running a startup is f***ing hard. It requires a certain personality because you will be constantly challenged. It's not for everyone. And one of the most expensive lessons I've learned is this: not letting go of people soon enough will cost you more than any bad product decision ever will.
I poured everything into Music Health — including all of my own money. I felt a genuine sense of duty to our investors, to the team, to the mission. We were trying to use music to help people with dementia. That mattered to me.
So I was genuinely heartbroken when I found out that the person I'd brought in was trying to push me out of the company I'd created.
At first there was denial. I must have misunderstood. But then came the conversations. The text messages from others. The pattern became impossible to ignore.
I'd walk into meetings with clients and be asked how long I'd been employed by the visionary founder.
I saw them present at events — telling stories I'd written, using content I'd created. I always embraced it for the greater good of the company and our mission. But their story started to crumble.
The situation turned toxic. I tried to stay professional. I tried to stay respectful. But it came at a cost — one my body had been keeping score of long before my mind caught up.
When they were out, I let go of half the team and we rebuilt. We entered the best six months the business had ever seen. But it wasn't enough. I was at breaking point. Something had to give — and it was my health.
There will come a time when I share the full story. The details, the timeline, all of it. But that's not what this piece is about.
This is about what happens after.
I closed Music Health in 2025. Walked away from the thing I'd spent years building. Took a break from everything to focus on my health. Committed to a different lifestyle. Welcomed my first child. Gave myself the time I needed to feel hungry and motivated again.
I wasn't afraid of starting over. I'd done it twelve years earlier when I decided I'd achieved my goals as a professional DJ and walked away from that too. Back to zero.
But this time is different. I come with twelve years of building companies, raising money, selling, shipping product, running teams, and making every mistake a founder can make. I disappeared for a while to dive deep into how AI is shifting entire industries. I came back with a scratch I need to itch and a mind full of ideas I want to bring to life in the next twelve months.
Here's what I know now: the moment I stopped building for other people — for investors, for partners who didn't share my values, for a version of success that someone else defined — everything changed.
The ideas came back. The energy came back. The clarity came back.
I'm building again now. But differently. On my terms. No team. No investors. No excuses.
One more thing.
If you're building something with someone — a company, a project, anything with real stakes — ask them this question:
If we're a sports team, what role do you play?
The right answer is Coach. A founder's job is to find the best people for each position and give them what they need to thrive. You're not the star player. You're the one who sees the whole field.
So when they say "The Captain" — trust your gut.
I should have trusted mine.