Will Washburn, Why I Wear a Disco Ball

It’s hard for me to explain how I got into this situation and in many ways it’s embarrassing. My hope in sharing my story is that someone can learn from it.

The first time it felt real
I had been waiting for about 3 hours before I started to really get worried. I had told everyone else that I’d be fine, that I didn’t need their help. She’d let me stay with her. I’d have a place to stay.

By 4am, she hadn’t shown up. I stood on the corner of 41st and 8th and reality started to sink in.

I was homeless. My dream of building the next great startup was on it’s deathbed. My best-friend, whom I spent nearly 90% of my time with, was not on the same page anymore; our friendship was cracking with each new challenge. My credit card bills totaled more than I cumulatively made in the last 2 years and my bank accounts all approached 0. All my possessions and comforts had been swept away in hurricane I openly mocked. Words like “failure” and “loser” swirled around my head. I was too proud to accept help, perhaps in an effort to save face with my peers, and I insisted that I could handle it myself. My family left worried voicemails. I pushed away people who only wanted to help. My friendships strained and like worn rope with each strand breaking off my situation became more and more precarious. 

Where would I sleep tonight? 

Am I good enough?
In all prepared for and perceived scenarios, I did not see things going this bad. My worst nightmares had come true and my mental sanity waned. I was failing, spectacularly, and as things got worse I started to stop believing in myself.

It wasn’t more than a month before that I was starting to build back some confidence in us and our ability to build a great product. After months of flailing wildly at a keyboard and having nothing stick, I found myself in desperate need of a “win”. 

We entered the ATT hackathon without any idea of what to expect. I figured there would be some insanely talented developers and designers and we wouldn’t have much of an impact. 

I had decided from the onset that the hackathon was an opportunity for me to see how good I really was. I viewed it as a chance to quiet some of the voices in my head that said I wasn’t good enough of a programmer to get anything to work. 

Unfortunately, the night of the hackathon was just more flailing on the keyboard. I was leading the project, I had made most of the technical decisions — and I couldn’t get anything functional.

Around 4am I could feel the doubt creeping in. I had made promises to my team that I could put it all together— and here I was not making it happen.

We’d all probably tell this story a different way - most likely I’m the only one who views it with so much drama. The fact of the matter is I had challenged myself and was failing. As such, I cannot begin to tell you how much joy I felt when I finally got things together.

We ended up winning a few awards and I left feeling like I had conquered some inner demons about myself. 

No really, 3 people live here
We had wanted to make a movie of it —three guys in a studio apartment trying to make it as entrepreneurs — but somehow we never got around to ironing out the details. Luke, the guy we met on twitter, piled his bags in the corner and we all shared what should have been a small apartment for one. It seemed like a funny idea. How ridiculous would we get? We would do anything to make it! FUN! SLEEPOVER!

Khaliq and I had shared the small hallway basement “bedroom” for so long that such close quarters had become routine. We’d forgotten how crazy it was already that we were sharing it, let alone adding a third person to the mix. 

We were entrepreneurs. We were young. This was the Hollywood story about 3 guys who would overcome the incredible odds and make it. All this struggle would be worth it. All naysayers were wrong!

Of course, the fact that we didn’t have any savings left or income were just small details. This is what happens when the heavily romanticized version of starting a startup overrides all the facts. You lose perspective and end up sharing a bed with some guy you met on twitter.

The Upper East Side didn’t get hit
When we first heard about sandy, we joked about how ridiculous people were for getting so hyped up about it. When our neighbor warned us that “there might be some water downstairs from the storm later” we laughed it off and went back to our computers. When the water broke through the window and flooded our apartment with the east river? - we had much less to say.

The storm destroyed almost everything — clothes, beds, pictures. We didn’t have a lot but whatever we did have was covered in NYC’s finest polluted sewage. It was breathtaking how quickly the room filled with water, and equally unbelievable how little I did to save my stuff. The first thing I grabbed was a small styrofoam disco ball and put it on my neck. I then filled a duffel bag with v-neck T-shirts and underwear and marveled at the water. Needless to say, I didn’t handle it exceptionally well.

I had built a desktop “hackintosh” computer to save some costs vs buying a MacBook Pro, so once I lost the apartment I effectively lost my ability to write code. Or use a computer. Or work on my startup. Quite literally, hurricane Sandy forced me away.

Pride
In the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy, I did very little to accept what had happened. What remained of our once flooded apartment still acted as a home-base —the place I would go to when I didn’t really have anywhere else. The storm had flooded the first floor, where the beds and clothes were, but the kitchen and office still remained. If you could stand the smell of sewage cleanup, it was a serviceable home.

On nights where I couldn’t find a friend to stay with, I slept in the kitchen. It was small, thin and corridor like; you could almost call it cozy. I piled up blankets and pillows on the floor and tried to ignore the scratching and crawling sounds coming from the now exposed basement. The rising flood waters had broken the window that led to the alleyway where I think all the rats in NYC congregated.

It was actually comfortable —that is until I woke up with a rat on my leg and started sleeping on top of a folding table. 

FEMA did a great job during the hurricane of reaching out and making sure I had a place to stay. Unfortunately, I was too proud to accept. I was a rich white kid living on the upper east side! Forget that I can’t work and I’m sleeping on a folding table, I don’t need any HANDOUTS. People with real problems needed FEMA’s help, not me.

My friends, bless their hearts, always offered a place to stay; but I was Will Washburn - and “I can handle it myself thank you very much”. I didn’t need to burden anyone. I didn’t need anyone’s pity, I was an entrepreneur  and damn it I was going to do it myself. 

My parents were worried and told me to just come home. My dad sounded excited, said there was a new spot in the basement perfect for me while I got on my feet. I wouldn’t have to pay rent and  they’d feed me. Unfortunately, I was Will Washburn - an entrepreneur in NYC. I wasn’t some guy living in HIS PARENTS BASEMENT. I wasn’t about to let Sandy beat me. I was going to be successful. After all, startups only die when the founders give up. I wasn’t going to give up.

Reality
It’s no surprise, then, that I wound up on the street at 4am with little place to go. You can only act like you have a happy normal life for so long. Your friends only offer a place to sleep while you decline so many times before they figure you have it settled. And when they think you have it settled, you can’t exactly go to them for emotional support about it not being settled.

The reality is, I had a problem. My pride was clouding my decision making.  I wasn’t showing any toughness to grind out a solution. My fear of change was forcing me to hold on to a reality that no longer existed. I wasn’t moving forward and was barely moving sideways. I was pouting by my actions, regardless of how positive my words were when people asked. 

It all rushed to me that night sitting on 41st and 8th in the early morning. I was in tears, crushed by my own circumstance and woe-is-me attitude, and I didn’t know what to do. As I dropped my head into my hands I saw the disco ball— and I started laughing hysterically.

It was then when I realized that I was taking myself way too seriously. Who did I really think I was not letting anyone help me? Who was I kidding acting like I never needed help? For god’s sake, even the disco ball was a blatant attempt to show people how positive I was and how I didn’t need their help. Can someone be THIS dramatic and wear a disco ball at the same time? I think not.

I don’t just mean help from the hurricane either. I started to think about my journey as an entrepreneur and how little I was asking for help. How I fundamentally looked at things from the lens of doing it myself — even down to not wanting to use a framework! Why was I letting my own arrogance get in my way? What could I do to get better?

So now I wear a disco ball to remind myself that I shouldn’t take it all too seriously. A little reminder that when I need help, it’s ok to look a little foolish. In fact, people might even like me more.

Most importantly, I wear it so I’m reminded of the time when I let my pride get in the way of moving on — and how dangerous that can be.

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