I was listening to the last chapter of “Make Your Bed”, Admiral McRaven’s audiobook1 based on his widely acclaimed speech at the University of Texas commencement in 2014.
He opened the chapter with “If you want to change the world, don’t ever, ever ring the bell”. My heart sank: I had a feeling about what this chapter was about.
If you don’t like the pain, then there is an easy way out. All you have to do to quit is ring this bell three times. Ring the bell and you can avoid all this pain. If you quit, you will regret it for the rest of your life. Quitting never makes anything easier. Six months later, some had taken the easy way out. They had quit, and my guess is the instructor was right, they would regret it for the rest of their lives.
As I listened to McRaven, each word felt aimed directly at me, questioning my choice of shutting down my startup AulaCube earlier this year. Was I one of those who had “taken the easy way out”? Was I destined to regret the decision for the rest of my life? A tear silently rolled down my cheek as I finished the chapter.
While McRaven’s words initially made me feel that quitting was a sign of weakness, further reflection brought a sense of pride in what I had built and clarity in the wisdom of letting go. In a world dominated by success stories shaped by survivorship bias and quiet shutdowns, I realized that the story of an unsuccessful startup needs to be told not with regrets, but with my head held high.
A Dream takes off
In April 2023, I had this crazy idea to build something that would make education in India truly personal, powered by AI. Picture Kashvi, a young girl in grade school with a deep love for math, steered onto a generic engineering path, or Aryan, a gifted artist, struggling to fit into a rigid system that does not even recognize art as a respectable career choice.
AulaCube aimed to change this. Using AI to gather and interpret data on each student’s unique interests and abilities, Our goal was to empower children to explore career paths that truly suited them. This was about creating a personalized educational journey, leveraging AI to transform education from a standardized path into a launchpad for each child’s unique potential.
The next two months everything felt upbeat. A technical cofounder soon joined hands and while the investor outreach did not have the expected results, we kicked off a friends-and-family round with a good response. Soon, we were hiring our first employees so passionate about the mission that almost all of them took salary cuts to join us. Many exploratory conversations with candidates ended with confessions like “I am the Kashvi of your story” or “I personally know at least two Aryans.”
A Million Dreams2 from The Greatest Showman became our company anthem. Often, late at night, I would just put my headphones on, close my eyes, and sing along, imagining AulaCube’s future, a million dreams for the world we're gonna make, a world where every Kashvi and Aryan would find a path that matched their potential.
The Storms Begin
Just when it felt like we were taking off, the first of what would be many storms struck. In July, just two weeks after our first employees joined, my cofounder decided to step away, citing a misalignment with his priorities. While this came as a shock and left me with the weight of handling this all by myself, a new sense of clarity and commitment emerged with time. This was no longer a shared duty—if AulaCube was going to succeed, if Kashvi and Aryan were to experience a world that recognized their unique strengths, it was now my sole responsibility to make it happen.
Over the next few months, we built and shipped a strong first product, a smart school management system, and received a positive reception from the market. This school management system was meant to be our first step towards transforming Kashvi’s and Aryan’s futures. We secured our first pilots in November and first paid customers in January.
Yet, despite this sense of progress, the financial reality was closing in faster than expected. The bank balance was depleting fast and by January, we had less than three months of runway left. AulaCube had a good pipeline of customers, but even if we converted half of them, that would not have been sufficient to survive for more than a few more months. Investment was the only viable solution, but the timing couldn’t have been worse. Edtech had recently seen a series of high-profile failures in India, and despite confidence in the product and my capabilities, investors were reluctant to take the plunge.
“Radical transparency” was one of AulaCube’s core principles and at every point, every employee knew the company’s financial situation . The initial dream had gradually turned into doubt and then to despair. “Is AulaCube dying?”, they would ask in 1:1 meetings. I would try to inspire them without giving them any false hope, but deep inside, I found myself grappling with the same question. At home, things weren’t much better. My wife, a pillar of support till that point, understandably began to worry, as now we were using our personal savings to pay employees’ salaries.
And then there was Anay, my 9-year-old son, who once asked, “Papa, When AulaCube gets as big as Apple or Microsoft, will you have time to play Chess with me?”
The questions from my team, the concerns from my wife, and most importantly, Anay’s innocent heart-shattering question made me pause and reflect deeply. Was I on a wild goose chase? After some soul-searching, I reminded myself that giving up was not an option—at least, not yet.
A Glimmer of Hope
In April 2024, a glimmer of hope appeared: AulaCube was accepted into StartX, a non-profit accelerator for founders from the Stanford ecosystem. StartX’s belief in AulaCube’s global potential was validating: If this idea had been chosen from the best at Stanford, maybe there really was something there, right? I decided to treat this as my Hail Mary—my final, desperate attempt to keep AulaCube alive, even though the odds were stacked against us.
As I prepared for the trip to the U.S., the tension at home was palpable. My wife had some reservations. She saw this trip as throwing good money after bad. I understood her concerns; it wasn’t easy seeing our savings chipped away with each new push. But I couldn’t shake the thought that if I didn’t take this shot, I’d live haunted by the ‘what ifs.’
In early June, I was in California to meet my StartX cohort and explore the possibilities there. I also connected with potential investors there. The reception was stronger in the U.S.; many saw potential in the vision. But as promising as these conversations felt, the interest didn’t translate into investment—a harsh reminder of how tough it was to secure funding in a challenging market.
By the third week of June, I could feel the walls closing in. Every day that passed without any step towards securing investment left me with a growing fear that my million dreams were dismantling before my very eyes. On the morning of 25th June, I had the first meeting with the Advisory Board assigned to AulaCube by StartX. As I prepared for the meeting, I found myself at a crossroads, asking the question no founder wants to face: Is it braver to keep going, or is it time to walk away? I prepared the deck to introduce the company and its progress even as doubts about whether this was the last day of AulaCube lingered.
Making the Decision
At the end of the 60-minute meeting, the Advisory Board helped me face what I had known deep down but resisted admitting: it was time to pull the plug.
There is no easy way to put what happened next. I called my wife to let her know of my decision.
“It’s late. Is everything okay?” she asked, her voice filled with concern. It was 1 AM in India.
I tried to speak, but barely any words managed to escape my lips. Finally, between sobs, I managed, “I’ve decided to shut down AulaCube.”
Silence. Then, softly, “Are you sure? Schools are liking the product. You’ve worked so hard. Do you want to give this a few more months?”
Her words struck a chord. For the first time in weeks, I felt that she understood how much AulaCube meant to me—not just as a business, but as a part of who I was. That moment of acknowledgment gave me a strange, fleeting comfort.
“They like it as a school management system,” I replied after a pause, my voice shaking. “But AulaCube was never meant to stop there. Without funding, the dreams we had for Kashvi and Aryan—those dreams will never take flight. And even if we put in our savings to extend the financial runway, I can’t persist. I’m out of emotional runway.”
Another silence. Then, in a voice filled with quiet resolve, she said, “If you’re clear this is the right choice, don’t wait until your flight next week. Come home. You need to be with us.”
Her words grounded me. She was right—I needed to be with my family. AulaCube had been my world, but it was time to let it go.
A few hours later, it was morning in India and it was time to share the difficult decision with my team. I managed to pull myself together and put on a brave face, though, deep down, making the announcement felt like reading my obituary at my own funeral. I mourned not just for AulaCube, but for Kashvis and Aryans to whom I had made promises every day during the journey.
Life After AulaCube
It has been a few months since I made the decision. When I reflect back, I know I could have done a few things differently. I do grieve sometimes about the loss and I cannot listen to “A Million Dreams” without shedding a tear or two: From a symbol of hope, the song has become a representative of heartbreak, a haunting reminder of what might have been, the soundtrack of a vision that couldn’t quite take flight.
I decided to take some time to rediscover myself and focus on the things that bring me joy. These days, I’ve been advising startups, coaching aspiring product managers, learning Spanish, focusing on my physical and mental health, diving into new technologies, and, most importantly, playing chess with Anay. After an 18-year hiatus, I decided to return to the game, and now Anay and I enter competitive tournaments together—a shared journey that has brought us closer than ever.
If you’re a founder reading this, I can’t tell you exactly when the right time to quit is for you—only you can answer that. For me, it came down to two questions:
Have I given it everything I can?
Do I still believe in the mission I set out to accomplish?
By the time I made my decision, the answer to the first question was a resounding ‘Yes.’ I had left no stone unturned. But the answer to the second question was harder. While I still believed in the vision, I realized that without the resources to truly scale, I’d be compromising the impact AulaCube was meant to have. And so, my answer was ‘No—not without securing investment.’
Admiral McRaven, you said those who quit will regret it for the rest of their lives. But for me, shutting down AulaCube wasn’t about giving up—it was about recognizing the right time to let go. It wasn’t easy, and it came with many sleepless nights and self-doubt. But sometimes, the true strength lies in knowing when to stop, and quitting is the best choice, and no, I don’t regret my decision. Sometimes, the best thing you can do is ring the bell.
While I may not fully agree with his unequivocal stance on never quitting, I still recommend the book for its insightful takes on life: https://www.audible.in/pd/Make-Your-Bed-Audiobook/B072JNHFCV
I love this. It shows so much maturity, courage, and self-esteem to have considering the inspiring words of someone who presumably has authority and then sort out what is actually useful and true for yourself.
"While McRaven’s words initially made me feel that quitting was a sign of weakness, further reflection brought a sense of pride in what I had built and clarity in the wisdom of letting go. In a world dominated by success stories shaped by survivorship bias and quiet shutdowns, I realized that the story of an unsuccessful startup needs to be told not with regrets, but with my head held high."
Sometimes the bravest thing isn't what you build but what you dare to let go of. Kashvi and Aryan may still find their path and it'll be partly thanks to the dream you lit.