You Don’t Get to Quit. They’re Counting on You.

A letter to myself, and to anyone else who’s been here

The Weight

You don’t get to quit. They’re counting on you.

That line has been with me for weeks now, settling into my thoughts like smoke that won’t clear. It finds me in the quiet moments: when I’m signing paychecks while wondering how I’ll cover my own bills, when I’m staring at spreadsheets that refuse to balance, when I catch myself at the window, lost in thought about all the easier paths I could have taken.

There’s a part of me that dreams sometimes about walking away. About trading these endless weeks for something ordinary and predictable. A job with regular hours, weekends that actually belong to me, vacation days I could take without guilt. The fantasy of leaving work at work, of not carrying the weight of other people’s livelihoods home every night. It sounds peaceful in a way that makes my chest ache.

But every time I get close to that decision, something pulls me back. I can see my way through this struggle, not clearly, but enough. The pieces are there, the path forward exists, even if it’s shrouded in fog. But here’s what I’ve learned about hope when you’re barely keeping your head above water: I can see six weeks out, but I don’t know about six days.

The Fire

My friend Scott Fearing, a hornist with the National Symphony Orchestra, once told me that music is like a fire that just won’t let you go, no matter how hard you try. I think about that often these days. This thing we do, this building and creating and keeping people employed, it’s not really a rational choice anymore. It’s something deeper, something that burns steady and won’t be extinguished, even when common sense suggests it should be.

There’s a story in Built to Sell that I return to when the weight feels too heavy. A business owner watching his company struggle, cash flow problems mounting, employees depending on paychecks he’s not sure he can make. The smart money says quit. The easy answer is right there. But he doesn’t take it. Not because he knows it will work out, but because something in him simply won’t allow it. The fire won’t let him.

I understand that feeling now. That sense of being responsible for more than just your own success or failure. Of being the one who absorbs the uncertainty so others can sleep peacefully, can plan their weekends, can trust that their jobs will be there Monday morning.

I’ll go down with the ship if I have to, but I won’t take my people down with me.

This isn’t heroism. It’s not some grand gesture or romantic notion of sacrifice. It’s simply understanding what this fire costs and who pays the price. When you’re the one losing sleep, making the impossible choices, standing between business chaos and the stability your people need, that’s not martyrdom. That’s just what the role requires.

Richard Branson knew this when he had to sell pieces of Virgin to save others. Every business owner who’s faced this crossroads understands it. Sometimes your job is to carry the weight so others don’t have to. Not because you chose it in some moment of clarity, but because the fire won’t let you choose anything else.

The fire teaches you that breakthrough doesn’t always come from brilliant strategy or perfect timing. Sometimes it comes from simple refusal: refusing to quit when quitting would be easier, choosing other people’s security over your own comfort, continuing to dig when you can’t see the gold but trust it must be there.

Maybe the gold isn’t even the point. Maybe it’s in the digging itself, in the choice to keep going when everything rational says stop. The journey is the destination, and what we learn about ourselves in the struggle, what we discover about our capacity to carry weight for others, that might be the real treasure we’re after.

The Hope

So here I am again, sitting with that line that won’t leave me alone:

You don’t get to quit. They’re counting on you.

But now it feels different. Not like a burden I’m carrying, but like a truth I’ve chosen to embrace.

It can be a lonely thing, this refusal to quit. But we don’t give up because we can’t. The fire won’t allow it, and the people depending on us deserve better than our surrender. What sustains me is knowing I’m not the first to feel this way. There’s a long history of people who discovered they couldn’t walk away when walking away made perfect sense.

Some found their way through and lived to share success stories. Others may not have, but they still chose to protect what mattered most. We’re part of that quiet community now, those of us who can’t seem to quit, who keep carrying this weight, who refuse to surrender because surrender isn’t really an option when people are counting on you.

When you’re keeping a business afloat, optimism becomes an act of faith. You’re betting on things you can’t prove, believing in outcomes you can’t guarantee, holding onto the idea that the fire burning inside you means something beyond the immediate struggle.

I have a saying I share with people when they’re going through hard times: the night is always darkest just before the sun rises, and it always rises. Tonight, I’m the one who needs to hear this.

Here’s what I’d like to know:

If you’ve carried this weight, if you’ve felt the fire that won’t let you quit, what gave you hope when everything seemed impossible? What kept you going in those final stretches when you weren’t sure you could keep fighting for your people?

And if you’re walking your own version of this path right now, know that you’re part of something larger. Perhaps that’s enough: not having all the answers, but knowing we’re not alone in our inability to walk away from the fire.

Have you felt this fire? What’s helped you when staying seemed impossible? I’d welcome hearing from you, not because I have it figured out, but because sometimes the best wisdom comes from fellow travelers who understand what won’t let you go.