Offboard Origins
San Francisco, 2016. We arrived wide-eyed, hearts hammering with that intoxicating Bay Area delusion: Anybody could hit the lottery here. Just one swing. One at bat. We weren't just chasing a paycheck; we were hunting a seismic shift: a chance to build something big, something new.
What followed wasn't just a startup attempt: it was a speedrun PhD in startup culture.
We fumbled. We flailed. We failed spectacularly. We dusted ourselves off, swung again (and again, and again). I remember staring at Airtable queues, unblocking workflows for Obama's birthday bash one minute, untangling a Netflix crisis the next. It felt like strapping yourself to a rocketship mid-launch – terrifying, exhilarating, utterly surreal.
And it taught me the most brutal, beautiful lesson:
Sales isn't the MVP. Your support staff is. ESPECIALLY Level 1.
Those are the heroes holding the rocketship together with duct tape and sheer will while everyone else is taking victory laps. That respect? Hard-earned.
The journey was messy. I built credibility, sure. I also burned bridges. (Did I punch a bitch? No. Did I want to? Oh, with the fiery passion of a thousand suns. We've all been there.) Through the chaos, a lifeline emerged: a newsletter called Offboard.
Week by week, it grew. Something was clicking. Suddenly, I was "Media." Invitations to exclusive events and backyard VC BBQs poured in. But here's the raw truth: my autism doesn't perform as "quirky and cute TikTok core." In those high-stakes social arenas? More flailing. More fumbling. The feeling of being perpetually out of sync was exhausting.
Then, a literal hurricane changed everything.
In the wreckage, Offboard stopped being just a newsletter. It became a lifeline. A collective gasp of air for those caught in the undertow of executive-led layoffs, sudden, brutal, and deeply unjust. We opened a digital space. Just a room, really. But magic happened there. We watched engineers trade war stories of down rounds, marketing executives pick each other up off the floor, and designers share tears and tacos after receiving unexpected pink slips. The question everyone kept asking: "How will you monetize this?"
My answer stayed firm: "We won't."
Charging for solidarity in the face of exploitation felt… wrong. Offboard became our act of defiance. Our shared ground zero.
So here's the big, beautiful news:
We're officially out of the closet! Offboard HQ is OPEN.
You'll find us rooted in the East Bay now: a physical hub for the community that refused to dissolve. Our door is open. Our coffee is superior to Blue Bottle's. The vibes? Immaculate. Supportive. Real.
Today was our first full day operating as a true HQ. Fun? Absolutely. But mostly... surreal. The kind of day you want to bottle up and sip slowly later, savoring every impossible drop.
This isn't an exit. It's an entrance. We're bootstrapped, buzzing, and building something radically human in a space often obsessed with scale over soul.
Want to connect?
Find us in the East Bay. Or, if you see a spark of partnership, maybe your team needs our unique blend of hard-won operational empathy, community fire, or unflinching support – we'll come to you.
This isn't the end of the journey. It's the first absolute chapter where we own the ground we stand on.
Welcome to Offboard. The floor is open.
P.S. To every Level 1 support hero, every community manager holding space, every "non-revenue" role keeping the lights on and the humans sane: You are the engine. Never forget it. We see you. Offboard is, in part, for you.