The Startup You Keep Showing Up For

It Always Starts with a Maybe

Phil Knight didn’t set out to build Nike. Not really. He had an idea, sure — but mostly, he had questions. About life, work, meaning. About what it might feel like to spend your days building something you actually believe in.

Shoe Dog isn’t a victory lap. It’s a book about almost quitting, about not knowing if it’s working, about waking up most mornings unsure if your thing is stupid or secretly genius. And doing it anyway.

Start Before You're Ready

Nike started out of the trunk of a car. Not as a metaphor — literally. Knight flew to Japan, pitched a fake company called Blue Ribbon Sports to a real shoe company, got a handful of samples, and started selling them at high school track meets.

He wasn’t a shoe expert. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to run a company. But he knew one thing: he loved running, and he was sick of waiting for permission to build something that felt like him.

It’s the same indie founder story you see over and over. No big plan. No funding. Just a product you kind of believe in, and a quiet bet that someone else might believe in it too.

The Unsexy Part

Shoe Dog doesn’t sugarcoat it. Most weeks, Nike was two phone calls away from collapsing. Banks pulled funding. Factories got spooked. Lawsuits piled up. Sometimes, Knight didn’t know if he could make payroll. Sometimes, he lied to buy time.

But he didn’t quit. Not because he had some grand vision. Just because he wasn’t ready to let it die.

This part hit hardest: “I’d tell myself, just a little more. Just another shipment. Just one more bank meeting. Then I’ll stop.” It’s not a grind mindset. It’s survival instinct. The moment when giving up feels worse than hanging on.

Find People Who’ll Bleed With You

Knight didn’t do it alone. He found weird, obsessive misfits who cared way too much. Guys who’d spend hours handwriting letters to customers. Coaches who’d melt rubber in waffle irons to prototype soles. Meetings that turned into shouting matches — not out of ego, but because everyone actually gave a damn.

There was no culture deck. No values doc. Just belief. And not in some lofty mission. In the work. In each other.

That’s how it is in small indie teams too. It’s not about perks. It’s: “Can I count on you when everything breaks?” And: “Will we still show up tomorrow even if no one claps?”

The Chaos Years

For the first 16 years, Knight didn’t know if Nike would survive. Not thrive — survive. And that’s the real founder timeline nobody talks about. The long stretch where growth is uneven, wins are small, and nobody outside your bubble understands why you’re still doing this.

Nike’s logo — the swoosh — was done by a college student for $35. Knight didn’t even like it at first. But they ran with it anyway. The website isn’t perfect. The product isn’t perfect. The margins are tight. But there’s movement. So you keep going.

Build What You’d Use. Sell What You Believe.

Knight didn’t sell shoes because he saw a gap in the market. He sold them because he ran. And he wanted better gear. That was it. He believed in the product because it solved his own problem.

You can fake enthusiasm for a while. But when things get hard — and they will — you’ll need more than a revenue goal. You’ll need belief. You’ll need that annoying little itch that says: “I know this matters, even if nobody else sees it yet.”

Your Real Job: Stay in the Race

What’s underrated in Shoe Dog isn’t just the risk-taking. It’s the stamina. Knight didn’t win because he was the smartest or the fastest. He won because he didn’t leave. He stayed one more month. One more release. One more sketch.

That’s the whole game for indie hackers. Not some massive pivot or brilliant go-to-market plan. Just the decision to keep going when the dopamine’s gone and the silence feels deafening.

The Litmus Test

So here’s what you ask yourself:

• Do I still believe in this enough to show up again tomorrow?

• If I stop now, will I regret it?

• Am I building something I want to exist?

If the answer is yes — even a shaky yes — then you keep going. You build through the rain. You sell out of your trunk. You take the next hard step, even if it’s lonely.

Because somewhere down the line, that messy, quiet persistence turns into something real.

And maybe, one day, it’ll even run on its own.