I started my company seven years ago to create a life where I could balance work and personal freedom on my own terms. I wanted to make the most of my education while staying in my hometown in the middle of Sweden, where relevant jobs seemed scarce. I started it because I’m a creative builder who challenges the status quo—not an administrator who maintains it.
My co-founders and I agreed that we wanted to do it on our own—without venture capital. But soon we were faced with a choice: either scrap the big vision of a vertical-agnostic AI company in favor of a major client project that had a different agenda, or raise money to keep the big plans alive. We chose the latter. The investors we had previously turned down were now eager to jump onboard, once we opened up to it.
COVID almost saved us from our upcoming addiction. Friday the 13th of March 2020 was the last day to sign for our first share issue—just one day after the worst day in modern stock market history. We lowered our valuation and struggled for a few more months before finally closing the round. That was our first sip of the addictive substance—the pre-seed gateway drug. What a rush. Our idea was validated—not by customers, but by investors. Anything felt possible.
That was our first sip of the addictive substance—the pre-seed gateway drug.
The dream of solving a real problem by building something great started to fade, and merged into the dream of becoming a unicorn. We kept working with our eyes on the wrong prize.
The moment you raise money, you feel the pressure to do a lot—to deliver on the expectations of growth. So you increase burn rate and hire great people. Since investors invest in teams, the team has to look impressive to future investors. But are they ready for the hard, messy work ahead—or are they just in love with a glorified idea of the startup life?
You’ve leveled up for growth, but have you actually found product-market fit—or are you on the path to becoming a Capitaholic? We hadn’t found PMF, and soon we needed a new round to survive—just to avoid dealing with the hangover.
Our second round came during the peak of COVID-fueled tech optimism. Great in the short term, but a setup for the inevitable crash. We were able to double the team—and we had already prepared for it. Focus was on “more logos on the wall” rather than profitable projects. There was a focus on business value rather than healthy revenue.
Since we hadn’t found PMF, we kept testing multiple paths and products, trying to figure it out. That spread us thin, and required more data scientists, developers, and salespeople to handle all those paths. The business grew—but so did the costs.
When you’re pitching investors, they want to see a $10 billion market. That means you're often forced to avoid focusing too narrowly. But if you don’t care about investors, you can build something extremely niche—and grow from there. Our lack of a clear niche cost us a lot of money and made it harder to find PMF. That was okay back then. But as you all know, the tables have turned.
We kept our momentum going for quite a while, even after the Russian invasion of Ukraine. At the end of 2022, we nearly closed a VC round at an even higher valuation—but fell just short. Instead, we had to raise a down round to save the company, using both loans and investments.
The rush was over. We had officially moved from the Denial phase into Dependence. We couldn’t stop needing more money. Instead of heading straight into rehab, we told ourselves we were close to stable ground. That revenue would eventually grow into the cost-ume we had created.
Hope was our last resort. And thanks to the beautiful naivety that defines true entrepreneurs, it was still an exciting, fun time. We had new customers onboarding and an amazing team that had grown to over 20 people across three cities (shoutout to the one lonely soul in Malmö).
But every party ends. The music stops. The lights come on. For us, that happened at the beginning of 2024. We lost a few customers from one of our three business areas, and our yearly budget went straight out the window. We had to cut costs and focus. Friends and great coworkers had to leave.
We scaled down to avoid it happening again. But it happened two more times before the year was over. One of those people who had to leave was my fiancée and another one my best friend. That was the moment I knew I had left the second phase of addiction. This was the hangover, and it was time to enter rehab.
But rehab is hard when the macro environment is cold and the venture capital hangover is long and brutal. We did everything we could. I even fired myself. Eventually we reached the point of no return and filed for bankruptcy.
We need to rethink what a startup should look like. How investments should be used. What healthy, sustainable growth looks like. There is such a thing as sober capital—like alcohol-free drinks that still taste sweet.
I’ve bought the company back and am now starting it over with a different mindset. This new journey, a second chance, is my way of exploring the antithesis of blitzscaling and venture capital. A journey I will share with you while testing hypothesis, developing theories and new ways of thinking.
Capitaholic is an addiction. That’s why I’m starting a community to talk about this issue. To learn from it. To recover from it. To avoid it before it begins.
It’s a community for entrepreneurs who became addicted and want help to recover.
It’s a community for founders just starting out, who want to avoid the trap and build a financially sound, stable company that they’re not forced to exit in 5–7 years through IPO, acquisition, or bankruptcy.
It’s a community for investors who want to back entrepreneurs with this mindset—investors who want to build portfolios of profitable, sustainable companies with slow growth and dividend potential.
Capitaholic Anonymous
Till next time,