Disrupting disruption with disruptive disruptions since 2010.
Financial projections showing what a company's metrics would look like under hypothetical conditions or future scenarios. Latin for 'as a matter of form,' startup-ese for 'this is the fantasy we're selling investors.'
Provisions allowing minority shareholders to join a sale if majority shareholders exit—the friendlier sibling of drag-along rights. It's protection ensuring you can't get abandoned while insiders cash out.
A timeline of planned features that will be delivered late, if at all—your product team's creative fiction exercise. It exists primarily to give the sales team something to promise prospects that engineering will later disappoint.
The art of watering down your ownership stake in a company, usually because someone with deeper pockets decided your equity pie needs more slices. In the startup world, this happens when new investors come aboard and everyone's percentage shrinks faster than your enthusiasm during Series D. It's not personal, it's just cap table mathematics.
The first real money a startup receives from external investors, typically ranging from $500K to $2M, given in exchange for equity to entrepreneurs brave (or delusional) enough to think their idea will change the world. This is the stage where your pitch deck matters more than your product, and your co-founder's LinkedIn connections matter more than your revenue. Named 'seed' because most of these investments will never grow into anything, much like actual seeds.
A proactive sales approach where the company reaches out to potential customers rather than waiting for inbound interest. It's the difference between fishing with a net and hoping fish jump into your boat.
The magical moment when your paper wealth becomes actual money you can spend—typically through an acquisition or IPO. It's what everyone's working toward but few actually experience.
The art of building a valuable company while raising as little outside funding as possible, preserving founder ownership and bragging rights. It's increasingly rare in an era of mega-rounds and bloated valuations.
The mythical center where everything important supposedly happens, whether it's a transportation network, a startup ecosystem, or your company's Slack workspace. Every city with a coworking space now claims to be 'the next innovation hub,' conveniently ignoring that actual hubs require more than overpriced lattes and motivational wall decals. In practice, it's where resources flow in, get distributed inefficiently, and occasionally produce something useful.
The total revenue you expect from one customer during their entire relationship with your company—usually wildly overestimated.
The second institutional round where your company proves Series A wasn't a fluke—investors pony up $15M-$50M hoping you've figured out unit economics.
The actual money behind venture capital—pension funds, endowments, and rich people who give VCs money to invest and hope they know what they're doing. They're 'limited' because they can't tell the GP how to do their job.
A fledgling company designed for rapid growth and scale, typically fueled by venture capital, caffeine, and the unwavering belief that this time will be different. These entrepreneurial ventures aim to disrupt industries, change the world, and achieve unicorn status—though most will pivot three times and run out of runway first. It's where innovation meets delusion in the most optimistic way possible.
In medieval times, a water-filled ditch that kept invaders at bay; in modern business, the metaphorical competitive advantages that protect a company from rivals trying to steal its lunch money. Warren Buffett popularized this term to describe sustainable competitive advantages like strong brands, network effects, or regulatory barriers. The wider the moat, the harder it is for competitors to storm your castle and the more VCs will swoon over your pitch deck.
The soul-crushing moment when a founder's ownership percentage shrinks because the company issued more shares to new investors. It's weaker coffee, but for equity—you still own shares, they're just worth relatively less of the pie. Every funding round brings this special joy, where you simultaneously celebrate getting money and mourn losing control.
A strategy where investors make many small bets, then heavily support only the winners in subsequent rounds. The venture capital version of throwing spaghetti at the wall, then only cooking the pieces that stuck.
A shareholder who has contractual rights to approve or block an acquisition or IPO, giving them veto power over exit decisions regardless of ownership percentage. Democracy in action, if democracy meant a small group could overrule the majority.
A venture capital firm that's functionally dead but still managing old funds, unable to raise new capital but too undead to fully shut down. They're not investing in new companies but still collecting management fees from their limited partners.
A provision preventing startups from soliciting other offers while negotiating terms, ensuring you can't play investors against each other. The dating equivalent of 'we're exclusive now' after one coffee.
A marketplace where shareholders can sell their existing equity to other investors, providing liquidity before an IPO or acquisition. It's the emergency exit when waiting for an actual exit feels like waiting for Godot.
The startup founder's obsession—that magical unicorn metric combining customer benefit, market size, and the ability to eventually turn a profit (someday, maybe). Investors worship at this altar; users actually experience it.
A professional investor who manages large funds and makes risky bets on startups—essentially a gambler with better PR.
A Stripe-era instrument designed to be even simpler than convertible notes—basically a promise to give equity someday, maybe.
When a company buys another startup not for its product, but primarily for its team. The startup equivalent of a zombie becoming useful.