Rowing blind.

Life's greatest returns lie inches from madness.

Running an advertising agency is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

This is the very reason it’s such a tremendous opportunity. If you can survive long enough, your competitors will take care of themselves.

I’d liken it to rowing a boat while wearing a pair of noise-cancelling headphones.

Your back is facing the direction you’re rowing. You can only see where you’ve been. Not where you’re heading. You can peer over your shoulder to get a rough sense of what is directly ahead of you.

But, for the most part, you’re flying rowing blind.

You don’t know if you’re rowing into a calm stretch of river running through a tunnel of freshly blooming jasmine—or straight into the jaws of a 800-pound grizzly.

Many days, you get mauled.

To survive—and hopefully thrive—you must become comfortable with uncertainty.

If you don’t, you will eventually pull off to the side of the bank, get out of the boat, hurl your oars into the river, hitchhike to the nearest gas station, purchase a gallon of gasoline along with a Zippo lighter, return to your little rickety vessel and light the entire goddamn thing on fire.

Most agencies die from suicide, not homicide.

As a founder—be it of an agency or a company—this is the temptation you’re constantly reconciling with.

At any moment, you can stop sliding quarters into the ass kicking machine.

If you’re anything like me, it’s not the ass-kicking itself that is painful. It’s the uncertainty of not knowing when the next ass-kicking is coming.

In many ways, uncertainty is an asset. It keeps you on the edge of your seat. Without it, you become complacent. But, too much of it will cave your head in. It will drive you mad—madder than a coyote on speed.

In Hell’s Angels, Hunter S. Thompson writes of The Edge…

“The Edge... There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over. The others—the living—are those who pushed their control as far as they felt they could handle it, and then pulled back, or slowed down, or did whatever they had to when it came time to choose between now and later. But the edge is still out there.”

For Thompson, The Edge was the wrong concoction of hallucinogens. For me, The Edge is uncertainty. It’s what separates sanity from madness.

When running an agency—or any company for that matter—you must become comfortable with navigating The Edge without going over.

Like most things in life, this is easier said than done.

The line of no return.

If you’ve ever been to Niagara Falls, you’ve been warned of the line of no return.

It’s the moment where the Niagara River becomes a death sentence. It’s the point where the current becomes so strong it carries everything to the brink. Once you cross this line in the river, you’re fucked six ways to Sunday.

You can’t row your way out of it. Unless there is a Black Hawk helicopter stationed nearby, you’re done for.

What makes things interesting about the line of no return, is that it’s invisible. Folks only have a rough idea of where it starts. Those who know—truly—went over The Edge. Unfortunately, they’re no longer around to mark the precise location of the guillotine.

Any last words?

In business, art and advertising, the highest returns happen within inches of The Edge. Or, in the case of the Niagara River, the line of no return.

If you can ride this line—without crossing it—you’ll make out like a king, with a ransom to boot.

Contrary to common belief, keeping your wits about you when faced with constant uncertainty requires you to forfeit control. Not exhibit more of it.

In Alcoholics Anonymous, they recite the Serenity Prayer. You neither have to be religious nor a recovering alcoholic to see the beauty in it…

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

I say this prayer often as I build Honey.

It keeps me sane. It keeps me calm. It keeps me grounded. It keeps me tenacious. It keeps me from constantly looking over my shoulder. It keeps me focused on what I can control. It keeps me from worrying about what I can’t. It keeps me wise enough to know the difference. It keeps me glued to my seat.

It keeps me rowing, rowing, rowing—until I see God or the finish line.

By Cole Schafer.