People often talk about success as if it’s a straight road — as if once you start working hard, everything just keeps moving forward. But the truth is, the road bends. It breaks. And sometimes, it disappears altogether. I know, because I nearly walked off it more than once.

There was one day in particular — a cold Tuesday in East London — when I came this close to giving it all up. It was the early 1980s, and I was running my first proper business on Brick Lane. I was still in my twenties, juggling two shop units, helping my brothers with import paperwork, barely sleeping, and trying to convince my parents back home that I hadn't lost my mind by leaving engineering school.

That morning, I got a visit from a licensing officer and a fire safety inspector — both unannounced. They told me I had 14 days to fix what they called “unauthorised modifications” to the shop layout. Then they issued a fine. I remember just standing there, staring at the paper in my hand, wondering what kind of punishment I was getting for trying to build something.

After they left, I went downstairs, locked the door, sat behind the counter — and cried.

The Pressure You Don’t See

At that moment, I wasn’t thinking about ambition or legacy or brand-building. I was just tired. Tired of battling systems I didn’t fully understand. Tired of missing family events back in Sylhet. Tired of being the youngest son trying to prove he hadn’t failed.

Success stories rarely tell you about the invisible weight of being the first — the first in your family to move, to start a business, to build in a country that isn’t always sure it wants you.

That day, I seriously considered closing the shop, packing it all up, and going home.

What Stopped Me

As I sat there, drowning in doubt, something strange happened. A little boy — maybe 7 or 8 years old — knocked on the glass door. He was holding a £5 note and pointing at a Bollywood cassette tape displayed in the window. I opened the door, wiped my face, and let him in.

“Is that Sholay?” he asked. “My dad’s favourite.”

I nodded. He bought it, smiled, and said, “He’s going to be so happy.”

That tiny moment reminded me why I had started in the first place.

I wasn’t just selling things. I was helping people feel at home in a strange country. I was providing memories, music, stories — connection. That small exchange reset everything in my mind. I still had a purpose, even if I felt lost in the process.

What I Learned From Almost Quitting

Looking back, that day taught me one of the most important lessons of my life: Your lowest moments are where you meet your deepest motivations.

It wasn’t the business plan that saved me. It wasn’t the bank account. It was that one kid, reminding me why the shop mattered. Reminding me that impact starts small.

So I got up. I paid the fine. I redid the shop layout. I stayed open.

And I’ve never shut the door since.

Doubt Will Visit — Let It Sit, Then Show It Out

I won’t pretend I’ve never had moments of doubt since. You can have millions in turnover and still feel like an imposter when things get tough. The difference is, I’ve learned to expect doubt, not fear it.

Doubt, I’ve found, isn’t a sign you’re failing. It’s a sign you care.

Now, when I mentor younger entrepreneurs, I tell them this: There will come a day when you’ll want to quit. Make sure you’ve got something stronger than pride keeping you in the game.

For me, it was purpose. It still is.

Final Thoughts

Everyone sees the headlines — the restaurant openings, the brand logos, the handshakes with ministers. But what they don’t see is the day you almost locked the door for good.

If you’re in that moment right now — overwhelmed, unseen, under pressure — I want you to know this:

You’re not alone. And you’re not done.

Sometimes, the breakthrough doesn’t look like a cheque or a new customer. Sometimes, it looks like a child with £5 in his hand, reminding you that what you’re building matters.

And if that matters, then so do you.