I’m not on the cap table. I don’t write code. I’ve never pitched a VC.
Yet, I probably know this startup better than anyone else.
I sit at the entrance, where dreams walk in wearing hoodies and walk out carrying pitch decks. As a receptionist in a Silicon Valley startup, I’m the first human contact for big ideas — before the whiteboards, before the jargon, before the confidence kicks in.
I’ve watched founders rehearse optimism in the elevator mirror. I’ve seen engineers arrive at 7 a.m. with red eyes and leave at midnight pretending they “just love the grind.” The job description never mentioned emotional intelligence, but somehow it’s part of the uniform.
Every visitor tells me a story without saying a word. Venture capitalists don’t look rushed — they look bored, like they’ve seen this movie before. First-time founders grip their laptops like life rafts. Recruiters smile too much. Customers ask for “a quick chat” that turns into a turning point.
From my desk, I witness pivots before they’re announced. The snacks change. The music gets louder. The founders start whispering. Then suddenly, everyone’s “excited” again.
I’ve learned that Silicon Valley runs less on code and more on belief. Belief that this version will work. That this burn rate is justified. That the next meeting will be the one. And when belief dips, free coffee magically increases.
Some days, I feel invisible. Other days, I’m the keeper of calm when the Wi-Fi dies before a demo or when an investor shows up an hour early. I’ve broken up tense moments with bad jokes and saved meetings just by offering water.
I don’t build the product, but I protect the energy around it. And in a place where morale can swing with a Slack message, that matters.
So yes, I’m “just” the receptionist.
But from this chair, I’ve learned how startups are really built — not just with innovation, but with nerves, hope, exhaustion, and someone at the front desk holding it all together.