People imagine that being the Executive Assistant to the CEO of a unicorn startup means scheduling meetings and answering emails. I wish it were that simple. In reality, it feels like being the air-traffic controller of a jet that never lands.
My day starts before the sun does — mostly because the CEO believes creativity wakes up at 5 a.m. I’ve learned to match that rhythm. Before I brush my teeth, I’ve already checked investor messages, reviewed three calendars across time zones, and confirmed that the CEO didn’t accept two clashing meetings at the same time (again).
The funniest part?
No one truly knows what an EA does — except other EAs.
One moment I’m drafting board meeting notes, and the next I’m reminding the CEO to eat something other than protein bars. I’ve rearranged billion-dollar pitch decks, booked last-minute flights that defy logic, and gently declined meetings from people who believe “it will only take five minutes.” (It never takes five minutes.)
Confidentiality isn’t a rule — it’s a survival skill. I know about product launches before product teams do. I’ve watched partnerships being born on elevator rides. I’ve seen deals collapse because someone forgot a single clause in an agreement.
Sometimes I feel like the startup therapist. I’ve listened to frustrated engineers, anxious investors, and overwhelmed managers — all while staying calm enough to make sure the CEO walks into every room with clarity, not noise.
People ask me how I handle the pressure.
Truth is, I kind of love it.
There’s a strange satisfaction in orchestrating the moving pieces. In turning chaos into a functional, fast-moving machine. In making sure the CEO shows up prepared, rested, and mentally sharp — even if I’m running on caffeine and sheer strategy.
But there are quiet rewards too.
Seeing the company cross $1B in valuation.
Watching employees celebrate their first big win.
Witnessing ideas grow into products that change people’s lives.
I may not be on stage during announcements or in photos next to investors, but I’m always somewhere behind the curtain — making sure nothing collapses.
And honestly?
I wouldn’t trade this backstage view for anything.