I hate listening to my own voice. Most of you can probably relate.
It’s painful. But I forced myself to listen to this recent conversation I had on the Through The Dip podcast, and it brought up some stuff I haven’t really articulated before.
We usually talk about business in terms of P&Ls and growth charts. But in this episode, I got stuck on this idea of "getting my music out."
I used to work at Toys "R" Us. I spent ten years there. And towards the end, I just felt stifled. Not because the job was bad, but because I had this creative thing inside me that wasn't getting out.
I felt this urge to “get my music out”.
Feral became my music.
It’s a weird analogy, I know. But people ask me if everyone should be an entrepreneur. That’s like asking if everyone should play the clarinet. No. Definitely not. But everyone has some music to get out. For some people, it’s painting. For some, it’s raising kids. For me, it’s figuring out how to build a process, team, and vision that solves problems for you.
The Hero Was the Asshole
We also talked about the moment that saved FERAL. I’ve told this story before, but it hit different this time.
About a year in, a customer asked me, "Why shouldn't I just shop at REI?"
At the time, I thought he was just being a jerk. I wanted to respond in kind. But I realized later that evening, after some reflection, that guy wasn't the villain of the story. He was the hero.
He forced me to admit that we were "local," but we weren't useful. That distinction is everything. Being small and local is cute. Being useful is what keeps the lights on. That single conversation is one of the reasons we eventually pivoted to used gear. It’s the reason we stopped letting brands dictate prices and started letting the community do it.
The Space Odyssey Moment
I also shared a story I don't tell often.
When COVID hit, and we were shut down, I walked to the store in Denver. It was empty. I sat on the floor and cried. I sobbed. I truly thought it was over, and there was nothing I could do about it.
And because I didn't want to go home and face reality, I sat at the back desk computer and watched 2001: A Space Odyssey for three hours. Just sat there in the dark, watching a sci-fi movie, waiting for the world to end.
It didn't end. I moped for 24 hours, and then I got back to work.
That is my pattern. I don't actually enjoy winning that much. The moment itself. I acknowledge it, and then move on. But I do really, really hate losing. I can't gamble because the math doesn't work for my brain; the pain of losing five bucks is way more severe than the joy of winning a hundred. That hatred of losing is what drives me to stay in "the lab," tweaking spreadsheets and brute-forcing bad processes until they work.
A Connected Life
I used to say I wanted to live a "big life." I said it all the time. But somewhere along the way, between the near-death experiences of the business and the grind of keeping it afloat, that changed.
I don't seek out a BIG life anymore. I want a connected life.
My old boss at Toys "R" Us, Chuck Shelly, used to tell me something that stuck. He said, "Jimmy, you're never going to remember what your P&L looked like in 1994. But you will remember the people."
He was right. Nobody cares about "Best Gear Shop 2026." That stuff is fun for a minute, but it’s hollow. The real stuff is seeing a kid you hired as a cashier grow into a manager. It's seeing a customer come back not because they need a jacket, but because they trust us. That web of relationships, with the team and the community, is the only thing that actually sustains you when the P&L looks like trash.
Feral has made me less romantic about business, sure. Entrepreneurship is hard. It beats you up. But it has also taught me that if you aren't doing this for the connection, you're just doing it for the transaction. And transactions are a miserable thing to build a life on.
If you want to hear more about that shift, or hear me get nerdy about the AI tech stack we’re building to price used gear, give it a listen.
- Jimmy Funkhouser | Founder & Chief Shopkeeper