You’re ingenious. You have creativity, hustle, and grit. And that makes you great at designing cool stuff and selling it. But that doesn’t make you a hero. It makes you a host: a creative curator of cultural possibilities that you’ve received from customers, partners, family, teachers, and friends.

As entrepreneurs, we’re not isolated superstars, creating something out of nothing. We’re always working with material we’ve been given.

That material can be a coding language, antecedent hardware, venture capital, an education, a social network—whatever. In fact, part of what we’ve been given are the needs and desires of other people. Without these, entrepreneurs couldn’t even get started. There would be no market.

As founders we make life richer, fuller, and more meaningful only because we respond to people we care about. And that’s hospitality.

Contrast this picture with the myth of the heroic entrepreneur. She’s given up a bunch of stuff that’s really valuable—maybe that chic job at Google, the opportunity cost of doing something else, relationships, health, and so on. And she’s done it to solve some problem that makes life incrementally better for lots of others. (And possibly makes her rich along the way.) She’s a hero because of her sacrifices, right?

The sacrifices of starting up are painful and real. Yet, strangely, we flaunt them like badges of honor: ‘Yeah, we’re working eighteen hours a day right now and sleeping most nights at the office…’

We hang onto the very things that we’ve given up—as if they define who we really are.

Being a founder is a solitary job. Even if you have great co-founders, the buck stops with you—whether you’re CEO, CTO, or whatever. But measuring ourselves against the standard of heroism adds to that isolation. Why? Because, if you’re a hero, everything depends on you. A lot’s at stake—and there’s no one to share the pressure. So failure is crushingly lonely. And success can be just as isolating. If you’re a hero, there’s no one who can totally share the joy or sorrow of your sacrificial accomplishments. Win or lose, it’s all on you.

That’s the downside to being a hero: it’s pretty lonely.

But flip the narrative around. Maybe it’s not about solitary success. Maybe it’s about doing good for others with things we’ve been given by others. When we respond with attentiveness to the people around us, we’re being hospitable—not heroic. To be that kind of entrepreneur means creating with humility. It means doing well with what we’ve been given—while remembering where it came from. And it means remembering that our value as founders is not the value of what we found.

There are two antidotes to the heroic founder narrative: gratitude and detachment.

We show gratitude by acknowledging that the stuff we sacrifice originated elsewhere. And that what we make is a gift. And that our creativity is, too. Nothing comes from nothing. Keeping that in mind keeps us centered. And it enables us to act with detachment. We can start ventures without mortgaging our self-worth to the outcome. We can work—and care passionately about the outcome—while still staying free to let it go. That’s true entrepreneurial power and real founding vision.