Story

I didn’t grow up dreaming of designing music tools. For years, I worked factory jobs—doing what I thought was responsible, even though something inside me kept whispering that there was more. I just didn’t believe I was the kind of person who could create anything meaningful.

Fear told me to stay small.
Doubt told me to get a “real job.”
And most of the time, I listened.

Then my grandmother Ruth passed away.

She didn’t teach me music. She didn’t teach me design.
But she taught me what kindness looks like.
What steady love feels like.
What it means to leave something behind that matters.

Her passing shook something awake in me. Combined with the fear of cancer in our family, I suddenly felt the weight of time in a way I never had before. I realized I had nothing to pass on to my kids—not if something ever happened to me.

So I tried to make something.
Something simple.
Something helpful.
Something I hoped my kids might someday use to understand music if I couldn’t teach them myself.

That sketch became Rooth, the first wheel I ever made.

I built a workshop in my house—lasers, CNC machines, the whole nine yards—because I couldn’t afford to outsource anything. I learned manufacturing from scratch. Every line weight, every window, every measurement was intentional.

Not because I loved precision,
but because I loved my kids.
I wanted to leave them something meaningful.

Rooth wasn’t perfect. But it was the first thing I didn’t quit immediately. The first spark that made me believe maybe I could create things that matter.

Years later, cancer hit my own life.

The diagnosis stopped everything.
Chemo stripped everything down.
And in that hospital room—praying for the first time in my life,

“God, please let me see my kids grow up,”

I realized how fragile life is, and how precious purpose is.

We sold everything, moved into an RV, and built a family company called Marie & Boone—raising money for kids fighting cancer while we fought for our own family. To survive and grow, we sold equity and brought on a mentor who helped us do something I’d never learned before: separate ideas instead of stacking them.

That guidance gave structure to my creativity. It helped me place Rooth—and what would later become Theo—into its own lane, apart from the family business. For the first time, I wasn’t just creating. I was learning how to steward ideas with intention.

That season rebuilt my faith. It rebuilt my creativity. And it rebuilt my trust in God’s leading.

After treatment, when life quieted just enough for ideas to resurface, I refined the original wheel into Theo—cleaner, simpler, more intuitive.

Theo found its way into classrooms, studios, and songwriting rooms across the country.

And when the time came, I sold that company completely—still climbing out from under the weight of debt that followed me home from the hospital.

I thought the music-tool chapter was over.

After selling Theo, our family moved to Oregon.

It was a season marked by service. I worked in non-profits, alongside people and communities who needed presence more than polish.

Success looked different there.
It wasn’t about growth curves or titles.
It was about showing up, listening well, and giving what you had.

That season quietly rewired me.

I learned how much meaning there is in helping others.
How powerful it is to meet people where they are.
And how deeply I wanted my work to serve—not impress.

When we eventually moved back to Indiana, those values came with me.

Back home, I stepped into teaching and coaching.

Classrooms. Gyms. Practice plans. One-on-one conversations.
Helping students and athletes work through frustration, confusion, and self-doubt.

I found myself doing the same thing over and over—
breaking complex ideas down,
removing intimidation,
and helping people discover they were more capable than they believed.

Without realizing it, I was being trained again. Not as a designer— but as a guide.

God loves a full-circle moment.

Early this year, in prayer, I felt a deep pull to focus again on my family and trust God with whatever came next.

A week later, my phone rang.
Utah area code.

My former business partner wanted to give the rights to Theo back.

The timing was too perfect to ignore.

Soon after, I learned a competitor had copied the design. Again, I prayed for clarity.

Sitting at my computer, the new design for Chordii poured out of me in a flow I’ve never experienced. Every flaw from the past was fixed. Every idea elevated. Every detail more precise.

It felt less like designing— and more like discovering something that was already meant to exist.

When I brought the new prototypes to my manufacturer in Fort Wayne, production started immediately. They offered me a job at nearly double what I’d been making—a financial blessing at a moment when family debt was still very real.

It should have been an easy yes.

But the job was also something else.

It was safety.
Stability.
A pull back toward a version of life I had already grown past.

For a while, I tried to do both—work for someone else while building Chordii on the side. That season served its purpose.

But I knew, deep down, I was using the job as a safety net.
A way to stay comfortable.
A way to avoid fully trusting the direction God was pulling me.

Leaving that job was one of the hardest decisions of my life.

But it was also the turning point—
the moment I chose calling over comfort.

I chose to stop quitting early. I chose to stop listening to the voice that said, “it’s not enough.” I chose to give this my whole heart.

Chordii is more than a music theory tool.

It’s the first thing I’ve ever let grow to its full potential—and in the process, it’s helped me grow into mine.

It carries:
• the spark Ruth lit
• the legacy I want to leave for my kids
• the courage cancer forced
• the patience learned through service
• the heart shaped by teaching and coaching
• the precision of a man who cares deeply about the details
• the moment I let go of the safety net
• and the faith that brought every piece together

Every wheel is a reminder that creativity can change a life— and sometimes, it’s the very thing God uses to pull you out of fear and into purpose.

Andrew S. Wellman
Believer, Husband, Father & Donut Lover.