The Business of Sufficiency: At UNA Brands, CEO Cho Weihao questions the myth of endless growth

Cho Weihao was in his teens when he remembers his mother coming home from yet another work trip to South Korea, carrying a box of electronic parts wrapped in brown paper. She ran a small semiconductor trading business then — a venture she started in her forties, when most women she knew were thinking about stability. At the kitchen table, she would sort through samples, match order sheets, and rehearse business calls in broken Korean.

“She dealt with Americans and Koreans, travelled often to South Korea — and if you know that context, being a woman founder there is very tough,” Cho says. “Through that journey, she became incredibly strong, and that toughness trickled down to us.”

Strength, for Cho, was never glamorous. It was pragmatic. It looked like his parents leaving Malaysia for Singapore with little more than a rented flat and an ambition to stay afloat. “They came from really humble beginnings,” he says. “They worked very hard to build a better life. I’d say we were comfortable, not rich, but comfortable.”

Comfort, of course, is relative. In Bukit Timah, surrounded by good schools and upward mobility, his family’s modest life still carried the air of aspiration. His mother’s entrepreneurial defiance and his father’s accounting sensibility produced in him an instinct for restraint — to save, to plan, to anticipate risk before it appeared. “From a money perspective, they emphasised thrift and value — don’t do crazy stuff, don’t waste,” he says. “Looking back, that was really helpful.”

Lessons from the wave

That self-restraint would become a kind of quiet prophecy. Years later, as the Chief Executive Officer of UNA Brands — one of Singapore’s fastest-growing multi-brand e-commerce groups with operations across six countries — Cho would lead a company through the turbulence of global capital cycles, managing over US$100 million in raised funds and the expectations that come with it.

Founded in 2020, UNA Brands emerged at the height of e-commerce exuberance — a time when aggregator models promised to be the next revolution in retail. The premise was simple: acquire profitable online brands across Asia-Pacific, scale them through operational expertise, and create a regional house of brands capable of competing with global players. Within a few short years, UNA expanded rapidly, setting up offices in Singapore, Australia, India, and China.

Its portfolio today includes names like ErgoTune, the Singapore-born ergonomic chair company now synonymous with modern workspaces; EverDesk+, a sister line of adjustable desks that has become a fixture in home offices; and Bellaforte, an Australian drinkware brand that exemplifies UNA’s reach into lifestyle and home categories. Together, these acquisitions reflect not only strategic diversity but also a clear philosophy — building brands that endure beyond fads and function well in the long arc of everyday life.

But scale came with consequence. The company’s early success unfolded in a market flooded with cheap capital, where valuations soared and discipline blurred. “When we first started, it was a different era,” he says. “The market back then was euphoric. Everyone was operating on a ‘growth at all costs’ mindset. In hindsight, we probably got too caught up in that environment and made decisions that were hard to reverse later.”

He quotes Chuck Prince, Citigroup’s ex-CEO: When the music is playing, you’ve got to get up and dance. “That’s exactly what it felt like,” he says. “Money was cheap, interest rates were zero, and investors kept asking, ‘Why aren’t you growing faster?’ Then the market turned — inflation, war, the crash. Suddenly, all that exuberance became baggage.”

The candour in his voice suggests neither bitterness nor regret, but recognition — the kind that comes after living long enough to see cycles repeat. “Those decisions still haunt us today,” he admits. “That’s probably the biggest lesson — being too swept up by the wave when you should’ve been thinking long-term.”

The intoxication of ambition

If Cho speaks with the clarity of hindsight, it’s because he has lived through multiple kinds of ambition. Before the startup years, he spent almost a decade in investment banking advising on mergers and IPOs worth billions. “After my MBA in Chicago, I worked in New York — one of the best times of my life,” he says. “I was young, working until 2 or 3 a.m., weekends in the office, barely sleeping. It sounds crazy now, but back then, it was exhilarating.”

The word exhilarating carries a double edge. “That environment was demanding but rewarding,” he continues. “I was in my late twenties, advising CEOs decades older, making calls that could shape industries. You’d see your deals in The Wall Street Journal the next day. It was intoxicating.”

There’s a certain honesty in how he says intoxicating — not romanticising the addiction, but acknowledging it. It’s a confession common among overachievers who later discover the limits of adrenaline. “I learned a lot from that time — discipline, stamina, perspective,” he says. “Would I do it again? At that stage of life, yes. But now, no. Life’s different.”

The difference lies in what he values — a recalibration of ambition rather than its abandonment. When he talks about risk today, his language shifts from numbers to meaning. “As Singaporeans, our default mode is always don’t be garang,” he says, invoking a Hokkien term for reckless boldness. “On one hand, that prudence is why we have reserves and stability — we don’t overspend or act rashly. But it also means that culturally, risk-taking is rare.”

He pauses, then adds, “The banker in me still thinks of risk as variability in returns. But personally, I don’t really see risk through that lens anymore. For me, risk now is about opportunity cost — what else could I be doing with my time? Would it be more meaningful? Would it create impact?”

It’s a line that could come from a philosophy seminar on late capitalism — the shift from survival to significance. But Cho grounds it in pragmatism. His version of meaning still involves spreadsheets and strategy decks, only now with the awareness that leadership cannot be outsourced to metrics. “It wasn’t an impulsive decision,” he says of becoming CEO. “The company had reached a stage that required change. Over time, the board and investors built trust in me. It was partly a sense of duty — to the firm, our employees, our investors. They believed I was best suited to steer it forward.”

Duty — the word recurs, soft yet heavy. It frames his entire philosophy of work: a deliberate effort to serve something larger than self-interest. “Leadership isn’t one-size-fits-all,” he says. “Everyone’s different — personality, motivation, communication style. You have to be adaptable and empathetic.”

He has little patience for the startup theatre of bravado. “I don’t believe in ‘fake it till you make it,’” he says. “Some people do, and in venture capital circles that mindset can actually work — sometimes the bubble inflates long enough that you do make it. But for me, I’d rather stay grounded and pragmatic. People can sense authenticity over time, and it builds trust.”

That word again: time. It surfaces throughout our conversation, less as chronology than as moral currency — the resource he has learned not to waste. 

Five glass balls

“If anything, the biggest cost is time,” he says. “There’s a framework I like — the five balls of life: work, family, friends, health, and spirit. Work is a rubber ball — it bounces. The others are glass — once dropped, they can break.”

He learned this the hard way. “In my banking days, I definitely dropped a few. Especially health and spirit.” His voice softens. “Spirit, to me, means peace of mind and purpose — knowing why you’re doing what you’re doing. Entrepreneurship is mentally draining. If you lose sight of your ‘why,’ you burn out fast.”

That reflection ties back to his involvement with ErgoTune, a homegrown ergonomic chair brand that has grown alongside UNA’s portfolio. “When I worked in investment banking, I’d sit for 15 hours a day. I used to be a footballer — played for NTU — but after years in banking, my back gave out. I couldn’t play anymore. That affected not just my physical health but also my mental wellbeing.”

The injury turned into insight. “When ErgoTune first started, there was a clear gap in the market,” he explains. “This was before ergonomic chairs were ‘cool.’ People just wanted something functional. But now, customers see it as part of their lifestyle. They want it to look good on Zoom, match their space, reflect their taste.”

He speaks about design as though it were anthropology — the study of how people sit, work, and live. “Comfort starts with inclusivity,” he says. “Our chairs are engineered in Singapore, not just OEMed elsewhere. The ErgoTune Vesby, for example, was built with all body types in mind — multiple adjustment points, tailored fit, and design choices that make it personal.”

But what began as physical ergonomics evolved into something deeper. “Comfort isn’t just physical,” he says. “People today also want style and individuality. They want colours, options, a chair that feels like theirs.”

That instinct to humanise even the most technical product speaks to Cho’s core philosophy — that work, design, and wellness are inseparable. “Most people don’t realise how their body affects their mind,” he says. “If they sit better, they move better, and that ripples into how they think and feel. I genuinely believe wellness products can change lives if they’re designed to meet people where they are.”

This belief — that small design choices can alter human behaviour — reflects his fascination with behavioural economics. He mentions Richard Thaler’s Nudge, a book that proposes subtle environmental cues to guide better decisions. “Like putting healthy food at eye level, or using smaller plates so people eat less,” he says. “Small tweaks that improve outcomes without forcing behaviour. That’s what we want to do — make good choices easier.”

In that sense, both UNA and ErgoTune are experiments in behavioural design: how markets, habits, and leadership structures can be engineered toward sustainability rather than frenzy. “Right now, our core product is ergonomic chairs — that’s physical wellness. But as we grow, we want to branch into other areas that improve physical wellbeing and eventually mental wellness too. Maybe even services.”

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The weight of people

If the subtext of this expansion sounds philosophical, that’s because it is. Cho sees business as a mirror of society — a testing ground for values. And his greatest challenge, he admits, is people. “We have offices in different countries — mainly Singapore and China — and the cultural, demographic, and even language differences are significant,” he says. “We also have a very young team — a lot of Gen Zs, even Gen Alphas coming in. Their work styles, motivations, and expectations are very different. So I think a lot about structure and culture — how to balance flexibility with accountability, how to give autonomy while still driving toward a shared goal.”

It’s easy to imagine this weighing on him at night. He doesn’t mention numbers or competition when asked what keeps him up — only people. “Ultimately, people are what make a company work. That’s what keeps me up at night.”

Cho’s management philosophy — adaptability, authenticity, servant leadership — feels almost anachronistic in a climate obsessed with disruption. But it also feels necessary. “When you care for people genuinely, you build loyalty,” he says. “You can’t always retain people with money or perks, but they’ll stay for purpose and trust.”

He carries that sensibility into his private life. “I’m a father of three — ages three and a half, six, and eight,” he says. “Parenthood is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Harder than startups, banking, OCS — everything.” His voice takes on a lighter tone, then deepens. “Every child is different, and you have to adapt your approach constantly. I try to be both tough and loving, flexible yet consistent.”

He sees in fatherhood the same paradox as leadership — the need to guide without control, to nurture without indulgence. “Being a dad today is a lot tougher than it used to be,” he says. “Back then, a father’s role was simple — work hard, earn money, provide. Today, you still have to do all that, and you’re expected to be hands-on, emotionally available, sharing household responsibilities.” He laughs softly. “And then there’s the social media pressure — to be seen as a ‘good’ father. The expectations are heavier now, and the old ones haven’t gone away.”

What has gone away, perhaps mercifully, is the illusion that success must come through martyrdom. Cho no longer believes in burnout as proof of commitment. “Success, to me, is if the company thrives even when I’m not around,” he says. “If I’m hit by a car tomorrow and the team still knows exactly what to do, that’s success. It means I’ve built something that can outlast me — strong people, strong processes, strong culture.”

There’s a humility in that vision — to disappear well, to leave behind coherence instead of chaos. “As a leader, I don’t fear being replaced,” he says. “In fact, I want people around me who are better than me. I want to attract and retain the best talent and empower them.”

Building from League Seven

He likens it to football. “You can’t go from League Seven to Premier League overnight. You have to win step by step, promotion by promotion. That progression — working together towards a common goal — that’s the part I love. If you suddenly inherit Manchester United, it’s not exciting. There’s too much legacy. But building a team from the ground up, making the right calls, seeing it grow — that’s success.”

He smiles. “I’d say I’m like a football manager. I lead a team of talented players, each with different strengths, and together we train, strategise, and push towards an unlikely but meaningful outcome. My job is to set direction, build culture, and make sure we’re all moving in sync.”

It’s a tidy metaphor — and fitting. Leadership, like football, is choreography disguised as competition. The real work happens in how you move with others, how you read momentum, when you choose to pass rather than score.

When Cho talks about resilience now, he doesn’t speak of endurance for its own sake. He speaks of rhythm — of knowing when to push and when to pause, when to lead and when to listen. It’s the same rhythm he learned years ago at his family’s kitchen table, watching his mother hold a phone in one hand and her business in the other.

If the music was once loud — the hum of ambition, the tempo of markets, the thrill of growth — today it plays softer, steadier. The kind of music that asks less to be danced to, and more to be understood.