Milton Snavely Hershey was born on September 13, 1857, in Derry Township, Pennsylvania — a sleepy rural community that offered little more than rolling hills, hard labor, and humble dreams. His parents, Henry and Fanny Hershey, were farmers constantly chasing fortune and finding none.

When Milton was barely two years old, his father sold the family farm to join the oil rush sweeping through Pennsylvania. But Henry’s hopes dried up as fast as the wells he drilled. By the time he returned home, he was penniless, leaving his wife and young son in near-starvation.

Fanny’s brothers intervened, rescuing her and little Milton from collapse by moving them to Lancaster. There, mother and son worked side by side to survive — she raised chickens, he sold eggs. But their fragile peace shattered when Milton’s father walked out for good, chasing another doomed dream.

And tragedy struck harder still. A brutal winter brought sickness to the Hershey home, claiming Milton’s younger sister, Serena. Watching her small coffin lowered into the frozen earth, ten-year-old Milton swore he would never again live at the mercy of poverty.

That vow — born from hunger and heartbreak — would define the rest of his life.

At fourteen, Milton Hershey took his first job — an apprenticeship with a local printer. The work was dull, the boss cruel, and the days long. In a rebellious fit, Milton “accidentally” broke the printing press and was promptly fired.

But that act of defiance would change his life.

His mother, sensing her son’s potential elsewhere, arranged for him to learn the art of confectionery — candy-making — under a local shop owner named Joseph Royer. Here, Milton found his passion. Amid boiling sugar and the scent of vanilla, he discovered something magical: with the right mix of patience and imagination, even the simplest ingredients could create joy.

He studied every detail of the trade: how to temper sugar, measure flavor, and keep candies fresh. Yet while Milton’s mother cheered him on, his father sneered, calling it “a silly pursuit.” Milton ignored him — he had finally found his calling.

At nineteen, armed with $100 borrowed from his aunt and uncles, Milton opened his first candy shop in Philadelphia. He chose his timing carefully — during America’s first World’s Fair, when millions would flood the city.

For a moment, it worked. His candies were popular, his shop smelled of success. But when the fair ended, so did his luck. Prices soared, sugar costs crippled his profits, and debt consumed his dream. At twenty-four, Milton was bankrupt.

Still, he refused to give up. He moved west to Denver, where he found work in another candy shop — one that used fresh milk instead of syrup to make caramels smoother, richer, longer-lasting. It was revolutionary.

He memorized every step, every ratio, every secret. And when he returned East, he carried that formula in his head — and hope in his heart.

He opened a second shop in New York. It thrived for a time, but competition crushed him again. Another bankruptcy. Another humiliation.

But behind every failure, Hershey was gathering ingredients — not for candy, but for a comeback.

In 1886, thirty miles from where he’d grown up, Milton returned to Lancaster with nothing but a worn suitcase and an unshakable belief that he could make candy better than anyone else.

His uncles refused to lend him money — they’d lost faith. So he turned to a friend, accountant William Lebkicher, who risked his savings on the desperate young man.

Using leftover tools from his New York shop, Hershey began making caramels by hand in a tiny kitchen, selling them from a basket on the streets. He used fresh milk, just as he’d learned in Denver — and the flavor was unlike anything America had ever tasted.

Word spread fast. His caramels didn’t just melt in your mouth — they stayed fresh for weeks. Orders began pouring in.

One day, a British importer sampled Hershey’s sweets and placed a massive order for shipment to London. The only problem? Hershey couldn’t afford to produce it. He was broke again.

So he went to the bank — and begged. When the bank refused, the loan officer himself took pity and personally guaranteed the money. Hershey delivered the order, prayed it would survive the ocean voyage… and waited.

Weeks later, a letter arrived. Inside was a check for 500 British pounds — the equivalent of over $60,000 today. The caramels had arrived in perfect condition. London loved them.

In that moment, Milton Hershey’s fortune turned.

By the 1890s, his Lancaster Caramel Company employed over 1,300 workers, produced millions of pounds of candy each year, and made him a millionaire before age forty.

But Hershey wasn’t content. His curiosity pulled him toward something bigger — and far riskier.

At a world fair in Chicago, he saw a German demonstration of a machine that mass-produced chocolate. At that time, chocolate was a delicacy reserved for the wealthy. But Hershey’s mind raced with one idea:
What if I could make chocolate for everyone?

That question would rewrite American history.

In 1900, Milton Hershey sold his caramel company for $1 million — the equivalent of $40 million today. Everyone thought he was crazy. Why sell a thriving business for a risky dream?

But Hershey saw the future in chocolate. He poured everything he had into building a massive new factory in rural Pennsylvania — a place where workers could live, raise families, and build a community around the sweet industry he envisioned.

There was only one problem: he didn’t yet know how to mass-produce milk chocolate. The Swiss had mastered it, but their process was a closely guarded secret. Hershey sent employees across Europe to learn — all failed.

Then, in his own factory, a young worker named John Schmalbach accidentally discovered the breakthrough: condensing milk without burning it. It was smoother, sweeter, longer-lasting. Hershey instantly recognized it as gold.

By 1905, the Hershey Chocolate Company was born. Within a year, his chocolate bars — sold for just 5 cents — were everywhere. For the first time in history, ordinary Americans could afford chocolate.

Hershey’s empire exploded. He built not just a factory but an entire town — with schools, homes, hospitals, churches, even an amusement park. He paid fair wages, built modern housing, and made sure every child could get an education.

In a world of ruthless industrialists, Hershey stood apart. He wasn’t just making chocolate; he was making a better way of life.

But success didn’t shield him from loss. His beloved wife, Catherine, fell ill and passed away in 1915. Milton was devastated — yet he turned grief into purpose, founding the Hershey Industrial School (now the Milton Hershey School), a home and education center for orphaned boys. He quietly transferred most of his company’s shares to the school — securing its future forever.

As the 20th century unfolded, Milton Hershey became a living legend. He built a thriving city, a world-famous brand, and a company rooted in generosity rather than greed.

During World War I, Hershey supplied chocolate bars to American troops — sweet comfort from home in the trenches of Europe. By the end of the war, his company’s sales topped $20 million.

Even as other tycoons hoarded wealth, Hershey reinvested his fortune into his workers and community. He believed happiness mattered more than profits — a radical idea in an age of industrial might.

He never remarried, devoting the rest of his life to his employees and the children of the Hershey School. When he died in 1945, at age 87, his funeral was modest. There were no marble statues, no gold-plated coffins — only the legacy of a man who turned compassion into a company.

Today, the town of Hershey, Pennsylvania, still smells faintly of chocolate. The school he founded now serves thousands of children, funded by the trust he created over a century ago. The Hershey Company remains one of the world’s largest and most beloved chocolate makers, with a market value exceeding $40 billion.

Milton Hershey proved something simple yet profound:
You don’t have to be born rich to change the world.
Sometimes, all it takes is a dream, a recipe, and the courage to keep trying after everyone else has stopped believing in you.