I was 24 years old. Young enough to think just moving to New York was enough to make my dreams come true. Old enough to know that’s not quite the way it works.
I’d spent my first 18 years clawing my way to the top of everything that interested me, and the next 6 slowly learning the art of failure and humility. At 24 I knew I had to become someone important, but I was desperate to find the elevator to success. I didn’t think I had the energy to make up it up the stairs.
When I arrived at my interview for marketing job—as it was so descriptively advertised on Craigslist—I was shocked to see 25 other eager faces, all waiting in the same room. The whiteboard read, Who wants to work smarter, not harder and earn six figures?
Sign me up, I thought. This looked promising.
A 22-year old Hispanic girl named Wakia led us through a 45-minute presentation. She never once asked for the resume I carried in my second-hand briefcase. She didn’t ask a single person for their name. Instead she exuded an infectious energy and explained how she recently bought her own home while helping other people do the same.
If you were born yesterday—as I clearly had been—please forgive me for spoiling the surprise ending to this story. She hadn’t bought a house. She didn’t make six figures. And no one else did, either.
Of course I didn’t see that then. I hadn’t yet honed my whole “seeing good” philosophy.
