‘The first thing I did was change my title to chief visionary officer: aren’t events, and business, and life, all about vision?’
Book Excerpt FromI Never Promised You a Goodie Bag: A Memoir of a Life Through Events — the Ones You Plan and the Ones You Don’t
I had heard about a course at MIT called “Birthing of Giants.” A master’s program for entrepreneurs, it was an intensive series of classes in all the high-level stuff that I’d never thought about in a concrete way — vision statements,
corporate culture, best practices. … I worked in a female-dominated industry, my employees were women, and I’ve always thrived on my relationships with women. Not only was this totally male-dominated environment alien to me, but I felt deeply intimidated by the other students’ knowledge. Most were MBAs with all kinds of business expertise that I’d learned by my wits — not in graduate school. I felt like such a fraud. Here I was, just having won [the Ernst & Young Entrepreneur of the Year award that] most of them had applied for and lost, and I had already forgotten about that accomplishment. So I put on my tough exterior armor and sat at the front of the class, absorbing the coursework like a sponge but speaking to no one — at least initially. When the others were getting together for drinks in the evening, I was back in my dorm room, poring over what I’d learned during the day. I’m sure I was known as “that bitch from New York.” Over time though, I started to warm up, and I was deeply affected by the passion of
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my fellow students. There was always an incredible array of speakers, and each of the business owners who attended was invited to tell the story of his or her business at some point during the course. I listened while these strangers spilled their hearts about what their businesses meant to them, and how they had poured so much meaning into their work. For the first time, I felt surrounded by kindred spirits. I realized a truth that has stuck with me ever since: Everyone’s got their something. Everyone in that room had a story — whether it was sickness, poverty, divorce, or some other adversity — and they had all channeled their personal challenges into something beautiful. Their stories might be different from mine, but we all had one. Finally on the last day of the course, I was the only person who hadn’t spoken. This was at a time when the people who knew what had happened to me were a very select few, and certainly no one in my ofice knew. I’d never sat down and told a bunch of girlfriends what had happened, much less 64 strangers whom I’d been so intimidated by just a short time before. In telling me their stories, these strangers had shown me the respect of treating me as their equal, as if I was as worthy as they were to sit in that room. I got up in front of them, and for the first
time in my life I told a large group of people about my personal tragedy, and how my company had been born of my commitment to spend the rest of my life helping people celebrate. I said that I got up every day and helped people to laugh and express
themselves, and I loved what I did. Their response was staggering to me — a standing ovation followed by dozens of emails telling me how much my story had meant to them. It was a life-changing experience for me
to reveal myself that way among peers, and to feel nothing but respect, acceptance, and gratitude in response. It taught me that at least some of the time I could fully be myself — all the sides of me present and visible for the world to see. I took everything I learned at MIT and
I brought it back to my company. The first thing I did was change my title to chief visionary oficer: aren’t events, and business, and life, all about vision? Inspired by my experience of telling my story, I decided that it was time to come clean with my people about who I was and why I believed so strongly in the work that we did. I gathered all my employees together for an off-site retreat, and we talked about our mission statement as a company and why they thought our work was important. And then I told them my story, every bit of it, and then said, “I’m sorry for not expressing my gratitude for all those years.” I broke down and cried right there in front of them, looked around into caring, tearing eyes. … I realized it was no longer enough just to work hard and expect everyone around me to do the same. We all needed to know why we were there, and why our work mattered. Of course, I also hoped that they might gain some understanding of — and maybe a little forgiveness for — the scary mask I’d worn for so long.