I’ve always loved reading biographical stories of courage and bravery. Such great sources of inspiration, especially when in need of a motivational booyah. I’ve even used the phrase “burn the ships” as my can-do mantra when faced with obstacles—borrowed from Alexander the Great, undefeated in battle, considered one of the greatest conquerors of his time. His fabled strategy for winning one of his greatest battles was to do just that: burn down the ships. Literally. Upon reaching the impending battle’s shores, he ordered all their ships to be burnt down. Retreat and failure were simply not an option. He and his soldiers had to be 100 percent committed and fight like their lives depended on it, because they did. Talk about major cojones. I have long aspired to be like him.
Imagine if we took that scorched-earth, no-turning-back, your-life-depends-on-it approach to every obstacle we encountered with 100 percent commitment, 100 percent of the time. Never half-assing it. Oh, what a wonderful world it would be. I have embraced this philosophy throughout my life—sometimes not always by choice, to be honest.
In my early thirties (think idealistic ingenue with prechild-bearing hips), I was part of a company startup in an industry riddled with not just five hundred–pound gorillas but good ole boy five hundred–pound gorillas. This, of course, was many years before any type of #MeToo empowerment or actual repercussions for discriminating, bullying, or just plain shitty behavior in the workplace. The stories I could tell; many in that network would be unemployable by today’s standards and professional guardrails.
These men didn’t take too kindly to a li’l gal, too big for her britches, trying to play in their schoolyard. In those early salad days, we were frugal by necessity. Ran lean and mean. For one of our first national trade shows, we had an itty-bitty booth simply displaying our products on clothed tables. No fanfare or chichi effects. Surrounded—swallowed really—by the huge trade show exhibits of the five hundred–pound gorillas replete with stages, seating, and sound systems. It was quintessential David and Goliath, and the only slingshot I had in my possession was my voice.
So, risking a carnival barker persona, I stood on an egg crate without microphone or fanfare and began a motivational rah-rah that rivaled Oprah Winfrey on the famous day she gave away 276 Pontiacs to her studio audience—“You get a car! You get a car!” In this case, it was our product. Who doesn’t love a freebie? We quickly became a gathering hotspot, and the crowd’s excited chants echoed throughout the trade show floor.
I could only take stage once an hour, as I had to nurse cough drops and spray Chloraseptic down my throat in the interim to soothe my horribly abused vocal cords. I was vying against the loud music blaring from the neighboring sound systems. But I wasn’t about to let a little hoarseness and discomfort stop me.
The crowds grew larger and larger in anticipation of my giveaways—until, a few hours in, I was approached by the trade show general manager. I needed to stop my egg crate jubilees because all the Magillas around me were complaining. And they did pay significantly more for the space, blah, blah, blah. You understand, Beth, right? Great, thanks so much. In other words, thanks for playing, but it’s time to cash out and let the big boys play.
Like clockwork, a very large crowd gathered at the top of the hour. Joining them now was the trade show GM and his staff. I guess to make sure I behaved. I didn’t know what to do as I took to my crate. My palms sweating and subdued in tone, I informed the crowd of the reprimand by management. I explained how we were upsetting the competition with our boisterous enthusiasm and had to cease and desist from our hour of power get-togethers. The crowd booed their outrage and dissent. I told them that I could either go gently into the night, not make any waves and be a good girl, or I could go out in a ball of fire, consequences be damned.
I paused, briefly looked down, and then fiercely raised my arms in a victory salute and shouted, “I choose fire!” Clearly, I lean toward the dramatic, but it was an inspired Eva Perón–like moment. As you can imagine, the crowd went bat-shit crazy, the rallying cries of which could be heard throughout the convention center. It. Was. Awesome.
Whether it was our indefatigable spirit, commitment to product quality, or both, that company took off. Fast-forward seven years, and I was now Chief Brand Management Officer, not only for our little engine that could—and did—but also for the two largest industry gorillas that had formerly been our competition.
My point? I had a history of burning the ships. In fact, I could credit most of my professional and personal triumphs to that mindset. So, what the hell had happened to me? Yes, 2020 had been ripe with heartbreak, but how had I let myself become its roadkill? This wasn’t a hill I was willing to die on. I couldn’t recognize the girl in the mirror, but she was still in there. Of that much, I was sure. It was time to get back on my feet. It was time to live again.
It was time to once again choose fire.
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