Redefining Success: The Unexpected Power of Being You
During a recent Zoom call with a group of seasoned executive coaches, we were tossing around ideas to improve a leadership program. As we introduced ourselves, one of the participants—Evelyn Rodstein—smiled when she saw the three hula hoops behind me on camera.
“I’m not surprised,” she said warmly. “You’ve always thought a little differently. You turned me down more than 20 years ago when I tried to hire you—because you wanted to become an executive coach. Very few people were thinking that way in the late 1990s.”
Then she called me a pioneer.
That word stuck. It unlocked something I hadn’t fully acknowledged: I’ve never followed a conventional path. And for a long time, I was quietly ashamed of that.
Her comment sent me spiraling back in time—to being ten years old, standing on a dusty elementary school playground during “play day” competitions: dodgeball, races, badminton. I’d just been named team captain. And instead of picking the fastest or strongest kids, I chose the quiet ones, the ones no one expected to win. I saw something in them. I trusted my gut—a quirky instinct I’ve always carried.
Against all odds, we won. I still remember the astonishment on everyone’s faces. But what stayed with me most wasn’t the win—it was the feeling that listening to my unconventional instincts had actually worked.
That same instinct guided me again as I got older, though life kept pushing back.
As a teen, I became a competitive tennis player. And with each win, I felt visible and valued—but only if I kept winning. I started measuring my worth by performance, not presence. My perfectionism flourished. So did the panic attacks and anxiety that came with the pressure to always be “excellent.”
And yet—I kept reaching for something more.
My mother, a quietly pioneering spirit herself, sensed I was suffocating in our Baltimore suburb. She encouraged me to attend St. Lawrence University, her alma mater: a tiny liberal arts school in upstate New York that felt like the North Pole. But something about it felt right.
There, my quirks felt safe to emerge. I quit tennis. I studied existential philosophy, abnormal psychology, and women’s history. I took up African dance (to the dismay of the tennis team), led a women’s interest group, and devoured novels by Canadian women writers. Slowly, I stopped hiding my eccentricities. I let them shape me, not shrink me.
Still, after college, I felt adrift. While my peers pursued business school, sales, or teaching, I hired a career coach—a radical move in the early ’80s—and created a 40-year vision for my life. It included writing books and becoming a coach. I didn’t have the words for it yet, but I was reclaiming that pioneering spirit. I was permitting myself to dream differently.
That dream led me down unexpected roads. I started my career not in corporate America, but as a therapist working with youth in custody/detention. The work was meaningful, but the high recidivism rates were disheartening. I worried that this unconventional start would discredit me.
But later, when I interviewed for a talent development role on Wall Street, the hiring team surprised me. “Your experience with at-risk youth,” they said, “will prepare you perfectly for investment bankers and traders.”
What I once saw as a professional liability became my edge.
That realization continues to shape me. From hula hooping during writing breaks to embracing my perfectionist tendencies with humor, I’ve discovered that the more I lean into what makes me feel different, the more meaningful my work becomes—and the more authentic my relationships grow.
My latest book, The Productive Perfectionist, opens with a hula hoop story. It felt vulnerable. Silly. And very me. But it’s become my most celebrated book yet—earning awards and heartfelt notes from readers who say, “Finally, someone gets it.”
I share all of this because I want you to know:
Your imperfections aren’t flaws to fix. They’re the texture of your leadership, your creativity, your humanity.
Too often, we carry outdated “shoulds”—from childhood, community, or career—that were never truly ours. Unraveling those stories takes courage. But it begins with self-trust. By paying attention to the parts of you that feel offbeat, inconvenient, or tender. Those are often the very places where your superpower lives.
So this summer, I invite you to wander a bit. To make space for the small quirks that bring you joy. To notice the old beliefs that no longer serve you—and gently begin to let them go.
Your edge—the part of you that feels most offbeat, most vulnerable—may just be your greatest gift.
Let it surface.
Let it lead.
