Over 15 years ago now, I remember sharing one of my blog posts about recruiting with my Mom. It was the first time I was really proud of what I wrote because I went beyond practical lessons and case studies. I shared a real story about myself. It was a post about coming out at work. After scanning the 800 words on the page, she said: “Why would you write about being gay? Nobody at work needs to know your business.” Then, she asked me why I felt the need to swear in my writing. She was a good southern woman, after all. 

I sat in silence, stunned. I poured my heart into that piece. I remember how good it felt when strangers told me they loved it. I wanted the person I loved most in the world to love it, too. Instead, I took away a lesson of my own interpretation: who I am and what I love should be a secret at work. Work and life must be separate. 

Looking back on my career, I see clearly how that lesson showed up in my choices. Early on, it was telling a manager I had a date with a “he” when it was a “she.” Years later, when I started Three Ears Media, I had all the power in the world to be exactly who I am without the risk of a corporate overlord. Still, I practiced this long-held belief that some part of the formula for success required a burial of self. 

This letter is the perfect example. The first emails I sent on Fridays weren’t letters at all. They were another one of those boring newsletters with a list of articles I read that week. Don’t get me wrong. I love reading them and appreciate when the creators include my posts. It’s just not my style. Then, I let a little of the narrative come out, but only in relation to recruiting news. I would take the blog of the week and either extend the story or say a little more about why that topic mattered. I got tired of writing thinly veiled promotional messages quickly. 

I loved the sales part, but ultimately the cost was too high. The price? My love of writing. Writing started to feel like a dread task, not a highlight. I was burned out. I had all these beliefs about who I had to be and how I needed to show up. Then, my friend died suddenly. I’m talking - we were in a spin class that morning. Hours later, I waited in the ER to tell his daughter that her Dad died. 

I went home speechless and stunned. That night, I wrote a letter with my whole heart about a man that lived a great life. A heart so big God wouldn’t let it live. A science teacher. A veteran. A father. A grandfather. I read it in front of hundreds of people at his funeral just a few days later then decided I would share it as my Friday letter. 

From that day forward, I would write my letter on Friday just for the love of it. To capture my appreciation for life and living. To mark the moments when I figured it out after I felt like I couldn’t. To document what brings me joy so I can go back there when the world feels dark. Maybe to even help someone else that is feeling the same way I am, feel less alone.  

More than 20 years after that conversation with my Mom, I know how I would answer today. If I got another chance to look that rejection in the face, I think I would say I do it just for the love of it. And even if she still wasn’t so proud, I would be.