This Was Not the Plan

I was in my second year as a financial advisor. The first year was hard, but I had done well enough to get upgraded from a cubicle to my own office. I was so excited for move-in day: transferring my files to my brand new filing cabinet, hanging pictures on the walls, and prominently displaying my business cards in a new holder my mom bought for me.

I finally felt legit.

I was also really ready for Monday’s meeting with my new prospective client, Dr. Walker. Dr. Walker was the first physician I had ever worked with. He was a do-it-yourselfer, and like most doctors he was skeptical of financial advisors… but I was planning to totally impress him.

I went in extra-early on Monday to print Dr. Walker’s plan and put it through a special binding machine to give it a very professional spiral spine. (Reminder, this was 1997). I made sure the agency coffee maker was brewing a fresh pot. Dr. Walker arrived at 7:45am. I popped a peppermint Altoid in my mouth in case I had coffee breath, and went to meet him at the reception area.

We walked down the hall to my new office. I was proud and nervous. I offered him a chair at my desk, then I sat in the chair next to him the way I had learned in training: “Be on the same side of the table as the client.” We put our coffees down next to the spiral-bound plan. I started my presentation.

My hands were a little shaky. I kept thinking: he’s a doctor, do a good job. I went through the introductory pages then was ready to share my analysis. I started with investments. Dr. Walker had several accounts he managed, as well as his 403(b) at the hospital. I began to explain my philosophy of proper diversification. But on the “p” of the word proper, I spit out my Altoid. The small peppermint went from being in my mouth to being stuck on the middle of the page. It landed on the pie chart.

What do I do, what do I do?? I panicked, reached forward, picked it up… and did what any nervous rookie advisor would have done: put it back in my mouth.
Then I kept talking as if it never happened.

But the colors in the pie chart from the freshly-printed pages began to bleed together from the saliva that had accompanied my mint. I had to fight for the right words to keep my presentation going and not die of embarrassment. My hands were clammy, my voice was shaky, and I could feel the sweat dripping down my back under my Dress Barn blouse. This wasn’t the plan.

At the end of the meeting, I gave Dr. Walker his plan and showed him to the reception area. Despite many calls and outreaches, I never did hear from him again.

As I replayed that scene over and over, I just wanted to fast-forward to a time in this business when I wouldn’t be nervous anymore, when I could confidently rock my days.

Last week, I was a keynote speaker for a virtual conference in California. First thing in the morning, we did a Zoom sound and lighting check. I wanted to make sure my slides were visible, my camera angle was just right, and that I had no red lipstick on my teeth. Check, check and check.

As they introduced me, I watched the tally of the people joining the Zoom call grow. There were 199 participants present. I was nervous and excited as I began my talk.

I clicked on slide #3. I was just getting into my groove when suddenly the two screens in front of me went blank. I then heard the familiar noise of my laptop completely shutting down.

I had lost power. This wasn’t the plan.

Although the power came right back on, my laptop still needed to reboot. Then I had to find the Zoom link, sign back in, relaunch my power point, and click to slide #3.

I had disappeared from my presentation for six minutes, and left people waiting awkwardly and telling Dad jokes in my absence.

I rejoined the call and picked up where I had left off. My hands were clammy, my voice shaky, and I could feel the sweat dripping down my back under my Nordstrom blouse.

Twenty five years later, there I was again, experiencing that same embarrassing and awkward feeling. But this time I had to laugh.

Sometimes— no matter how prepared we are or how many years of experience we have— we mess up. But in that moment, now at age 51 instead of age 26, I didn’t wish I was somewhere else. (And thankfully, I also didn’t wonder when I was going to get to a point in my career when I’d feel more confident.) Instead I was grateful that my audience was so forgiving. Despite the tech challenges, I felt really proud of the talk I delivered.

Then I turned my attention to doing what I needed to do to rock the rest of my day.