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“Good afternoon, ma’am!” he cheerfully exclaims.

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I look up from my menu, and I’m greeted by the eager, smiling face of a young boy.  One of his front teeth is noticeably chipped in half, but that doesn’t stop him from beaming with uninhibited enthusiasm as he carefully lays down 5 sheets of Hello Kitty stickers to the side of my placemat.

Before I can say anything, he takes the lead:

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“My, your hair color is very becoming on you, if I do say so myself,” he says.  “Do you get your hair done here, or are you visiting from another country?”

“Why, I’m visiting from another country,” I say, as I sit up in my chair to better face him. “Can you guess which one?”

“Well, you don’t have a Chilean accent, and most of the visitors that come here are Chileans.  You don’t have very dark skin, either.  But I’m not a very good guesser.”

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He looks momentarily ashamed.

I tell him where I’m from, and then turn the conversation around on him.

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“How old are you?”

“I’m 11,” he says.  “But I’ll be 12 on February 15th. That’s soon, right?”

“Yes, that’s very soon.  So what’s an 11 year old boy out doing on a Saturday afternoon selling Hello Kitty stickers?”

“Oh, I always do this.  I’ve been doing it for two whole years,” he proudly states.  “I’m paying for my school.”

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“It’s Daniel.”

“Nice to meet you, Daniel,” I say.  “I’m Ashley.”

-

Suffice to say, Daniel and I chat for a bit longer, and I buy far too many Hello Kitty stickers than any 26 year old woman should ever admit.

He walks away, and I turn and watch him approach others, to be immediately dismissed with the flick of a wrist, a shoo-shoo motion, time and time again.  And time, and time again, he swallows the rejection, takes a deep breath, and moves onto the next table, putting on his best face and summoning once again his greatest enthusiasm.

Then, he disappears out of sight.

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I’m at a cafe in Mendoza, Argentina, and I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.

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Not because I am disgusted, or bothered, but because I can’t help but think about what I was doing on a sunny Saturday afternoon, the summer before I turned 12.

My eyes tear up.

I order a glass of wine.

And there, I contemplate.

It certainly isn’t uncommon to be approached by children at outdoor cafes, both in Argentina and Chile, and probably many other parts of the world.  Some say that their parents put them up to it, because they assume that people like me will feel bad, and be inclined to give them money–far more money than if the parents, themselves, had approached.

This is likely the case.  And I’m a sucker for it every time.

And though some days, there are so many children doing it, it becomes a bit bothersome, I still can’t help but feel badly, because whether their parents are putting them up to it or not, they still have to do it.

I think of the shame I would feel.  The disgrace.  The mortification.

And then I remind myself that they’re children, and they probably haven’t been socialized enough to feel those things entirely–especially if they’ve grown up doing it.  This has become their norm.

But as I contemplate, there’s something that suddenly, I discover, that I admire.

I don’t just mean the children of the cafes.

It’s the determined teen on the street selling 3 pairs of Nikes on a blanket, in one size only.

It’s the quiet woman who sets up shop outside of the metro station, day in and day out, and attempts to sell her colorful hand-sewn coin purses.

It’s the elderly man with the bad back who humbly spends his mornings ignoring his pain, bending over anyway to buff the shoes of the young, arrogant man half his age.

It’s the homeless woman who, despite any hope left in her eyes, stands tall, quietly places her cupped hands out in front of her, closes her eyes, and sings opera for hours on end.

It’s the man without legs who, using his arms alone, painstakingly drags his body down the aisle of the public bus, wonders if anyone is going to offer to help (they don’t), props himself up on the floor, takes a deep breath, and begins to tell jokes with a megaphone.

It’s the man who, on that same bus later that night, softly pulls an accordion from its case, and begins to play for the passengers, most of which have just come from the bar.  They talk loudly over his music, as if he were invisible. The man appears to be in his sixties, and every time the bus comes to a harsh stop, which is nearly every time, he bangs backward into the window and nearly topples over, but somehow, doesn’t.

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You know what all of this is?

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It’s called TENACITY.

And it is that which I find myself admiring.

I have never witnessed a population of people so scrappy, willing to take any skill they have and turn it into a business.

But along with their tenacity, there’s something else I deeply admire.

It’s their humility.

It’s extremely useful, this humility.  It’s unpretentious, unassuming, and innocent, in a way.  More than anything, it’s their humility that’s their greatest business asset; without it, they’d have nothing.  With it, they’ve got something.

Without humility,

What would become of the teen too proud to sell Nikes on the street?

What would become of the quiet woman too proud to sell her hand-sewn coin purses?

What would become of the elderly man with the bad back, too proud to buff the shoes of men half his age?

What would become of the homeless woman too proud to sing?

What would become of the man without legs too proud to hoist himself onto a bus?

What would become of the man too proud to play his accordion in front of a crowd?

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I begin wondering about me.  About you.  About us.

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What would become of us?

And the greater question: Are we humble enough?

Have we prevented ourselves from starting amazing businesses simply because we weren’t humble enough?

…because we were too proud to risk failure?

What will become of the writer, the artist, the story-teller, the designer, the dreamer and the entrepreneur desperately longing to build a business from their craft, but too proud to risk rejection?

Somehow, it seems that whether you’re a shoe shiner on the streets of Chile, or an artist from the suburbs of California, without humility, your fate becomes one in the same: A quiet loss of dignity.

For the shoe shiner, his dignity lies in being able to provide for his family.

For the rest of us, our dignity lies in being able to provide for our soul.

And without humility, neither can be accomplished.

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Because humility is a pre-requisite for success–no matter what business you’re in.

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Humility is what gets you through the nervewracking process of putting yourself out there for the very first time.

Humility is what helps you through your very first criticisms.

Humility is what forces you to put yourself out there again, despite those criticisms.

And humility is the tool that allows you to change things, when sometimes, those criticisms were right.

But most importantly, humility is what makes it okay not to have all of the answers, all of the time.

Because you won’t.

Ultimately, humility is what will carry your business–and your soul–forward.

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I think of Hello Kitty and Daniel once again.  I think of the 11-year old boy who, upon business failure, swallows each rejection, takes a deep breath, and begins again.

And I am grateful.

Because even though it’s his birthday on the 15th, he’s given me a gift.

The gift of the pure genius hiding behind his smile.

Chipped tooth and all.

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=–

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Sometimes, you want to do it all yourself.

Sometimes, you don’t want anyone’s help.

And sometimes, you (bull-headedly) insist on being the hero in your own fairytale.

Sometimes, that person is me.

Other times, that person is you.

But if there’s anything I’ve learned when it comes to love, life, happiness & business, it’s that there comes a time when it’s okay for us both to drop the act.

In fact, it’s not just okay, but it’s a must.

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This isn’t a post about connecting with others because--together you can go farther!–or some happy horseshit like that.

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Rather, it’s simply about remembering that we’re called human beings for a reason–and that with that, comes an element of humanity.

And humanity implies a collective–something that perhaps we should consider emphasizing for once, rather than minimizing.

Because while it is true that together you *can* go farther, the fact of the matter is that we don’t need to go farther.

What we need, rather, is to go deeper.

Deeper into ourselves, deeper into our connections, deeper into our world, and deeper into our most precious desires.

Because it’s there–in the deep recesses that we typically ignore–where every answer lies that we’ve ever longed for.

It’s just a matter of digging for them.

But–

We can’t do the digging all ourselves–as much as our pride insists on it.

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So this, friends, is a call for trust.

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To trust readily.  To trust shamelessly.  To trust frankly, fully, ingenuously and open-heartedly.  To trust so much that your raw, unearthed vulnerability is exposed, but instead of running from it, you revel in it.

It’s about trusting ourselves, it’s about trusting each other, and it’s even about trusting in the Dutch pilot who sits down next to you and your friend Nina while she’s visiting you in Chile, and proceeds to wax on about how beautiful you both are in the cheesiest of ways.

Because sometimes, the Dutch pilot is telling the truth.

And sometimes, instead of turning our heads, looking the other way, and pretending not to hear him, we should look the Dutch pilot squarely in the eyes, flash him a bold smile, and simply say, “Thank you.”

Because as it turns out, he’s human, too.

And as it also turns out, we now have a chance to go to Ecuador for the weekend.

See what I mean?

This trust thing isn’t so bad, after all.

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P.S.

If you look to up to the right at my mailing list opt-in (which you should obviously be a part of), you’ll see why it’s really ironic–and hilarious–that we ended up sitting next to a pilot in the first place. Thank you, world, for humoring me last night. Next time, could you make him a little younger, and perhaps throw in some hair?

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Hola!  Bonjour!  Happy Tuesday.

As always, thrilled to bring you this week’s Fear, Exposed entry, written by Monica, O’Brien, who made me giddy when I heard she was writing a novel. I’ve known Monica since I first started TMFproject in the fall of 2009, and never had ANY IDEA what she was up to behind the scenes.  Today, she talks a little bit about the personal fears she’s had throughout the process, and what she’s doing to push through them to become a damn rockstar.

(By the way, while we’re on the topic, I’d like to know what you think about my novel.  You know–the future one I’ll be writing soon over countless pots of coffee.  You guys know I can’t sit still and, despite all other projects, writing will always be my number one love.  If you want to make me happy & bring good karma your way, {I guess that stuff is real?} take my quick two-question survey and give me your most-valued opinion.)

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I’ve been catching up on about six seasons of House over the winter break, and let me tell you, writing a House episode would be easy.

Each episode starts with someone going about their business, and then falling over and losing consciousness, with their loved ones hovering over them, shaking them and screaming “Dial 911!” Cut to House, the selfish but lovable doctor who runs Diagnostics at Princeton-Plainsboro, and his team of brilliant misfits who have messed up relationships due to their 100 hour workweeks. Then, the first diagnosis they come up with is wrong, the second diagnosis is wrong, and they run more tests. In between the diagnoses, the characters verbally spar over their messed up relationships due to their 100 hour workweeks. Finally, in almost every episode, the patient has a secret, has a heart attack, has a stroke, pees blood, has cancer, has an infection, and/or has an autoimmune disease.

The elements of a good House episode are obvious after watching about 30 hours of it. But if I actually sat down to write an episode, I’m sure I’d feel it… that nervous contraction of my stomach, the pounding of my heart. My fingers would hover over a keyboard attached to a blank screen, not flying across the keys, but just hovering, ready for an idea to take shape.

Seth Godin speaks a lot about the concept of shipping–and quite frankly, I’ve never been more scared to ship than I am to ship my latest project, a novel I’ve written.

The novel has all the elements it’s supposed to. It has characters who aren’t what they seem, it has secrets, it has romance, it has mystery, and it has paranormal elements that are so popular in teen fiction today.

I know that I’ve played the game as well as I can, but I’m still afraid. I’m afraid to ship.

When Ashley asked me if I wanted to write about fear, I wasn’t sure what I could add to the discussion.

I am not brave, by any means.

I was also hesitant because fear is not something you can solve in a blog post. Fear is something that everyone faces every day. Fear is something that you must practice conquering–every time you wake up, every time you leave your house, every time you state your opinion or answer someone’s question.

Every time you ship.

I’m not immune to fear, but here are some ways I force myself to face it:

Start small

Fear is something you practice, and it’s easier to practice in small chunks. Speak up at a meeting, accept that invitation, wear something that makes you look silly. If it’s 10pm and you haven’t done something slightly scary, are you really living?

When I first shared the first chapters with another living soul, I was so afraid that he was going to rip it to shreds. I’ve since shared the first few chapters with a few thousand of people (in fact, you can read them here: http://sevenhalosseries.com), but at the beginning, I only shared my vision with a chosen few that I called Alpha readers.

Lock yourself in

When I started training for the marathon in 2007, I could barely run three miles. I didn’t want to end up quitting during training, so I signed up for the marathon and pledged to raise money for breast cancer. Then, I publicized what I was doing and started collecting donations.

I’ve done this over and over again with challenges. Blogging is a particularly effective way to force yourself to commit. With the novel, I took out a half-page ad in a magazine.

Pretend you don’t ship

“What if?” is a powerful question; use it to your advantage. What will happen if you don’t do something?

If you don’t launch that project, you keep living paycheck to paycheck.

If you don’t send your resume, you stay at your dead-end job.

If you don’t go to that networking event, you miss the chance to pitch your start-up to investors.

Most of the time, “What if?” is scary, and hopefully, “What if?” is scarier than shipping.

Push through the act of asking

All of business is about making offers. You don’t need courage to convince someone to buy your book; you just need courage to make the offer.

We all know that people will say no when we ask for something, but we hope that some people will say yes. Forget about the “no” people until after you ship. A lot of people will ignore your offer, think your offer is bad, or realize they don’t need your offer. But asking is 90% of success, and it’s not as scary as shipping is.

Accept the no’s

There will be a lot of people who don’t read my book. There will be a lot of people who don’t like the genre, don’t like the characters, don’t like to read, or just don’t like me and my writing. Once I’ve pushed through the act of asking, I change my mindset. I assume that most people will answer “no.” I never assume a “yes;” assumptions are how people disappoint you.

A very smart person once told me, “Some will, some won’t, so what? Someone’s waiting.”

When you’re afraid to ship your project, your artwork, your talent, don’t forget: someone else is waiting for exactly what you’re offering.

Click here to read more about Monica’s novel.

Click here to perform an act of kindness & contribute to her project via Kickstarter.

Click here if you want to run away with me to Spain & eat tapas all day.

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All the things you think you need in 2011, you don’t.

You do not need more determination.  You do not need more discipline.  And you certainly do not need more diligence.

Are you kidding me?

You are a Westerner–you’ve got plenty of that.  Why else have you gotten up every single day and begrudgingly gone off to work at that job that makes you miserable?  Why else have you lived your life doing things you don’t like, because you “have to?”  Why else have you put your bleeding, aching soul on the backburner, in the name of “getting ahead,” or “being financially stable,” or having a “respectable career?”

You’re as determined, disciplined and diligent as they come.

You want to dedicate yourself to a useful goal for the new year?

Commit to having a little more blind faith.

It’s irrational.  It’s uncomfortable.  It’s unpredictable.

And yet, ironically, it’s also the safer move if you want to accomplish anything worth your own potential.  Determined, disciplined and diligent have gotten you to where you are today; thank them for their companionship, and then move on.

There’s no room in the new economy for the dutiful, the obedient, the sheeplike.  Those qualities have become obsolete.

We’ve long since passed the Industrial Age, where our economy was based on production.

And now, we’ve even passed the Information Age, whether we know it or not.

The future of the economy is no longer reliant on how much information we have at our fingertips, and how fast.

No.

The future of the economy will be defined by what we, human beings, DO with that information.

This is a time for creation.  For meaning.  For fulfillment.

This is the age of the human being, where, for once, our value does not depend on how many widgets we produce, or how efficiently we can transfer information.

Our value now depends on US.  On our ability to lead and connect–our ability to deviate from the flock, to stand for something worth standing for, and to bask in our humanity, and what it means to really live.

But of course, that’s easier said than done–especially for those still stuck on the idea that success will come if you do what you’re told.

That’s merely an illusion.

Rather, success will come only to those who are willing to have a little blind faith–in themselves, in their art, and in their ability to stand tall and take the world by storm.

And that’s no resolution, sweetheart.

That’s a revolution.

Welcome to 2011.

You in?

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Meet Illana, everyone.

She and I first connected because we both believe in the power of creation.  You’ve probably heard me talk about this before, but I strongly believe that as human beings, in order to be wholly fulfilled, we’ve got to create.  Illana is right on board with that theory, as evidenced through her site, Makeness, where she brilliantly proclaims in her manifesto,

“Make something today.  Make it real.  Make it fun.  Make it good for you.  Make it good for others.  Make it well.  Make it special.  Make it unique.  Make it positive.  Make it interesting.  Make it genius.  Make it more than you ever knew you were capable of.  Make your mark.  Make greatness.”

Makes you want to throw everything to the wind and go save the world, doesn’t it?  Illana has that effect on people.  And while she’s one hell of a firecracker, she hasn’t always had it easy.  Her Fear, Exposed (click to read back issues) story serves as a reminder that no matter what the obstacle, with the right attitude, you still have the power to shine with the brilliance of a diamond.

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I have a different story than most.

I had two parents who spent their lives going their own way, doing their own thing, facing down their parent’s conventions, and thumbing their nose at the rat race. They raised me to be fearless, capable, and spontaneous.

I was shockingly lucky.

They supported me unconditionally, and watching their parade of impulsive life choices made me crave the opposite–boring, stable success. They knew they never had to worry about me because I was more grounded than they could ever hope to be. If I made huge leaps of faith in life, they backed me completely.

By twenty, I had travelled Europe alone, finished college, lived on my own in San Francisco, and moved to London (to get my heart broken). By twenty-two I had moved across the country to be a full time stepmom to a two-year-old that I barely knew, and shortly found solid success in my career.

Fear has never been my problem.

On the contrary, I never really knew fear until relatively recently. Before, I was always the person who closed my eyes and dove in the pool, without bothering to check and see if there was water in it.

And then something changed.

Five years ago, I was in grad school, chasing my Green MBA. I was out to change the world, and most people that knew me back then were pretty sure that I would. My nickname was Wonder Woman. I was unstoppable. I was in school full time, raising a little munchkin (and navigating stepmother-ness), and was the VP of National Sales for a fantastic little company.

I travelled for work constantly, worked until 3am every day, and woke at 6am to make animal pancakes and make sure the little one got to school with his shoes on the right feet. The whole time I was planning for what came next. I kept myself so busy that I never had time to look around at my life or myself.

I was mostly miserable, but I was too busy to notice.

I liked my reputation as the responsible one who could do it all. It’s who I had always been. And I looked great in those shiny red boots.

When the pain began, it was a pinch at first, normal lady pain, but instead of once a month, it was all the time. The gaps between good days and bad started to close, and slowly my superhuman strength started to weaken. I told no one, I just kept powering through (‘cuz I was a super-martyr like that).

My superhero persona became my secret identity, hiding the pain and utter terror I was feeling inside. I knew that I was on borrowed time, and that any day, it would all become too much to handle and my superhero tights would come apart at the seams. The funny thing was, I was more afraid of who I would be if I wasn’t Wonder Woman anymore than I was about the alarmingly sharp and fast-moving pain.

I made it through school, but was so fried by the end that I barely remember my thesis presentation. When I watch the video now, all I see is the tight jaw and clenched fists as I stood up there, using the last of my super powers to make it to the finish line; I was in so much pain I could barely breathe.

Six months later, I was unemployed, single, and petrified. I was diagnosed with endometriosis, and was told I could never have children. I had a pile of student loans and was in too much pain to hold down a regular job. Everything I held dearest about my own personal identity was gone.

I was afraid of my own reflection because I had no idea who I was anymore.

I tried my hand at consulting… and massage therapy, and floral design, and latte making… I was even an elf one year at Christmas. I am pretty sure I am the only MBA out there who has been fired for not being jolly enough. I limped along for a few years, all the while trying every possible hippie-dippie pain solution you can think of. The only real solution became surgery, but even that isn’t a permanent fix for everyone.

Eventually, I finally gave in. I gave up my homeopathic sensibilities and under the knife I went.

It worked. I was cured. I felt great. I even dusted off my star-spangled Daisy Dukes and started making plans again. Life was good.

It lasted eight months.

The pinch was small at first. Then it hit me like a hurricane, wave after wave of that familiar feeling.

I fell apart. It was like building a sand castle. I had worked so hard to rebuild, to make it amazing, to rebuild everything I had always wanted and lost, only to watch it all disappear for a second time.

Fear swallowed me as it all slipped away. {Cue violins, I know…but stay with me….}

Then the strangest thing happened; I was sitting on the sofa with my partner one night, and for a brief moment the pain was gone. In that tiny moment, I looked around and felt his warm hands, smelled the sweet aroma of dinner in the oven, and laughed with my whole body as we watched some terrible movie. It was a perfect moment.

Everything changed in that moment.

I committed myself to working when I could. I knew that I could accomplish more in one focused hour than most people accomplish in a full day. I was determined to do whatever the hell I wanted, and I still wanted to change the world! Even if it was in tiny ways, one person at a time, I was going to do it. I made a choice to focus my energy on the times when I could be great, instead of the times when I couldn’t.

I created Makeness because I wanted to help people make things happen for themselves, to help people make the choice to overcome their perceived limitations, even in the face of everything turning to crap.

On the rare occasions when I tell my story, people always look at me with those sad eyes, like they really don’t know what to say.  I tell them this:

Everyone has pain.

It cripples some, and fortifies others. Pain was the best thing that ever happened to me. I wear it as my invisible badge of courage. I found happiness through it because I was forced to confront my fears. I had to really deal with them, and I had to fight my way out of the self-deprecating muck that they nearly drowned me in. I used to think I was Wonder Woman. Now I know I am. I am choosing to be a superhero.

And, ultimately, I’m thankful for the pain, because it makes me appreciate all the moments in between.

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