I grew up in Susquehanna County, right on the border with upstate New York, and it's one of the most beautiful places on earth—and also a place with limited opportunity. I was terrified of being stuck in the same cycle of poverty I had watched my mom endure, so I became determined to do everything perfectly: straight A's, captain of the volleyball team, played in tournaments year-round, AP Calculus and English, editorial for the yearbook, represented my high school at the Hugh O'Brien Youth Leadership Conference, worked an after-school job serving pizza and ice cream at a local joint in town. 

So when senior year came along and the billionaire magnate and chairman of Monster.com, Andy McKelvey, showed up at my high school to offer a fully-paid scholarship to college? I freaked. 

In order to qualify, I had to demonstrate financial need (check!), and also needed to exemplify something else: 

This thing called “entrepreneurial spirit.” 

I didn't even know what the word “entrepreneurial” meant back then. I remember going to Google it! Nevertheless, I put together a case for myself and applied. 

As part of the interview process, we were instructed to bring a tangible object that demonstrated our so-called entrepreneurial spirit—because clearly they wanted to torture us. In the waiting room, there were kids with saxophones, kids with chicken coops, kids with youth group projects. I had thought long and hard about what I could bring—how could I put my mind into an object?—but finally, I had come up with something. I didn't know if it would work, but I had no choice. And so there I sat, my hexagon-shaped box in my lap. 

When my name was called, I went into the room and closed the door behind me, and when it was time to showcase “my object,” I began.  Each side was decorated with a small, scaled down version of something I was proud of achieving: I had scanned awards, newspaper articles, volleyball accolades, clips from the stone wall I had built in front of the high school in memory of our dear friend, Jill. I went through each accomplishment, opening one hexagon-shaped box to reveal another, smaller hexagon shaped box, talking about the things I thought qualified me as a leader—the only “entrepreneurial spirit” I had at that age. I went through this process three times, and then finally looked up at Andy McKelvey, who was seated in a dark corner in the back, and said: 

“But none of that is what makes me a future entrepreneur.” 

And then I  reached for the final, smallest box in the center. I removed it and placed it on the desk. Then, I lifted the lid.

“This does.” 

Inside was a small, red heart. The tangible object that no one could see, but was very, very real. 

***

Thanks to that scholarship, I attended a $40,000/year private school outside of the Poconos (#WILKES #REPRESENT), and it was the beginning of an all-new life. Andrew McKelvey offered his mentorship and resources, and I did everything I could to learn. I spent my 18th birthday at a McKelvey camp in Western Pennsylvania, learning success principles that would help us succeed. A part of the bargain was that we would go back to our hometowns, someday, and give back to the local community. I went every summer, faithfully, and volunteered. 

My mom and I couldn't believe our luck. 

Yet, a mere few months before I'd walk across the stage at Wilkes University, I got a phone call:

“Your mother is unresponsive,” they said. 

She had passed away, suddenly, from a blood clot that hit her lung, and my final semester in college was full of coroners, funeral homes, and learning about the intricacies of what really happens when you get cremated. I remember yelling at a man from the phone company, who refused to turn off service without an original copy of the death certificate in hand. I remember trying to finish my senior thesis. I remember getting frustrated by a Freshman English class that I somehow missed Freshman year, as my AP credits hadn't transferred properly. I remember completely forgetting, one day, to show up to a class—which was actually unusual, since I was the one teaching it. 

And in May, I graduated without a home to return to: not in Susquehanna County, and not at Wilkes University. 

I had to learn how to trust myself.