I’m grateful for the right words at the right time—especially the ones that arrive unannounced, in ordinary places, and leave a lasting mark.
Not too long ago, I was leaving a nice restaurant in a city that wasn’t my city, in a state that wasn’t my state. I had just finished a great dinner with some bank industry colleagues. As I walked toward the exit, something felt off.
The area near the host stand—bustling just a couple of hours earlier when I arrived—was quiet. It wasn’t late. I noticed it because it seemed odd. The restaurant itself was still alive, still moving, but in that space there was no rush. Just stillness.
And there stood the host.
She had a kind face. The kind that tells you there’s more going on beneath the surface.
I asked how long she had been working this job. “Not long,” she said.
I asked what she had been doing before that. “Something similar,” she said.
Then I asked my standard question—what do you want to do next?
That’s when she teared up.
I didn’t know her story, but I knew something had been stirred. She asked what I did. I said banking. I don’t recall if I shared that I’m the accidental banker. I don’t recall if I shared that I was a former foster kid. I don’t recall because the moment of simply being present—one human meeting another in a vulnerable place, without knowing why it was vulnerable—crowded everything else out.
The Spirit moved me to speak words I didn’t know needed to be spoken.
As tears reluctantly streamed down her face, I told her not to let this place limit her. She shared that she didn’t have much education, and by then the emotion was more visible as a lone guest walked in behind us. I said, That doesn’t matter. If you have “get up and go,” start with that.
I’ve heard some version of this story my whole life—the one that quietly convinces people they are their circumstances. That their current position defines their future. That where they are is all they can be.
But that story is a lie.
You are not your circumstance. You are not your title. You are not your current rung on the ladder.
You are more than a conqueror.
We talked for only a few minutes, but it felt like a lifetime. And then I left. As I entered my Uber, I prayed for her.
The next day, I received a LinkedIn message from her that caused me to write this blog.
She said, in essence:
“I was told the role would be a gateway to growth and advancement. Shortly before meeting you, I learned that those opportunities do not exist in the way I was originally led to expect. That realization was difficult—especially coming from a previous leadership position—and it has caused me to reflect on whether I am currently building toward the right future. At the moment, it feels as though my ladder may be leaning against the wrong wall.”
That line—my ladder may be leaning against the wrong wall—that’s wisdom. That’s awareness. And that awareness, when it comes early, is a gift.
Here’s what I know about this young leader: if she recognizes this now instead of 30 years from now, she has already won. So many people don’t recognize this until they have spent—not invested—spent a lifetime doing work that exhausts, not exhilarates; that limits, not launches.
This moment doesn’t call for bitterness. It doesn’t call for shame. It calls for a next bold move.
I’ve imagined and then made many bold moves in my life—most of them afraid. Applying to college when I was less than prepared. Speaking in public. Going to business school and facing down math. Leading teams more competent than me. And yes, throwing my name in the hat for a bank job.
But I didn’t stop with imagination.
And don’t we do that sometimes? We imagine growth. We imagine change. We imagine what could be. But we don’t take the next step. We don’t activate our faith.
Faith is not a feeling. Faith is not a wish. Faith is a verb.
There comes a point when leaving requires more faith than staying—especially when something is new. When the bravest thing you can do is admit, This ladder no longer serves where I’m headed, particularly after you’ve searched yourself and know it isn’t impatience.
Leaving early doesn’t mean you didn’t give it a chance. It can mean you paid attention quickly.
You leave—not because you’re ungrateful, not because you didn’t try, but because clarity came early—and you were listening.
Sometimes faith looks like endurance. Other times, faith looks like honesty.
The question isn’t, “Can I survive here?” It’s, “Is this shaping me for the future I’m being called to?”
If that question keeps surfacing, it may be time—not to panic, but to prepare. To retool. To invest in what will travel with you wherever you go.
And to remember this:
Moving your ladder isn’t quitting. It’s choosing alignment.