The Shape of a Life Begins in the Dark

Most leadership stories begin in adulthood — with a first job, a first promotion, a first title. But mine began much earlier, long before I knew what leadership was, long before I had words like responsibility or initiative or visibility.

My story begins in the dark, in the rain, with a flashlight in my hand and my father beside me

I was six or seven years old the first time he woke me in the middle of a stormy night. The rain had softened the earth, and he told me this was the perfect time to find nightcrawlers. We stepped outside into the wet grass, our flashlights cutting thin beams through the darkness. The ground shimmered with possibility. And there, rising from the soil, were the long, glistening worms that fishermen prized.

We crouched together, quietly, patiently, gently pulling each nightcrawler from the earth before it slipped back into its tunnel. By morning, we had enough to fill a wooden box we lined with plastic and packed with soil. I made a sign — “Nightcrawlers for Sale” — and planted it in the front yard.

That was my first business.

My first taste of earning something for myself.

My first understanding that work could be created, not just assigned.

I didn’t know it then, but that night in the rain was the beginning of my arc — the first spark of initiative, the first moment I realized I could shape my own world.

A few years later, around age eleven, I took on my first real job: a paper route. I remember the weight of the Sunday papers — thick, heavy, wrapped in plastic — and the satisfaction of preparing them, folding them, securing them with rubber bands, and loading them into my bag.

I walked the neighborhood in every season, delivering the news to doorsteps before most people were awake. Once a week, I’d go door to door collecting payment, keeping the proceeds after I paid my bill. It was my first experience with accountability — with earning, managing, and stewarding something that was mine to oversee.

I didn’t have the language for it then, but I was learning the earliest forms of leadership: consistency, reliability, presence.

By fifth grade, leadership began to take on a new shape — one that involved visibility. I became an officer in the school crossing guard program, a lieutenant with a badge and a sense of authority that felt both exciting and humbling. It was the first time I understood that leadership wasn’t just about doing a job — it was about being seen doing it.

In high school, that visibility grew. I ran for office and became treasurer of my senior class. It was my first experience with campaigning, with earning trust, with standing in front of peers and saying, “Choose me.” It was also my first taste of the quiet pressure that comes with being elected — the sense that people are watching, expecting, relying.

These early experiences weren’t glamorous. They weren’t strategic. They weren’t part of any grand plan. But they were forming something in me — a pattern, a rhythm, a truth.

I was becoming a leader long before I ever held a job with “manager” in the title.

And then came McDonald’s.

At fifteen and a half, I stepped into the place where my professional life truly began. I loved the pace, the teamwork, the rhythm of the store. But what I loved most was the trust.

I stayed late into the night to receive the supply truck — cases of french fries, boxes of hamburger patties, cartons of paper goods, refrigerated items stacked on pallets. I counted each cash drawer at the end of the night, prepared deposits, handled the safe, and sometimes drove the deposit to the bank after closing. I made sure the store was clean, that the team felt supported, that customers were happy.

I didn’t know it then, but I was learning operational leadership — the kind that happens quietly, behind the scenes, long after the dining room lights go out.

At seventeen, I became the youngest manager in the region. And yet, even then, I didn’t think of myself as a leader. I simply loved the work.

Looking back now, I can see the pattern clearly:

Leadership kept finding me.

Responsibility kept finding me.

Visibility kept finding me.

Service kept finding me.

I wasn’t chasing leadership — I was becoming it.

And the arc of my life was already forming, long before I knew its name.

This is the beginning of my memoir, The Arc of Leadership — a story not of climbing, but of becoming. Not of rising, but of returning. Not of ambition, but of alignment.

Thank you for reading the first step of this journey. More chapters — and more reflections — are on the way.

Closing Reflection: Finding Purpose in the Dark

Take a slow breath. Let your shoulders soften.

This is a moment for remembering where your own leadership truly began.

1. Bring to mind a time when you were moving through uncertainty — a season when the path wasn’t clear, but something inside you was quietly forming.

Notice what that darkness felt like.

Not as danger, but as possibility.

2. Ask yourself: What was being shaped in me then?

What early instinct, responsibility, or truth was beginning to take form long before you had language for it?

3. Recall the small acts of leadership you offered before anyone called you a leader.

Moments of care.

Moments of responsibility.

Moments when you stepped forward because someone needed you.

4. Consider how those early experiences shaped your sense of purpose.

What did they teach you about who you are?

What did they reveal about the kind of leader you were becoming?

5. Place a hand on your heart and honor the version of you who led in the dark — without a title, without applause, without certainty.

That early courage is still in you.

It is still guiding you.

It is still shaping the life you are meant to live.

Take one more breath.

Return gently to your day.