When I was a kid growing up in the suburbs just outside of Chicago, I scored some impressive grades from my fifth-grade teacher and as a reward, my dad bought me the coolest bike in the world. It was cherry red with black trim, and the tires had cool-looking shock absorbers. I was the king of the world that day.
About a week later, I was zooming around my neighborhood, pretending to be an X-wing pilot, when I lost control of the bike and crashed into a tree. When my dad asked what happened, I told him the truth. I said the bike hit a tree. And then he explained that the bike didn’t hit anything—I was the one who hit the tree.
And with one clear sentence, my old man taught me the nature of blame.
Years later, I was working at my first agency and things weren’t going well. I couldn’t book a thing. And it was always someone else’s fault. Competing with the large companies was too hard. My clients were never prepared. The owner didn’t like me. I was such a victim.
Then I remembered my dad’s lesson and everything turned around. I took responsibility for my failures. This gave me the clarity to approach my goals from a different direction and that was all she wrote. I never looked
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