Starting over. Again.

1999. Post-cancer. No plan. No ego. Just the need to start over.

I had just left New York, where I’d been working as a Service Delivery Manager at a Fortune 100 company. On paper, I had “made it.”

Big office. Big title. Big paycheck.

But I was done.

Done chasing promotions. Done performing competence. Done pretending everything was fine.

Cancer has a way of burning everything down to the truth. And the truth was: I didn’t want that life anymore.

So I left New York. I left the job. I left the version of myself I thought I had to be.

And I moved back to Philly.

I was underweight. Worn down. My chemo hair had just started growing back. I walked into that interview in an Ally McBeal-style suit, barely holding it together, hoping someone would take a chance on me.

The job? Sales assistant at a startup.

From Fortune 100 IT manager to entry-level support at a five-person company. It would have looked like a step backward on any resume.

But it wasn’t a step backward. It was a lifeline.

And when I walked into that office—temporary rented space, folding chairs, startup chaos everywhere—the man interviewing me pointed to a framed photo of Michael Corleone on the wall and said, “That’s who I am.”

I hadn’t even seen The Godfather. I just nodded. I wasn’t sure if he was joking. I wasn’t sure if I should run.

But we clicked.

His name was John. And I got the job.

Only because two people—Susan, the recruiter, and John, the hiring manager—saw something in me. And they trusted their gut.

I was broken. But that didn’t matter.

They gave me a shot. And it changed everything.

It launched me into tech marketing—a path I’ve followed ever since. It was a team of six. A fast-moving startup. New territory every day. The kind of job that makes you feel alive again.

It also raised the bar for the kind of leaders I wanted to work for.

Susan and John—who eventually married—had both been through hard things. Real things. The kind of life experiences that strip away pretension and teach you how to see people.

And they saw me.

They didn’t just offer me a job. They offered me dignity. Confidence. A way forward.

I thought I’d find more leaders like that.

I didn’t.

And that’s what I’ve been thinking about lately:

Do hiring managers really understand the power they hold?

The power to change someone’s life with one yes. The power to see through polish and pedigree—and find potential. The power to lead with humanity instead of checklist thinking.

Most don’t take that power seriously.

But the few who do?

You never forget them.