For the past year Startup Institute Boston has shepherded students through their 8-week curriculum giving them the skills to have an immediate impact on the startup they join, whether in marketing, sales and business development, product and design, or web development.  The program teaches not just cutting-edge content specific to each track, but also offers cross-track opportunities and fosters the soft skills you often don’t learn until you’re on the job (and you screw up).  I think this is why they have been so successful, and why their students go on to get snapped up by the most interesting and innovative startups. (They have a 94% placement rate to date.)

This isn’t another accelerator or a school for founders, nor is it meant for people who want to work in big companies. Rather, it’s for those who want to play a vital role within high-growth, high-potential startups, but just aren’t sure how to translate their 3 years as an assistant brand manager at a CPG company or 5 years as a back-end developer in a big bank into the startup environment.

I’ve had the pleasure of being a part of the New York startup ecosystem over the past two years as I co-founded a vertically-integrated ecommerce brand. During my time as CEO at Quincy I experienced first-hand how hard it was to hire top talent who could hit the ground running on day one.

But more than that, I’ve been a part of New York City for the last seven years as I made my way from the Metropolitan Opera to the Boston Consulting Group to Quincy Apparel. I love the vitality of this city and the insane amount of talent bursting from every corner. There are so many New Yorkers who could add their passion and purpose to the startup community but just aren’t sure how to make the transition. And as it turns out, I’ve basically made my career out of translating experiences across sectors and industries, and I’ve found that the catalyst for innovation is often sparked by ideas borrowed from other settings.

New York needs a steady source of smart startup talent, and Startup Institute New York is here to help.  Our first cohort starts June 10. Apply here to join as a student or email me to talk about how to partner with Startup Institute on our inaugural class.

As I was reflecting on the year, I couldn’t believe how much I learned, who I met, and what I experienced in 2012. I launched a company, opened an office, raised venture capital, hired a team, got us national press in newspapers, magazines, and television shows, and helped some women feel amazing when they got dressed for work. This was a year of fitness achievements too with two half marathons and my first Olympic-distance triathlon. I also got some quality time with several girlfriends who have been in my life for over a decade, and had the opportunity to join the boards of two awesome nonprofits I adore: Interlochen Center for the Arts and Camp Interactive.

But it wasn’t an easy year. My family had several health scares in the first half of the year, and right before Thanksgiving I lost my grandmother. I broke off one relationship and struggled to find time or energy to invest in starting a new one. Hurricane Sandy spared my apartment but not those of many friends and neighbors, and two months later we are still feeling the effect of damaged infrastructure and limited services. And at Quincy, as we began to scale we saw cracks in the business model, challenging our fundamental hypotheses and ultimately creating a fork in the road that forced some difficult decisions.

So: what’s next for the new year? I’m moving on from Quincy and looking forward to my next great adventure. I’m taking some time to catch up on sleep and friendships and my yoga practice, then I’m hitting the ground running in a few weeks. I’ve got a good idea of what I want to do next, and I’m going to hold out until I find it, so there may be a few months of consulting and contract work to fill the gap. (Got a project you could use my help on? Send me an email!)

I’ve also been dreaming of putting together a curriculum on storytelling for entrepreneurs focused on how to sell your story in any context, whether via PR or to potential investors or when hiring. There’s so much I’ve learned from my theater training that helped me and my company jump out from the crowd early on, and I want to help pass on those skills to other awesome founders. There’s also quite a bit of value in studying improv – from learning to say “yes and…” to feeling comfortable with uncertainty to thinking on your feet – and I’d love to bring that to a class near you with the help of my favorite Blogologuers, Jen Jamula and Ali Goldberg.

This year is going to a great one for my physical health with a fantastic race schedule (including the NYC Marathon!) and the time to finally drop my “startup 15″. I’ve got some writing projects that have been on the back burner for a while that I’m going to dust off and get back into. And there’s an awesome new a capella group in town called Awk-apella that you should keep your eyes (and ears) open for — we’re all from the NYC tech community and we’re ready to nerd out with some aural pleasure at a launch party near you.

Here’s to a fabulous first day of a new year. Bring it on.

The charge, leveled by a former classmate with whom I have not stayed well connected, was that I only share the shiny, wonderful moments of my life on Facebook and he resented the apparent filtering I had applied to my not-so-shiny moments. After my initial thought subsided (“unsubscribe from my updates then”) his comment lodged itself somewhere on my things-to-write-about list and after considering it all week I decided to do so.

One of the challenges I love about social media is that the more you use it, the more important it becomes that you present a consistent identity across platforms. While it is possible to segment your online persona into circles and friend lists, the process is unwieldy and the potential for screw-ups immense. The truth is that anyone can cross-reference anything, and with a quick Google search or shared link it all comes to light one way or another. Thus, social media becomes a forcing mechanism for authenticity: the person you show your family and the one you show your colleagues eventually converge in an online world.

As such, when there are life moments to celebrate these friends and family members mix together and interact with each other as they help you enjoy the moment. Yet there are many more moments that are best shared with just a few who have the context to truly understand and help process them. Whether a tough experience with employees, or a frustrating series of dates that seem to go nowhere, or a health scare of a loved one, (or even an unexpected accolade that means more than most would comprehend) these are snapshots that are simply not meant for widespread consumption.

A cynical interpretation of this filtering was proffered by a recent op-ed in the Wall Street Journal, pronouncing us all self-centered braggarts. The argument in a nutshell is that in the age of nonstop social media we are stage managing our public images to be within an ounce of perfection, relaying every important (and many not-so-important) moments only after applying a sheen of positivity.

Our anniversary presents become Exhibit A of the world’s most amazing spouse; our vacation photos examples of our jet-setting lifestyle; our children’s achievements testaments to our brilliant parenting. We are, it insists, becoming a society that shares only the very best of our lives out of insecurity or manipulation or calculated marketing.  This was the same argument my friend was intimating.

I remember reading that article on my morning commute and shaking my head in disagreement yet unable to put my finger on why, exactly, I took umbrage. Then I stared at a blank WordPress window for yet another week and realized why I haven’t been able to write a new post in over three months: this has been one hell of a summer in both extremes — insanely good and wrenchingly hard — but very little of it could be distilled into something I wanted to share with my entire world. And so I remained muted online.

To those comparing my best days with their everyday, it must seem as though I live a charmed life, devoid of budget crunches or broken hearts, frizzy hair or fat days. But surely everyone understands that Instagram filters were created first and foremost to mask both forehead wrinkles and chin breakouts, right?

The point of my argument is not that I have wrinkles or acne (though I do, simultaneously, thanks to the wonderful age that is 28), but rather that these end-of-authentic-society-as-we-know-it rants are only taking into consideration one side of our social lives.  A more generous reading of the online filtering we practice is merely one that admits our offline lives are more nuanced than the digital archive we want to leave behind.

Thus, while there is no record in the online world (until now), I will say unequivocally: I have bad hair days. (I have also have had existential crises, been stood up on dates, overdrawn my checking account, cried at work, and switched from my skinny jeans to my not-so-skinny jeans over the last 12 months.) I have shared these difficult moments with friends over a bottle of wine or lingering phone call rather than a status update or tweet, but they are no less true merely because my social graph did not observe them.

Perhaps instead of privately pondering the tree-falling-in-a-forest hypothetical, friends could simply call and ask about the complexities in our offline lives… that would be a truly social benefit of social media, wouldn’t it?

(Just send me a calendar invite for the call first, mkay? I know, I know: now it looks like I’m showing off how busy I am. Sigh. I give up. I want a cookie. And a glass of milk. Except I recently discovered I’m lactose intolerant, which, as anyone who knows me can attest, is a freaking DISASTER. Because I LOVE milk. LOOOOOVE. See: my life isn’t all LOLcats and roses. No more milk = total and utter despair. And no, I’m not overreacting.)

For anyone trying to imagine how far 1500 meters is, here’s a couple of comparables: Olympic pools are 50 meters long; most pools at gyms I can afford in Manhattan are 25 meters long. Those 30 lengths in the pool at the YMCA (west side, what what) take me about an hour to swim. It’s a heck of a way to start a morning, especially when it’s the Hudson River. But I’m doing it in just over six weeks to raise money for a nonprofit called Camp Interactive.

(Oh yeah, after the glorious swim comes a 40k bike ride up and down the west side of Manhattan, followed by a 10k run in Central Park. All in all it should take me about 3-3.5 hours to complete, depending on transitions and heat and how much I want to get to brunch… trust me: those little nutritional gel packs are disgusting.)

I’m joining with a team of 9 other guys and gals from the New York Tech community to raise money for Camp Interactive because it’s an amazing organization with a dual mission: to get kids back into the great outdoors for physical activity and inspiration, and to teach them technology skills, giving them a creative outlet now and a leg up on career possibilities in the future.

As someone who has been tremendously impacted in my 20s by both athletics and technology, I am a huge supporter of exposing kids to these things as early as possible.

True story: I haven’t always been an athlete.  Between classical piano, cello, voice, orchestra, choir, musical theater, and opera, I spent most of my childhood in rehearsal halls and practice studios. I briefly flirted with sports in middle-school with a half-hearted attempt at soccer and basketball, but I was a fat kid who couldn’t run 1/4 mile without wheezing like an asthmatic, so everyone patted me on the head and said, don’t worry, it’s just not your thing. They told me I wasn’t athletic or pretty, but I was musically gifted and damn smart so I should focus on that and not worry about it. And I believed them.

I never ran a mile until I was 25.

That was two months before I climbed Kilimanjaro, and about a year before I finished my first half-marathon. Turns out the key to running 13.1 miles is to train for it. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t athletic on my first day of soccer practice – it only mattered that I showed up for the second day of practice, and the third.  But I didn’t know that; when people rationalized my weaknesses, I believed that was all there was.

A friend forwarded on an article last week that explains the problem: “bright girls believe their abilities are innate and unchangeable, while bright boys believe they can develop ability to effort and practice.”

I want nothing more than for this to change. So I’m doing everything I can to support organizations like Camp Interactive to show girls that they can be athletic, and they can be good at technology, and really they can do anything they set their minds to as long as they are willing to keep practicing.

If you feel the same way, I’d love your help to raise $5,000 by July 8.  Click here to donate.

I was thinking of this phrase in particular today because it is Mother’s Day, and this Mother’s Day is the first for my big sister, Stephanie. She has the most beautiful 10-month-old son who is the smartest, happiest, smiliest, most perfect baby ever. No, I am not biased. It’s factually true. Trust me. What makes my sister an amazing mom could fill ten blog posts, but what hit home for me was that, for the first time, I could see up close and unpolished what it meant to be a mom. And it blew my mind.

I.

Growing up, my sister and I weren’t really that close.  It’s not that we weren’t not close, it’s just that we were in each other’s life like a competitive, annoying fly that just won’t leave you alone. We were the Wallace Sisters – both highly-trained pianists, both math whizzes, both insanely smart and fiercely independent, and often both in matching clothes (thanks, Mom). The difference was that Steph was beautiful and somehow cool and had friends while I was fat and painfully dorky and often ate lunch at the teachers’ table to avoid bullying at school. So of course I both wanted to be her and wanted to make her miserable at the same time.  (I believe I succeeded at the latter.)  Needless to say, we were not what you might call friends.

In fact, throughout high school and college we led parallel, yet separate lives reinforced by geography, which in turn cemented our emotional distance.  We reunited at home in Michigan for requisite holidays, and often reenacted our teenage fights, no doubt triggered by the proverbial land mines hidden throughout our childhood home. And while neither of us particularly liked this setup, it was the way it was. Until December 2008.

II.

Steph had just gotten engaged to a wonderful man earlier that fall while I had been dating a wonderful man who I hoped would someday propose. We had all trekked back to Michigan for Christmas and got to imagine what the future version of our extended family might look like. We all got along, in that let’s-be-nice-because-guests-are-here kind of way. And then we left, and all was well and good until two days before New Year’s when my wonderful boyfriend dropped a huge bomb: he didn’t want to marry me, he wanted to break up. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t complete coherent sentences. My happy little existence fractured into 127 pieces. Right then my sister called, and when she heard she didn’t miss a beat: come to Nashville for a few days.

This was a huge gesture, and it wasn’t a gesture at all; she really meant it. Over the course of the following week she made me tea, watched mindless television with me, and walked in silence with me while I cried. And then, every so often, she said something insightful and comforting and loving that put a piece of me back in place. I guess this is what a lot of sisters do, but it was a first for us. And in that week our relationship took a sharp turn toward friendship. It wasn’t suddenly perfect by any means, but it was a huge shift for us.

The next summer she got married and I stood by her side as her wonderful fiance said his vows to her, and as I teared up I realized that I believed he meant them. I believed that despite their respective flaws, they loved each other unconditionally in a way I had never before seen. I believed they would be together until death.  While my parents divorced when I was a baby and I had no other healthy marriages to study growing up, I suddenly could see a strong and healthy relationship up close, and it was extraordinary.

III.

Two years later I got a call on Thanksgiving with the most astonishing news: they were pregnant! I screamed. My sister was pregnant. My sister was going to make a baby and there would be a tiny little human being in our family, who shared at least some of my DNA. It was terrifying and so so exciting. I couldn’t believe the good news, and yet when we hung up I found myself crying. (Yes, I do that a lot. Moving on…)

We didn’t have the easiest childhood, by far, and there were a lot of moments I swore to myself would never happen “when I became a parent.” And while that occasion was still far off in the distance for me, the reality for my sister was at hand. She was going to have a baby: a tiny, perfect creature who had done nothing wrong and had nothing wrong done to him yet. He was a blank slate. Her family — our family — was a blank slate and we could choose what kind of world he knew.

We chose then and there to end the fighting, end the yelling that was so familiar and destructive. We would end the criticism and the passive-aggressive sarcasm and the competition and the insecurity that had perpetuated through generations of our family. I would treat her as I treated my friends and she would do the same. This second shift in our relationship yanked it firmly onto a course of sisterhood.

Over the last ten months Steph has proven herself to be a resilient, fierce, beautiful, strong wife and mother. And even with all of the changes in her life, she has also been my confidant, cheerleader, therapist, and friend through the tumultuous first year of my startup. She has let me see into the challenges and fears and lows of motherhood as well as the bright shining moments of pure joy. It’s overwhelming when you think about it, and she deserves nothing short of superhero status. So on this Mother’s Day I want to publicly thank my sister for being amazing and letting me be part of her life.

You can’t be what you can’t see. Luckily for me, I see someone awesome.

Over the course of three hours the fabulous coach worked with the girls on understanding the different roles they play in different situations, thinking and reacting on their feet, being comfortable saying (out loud) “I failed”, and truly hearing what their partners were offering in an exercise.

It was this last part that created an interesting shift for the girls. So often we have prepared what we are going to say or do in a given situation and go right ahead and do it whether or not the circumstances were as we anticipated.  Instead of being present and reacting to what is actually being said we respond to the script that is in our heads.

(Ever felt like you and a friend / boss / spouse were carrying on two separate conversations? Or gotten into an argument without being certain what you were actually fighting about? That’s what I’m referring to.)

But the key to improv is being on the same team, and to do that you have to be paying attention to what your scene partner is giving you — verbally and non-verbally.  The first rule of improv is: Yes. The second rule is: Yes, and.

Yes: I hear you and I accept what you say is true.
And: I will build on it and help make it better

It’s crazy how those two words can change everything for a relationship.  Think about the alternatives:

No…
So often our immediate reaction to things is “no”.  It can’t work. It’s too expensive / dangerous / complicated. It will take too much work. It is scary. It’s new and uncertain. It’s distracting. “No” is one of the first words we learn as children and becomes one of the most common words we say.

The problem with “no” is that it not only stops an idea dead in its tracks, but also that it can build up negativity over time and discourage the hearer from trying in the future. When you are certain the answer is “no”, why ask the question in the first place?  Relationships built around “no”, whether romantic, friendly, familial, or professional, will ultimately lead to a breakdown of communication.

Yes, but…
Perhaps just as common, however, is “yes, but…”  While it at least begins with an affirmation that says “okay, I hear you” it still shuts the speaker down in the end. “But” is full of caveats, limitations, and excuses. “But” not only limits the chances of success for the idea by restricting resources, it too builds a bankroll of resentment. I think “yes, but…” is actually more dangerous than “no” because it is often followed by “I told you so” (whether explicit or implicit) when the suggestion fails — a double whammy of negativity.

Yes, and…
Honestly, I think this is the secret sauce for all successful relationships. “Yes, and…” is just the slightest pivot from “yes, but…” yet it changes everything. It too starts with “okay, I hear you” but then shifts to build on the idea instead of dissecting its flaws. “And” is about supporting, strengthening, and validating. “And” increases the chances of success not by just a multiple, but often an exponent. Moreover, “yes, and…” builds rapport over time. Yes, and I’ll help: we are in this together.

How amazing: a lesson in relationships, management, and comedy all rolled into one.  Brought to you by the letters A and E: Arts Education.

I can say that with utmost clarity. Startups are challenging, yes, let that go on the record. And relationships take work and money can be difficult to manage and probably all of those platitudes are true.

But when you strip all of that away, when it’s just you and the people you love and you are facing uncertainty in matters of life and death — true, end-of-life death — and it just breaks your heart to play out any of the possible scenarios ahead, well, those are the moments that make you want to break a stack of plates. And then maybe jump out of an airplane from 10,000 feet. And then tell the next guy in a hoodie who is “crushing it” to just shut the f up.

I know where my drive comes from, that thing that keeps me hustling seven days a week, 28.4 years and counting. I know why my brain can’t turn off and my fingers itch to make something tangible and my heart insists on feeling in technicolor despite all of the scolding its heard to toughen up over the years: because those moments that string together one after another, those seconds that in aggregate make up a “life,” those minuscule microcosms of happiness and fear and love and heartache bleed one into another and then? Then they flame out.

And here’s the truth: you get two choices. The thing itself is going to happen no matter which you choose — that much is guaranteed. You can’t stop it. Sorry. The end has already been written. No, your choice is only in how you are going to experience that inescapable thing, because simultaneously the seconds are interminably long and the hours just evaporate like a whisper.

So you can sit in it, endure it, soak up the wrenchingness of it – and therefore be in it so that when it’s over you have it as a chapter in your life that you can honor as something real.  Or you can deftly move through it and deflect the sharp corners by bending the curvature of your bubble — perpetual motion can do that to space, didn’t you ever learn the physics of emotional crises? — and make to the other side nearly unscathed, with hardly a memory of the trauma to be found.

Which is better? I can’t be sure. I have always chosen the former and have the scar tissue to stand witness. But this much I’ve learned: the lion’s den stands waiting whether you’re ready or not.

It seems undergraduate women at NYU Stern are facing the same difficulties that women at many top business schools face: they are underperforming their male peers, in large part because they hold back in classroom discussions.  When digging deeper they realized that female students prefer to speak only when they are absolutely confident in their answer or when they feel completely prepared to enter the debate.  They tend to take longer to raise their hand, have shorter and more concise comments, and often self-edit to manage their out-of-classroom image. As a result, these totally awesome women are losing ground before the game even starts.

Now anyone who knows me knows that I have little difficulty in speaking up or starting a debate. Whether it was because I grew up on a stage, or have been a giant since the age of 12, or never worried about my out-of-classroom image because it sat squarely in “social outcast” territory, I have always felt comfortable being seen and heard.  It’s not always enjoyable, and I don’t always do it well, but I continue to do it because a) it is an important muscle to develop and, more importantly, b) there are things I want and I am responsible for making sure I get them.

So I talked with the NYU women about this, and along with it, the concept of “fake it until you make it”.  In this particular context, I meant the vocal behavior that can either reinforce your argument and project your authority on the subject or completely undermine everything you are saying: the modifiers (“sort of”, “probably”), the tentative verbs (“it may”, “we’re trying to”), the shallow breaths and fast talking that raise your pitch to that of a pre-teen girl, the sub-audible volume.

Why would anyone believe what you are saying when your behavior indicates even you don’t believe it?  And perhaps even more detrimental: don’t set up an argument but leave the audience to infer what you want out of it. Forgive my crassness, but that’s like oratorical blue balls.  How can anyone give you what you want if you don’t actually ask?

The women rose to the occasion and the workshop turned out to be incredibly interactive, with five pairs courageous enough to get up and pitch a new business idea. Afterward several women came up and asked follow-up questions, and it struck me that nearly all of the questions revolved around asking permission. When was it okay to be wrong? What if they came across as too cocky? Would some people not like that they were asking for what they wanted? How do they convince people they are qualified to do the thing they really wanted to do?

(Perhaps the most common question: How did I convince anybody that an opera-singing-mathematician should be a CEO of a fashion company? Easy: I don’t try to convince them. I’m doing it anyway, and they can just watch and see it work out.)

This frustrates me to no end.  Listen: I know that most of those high-achieving, type-A young women got to where they are (that is, an elite business school at an elite university) because they followed the rules. I know, because that’s the same approach I took all through high school and college. Get the syllabus; figure out the deadlines and the metrics the professor will grade against; get an A. It’s the Suzuki approach to learning music. It’s the color-by-numbers method for life, and it’s feels safe, but ultimately it’s extremely dangerous. Why? Because the first step you take after graduation (and every step thereafter) doesn’t come with a syllabus or a sticker for doing a good job. And the likelihood of you making mistakes is virtually guaranteed. (And if you’re not making mistakes, you are playing it safe, so boom! Mistake. QED.)

Which means these extremely talented women who could be charging into the world and leaving a dent are instead tentatively walking their imagined tightrope for fear of falling off.  And for each tentative step they take there are some (equally awesome) guys bounding in with fast, decisive steps because they’ve been breaking rules and hearing “no” since they were toddlers.  So who’s more likely to attract the opportunities and the promotions and the mentors? See? Frustrating.

But those NYU women are persistent and now that they’re talking about this, they’re not willing to drop it. We’ve continued the conversation since, and after a particularly engaging lunch last week they’ve agreed to try an experiment later this spring involving something totally out of their comfort zone: improvisational comedy with strange creatures known as actors. We’re still working through the details, but the goal is to take them into this brave new world of thinking on your feet in front of an audience.

Step 1: stand up. Step 2: speak out. Step 3: take on the world. Stay tuned for updates on the project!

One of the lesser-used definitions of “violence” pertains to the context of language: “an immoderate vehemence,” or an exceedingly zealous or passionate expression.  The “violence of articulation”, then, is a somewhat poetic term for the passionate force of articulating something into being. By saying something out loud, emphatically, declaratively you have given it a name and thus a being, and with that, you have taken on an accountability for its future.

What Park shared with us that night was the bold and intrepid act of putting a stake in the ground and pronouncing something as true, which is at once both a summons for your allies to help you make it be true and a dare to your enemies to prove it false. In any case, it is a call to action.  This is why marriage vows are recited in public and not just signed on paper. Conversely, this is why young adults tend to pose ideas as questions instead of committing to them as statements. Just as true: this is why we often demure from admitting our New Year’s resolutions in case we don’t follow through by year-end.

It is with this in mind that, instead of writing resolutions for 2012 in my usual Moleskin, I have decided to articulate them publicly in the hopes that the universe will indeed conspire to help me (and the threat of public failure will keep me accountable).

1. Do at least one thing a month that scares the crap out of me
2. Learn to code in Ruby and Javascript
3. Complete a racing trifecta: half-marathon, sprint triathlon, and full marathon
4. Read 1 book per month that has absolutely nothing to do with my startup
5. Rebuild my emergency fund once this bootstrapping thing comes to a close
6. Maintain the personal budget I learned while bootstrapping = scrappy + lean
7. Travel to a new continent (Asia, Australia, or Antartica)
8. Blog more consistently
9. See my newborn nephew enough so that by the time he learns to talk he recognizes me
10. Find at least one young woman to mentor

What about you? Any goals for the year you’d be willing to announce on the record?

Two years ago I climbed Kilimanjaro. On January 9, 2010 around 6:30am local time I reached the summit, which is the highest point in Africa. If this were a movie and you started watching at 6:27am you’d see one of the biggest highs of my life over the following three minutes of film. But if you started watching at, say, 3am you’d see a very different Christina. You’d see an extraordinarily strong woman about to crumble like a pile of Girl Scout cookies.

Physically, the climb is not that difficult — perhaps no harder than running a half-marathon (which is to say: it’s not a cakewalk but certainly not impossible either).  I was having some issues with altitude sickness, but nothing unbearable. And it wasn’t the coldest I’d ever been. It was near-zero Fahrenheit and the snow had begun to pick up, but I also looked like the abominable snowman in 7 layers of clothes and had spent the first 18 years of my life in Michigan. I wasn’t going to freeze to death. True, it was pitch black in all directions, and I was climbing on an empty stomach and no sleep. It’s a fact that it was uncomfortable in many regards. Yet as I chanted the Greek alphabet and sang songs quietly in the time signature of my 20-step cadence all I could think of was how far I’d come and how far I had to go: I was 3 hours in and had 3 more hours left. I would have to relive the misery I just survived before things got better.  I wanted to cry. No, I wanted to be lying on a beach somewhere warm with an umbrella in my drink.

I will be completely honest with you: I very nearly turned back down the mountain and returned to base camp.

But just as I was about to turn back it occurred to me that I hadn’t been climbing for 3 hours. I had been climbing for 6 days and 3 hours. This trip didn’t start at base camp; it started nearly a week earlier when we entered the national park in Arusha, all clean and well-rested and happy. I had already survived 5 nights of camping, hiking, bad food, tummy aches, and blisters. I was so much further into this than I gave myself credit for.  Was I really going to throw that away 3 hours from the top?

And then I thought, silly girl, this trip didn’t start in Arusha 6 days earlier… it had started 4 weeks before that when I flew from Boston to London, then from London to Nairobi, before taking an 18-hour train to Mombasa, where I began a solo backpacking trip that spanned Kenya, Uganda, Tanzania, and Rwanda. The adventure had come with a whole host of travel challenges that I had already overcome – everything from a power outage in Zanzibar to a difference of opinion on what a “contract” constituted when a hostel in Kampala tried to charge me double at checkout. I had even run into the ex-love-of-my-life in Kigali and lived to tell the tale. Was I truly going to turn back now?

Realizing I wasn’t 50% done, but ~98.4% done made a drastic and noticeable difference in my mood. I believed I was capable of finishing. I knew that to reach the top I only had to slog through. (And at this point in the pep talk I discovered I only had 2 hours and 32 minutes remaining! Even better!)

I tell this story (to myself as much as to you, dear readers) because I’m having a hard time putting my crappy week into the right frame of reference. In the context of the past 24 hours or even last 10 days I feel like I’m floundering. I misread a situation and made the wrong (bold) choice to address it. I waited too long to pull the plug on a strategy that wasn’t working and wasted precious time and energy. I naively believed someone would do the right thing instead of actively getting on their radar and asking the questions to ensure that they would. (They didn’t, for the record.)

And I can’t help but feel like things are falling apart and, consequently, I am failing. (At what, exactly, I can’t say. But “failing” nonetheless, just like getting a B in martial arts my sophomore year of college meant I was “failing”.) When the last 10 out of 14 days feel sucky, it’s pretty easy to think that, on average, I suck and therefore I get to have a pity party. Who has the streamers?

So I’m going to broaden my frame of reference. Instead of looking at the last 14 days let’s consider a time series of the last 3 months. In the 3 months since I left my job and have been the full-time CEO of Quincy I’ve had one of the greatest adventures of my life. (That even includes the time I went volcano boarding in Nicaragua in a lightening storm..) I nearly feel growing pains from the amount that I have learned about myself, about fashion, about business, about what women want, about back-end programming languages, about sales, about Macs, about asking for help, and so much more. Within this frame of reference these 10 days are just a blip. Or I can look wider than that.

What about the time series since deciding to go to business school? Or my 20s? What about the frame of reference compared to the 12-year-old girl who hid out in a bathroom stall to read Nancy Drew books instead of playing with the other kids at recess? Looking at how far I’ve come, do the challenges of these last 10 days mean I’m a failure? Or just that I’m human?

On that note, enough with the navel-gazing. I have a company to build.