Boys & Their Toys

Who we are in the toy aisle determines our viewpoint in the boardroom

How We Learn to Play the Game of Life

I recently sat down to enjoy a relaxing Mother’s Day weekend with my husband of almost twenty years, and it occurred to me that he and I play very differently at the game of life.

And it got me wondering if that was by design or a strong skill that we were nurtured into.

In this blog, I explore our “whos” and perhaps some of our “whys” of how we do life and the expectations when presenting our whole selves at work, in leadership, and in entrepreneurship.

When Success Still Feels Like Failure

Sometimes, your ability to lead is all in your creativity and ability to imagine.

I sat at my desk at 3:00 PM on a Friday, waiting for what was one of the scariest last-minute one-on-ones ever placed on my calendar.

I worried if I had performed high enough, if my content had reached the wrong ears, if I somehow was about to be penalized for doing an outstanding job. For reference, this year was my most successful year on record. I’d launched a global campaign, smashed my revenue numbers by more than 50%, and single-handedly led my team, department, and organization into the modern age while advocating at some of the highest levels of government for change.

But as I sat there, racking my brain about whether I had performed enough to maintain my status and keep my 9-to-5, I wondered: What if I’m only as good as my last mistake?

Did I forget to thank someone? Did I miss an email? Was I able to control the narrative brought by that one elusive internet troll? And alas, was I finally going to be held to a higher standard and called out for my beliefs?

I sat in anguish.

But this wasn’t the first time. As a high achiever, I always want to know the metrics. You know the data. It is not enough that I won; I want to know by how much I won.

It is not enough that I created an impact; I want to know how much impact I created.

Who is the dragon we slayed, and how long was he or she taking people out before I conquered and vanquished that foe?

I use metrics constantly to detail my wins, to outline my effectiveness, and to leave a scoreboard for those who come behind me, a practice that could be used more often in public service in general.

And this Friday afternoon, no different from any other time, I sat nervously, wondering if I was yet again going to be told: “Look, you're highly talented... but...”

It was the “...but...” part that always got me because the only thing that ever seemed to be on the other side of the word was rejection.

Like the Apple Store Genius Bar saying, “We’d like to fix your computer, but... we don’t have that model anymore. Would you like a new one?”

And let’s be real, at some point, you may end up doing the rejecting when the terms are just too low.

Burnout Behind the Achievement

I took a beat because at this point in my career, I should have been celebrating, out smashing some golf balls, or soaking in a tub at a spa. I should have had a huge trip lined up somewhere where you needed to check your bag for foreign fruits before you could re-enter the gate. But instead, here I was, almost a week after the last counts had rolled in, and it was official: we had far, far exceeded our goal.

I was exhausted.

Because of our common thread of working our fingers to the bone, my husband and I first bonded over our three jobs while being full-time in college. That was twenty years ago. And though so much time had passed, we had become each other’s main career, passion, and bosses. We had beautiful children, a home, and so many memories. And now, at the highest level of stress, my husband, as if he knew my thoughts without me saying a word, looked over at me and said, “It’ll be okay, babe.”

“How did he know?” I thought. I hadn’t said anything since picking up the girls from school. I sat there slumped over the side of the couch, crouching over my computer that sat neatly on the riser I bought in the pandemic because I was told it would “help with my posture,” and though I thought I showed no signs of sulking, there he was, expressing the comfort I had not verbalized my need for.

I was perplexed. And yet I figured he had watched this scene before.

A not-so-past-tense form of this Hadiyah, who undoubtedly was overworked, tired, had forgotten to eat, and was still going 1000 miles per hour, on the verge of a complete and total meltdown, because it just felt like “I could never do enough.”

It was at that moment I had come to grips with the thought that I was not enough, that everyone hates me, and that I’m somehow undoubtedly going to blow it and lose all that I hold dear in life.

And after that intrusive thought, with my husband preoccupied in the other room, I have to admit he was right. I was sitting there in the silence, and I began to, in fact, cry.

At first, I felt stupid, but then it really hit me.

I am alone.

And my loneliness is of my own doing.

And I’m really, really tired.

The Phone Call That Changed Everything

Just when the waterworks got rolling, and I was out of my very last prayer, my phone rang.

A teacher? A teammate? Some donor whom I forgot to thank? (Thanking is a big thing in the nonprofit world. I’m big on gratitude, but in this nonprofit world, the acknowledgment could sometimes cause the strongest men to take a Xanax.) With the same enthusiasm as Harrison Ford picking up a glowing rock in the middle of a godforsaken cave, I lifted my phone and slowly turned it around.

My father.

I, with a sigh of both relief and then a quick lightning jolt of anxiety, answered the phone, knowing that, because of the nature of my job, it had now been weeks since I talked to him. Out of fear that I had somehow disappointed him and needed to explain myself, I answered the phone.

“Hi, Daddy,” I sighed, trying to hide the fact that I’d been in the middle of a good cry and wiping away the water from my eyes that seemed to be running like a faucet at the moment.

“Hi, Hadiyah!” he exclaimed, like a parent looking through blinds to see if their kid is, in fact, in front of the house playing like they had left them just a few minutes before.

“I... I... haven’t heard from you for a while. I was wondering where you were at... and if there was a reason?” he said, listening closely for my response.

“Yeah... I’m sorry, Daddy, there’s just been a lot going on at work. Are you okay? Did the doctors give you any answers at the VA or the other hospital...?”

“Uh, what seems to be the problem with you?” He asked me that question the same way whenever I was in trouble for the last three decades. It was a familiar question and as close as I was going to come to “What’s wrong, honey?” as I was going to get.

I began to cry a little harder, partly relieved that he knew what was going on with me, and partly touched that he cared. After all the recent critiques from him on my child-rearing, relationship-building, and faith-based choices, I was expecting a harsher push or even a kick from him while I was already down.

But his voice, though it sounded strong, was quiet and waiting to hear more.

What My Father Put in My Hands

My dad was a problem-solver, the original hero for me growing up.

He had taught me to use the knight’s rook in chess and was the ultimate opponent as I obsessively grew an addiction to the game as a ten-year-old one summer.

His strategy, logic, and emotionless thinking got me several full-ride scholarships when the time came to go to school, none of which I took, all for a chance to come and meet destiny on the other side of the country, here in sunny San Francisco.

It was my upbringing that was distinct even from my brothers and sisters, an intentionality and investment on his part that set my mind on the finer things in life: the things that dealt with exploration of philosophy and ideas, fostering solutions and great collaboration, teamwork, and knowing my own mind.

Where some girls were given baby dolls and dollhouses, my dad, while I had some of those things for sure, made certain that I had science sets, doctor kits, building blocks, and Etch A Sketches. He took the concept of playing make-believe and strategized it so that I had nowhere to turn but to myself for imagination, entertainment, and problem-solving.

My dad at some point stopped taking me to the local Toys “R” Us and began taking me to Barnes & Noble, and made an exploration of museums instead of playgrounds.

My discovery of the world around me never halted, and when I was just 16 years old, he put me on a bus to go down south and explore colleges.

It all made me wonder: Of the things he put in my hand as a child, did this all cause me to think outside the box and help me to consider myself and not settle for less in my academic career and beyond?

Girls, Boys, and the Stories We’re Taught to Tell

I couldn’t help but think: What did most of us experience?

My first consideration is that we model both subjective behavior and objective behavior from the start.

Young women are given baby dolls, and they essentially become an object in their own imagination, seeing themselves as the main character of their own story, modeling behavior they’ve seen in their mothers, or perhaps modeling who they want to be when they grow up. Young girls are asked to be their heroes and to objectively use themselves as part of their make-believe story.

But young men are asked to involve themselves quite differently in the task of make-believe. Young men are asked to use action heroes and figurines and to make those things subject to their imagination, tools at their disposal and for their use.

The difference being that young boys get to identify themselves as the creator of the story, and young girls as those who have the story happening to them.

Now, before you think I hate being a mother, wife, and homemaker, I’d like for you to consider that I grew up in a household without any of those things, and from what I saw, my whole life, I longed for the household that would bring me close to a setup like that.

Pining for that type of opportunity has brought me much heartache.

Eventually, discovering that I am her, I’ve become the woman, mother, wife, and homemaker that I’ve always wanted to see.

But there was another part that I was grateful for that I received from my dad. He brought me to things that he thought were cool and showed me a world from a man’s perspective. Unable to help me with my hair, nails, or how to be pretty, he gave me what he had, and that was how to be smart. And for that, I’m forever grateful.

Celebrate Like the Hero of Your Own Story

But here I was today, defeated and all out of any good imagination, and it was his timely and seemingly divine phone call that reminded me of the person I am, and also who I was becoming.

“Why do they get to dictate what you should be doing?” my dad asked, the rhetorical question in a tone that implied I should already know the answer.

“Huh?” I asked.

“I said, why do they get to decide what you do? You said you just did really well, right?” my dad asked again.

“Yes, Daddy,” I said, sniffling, rubbing away my tears with the back of my hand.

“Well,” he said with a matter-of-fact tone. “What would you normally do if you did really well?”

“Celebrate,” I said.

“Then celebrate!” he said. “They don’t get to decide what you do... Why should they be the boss of your life?” he asked again, knowing there was no good answer.

“I’ve been realizing lately that I have a choice,” he exclaimed. “I can choose to focus on my past, what didn’t go right. Or focus on my future and what has gone right...”

“Didn’t you just celebrate your anniversary?”

“Yes.”

“Do you love your husband?”

“Yes.”

“And your daughter’s going to college?”

“Yes.”

“You got on TV?”

“Yes.”

“And you finished the year ahead of your goals, ahead of schedule?”

I gave one final “Yes.”

“Celebrate,” he said, “and don’t care if anyone doesn’t like it.”

The Hero in My Story Wins

And just like that, my face was as it hadn’t been for the last thirty minutes: dry.

And suddenly I was seeing myself subjectively again. And it felt like I had become the villain in my own story.

My dad, a man, former young man, former boy, was asking all the right questions within minutes of a phone call, looking into my situation and immediately placing himself as the creator of the story, and just like that, righted a wrong.

Someone who manipulates and construes stories to fit their narrative will always use their superpower of storytelling to do harm, but there must be a villain in every story. There has to be an obstacle to overcome.

But in all the years of make-believe, I’ve never seen a kid, either male or female, allow self-doubt and discouragement from an enemy to take their hero out in the story they were telling.

Be it a Barbie, baby doll, G.I. Joe, or Hot Wheels.

No kid crashes their own life against the rocks because, in their imagination, their worst thoughts go for the best of their hero.

In fact, they always imagine their hero winning.

And that hero is not for sale.

And my dad helped me to realize that.

The hero in my story wins.

And to that, my dad, some almost 40 years later, swooped in yet again like a superhero and reminded me in his imagination that a real hero is only a phone call away.

Thanks, Dad.