THE PICKER.

I was chatting to my friend Lizzie Rhodes James this week.

Lizzie is a uniquely talented leadership coach.

And we chatted about schooldays.

Schooldays. 

School, for me, was a place occasionally beautiful.

And often terrifying.

The latter never moreso than when I was being stared at.

By The Picker.

The Picker. 

The Picker was all-powerful.

Pickers moved pairs for obvious reasons.

And they held the power to pick me – or to not pick me – for their team.

Be it rugby, football or something else.

When their imposing silhouettes shifted shape as they passed judgement by raising pointy, bony fingers.

They revealed the invisible hierarchies that Social Media so cruelly points out to every young and vulnerable child every single nanosecond around the world these days.

And a 12 year old me would just stand there.

In my too-long shorts.

Peeping sheepishly through my too-long fringe.

Shivering on my two skinny legs.

Waiting for the inevitable reality of being picked last.

Ambition. 

This is a short story about ambition.

About thinking further.

About goal setting.

About you.

And also about the difference between the 12 year old me and the 30 year old me when I started my first enduring business.

The 12 year old me was frightened.

And I, most of the time, played the cards I was dealt.

I didn’t challenge much.

I wanted to be picked earlier by The Picker of course.

But I expended little energy working out how to make this happen.

Instead, I just let what happened, happen.

30.

However at 30 years old.

I was different.

My legs were still too skinny and my hair was still too long, of course.

But my attitude was not what it was when I was 12.

And here’s the thing for you to think about.

This is a story about the loftiness of your ambition.

It is about aiming higher.

Because a 12 year old me thought I had just two choices.

To be picked last.

Or to be picked first.

And that was that.

I didn’t even see the third choice when I was 12.

And I have to remind myself to see it at 51 years old sometimes.

Because the third choice is easy to forget.

Aim high.

At 30.

I aimed much higher.

I didn’t want to be picked last, of course.

But I also didn’t want to be picked first.

I wanted to stop waiting to be picked.

I wanted to become The Picker.

So I did.

And I picked me.