I never knew advertising was a thing until I scored an internship at a Manhattan firm for the summer in between semesters for business credit. I was pretty much an errand girl, getting lattes and lunch, copying and filing, but one day I was able to witness a high-level meeting with a team pitching a potential client to sell a new cereal to the marketplace. I knew immediately I wanted to experience that rush of adrenaline. I loved the concept of finding the right hook to sell a product. It was a perfect combination of statistics and research, driven by forcing the brain to think outside the box for creativity.

The creative director in the meeting was a sharply dressed male, handsome and charismatic, but it was the woman next to him who fascinated me. Her power suit and tight bun gave off a cool capability I craved to duplicate, and it was obvious she was the one who knew the most about the project. The man was the face of the company. She was the brains, evident in the way she answered the client’s endless questions while the supposed lead pretended he was allowing her to speak on his behalf.

I realized then that it was a boys’ club I’d have to break into. I didn’t just want to be her.

I wanted to be more. I wanted the man’s job. I refused to let any man try to steal my power. So, at twenty years old, I made myself a promise to learn everything about the business world and advertising. I swore I’d run my own company one day, on my terms.

I learned everything from the big power agencies, then moved north to avoid the major competition and opened my own place. I marketed it as a boutique alternative for clients who wanted to be treated like the national brands but didn’t have the big dollars. I drained my savings to invest in marketing and publicity, creating my own ads for my business, and my client base doubled within the first year.

Life was pretty much perfect. I was a young woman with a burgeoning business, finally making money. But I hadn’t counted on a strange twist that occurred when I turned twenty-eight. My valued assistant at the time, Sierra, had become pregnant. Yes, I was thrilled for her, but more concerned about how I’d plug the gap in my busy schedule for the three months she’d be on maternity leave. When she came into the office to show off her new daughter, I handed her an elegantly wrapped present, resigned to cooing and fussing over a newborn who couldn’t do anything but poop and sleep. Then she’d expertly slid the baby into my arms.