I had lived and breathed ballet since I was a child. It wasn’t just a
passion—it was my identity. By my late teens - early twenties, I was already a
professional ballet dancer, but for reasons I still can’t fully explain, I knew
I couldn’t go on.
Walking away from something that had defined me for so long
wasn’t easy. I felt lost, unsure of who I was without ballet, and with no idea
of what to do next. Academically, I’d always been a mediocre to poor student,
except for one subject: math. This was the only subject I genuinely enjoyed and
felt confident in, so I decided to study it, even though I had no clear plan
for what I would do with it.
In my confusion, I turned to my father, Dave. He was busy running his
telecommunications company, but when I asked him to meet me for lunch, he
didn’t hesitate. I’d never made such a request before, so I imagine he knew it
was serious. Over that lunch, I laid it all out: my decision to leave ballet,
my uncertainty about the future, and my vague plan to study math.
His response wasn’t what I expected. He didn’t pity me or make me feel
as though I’d wasted the last decade of my life. Instead, he reassured me that
my years in ballet would someday serve me, even in ways I couldn’t yet see. But
then he did something that caught me off guard: he challenged me.
“Why math?” he asked, his tone direct. “What will you do with it? End up
in the long line of unemployed math teachers?”
It stung, but he wasn’t being cruel—just realistic. At first, I fumbled
to explain. Math was the only thing I felt good at, the only thing I enjoyed.
But he wasn’t satisfied with that answer. Then he said something that would
stay with me forever: “Instead of focusing on what you’re good at, why don’t
you think about the kind of life you want to live?”
I sat back, stunned. It was such a simple question, but it opened a
floodgate of thoughts and emotions. What kind of life did I want? I wanted
freedom—freedom to choose my job, to live wherever I wanted, and to be judged
on my skills, not my physical performance. I wanted to travel, to explore the
world, to work with great people, and to do something meaningful.
Dave smiled knowingly as I poured this all out. Then he shared something
about his own life. His career had given him those exact opportunities—to
travel, to collaborate with talented people, and to shape his life the way he
wanted. And then, in the same breath, he gave me a suggestion I never saw
coming: “Why not try electrical engineering?”
Engineering? For a former ballet dancer, it felt absurd. But Dave laid
it out logically. Engineering would challenge me, involve the math I loved,
and—most importantly—open doors to the kind of life I wanted. It was a
practical path to my dreams.
At the time, his advice felt revolutionary. Most people assumed I’d
become a ballet teacher or take a "safe" job until marriage. But Dave
saw something else for me. He saw potential, not limitations. He saw
engineering not just as a career, but as a tool to create the life I
envisioned.
That lunchtime conversation changed everything. It gave me clarity and
direction, but more than that, it gave me permission to dream. I went on to
study engineering, and while the path wasn’t always easy, it gave me the
freedom and opportunities I’d once only imagined.
Looking back, I realize how rare and precious Dave’s advice was. He
didn’t give me a map or a checklist—he gave me a framework for thinking about
my life. Start with the life you want to live. Then figure out how to make it
happen.
To this day, that
advice guides me. And for that one lunchtime conversation, I’ll always be
grateful.
