Looking Back at My Binghamton 1.0
Almost ten years ago, I wrote about one of the most formative experiences of my life: earning a 1.0 GPA during my one semester at Binghamton University. At the time, I called it “educational bankruptcy.” I described the noisy dorms, my car being towed on day two, the registration system crashing, and how a bad semester sent me back home to regroup.
Re-reading that post now, I realize how much of my current life is still tethered to the lessons of that time.
Environment matters. I learned quickly that I couldn’t thrive in a noisy suite or a lecture hall with 300 students. Today, as CEO of Firmspace, I obsess over creating environments where high-caliber professionals can thrive. That thread connects directly back to Binghamton.
Timing matters. I transferred at the last minute and paid the price in stress and missed opportunities. These days, I preach planning, preparation, and process. Business strategy, like school, punishes you for winging it.
Systems matter. Watching a university’s registration portal collapse taught me that bad systems create bad experiences. That frustration shaped my love for operational excellence and my belief that details matter.
Back then, I closed the post with a reflection that “failure” sometimes becomes the best thing that ever happens to you. Today, with almost twenty years more perspective, I believe that even more strongly.
My 1.0 didn’t define me, but it did direct me. It pushed me into communications, into nonprofits, into Stupid Cancer, and eventually into leading organizations in health, technology, and commercial real estate.
When I look back now, I see a straight line between the kid who couldn’t sleep through the noise in College-in-the-Woods and the leader who builds quiet, intentional workspaces for others. The setbacks were signals.
So if you’ve ever had a “1.0 moment” — whether in school, work, or life — don’t bury it. Revisit it. Sometimes those moments aren’t the end of the story. They’re the beginning.
When You Feel Like You Don’t Belong at the Table You Built
When I co-founded a nonprofit, I thought the hardest part would be fundraising, or managing volunteers, or learning how to read a budget without breaking into hives. I didn’t expect one of the biggest challenges to be… me.
More specifically, the voice in my head that kept whispering:
“You’re not qualified to be here.”
“They’re going to figure out you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Any day now, someone will ask you to hand in your keys.”
That voice had a name: imposter syndrome.
And it hit me in moments I didn’t expect—sitting in a meeting with hospital executives, walking into a conference where everyone seemed to have degrees I didn’t, even accepting awards for the work I’d done.
Where it comes from
For accidental founders, imposter syndrome often comes from the gap between how you started and where you are now. I didn’t go to school for nonprofit management. I learned systems by breaking them, fundraising by asking awkwardly, and leadership by getting it wrong before I got it right.
When you build something from scratch, you spend so much time figuring it out on the fly that it can feel like everyone else must have a secret playbook you missed.
What I’ve learned
Credentials aren’t the only currency. Your lived experience, resilience, and ability to rally people around a cause are just as valuable as formal training.
Most people are winging it, too. The folks you’re intimidated by? They’re probably Googling answers under the table.
Your mission matters more than your resume. If you’re showing up for the people you serve, you already belong in the room.
Preparation quiets the voice. The more you document your work, track your impact, and understand your numbers, the less room there is for self-doubt to creep in.
Find your truth-tellers. Surround yourself with people who will remind you of your wins when you can’t see them.
A quiet shift
The turning point for me was realizing that the “real” nonprofit leaders I was comparing myself to… were often comparing themselves to someone else. Everyone feels underqualified when they’re stretching into something bigger.
Now, when I hear that voice, I remind myself: I don’t have to be the most credentialed person in the room. I just have to be the one who cares enough to keep showing up.
If you’ve ever felt like an imposter in your own work, know this: your mission wouldn’t be where it is without you. And if you built the table, you have every right to sit at it.
If this resonates with you, I go deeper into overcoming imposter syndrome—and other challenges accidental founders face—in my book, The Accidental Nonprofiteer. It’s part field guide, part survival manual, and all hard-earned lessons from my years co-founding and growing a national nonprofit.
What Working as a Pharmacy Technician at 15 Taught Me About Life
Most teenagers spend their after-school hours playing video games or hanging out with friends. I spent mine counting pills, managing prescriptions, and learning hard truths about responsibility that would shape who I am today. At 15, I was among the youngest pharmacy technicians, and the experience taught me lessons about accountability, personal brand, and responsibility that no classroom ever could.
The Weight of Real Responsibility
When you're handling medications that people depend on to live, there's no room for teenage carelessness. Every prescription I filled, every pill I counted, every label I printed carried real consequences. A mistake wasn't just a bad grade—it could mean someone didn't get their heart medication on time, or worse.
This wasn't the artificial responsibility of school projects or chores. This was the real deal. Patients trusted me with their health, their insurance information, and their most personal medical details. At an age when most of my peers were learning to be responsible for their homework, I was learning what it meant when other people's wellbeing depended on my accuracy and attention to detail.
The owner of the pharmacy didn't care that I was 15. The medications needed to be right, the insurance claims had to be processed correctly, and the patients deserved the same level of service whether I was having a good day or a terrible one. That taught me that true responsibility isn't about how you feel—it's about showing up and performing regardless of your circumstances.
Building a Personal Brand Before I Knew What One Was
I didn't realize it at the time, but working in a customer-facing role at such a young age was essentially a masterclass in personal branding. Every interaction I had with patients, every phone call with insurance companies, and every conversation with the pharmacist was building my reputation.
Patients would specifically ask for "the young one" when they called in refills, not because of my age, but because I had developed a reputation for being thorough and patient with their questions. I learned that your personal brand isn't what you say about yourself—it's what others consistently experience when they interact with you.
I saw how quickly word spread when someone was unreliable or dismissive. In a small community, your reputation follows you everywhere. This taught me that competence without character is worthless, and that how you make people feel is often more important than what you know.
I quickly learned that the real goal wasn't to be impressive for my age—it was to be genuinely valuable, period. That shift in mindset changed everything about how I approached not just work, but all my commitments.
Accountability in High-Stakes Situations
Nothing teaches accountability faster than making a mistake that affects someone else's health. Early in my time at the pharmacy, I mislabeled a prescription—caught by the pharmacist before it went out, but a stark reminder of what was at stake.
Instead of making excuses about being new or young, I had to own the error completely. I had to understand not just what went wrong, but why it went wrong, and what systems I needed to put in place to prevent it from happening again. The pharmacist didn't coddle me or lower the standards because of my age. The expectation was simple: figure out how to be better.
This experience taught me the difference between taking the blame and taking responsibility. Taking the blame is passive—it's about absorbing consequences. Taking responsibility is active—it's about understanding your role, learning from it, and making changes to prevent future problems.
I learned to speak up immediately when I made mistakes, to ask questions when I wasn't sure about something, and to double-check everything because "I thought I did it right" wasn't an acceptable explanation when someone's medication was involved. This accountability mindset became second nature and served me well in every job and relationship since.
Lessons That Last a Lifetime
Working as a pharmacy technician at 15 gave me a career foundation that extended far beyond healthcare. The precision required taught me attention to detail. The patient interactions taught me empathy and communication. The insurance battles taught me persistence and problem-solving.
But more than the technical skills, it taught me what it means to be someone others can count on. In a world where many people struggle with follow-through and reliability, having learned these lessons early became one of my greatest professional assets.
The experience also taught me the value of competence over credentials. While my peers were focused on getting good grades to get into good colleges to get good jobs, I was already proving my worth in the workplace. I learned that capability speaks louder than potential, and that earning trust through consistent performance opens doors that degrees alone cannot.
The Unexpected Gift of Early Professional Experience
Looking back, starting my career so young wasn't just about earning money or looking impressive on college applications. It was about learning who I could become under pressure, how I responded to real responsibility, and what kind of professional I wanted to be.
Those early lessons about responsibility, personal brand, and accountability became the foundation for everything that followed. They taught me that age is often just a number—what matters is your willingness to learn, your commitment to excellence, and your ability to put others' needs ahead of your own ego.
For any young person considering entering the workforce early, my advice is simple: find a role where the work matters, where mistakes have consequences, and where you'll be held to adult standards. The lessons you learn there will serve you for the rest of your life.
The pharmacy may have been where I learned to count pills, but it's really where I learned to count on myself.