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CHAPTER 1 – RESILIENCE & OPTIMISM
PREFACE
My recruitment career—or more accurately, my career as a commissioned salesperson on a modest draw with a wife on a maternity leave and a four-month-old at home—began on the morning of September 11th, 2001. As American Airlines Flight 11 hit the North Tower of the World Trade Centre at 6:46 a.m. Calgary-time, I was cinching the knot on my tie, readying myself for my first day of work at The Affiliates, the fledgling legal recruitment division of Robert Half International I had been tasked with launching. It was a reality check having, the previous Friday, left the law firm where I’d spent four years, was generally well-liked, and absolutely well paid. Robert Half lost several of its temps in the towers and even the Calgary office, housed as it was on the 42nd floor of one of Calgary’s most prominent office towers, ceased operations amidst the uncertainty of the day.
If ever there was a sign from above that perhaps I ought to retreat back to the law firm (for they’d left the door open), this was it. Like the GIF of Homer Simpson slinking back into the hedge, I could have swallowed my pride and asked for a do-over. There was no chance of me doing that, and after an extra day at home to watch the historic events unfold on TV, I reported to work the morning of the 12th of September and never looked back. By 2005 I was the top revenue producing legal recruiter globally at Robert Half and, though I had found my calling, I hadn’t yet found my home. That would take a few more years and a couple additional career stops along the way.
One of the most formative stages in my journey toward founding my own firm in 2009 was the curious four-month courtship by, and subsequent tortured 15-month tenure at, Korn/Ferry International. Despite the difficulties, or perhaps because of them, my time there was invaluable in shaping me into a better leader and a more empathetic search person. The greatest lesson learned, which may seem directly at odds with the very raison d’être of my business, is that sometimes the best career move is the one you don’t make. The ego stroke of being the hunted can be intoxicating and from the first call I received in January 2008, and the multiple one-on-ones with other members of the firm in the weeks that followed, I kept coming back for more, like a prisoner drawn to the gallows, even though I’d often report to my wife after each interaction, “These aren’t my people.”
Perhaps it was the push more than the pull. I’d been back at my law firm, in year four of a one-year contract, and while I was enjoying the work, the predictable annual cycle of it felt increasingly like Groundhog Day. Add to this, the uncomfortable reality that a vocal faction of the partnership always viewed the non-billable-touchy-feely Director of Professional Development role as unnecessary. Then there was the travel. I’d achieved “Super Elite” status, Air Canada’s loftiest, two years running with over 100 segments a year as I commuted weekly between Calgary, Edmonton, and Vancouver. This lifestyle was starting to take a toll on both me and my family. While the upgrades and lounge passes were nice, my wife was managing her own career while often being home alone with three kids under eight years of age. Add to this being caught in the crossfire of some childish east-west law firm politics, and I was ripe for the picking, to be sure. In fairness, the pull of the opportunity was not nothing. Korn/Ferry International, after all, was the largest executive search firm in the world, and its Calgary office was a juggernaut in the local market. But when you are continuously having to convince yourself to take the next step, feeling it a weighty burden rather than dancing with the anticipation of a new romance, there’s likely something not quite right.
And there was absolutely something not right. The zenith of weirdness arrived like a late dinner guest. Which I was, at the gathering I was hoping against hope would be the first ‘normal’ encounter after months of stilted and peculiar one-on-ones with individual members of the firm. Thinking the purpose of the dinner was a long-overdue drinky bonding session amongst soon-to-be business colleagues, breaking bread and perhaps enjoying a few cocktails, I was instead instructed to ‘attend’ at the rather stodgy Calgary Ranchmen’s Club, best described as a funeral home with a dance floor, at “6:30 p.m. sharp.” Equal parts alarmed and amused, alarmed because a private dinner in the Mary Dover Room seemed the furthest thing from fun; amused because an ember within me clung to the faint hope this was a ruse and these people actually had a great sense of humour. The ember was doused the moment I entered Mary Dover’s chambers. The five partners, clearly having been instructed to arrive long before me, wine glasses near empty, bread crumbs askew, looked at me curiously as I entered. On my heels before I’d even sat down, I felt embarrassingly late to my own party, even though I’d arrived on time. With absolutely no ceremony, no small talk, no attempt to break the ice before we broke bread (mind you, there was none left by the time I’d arrived), I was instructed to sit. Then things got really strange.
The patriarch of the firm, indeed of executive search in Western Canada, the venerated Michael Honey, slouched directly across from me and with the welcoming embrace of a runaway freight train, began: “We’ve researched your family. We know your father was a giant of a lawyer in the 60s and 70s. Your brother founded and runs an exceptional public relations firm,” he huffed and puffed, clearly having not discovered my sister in his research. “Yet here you are, a glorified HR guy at a tier two law firm” (I was neither glorified, nor an HR guy, nor was my firm ‘tier two,’ but he was rolling), “so how is it,” he pondered, peering over his smudged spectacles perched atop his pointy nose, “how is it, I query, that you plan to continue, by remaining in your current middling station, the Pekarsky family legacy by NOT answering the call to join our firm?” So many thoughts raced through my mind as a deathly quiet fell over the stuffy room. I can’t recall for certain, but I believe even the very dead Mary Dover likely leaned in to listen to my response. Which, unhesitatingly, went like this: “We’re not the fucking Kennedy’s, Michael.”
Now you might rightly think dinner had ended before it began. But you would be wrong. The two younger partners in attendance laughed a little too loudly at my retort; the two older ones aghast at such a breach of protocol in the presence of The King. Incredibly, we persevered. Then, at precisely 9 p.m., I was informed dinner was over and I could leave. Like, now. Gulping down the rest of my wine, I took my leave, hopped in a taxi, and walked in the front door of my home at 9:12 p.m. to the rather surprised look on my wife’s face, the mouth part of which uttered, “I thought you’d be home late?” I poured myself a rather stiff drink and walked her through the events of the evening. Self-evident though it seemed, she rather forcefully said, “Well that settles it, you’re NOT working there.” Just then, my phone rang. It was the Managing Partner, one of the Aghast, who gushed, “That was great! What a wonderful evening! We really enjoyed it.” As I started to explain my decision, flattered though I was, etcetera etcetera, I was interrupted. “I won’t hear of it. You’re off to Toronto in the morning,” (which was true, though the Youngers surely thought it a ruse) “and I insist you meet our Canadian President, Jeff.” Whether the Managing Partner sensed my reluctance or played the President card out of desperation, I’ll never know. But against all better judgement and my wife’s puzzled protestations I agreed, like a hiker lured off the path by an enticing but uncertain trail, to meet Jeff the next day in Toronto. What happened next is a story for later, better told in the introduction to the Lessons Lived & Learned chapter of this book.
For now, we focus on this chapter, one largely informed by those early career moves; from the warm embrace of law firm life, where as a young associate you get a five-figure pay raise every year simply for staying alive, to the cold shark-infested waters of working on commission for a metrics-crazed, publicly traded American company where you’re only as good as your most recent month and about as dipsensible as a plastic fork at a picnic. It’s about resilience and remaining steadfast in the face of adversity. It highlights both personal and professional stories of what it takes to overcome challenges, in life and in business, with an optimistic outlook. These are a collection of triumphs and tribulations. Of what it means to embody grace under fire. From economic setbacks to political blunders and everything in-between, these stories highlight tales of living through tough losses and coming out stronger on the other side.
