In 2018, I started a new business managing residential rental properties along the coast here in San Diego.
I made over 1,000 cold calls during the first year. People yelled at me, hung up on me, and said terrible things to me on the phone, but I was determined.
My bank balance looked dismal. My son’s college tuition was looming. My mom needed additional care.
I would drive anywhere, sign up any property, and meet with any landlord willing to give me a chance.
Shortly after, I received a referral from a realtor. Her client wanted to rent her oceanfront townhome for $8,000 a month.
Eight thousand dollars was a big number for me. Signing that home would be a huge boost to my new business.
I spent days researching and preparing an analysis. I walked past the home, gaming out the meeting. I rehearsed my pitch like I was auditioning for Broadway.
Then the day arrived.
As I walked toward the front door, I felt like thousands of butterflies were trapped inside my stomach. My mouth was dry. I couldn’t take a full breath. Despite the days of rehearsal, the words escaped me. My mind went blank.
Can you guess how the meeting went?
I was frustrated. Dejected. Angry. I had prepared for this opportunity for days. Why did I fall flat on my face?
The truth? I needed more stage time. More meetings. More pitching my business. More rejections.
Since then, I have had hundreds of performances.
Last week, another referral came in. This time, it was an 8,000-square-foot estate in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in San Diego. The owners wanted to rent it for $40,000 a month.
As I drove through the security gate and admired the lake and fountains, I suddenly laughed.
“Wait... where did my butterfly go?”
There was nothing. No flutter. No racing heart. Just a quiet, peaceful knowing.
Instead of worrying about what I needed to say to impress the owners, I asked questions. I listened. I laughed with them. I enjoyed the conversation.
I arrived home to a long thank-you email from the CEO husband.
Today, I wear a butterfly pin. It reminds me of those early days when butterflies were flapping in my stomach—when I was rejected, when I fell flat on my face, when I wasn’t quite ready.
But through all those meetings, all those mistakes, and all that stage time, the butterfly stopped showing up.
Today, the butterfly is no longer in my stomach. I wear her on my lapel.
