When I walked out of the auditorium that day, the manager who hired me passed me with a grin.
“Hey, Winger,” he said.
It wasn’t an insult. It was a badge—proof that I’d taken a risk most people wouldn’t have.
I still remember the moment I decided to risk it all.
The first time I entered my company’s innovation contest, I played it safe—or at least safer. I built my slide, rehearsed my points, and walked away with second place. It was validating, sure, but it was also easy to stand behind a polished presentation. The real test came the following year.
By then, I had been promoted to one of the largest global territories. My team and I had earned the nickname “The Big Three” because of how much business we handled, and I was learning more about the RIA industry than I ever thought possible. It was exhilarating, but it was also relentless. My days were packed with calls, requests, and constant demands on my time. I didn’t have the luxury of late-night rehearsals or perfectly designed slides. All I had was an idea—and a deep belief in it.
The Idea That Changed Everything
The idea was simple but powerful: to create a collaborative advisor committee—a voice for the clients and advisors who relied on our systems every day. I wanted the decision-makers, the C-suite, to hear the real feedback from the people who experienced the friction and frustration firsthand. I wanted them to feel that the advisors weren’t just names in a system; they were real people with real ideas, and they deserved to be heard.
When the day of the competition arrived, I remember sitting in line, waiting for my turn, and feeling utterly defeated. Every presentation before me was flawless.
Slides clicked perfectly.
Voices were strong and polished.
You could tell these people had practiced in front of mirrors, fine-tuned their pitches, and rehearsed every single word.
I sat there thinking, What am I doing? I hadn’t practiced. My slide wasn’t even good. I was just… there. My palms were sweaty, my head spinning. But the more I sat with that fear, the more I realized that if I got up there and just went through the motions, I’d be letting my clients down.
The Moment I Winger-ed It
And so I made a decision. I was going to scrap my slide completely.
By the time they called my name, I had roughly 30 minutes of mental rehearsal bouncing around in my head. My heart was pounding, but I was determined. I walked up, took the mic, and before I could second-guess myself, I looked at one of the judges—my department head—and said:
“Hang on, don’t put my slide up. I’m scrapping it. I’m going to wing it.”
I didn’t even realize my voice was being broadcast through the microphone. The whole room—judges, C-suite, my peers—heard me declare that I was about to throw out everything I had prepared. Maybe they thought it was part of the act. Maybe they thought I was nuts. I honestly didn’t care. I just wanted to speak from the heart.
“Sometimes the boldest moves look like failures at first glance.”
I started talking. My voice was shaking. My head was spinning. I barely knew the words coming out of my own mouth, but I trusted myself enough to believe that my heart knew where it was going. I talked about the advisors—their struggles, their frustrations, and their ideas that deserved to be heard. I talked about how this wasn’t just a system problem; it was a human problem. And I wanted to bridge that gap. I wanted them to know that the people in the trenches had the answers, if only we gave them the space to share them.
When the winners were announced, my name wasn’t on the list. I didn’t place. No second place, no honorable mention.
Finding My True Win
But I walked out of that room prouder than I had ever been.
Because that day wasn’t about winning anymore. It wasn’t about getting applause or recognition. It was about knowing that when it was my turn to step into the arena, I didn’t shrink. I didn’t hide. I stood there—terrified but unwavering—and spoke for the people I believed in. I walked out of that room with something far more valuable than a title: my own respect.
Months later, one of my clients offered me a job. I accepted it—and suddenly, I found myself on the advisor’s side of the table, sitting with management at that very same custodian. My idea might not have won the contest, but it still came to life. My voice, my belief in something better, had weight. And that’s the part that still blows my mind: I didn’t need a trophy. I was already living the win.
“The day I lost, I found something no trophy could give me—my voice.”
Looking back now, I realize that day was about far more than an idea. It was about grit and courage, about refusing to sit quietly in the back row when I knew I had something worth saying. It was about growth and owning my voice in a way I had never done before. And honestly? That moment was when I started to step fully into myself—the same grit and grace I’ve carried into every race, every risk, and every single challenge since.
© 2025 Kimberly Beth Thomas. All rights reserved.
What’s one risk you took that changed you? Drop your story in the comments—I’d love to hear it.