I had a mentor who used to say: “Argue for your limitations and they are yours.”
That line has followed me around for years. Not because I’m immune to its truth— but because I’ve lived it.
I’ve argued for my limitations more times than I care to admit. I’ve blamed the situation. The schedule. The tech that didn’t work. The weather that wouldn’t cooperate. The client who was difficult. The day that didn’t go according to plan.
And if I’m being really honest? Sometimes I’ve blamed myself, too.
That little inner voice we all know too well, the one that whispers “You’re not good enough,” or “This always happens to you,” or “If only it were easier…” That voice knows exactly what to say to keep me from showing up at my best.
But then something happened recently that made that voice go quiet for a while.
A Talk That Talked Back
I was invited to speak for the Business Enterprise Program for the Blind in Springfield, Illinois. I was delivering one of my signature keynotes: Complaint Free World—a talk that draws on the pioneering work of Will Bowen, founder of the Complaint Free movement, and research from Dr. Robin Kowalski at Clemson University, who has studied the psychological roots of complaining.
This talk always gets a strong response. People recognize themselves in it. We cover:
Why people complain
What it really costs us
How we can reframe it
And how to keep other people’s complaints from turning your ears into a dumpster.
It’s part mindset, part practical tools, part honest mirror.
And one of the big reasons people complain? To remove responsibility.
“If I’m limited, I can’t be expected to succeed.” “If I had different circumstances, I’d be doing better.” “If only they understood how hard it is for me…”
It’s human. It’s relatable. And it’s often a trap.
So there I was, about to deliver this talk to a room full of entrepreneurs who, by anyone’s standards, live with significant limitations.
Many of them are blind. Several are both deaf and blind. And every single one of them runs a business.
Let that sink in.
The Elevator Test
About twenty minutes before I was scheduled to speak, the elevator broke.
We were on the lowest floor of the building. The fire department arrived. It quickly became a logistical challenge. And for people navigating the world with sensory disabilities, “a challenge” is putting it mildly.
And yet, they figured it out.
They helped each other. They navigated the space with quiet determination. They made it to the room.
There was no panic. No grumbling. No passive-aggressive “Well this figures…” kind of energy.
They just adapted and showed up.
And when I stood on stage and began my talk, I looked out at a room full of people who despite what life has handed them were fully present. Focused. Engaged.
Some were receiving my words through tactile sign language. That’s right, words signed directly into the palms of their hands. One letter, one word, one sentence at a time. That’s how they were experiencing the talk.
And it hit me hard.
What We Learn Early Can Still Matter
When I was a kid, I learned how to fingerspell my name. Just a small thing. A party trick at the time.
But standing there in that room, watching people feel each word of my message literally through their hands, I saw the full circle.
That little skill from childhood? It planted a seed. It opened me up to the power of connection that transcends noise, screens, and sightlines.
It reminded me of something I believe with my whole heart: Leadership is presence. And presence is responsibility in action.
Modeling What I Was There to Teach
The people in that room weren’t just listening to a Complaint Free talk. They were living it. They were modeling it back to me.
They reminded me that every single one of us has limitations. Some visible. Some invisible. Some self-imposed. Some very real.
But not everyone argues for them.
Some people carry them, navigate them, and work through them quietly and powerfully. No drama. No excuses. Just forward motion.
And meanwhile, I still catch myself sighing about a slow-loading Zoom link or traffic or the wrong kind of granola bar in the hotel snack bag.
The truth is, I’m still learning. Still catching myself. Still rewiring old habits.
This room gave me a gift. A gut-level reminder of what it looks like to show up with grace, accountability, and determination, no matter what.
A Thought for All of Us
So no, this isn’t a guilt trip. I don’t do shame-based motivation.
This is a moment of reflection. A quiet question.
Next time I’m tempted to stall, blame, or complain, I hope I remember that room.
I hope you do, too.
Because in a world full of very real challenges, grace is still a choice. And responsibility? That’s where the real power lives.
