Technically, This Is An OBA

(Whatever.)

A million years ago, when the earth’s crust was cooling and when college degrees were still etched in stone (just kidding, it wasn’t quite that long ago), I ditched my plans for law school to pursue a different post-graduate path and a career in the nascent high-tech computer industry. Before long, I realized I liked people better than electrons, and that led me to a position as a technical sales engineer, enabling me to call on prospects, provide technical demonstrations, and implement successful hardware/software business solutions.

Shortly into this career, I realized I was incredibly effective at making mediocre guys in blue suits and yellow power ties (it was, after all, the ‘80s) a LOT of money.

And I wanted in. 

To discourage my ambitions, the regional vice president of sales proposed a discriminatory compensation package, assuming I’d never accept. His reasoning was that he didn’t think ‘technical’ people made good salespeople.  In this case, ‘technical’ was a euphemism for female.

I called his bluff, and in year one, I won the company’s Rookie of the Year honor. Throughout my tenure with the company, I earned sales trips all over the world. Soon, the sales administration people at HQ called me SFM, which they said stood for “Sherry Fucking Magic.” I saved and spent money. I got married. I bought houses. We took vacations. 

Here's something you should know. I’m childless by choice. It took me years to be able to say that; to shake the fear of judgment. And while I’ve never regretted the decision, my 40s were rough for other reasons. While I was kicking ass at work, I wasn’t doing a very good job managing my work stress and health. Then, 9/11 happened and nothing felt the same, especially for a New Yorker. 

By age 44, I was making lots of money, but hormonally I was messed up, and it caused me to walk away from a lucrative global leadership position to recover. I ended up self-funding an 18-month sabbatical.  

My then-husband couldn’t help me, as he was experiencing his own mid-life challenges. And when I finally came up for air, I found my next career opportunity: building a sales execution and coaching model for a $600 million tech company aiming to get to $1 billion. It was exciting and gratifying.

We accomplished the goal in two years, only to be acquired by a tech behemoth. They paid my retention bonus and said, “Stay if you like, but we won’t add you to our executive ranks. We build our executives; we don’t buy them.”

Foolish, no?

Every third or fourth week, I flew to Florida to inspect my parents like they were chickens, because anyone with senior parents knows they lie about their health. My father was declining due to late-onset dementia of an Alzheimer’s variety. 

My mother (who is 95 and going strong as I write this), like so many care partners, kept him at home too long, and it cost her a back injury before he was finally and mercifully moved to memory care.

Then, the next phase began. I got divorced. I sold the houses. I took care of my ex-husband financially because 1) I did not hate him and 2) I didn’t want to impoverish him. I had the blessing of keeping wonderful relationships with my “out-laws,” including my nephews and niece on my ex’s side of the family. That was important to me because I needed to lose the guy, not the family. 

A couple years later, I met a man who had three children. We’ll call him Fred because that’s his name. He wanted to start his own business. I told him that I’d be his safety net for three years and then he could return the favor. He agreed. We partnered. He did. Then I did.

That’s when I became a CERTIFIED FINANCIAL PLANNER® (they make you put it in all caps) because I couldn’t stop wondering what other people do when facing career madness, health scares, marriage, divorce, parental decline and death and any other challenge, opportunity, or tragedy one can imagine. The financial planning profession was a perfect fit for me; and I am occasionally wistful that I did not begin it sooner.  

Over the years I’ve mentored a lot of women. I believe strongly in the “Girls’ team.” Our mantra is #Werescueourselves.

I’ve started women’s mentoring groups, women’s business groups, nurtured women’s sales careers, and encouraged women to ask for more money, a LOT of money-- the money they deserve. And I’ve watched them – and guided them – as they used that money, saved it and invested it. My practice focused on high-income women and their families, the “HENRYs”; that is, High Earner, Not Rich Yet. These women reminded me of me:  ambitious, hard-working, and wanting to unlock the key to turning money into wealth and wealth into freedom.

In 2023, my stepdaughter, Christine, who launched from our house after college, announced she was pregnant with her second girl. She said she wanted her children to know that you can be a successful mom AND a successful businesswoman. And she wanted to role-model that. (Who knew that she really was listening all those times I was pontificating from the breakfast nook over a cup of coffee?)  

I told her dad (Fred) that we had to help. So, we planned to split our time between our home in upstate New York, where my mother still lives, and their new home in southern Ohio, so that we can be resources in childcare and logistics.

Note:  I didn’t say I’m going to Ohio to coo at a newborn. (That’s not my strong suit.) But I will do what needs to be done to ensure that my granddaughters’ mom (and dad) have the careers they promised themselves. Also in 2023, the “powers that be” commanded financial advisors to return to the office. 

Oops (for them).

It was decision time. Do we continue with our plan or abort that mission and stay in one place, keeping my job with the agency? I decided to pull the plug and explore the next chapter. To co-locate in New York and Ohio. To be that trusted resource for my family and find out what’s next for me.

Believe me, it’s not at all what I had planned. But that’s the whole point. Very little of what happens to us is really in the plan.  Our ability to be flexible, to adjust, to go find more cheese when ours moves elsewhere in the maze – to find and use our resilience -- can all be traced to the quality of what’s written in the margins, between the lines and on the napkins and Post-Its we’ve accumulated.

Specifically, it relies on how well we “bake in” defense against the unplanned. That’s not just financial.  It also includes how we redefine our identity as we age. And I want to explore what that means for my cohort; those women who want what’s rightfully theirs.

The women who want both freedom and security … and a good night’s sleep.

Because I am still affiliated with an insurer and wealth management company until the clock strikes midnight on December 31, I am constrained in what I can post online. This content is an Outside Business Activity (OBA) that has been approved (barely) by compliance.

I am not able to discuss money/finance/financial planning until I am un-affiliated. But I can discuss business, career planning, values, and the wisdom that comes with being #NotYoungNotDone.  If there’s overlap, I’ll let them grouse for a month. This content and these opinions, along with what you’ll see in the future, are my own.

There’s a Yiddish expression that translates to “Man plans, and God laughs.”  This is not what I had planned as a first, second, third, or fourth career. And nobody who knows me could have anticipated I would be “GrandSherry” to five (plus two grandpuppies). 

But the events and the people placed in my path during my life journey have informed me, and I do believe God (I subscribe to the idea of a God who looks like Alanis Morrissette) is giggling like my granddaughter, Vienna, when she steals GrandSherry’s phone to play with the buttons.   

I am very blessed.  Time to pay it forward.

The information contained herein and shared by Madrina Molly™ constitutes financial education and not investment or financial advice

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