Cup of Ambition

The stairs I had to climb were aluminum. I tiptoed up quietly and crouched down just out of sight while the mentalists who went on before me made their exit.  When I heard the typewriter clacking of acrylic nails at the start of Dolly Parton’s 9-to-5, I got into position. My fingers were tight around the bar overhead. My feet were flexed so I wouldn’t mark the plastic going down. My legs were pointed straight out to give me the best shot at sticking this landing in heels.

House lights down, spotlight up. Then, the voice of god, “Please welcome to the stage,” her excitement building, “our head of marketing,” punching every syllable of my name and drawing out the last one, “Angie. Henderson. Moncadaaaaaaaaaa.” 

The lyrics began:  

Tumble out of bed

And stumble to the kitchen

Pour myself a cup of ambition

And yawn and stretch and try to come to life.

Then, just as I had done hundreds of times on elementary school playgrounds as a kid and dozens more at the park around the corner when my son and daughter were little, I swung back to get leverage and flew forward down the slide.  Laughter, gasps, pointing, and applause as the crowd realized where I was and how I was making an entrance. When I landed firmly on both feet, an AI-generated image appeared behind me across three enormous screens.  It was me… with a few extra arms and legs: an octopus hurtling forward toward an inevitable splat.

After a pause, a joke. “I bet you’ve been wondering when someone was going to come down that thing?” The slide at stage right was Chekov’s gun as far as I was concerned; from the moment I’d seen concept sketches for the conference set, I had known I was the somebody who was going to use it. “I’m just glad I didn’t hurt myself, or worse yet, embarrass myself,” I continued. “But at least I would have a good story to tell, right?” 

I was on that stage to tell my story. The story of 11-year-old me, a backyard playwright who inspired the neighborhood kids to perform “The Very Important Papers” for our very proud parents. And 37-year-old me, standing by a riverbank in Kenya with a family of subsistence farmers and their mechanical irrigation pump, enthralled by the craft of the documentary film crew I’d brought along. And 46-year-old me in an office tower in central London, discovering my purpose by sharing personal experiences like these with fellow executives who had become friends. My talk urged the audience to reflect on the stories of their own lives and share them as I had done. Doing so, I promised, would help them write their next chapter and fill it with meaning both at work and at home. 

My purpose, unveiled on screen that day in a font size taller than I was, is this:  “To unleash the story of our bright future.”  What I didn’t realize then was that in order to write my next chapter, I would need to rinse out the dregs from  the “cup of ambition” that had carried me up those stairs and up the corporate ladder to its pinnacle as a Fortune 500 head of marketing.  I would need to exit that stage, and I might even need to exit my executive era altogether.

So I’m taking a career break in 2024, and I’ve founded Three Heart Studios to explore my purpose fully. In this blog, I’ll be writing about my next chapter as it unfolds: sharing my reflections and experiences as I travel, volunteer with organizations I care deeply about, spend time in creativity and play, and find out what new things my head, heart, and hands can do.

I hope you’ll join me as I “yawn and stretch and try to come to life.”