Spencer

Spencer is the son of one of my dearest friends in life.
My friend is the kind of woman who can walk into a room and own it. She’s had one of the most successful careers in sales of anyone I’ve ever known. She can get on stage, sing Proud Mary, and bring the house down. She is bold. She is magnetic. She is unforgettable.
Her son, Spencer, is not her.
Thank God.
Because her kind of presence doesn’t come around twice.

My friend and I share the kind of relationship that’s deep, layered, and rare. It’s beautiful. It’s honest. It’s the kind of friendship where we can call each other out like nobody’s business—and do so with love. Most people pine for that kind of relationship and never get it.
Spencer reached out to me because he had landed an interview for an internship in the wealth management world, working with high-net-worth families. That happens to be exactly the type of clientele we serve in my recruiting firm. But Spencer was nervous. He didn’t think he had any real skills. He’s a sports marketing/finance major, and while the industry interested him, he wasn’t sure how to connect his background to the role.
So we talked.
We walked through his current job at his university—incidentally, the same university my son attended, with an exceptional business school. As we unpacked his role, something clicked. Spencer works with the football program. He knows the salaries of players and coaches. He’s trusted with highly sensitive information. He signed an NDA.
Well—that’s wealth management.
Confidentiality.
Discretion.
Trust.
That’s the job.

One of the key qualities they were looking for in this internship was someone personable. Spencer was worried he wasn’t personable the way his mom is.
And that’s when I stopped him.
“Let me be very clear,” I said. “Personable and outgoing are not the same thing.”
Personable means you can connect. It means you can listen. It means you can be thoughtful, warm, and engaged. Outgoing is volume. Personable is depth.
Spencer has depth.

His mom sometimes gets frustrated because he doesn’t interview the way she would—or the way some of our other kids might. Not because she doubts him, but because she knows how extraordinary Spencer is and wants to make sure the world sees it too. She wants his talent, his intelligence, and his quiet capability to be recognized the moment he walks into a room. That kind of love is a gift. But also—Spencer doesn’t need to be anyone other than himself. Spencer is Spencer.

When I began prepping him for the interview—exactly the way I would prepare any candidate going in front of our high-end clientele—he pushed back. In the best way. He wanted to understand why.
It was impressive.
So impressive, in fact, that his mom didn’t even know he had called me.
I love that.
When young people reach out on their own—without their parents orchestrating it—it tells me everything I need to know. It tells me they’re hungry.
That’s Spencer.

At one point, after one of our prep calls, Spencer paused and said something that stopped me cold. It landed so deeply because this wasn’t the first time I was hearing this. He told me that although he attends one of the greatest business schools in the country, he had never been taught how to interview the way I was coaching him. No one had shown him how to tell his story. No one had explained how to connect his experiences to the role in front of him.
That moment mattered.
Because if someone like Spencer—curious, capable, driven, and educated at the highest level—felt unprepared, then he is not alone. And that is my why. That is why I am now deeply committed to getting what I know out into the world—sharing the lessons, frameworks, and guidance I’ve gained over decades, so others don’t have to figure it out alone.

I’ve had the privilege of knowing Spencer since he was a little boy. He’s always had a quiet inner strength and a curiosity that belies his years. It’s subtle. It’s steady. And it’s rare—especially in a world that rewards noise.
Spencer did well in the interview. He didn’t think so. Afterward, he called me worried because the interviewer had said, “This is a very competitive internship. If you don’t get it, that’s why. You should be proud of what you did.”
He took that as a sign he wouldn’t move forward.
But I’ve been doing this long enough to read between the lines. If someone stays on a Zoom interview scheduled for 30 minutes and keeps talking with you for 45—that’s a checked box in your favor. No guarantees in life, but it matters.
I always coach candidates to send a thank-you email—and handwritten notes to everyone involved in the interview process.
So Spencer did exactly that.
He ordered stationery from Amazon. Then came the part that trips up more young people than you’d think: buying stamps.
He went to the campus post office.
“Stamps are 87 cents,” they told him. “Exact change.”
He went to the student union. Got cash. Found exactly 87 cents. Returned.
“Great,” they said. “That’s one stamp.”
So he did it again. And again. Three separate trips. Three stamps. Three notes.
This is the beauty of internships. They teach life skills—including how to buy a stamp.
And then—Spencer was invited back for a second interview.
Around that time, I watched a Heisman Trophy acceptance speech in which the winner spoke of strength. Not loud strength. Not performative strength. But quiet strength. Subtle strength.
That’s Spencer.

I sent him the clip on Instagram—because that’s how I communicate with many of the young people I care deeply about.
And I wrote:
Spencer. This is you. Your quiet strength will guide you for the rest of your life.

One of the greatest gifts in my life—yes, beyond being a mother to two incredible young men—is that I get to be a godmother. An aunt. A cousin. A safe place. I get to be there for my best friend’s kids when they need it.
That is a privilege.
I’m sharing this story because I get to witness journeys like Spencer’s every day in my work. It’s not just what I do—it’s who I am.

I run two search firms, and I can’t take every call.
But I can leave something behind.
A guide.
A resource.
A roadmap.

This is for you, Spencer.
And thank you.
Your quiet strength. Your curiosity. Your willingness to ask for help and to push for understanding is why I love what I do. You reminded me—again—why this work matters.
You inspired this piece. And you inspired my next chapter: getting what I know out into the world for people like you—people who are hungry, thoughtful, and determined to be the best they can be without pretending, performing, or becoming anyone other than themselves.

Quietly.
Confidently.
Fully themselves.

More to come...

-Cheryl Grimaldi, CPC