Boss Babe Origin Story (Minus the Boss Babe)

How a chaos goblin with privilege, curiosity, and untied shoelaces stumbled into leadership

Before I tell you how I ended up as a Director of Program Operations—scaling systems, leading teams, and quietly running on caffeine and chaos—I need to start with some honesty.

I had help. A lot of it.

I’ve been able to take chances and make mistakes (and then make different mistakes) because I had:

• A safety net. My family would step in if I ever truly needed it.

• Privilege. Not earned, just inherited—by virtue of the color of my skin and the socioeconomic status I was born into.

This doesn’t mean I haven’t worked hard. But it does mean I started several paces ahead.

• No student debt, thanks to parents who could afford to help.

• No housing stress, thanks to years of living rent-free at home.

• No impossible choices between a job and a class I wanted to take.

• I had a car by 16, my second passport by 18, and the kind of flexibility that allowed me to explore, change my mind (a lot), and find my way here.

So before I start telling my story—of college transfers and career pivots, of travel and leadership and big existential spirals—I want to be clear:

This isn’t a rags-to-riches story.
It’s a privileged-to-purposeful story.
And that distinction matters.

Act I: The Younger Years (0–Elementary)

Born in November ‘94, I am (unfortunately? gloriously?) the purest distillation of Sagittarius energy:

✨ Unfiltered
✨ Unbothered
✨ Possibly riding a centaur into chaos with a sparkle in my eye

I grew up on The Beatles as if they were lullabies—“Rocky Raccoon” was my jam—and raw determination.

• I napped in closets like a cryptid.

• Launched Olympic-level dives from Costco carts (sorry, Dad!).

• Let go of tree swings over cliffs (sorry, Mom!).

• Refused to wear pants with a passion most children reserve for dinosaurs.

• Met the love of my life before I even learned how to tie my shoes.

Which brings us to: The Shoe Story™.

Picture little me in early elementary school—6 or 7 years old, probably missing teeth, maybe my first round of braces, and 100% committed to my Junie B. Jones diary and (most likely) dramatic monologues at recess.

Now, I could tie my shoes. I hit that milestone right on time (Mom, feel free to fact-check).
But here’s the thing: why should I tie my shoes when I could get someone else to do it for me?

So I’d plop my foot up on the bench next to a classmate and just—wait.
And more often than not, someone tied them. No complaints. No questions. Just ✨ efficiency ✨.

Teachers, understandably, grew concerned.
They flagged it.
My parents had to explain:

“No, no. She knows how. She just… delegates.”

Honestly? It was my first experiment in influence. And possibly the first confirmed step toward my villain origin story. (Author’s note: I’ve since learned to use my chaos for good, not evil.)

This behavior? Sadly… not a phase.

You’ll find photo evidence of college roommates tying my shoes at the library, in the dining hall, in elevators... (Thanks, Ali & Annie!)

You won’t find photo evidence from this month but it happened 😬. (Jec, my love, thank you!)

Act II: The Middle Chapter (Middle School)

By middle school, I had officially entered my ✨leadership era✨.

All three years, I served on the ASB leadership team:

• 6th Grade Rep

• 7th Grade Rep

• ASB President (Yup. I peaked early. No regrets.)

And I took it seriously.
Even my campaign speeches had flair:

“I am Madison, Madison I am.
I do not like green eggs & ham
Nor Sacajawea Cafeteria Spam.
I would, in fact, like to have more dances
Detentions bad
More second chances!
And do you like the uniforms you wear?
Sorry, can’t help you—maybe work on your hair?”

It was theatrical. It was weird. It was me.

I helped run morning announcements, hosted school dances, planned haunted houses, gave graduation speeches, ran the student store—you name it.

Somewhere in that chaos, I got the best advice I’ve ever received, courtesy of my middle school principal:

“It’s okay to live a parallel life.”

Translation: just because someone’s in your class doesn’t mean they need to be in your inner circle. I didn’t know it yet, but I was learning about boundaries. (With a capital B.)

I also learned I didn’t need to be the face of everything.
I liked the puppet master role.
The behind-the-scenes operator.
Still chaotic. Still opinionated. But now with structure.

Outside of school? I found my people. Not classmates—teammates.
Club soccer introduced me to lifelong friends and showed me how to lead with others, not just at them.

And that mattered. Because things got hard.

At the end of 6th grade, my dad was diagnosed with Stage 4 Lymphoma.
(As I’ve said elsewhere: Steven is alive and well, no need for tears—this isn’t that story.)

My mom—brilliant and fierce.
My sister—compassionate and grounded.
They shielded me from the worst of it. Let me stay a kid.

My days were packed with school, practice, youth group, and dinner rotations heavy on lasagna and bagged salad (pre-celiac era—RIP).

No Shoe Story from this era.
Just early lessons in resilience, support systems, and the quiet power of showing up.

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Act III: High School (Burning Bright, Burning Out)

High school wasn’t the best or worst years of my life—it just was.
Awkward. Socially draining. Dramatic. Malleable.
A thousand versions of me trying to take shape at once.

🥴 Freshman Year:

I got accused of cheating. For the first—and I think only—time in my life. I was displeased to say the least.

Not just because I hadn’t cheated.
But because I was given a patronizing opportunity to resubmit the assignment “for full credit.”

Backstory: My middle school science teacher drilled a very specific structure for lab write-ups into our heads. My entire freshman biology class had had him the year before. Same teacher. Same format. Same lab results.

The only difference? My conclusion was longer. More detailed. More… me.

Apparently that was suspicious.

I refused to redo it. On principle. I brought in receipts—literally, old middle school lab journals—to prove my process. (At one point, my mom got called into the classroom because neither the teacher nor I were backing down.)

I honestly don’t remember the outcome. I just remember refusing to do busy work for the sake of performative compliance.
(Work smarter, not harder. And if smarter doesn’t work, double down on petty.)

That year also brought my first big “falling out” with my club soccer friends.
We were all freshmen at our prospective High Schools, and most made JV for their school… I made varsity because that was the only option available.

During a team dinner at Round Table Pizza, two girls tried to text about me… but accidentally texted me. Then they took my phone and deleted the messages—unaware I’d already seen them.

Classic early-teen betrayal. But I kept my chin up.
I’d already learned not everyone needed to stay in my life just because they were in the same room.

🏀 Sophomore Year:

I stepped into behind-the-scenes leadership again—t-shirt designs, fundraisers, school spirit things.
And I made one of the hardest choices of my teen years: I quit basketball.

My body couldn’t handle both sports.
And while I loved the game (I was scrappy, fearless, and not above a crab-walk steal), I knew I had to choose me.

One game sticks in my memory:
A buzzer-beater three-pointer, fouled mid-air, tied the game with no time left.
I took the free throw, barely able to stand. Missed it.
We went into overtime. I didn’t play.
We won anyway.

That was enough.

⚡ Junior Year:

One word: Steven.
(Seizure. Coma. Recovery. IYKYK.)

Also: diagnosed with Celiac. Goodbye Otis Spunkmeyer cookies. I still grieve.

And—though I didn’t know the name for it at the time—I had my first anxiety attack.

We were in first-period history, sitting in our “little theater.”
I was in my usual front-row seat (refused to wear my glasses, naturally), trying to focus, take notes, keep up with Mr. Cameron.

There was whispering behind me. Backpacks zipping. A few small groups chatting.

Suddenly, the noise narrowed in.
My chest tightened. My breath got shallow.
I felt like the walls were closing.

I didn’t know what to call it.
But I remember the feeling: helplessness.
The overwhelm of uncontrollable background noise.

That trigger still lives in me.
But that was the first time my body spoke before I had the words to understand it.

🎓 Senior Year:

I wanted out.

Not because I hated high school, but because I needed something new. Space. Autonomy.

I applied early to Boise State—8 hours from home, with a regional airport for emergencies and a built-in “you can’t visit unannounced” boundary.

I got in with auto-admit and a scholarship.
No essay required.
So when my English teacher assigned one “for practice,” I refused.

I’d already been accepted. Why write it?
Zero points. No regrets.
(Mom, if you’re reading this—I’m sorry, again.)

I made it up with Shakespeare analysis over winter break.

That year, I also:

• Quit soccer

• Drifted from my closest friends (thank god, they are back in my life)

• Had a dramatic pre-college almost-breakup with my partner over the whole ‘I’m moving 8 hours away’ thing (spoiler: we made it)

• Won photography competitions (hello some thousands of Jones Soda Bottles with my photography on it 😏)

• And told myself I knew exactly who I was going to be

Reader, I did not.

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Act IV: College (The Crisis Years)

📉 Boise

When you’ve never dramatically failed at anything, the first time it happens can knock the air out of you.

That was freshman year at Boise State.

School had always come easy to me—except math—but now? I was homesick, exhausted, and suddenly having to navigate a Celiac diagnosis in a dining system that… did not care. There were no structured classes, no close friends, and absolutely no idea what I wanted to do with my life.

I had gone in certain I’d be Sweets from Bones—a criminal psychologist, profiler, savant of behavioral science.

Except… I hated criminology classes. Like viscerally hated them.

I started spiraling. I think I had something like a 1.2 GPA after first semester and was placed on academic probation. I pulled it together second semester—barely—but not enough to save my scholarship.

Over the summer, I had to write an appeal: Why I should be given another chance. What my “extenuating circumstances” were.

I’m still not sure I deserved it, but they gave it to me.
(Found the letter recently. Might post it someday.)

Sophomore year, I got a job at a candy shop, moved off-campus to a studio, and practically lived at a local coffee shop doing homework.

I had purpose again—because I’d made a decision:

I was transferring to the University of Washington.
Specifically, their new program: Art, Media & Culture with a film and media emphasis.
(Very practical. Very employable.)

The goal gave me direction. I had to boost my GPA. I had to write a killer essay (ironic, considering how hard I avoided writing one two years earlier). But I had structure again—and with it, came joy.

---

🏡 UW Tacoma

Thanks to the semester → quarter system shift, I got a five-month summer before starting fresh at UW Tacoma.

And from the moment I walked into my first class, I knew I was home.
The professors, the discussion formats, the creative energy—it all clicked.

As part of the deal with moving home (UW tuition, even in-state, wasn’t cheap), I was to live with my parents.

And thank god I did.

Five-ish days before my 21st birthday, I was writing a midterm paper when my dad came home with a third* diagnosis:
Acute Myeloid Leukemia.
Treatment needed to start immediately.

*the second was a “we all forget about it blip”, no you don’t need to backtrack your reading, you didn’t miss it.

(We’re gonna keep this Reader’s Digest–style, because I still don’t love talking about it.)

Steven got GCLAM (chemo).
He joked that while I was on my 21-run, he was putting more chemicals in his body than I was.
Thank god he did.

He went into remission.

Except then he wasn’t okay, we weren’t celebrating.
He got a fungus.
Spent 50+ days in the hospital.
Had a partial lung resection.
And was still supposed to prep for a stem-cell transplant.

If I had still been at Boise? I would’ve found out over Thanksgiving break and flown back for finals.
I don’t think I would’ve made it. Honestly.
I think I would’ve dropped out.

But I was home.

I took creative writing classes during winter quarter. One, then another. Then another.
They helped me process and grieve and survive—and succeed.

Eventually, Steven lived.
Had the transplant.
Recovered.

I lived in our family home by myself for most of my senior year, cared for our childhood dog, and commuted to Tacoma for classes and Seattle for work—on alternating days. (Big main character energy.)

And for my final two quarters?
I interned at the Washington State Legislature.
I thought I wanted to be Leslie Knope or C.J. Cregg.
Turns out—I’m not built for the politics of politics. (It was the 2017 legislative session, IYKYK).

But I graduated. And even my cap, fittingly said, "nevertheless; SHE PERSISTED”

And ain’t that the truth.

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Act V: Post-Grad (The Drift Into Direction)

Right after I graduated, my childhood dog—Savannah—passed away.

She was my ride or die. There for every big moment.
And just like that, she was gone.
I was devastated.

So I did what any unmoored post-grad does:
I spiraled.

I binged six seasons of Game of Thrones in a week, despite previously refusing to watch it on principle. (Yes, I’m aware of the irony. No, I will not be taking criticism at this time.)

My parents were… understandably frustrated.

I had a college degree and zero job prospects.
So my job became: applying to jobs.

Every day, my dad would drag me to his law office in West Seattle. .
He worked. I sat in the conference room, applying to anything and everything, trying to convince someone—anyone—that I was worth interviewing.

Eventually, thanks to a referral, I landed an interview with General Assembly for a part-time front desk role.

I took it.
Mostly to get my parents off my back.
Partly to buy myself time.
Entirely because I had no idea what I actually wanted to do.

I also picked up some contract work with an education advocacy firm—editing content, scheduling social media posts, pretending I had a plan.

It wasn’t intentional.
It wasn’t glamorous.
But it gave me structure—which gave me space.

And in that space, something unexpected happened.

I fell in love.

Not with a person—with GA.
With the mission. With the people (okay, most of them). With the messiness of adult learners, digital education, and career pivots.

I was told, very clearly, that this was a dead-end role.
No upward mobility.
Strictly part-time.

Jokes on GA.
(Eight years later, I’m still here. More on that another day.)

Act VI: The Interview

Fast-forward a few years into my time at GA.

I’m interviewing for a leadership development program I’d been nominated for, sitting (virtually) in front of two very senior, very European SVPs—of People and Talent.

They ask:

“If your career was a book, what would the title be?”

And without thinking, I blurt:

“Boss Babe Origins: Getting Laces Tied.”

Reader… I panicked.

So I told The Shoe Story™.
The delegation. The influence. The elementary school bench-foot strategy.

And as I told it, I started seeing the whole messy mosaic.

I thought about:

• Middle school me, learning that boundaries are a kindness, not a punishment.

• High school me, taking a zero on principle, quitting the sport I loved, choosing my body over expectations.

• College me, face-planted and rising anyway. Learning that failure doesn’t mean the story’s over.

• Post-grad me, watching Game of Thrones on a grief spiral, finding a sense of purpose in a “dead-end job.”

And all those versions of me had something in common:

They were trying.
They were adapting.
They were building something—even if it looked like chaos in the moment.

I was sure I’d blown the interview.

A month later, I got my acceptance email.

To this day, I don’t know exactly what landed. But I like to think it was this:

I told a story that was weird. Flawed. Honest. Mine.

And maybe, just maybe—that was the point.

As always, caffeinated, chaotic, & curious
- Mads

*All images are based on real photos.