Hard Work Didn’t Earn Me Respect. This Did.

Senior Skip Day, May 2009.

The Friday before finals. Everyone else skipped school to do something fun.

Me? I was reporting for my first day at a landscaping job.

I was the youngest on the crew by a decade. The outsider. Worse—my girlfriend’s dad was the boss. To the rest of the guys, I was the kid who didn’t know what he was doing, with “connections” they didn’t trust.

So I made it my mission to prove myself.

I worked through lunches and suffered more than my fair share of poison ivy pushing wheelbarrows through thick brush.

I thought if I worked the hardest, they’d respect me.

It backfired.

One afternoon, my crew leader Victor pulled me aside:

“Alex, cut it out. We get you’re a hard worker. But every time you work through lunch, you’re taking money out of our families’ pockets. You’re in college. You’ve got a future after this. For us—this is how we feed our kids. Don’t do that anymore.”

That’s when I realized: I was trying to earn trust through output, but all I was doing was proving I didn’t understand them.

A few weeks later, I got my second—and more important—lesson.

It was a blazing hot afternoon. We were laying mulch in a backyard with a steep hill. Victor and another guy, Brian, had ditched their shirts to stay cool. I was in a tank top.

I came around the corner pushing an empty wheelbarrow and froze—our boss, my girlfriend’s dad, was walking down the driveway. He was about to catch them breaking the “shirts on” policy.

I ditched the wheelbarrow, sprinted back, and started waving my arms like a lunatic. When they finally noticed, I tugged at my own shirt and pointed toward the driveway.

They bolted. Grabbed their shirts. Hid behind a shed.

Seconds later, the boss strolled into the yard. He asked where Victor was—just as Victor and Brian reappeared from behind the shed, shirts on, tools in hand, looking like they’d been working the whole time.

Business as usual.

That was the day everything shifted.

From then on, I wasn’t just “the boss’ kid.” I was someone who had their back. That’s when I became one of the guys.

And here’s the lesson I’ve carried ever since:

Trust isn’t built on skill or results.

It’s built by proving—through your actions—that you care about the people beside you.

I’ve seen it play out everywhere in my life.

In business, members of our community stick around not because of fancy programs, but because they know we see them as humans first—people with struggles and hopes—and that we’ll always act in their best interest.

In dance, I wasn’t welcomed because of perfect footwork. I was welcomed because my partners felt safe, respected, and seen every time we shared the floor.

And in friendships, I don’t get close to people because I’m the funniest or most entertaining. I earn closeness by showing them I’ll show up, I’ll listen, and I’ll have their back when it matters.

People don’t trust you because you’re the most skilled. They trust you because they know you’ve got their back.