Way back in my glory days as a student at Duke University, I worked shifts in the iconic Oak Room Restaurant on campus. It was a glorious place that felt like family and scratched the itch of making money balanced with meeting new and interesting people.  However, the tips were the true mark of success and a badge of honor for exemplary service.  We lived for them.  Once a waiter, always a waiter!

But in those days, cash was scarce. We were all broke. Credit cards were virtually non-existent and generosity was usually measured in single dollar bills, if at all. A decent tip could change the trajectory of your week. A bad one could sit with you longer than it should.  (See article form 2021: Turning Copper Into Pure Gold).

One afternoon, a man came in with three people from his office. I didn’t recognize him right away. I vaguely knew he was important—one of the cooks told he was the President of the University—but at the time, all I really noticed was his name. H. Keith H. Brodie.  It had an absurd number of H’s in it. Too many, frankly, for him to be a cool guy. I also knew he wasn’t the previous president, who had charisma in spades. This one, I assumed, was more bureaucrat than human.

To be fair, I was a long-haired senior who liked beer. I wasn’t especially invested in administrative leadership or institutional strategy. But I had already decided—without much evidence—that this guy was probably a bit of a drip.

But during the meal, something unexpected happened. He asked questions. Not the polite kind that float in the air waiting to land nowhere, but real ones. He wanted to know what I was studying. What I hoped to do after graduation. What I cared about. He listened—not like someone checking a box, but like someone actually curious about a kid serving him lunch.

When he finished and left, I starting clearing the table and looked gown.   Boom!.  There was a $100 bill laying flat on the table as a tip!  At the time, I don’t think I had seen one of those.  Oh my!  That would translate to a plethora of Milwaukee’s Best cases.   Back up the truck!

That moment did something to me. Not because of the money—though the money mattered—but because it shattered a story I had told myself without ever testing it. In a single interaction, my entire view of that man changed. From anonymous administrator to genuinely caring human. From drip to gem.

And don’t we too often make similar assumptions in our everyday lives?

The Magic Happens In Person

Too often, we absorb opinions secondhand. We trust narratives we didn’t witness. We believe what we read, what we’re told, what fits neatly into our existing worldview. Social media makes it easier than ever to form strong opinions without ever being in the same room as the person we’re judging.  But real opinions—the ones that actually mean something—happen in person.

They happen when you look someone in the eye. When you hear their voice. When you feel their attention. When you experience who they are rather than who you’ve been told they are.

In sales, we talk a lot about efficiency. Zoom is great. Email is scalable. CRM systems keep us organized. All of that matters. But none of it replaces a handshake. None of it replaces sitting across from someone and truly getting to know them—what motivates them, what they value, what kind of person they are when there’s nothing to gain.

We Need To Be Present

That $100 tip wasn’t about generosity in dollars. It was about generosity in attention. It was proof that the stories we tell ourselves about people need to be battle-tested—and that the truth usually shows up quietly, face to face, when we bother to be present.

And that moment taught me something essential about resilience: it isn’t forged in isolation or certainty. It’s built through openness—through the willingness to let a real interaction interrupt a convenient assumption. Resilience grows when we stay curious, when we engage instead of dismiss, and when we allow people to surprise us.

Yes, H. Keith H. Brodie had too many H’s in his name. I still believe that. But that afternoon, all those extra letters somehow added up.   The math worked out.  A $100 bill. A genuine conversation. A reminder that character doesn’t live in titles, reputations, or secondhand opinions—it shows up in person.

That $100 tip changed my week.  That lesson changed my life.