From Almost Failing Fourth Grade to Sacred Business
How a report card, a Marine, and a ruined weekend shaped everything I teach today
Report card day!
I loved it—until I didn’t.
As I slid the report card out of its sleeve, four bright red Ds splashed across the paper.
Shame.
Fear.
Confusion.
Sadness.
All of it flooded my small fourth-grade body.
I had no idea what had happened. I was horrified. How did I get those kinds of grades? What was my dad going to say? What was he going to do? What was I going to do?
You see, my dad was a Marine—retired, but if you know any Marines, then you know there’s no such thing as an ex-Marine. Once a Marine, always a Marine.
He had high expectations and a deep love of precision. If I brought home a 98, he’d ask what happened to the other two points. Not in a mean way, exactly—but the bar was always high, and I always knew exactly where it was.
Years later, I was hiking with a man who’d been a Marine himself. We were maybe a mile from the summit when he started suggesting we turn back. “Only if you want to,” he said, trying to make it sound like he was doing me a favor. After the third time, I stopped, looked him dead in the eye, and said: “You may have been a Marine. But I was raised by one. There’s no ‘before the Marines’ for me—I’ve been enlisted since birth.” Incidentally, we made the summit.
Anyway, back to fourth-grade Carmen and that sinking feeling at the kitchen table.
I had no idea how I was going to explain those grades. Because honestly, I had no clue.
I hadn’t missed assignments. I wasn’t in trouble. I hadn’t stopped trying.
We had to wait through a very long weekend until the Parent-Teacher Conference to find out the truth.
Unbeknownst to any parents or students, the teacher had made a change: she had decided to grade solely on class participation.
If you didn’t raise your hand—you didn’t know the answer.
If you didn’t speak up regularly—you weren’t “engaged.”
If you weren’t vocal and eager to be seen—you didn’t belong on the honor roll.
A total nightmare for an introverted, shy child like me.
I preferred books to small talk. I loved learning, but I loved it quietly. I wasn’t the kid who fought to be heard. I was the one creating entire worlds—in notebooks and with my friends.
At recess, my best friend and I would climb into the schoolyard tower and read aloud to each other. Or make up elaborate stories.
After school, we’d disappear into the woods behind her house. We built forts. Created languages. Dreamed up whole kingdoms—our own Bridge to Terabithia.
None of that counted on the report card.
All that counted was volume.
And in a Marine household, the policy was the policy—only As and Bs were acceptable.
I wasn’t allowed to go to my Gram’s house, my favorite place in the world, until I brought home a better report card the next term.
So I spent the next nine weeks grounded from the sanctuary of Gram’s quiet kitchen. I studied harder. I tried to speak up in class. I did what the system asked of me.
But I never forgot how arbitrary it all felt.
How wrong it was that one person could rewrite the rules, redefine what counted as “smart,” and never stop to question what they were leaving out.
Years later, I still think about that term.
Not because of the grades, but because it was the first time I realized how easy it is for systems to get it wrong.
How easy it is to elevate one way of being—loud, performative, constantly visible—and to dismiss everyone who doesn’t play that way.
We see it everywhere now.
Especially online.
Social media rewards the ones who raise their hand first, post daily, go live, show up loud and proud. And there’s nothing wrong with that—some people thrive in the spotlight.
But some of us shine somewhere else.
In the margins.
In the garden.
In the deep conversations—not the reels.
In the slow work of building something real—not just something visible.
That’s the kind of slow work I love—helping clients build businesses with deep roots, grounded in meaning and purpose.
I love analyzing someone’s strengths and goals to help them find a strategy that fits—a business that works with their real life.
Do they have small kids? Aging parents? A desire to travel?
Do they come alive on video, or do they prefer writing?
Do they want a quiet rhythm or a fast-paced launch?
We start with who they are—and we build from there.
Because I don’t believe in cookie-cutter systems. I believe in designing a business around your life, not squeezing your life into someone else’s formula.
I do love to win. (See earlier mention of Marine dad. 😄)
But I love to win by breaking rules that need to be broken.
Not every rule is a good fit for everyone.
And because my 1:1 work is limited, I created Wild & Wise: A Studio for Sacred Business so that I could work with more creative souls.
I imagine the Studio a little like the forts my friend and I used to build in the woods—filled with notebooks, books, art supplies, and imagination.
A place where you can bring your whole self.
A place where we experiment, create, laugh, cry, and build businesses that actually work for our real lives.
Over the last ten years, I’ve worked with incredible clients from all walks of life—helping them name what matters, shape their messaging, and take aligned action that doesn’t betray who they are.
I believe in the interconnection of all beings.
I believe in the power of your unique light.
I believe in building businesses grounded in kindness, resonance, and integrity.
Most of all, I believe it’s time we stop mistaking volume for value.
If you’ve ever felt like fourth-grade me—quiet, capable, overlooked—I see you.
There’s another way.
And I’d be honored to walk it with you.
✨ Wild & Wise: A Studio for Sacred Business ✨
Now open for early registration. We begin in September.
There are only 6 spots in this intimate cohort.
Early-Bird pricing ends August 20.
👉 Click here to learn more and register.
Not sure if it’s a fit? Have questions?
Reach out—I’d love to help.
x-Carmen
