It's okay to work for someone else; not everyone is cut out to

Host: The morning light filtered through the tall windows of a downtown co-working loft, casting pale rectangles of gold across rows of half-drunk coffee cups, open laptops, and plans that dreamed too big for their owners. Outside, the city hummed with ambition — the rhythm of traffic, footsteps, the relentless pulse of progress. Inside, the air carried the scent of espresso, the murmur of keyboards, and the faint echo of dreams still halfway between courage and collapse.

Jack sat at the far end of a long wooden table, sleeves rolled, eyes locked on a spreadsheet like it owed him an apology. Jeeny arrived moments later — light-footed, a soft smile framed by the glow of her phone screen. She placed a small paper bag on the table — two croissants, warm and flaking.

Jeeny: “Breakfast for the overworked and under-rested.”

Jack: (glancing up with a half-smirk) “You make it sound like a cause.”

Jeeny: “It is. Keeping people alive until their dreams pay rent.”

Host: The sunlight crawled higher, cutting through the dust, turning the office into a soft battlefield between hope and exhaustion. Jeeny slid into the seat across from Jack, her notebook already open, the cover filled with doodled quotes and half-written ideas.

Jeeny: “You know what Marcus Lemonis said? ‘It’s okay to work for someone else; not everyone is cut out to own a business, and even so, working for someone else is a chance to learn how to both be an employee and an employer.’ I like that.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “Of course you do. It’s comforting. Makes people feel better about not running the show.”

Jeeny: “That’s not what it means. It means you can find pride in learning before leading. That there’s dignity in apprenticeship — in patience.”

Jack: “Patience?” (He chuckles, low and dry.) “Patience is just another word for waiting on someone else’s dream. You work, they win. You build, they own. How’s that noble?”

Host: The hum of the city rose outside, a siren echoing through the glass. Jack’s voice was edged with steel, shaped by years of disappointment disguised as pragmatism. Jeeny’s eyes softened, but her spirit didn’t waver.

Jeeny: “You think ownership guarantees freedom? Half the people running businesses today are chained to them. Sleepless, anxious, bleeding money to keep a dream alive that might not even be theirs anymore. Sometimes the wisest people are the ones who know when to follow.”

Jack: “Spoken like someone who’s never been the one signing paychecks. It’s easy to talk about balance when you’re not carrying the debt.”

Jeeny: “And it’s easy to glorify struggle when you mistake suffering for success.”

Host: Her words landed like a slow blade — quiet, but precise. Jack’s jaw tightened, his hand gripping the edge of the table. The tension between them hummed like an electric current beneath the hum of the air conditioner.

Jeeny: “Marcus Lemonis built empires, but he never forgot to sweep the floors. He said he learned leadership by watching others lead — by being led well and badly. You can’t be a good employer if you’ve never known what it’s like to be on the other side of power.”

Jack: “Power isn’t shared, Jeeny. It’s taken. That’s the first lesson every real entrepreneur learns.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s the first lesson every lonely entrepreneur learns. The good ones — the sustainable ones — they build power. They don’t hoard it.”

Host: A shadow of passing clouds dimmed the room. For a moment, the light softened, and with it, so did their voices.

Jack: “You’re talking about ideals. I’m talking about survival. I’ve seen people give everything to companies that replaced them like printer ink. You call that a lesson? I call it cruelty disguised as mentorship.”

Jeeny: “It’s both. But every job teaches you something — even the bad ones. They teach you what not to become. I had a boss once who made us feel invisible. Every day I told myself, ‘If I ever lead, I’ll never make anyone feel that small.’ That’s a kind of education too, Jack.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly, but not from weakness — from the weight of truth. Jack looked at her, really looked, and for a heartbeat the hard lines of his face softened into something almost human, almost regretful.

Jack: “You think learning from pain makes it worth it?”

Jeeny: “I think learning from anything makes it survivable.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You sound like my old manager. He used to tell me, ‘Every job is a classroom — the only failure is not paying attention.’ I hated that man. But I guess… he was right.”

Host: The sunlight returned, splashing the walls with warmth. The office had begun to stir — the sound of keyboards, laughter, ambition filling the air again. Yet at that table, something quieter was happening — the slow shift of conviction meeting humility.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s all Lemonis meant — that you can honor every stage of your journey. Not everyone is meant to lead a company. Some people lead teams, some lead families, some just lead themselves out of who they used to be.”

Jack: “And you think that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “I think enough is a dangerous word. We don’t always need to be ‘more’. Sometimes it’s enough to be present, learning, growing. The best leaders aren’t born out of ambition — they’re born out of awareness.”

Host: Jack stared out the window, the reflection of skyscrapers layered like glass ghosts over his face. He looked older in that light — not by age, but by experience.

Jack: “You know… when I quit my last corporate job, I thought I was breaking free. Started my own thing. Hired two people. Failed in six months. I blamed them. Thought they didn’t work hard enough. Took me a year to realize — I never knew how to be a boss because I never learned how to be led.”

Jeeny: (softly) “That’s it, Jack. That’s the heart of it.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly, marking the small, invisible victory of understanding. The tension between them dissolved into a quiet ease.

Jeeny: “It’s okay not to own the world. Sometimes working for someone else is the best way to learn how to take care of it.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You always have a poetic way of making failure sound wise.”

Jeeny: “It’s not failure. It’s fertilizer.”

Host: Jack laughed — really laughed — for the first time that morning. The sound broke the room’s heaviness like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Jeeny smiled back, her eyes glimmering with that steady kind of faith that could rebuild even the most cynical heart.

Jack: “You ever think maybe you should start something yourself?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But for now, I’m learning from someone else’s mistakes. It’s cheaper.”

Host: They both laughed again — not just at the words, but at the shared truth behind them. Outside, the city buzzed with dreams both humble and huge — baristas, clerks, founders, freelancers — all moving through the same ecosystem of purpose and fatigue.

The camera panned out slowly, capturing the morning light as it spilled across the desk, the half-eaten croissants, the shared warmth of unspoken respect.

In that moment, the loft was no longer just a workspace — it was a classroom, a confessional, a small piece of the larger rhythm of human striving.

Because sometimes, the most powerful act of creation isn’t starting something new —
it’s learning, deeply and humbly, how to serve something bigger than yourself.

And as the light grew brighter, it touched them both — the builder and the believer — each realizing that to lead well, one must first learn how to follow.