The Summer I Was in Charge of Thirty Kids: The jobs that made me an entrepreneur, Part 1

Receipts: Every Job That Made Me an Entrepreneur, Part 1

This is the only photo I have on hand of me around this age. It's my sis, my step-dad, my mom, and me (from left to right) at Disneyland. Yes, I used to blow-dry my hair straight and YES, my sis has always been the cool one. 🤣

Before The Yellow Studio, before I called myself an artist out loud, before I ever built a business of my own, there was a long list of jobs. Some were wonderful. Some were hard in ways that only made sense later. All of them, it turns out, were preparing me for the work I do now.

So I'm starting a little series called Receipts, where I walk you through every job that made me the entrepreneur I am today. Consider it the résumé nobody asked for. 🤣

We have to start at the very beginning, which means we have to start with babysitting.

My First Job

I started babysitting at thirteen years old. I've always been what people call an old soul, and I genuinely loved being around kids. Loved teaching them. Loved watching them get lost in a fort they were building, or a drawing they were working on, or a full-living-room dance party we made up on the spot. Even then, I understood something I couldn't yet name: that helping someone feel free to create was one of the most rewarding things in the world.

Little did I know I'd spend the rest of my life doing exactly that.

But the first job that felt like a real, structured, out-in-the-world job? That came at fifteen and a half (yes, I was still young enough to count the halves).

The Job That Wasn't Really a Job (Yet)

My town had a program where you could volunteer with the Parks and Recreation department at fifteen, and if you did that, you were guaranteed a paid position the following summer at sixteen. I signed up immediately.

The job ran the entire summer, three months of afternoons, at one of the local schools. There were three of us rec leaders. Two were paid. I was the volunteer. And between us, we were responsible for anywhere from fifty to a hundred kids every single day.

We split them up, which meant I usually had between fifteen and thirty kids all to myself. Fifteen and a half years old, and in charge of thirty children. 😱

I planned each week's activities for my own group of kids. Art one day, crafts the next, dance, sports, or whatever I could dream up that would keep them engaged and get them through their homework first. I helped kids resolve arguments. I made sure the shy kid had someone to sit with. I built, without knowing that's what I was doing, a small community out of a big pile of tiny humans.

It was wild. It was hard. And I really, really loved it.

The Bike Ride

I didn't have a car. I had a mountain bike. And I rode it forty-five minutes to work and forty-five minutes home, every single day.

The route took me from my neighborhood through three others to get to the school. I had to cross a couple of big streets, but there were crosswalks and traffic lights, and my parents trusted me to be careful. The morning ride was one of my favorite parts of the whole job. School was already in session for the local kids, so the neighborhoods were quiet. It was cool out. The light was soft. I had forty-five minutes to just pedal and think and be fifteen.

The ride home was a different story.

By the time I clocked out, it was ninety, sometimes over a hundred degrees. I was pedaling home in full California summer, baking, red-faced, drenched. Every day. All summer.

I think about that ride a lot now. Because building a creative business has the same shape. The mornings are quiet and full of possibility. The afternoons are hot and exhausting, and you're mostly just trying to make it home. Both are a part of the journey.

The Day Someone Stole My Bike

Halfway through the summer, someone cut the lock and stole my bike right off the rack at the school.

I remember standing there staring at the empty spot, trying to figure out how I was going to get home. I called my stepdad, and he came to pick me up. On the drive, he had a hunch. I can't remember his exact words, but he said something like, "You know, whoever took your bike probably lives around here. Let's just drive a few blocks and see."

So we did. Slowly, up and down the streets closest to the school. And within a few minutes, we spotted it. My bike, parked right in front of an apartment building, out in the open, like nothing had happened.

My stepdad walked up to the door, calm as anything, and said, "I believe this is my daughter's bike." The mom answered and, without missing a beat, said, "I was wondering where my kid got this bike." She handed it right back to us. There may have been some more "grown-up" conversation happening in addition, but in my memory, it was as simple as that.

Fortunately, the bike never got stolen again.

But the lesson wasn't really about the bike. The lesson was about the choice to go looking in the first place. My stepdad could have shrugged and said, "Well, that's a shame, we'll figure something out." Instead, he asked a better question. Is there a solution here we haven't tried?

I use that same question in my business almost every week. When a launch flops, when a platform changes the rules, or when something breaks that I didn't cause and don't want to deal with. Before I accept the loss, I ask myself if there's a solution, an answer, or a way around the problem. And more often than you would think, there is.

The Poppy Festival

The next two summers, I was a paid rec leader. One year I worked at a park, handing out balls and keeping an eye on things and making sure no kids got hurt. It was calm, predictable, and lovely.

The second year, I mostly worked events. And that was the summer I worked our local Poppy Festival, thousands and thousands of people celebrating the California state flower, the poppy, and it was the biggest event of the season.

The first year I worked it, everything went fine.

The second year, I showed up sick.

I had bronchitis. I had a fever. My throat hurt so much I hadn't eaten. And I still went in, because I thought that was what a good employee did. Show up, push through, and don't let the team down.

I was doing a genuinely terrible job. I was slow, foggy, and probably contagious. Eventually the director noticed, asked if I was okay, and when I told her the truth, she sent me home.

I wish I had called in sick to begin with. Because pushing through didn't make me look dedicated. It made me look unwell, made my coworkers pick up my slack, and made me sicker for weeks after.

That summer taught me something I still have to remind myself of: work can be a priority without being above your health. You are allowed to rest. You are allowed to protect the version of yourself that shows up to do the work. In fact, that is part of the job. I still show up, push through, and will do anything not to let my team down, but now I know when to take a sick day when my body is screaming at me to slow down.

What I Took With Me

Looking back now, that stretch of summers gave me almost every skill I use in my creative business today.

Tenacity. From the bike ride to and from work every day. From my stepdad making the choice to look for a solution before accepting a loss.

Community building. From learning how to take thirty different kids and turn them into a group that actually cared about each other.

Planning. From sitting down every week and mapping out arts, crafts, games, and downtime, knowing full well that half of it would get thrown out by Tuesday.

Leadership. From figuring out, at fifteen, how to lead people who didn't have to listen to me but chose to anyway.

Self-care. From the Poppy Festival, and every time since that I've had to remind myself I am not more useful when I am running on empty.

I didn't know any of it at the time. I was just a kid on a bike, trying to do a good job, riding home in the heat.

But every one of those lessons is a receipt. And I've been collecting them ever since.

Next up in the series: my dream job. 💛