The Seven Words That Saved My Career: Lessons from a Life of Gracious Teachers
Reflections on learning, humility, and the power of “I don’t know, but I’ll find out”
We all have teachers who shape us—not just in the classroom, but in the winding corridors of our lives. Their lessons arrive in unexpected moments, often at times of loss, transition, or challenge. For me, those lessons began early, after my mother passed away when I was just 13. In the vacuum her absence left, my grandmother—Mama—stepped in, offering not just comfort but wisdom, the kind that roots itself deeply and quietly in one’s character.
I’ve written before about Mama’s “Tobacco Plug” and the story of the “Turkey Bag,” pivotal moments that ignited my passion for legacy and storytelling. But she wasn’t the only source of wisdom in my youth. My Aunt Lorraine, my mother’s sister, imparted what would become known in our family as “Aunt Lorraine’s Law,” a principle that’s guided me through countless decisions, both personal and professional.
As I grew older, my list of teachers expanded beyond family, finding new mentors in the workplace. Throughout my career, I was fortunate to work under remarkable leaders who were, above all, remarkable teachers—many of whom I’ve honored in previous essays. One of the most widely read essays on this blog comes features lessons from a former CEO of The Coca Cola Company, (https://fylegacy.blogspot.com/2009/05/teachable-point-of-view.html) and another often quoted story comes from my first boss at Kimberly-Clark (https://fylegacy.blogspot.com/2009/06/authenticity-foundation-of-leadership.html). But one story, from my time as an MBA student at Vanderbilt University, stands out with particular clarity today.
It was the fall of 1984. I was in my second year, focused more on marketing and sales than on accounting, which had always seemed an opaque science to me. That semester, I found myself enrolled in Intermediate Accounting, taught by the inimitable Professor Tim DuBois. Now, “character” is too mild a word for Tim; he was a Renaissance man, as comfortable on stage as he was in the lecture hall—a published songwriter and a rising star in Nashville’s music industry. He’d even penned the hit song “Love in the First Degree” for the band Alabama.
One Tuesday morning in October—October 9th, to be precise, the day after the 1984 CMA Awards—Professor DuBois arrived in the lecture hall still wearing his tuxedo from the night before. Alabama had just won Entertainer of the Year, and it was obvious Tim hadn’t gone home to change, or perhaps even to sleep. He tossed his overcoat onto the overhead projector and, leaning heavily against it, confessed that the morning’s lesson would be brief. The hangover, he admitted, was pending.
But what followed was a masterclass in humility and professional wisdom. “There are seven words that will save your career,” he drawled in his distinctive Oklahoma accent. “‘I don’t know, but I’ll find out.’” We leaned in, captivated. He went on to explain that at some point, each of us would be confronted with a difficult question or a daunting task, and we’d feel compelled to bluff our way through. That impulse, he warned, was a career-ending trap. Far better to admit our ignorance and commit to seeking the answer.
The lesson lasted barely ten minutes, but its impact endures. Professor DuBois gathered his things and headed out, presumably for a well-earned nap. I have since shared his words with hundreds of colleagues and mentees. In fact, I was reminded of them just last week. Over dinner with an investment banker, I fielded a series of intricate questions about a company’s balance sheet. I handled most with ease, but soon hit a wall—a detail escaped me. The echo of Professor DuBois’s voice rang in my ears, and I found myself saying, “I don’t know, but I’ll find out.” Not only did the honesty strengthen our conversation, but it also offered a teachable moment: I recounted the story of that fateful morning in 1984, passing the lesson forward.
The banker, far too young to remember that distant October, was grateful. He planned to share the story with his own team. And so, the wisdom of Professor DuBois continues to ripple outward, shaping generations in industries far from his own.
As you consider your own journey, reflect on your “teachers”—those who have nudged, guided, and inspired you along the way. Find fresh ways to honor them. Share their lessons, not just for nostalgia’s sake, but so their wisdom might light the path for others, as it once did for you.
Sometimes, the most powerful thing we can say isn’t “I know,” but “I’ll find out.” In those seven words lies the humility to learn and the courage to grow—a lesson for us all, no matter where our story began.
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