When we immigrated to Canada in the early 70s, like many before us and even more Lebanese after us, my parents started from the ground up.
Our first business was a small pizzeria. They perfected the dough recipe and thought: selling pizza might be a good way to build a life.
The restaurant business is hard. When you don’t speak the language, don’t know the laws, have no friends, little money, four mouths to feed, and zero experience running a business, it feels almost impossible.
Immigrants have a superpower. It’s called hope.
Somehow, we made it through. The pizzeria took off. Customers returned. The bills got paid. For me, those early years in Canada were spent in that restaurant: breakfast before school, homework after school, the smell of fresh pizza forever imprinted as home.
One afternoon, I came to the restaurant from school to find my father in a heated conversation with a stranger. My mother, behind the cash register, bit her lip and motioned me to another booth.
When the man left, I ran to my father. “Baba, why are you angry?”
He hugged me, asked about my day, then sat me down.
“Listen to me, Jamoula. People will judge you by what they see and assume. Some will try to take advantage. That man is the landlord. He wants to double the rent now that the restaurant is busy. This is not what we agreed. Never trust someone who breaks his word.”
“Are you going to pay him, Baba?”
“Of course not. I’d rather close the shop than pay him. Don’t worry, we built this once, we can build again.”
My mother was stunned.
“George, after years of blood, sweat, and tears, you would walk away now?”
“Yes. Because when a man breaks his word once, he will break it again.”
And walk away we did.
The landlord misjudged my father. He only saw a hard-working, non-English-speaking immigrant desperate to build a life. He underestimated his character and resilience.
The shop sat vacant for nine months before he found new tenants at a lower rent. I know because the Lebanese family who came after sought my father’s advice before signing.
That lesson stayed with me: who you are matters more than the role you hold.
Your title doesn’t define you. You are more than a job description. You are life in motion.
Years later, I saw people make the same mistake that landlord made. They saw a title, a résumé, a profile, and thought they knew the whole story. They missed the character, the principles, and the experiences that shape judgment.
Your story, the real one, not the sanitized version, is what makes you irreplaceable. It guides decisions under pressure, helps you connect across differences, and lets you see opportunities others miss.
Because in the end, every role played or filled by a human carries that person’s unique story.
You build your personal brand with your words and deeds in life and online. Show the world who you are. Control your narrative. You define you.
