I was carrying plates of shrimp and grits when I got the call.
Not metaphorically—I was actually working tables at Lucky 32 in Winston-Salem, balancing trays, memorizing specials, and trying to smile through long shifts on my feet. It was spring 2006, and I was paying down college debt one tip at a time.
So when I landed an interview for an investment banking position, it felt like winning the lottery. No pedigree. No connections. No coveted internships. No backup interviews.
I had one shot.
The interviewer's office was nicer than anywhere I'd ever worked. I sat down, trying to hide the nerves and look like I belonged there.
He glanced at my résumé. I glanced at his business card.
Reginald Imamura
"Study abroad at Kansai Gaidai," he said. "Do you know my mom?"
I froze.
Sophomore year at Wake had gotten off to a rough start.
Freshman year in Bostwick 1B had been everything college promises to be—flag football in the quad, midnight Krispy Kreme runs, Wake basketball games where we painted our chests and yelled ourselves hoarse. My hallmates were my brothers.
Then sophomore year hit, and most of them rushed frats. My hallmate Ryan didn't. Neither did I. The campus felt emptier. Disconnected. I wanted a change.
I was taking Spanish for the language requirement but barely scraping by. I couldn't speak it. I was memorizing conjugations and forgetting them a week later. Spain was out for two reasons:
Then one day, a little old lady walked into my history class.
She gave a presentation about studying abroad in Japan. I wasn't paying much attention. Japan wasn't on my radar. Study abroad felt like something for rich kids with flexible schedules. I took the flyer anyway and shoved it in my notebook.
A few weeks later, Ryan was in the dorm scrolling Honda-Tech forums—his version of meditation. I found the crumpled flyer and tossed it to him. "You might like this."
That's when we actually read it.
This might work.
The little old lady turned out to be Reginald's mother.
And "little old lady" barely covers it.
Her house on campus was filled with photos—her with Oprah, with the Emperor of Japan, with dignitaries I couldn't name but probably should have. She was one of the first Japanese women permitted to leave for North America after World War II. Graduated from what's now Canadian Mennonite University in 1954. Became a medical records director. Taught Japanese language and culture. Wrote books. Built exchange programs between Japanese medical schools and Wake Forest.
She was a force.
And she'd walked into my history class on a random Tuesday with a stack of flyers.
Ryan and I applied. He ended up going to a university in Tokyo. I went to Kansai Gaidai.
I was supposed to stay one semester. I stayed the whole year.
That year led me back to Japan in 2008. Which led me to meet Mari. Which led to Koh, Tyler, and Aiden being born there. Which led to me talking to Drew and getting introduced to Henry, my first real development job. Which led to Dave trusting me to build a practice management system for Sidekick Therapy Partners. Which led to Ambiki.
One crumpled paper. One roommate obsessed with Honda forums. One woman who decided to visit a history class.
"Yes," I told Reginald. "I know your mom."
I don't remember much else about the interview. I think I told him the story about tracking my tips and spotting the Sunday brunch arbitrage. Who knows what actually tipped the scales—the story, the connection to his mom, or something else entirely.
A week later, I got the offer.
People love to say that luck is preparation meeting opportunity. That hard work pays off. That you earn your breaks.
And sure, I worked hard. I showed up.
But I keep thinking about the moments you can't plan for.
The random presentation. The crumpled paper. The roommate's hobby. The interviewer whose mother happened to be the woman who handed you that paper two years earlier.
I didn't "network" my way into that job. I didn't have a strategy. I went to class, kept a piece of paper, showed it to a friend, and said yes to something unfamiliar.
And somehow that loose chain of moments shaped everything.
You can't optimize for serendipity. You can't manufacture luck. But you can stay curious enough—and open enough—that when the universe hands you a crumpled flyer, you don't throw it away.
Reggie passed away in 2016; Mrs. Imamura passed away in 2021. I never got to tell her what that presentation meant—how it didn't just change where I studied, but where I lived, who I married, and where my kids were born.
How one Tuesday afternoon in a class I wasn't paying attention to became the hinge that swung my life in a different direction.
But I remember.
Likewise, I never got the chance to tell Reggie that the chance he gave me shaped my career and gave me a better jumpstart than I could have ever asked for.
I remember the business card. The question. The slow realization that my life had been shaped by a woman I'd barely noticed, whose son I'd never met, whose influence I couldn't have predicted.
That's the thing about luck: you only see it in the rearview mirror.
And if you're lucky enough to see it at all, you start to understand how much of what you think you earned was given—by people who showed up, who cared, who handed you a piece of paper and believed you might do something with it.
Even if you didn't know it at the time.
Sometimes the most important moments happen on a random Tuesday, in a class you're barely paying attention to, when a little old lady walks in with a stack of flyers.
You just have to keep the paper.