Lost to Leader

"For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." — Jeremiah 29:11 (NIV)

They say the Lord works in mysterious ways, and let me tell you, my road to leadership was about as winding as a backcountry highway on a Harley-Davidson. I didn’t start with a fancy degree or a corner office—just a beat-up past, a love for the sound of Harley-Davidson pipes, and a nudge from above that I didn’t see coming. What began with a wild ride across the country and a “You’re fired” turned into 25 years of lessons, grit, and a calling to help others rise. This is the story of how God took a biker with no map and built a leader with a mission—H.O.P.E.—one mile, one challenge, and one divine detour at a time.

From the Open Road to Leadership: My Unconventional Journey and the Birth of H.O.P.E.

The roar of a Harley-Davidson engine has a way of shaking you to your core, stirring something wild and free. For me, that rumble wasn’t just a soundtrack to a biker lifestyle—it became the unexpected starting line of a leadership journey that would span over two decades. My path to effective leadership didn’t begin in a boardroom or a classroom. It kicked off in the gritty, leather-clad world of a Harley-Davidson dealership, sparked by a single, sharp-edged comment from a seasoned manager that lit a fire I didn’t know I had.

Picture this: it’s late 1999, and I’m a part-time Sales Associate at a Harley-Davidson kiosk in a mall—a gig I landed with zero retail experience, an unpolished past as a recovered addict, and a resume that looked like a patchwork quilt of odd jobs. I was a master of the biker life—parties, bike rallies, open roads, and the brotherhood of the ride—but the world of business operations? That was as foreign to me as the formal education that I didn't have either. I lived for the culture, not the commerce.

Two weeks into the job, I ditched the kiosk for an impulsive, life-altering ride. I climbed onto the back of a black Ultra Classic Harley-Davidson Motorcycle and tore off on a 9,500-mile, 29-day trek across 17 states, chasing the towering Redwoods of California. The road opened my eyes to a world of possibilities, and I didn’t give a second thought to the job I’d left behind—until I rolled back into town. My manager greeted me with a polite, “We had to replace you,” which was corporate-speak for “You’re fired.” Fair enough. I shrugged it off, ready to hustle up another gig like I always had.

But then, something shifted. The Motorcycle Sales Manager stopped me in my tracks and tossed me a lifeline: a job as an assistant in the tags and title office, aslo know as F&I (Finance and Insurance). I jumped at it. That cross-country ride had opened my eyes and poured vision into my veins—There wasn’t a road I couldn’t travel or a skill I couldn’t learn. Little did I know, those first roots were sinking into the soil of what would become a thriving career.

The Spark That Ignited the Fire

Fast forward a bit, and opportunity knocked again—this time louder. The General Merchandise manager quit, leaving a vacancy in what the dealership called the “Motorclothes” department. They offered me the role. Me—a gal whose riding gear was shorts, a tank top, and a non-DOT helmet, stepping into a world of retail I barely understood. I didn’t know anything about the products or the business side of Harley-Davidson, but the words "I can't" didn't exist in my vocabulary, thanks to my daddy. I never met a challenge I wouldn’t take head-on.

That’s when the outgoing manager dropped a bombshell that changed everything. As she walked away, she sneered, “If Jill wants to learn how to do this job, she’ll have to figure it out like I did.” I stood there, stunned. She’d chosen to resign, pushed the owner to find a replacement, and now she was washing her hands of me. I was in way over my head, no question. There was team of women that were twice my senior now working for me, and I knew nothing about their job or mine. But in that moment, a truth hit me like a piston firing: my journey wasn’t hers to steer anymore. It was mine to own.

That snarky comment became the spark. I stopped trailing in her shadow and grabbed the handlebars of my own path. It was my first real lesson in leadership: managers handle inventory and schedules, but leaders lead people—and themselves—through the unknown. There was no training manual, no hand-holding. Just me, a passion for bikes, and a multi-million-dollar business I had to figure out from scratch.

Building the H.O.P.E. Framework

Looking back, I was teetering on the edge of something massive with nothing but grit and an empty toolbox. That moment wasn’t just a job—it was God dancing with circumstances, thrusting me toward a calling I didn’t see coming. Growth, I learned, doesn’t happen in the cozy corners of comfort. It’s forged in the wild, where the road stretches beyond the horizon.

Now, as 2025 looms on the calendar, I’m reflecting on nearly 25 years of lessons carved out in the Harley-Davidson world. It all started with that cross-country ride and a firing that turned into a hiring. What emerged from the chaos was the H.O.P.E. framework—Helping Other People Excel. It’s a simple idea born from a messy journey, a roadmap for leadership in business, ministry, and life.

H.O.P.E. grew from every stumble and triumph of the past two decades. It’s the belief that anyone—yes, even an uneducated ex-addict with a love for the open road—can become a leader if they commit to learning, growing, and working their tail off. To whom much is given, much is required, and I’ve poured every ounce of myself into leadership over the last two and half decades.

A Legacy of Helping Others Excel

Over 25 years, I’ve watched H.O.P.E. take root in places I never imagined—from bike rallies to the cooperate executives of Harley-Davidson to quiet community projects that extend a hand to those untouchable. It’s thrived because it’s not about me—it’s about investing in people and watching them soar. The success stories fuel me: proof that when you help others excel, the results ripple far beyond what you can dream.

So here I am, a quarter-century down the road, still hearing the echo of that manager’s biting words. They didn’t break me—they built me. And they kicked off a journey that turned a biker with no blueprint into a leader with a mission. The open road taught me plenty, but it was the unexpected detours that shaped me most. That’s the heart of H.O.P.E.: no matter where you start, the ride to leadership is yours to take.