Seen: A Founder’s Reckoning with Control, Surrender, and Leadership

It was the summer of 2020, and I was flying down the street on my Vespa 150cc, wind cutting through my T-shirt, flip-flops tapping the pedals, a small speed-racer helmet strapped to my head. I loved how powerful I felt riding that thing—unencumbered, fast, free.

As I passed a father and his two daughters playing in their front yard, one of the little girls pointed and said, “Look, Daddy! A girl on that motorcycle!” In that moment, I felt like a superhero. Like maybe I was showing them what was possible.

Minutes later, everything stopped.

The Vespa wiped out. My body slammed into the pavement. My tibia fractured—a sixth-degree tibia plateau break that would change far more than my mobility. The pain was unbearable, but I didn’t cry. I made jokes. I waited. I couldn’t stand. All I could do was lie there on the concrete, in shock, waiting for the ambulance.

I thought the Vespa would give me freedom. Instead, it confined me to a wheelchair for six months, followed by another eighteen months on crutches. Nearly five days a week, I was in physical therapy learning how to walk again.

And in that wheelchair, I learned something I never expected.

I wasn’t being seen.

People were polite. Kind, even. But they didn’t look at me. They looked over me. Around me. As if I were furniture—present, but invisible. For someone who had always prided herself on being capable, independent, and self-sufficient—the builder, the provider, the one who made things happen—this was devastating.

One moment still lingers. I was sitting outside a restaurant, staring at the front door, unable to open it. I had to wait until someone noticed me. I was humiliated. I hated asking for help.

One of my closest friends used to call me Supergirl because I had a knit beanie with “SG” stitched on it. I can still hear her voice saying, “You don’t have to be a superhero every day.”

At the time, I didn’t believe her.

That realization came later, in the quiet.

When I realized there was no one left to ask but God.

I was the main provider for my family, lying in bed with my leg elevated, answering emails between pain medication and moments of fear—not because I lacked time off, but because I didn’t trust the world to keep spinning without me. Control had always been my safety net. Letting go felt like losing everything.

But over time—nearly two years, in fact—something softened.

I began asking different questions.


What if this wasn’t just chaos?


What if there was meaning here?


What if this wasn’t the end—but a beginning?

That’s when I remembered something David Reiling, CEO of Sunrise Banks and a leader I deeply admire, once taught me: adopt an abundant mindset. Not scarcity. Ask, “What can I learn right now?” instead of “What am I losing?”

And that’s when I made a decision.

If I was going to build again, it would be different not from force or fear, but from trust, listening, and abundance. That decision became Morris Hoeft Group.

We build communities around brands by connecting head and heart. We create trust through human-centered design, Theory U practices, and deep listening. Our work is grounded in truly seeing people—because I know what it feels like to disappear in plain sight.

This isn’t just branding. It’s meaning-making. Brands grow when trust is present. And trust is built through repeated positive experiences—through being seen.

But this reckoning didn’t start with the Vespa.

When I was sixteen, my dad—a WWII veteran—asked what I wanted for high school graduation. “A SAAB? A new car?” he offered.

I chose college tuition.

He looked at me, confused. “Why would you pick that? You’re just going to get married and have babies.”

That moment stayed with me. I knew I wanted more. I didn’t want to be boxed into a role I hadn’t chosen. I wanted to learn, lead, and build.

And I did.

Throughout my career, I’ve mentored young people—formally and informally, through leadership programs, one-on-one conversations, and quiet coffees when someone needed guidance. I co-created a leadership initiative at Bethel University. I launched a podcast, Is That Cashmere?, to share the lessons I wish I’d known sooner.

I tell these stories because leadership isn’t linear. It’s fractured. It breaks. And sometimes, it heals stronger in the broken places.

My Vespa crash didn’t end my freedom. It redefined it.

To every leader reading this: there is strength in surrender. There is purpose in your pause. And there is power in being truly seen.

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