The surprising cost of protecting ourselves

When I was in the awards industry, our company received the International Retailer of the Year Award in 2000.

For my parents, it was a bit like winning the Super Bowl. They had designed and built our new facility, moved the company into it, and then received the industry’s top award. By mid-2001 they sold the business to us and retired in their mid-50s, knowing they had gone out on top.

They had purchased Trophy Awards in 1985 when it was struggling and barely doing $100,000 in annual sales. By 2000, through a lot of hard work and perseverance, the business had grown more than tenfold and crossed the million-dollar mark.

We were at a formal banquet in Las Vegas—hundreds of people in the room, everyone dressed in suits and evening gowns—when they called our name and my dad walked into the spotlight to accept the award on behalf of the team.

Not long after, an industry magazine came to our shop to write an article about us.

Ironically, when my parents bought the business, it had a pretty rough reputation.

Dad tells a story about visiting a local high school shortly after taking over and asking the athletic director if they could bid on the school’s awards.

The man replied, “I’m still waiting on the awards from last season.”

Not exactly a warm welcome.

At their first trade show, several vendors also kept their distance. Only later did my parents learn the previous owner had not been great about paying his bills.

In other words, Mom and Dad didn’t just buy a business.

They inherited a mess.

But slowly, through honesty and consistency, they rebuilt trust.

Over the next fifteen years, they climbed out of that hole and turned a fragile business into something strong, respected, and worthy of passing on.

After the article ran, I received an interesting phone call from one of our sales reps.

“Have you ever heard of the Award Associates of America?” he asked.

I hadn’t—and I had already been in the industry for fifteen years.

It turned out to be a collaborative group of high-volume award retailers across North America who worked together to negotiate purchasing deals with vendors.

Within a week of hearing about them, we were invited to join.

We said yes.

One of our first visits was to an Award Associates shop in San Antonio, Texas. And I have to admit, the old saying that everything is bigger in Texas seemed to hold some truth. The shop’s volume was enormous.

The owners were a father-and-son team named John and David Bradley. They were good people.

Within a year or so, John sold the business to a man named Charlie.

And Charlie… well… Charlie annoyed me.

Charlie had previously owned part of a large drugstore chain before selling his shares and entering the awards industry. He carried himself with a corporate confidence the rest of us family trophy dealers didn’t really have.

At meetings, he would talk about the massive corporate accounts he had landed—many of them Fortune 500 companies—and how his name-badge sales alone exceeded many of our total annual revenues.

People admired him.

I found him… irritating.

Within a few years, Charlie was on the board of directors for the association. He traveled to China, sourcing products for the group, and seemed to have influence everywhere.

Meanwhile, I was just one of the guys from a small shop in Wilder, Kentucky.

So I did what many of us do when we feel intimidated.

I kept my distance for several years.

Then something unexpected happened.

Somehow, Charlie learned that I loved to fish.

He also mentioned that he spent time in Florida—about twenty minutes south of where my cottage used to be before the hurricanes of 2024.

At one of our meetings, he approached me and said,

“If you’re ever down there fishing, I’d love to join you. I’ll help cover the expenses.”

So I booked my favorite charter captain in the world, Justin Moore, and invited Charlie.

To my surprise, he said yes.

I wasn’t even sure how I felt about it. For years, I had kept my distance from the guy. I’d probably muttered more than a few negative things about him under my breath.

But the day came.

Charlie showed up right on time, and the three of us headed out fishing.

Within fifteen minutes, we were catching snook and redfish. The action was incredible.

Charlie was smiling.

I was smiling.

We were making memories.

As the day wrapped up, Charlie invited me out to dinner—and he picked up the entire tab.

We sat there talking about the fishing, the beauty of the water, and life.

Charlie was present.
He was grateful.
He was generous.

And something stirred in me.

I found myself wondering:

Did Charlie suddenly change?

Or had I pre-rejected him?

Pre-rejection is something many of us do when we fear someone might reject us.

Instead of risking connection, we quietly keep our distance.

We hang back.
We judge from afar.
We avoid engaging.

Why?

Because if someone might reject me, then I’ll reject them first.

You can’t reject me…

because I’ve already rejected you.

Pre-rejection shows up in small ways we often don’t even notice.

Sometimes it looks like avoiding someone because we assume they probably don’t like us anyway.

Sometimes it looks like criticizing someone in our mind before we’ve even had a real conversation with them.

Sometimes it looks like withdrawing emotionally before the other person even has a chance to respond.

I still catch myself doing it.

I’ll walk into the house worried Barb might be in a bad mood, so I quietly pull back before she even says a word.

Pre-rejection claims to keep us safe.

But what is that protection costing us?

Charlie and I ended up fishing together several more times over the next few years. The more time we spent together, the more I realized something.

Charlie hadn’t changed nearly as much as I had.

Sure, he still liked people to know he was successful.

But he was also thoughtful, generous, and surprisingly enjoyable to spend time with.

In fact, when our family went through a sudden medical emergency, Charlie was the very first person from the association to reach out to me.

The truth is, I had spent years keeping my distance from someone who might have become a friend much sooner.

The reality is that people will reject us sometimes.

That’s part of being human.

A coach once told me something that has stuck with me for years:

Our greatest desire and our greatest fear revolve around the same thing—being known.

If people truly see us, they might reject us.

But if we hide behind a protected version of ourselves, we may never really be loved either.

So if I’m going to risk rejection, I’d rather be rejected for who I truly am than for the guarded version of myself I hide behind.

When we protect ourselves too carefully, we don’t just avoid rejection.

We also prevent real connection.

So these days I’m trying something different.

Love courageously.

Love dangerously.

Move toward people instead of away from them.

Show up honestly and vulnerably, even though not everyone will receive that.

Because the goal of life isn’t universal approval.

It’s living honestly enough that the people who do love you… love the real you.

And sometimes it turns out that the person you kept your distance from for years might actually make a pretty good fishing partner.

P.S.
If this idea of pre-rejection resonates with you—and you’re interested in doing some honest work exploring where it might be quietly limiting your joy—I’d be honored to walk alongside you.