Rowlett, Texas
I was born in Rowlett, Texas. My father was called Cap, short for captain, by everyone who knew him, and he was usually out on our boat, tinkering with something that was already working. He was a working man. He started a lawn care business with a push mower and a beat-up pickup truck, and by the end he had more than 180 trucks, 300 employees and several government contracts. He never mentioned any of this. My mother, whom everyone called Muffy, stayed home and ran the household with the authority of someone who had been handed a larger job and not told so. My little sister was Margaret.
We had two brothers. One died in a car accident. The other died in a war zone. I give these facts as I was taught to, quickly and without adjectives, because the unspoken rule of our house was that you did not talk about how you felt, and you did not say anything that would make others pity you or see you as a person in need. That rule built a great deal of strength in me. It also cost me a great deal, and I did not understand the bill until much later.
Meetings with dolls
I knew what I wanted before I knew what it was called. As a child I dressed my Barbies and dolls and sat them down for meetings. I ran them. I watched Rugrats and paid no attention to the babies. I watched Angelica’s mother, a woman in a suit with a company and a briefcase and somewhere to be, and I thought, with total clarity, that I wanted to be her. My mother told me otherwise. It was a man’s world, she said, and all I needed to do was perk up and catch a rich husband. My cousins agreed. I did not argue. I had been raised not to, and I learned to turn that restraint into something useful.
The restaurant floor
My first job was waiting tables. It taught me one lesson I have never needed to relearn: smile and put your best foot forward, no matter what. I have since sat in rooms with lenders, brand executives and people who did not expect me to be the one in charge, and I would still call it the most valuable thing I learned. A restaurant floor is a school for reading people quickly. You learn who wants conversation and who wants to be left alone, and you learn to carry on while your own day is going badly.
A mentor
In college I met Mandee Woodard. I heard her speak, and afterward I went up to talk to her, which I did not do easily. What I noticed was that she seemed to care. She took an active interest in me and my wellbeing, beyond whatever I had come to ask her. She has been my mentor ever since, and much of what I am professionally was an act of faith on her part before it was anything I had earned.
The first hotel
When the time came, she put me in charge of the first branded acquisition the family office made, an extended stay hotel, while I served as director of business affairs under her. I was young and I knew exactly how much I did not know. I did what the restaurant had taught me. I showed up prepared, I smiled, and I listened harder than anyone else in the room. The deal closed, and others followed. Today I serve as President and CEO of Neyius Hotel Group, where my real work is leading people: the teams who run our hotels and the guests who stay in them. I put that fact here, two-thirds of the way through, because it is not the center of the story.
The center of the story
The center is a low point I seldom discuss. I found out I was pregnant, and the father was a man who had hit me more than once. I wish I had been strong enough, or smart enough, to leave the first time. At that moment I did not want to be alive. I will not describe it further. I will say that I survived, and that surviving did not feel like a victory. It felt like being handed a task I had not agreed to.
My son
I have a son. He is the reason I keep a calendar and also the reason I am willing to leave it alone. He has taught me the opposite of my father’s rule. When he is sad he tells me. When he is proud he tells me. I have tried to build a house in which feelings are spoken aloud, and it is the hardest thing I have ever built.
Bangladesh
My work has taken me to Bangladesh, where the Neyius organization has spent years building relationships, supporting aid and giving a great deal of itself to the fabric of the place. The Marvin Sierra, a hotel now under construction in Chittagong, is named for the founder’s father and sister, both of whom have passed. I know something about naming a building for people you cannot call anymore. When it opens, I want it to be a place where every guest is greeted with a smile, whatever kind of day they are having, by someone who knows how to carry a bad day quietly.
Away from work
Outside work I move constantly: spin class, yoga, Pilates, running. I travel when I can, preferably somewhere I have to figure out. I love soulful music, the kind where the artist is plainly connected to every word. I would rather hear the voice crack than hear it polished smooth. I suspect I learned that in a house where nobody’s voice was allowed to.
The boat
My father used to disappear onto the boat for hours, working on something quietly, and he came back looking lighter. I did not understand it then. I think I do now. I was a child who held meetings with dolls. I am a woman who holds them with executives. The difference is smaller than you would think. I come from a man who started with a push mower, and that is the thing I come back to.
