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  • I Updated My Resume and Cover Letter. Here’s My First and Final Draft.

    A lot has changed over the past two weeks. I liken what’s happened to the Mike Tyson quote, “everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.” It’s a bit surreal how much it feels like the world has evolved in such a short period of time.

    With the realization that our economy is in the midst of a recession (and most likely headed into a depression), I’ve decided to reassess my situation. Three weeks ago, I quit my job. I founded a company with my father, a retired car dealer, and since then we’ve helped a handful of people with our new service business, CarEdge.

    Then, Coronavirus began to affect the day to day lives of Americans. State by state we’ve seen the temporary closure of non-essential businesses. Sales departments within car dealerships are deemed non-essential (the full list of essential businesses can be found on the CISA website), and as a result, are shuttering (temporarily).

    This makes it hard to offer a car buying service to your customers.

    CarEdge, the startup I am focusing my full-time effort and attention towards, is in a state of limbo. New vehicle sales are expected to plummet, and my appetite to bootstrap this startup amidst a recession (or worse) is fleeting (less people buying cars means less potential customers for us). The past two weeks have led me to reassess my post-quitting plans.

    Before the spread of Coronavirus, I took a trip to New York City to visit a friend. While there I met a man who works for the incubation arm of a large, publicly traded retailer. We had a good conversation, and he suggested that I look at their open positions when I returned from my international travels (my original plan was to spend this summer in Lisbon, Portugal while working full-time on my startup).

    Fast forward two weeks, and it’s abundantly clear that I’m not leaving the country anytime soon. Lisbon, and a summer in Europe will come to fruition at some point in the future, but not in a few months. With that realization, I got back in touch with my contact, and asked him if he thought now was a good time to apply for one of their open positions.

    His response inspired confidence, “People like you do well in our organization because it grew out of a startup. Our SVP (was our CEO) loves hiring ex-founders and entrepreneurs…”

    Thus began the process of updating my resume and drafting a cover letter. And, that’s how we’ve arrived here, at this blog post.

    How to write, structure, and design a resume and cover letter is not easy. Below, I share with you the first draft of my resume and cover letter, and the final draft I submitted with my application.

    Here was my process:

    • March 19th
      • Research resume and cover letter design and structure
      • Bullet point an outline of my resume and cover letter
      • First draft of resume and cover letter (below)
    • March 19th to the 22nd
      • Peer review from 4 advisors
      • Iterative drafting, editing, and review
    • March 23rd
      • Final draft (below)
      • Submit application

    It took me four days and four advisors to go from the first draft to submission. A humongous thank you to the individuals who reviewed these documents and shared their advice.

    My first draft resume and cover letter

    Click the “next page” arrow at the bottom of the PDF to view the cover letter. Or, click here: https://shefska.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/First-version-resume-and-cover-letter.pdf

    My final draft resume and cover letter

    Click the “next page” arrow at the bottom of the PDF to view the cover letter. Or, click here: https://shefska.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/final-version-of-resume-and-cover-letter.pdf

    I hope this helps as you navigate the process of creating your resume and cover letter. I’ll update this post once I hear back from the company I applied to.

  • What My Mom’s Death Taught Me about Living

    What My Mom’s Death Taught Me about Living

    I wrote this essay one year after my mom, Suzanne Shefska, passed away. Yesterday I stumbled upon it. Now, two and half years after her death, I feel comfortable sharing what I wrote with you.

    “Can we go shopping at Marshalls?”

    I still have a guilty conscious for how I responded… 

    “When we get back home, mom. It’s about a mile and a half away, and I don’t think I can push the wheelchair that far. I promise we’ll go once you’re feeling better and we’re back home.”

    We never made it back home. I’m still waiting for the trip to Marshalls. In the back of my mind I knew we should have gone, but the cracked concrete, my mom and her portable oxygen concentrator… they told me otherwise.

    It’s been a year since my mom, Suzanne passed away. She was an awesome woman, and I could write for hours about how she inspired me, shaped me, and compelled me to become the person I am today. Witnessing her death was a profound and gut-wrenching moment. It was enlightening and empowering just as it was horrendous and torturous.

    It would make sense then that such an emotional experience could teach you so much about yourself. Is it paradoxical that witnessing death can inform how you live your life? Sure, but maybe that is the point. Observing death exposes you to the reality of your existence. You’re going to die — no one has beaten the odds yet.

    Witnessing my mother’s death shook me to my core. I thought her cancer diagnosis, stroke, and other myriad health concerns had broken into my heart, but nothing pained me more than watching her body completely shut-down.

    Death isn’t pretty. It’s nightmarish. Death from liver failure seemed particularly hard to witness (although I am sure they’re all terrible) — my mom turned yellow.

    Yet it wasn’t her color, complexion, or inability to function that moved me most. No, it was her heart. The thing is, it was healthy when she died. It was actually exceptionally strong. Her heart wasn’t ill, unfortunately the rest of her was.

    That might not sound like a bad thing, if nothing else it could be perceived as a good occurrence, but let me tell you, it wasn’t. Why? Because when someone dies from liver failure they don’t just collapse and it’s all over. No, that would be too easy. They lie there and slowly but surely lose all of their bodily functions. What is the last to go? The heart.

    With a strong heart you can lie there, motionless, broken, and uninformed for minutes. Holding my mother’s hand that had no function, while listening to sharp, gargling breathes was painful — that is the torture. Recognizing how resilient and strong the human body is, how desperately my mom’s heart wanted to keep beating — that was enlightening.

    Death is tricky. It’s not scripted or planned out. My mom decided it was time to go while I was eating lunch (talk about feeling too sick to eat). There isn’t an exact time or an exact moment when you’re going to die, it simply happens.

    It doesn’t look like it does in the movies either. A gunshot almost seems more pleasant then listening to those deep, gross, gruesome breathes. When you’re in palliative care there are drugs they’ll give you. They’re supposed to make you feel more comfortable. How do they know? What’s the point? When it’s over, it is over.

    Death teaches you that.

    It exposes you to the concept of finality. Death is final. A bad test grade isn’t. A divorce? Not final. Bankruptcy? No a big deal. Death is.

    Witnessing death desensitizes you.

    Why get upset when you know you’re at least not dying? In the year since my mom’s death I have slowly regained emotional context — oh, it is upsetting when something bad happens. For a few months after her passing, I was numb to this. “How can anything even compare to death?” I’d think.

    Young people joke about death. Old people joke about death. You shouldn’t. It’s not trivial. In fact, it’s the opposite. Some people politicize deaths. Others applaud them. That’s gross. You’ve never witnessed death if you do either of those things. If you had, you’d know how truly terrifying it is.

    Death is unforgiving. It doesn’t come and go. When it’s here, it’s here. There is no escaping it. Death doesn’t consider your marital status, how successful your career is, or your age. When it comes it acts swiftly and conducts its job.

    It’s interesting to think about death in the context of “work.” If death had a job description, how do you think it would read? What are the qualifications, roles, and responsibilities of an act so cruel, but so necessary?

    “Applicants should be detail oriented, thorough, and willing to work long hours (holidays and weekends included).”

    Maybe it’s morbid to consider death in this context, but the reality is, it’s right beside us. You may not know someone who has recently passed, but I can assure that someday you will. There’s no getting around it.

    What does all of this gibberish mean? It means death is important, and although it’s rarely discussed, infrequently described as what it truly is, and for the most part shunned in our culture, it’s worth contemplating and considering.

    Witnessing death put my life into context. I’m not suggesting you should go observe someone pass away right now. There is a time, a place, and a reason to be a part of that moment. I am however imploring you to consider how truly final death is, and to not fight that finality, but rather harness it to help shape the decisions, actions, and desires you take today.

  • Mom

    “If you check the news, don’t worry, I’m okay.”

    I remember the day Suzanne graced our family group chat with that very text message.

    Dara responded first with a, “huh?”

    Ray followed along with a, “what?”

    And I chimed in with a, “wait, that wasn’t your school were the kid brought in a gun, was it?”

    Suzanne calmly replied, “It was, but don’t worry, I’m okay. What are we having for dinner tonight?”

    It was amazing how every group message conversation always ended up being about dinner…

    Yet when the conversation did venture away from teriyaki salmon or who was going to make salad that night, it generally related to work. “How was everyone’s day going?” That question was a staple of our family communication.

    Day in and day out Suzanne went to work. She was a special ed teacher. And even on the days when her students brought guns to school she was there, teaching, helping, and making her mark. Seriously.

    It didn’t matter that Suzanne was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer two weeks after accepting her position at Calverton Elementary and Middle School in west Baltimore City. She had a deep passion for working with students, especially those who were vulnerable, bullied and misunderstood.

    I could recount myriad stories that personify her perseverance, strength and will to make a difference. Instead of doing that though, I’ll simply mention a few “highlights” which will hopefully help paint the picture in your own mind:

    1. Calverton Elementary had no air conditioning
    2. They also had no running drinking water
    3. When Suzanne’s liver failed and she became jaundiced she still taught. Students frequently asked her, “Why are you turning so yellow, Mrs. Shefska?”
    4. Suzanne lugged around a portable oxygen concentrator — she always had to make sure she had enough oxygen in her body to function.
    5. No matter how difficult times got, whether it be innumerable brain metastasis, that liver failure, or nagging cancer pains, Suzanne somehow always left the house at 6:30am.

    It’s safe to say that Suzanne was a bit crazy. A good crazy, an admirable crazy, a crazy that I am happy to know lives in within me as well, but crazy nonetheless.

    And at the time I didn’t quite rationalize why she kept putting herself through this. Every morning at 5:30am Ray would make her a bowl of oatmeal. I’d help out with a kale, peanut butter and berry smoothie — some were admittedly better than others — and Dara would come down to make sure that Suzanne’s outfit looked good for that day (even though she tried in on the night before).

    We had this routine. We came together as a unit. We all worked as one to make sure Suzanne was out the door by 6:30 to go and teach. None of us questioned it, we simply enabled it. How could we not?

    But now, in retrospect I can’t help but wonder, “why did she do it?” We never discussed this as a family, but today, more than ever before, does the answer seem so clear. I genuinely think Suzanne did it for two reasons.

    First, and most obviously, she found purpose in her work. There is a quote from the Talmud which Suzanne lived by, it reads, “Whoever destroys a soul, it is considered as if he destroyed an entire world. And whoever saves a life, it is considered as if he saved an entire world.”

    Suzanne derived meaning from “saving a child’s life,” from having an impact on one or two students each and everyday. For Suzanne, this was her purpose.

    Second, and this was less obvious until more recently, Suzanne kept working in an attempt to continue teaching Dara and I. Although she taught lessons in the classroom she did the same at home, for both of us, her children.

    I firmly believe that Suzanne kept working in an effort to show Dara and I how strong the human will can be. How someone, no matter how ill, depressed, and down on their luck can persevere, carry on, and defy the odds.

    When someone is presented a prognosis similar to Suzanne’s it is easy, if not expected that their disease would define the rest of their life. Suzanne strived to dispute this notion, and fortunately for us, she was able to do that for a little more than two years.

    Suzanne continued teaching because she wanted to “save a child’s life” in the classroom. But she also did it to “save her children’s lives’” back at home.

    Although Suzanne has passed, her legacy lives on in Dara and I. What we have learned from that brave, strong and beautiful women over the past two and half years will not be lost.

    Suzanne taught Dara and I so much, too much, an inordinate amount about life. I learned what it means to love someone truly and genuinely. Dara learned what it feels like to take 15 items back to return at Marshalls at once. That is a life lesson only a jewish mother could provide!

    But, in all honesty and seriousness, Suzanne taught us both the little things and the big things. She provided Dara and I with a new perspective on life. And, she did it all with grace, dignity and passion. And that was, and still is a testament to the women she was.

    I have only one final note about my mom, and that is this:

    Although we all agree we have lost Suzanne too soon, we should not forget what she would want for all of us on this day. As a devoted mother and caregiver she would have two messages for us at this moment.

    First, is everyone wearing sunscreen? You need to be wearing sunscreen. Suzanne in her loving, caring and endearing way would be upset if you weren’t.

    And second, make sure you drink enough water. You can’t be dehydrated. Do you hear that, Ray? I’m pretty sure that’s Suzanne saying that right now to you.

    Truthfully though, Suzanne would want the rest of us to pass along some of the life lessons she shared with us. Whether it be wearing sunscreen, keeping hydrated, or serving someone a second helping of something they didn’t really want at the dinner table — we need to carry on those mannerisms and traditions in her memory.

    Suzanne was, and will forever be a fixture in our minds. I love you mom. Thank you for everything.