On our drive up to Stanley Lake a few weeks ago, Rachel’s sister introduced us to a new podcast, StartUp, which tells the story of one man’s efforts to start his own podcasting company. It’s an entertaining and informative account, and I’ve really enjoyed learning from the entrepreneur’s mistakes, second-hand.
In one episode, the entrepreneur recounted a meeting with a potential investor who asked a penetrating question: “What’s your unfair advantage?”‘
As a law student, this question hit me with all the force of a cinder block crashing through a greenhouse window. After all, my situation is strikingly similar to that of your standard entrepreneur—I quit my job and took a risk that could just as easily end in disaster as in triumph. Maybe more easily.
I have several fair advantages. I’m an interdisciplinarian by training. I paid off my undergraduate loans and saved a significant amount of money before entering law school. I have real-world business experience. My father’s an attorney, so I have fewer unrealistic expectations. I’m a decent writer, even compared to other law students. I served a mission where I developed leadership skills and discipline.
So what’s my unfair advantage?
She is such an unfair advantage. While I’m in class, care to guess who’s hard at work financing this risky venture? Rachel. When I’m off studying offensive non-mutual collateral estoppel, want to know who’s running the errands that keep our household afloat? Rachel. While I’m interviewing, testing, and filling out endless applications, who do you think is balancing our books and making delicious baked goods? Rachel. When I’m in a cloudy disposition and don’t want to talk, you know who flies over and seeds those clouds (or sometimes just lets the storm drizzle out)? Rachel.
Rachel is my unfair advantage because there is only one of her in this entire world and she’s on my team. Precious few law students have an equivalent.
What’s your unfair advantage in your risky venture?