Melissa Llarena, TU'10, reflects on adaptability in the face of unexpected disruption.
BZZZZZZZZ!
The world’s loudest intercom buzz cuts through my conversation like a chainsaw. My chest erupts like a volcano.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry Max, let me just see who that is.”
I’m in the middle of interviewing Max Mendez, an Australian artist whose work captivated me from day one – koalas blowing hot pink bubble gum in gumtrees, cows wearing wellies. These cultural references were so hyperlocal I’d never heard of wellies (rain boots) or gumtrees (eucalyptus trees) before living in Sydney. Max never does podcasts, but he made an exception after I showed up at his Squidinki shop beneath the Harbour Bridge and convinced him to share his story.
It’s the Salvation Army at my door – two guys with a dolly and dusty shoes that I’ll be mopping up later. They weren’t supposed to come today.
I’m slouched on a futon – one of the last pieces of furniture I hadn’t sold yet. It was so well-used you could feel every coil and the steel bar underneath. Futons are for college kids, not families of five. Unless you’re living in a new country for a few years, of course. My laptop balances on a folding snack table. I’ve been using Gumtree to sell everything we own before our family flies back to the States with ten bags total – two pieces of luggage per person.
My apartment was emptying out, but I was determined to fill up my captured memories – to max out these final weeks in Australia. This interview matters. I’ve been capturing my life in Australia on my podcast – one chocolatier, one world champion barista, one Aboriginal mental health advocate, a creative featured in Vivid (Sydney’s creative conference akin to SXSW), the founder of The Sit (a meditations by the beach community organization). I was writing my book Fertile Imagination: Every Mom’s Superpower because I wanted to be surrounded by imaginative people with different takes on life possibilities. The irony? Laundry is the most uninspiring thing I do, and here it was threatening to derail this moment.
If the Salvation Army leaves, I’m ringing neighbors’ doors begging someone to take this machine before our flight. If Max hangs up? I would have been devastated because his art tells a story I want to keep telling long after we leave Australia.
I feel unprofessional. I respect this guy, and this looks terrible.
But then – like a reflex, faster than thought – I dare to suggest something that sounds completely insane:
“Max, I am SO sorry. Here’s my thinking: I’m going to ask you a question, and you answer it as if I’m right here listening. Then I’ll edit it so it sounds seamless. Is that okay?”
He pauses for a second.
“Alright.”
No laugh. No hesitation. He just goes for it.
“Tell me about how you and your partner co-create work,” I say, hitting mute and sprinting to deal with two men who are now turning on my washing machine.
I keep one ear on Max’s voice floating from my abandoned laptop and another on the Salvation Army guys. Max keeps talking as if I’m right there receiving every word, and I’m interjecting “aha” and “mmm-hmm” to keep his answers sounding natural. Thank goodness I have two ears and have had to use them as a twin mom – ever heard twins shout? They uniquely tend to talk over one another constantly. Maybe it’s a twin thing?
When the men finally leave with my washer, I return to the screen as Max is explaining how his own child didn’t realize his dad was famous in Australia until one of his kid’s friends spotted his artwork at Taronga Zoo.
“That’s amazing, I think that’s HILARIOUS the extent to which a parent has to show up and somehow endear their kid’s friends to get them to tell your kids that you are actually a famous artist!”
The truth is, it felt like an inside joke had happened that only Max and I knew – and now you know too.
His expression was completely natural, like we had been having a normal conversation that entire time.
Listening back to that interview today, I got emotional being reminded of that amazing moment – not just the chaos we navigated together, but hearing about Taronga Zoo, that place in Mosman where my sons learned to sail, where we’d travel on ferries just for fun. I miss Australia, but more than that, I miss engaging with an international community. There’s something about how others interpret life in different countries that fascinates me. Max was doing this in Australia and had done this in his travels too.
This moment captures everything about leadership that can’t be taught in a boardroom: reading people, adapting instantly, and trusting your instincts about who will play along when life goes sideways.
Max personifies animals and puts them in ridiculous situations for a living. He doesn’t take himself so seriously, and in that split second, I read his personality correctly. His openness to humor, to imperfection, to rolling with life’s interruptions – that’s what made this work.
Other podcast guests would have hung up. But Max? He just said “Alright” and kept going.
Leadership happens in ridiculous moments. The question isn’t whether chaos will interrupt your plans – it’s whether you’ll find a way to make them work anyway.
Melissa Llarena Tuck 2010 is a bestselling author, executive coach, and speaker who helps organizations turn disruption into opportunity. Host of the Mom Founder Imagination Hub podcast, she has interviewed leaders like Beth Comstock and GaryVee. Featured in ForbesWomen with over 4 million article views, Melissa brings more than a decade of corporate experience and 13+ years coaching executives to her speaking engagements on adaptive leadership. You can connect with Melissa on LinkedIn.
