What a misstep on a remote farm in Myanmar taught me about leadership, listening, and last-mile sales The Morning That Felt Different It was the kind of morning I’ve come to know well in rural Myanmar’s dry zone—quiet, golden, and already heavy with heat. The overnight bus from Yangon had dropped me in Magway at 4 a.m. The streets were still asleep, save for the occasional trishaw gliding past. I rented a small motorbike, found a local tea shop that was just beginning to stir, and waited for the first light with a cup of sweet, thick Burmese tea. I’d done this countless times—early field visits that began in silence and dust, long before any office opened. But this visit felt different. I wasn’t here to just observe or support. I was here to quietly assess one of our most promising team leads. Meet “Spiky Head” Everyone on the team called him Spiky Head —a nickname earned as much for his wild, uncombed hair as for his sharp, unfiltered energy. He had outsold everyone in the regi...
From Profit to Purpose: The Ride That Rewired My Career
Real stories of growth, grit, and leadership from Myanmar’s frontier markets
The Photo That Says Everything
There’s a photo I keep going back to.
I’m on a motorbike, dressed like I’m heading into a meeting—button-up shirt, clean trousers, polished office shoes. But I’m not in an office. I’m stuck in knee-deep mud, somewhere on a half-formed road in Kantbalu Township, Shwebo. The sky is overcast. It had stopped raining just enough that morning to let us ride out. We made it to Kalalu village after an hour of slippery trails.
But on the way back, the rain returned. The road vanished. It took us more than three hours of dragging and pushing the motorbike just to get back to the main road.
It was my first field trip with a new organization—one focused not on profit, but on people. On farmers, soil health, and livelihoods. I didn’t even know how to dress for this world yet.
The World I Came From
Before that muddy road, I spent over a decade in profit-first industries: liquor, FMCG, construction, trading, government tenders. I rose from a sales rep to executive director. My life was comfortable. I traveled in style. I stayed at high-end hotels, ate in top restaurants, and negotiated in boardrooms, not villages.
In the liquor industry—one of Myanmar’s most cutthroat—I thrived. Mistakes could cost millions, so only the sharpest survived. I helped launch products that are still on supermarket shelves today. We even exported to Japan. Every time I applied my skills, sales rose.
Myanmar consumes at least 4 million gallons of liquor per month. Even in remote villages without restaurants, liquor shops stand out with colorful vinyl banners. It’s a fiercely competitive market. With multiple New Years (Chinese, English, Karen, and Thingyan) and constant celebrations, there were endless opportunities for creative promotions. If you had the skills, you could create an endless income stream.
And I had the skills.
The Cracks Begin to Show
But slowly, unease crept in.One day, I read a crime report: a father sent his 8-year-old son to buy liquor. The boy slipped, the bottle broke. In a fit of rage, the father beat his son to death.
I had just become a father myself. That story hit me hard.
Was it my liquor?
The question haunted me. The void in my chest grew each day. Eventually, I made a decision: I would no longer use my skills to sell poison. From then on, my work would contribute to something better.
Choosing a Different Path
I began searching for roles in NGOs and social enterprises. I wasn’t sure where I fit in yet—but I knew what I didn’t want.
That trip to Kalalu was my first as National Sales Director at a social enterprise focused on agriculture and rural communities.
A Grandmother’s Struggle
When we finally reached the village, we visited the first house we saw. A grandmother welcomed us in. Six kids were playing in the yard. She told us they were her grandchildren. Their parents had gone abroad and hadn’t contacted them for months.
She had a 0.20-acre betel leaf farm. Half of it had already died. The rest wasn’t far behind.
“If the other half dies,” she said, “I won’t have anything left to feed them.”
The field manager beside me quietly promised, “We’ll help. The rest won’t die.”
Right there, he gave instructions to the field reps—adjust the soil, fix the drainage, add the right inputs, follow up consistently.
Four months later, I visited again.
The Work That Followed
Her farm was green. The plants had bounced back. The other half hadn’t died. The kids were still there—but now, their grandmother had something to hold onto.
That moment rewired something inside me. It gave me the anchor I was searching for.
I stayed with that organization for five and a half years. When I eventually launched my own company, I carried that anchor with me.
Now, the clients I choose to work with are the ones creating real impact—especially in last-mile communities, where people are too often overlooked.
Closing Reflection
Not all turning points come with loud applause.
Sometimes they come quietly—on a muddy road, beside a dying crop, through a promise that was kept.
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