I lived for years in a small one-bedroom apartment in Chicago’s Lincoln Square, bordered by a charming courtyard, a Catholic church, and a sprawling city park.

My chain-smoking landlord had an epic mullet and scent that hung in a room long after he’d left. The Pepto-pink stairwell paint had seen better days. 

But church bells roused me every Sunday morning, and in the spring, I threw the windows open and let clouds of dirt into my apartment so I could listen to the crack of bats and cheering parents from the baseball diamonds.

And the light was amazing. (The apartment happened to be on Sunnyside Avenue.)

It was my first home. Safe. Cozy. Mine.

And then, one night, I woke to the sound of a key turning in my back door. To footsteps echoing in the dark-hushed living room. To an stranger’s silhouette in my bedroom door.

I sat bolt upright, flipped on bedside light, and yelled, “Who are you?! What are you doing here?!”

It was a man I’d never seen before who somehow had a key to the lock my nicotine-king landlord clearly hadn’t changed before I moved in. He seemed almost as startled as I was, stammering something about thinking it was someone else’s apartment.

He vanished almost as quickly as he appeared — he may even have locked the door behind him. Didn’t leave the key, of course.

And then, I was alone again. Only I wasn’t. 🌚

Hypervigilance was a constant for years after that, even after hollering at my landlord to change the locks — to no avail — and buying a heavy-duty door jammer.

And of course, as a woman it’s always on me to keep my wits about me wherever I go. To be on the lookout for threats around every corner. To make sure no one’s walking too closely behind me or stepping through courtyard gate before it locks behind me.

➡️ Family, that’s trauma. And we’ve all experienced it, whether big or small. Some get over it quickly (or say they have). For others, it hangs around and pops up in ways folks on the outside couldn’t begin to comprehend.

In this little marketing corner of the world, I believe it’s our responsibility to assume our people have been through some shit — and adjust our tactics accordingly.

How might we market that heavy-duty door jammer, for example?

🧢 Bro marketing knows I get spooked and will hard sell me on the fear of another stranger walking into my apartment — and how dead I might be if they happen to be an ax murderer instead of just a dumb regular dude-truder.

🤩 Anti-bro marketing expresses empathy for my frayed nerves, turning on the light and saying, “Yeah, dude, it’s dark and scary out there.” And grabs my hand to show me toward the calm and good night’s rest that a safer apartment might bring.

Both could lead to me buying whatever they’re selling!

But as bro takes the express route of the bruise press, anti-bro opts for the road less traveled — if a bit more winding — through trust, transparency, and relationship.

“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

Did Plato say it? (The internet sure loves to think so.) Ian Maclaren? (More likely.) Benjamin Franklin? Bono?

Doesn’t matter. Keep it in mind — in life, in business, in everything.