When I was 15, in 8th grade, I got into a fight on the school bus - but to be real, it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t do anything wrong. Twenty-five years later, I still claim innocence.
Every school bus ride to school, I got on at the same spot and sat my big ass in the same seat - the last seat on the bus - so I could torment all the people following us and stand guard. I had my Discman pumping out Wu-Tang, Fugees, and Junior M.A.F.I.A., sitting there in my 3× oversized discount-rack SouthPole T-shirt, dark black Boss jeans, and an old Jansport book bag that had been passed down through generations of Salvation Army all-stars.
Then one morning, I hopped on at the bus stop at the same stop as this kid Rob Scott. Before I got to my seat, he walks ahead of me on the bus, looks me dead in the eye, walks back to my seat and rubs his open-air butt cheek on my seat - full contact, pure disrespect - and then casually strolls back to his own seat like nothing happened.
Fifteen-year-old me wasn’t exactly known for emotional restraint. I saw red. I walked up, tapped him on the shoulder, and uncorked a massive haymaker in the back of his head.
Mini brawl ensues. Bus chaos. The school bus driver has a panic attack and pulls the bus over.
And that’s literally the end of me ever riding the school-bus.
Next, my mom gets the magical call from the school with an explanation that “Steve almost crashed the bus by getting into a brawl.”
Somehow, my mom convinced the school to let me both keep attending and also furthermore still get access to school transportation. (I’d get formally kicked out of that school later - great story for another day.)
The school principal then communicates to my mom, in her most professional tone, “ Steve will be banished to the tart cart and will ride to school in the magic van” (Well she didn’t exactly say “tart cart” but that’s what all the kids called it.)
Now, at a lower income New Jersey middle school, the tart cart was infamous. It was the van for kids with Down syndrome and other disabilities - and I was the only kid who would end up riding on that little magical vehicle who didn’t have Down syndrome.
Now I was quite an easy target to be made fun of - “look at that fat kid on the tart cart.”
At first, I was pissed off at the world. Like, why the fuck am I on the tart cart? I wanted to fight more, to prove I didn’t belong there. But then I realized… I just had to own it.
This was my reality now - for this school year, I was officially one of the tarts on the tart cart and damn proud of it. I really got to both liking and connecting with these kids with disabilities. My heart hurt for them to live normal lives.
(Obviously, in 2025 nobody’s getting away with calling it “tart cart”, but back then, that’s what it was called. It was cruel, it was dumb, and it was middle school.)
There was such a deep connection on that magical van filled with empathy, I knew deep down what it was like to not fully connect with people and be judged. I understood that feeling of being different, even if I couldn’t explain it back then.
So every morning, there I was: 15-year-old Steve, stepping off the tart cart in front of the entire school, rocking my hand-me-down SouthPole and Boss fit, trying to act unfazed while hoping no one saw me through the tinted windows.
Truth is, I was probably always one of them - a kid who grew up and hung out somewhere on the spectrum. Impulsive, hyper, weirdly intense about everything I cared about. I wasn’t above it. I was it.
And honestly? I was proud of it.
Fast-forward years later, running MuteSix.
We’d lose clients - sometimes big ones. There were weeks we didn’t know if we’d make payroll. Most people panic in those moments. But not me.
That pain, that embarrassment, that constant fight to belong — it became my edge.
Pain drives relentless pursuit.
It builds resilience.
It gives you a quiet confidence no course or mentor can teach.
And now to today, living in this AI era - where no one truly knows where the world is headed - I get it. We’re all a little lost.
We’re all imposters pretending we understand where technology is taking us.
But deep down, we’re all just trying to forge real connections, create meaning, and grow - to overcome our daily challenges and the limiting thoughts that keep us stuck.
The big takeaway: Don’t be afraid to be both uncomfortable and vulnerable in business.
Whether it’s a new job, a new company, or a new chapter in your life - the greatest growth always comes from discomfort. The moments that make you squirm are the ones that shape you. Everyone has a tart cart moment.
It’s the ride that humbles you, embarrasses you, and in the end… makes you bulletproof.
