2003–2005: I Almost Gave Up

From the day I entered the industry until 2003, I wasn’t just working to bring in clients. I was constantly improving my service standards, hoping to distinguish myself in a crowded industry.

At the time, most of my peers were focused on learning sales techniques and building large teams — both of which had their merits. But even back then, I felt those approaches alone wouldn't be enough to meet the growing demands of clients or support a more sustainable future.

I believed that client service had far more potential in our industry, even over 20 years ago. Although most of us worked in investment-focused roles, regular and meaningful communication with clients was not common practice. I saw room for improvement — and I acted on it. Gradually, I developed a higher standard of client service, one step at a time.

Just as I was quietly working and refining my approach, something unexpected happened. In March 2003, a few mysterious local infections started to appear. At first, they were isolated cases — but then entire apartment blocks and whole communities began to fall under the shadow of collective outbreaks. It wasn’t just one family. It was one building. One neighbourhood.

The virus spread quickly, and once infected, the symptoms were severe. Lives were at risk. Nobody knew what caused it. And because of that, fear spread even faster than the virus itself.

At the time, there was no concept of 'work from home.' If I wanted to prepare a client proposal, a sales presentation, or marketing materials — I had to go back to the office. But every time I stepped outside, it felt like I was gambling with death. It wasn’t just a health risk — it was a psychological one. Every train ride, every elevator button, every doorknob came with tension. I was walking through a silent battlefield, with no idea where the threat was hiding.

The streets were eerily quiet. In desperation, some restaurants began offering whole chickens for just HKD $1 to attract customers. But nothing seemed to help. The downturn was deep — and the silence was heavier than ever.

All of my clients at the time were local Hongkongers — and they felt just as low and lost as I did. Most of them had stopped working. A few still went into the office, but most simply stayed home. The heat and humidity made things worse. It was uncomfortable, tense, and frightening just to be outside. So people stayed indoors, watching and waiting — hoping things would somehow turn around.

Under those conditions, there was no reason for anyone — whether an existing client or a new prospect — to meet in person. One month passed. Then another. I remember thinking to myself: "If this continues for another month or two... what will become of my business?"

That sense of uncertainty — not knowing if tomorrow would come — hit me hard. I had always seen myself as an optimistic, forward-looking person. But even I started to wonder: Would I be forced to give this up? Was this what failure felt like? Was I being quietly eliminated?

Luckily, one day, a simple idea — the half-glass-of-water theory — changed everything for me. It reminded me that although the glass was not full, it still had something left — and that 'something' was mine to use. I began to shift from survival mode to design mode. Instead of waiting for normality to return, I started thinking: What can I build now, with what I still have? I suddenly realized: even if the glass wasn't full, it wasn’t empty either. And maybe what I had left — skills, values, resilience — was exactly what I needed to start again, differently.

From that day on, my mindset shifted.

I stopped waiting for the next friend to refer a client, the next lucky call, or the next opportunity to just land in front of me. I began asking a harder question: If no one reaches out, can I build a system that makes collaboration sustainable?

My thinking changed from "how to close the next deal" to "how to make the next deal easier."

I began observing the advisors and partners I had worked with more closely. Some handled client concerns with ease, while others consistently ran into trouble — not because they lacked potential, but because they struggled with even the basics like quotes, paperwork, or follow-up communication. Then one thought struck me: It’s not that they couldn’t do it — it’s that no one had ever given them a usable process or toolkit.

At the time, I didn’t even have the words "system design" in mind — but I was already doing it. I began creating documents, outlining workflows, building presentations, and helping partners answer client questions they didn’t know how to handle.

Much of what I created wasn’t for myself. I was preparing it for "partners who hadn’t appeared yet." I started to imagine: maybe I wasn’t just meant to be an advisor — maybe I was meant to design a platform so others could become one too.