How a Seafood Campaign Nearly Ate Me Alive

Let’s take a quick break from “Mom moments” and jump into the wild, wonderful world of early-career panic attacks. If you’re part of Gen Z or younger, buckle up—this one’s got faxes, FedEx, and enough analog tape to make your jaw drop.

So, picture me: fresh out of college, advertising degree in hand, all bright-eyed and ready to take on the world (or at least a handful of restaurant menus). I’d just made the leap from the agency side to the “corporate” life—an in-house gig at a restaurant company. I still smelled like new business cards and imposter syndrome. And then, out of nowhere, The Boss vanished.

Seriously. One day, we’re deep in the middle of a campaign to launch a brand-new seafood concept in cities across the country—TV, radio, print, the whole shebang—and the guy running it all just poofed. No two weeks’ notice. No “Hey, you got this, kid.” Just an empty swivel chair and a major campaign that was about to go off the rails.

Guess who got left holding the (seafood-scented) bag? Yup. Yours truly.

Cue existential dread. Here’s the thing: I had never worked on a TV or radio commercial. Not once. Not even in school. Sure, I’d taken the “Intro to Advertising” courses, but editing tape? Shipping commercials to stations? I was more lost than a crab in Kansas.

And let’s talk about “tapes” for a second. I know, I know—what’s a tape? - you might need to Google this. This was the era before mp4s and magical file drops. If you wanted a TV spot on air, you had to physically edit it onto a tape (like, an actual plastic rectangle that would go into a machine like a VHS player, for anyone who remembers those!) and ship it to the station. Same with radio—reel-to-reel audio tape. No “just email the file.” Nope. You prayed to the FedEx gods and hoped nothing got lost in transit. (And don’t get me started on faxes—yes, we used those too.)

This all came crashing down on a Friday. Tapes were due to stations by Monday. I had no clue what I was doing, no idea where the tapes even were, and the only thing I was confident about was that I was probably going to cry in the bathroom before this was over.

Enter: The Outside Media Buyer. I don’t remember if I reached out to her or if she just materialized like a fairy godmother, but suddenly she was there, saying, “I’ll help.” (Today, the lingo would be, “I’ve got you.” Back then, it was more like, “Let’s not get fired together.”) I was so relieved I nearly hugged her, snot and all.

She knew which production studio had the TV spots. She sweet-talked them into opening up on Saturday. Same with the radio crew (after we finished the TV edits, of course). She even met me at the studio at the crack of dawn to walk me through every step, while I tried to look like I understood what a rough cut meant.

Here’s the kicker: I didn’t even try to fake it. I straight-up told everyone I had no idea what I was doing. “Help me, please.” And you know what? They did! The editors patiently explained things. My media buyer held my hand (figuratively and maybe literally—honestly, it’s all a blur). We got through the edits, and then—plot twist—they ran out of tape. (Seriously. They didn’t have enough tape. Because analog life.)

Cue a flurry of Saturday phone calls to every studio and production buddy in town. People lent us tape. We finished. Barely. My media buyer and her team faxed urgent “please don’t hate us” notes to the stations, begging for a deadline extension. Monday morning, the tapes arrived. My coworkers and I spent the entire day stuffing FedEx envelopes like our lives depended on it. (They kind of did.)

And you know what? The campaign launched. It was a hit. Nobody died. And the seafood concept survived to see another Tuesday.

So, what’s the moral here? It’s not “fake it til you make it.” That’s never been my style. I’ve always felt like an imposter; pretending I wasn’t would’ve been a disaster. Instead, I was honest about what I didn’t know. I asked for help. I leaned on the people who actually did know what they were doing.

Here’s the secret: Most people are more than happy to help if you’re real with them. No one expects you to know everything, especially when you’re new. Vulnerability gets you further than bravado ever will. It builds trust, creates connections, and opens the door to learning from people who’ve been there, done that, and maybe even have a spare reel of tape in their trunk.

So, here’s the takeaway, especially to all the young professionals out there: Don’t be afraid to admit when you’re out of your depth. Ask questions. Seek guidance. Be open. The world is full of people who want to see you succeed—if you let them.

And if you ever need someone to stuff FedEx envelopes or hunt down vintage tape, you know who to call.