When She Started Calling My Name
Over the past few weeks, I’ve been sharing a series of reflections.
First, about when the rivers started calling my name.
Then, about when Lewis & Clark did.
This one is different.
This one is about when she did.
Not all at once.
Not in a way I recognized at the time.
But quietly… steadily… over time.
What started as work became friendship.
What felt like friendship slowly became something more.
And somewhere along the way, without either of us fully realizing it…
it had already begun.
If you’ve ever had a relationship in your life that didn’t arrive with clarity—but revealed itself gradually—you may recognize something of your own story here.
------------------------------
The rivers called first.
Then Lewis and Clark.
But somewhere along the way, another voice started calling my name.
Not all at once.
Not in a way I recognized at the time.
It started with a phone call.
Carmen and I first spoke on February 7, 1995—my thirty-seventh birthday.
I was a software developer for a consulting company and one of the firm’s top COBOL programmers. When the recruiters were hiring a new consultant, I would often be asked to do a technical interview and give my thumbs-up (or thumbs-down). That afternoon, my phone rang, and a new voice was on the other end.
She introduced herself as Carmen Hillenburg.
“Are you available for a technical interview this evening?” she asked.
“No, I really can’t. It’s my birthday, and I’ll be home with my wife and two sons,” I laughed. “I could do it tomorrow evening if that works.”
“Tomorrow should work,” she said. “Oh—and happy birthday!”
Over the next few months, I did several interviews for her. During one of those calls, she asked if I was attending the spring company meeting and told me to find her and introduce myself.
Two weeks later, I walked into the Marott ballroom—late, as usual. One of my teammates spotted me.
“Hey, Jeff, someone here wants to meet you.”
As he turned, Carmen stepped forward, introduced herself, and confidently shook my hand.
She was stunningly beautiful.
I probably mumbled something brilliant like, “Nice to meet you,” and quickly looked away.
We crossed paths a few more times after that, and then I heard she had left the company.
Time flowed forward.
About a year later, my desk phone rang.
“Hi, I don’t know if you remember me, but this is Carmen Hillenburg.”
Ah gee, let me see—gorgeous blonde, long slender legs, piercing blue eyes, and a smile that could light up the city skyline…
Nah, I don’t think I remember her.
“Yes, of course I remember you.”
“Well,” she said, “you always struck me as someone who doesn’t always play by the rules…”
That was a curious opening line.
“I have a favor to ask.”
She had transitioned into business development at another consulting company and wanted help getting in the door. Of course I said yes.
Not long after that, my own career shifted. I took a full-time role with my client and inherited a struggling project that needed to be turned around.
During my first few days, I made two life-changing phone calls.
The first was to the consulting firm I was replacing, letting them know their contract was being terminated.
The second was to Carmen.
“Hey, I need some resources for my team.”
“Oh, that’s great! I can meet you next Wednesday and we can—”
“No,” I said. “You don’t understand. I just fired my entire team. I need people tomorrow.”
Over the next few months—and years—we built one of the most incredible teams I’ve ever been part of. Everyone cared for each other… genuinely cared.
That caring started with Carmen.
She nurtured her people, her clients, her relationships. Her team would do anything for her—and for me.
We didn’t know it yet, but the roots of our shared adventure were already taking hold.
Long before the first campsite, the first landmark, or the first historic speech…
we had already built something extraordinary.
But at the time, it didn’t feel like the beginning of anything.
It felt like work.
And then… it felt like friendship.
Our business relationship gave way to something quieter and more enduring.
We started swapping stories—life slipping in alongside work.
That’s when I learned her dad had died not long after we met… and while he was still in the hospital, her husband filed for divorce.
Around the same time, my own marriage of twenty-two years was coming apart in very public, very unglamorous ways. I moved into a dim efficiency on the east side and tried to begin again.
She was dating.
I was dating.
We were both just… figuring it out.
My friends kept saying, “You should ask Carmen out.”
“No,” I’d say. “She’s a friend. And I’m her client. Complicated.”
Her friends told her the same thing.
Same answer.
Then one day, over a routine lunch, she looked at me and said,
“Would you like to go out… like, on a date?”
“I’m dating someone,” I said. “It’s getting serious.”
She tried to hide the discomfort.
I missed the signal.
Life overlapped awkwardly after that—mutual parties, relationships that came and went, moments that probably should have told us something… but didn’t.
Still, we were friends.
When I bought a canoe, she tossed me her Jeep keys without hesitation.
The chorus kept coming.
“You should date Carmen.”
“You should date Jeff.”
No.
We were friends.
It was easy.
Why risk it?
That fall, I took her to Rick’s Boatyard for her birthday.
The waiter called it a “very romantic table.”
In perfect unison:
“Oh no—we’re just friends.”
Weeks later, after a movie at her house, I asked,
“So… when did we start dating?”
She giggled.
“About two months ago, silly.”
Sometimes the most important shifts in our lives don’t announce themselves.
They don’t arrive with certainty or clarity.
They unfold quietly… in conversations, in laughter, in moments we almost miss.
The rivers called first.
Then Lewis and Clark.
But somewhere along the way…
she did too.
If you’ve been following along, this is the third piece of a story that’s been unfolding here.
It started with the rivers.
Then Lewis and Clark.
First, about when the rivers started calling my name.
Then, about when Lewis & Clark did.
This one is different.
This one is about when she did.
Not all at once.
Not in a way I recognized at the time.
But quietly… steadily… over time.
What started as work became friendship.
What felt like friendship slowly became something more.
And somewhere along the way, without either of us fully realizing it…
it had already begun.
If you’ve ever had a relationship in your life that didn’t arrive with clarity—but revealed itself gradually—you may recognize something of your own story here.
------------------------------
The rivers called first.
Then Lewis and Clark.
But somewhere along the way, another voice started calling my name.
Not all at once.
Not in a way I recognized at the time.
It started with a phone call.
Carmen and I first spoke on February 7, 1995—my thirty-seventh birthday.
I was a software developer for a consulting company and one of the firm’s top COBOL programmers. When the recruiters were hiring a new consultant, I would often be asked to do a technical interview and give my thumbs-up (or thumbs-down). That afternoon, my phone rang, and a new voice was on the other end.
She introduced herself as Carmen Hillenburg.
“Are you available for a technical interview this evening?” she asked.
“No, I really can’t. It’s my birthday, and I’ll be home with my wife and two sons,” I laughed. “I could do it tomorrow evening if that works.”
“Tomorrow should work,” she said. “Oh—and happy birthday!”
Over the next few months, I did several interviews for her. During one of those calls, she asked if I was attending the spring company meeting and told me to find her and introduce myself.
Two weeks later, I walked into the Marott ballroom—late, as usual. One of my teammates spotted me.
“Hey, Jeff, someone here wants to meet you.”
As he turned, Carmen stepped forward, introduced herself, and confidently shook my hand.
She was stunningly beautiful.
I probably mumbled something brilliant like, “Nice to meet you,” and quickly looked away.
We crossed paths a few more times after that, and then I heard she had left the company.
Time flowed forward.
About a year later, my desk phone rang.
“Hi, I don’t know if you remember me, but this is Carmen Hillenburg.”
Ah gee, let me see—gorgeous blonde, long slender legs, piercing blue eyes, and a smile that could light up the city skyline…
Nah, I don’t think I remember her.
“Yes, of course I remember you.”
“Well,” she said, “you always struck me as someone who doesn’t always play by the rules…”
That was a curious opening line.
“I have a favor to ask.”
She had transitioned into business development at another consulting company and wanted help getting in the door. Of course I said yes.
Not long after that, my own career shifted. I took a full-time role with my client and inherited a struggling project that needed to be turned around.
During my first few days, I made two life-changing phone calls.
The first was to the consulting firm I was replacing, letting them know their contract was being terminated.
The second was to Carmen.
“Hey, I need some resources for my team.”
“Oh, that’s great! I can meet you next Wednesday and we can—”
“No,” I said. “You don’t understand. I just fired my entire team. I need people tomorrow.”
Over the next few months—and years—we built one of the most incredible teams I’ve ever been part of. Everyone cared for each other… genuinely cared.
That caring started with Carmen.
She nurtured her people, her clients, her relationships. Her team would do anything for her—and for me.
We didn’t know it yet, but the roots of our shared adventure were already taking hold.
Long before the first campsite, the first landmark, or the first historic speech…
we had already built something extraordinary.
But at the time, it didn’t feel like the beginning of anything.
It felt like work.
And then… it felt like friendship.
Our business relationship gave way to something quieter and more enduring.
We started swapping stories—life slipping in alongside work.
That’s when I learned her dad had died not long after we met… and while he was still in the hospital, her husband filed for divorce.
Around the same time, my own marriage of twenty-two years was coming apart in very public, very unglamorous ways. I moved into a dim efficiency on the east side and tried to begin again.
She was dating.
I was dating.
We were both just… figuring it out.
My friends kept saying, “You should ask Carmen out.”
“No,” I’d say. “She’s a friend. And I’m her client. Complicated.”
Her friends told her the same thing.
Same answer.
Then one day, over a routine lunch, she looked at me and said,
“Would you like to go out… like, on a date?”
“I’m dating someone,” I said. “It’s getting serious.”
She tried to hide the discomfort.
I missed the signal.
Life overlapped awkwardly after that—mutual parties, relationships that came and went, moments that probably should have told us something… but didn’t.
Still, we were friends.
When I bought a canoe, she tossed me her Jeep keys without hesitation.
The chorus kept coming.
“You should date Carmen.”
“You should date Jeff.”
No.
We were friends.
It was easy.
Why risk it?
That fall, I took her to Rick’s Boatyard for her birthday.
The waiter called it a “very romantic table.”
In perfect unison:
“Oh no—we’re just friends.”
Weeks later, after a movie at her house, I asked,
“So… when did we start dating?”
She giggled.
“About two months ago, silly.”
Sometimes the most important shifts in our lives don’t announce themselves.
They don’t arrive with certainty or clarity.
They unfold quietly… in conversations, in laughter, in moments we almost miss.
The rivers called first.
Then Lewis and Clark.
But somewhere along the way…
she did too.
If you’ve been following along, this is the third piece of a story that’s been unfolding here.
It started with the rivers.
Then Lewis and Clark.
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