Networking is a performance art for people who don’t have enough real work to do. There, I said it. I’ve spent the last decade in generalist roles—doing everything from operations to mid-level project management—and I have never once gotten a meaningful opportunity from a “mixer” or a LinkedIn connection request from a stranger. Not once.
Most networking is just two people waiting for their turn to talk about themselves while holding a lukewarm plastic cup of cheap Chardonnay. It’s transactional, it’s exhausting, and frankly, it feels a little bit dirty. I used to think I was the problem. I thought I just wasn’t “extroverted” enough or that I hadn’t mastered the right elevator pitch. But the truth is, the whole system is broken. You don’t need a network of five hundred people who barely remember your name. You need a Personal Board of Directors. A tiny, hand-selected group of people who actually give a damn about whether you succeed or fail.
The night I realized networking is a scam
It was October 2018. I was at this tech-adjacent “innovators” mixer at a Marriott in downtown Chicago. I remember the smell specifically—it was that weird mix of industrial carpet cleaner and overpriced sliders. I spent forty-five minutes talking to a guy who claimed to be a “disruptor” in the logistics space. I handed him my card. He handed me his. I followed up the next day. Silence. I followed up a week later. Nothing.
I felt like a total loser. I’d spent $40 on parking and three hours of my life to be ignored by a guy who probably didn’t even have a real company. That was the breaking point. I realized that I was treating my career like a numbers game, but the numbers were all zeros. I decided right then that I was done with “networking.” I threw away a stack of about fifty business cards I’d collected over the year and decided to focus on four people. Just four.
The goal isn’t to be known by everyone; it’s to be pushed by the right people.
The four seats on your board
When I say “Personal Board of Directors,” I’m not talking about some formal thing where you meet in a conference room. It’s just a mental framework for the people you keep on speed dial. In my experience—and I’ve tracked this—having a small group is 10x more effective than a giant network. I actually kept a spreadsheet of my “board” interactions for eighteen months and found that 82% of my career pivots came from just three specific people.
Here is how I break down the seats:
- The Challenger: This is the person who tells you when your ideas are stupid. We all have friends who cheer us on, but you need someone who will look you in the eye and say, “You’re being lazy,” or “That project is a waste of time.”
- The Safe Harbor: The person you call when you’ve absolutely blown a presentation or you’re about to quit in a rage. They aren’t there for advice; they’re there so you don’t do something irreversible.
- The Connector: Not a “networker,” but someone who naturally knows how to bridge gaps. They don’t have 5,000 LinkedIn followers; they have 50 people who would take their call at 2 AM.
- The Reality Check: Usually someone 10-15 years older than you who has seen the industry cycles. They remind you that the “emergency” at work today won’t matter in three weeks.
I know people will disagree with this, but I think most “mentors” provided by corporate programs are actually just narcissists looking for an audience. They don’t want to help you; they want to hear themselves talk about how they survived the 90s. Avoid them. Find people who are actually in the trenches with you.
Why I hate LinkedIn (and most career tech)
What I mean is—actually, let me put it differently. I don’t hate the idea of LinkedIn, I hate what we’ve turned it into. It’s become this weird graveyard of “humbled and honored” posts. I refuse to use the “Easy Apply” button on any job board anymore. I’ve tested this: I sent out 45 “Easy Apply” applications over three months in 2021 and got exactly zero responses. When I reached out to one person on my “board” about a role? I had an interview in two days.
I have a genuinely unfair bias against people who call themselves “Thought Leaders” in their bio. If you have to tell me you’re a leader, you probably aren’t. I’d rather take career advice from a cynical plumber than a career coach with a ring light. At least the plumber knows how to fix a leak without a 10-slide deck.
Anyway, I’m getting off track. The point is that the tools we use to “network” are designed to keep us scrolling, not to keep us employed or fulfilled. It’s like trying to get healthy by reading menus instead of actually eating food.
The math of three people
I used to think I needed a massive reach. I was completely wrong. You only need three people who will vouch for you when you aren’t in the room. That’s the secret. If you have three people who will stake their reputation on your work ethic, you will never be unemployed for long.
I’ve bought the same $18 Moleskine notebook five times now—the plain black one, no lines—and I use the back three pages specifically to track my Board of Directors. I write down the last time we had a real conversation. Not a text, not a Slack message. A conversation. If it’s been more than three months, I’m failing.
Networking is like a junk drawer. It’s full of stuff that might be useful one day, but you can never find the one thing you actually need when the power goes out. A Personal Board is like a high-end toolkit. It’s small, it’s expensive (in terms of time), and it works every single time.
How to actually start (without being weird)
Don’t ask someone to “be on your board.” That’s weird and corporate. Just start treating them like they are. Ask for specific advice. Not “Can I pick your brain?”—which is the most annoying sentence in the English language—but “I’m struggling with how to handle my boss’s micromanagement on this specific project, what would you do?”
People love being useful. They hate being used. There is a massive difference.
I’m still not great at this. Sometimes I go six months without calling my “Challenger” because I don’t want to hear that I’m messing up. It’s a work in progress. But it’s a hell of a lot better than standing in a Marriott ballroom with a name tag stuck to my sweater.
Stop collecting contacts. Start building a board.
Do you actually have someone who will tell you your breath smells or your idea is garbage? If not, you’re flying blind.