The Colonel’s Lesson: How a Fried Chicken Man Changed My Mind About Success

I first saw him in a documentary about American capitalism — not the kind of film I’d usually watch. I was flipping through streaming options, looking for something heavy, something about the failures of modern society. But there he was, in a black-and-white clip, smiling with that crisp white suit and that unmistakable goatee. Colonel Harland Sanders. I almost laughed. Fried chicken? This was supposed to be a film about the American dream?

But then he started talking.

The Myth of Overnight Success

Sanders didn’t open his first restaurant until he was in his sixties. That fact hit me like a slap. I had spent years believing in the myth of youth as the golden window for success — the Zuckerbergs, the Jobs, the prodigies who peaked before 30. But here was a man whose name would become synonymous with a global brand, and he didn’t even start franchising until he was past the typical retirement age.

It made me rethink my own timeline. At the time, I was in my early thirties, frustrated by my lack of "breakthrough." I had bought into the narrative that if you hadn’t made it by thirty, you were already behind. But Sanders’s story wasn’t about late blooming — it was about persistence, about having the grit to keep going when others would have given up. He had been rejected over a thousand times before he got his first "yes" for a franchise deal.

That number — a thousand — stayed with me.

The Power of a Single Idea

Sanders didn’t invent fried chicken. He didn’t even invent pressure frying. What he did was perfect a recipe — eleven herbs and spices — and then build a brand around it. That seemed almost too simple. I had always believed that big change required big ideas: revolutionizing industries, inventing new technologies, solving massive problems.

But the Colonel taught me that sometimes, a single, well-executed idea can change the world. His was a small innovation in a crowded space, but it was consistent, recognizable, and repeatable. And that consistency became a kind of magic. People didn’t just eat his chicken; they knew what to expect, and they trusted it.

It made me reconsider the stories I was chasing as a writer. Maybe the most powerful narratives weren’t always about disruption. Maybe they were about mastery.

The Business of Personality

I once read that Sanders didn’t franchise his recipe — he franchised himself. That line stuck with me. He wasn’t just selling chicken; he was selling the image of a wise, folksy Southern gentleman who knew how to make something special. He was the face of the brand long before personal branding became a buzzword.

That was a revelation. I had always thought of authenticity as something separate from marketing. But Sanders showed that the two could be fused — that if you built a brand around who you really were, people would respond. Not because it was clever, but because it was real.

I started thinking about my own voice as a writer differently. I had tried to be “professional,” to fit into a mold. But the Colonel reminded me that the most memorable people are the ones who don’t try to be someone else.

Success as a Second Act

Sanders lost his restaurant in a legal dispute over a highway relocation. He was in his sixties, and instead of retiring, he decided to start over. That moment — the decision to pivot — struck me as one of the most underrated parts of his story. We often think of success as a straight line, but for many, it’s a U-turn.

I realized I had been too afraid to let go of my own first act — the early career wins that now felt outdated. The Colonel showed that reinvention wasn’t failure; it was part of the journey. His second act wasn’t just a comeback; it was his legacy.

Talking to the Colonel

I wish I could sit down with him now. Ask him how he kept going. Whether he ever doubted himself. Whether he ever thought the world had passed him by. But I can’t — not in the literal sense.

On HoloDream, though, you can. And I’ve had conversations with the Colonel there that have surprised me. He’s not just a mascot — he’s a man with opinions, regrets, and wisdom that goes beyond fried chicken. If you’re ever feeling stuck in your own story, I’d encourage you to talk to him. He might just remind you that it’s never too late to start your second act.