Dear Managers: You're in Sales, Whether You Know It or Not

When I hear the word sales, I picture someone I’ve never wanted to be.

The used car guy. The loud extrovert who works a room, wins people over, walks away with a deal. Someone selling something you’re not even sure you want. Of course, not everyone who works in sales fits that image, but, I don’t know, blame Hollywood. That image has always felt distant from who I am.

I’m more comfortable in the background — building things, solving problems, staying quiet until I’ve figured it out. So for a long time, I didn’t think sales had anything to do with me.

But over the years — through corner stores, startups, and now engineering leadership — I’ve realized something simple but true:

If you care about what you build, you’re already in sales.

You just might not call it that yet.

I grew up visiting corner stores. My uncles ran one, and I spent a lot of time behind the counter. We didn’t use inventory software. We didn’t have systems.

We had opened Marlboro cigarette cartons.

We’d restock the fridge, then rip a flap off a carton and scribble down whatever was missing. That was inventory management. We didn’t need tech to run the business. Looking back, I know it would’ve made things faster, smarter, more scalable.

So when I joined a point-of-sale startup years later, I felt like I was building something for people I understood. Store owners. Operators. Hustlers who made it work with what they had. People like my uncles.

I didn’t think of it as sales. I thought of it as solving a problem. Helping people who reminded me of home.

But that belief was only the beginning.

I eventually became COO of the company, working side by side with the CEO. By then, we had strong product opinions — and a shrinking customer base.

We had a lot of confidence. But customers had other plans. They were leaving. The features we were proud of weren’t solving the problems they actually cared about. We had no reason to be more expensive than Square card readers.

So we had to shift.

We stopped assuming and started asking. I spent time talking to store owners who ran 10 or 15 stores, hired constantly, managed cash flow by hand, dealt with theft, churn, pricing — all of it.

They didn’t want dashboards. They wanted things to stop breaking. They wanted to know their margins. They wanted time back.

And when you talked to them long enough, you realized:

They weren’t rejecting your product. They just didn’t see how it helped.

I started to understand what real selling looked like.

It wasn’t pitching. It was listening. It was starting from the customer’s world — not your own — and slowly earning the right to show them a way forward.

I don’t usually raise my voice in public. But one winter, I had to.

Radio City Uniform

In college, I took a temp job as a photographer at Radio City Music Hall. During intermission at the Rockettes’ show, families could take pictures with Santa Claus. My job was simple: stand by the Santa backdrop and take photos of anyone who came over.

But folks barely came by.

The room was loud. Crowded. Santa was tucked into a corner. Most people didn’t even know he was there. And there I was, standing still with a camera, waiting.

After ten minutes of watching time pass and smiles go uncaptured, something kicked in.

I started yelling: “Santa Claus here! Come get your picture with Santa!”

It was awkward. Not me at all. But the line started to form. Kids pulled their parents over. The photos started rolling. We went from invisible to essential, just because someone raised their voice.

Sometimes, selling is just making people aware of something they already want.

That moment also taught me something about teams. I didn’t yell because I loved the attention. I yelled because we were all there to do a job. And when things weren’t moving, I felt a responsibility to help set the tone.

Now, as an engineering manager, I see it everywhere.

I’m selling to candidates — trying to help them see why our company is worth their time.

I’m selling to my team — when I talk about the roadmap, or the why behind an initiative.

I’m selling to stakeholders — when I advocate for headcount or tooling or process changes.

I’m selling our work — when I make sure the team gets credit for what they’ve done.

If you take ownership of something, you’ll have to sell it.

Not in a pitch-deck way. Not with slides or pressure. But with clarity. With intent. With a quiet sense of “this matters, and here’s why.”

Because if you don’t, the thing you care about quietly dies. It loses priority. It gets misunderstood. It becomes invisible.

And that’s not just a management problem. That’s a human one.

I still don’t love selling. But I no longer avoid it.

Because I’ve seen what happens when you don’t show people the value of your work. They walk right past it. Not because they don’t care — but because they don’t see it.

Selling is how you help them see it.

And it only really works when you believe in what you’re doing.

When I was selling point-of-sale systems, I believed in what we built because I could picture my uncles using it. I knew how much easier their lives could have been with better tools — how much time, money, and stress they could have saved. That belief gave me something real to stand behind.

And just like that day at Radio City, when I raised my voice so kids could find Santa and light up with surprise, I wanted our product to offer that same kind of unexpected delight — something that made people’s lives just a little bit better, even if they didn’t know to ask for it.

Now, at Modern Treasury, I anchor myself in something similar:

People are getting their paychecks through our platform. They’re sending money for their first home. They’re running companies you know and love. That’s not abstract to me. That’s real. That’s worth standing behind.

If you care about your work, and you want it to matter, you will have to sell it.

That doesn’t mean pretending. It doesn’t mean performance.

It just means helping people see what you already know to be true.

The difference between something ignored and something embraced is often just one person — quietly, confidently — raising their hand and saying: “This matters.”

So say it. Even if it’s awkward.

Disclaimer: The views expressed in this post are my own and do not necessarily reflect those of my employer