The Physics of Finite Attention: What My Boss Taught Me About Sacred No's

There's a sentence that changed the trajectory of my career, though I didn't realize it at the time. It came from the last good boss I had at Caltech, Marianne Haggerty. She delivered the message during what I thought was a routine conversation about competing priorities. But Marianne never forgot that she said it to me—in fact, she had to repeat it to me several times as I kept making the same mistake, saying yes to colleagues' requests for favors that pulled me away from the strategic work we'd mapped out together.

"When you say yes to someone, you are saying no to me."

Eight words. Patient repetition. Profound implications.

What Marianne was teaching me had a name, though neither of us knew it at the time. Years later, I'd discover that organizational psychologist Adam Grant had been researching the exact principle she'd been patiently drilling into me: that productivity isn't about time management—it's about attention management. As Grant puts it, focusing on time management "just makes us more aware of how many of those hours we waste" (Grant, 2019). What matters instead is learning to "prioritize the people and projects that matter" (Grant, 2019).

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Back then, I was just a guy who couldn't say no to a favor.

The Architecture of Ordinary Moments

I've spent many hours over the years thinking about how small actions accumulate into organizational culture—how my Friday donut runs at Caltech became institutional memory, how consistent small gestures build trust that survives major disruptions. But this moment was different. This wasn't about building culture through repetition. This was about how a single reframe can fundamentally alter someone's decision-making apparatus.

Marianne wasn't trying to be profound. She was trying to teach me something I kept failing to learn: that when long-time colleagues asked for favors—help with projects outside normal processes, quick fixes that would only take "a few minutes"—I needed to consider what I was abandoning rather than defaulting to helpfulness. Every commitment, she was showing me, exists in relationship to other commitments. Attention isn't just finite—it's relationally finite.

The architecture of those repeated conversations has proven remarkably durable. Each time Marianne had to remind me of this principle, she was building a framework that would eventually become automatic. What started as a lesson I kept forgetting became the foundation for how I approach everything from email responses to strategic planning.

It's exactly what John Wooden meant about little details making big things happen. Not because the detail itself was earth-shattering, but because it provided a structural principle that would inform thousands of subsequent decisions.

Beyond the Eisenhower Matrix

I've written before about the Eisenhower Decision Matrix and how it helped me navigate competing priorities throughout my career. But my boss's insight added a dimension that the traditional urgent/important framework misses entirely: the relational physics of finite attention.

The Eisenhower Matrix is brilliant for categorizing tasks, but it doesn't address the emotional and political reality that every yes creates a disappointed no somewhere else in the system. It assumes that good priority-setting is primarily about personal productivity rather than organizational loyalty.

What I didn't understand then was that Marianne was teaching me about what Patrick Lencioni calls "First Team" loyalty (Lencioni, 2002). Your first team isn't the people you manage or the colleagues who ask for favors—it's the leadership team you're part of. Every time I said yes to a colleague's request outside our strategic plan, I was demonstrating that my loyalty lay with being helpful rather than being strategically aligned.

Grant's research would later validate what I was learning the hard way: that productivity struggles aren't usually about efficiency—they're about motivation (Grant, 2019). When colleagues asked for favors, I wasn't just bad at time management. I was saying yes for the wrong reasons, relying on willpower to push through competing demands instead of being naturally pulled toward what mattered most.

The sacred no isn't about being difficult or uncooperative. It's about what Lencioni calls "commitment"—one of the core behaviors of functional teams (Lencioni, 2002). When Marianne and I agreed on strategic priorities, I needed to commit to those decisions even when more appealing opportunities arose. My pattern of saying yes to colleague favors was actually what Lencioni identifies as "artificial harmony"—avoiding the discomfort of disappointing people in the moment, which ultimately undermined the larger commitments I'd made (Lencioni, 2002).

The Physics Are Unforgiving

What Marianne helped me understand—and what Grant's research validates—is that attention operates under laws as predictable as physics (Grant, 2019). The favors I kept agreeing to seemed harmless in isolation, but they created a pattern where my strategic work suffered while I solved everyone else's urgent problems.

This isn't time management—it's what Grant calls attention economics (Grant, 2019). And like any economic system, it works best when the underlying scarcity is acknowledged rather than ignored. Time, after all, is fixed. But attention? That can be managed strategically.

Grant's insight about timing adds another crucial dimension to this framework. As he puts it, "It's not about time; it's about timing" (Grant, 2019). You might spend the same amount of time on tasks even after rearranging your schedule. The difference is that you're "noticing the order of tasks that works for you and adjusting accordingly" (Grant, 2019).

I've watched too many well-intentioned colleagues burn out trying to violate these basic laws. They say yes to everyone, thinking they're being helpful, not realizing they're creating a system where no one gets their full attention. They mistake responsiveness for responsibility, availability for competence.

The physics are unforgiving. You can redistribute attention, but you can't manufacture it. You can be strategic about where you focus, but you can't focus everywhere simultaneously. Understanding this doesn't make you selfish—it makes you honest about the trade-offs inherent in any finite system.

When I started applying this framework to my own management style, it changed how I talked to my teams about competing demands. Instead of pretending we could do everything, we started having explicit conversations about attention allocation. Instead of promising the impossible, we started making conscious choices about whose priorities would take precedence when conflicts emerged.

The result wasn't that we disappointed more people—it was that we disappointed them more strategically, with advance notice and clear reasoning. We created what Lencioni calls "healthy conflict" around priority-setting rather than avoiding those conversations and letting competing demands create passive-aggressive dysfunction (Lencioni, 2002).

People can handle not being the priority if they understand why and when they might be again. More importantly, teams function better when everyone understands what the first team's commitments actually are, rather than trying to guess based on who's getting attention day-to-day.

What We Pass Down Without Realizing

Here's what humbles me about those repeated conversations: Marianne knew exactly what she was doing. She wasn't just managing immediate priorities—she was patiently building a framework that would serve me for decades. Each time she had to remind me about the physics of finite attention, she was making a deliberate investment in my development as a leader.

In many ways, Marianne was teaching me what Grant describes as the essence of sustainable productivity: shifting from external pressure to internal motivation (Grant, 2019). The end goal wasn't becoming more efficient—it was becoming more intentional.

But Marianne also recognized that I needed more than just her repeated reminders. She encouraged me to work with an executive coach—someone who could help me develop the self-awareness to understand why I kept falling into the same patterns. That's how I found David Samuels at DLS Partners, whose focus on helping leaders become genuinely authentic gave me the tools to finally internalize what Marianne had been teaching me.

That's how inheritance works in organizational life. The casual comments, the throwaway observations, the small moments of clarity—these often have more lasting impact than formal training or intentional mentoring. We're all inheriting frameworks from conversations we barely remember, and we're all bequeathing them through interactions we think are routine.

Working with David helped me understand the deeper psychological patterns beneath my surface behaviors. Through our coaching sessions, I began to see how my people-pleasing tendencies and conflict avoidance were actually preventing me from showing up as my complete, conscious self at work.

Now, when I hear myself repeating that phrase to my own teams—"When you say yes to someone, you are saying no to me"—I'm conscious that I'm not just managing current priorities. I'm potentially shaping how they'll think about attention and loyalty for the rest of their careers.

David's approach helped me see that Marianne's framework wasn't about creating rigid hierarchy—it was about conscious choice-making. The goal wasn't to become someone who says no reflexively, but to become someone who says yes and no intentionally, with full awareness of the implications.

The Details That Build Big Things

Looking back, I can trace a direct line from that eight-word sentence to some of the most important decisions I've made—career moves, team structures, even how I approach parenting. The principle that every yes requires a corresponding no has become central to how I think about stewardship, whether I'm managing a database conversion project or helping my children understand why they can't participate in every activity that interests them.

Grant's research helps explain why this framework has been so durable: it's grounded in intrinsic motivation rather than external pressure (Grant, 2019). When I learned to ask "If I say yes to this, what am I saying no to that matters more?" I wasn't just managing my time better—I was aligning my attention with my values. As Grant puts it, this approach means "you'll be naturally pulled into it by intrinsic motivation" rather than having to rely on willpower to push through (Grant, 2019).

It's helped me be more honest about trade-offs, more strategic about commitments, and more comfortable with the inherent limitations that make prioritization necessary in the first place. Most importantly, it's taught me that good leadership often requires disappointing the right people at the right time for the right reasons—not out of callousness, but out of commitment to the decisions you've made with your first team.

This is what John Wooden understood about details: they matter not because they're intrinsically important, but because they create frameworks that guide countless future decisions. A coach's attention to fundamentals shapes how players approach the game long after they leave the team. A boss's casual comment about priorities influences how someone thinks about loyalty and stewardship for decades.

The Ripple Effect of Ordinary Wisdom

I wonder sometimes about the conversations my own teams will remember twenty years from now. Which throwaway comments will become foundational principles? Which casual interactions will shape how they approach leadership when it's their turn?

Perhaps they'll remember the distinction between time management and attention management. Perhaps they'll understand, as Grant suggests, that attention management "leads to improved productivity, but it's about much more than checking things off a to-do list" (Thomas, 2019, as cited in Grant, 2019). Maybe they'll carry forward the insight that sustainable productivity isn't about doing more—it's about doing what matters most, for the right reasons, with full attention.

The responsibility is both humbling and energizing. Every interaction is potentially architectural—not just of current relationships, but of future frameworks that will outlive any specific workplace or project.

My boss's insight about the physics of finite attention has become something I consciously choose to pass forward, not just as a management technique but as a way of thinking about stewardship and accountability. It's my contribution to the ongoing conversation about how we can be honest about limitations while still striving for excellence.

What David taught me was that this framework only works when it's grounded in authentic self-awareness rather than people-pleasing disguised as conscientiousness. His emphasis on developing leaders who combine genuine empathy with the courage to make difficult decisions helped me understand that saying no isn't a failure of compassion—it's often the most compassionate thing you can do for everyone involved, including the person making the request.

Because in the end, the little details that make big things happen aren't just about efficiency or productivity. They're about the frameworks we inherit, adapt, and pass forward—one ordinary conversation at a time.

The physics of finite attention can't be changed, but they can be understood. And understanding them—with the help of insights from leaders like Marianne and researchers like Grant—might just be the little detail that makes the big difference.

The physics of finite attention can't be changed, but they can be understood. And understanding them—with the help of insights from leaders like Marianne, coaches like David, and researchers like Grant—might just be the little detail that makes the big difference.

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References

Grant, A. (2019, March 28). Productivity isn't about time management. It's about attention management. The New York Times. https:// www.nytimes.com/2019/03/28/smarter-living/productivity-isnt-about-time- management-its-about-attention-management.html

Lencioni, P. (2002). The five dysfunctions of a team: A leadership fable. Jossey-Bass.

Thomas, M. (2019). Attention management: How to create success and gain productivity—every day. McGraw Hill.

The Sweet Tradition: Five Years of Donuts and the Unexpected Power of Showing Up

Sometimes the smallest gestures create the most lasting traditions.

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It started with a box of donuts and a team that needed to remember they weren't alone.

A "standard" Friday box.

June 6th, 2014 was National Donut Day, and our CRM conversion team was drowning. These were the "back of the shop" folks—the ones who kept our systems running while the rest of us went about our daily work, blissfully unaware of the digital architecture holding everything together. They'd been pulling long hours on what felt like an impossible project, dealing with frustrated internal clients, and facing technical challenges that seemed to multiply faster than they could solve them.

The mood in those basement offices was heavy. You could feel it when you walked by—the weight of stress, the quiet frustration, the sense that they were fighting a losing battle. I'd worked with some of these people for years. I knew how good they were, how much they cared about getting things right. But here they were, toiling away on critical infrastructure that everyone depended on, yet somehow invisible to the broader organization. The irony wasn't lost on me: the people keeping our entire operation running were the ones feeling most forgotten.

That morning, I made a decision that would unknowingly become part of our office DNA for the next five years. I stopped by Foster's Family Donuts in La Crescenta—a small neighborhood shop that had become a regular stop along my commute to work. These weren't mass-produced donuts from a chain; they were the kind of fresh, made-that-morning pastries that only a true family bakery can produce. I brought in a few dozen for the team.

It wasn't a grand gesture or a calculated management strategy—it was simply a recognition that these people deserved to know their work mattered, that someone saw the long hours and appreciated the sacrifice. And if I was going to make that gesture, it should be with donuts that were as thoughtful as the intention behind them.

The History Behind the Gesture

National Donut Day has roots that run deeper than most realize. Created in 1938 by the Chicago Salvation Army, the holiday honored the "Donut Lassies"—brave women who served donuts and coffee to soldiers during World War I. These volunteers worked close to the front lines, often in dangerous conditions, bringing comfort food to troops who were far from home and facing unimaginable challenges.

The parallel wasn't lost on me. Here was our own team, working in their own kind of trenches, dealing with the pressure of a massive system overhaul while everyone else depended on them to keep things running. Those Salvation Army volunteers understood something fundamental about leadership that transcends military conflict: sometimes the most powerful support comes not in grand gestures, but in simple acts of recognition. A warm donut. A moment of connection. The acknowledgment that someone sees your struggle and values your contribution enough to show up for you.

This wasn't about the food itself—it was about visibility. About making the invisible work visible, even if just for a moment.

What Happened Next

The response surprised me. What I'd intended as a simple morale boost became something more—a moment of genuine recognition in the middle of chaos. People lingered in the break room longer than usual. Conversations started flowing between team members who'd been heads-down at their keyboards for weeks. Someone cracked a joke. Someone else shared a breakthrough they'd had the night before.

For the first time in months, the team felt seen. And feeling seen, they began to feel like a team again.

The database conversion was still challenging. The technical hurdles remained formidable. The internal clients were still impatient. But something fundamental had shifted. There was a sense of camaraderie that hadn't been there before—and more importantly, a recognition that their work mattered not just to the project, but to the people around them. They weren't just fixing systems; they were the guardians of our institutional memory, the architects of our future efficiency.

When One Day Became Every Friday

Foster's on Foothill Boulevard
in La Crescenta, CA

The following Friday, I found myself back at Foster's. Not because it was a holiday this time, but because I'd seen what a small gesture could do. The team's response was immediate and enthusiastic—and they specifically commented on how good these donuts were compared to the usual office fare. Word began to spread beyond our database group to other departments. People started asking if I'd be going to Foster's again for "donut Friday"—it had become "a thing."

What began as a one-time act of support for a struggling team evolved into a weekly tradition that started defining our Development and Institute Relations (DIR) office culture. Foster's Family Donuts became our unofficial bakery partner, though they never knew it. Fridays became something people looked forward to. New employees learned about "donut Friday" during their first week—and quickly developed preferences for Foster's glazed old-fashioned or their surprisingly perfect raised chocolate donuts. The tradition grew beyond the original database team—now staff from multiple floors and different departments within DIR make their way to our break room for their Friday morning "fix."

I kept bringing the donuts, week after week, because I could see what it meant. Not just the sugar and caffeine—though those helped—but the ritual of gathering, the informal conversations that happened over glazed and chocolate frosted, the way it created space for connection in the middle of busy workdays. And yes, the quality mattered. Foster's donuts had that fresh, made-with-care taste that reminded everyone this wasn't just about convenience—it was about doing something thoughtfully.

The Ripple Effect

Over the years, I've watched this simple tradition create ripples far beyond what I ever expected. Team members from different departments began mixing during Friday morning donut breaks, leading to cross-functional collaborations that might never have happened otherwise. New hires found their footing faster, welcomed into conversations and inside jokes over coffee and pastries.

The tradition has morphed in wonderful ways. We've expanded beyond just donuts to include bagels some weeks, accommodating different tastes and dietary preferences. People have gotten comfortable making special requests—someone might mention they're craving an apple fritter, or ask if I could pick up those cinnamon sugar ones that Foster's makes so well. These little requests have become my informal barometer for reading the team's mood and stress levels. When someone specifically asks for comfort food, I know they're dealing with something challenging. When the requests get more adventurous—"Could you get some of those maple bacon ones Foster's had last week?"—I can sense the team is feeling confident and playful.

Foster's became such a fixture in our office culture that when well-meaning colleagues would occasionally bring donuts from Winchell's or Krispy Kreme, people would politely partake but inevitably comment on how much they missed "the Foster's quality." It became a running joke—and a testament to how even small details matter when you're trying to show people they're valued.

The tradition has become so embedded in our DIR culture that when I'm out of the office—vacation, travel, whatever—someone else automatically steps up to make the donut run. It's not assigned or mandated; it just happens. People understand instinctively that Friday morning isn't quite right without that gathering, that moment of sweetness and connection to start the weekend. The tradition has become bigger than any one person because the principle behind it—recognizing and valuing each other's contributions—has become part of who we are.

The CRM conversion project? We completed it successfully, though not without its struggles. That team that had been drowning found their rhythm, supported not just by technical expertise but by a sense of belonging and appreciation. Many of those team members are still with Caltech today, and they often reference those difficult months not just as a professional challenge overcome, but as the time when our department culture really took shape around the idea that everyone's work matters, especially the work that often goes unnoticed.

More Than Sugar and Caffeine

Looking back, National Donut Day 2014 taught me something important about leadership and recognition. Sometimes the most powerful gestures are the simplest ones—not because they're easy, but because they cut straight to what people need most: to know that their contributions are seen and valued.

In any organization, there are people doing essential work that rarely gets acknowledged. The folks who keep the lights on, who maintain the systems, who solve the problems that others don't even know exist. They're often the most competent and least recognized members of any team. The lesson of that struggling CRM conversion team wasn't about donuts or morale boosting—it was about learning to see the invisible work and finding ways to make those contributions visible.

The Salvation Army's Donut Lassies understood this during World War I. They knew that acknowledgment and comfort could provide hope in the darkest times. In our own small way, our Friday tradition carried forward that same spirit—using food as a vehicle for recognition, connection, and community.

I think about those World War I volunteers often when I'm standing in line at Foster's on Friday mornings. Their work was obviously more dangerous, more consequential than mine. But the impulse was the same: the recognition that people doing hard work need to know they're not alone, that their efforts are seen and valued, and that someone is willing to show up for them, consistently, with the best you can offer—not just the most convenient.

A Sweet Legacy

As I write this on National Donut Day 2019, the tradition continues. Five years and hundreds of Fridays later, those weekly donut runs have become part of who we are as a department. New team members quickly learn that around here, we believe in marking small victories, supporting each other through challenges, and never underestimating the power of showing up with something sweet to share.

What strikes me most is how the tradition has become self-sustaining. It's no longer dependent on my initiative alone—it's become part of our collective identity. When I return from time away, people eagerly fill me in on who covered the donut run, what varieties they chose, and which new person got initiated into our Friday morning ritual.

The database conversion team that started it all has long since moved on to new projects and new challenges. But the culture they helped create—one donut at a time—remains. It serves as a reminder that building strong teams isn't always about formal programs or grand initiatives. Sometimes it's as simple as showing up with a box of donuts and saying, "I see the hard work you're doing, and I appreciate it."

Every National Donut Day, I'm reminded of how a single moment of thoughtfulness can grow into something lasting. And every Friday, as I watch colleagues from across DIR gather in our break room, sharing stories and sugar in equal measure, I'm grateful for that struggling database team from 2014 who taught me that sometimes the smallest gestures create the biggest impact.

The tradition started with a team that needed to know they weren't forgotten. It continues because we've learned that recognition—real recognition—isn't something you save for annual reviews or formal ceremonies. It's something you practice weekly, with intention and consistency, especially for the people whose work makes everyone else's possible.

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What started as support for an overlooked team became a cornerstone of our company culture. Sometimes the best leadership lessons come not from business books, but from the simple recognition that everyone deserves to feel valued—especially those whose contributions often go unnoticed.