Why rules matter...

(And Why Arguing About Them Usually Doesn't)

Sometimes the best way to change someone's mind isn't to change it at all.

I've been thinking a lot over the last few months about rules, not the bureaucratic, soul-crushing, DMV-ish kind that make you want to set your employee handbook on fire, but the deeper question of why we need them in the first place. And more importantly, what happens when we try to convince people to follow them by doing exactly the wrong thing?

It started with a conversation I had with a former colleague at Boise State who was frustrated about vaccine hesitancy in our community. Sound familiar? She'd been getting into fights with her family and friends about politics. Big fights. Showing up with printouts from news sites and research studies, she believed that if she could just walk them through the facts, they'd finally get it. Her efforts never worked and actually made everything worse. The harder she tried to convince them, the more they shut down.

"I don't understand it," she confided in me. "The science is clear. Why won't they just listen to reason?"

I thought about the experience Adam Grant wrote about in his 2021 New York Times opinion piece The Science of Reasoning With Unreasonable People, where his stubborn friend, the one who refused to vaccinate his children, no matter how many myths Grant debunked. Grant, an organizational psychologist, eventually realized something profound. When we try to change someone's mind by preaching about why we're right and prosecuting them for being wrong, we often end up strengthening the very beliefs we're trying to change.

The Logic Bully Problem

Here's the thing about being right: it can make you insufferable.

I've been guilty of this myself more times than I care to admit. I do this all the time. Someone says something I think is completely wrong - about COVID, or politics, or even just which way to drive somewhere - and I jump in with all my evidence. I start pulling up articles on my phone, explaining why they're mistaken, basically trying to beat them over the head with facts until they give up.

Turns out that doesn't work. At all. At least not the way we think they do.

When we attack someone's position head-on, we trigger what psychologists call the "psychological immune system." Just like a vaccine inoculates the body against a virus, the act of resistance fortifies the mind against future attempts at influence. We make people more certain of their opinions, not less.

The Motivational Interviewing Alternative

There's a better way, and it comes from an unlikely source: addiction counseling.

Decades ago, psychologists working with substance abuse developed a technique called motivational interviewing. Instead of trying to force people to change, they learned to help people find their own intrinsic motivation to change. The approach is deceptively simple: ask open-ended questions, listen carefully, and hold up a mirror so people can see their own thoughts more clearly.

It's not manipulation, it's genuine curiosity about how someone thinks and what matters to them.

Grant eventually tried this approach with his vaccine-hesitant friend. Instead of asking why he opposed COVID vaccines, Grant asked how he would stop the pandemic. Instead of debating the merits of immunization, he listened for moments when his friend expressed any ambivalence, any "change talk," and gently explored it.

The breakthrough wasn't that his friend suddenly signed up for a shot. It was that he admitted his views could change, that this wasn't a "black-and-white issue." That's not nothing. That's everything.

Why Rules Actually Matter

This connects to something more profound about why we have rules in the first place. Rules aren't just arbitrary constraints imposed by killjoys who hate fun. At their best, they're collective agreements that make cooperation possible.

Think about it: every time you drive through a green light without slowing down, you're trusting that everyone else has agreed to follow the same set of rules. Every time you put money in a bank, use a credit card, or sign a contract, you're relying on systems of regulations that make complex societies function.

But here's the paradox: the more we need people to follow rules, the less effective it becomes to simply tell them to follow rules.

I recently re-learned this the hard way when I tried to convince colleagues at my new employer that a workplace policy they had implemented was overly complicated, burdensome, and failed to follow Financial Accounting Standards Board (FASB) standards. There was one colleague in particular, let's call him Dave, who seemed to take personal offense every time I brought up FASB. At first, I approached it like a prosecutor: "Dave, this is the standard. Here's the logic behind it. We did it this way at my previous employer. End of discussion."

The more I cited FASB and invoked my previous employer's institutional processes, the more creative Dave became in his resistance and explanations. "Well, our auditors approved this approach." "The previous CFO set this up for a reason." "We've been doing it this way for years without problems." "Your old company might have different circumstances." Each response felt like he was building a fortress around the status quo, brick by defensive brick.

I was ready to write Dave off as just another change management "anchor," a DMV-ish cog in the University bureaucracy threatened by the "new guy's" ideas, when a colleague suggested I actually talk with him instead of at him. So I asked Dave for a meeting (in his office, naturally) and instead of lecturing him about past history and compliance, I asked him how the university developed this procedure.

It turned out Dave wasn't anti-FASB or resistant to proper accounting standards at all. The procedure I was critiquing had been his brainchild during a particularly chaotic period when the previous CFO had left suddenly and the auditors were breathing down their necks. He'd cobbled together a solution that worked in the crisis. While he knew it wasn't perfect, it had kept the university compliant during a vulnerable time. When I kept invoking "best practices" from my previous employer, he felt like I was dismissing not just the procedure, but the context that created it and the effort he'd put into keeping things afloat.

Once I understood the history and his actual concerns about changing mid-stream, we could work together on a transition plan. Dave became one of my strongest allies in implementing the new procedures, not because I'd convinced him with FASB citations, but because he felt like his institutional knowledge and past efforts were valued in creating the solution.

The Stag Hunt Principle

Game theorists have a concept called the "Stag Hunt" that explains this beautifully. Imagine a group of hunters who can work together to catch a stag (which feeds everyone) or split off individually to catch rabbits (which will only feed themselves). If everyone cooperates, everyone benefits. But if too many people defect to chase rabbits, the whole system breaks down.

The tragedy isn't that some people are selfish; it's that when trust erodes, even well-meaning people start making choices that undermine the collective good.

Rules work when people buy into them. And people buy into them when they feel heard, understood, and respected, not lectured, shamed, or bulldozed.

This reminds me of something I know intimately as a lifelong Cubs fan: the difference between loyalty born from argument and loyalty born from love.

For decades, people have tried to convince Cubs fans to abandon their team using perfectly logical arguments. "Look at their record!" "They haven't won anything!" "You're wasting your time and money!" The more people told us the Cubs sucked, the more we'd defend them. 'This is our year!' we'd say, every single year, despite all evidence to the contrary.

But nobody becomes a Cubs fan because someone showed them a spreadsheet. You stick with the Cubs because your dad did, or because you love Wrigley, or because misery loves company. It's not a logical decision. It's about tradition, hope, community, and something ineffable that connects us to Wrigley Field, to our fathers and grandfathers, to the beautiful futility of believing that this might be the year.

You can't logic someone into, or out of, being a Cubs fan, and you can't logic someone into following a rule they don't believe in. Both require something deeper than facts; they need trust, connection, and the sense that your perspective matters.

Most diehard Cubs fans don't come from sabermetricians proving (or disproving) the talent of the team. They come from tradition, and more recently, they come from the team finally honoring what we've always believed was possible. Sometimes the best way to change someone's mind is to show them you understand why they think the way they do.

What This Looks Like in Practice

So what does this mean for those of us who care about rules, standards, and collective responsibility?

First, get curious instead of certain. Instead of asking "How can I convince them they're wrong?" try asking "What would have to be true for their position to make sense to them?"

Second, listen for ambivalence. Most people who seem completely rigid actually have some uncertainty lurking beneath the surface. Your job isn't to create that uncertainty; it's to notice it when it emerges and make space for them to explore it.

Third, focus on shared values. Most people want the same stuff you do; they just disagree on how to get there. That parent who won't vaccinate their kid? They're not trying to hurt anyone. They're scared and trying to protect their child, same as you would. The guy who won't wear a mask at work isn't necessarily being selfish - maybe he's worried about looking weak, or maybe he thinks the whole thing is overblown. Start with what you both care about, not where you disagree.

Fourth, resist the prosecutor's impulse. When someone says something you disagree with, your first instinct might be to pounce. Don't. Get curious. Ask them to say more. You might be surprised by what you learn.

The Bigger Picture

None of this means we should abandon our convictions or stop advocating for what we believe is right. It means we should get better at it.

Rules matter; they make civilization possible. But rules without buy-in become DMV-ish bureaucracy at best and authoritarianism at worst. If we want to live in a society where people choose to cooperate rather than being forced to comply, we need to get better at the delicate art of persuasion.

That starts with remembering that the person across from us is a human being with their own fears, hopes, and reasons for believing what they believe. Even when those reasons seem entirely wrong for us.

Especially then.

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The next time you find yourself wanting to logic-bully someone into agreement, try this instead: take a breath, get curious, and ask them a question you genuinely want to hear the answer to. You might not change their mind. But you might change the conversation. And sometimes, that's precisely where change begins.

"That Would Be Great"

Bridging Generations at Work with Pop Culture—and a Movie Lunch

There's a moment in every professional's life when they drop a perfectly timed pop culture reference into a meeting… and it lands with a thud. Blank stares. Polite smiles. Someone typing under the table (probably Googling what you just said). That moment happened to me for what felt like the hundredth time when I made a crack about a TPS report and "channeling my inner Lumbergh." Crickets. That's when I realized: my pop culture isn't their pop culture.

Like many professionals of my generation, I've carried certain cultural touchstones with me throughout my career. One of my most well-worn references has long been the 1999 cult classic Office Space. It's a workplace satire so spot-on, it feels like a documentary. Over the years, I've sprinkled quotes from it into emails, used it to lighten the mood in tense meetings, and joked about red staplers and smashing a temperamental printer à la the movie's infamous slo-mo baseball bat scene.

But my team, filled with bright, capable, mostly Millennial and Gen Z colleagues, often didn't follow. To them, Office Space is a vaguely familiar title, a meme source at best, not the formative workplace gospel it was for Gen X and older Millennials. They didn't know about flair. They'd never met Milton. They certainly didn't grasp the life-affirming joy of a good case of "not gonna work here anymore."

After yet another one of my Office Space references fell flat, one of my managers offered a helpful and slightly daring suggestion: why not turn one of our monthly team meetings into a lunch gathering and screen the movie? I decided it was time. We scheduled a (long) lunch hour, invited everyone to brown bag it, and turned our conference room into a makeshift movie theater. No slides, no updates, no agendas, just some popcorn, shared laughs, and 90 minutes of pure late-'90s corporate catharsis. It was a simple shift, but it created space for something we didn't know we needed: a communal pause, a cultural reset, and a little bit of fun in the middle of a workday.

And something unexpected happened.

They loved it. They laughed. They exchanged "ohhhh, now I get it" glances during scenes they'd heard me reference countless times. More importantly, it became a shared experience. We started speaking the same language, not just mine, not just theirs, but something in between. It broke down barriers. Suddenly, jokes landed. Google Chat channels lit up with GIFs of Lumbergh and his coffee mug. We even started referring to standard daily and weekly reports as "TPS" reports.

But beyond the inside jokes, it created a subtle but powerful shift. We found common ground in a place none of us expected: a 25-year-old movie about cubicle life. It sparked conversations about how workplaces have changed (and how much they haven't), what autonomy and burnout look like across generations, and how humor can be a survival tool in any era of work.

I don't expect Office Space to become a required part of onboarding. And I still make a conscious effort to engage with the pop culture that resonates with my team today (yes, I know who Olivia Rodrigo is, and no, I don't fully get TikTok). But sharing that piece of my own cultural foundation helped me show up as a more human version of "the boss." And it helped my team see me as more than just the person who schedules meetings and signs off on budgets.

A few weeks later, I decided to leave my job and try something new. But I'm glad we had that lunch. Watching everyone crack up over terrible movie quotes and argue about whether the special effects were actually good reminded me of why I liked working with these people in the first place.

If you catch yourself making some reference you think everyone will get, maybe don't assume they will. Ask if they've seen it. Better yet, watch it together sometime. You might be surprised by what you learn about each other. You might just find that a little bit of nostalgia served with popcorn can go a long way in building trust, camaraderie, and even a few inside jokes that live on long after you've moved on.

And if they still don't get it?

Well, at least you tried. And that would be grreeeeat.

Review

Office Space
directed by Mike Judge

My rating 4½ of 5 stars

In the grand pantheon of movies about work, Office Space exists in a perfect little cubicle of its own, where fluorescent lights hum, printers jam for sport, and the scent of burnt coffee hovers permanently in the breakroom. Directed by Mike Judge (yes, the Beavis and Butt-Head guy, but stay with me), this 1999 sleeper hit manages to turn the beige banality of office life into something surreal, absurd, and ultimately cathartic. The premise is simple: a burned-out programmer starts ignoring all the rules and somehow gets promoted for it. But beneath that surface-level rebellion lies a sharp, weirdly comforting look at how modern work quietly gnaws away at the soul.

Ron Livingston plays Peter Gibbons, a man so beaten down by memos, traffic, and middle management that even his therapist gives up on him (okay, technically it’s a hypnotherapist who dies mid-session, but you get the idea). I’ve liked Livingston before he ever showed up in HBO’s Band of Brothers as Captain Lewis Nixon, a performance layered with understated depth and a heavy pour of scotch. He played Nixon like a guy who’s seen too much and says too little, which, now that I think of it, isn’t a bad description of Peter Gibbons either. In Office Space, Livingston’s dry delivery and quiet exasperation make him the perfect everyman for a world where showing up five minutes late can trigger a full-scale HR intervention. He’s not flashy, and that’s exactly why he works both as a character and as a stand-in for all of us who’ve ever contemplated setting our inboxes on fire.

But the real evil in this movie isn't any person - it's the TPS report. You know, the one with the cover sheet that everyone keeps forgetting, and then eight different managers have to send you emails about it. The absurdity of this detail struck a familiar chord with me and probably will for anyone who’s spent time navigating a sea of weekly status updates, productivity dashboards, or systems that require a password change every 11 days. I once wrote about my nostalgia for green-bar paper and fixed-pitch fonts on this very blog (here, for the curious). Those old green-bar computer printouts were ugly as hell, but at least they were honest about it. Now we spend half our time making reports look pretty instead of making sure they actually say something useful. Office Space nailed that - it's not just that there's too much paperwork, it's that none of it has anything to do with getting actual work done. And when Peter decides to opt out, it feels, for a brief, glorious moment, like he’s achieved workplace nirvana.

Of course, no discussion of Office Space would be complete without Milton the stapler-obsessed, softly mumbling tragic hero played to perfection by Stephen Root. Or the Bobs, those interchangeable consultants with MBA smugness and bad intentions. Or the printer, whose ultimate fate remains one of the most satisfying acts of vigilante justice ever captured on film. Judge populates this universe with characters so exaggerated they shouldn’t feel real, but somehow do. Maybe because we’ve met them. Perhaps because we’ve been them.

Office Space bombed when it first came out, but then everybody started watching it on DVD and quoting it at work. Now you can't say the word 'flair' without someone doing that whole Jennifer Aniston voice thing. The movie came out twenty-five years ago, but I swear I've worked at that exact office. Different company names, but the same awkward meetings and bizarre office traditions that somehow make perfect sense at the time. Corporate culture has evolved (sort of), but the core truth remains: people want their work to mean something, or at the very least, not to actively erode their will to live.

In short, if you’ve ever wanted to do a slow-motion beatdown of a malfunctioning printer in a field while Still by Geto Boys plays in the background, this one’s for you.

The Transparency Tightrope: Leading with Clarity Without Losing Focus

In today’s workplace, “transparency” has become a buzzword often invoked with the best of intentions, but not always with a shared understanding. As senior managers, we’re frequently asked to walk a fine line: be open, be honest, be accessible, but also deliver results, protect strategic priorities, and maintain momentum.

But what happens when transparency is interpreted as “tell me everything, all the time”?

This is the tension many leaders face. The desire for openness can sometimes morph into a culture of over-disclosure, where colleagues expect to be looped into every decision, every nuance, every draft. And while inclusivity is vital, so is clarity of purpose.

Here’s how I think about navigating this balance:

1. Define What Transparency Is—and Isn’t

Not long ago, a few team members expressed frustration that they hadn’t been informed about a personnel change until after the action had been finalized. Their concern was rooted in a genuine desire to feel included and informed. But it also revealed a common misconception: that transparency means real-time access to every decision as it unfolds.

I reflected on that moment a lot. The truth is, there are times when we simply can’t share everything, especially when it involves sensitive personnel matters. Transparency doesn’t mean violating confidentiality or prematurely disclosing decisions that are still in motion. It means sharing what we can, when we can, with honesty and context.

This tension is often amplified by generational expectations. For example, younger colleagues raised in an era of open-source collaboration and instant updates may expect a level of visibility that feels excessive to more seasoned professionals who were trained to compartmentalize information until it’s fully baked. Neither perspective is wrong, but they do require calibration.

Transparency, in this sense, is not about omniscience; it’s about trust. It’s about ensuring that when we do communicate, it’s with clarity, purpose, and respect for all involved.

2. Anchor Communication in Purpose

When we communicate, we should ask: What does this person need to know to do their job well? Not: What do I know that I haven’t shared yet? This shift keeps transparency aligned with action.

I remember a time when we rolled out a new reporting tool. A Gen Z analyst asked why they hadn’t been included in the early planning meetings. Meanwhile, a Gen X team lead said, “Just tell me when it’s live.” Same project, different expectations. We realized we needed to clarify not just what we were doing, but why certain people were involved at different stages.

Purpose-driven communication helped us bridge that gap. We didn’t need to loop everyone into every meeting; we just needed to explain the roadmap and how each role fit into it.

3. Use Transparency to Build Trust, Not Noise

Trust grows when people feel informed, not overwhelmed. That means being honest about challenges, clear about direction, and intentional about what’s shared. Oversharing can dilute focus and create confusion.

This is especially important in multigenerational teams. Millennials may interpret silence as secrecy, while Boomers may see constant updates as a distraction. The goal is to build a rhythm of communication that respects both preferences.

A few years ago, we tried a “radical transparency” experiment by opening up all project dashboards to the entire department. Within weeks, we were fielding questions about line items that had nothing to do with most people’s work. It created anxiety, not alignment.

We learned that transparency without context is just noise. Now, we focus on curating what’s shared, providing the right level of detail for the right audience. That’s what builds trust.

4. Create Channels, Not Floodgates

Structured updates, regular check-ins, and accessible documentation can satisfy the need for visibility without turning every conversation into a town hall. Transparency thrives in systems, not in spontaneity alone.

During a cross-generational team project, we noticed that our younger staff preferred real-time updates in Teams, while others wanted a weekly summary email. We ended up creating a shared OneNote with key decisions and action items, updated weekly, and linked in both formats.

It wasn’t flashy, but it worked. Everyone had access to the same information, in the way they preferred to consume it. That’s the kind of channel-building that supports sustainable transparency.

And those systems should be flexible enough to meet people where they are. A Gen Z team member might prefer a shared dashboard or real-time doc, while a Gen X colleague might appreciate a weekly digest. The medium matters as much as the message.

5. Model the Balance

As leaders, we set the tone. When we’re thoughtful about what we share and when we teach others to do the same. We show that transparency is a tool, not a trap.

I once had a direct report who was hesitant to hold back information, fearing it would be seen as secretive. We talked about the difference between being transparent and being indiscriminate. I shared how I decide what to communicate: Is it actionable? Is it timely? Is it respectful of others?

That conversation helped them find their own balance, and it reminded me that modeling transparency isn’t just about what we say. It’s about how we think.

In the end, transparency isn’t about knowing everything. It’s about knowing enough to move forward together with empathy, intention, and respect for the diverse ways our colleagues process information.

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 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 a 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, coaches like David, and researchers like Grant, may 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.

When Quiet Leadership Wins: A Management Parable from the Pandemic

There's a certain irony in discovering that your greatest leadership strength emerges during a global crisis that sends everyone else into isolation. But that's exactly what happened to me during the COVID-19 pandemic, a time when my natural introversion, disguised for years behind the extroverted demands of advancement work, finally became a professional asset rather than something to overcome.

When Caltech announced that most staff would work from home indefinitely in March 2020, I found myself in an unusual position: I was one of the few people who genuinely wanted to keep coming to the office. Not because I was eager to risk exposure, but because someone needed to be there. The Development office couldn't just go dark. Gifts still needed processing, deposits had to be made, and our suddenly remote workforce needed technical support to function from their kitchen tables and makeshift home offices.

As a manager, I faced a choice that would define not just my leadership style, but my understanding of what authentic leadership actually looks like.

The Anti-Hero's Journey

Most leadership stories follow a predictable arc: the reluctant hero discovers hidden courage, rallies the troops, and emerges transformed. My pandemic story is different. It's about an introvert who spent years performing extroversion, finally finding a crisis that rewarded authenticity over performance.

You see, advancement work, fundraising, donor relations, and event management are built for extroverts. Or at least, those disciplines reward people who can convincingly play one. For years, I'd forced myself into that mold, powering through donor dinners, schmoozing at cocktail receptions, and maintaining the kind of constant "on" energy that successful fundraising demands. I was good at it, but it was exhausting. I'd joke that I was "socially distant" long before the pandemic made it fashionable, but the truth was deeper: I did my best thinking, my most creative problem-solving, and my most genuine relationship-building in quieter, more intimate settings.

When the pandemic hit, suddenly everyone was discovering what introverts had always known: that meaningful work could happen in smaller groups, that technology could facilitate connection without requiring constant physical presence, and that sometimes the most productive thing you can do is give people space to think.

But someone still needed to be present for the work that couldn't go remote.

The Reluctant Office Guardian

The decision to keep coming in wasn't dramatic or heroic. It was practical, and it was right. Our gift processing couldn't stop; donors were still making contributions, and in fact, some were increasing their giving in response to the crisis. The university's financial stability depended on maintaining those relationships and processing those gifts promptly. Beyond that, our suddenly remote team needed technical support, equipment, and someone who could coordinate between the physical office and the digital workspace everyone was scrambling to create.

I could have asked one of my staff to take on this responsibility. After all, as a manager, delegating is part of the job. But something about that felt fundamentally wrong. How could I ask someone else to take on the risk and isolation of being one of the few people on a nearly empty campus while I worked safely from home? If the work was essential, and it was, then I needed to be there to do it.

This wasn't heroism. It was basic management ethics: don't ask your team to do something you're not willing to do yourself.

Enter the Four-Legged Co-Worker

The decision to bring Ace, my Schnauzer/Scottish Terrier mix, wasn't entirely planned. California's shelter-in-place orders meant that suddenly everyone was home with their pets, while I was spending long days in an eerily quiet office building. Ace had always been my companion during work-from-home days, so it seemed natural to extend that arrangement to the office.

What I didn't anticipate was how much his presence would matter not just to me, but to the few colleagues who were also coming in and, eventually, to the team members who started venturing back to campus as restrictions began to lift.

Ace became the office therapy dog without any formal training or certification. Colleagues who were starting to feel stir-crazy at home would email to ask if they could come in and take him for a walk around Pasadena. These weren't just casual strolls; they were genuine mental health breaks for people who had been isolated in their homes for weeks or months, desperately craving not just physical activity but the simple comfort of interacting with a friendly, uncomplicated creature who was just happy to see them.

For an extroverted-introvert like me, Ace was the perfect icebreaker. People would stop by my office to pet him, and in those moments, real conversations would happen, not the forced networking chatter of pre-pandemic office life, but genuine check-ins about how people were coping, what they needed, and how we could support each other through an unprecedented situation.

The Introvert's Advantage

Here's what I learned during those long, quiet months in the office: sometimes the best leadership happens in the spaces between the big moments. While everyone else was adapting to Zoom fatigue and trying to recreate their extroverted work styles in a digital format, I was discovering that my natural preference for one-on-one conversations, my comfort with silence, and my ability to focus for long periods without constant stimulation were exactly what the moment required.

The few of us who were regularly on campus developed a different kind of team dynamic. Without the usual office buzz and constant interruptions, our interactions became more intentional, more focused. When someone stopped by to walk Ace, we'd end up having the kind of substantive conversation about work challenges, family stress, and pandemic anxieties that rarely happens in the rush of normal office life.

I realized that I'd been trying to lead like an extrovert for years, rallying teams through high-energy meetings, maintaining constant communication, and always being "on" for my staff. But the pandemic created space for a different kind of leadership: steady presence, thoughtful response, and the kind of quiet reliability that introverts often excel at but rarely get credit for.

The Management Parable

Every good parable has a lesson that transcends its specific circumstances, and the lesson of my pandemic experience isn't really about working through COVID-19. It's about authenticity in leadership and the dangerous assumption that there's only one way to lead effectively.

For too many years, I'd operated under the belief that good managers needed to be perpetually energetic, constantly communicating, and always "available" in ways that felt natural to extroverts but exhausting to introverts. The pandemic forced me to question that assumption, and what I discovered was that my team didn't need me to be someone I wasn't. They needed me to be genuinely present, reliably supportive, and authentically myself.

When colleagues came to walk Ace, they weren't looking for a pep talk or a motivational speech. They were looking for connection, for someone who could listen without judgment, and for a brief escape from the intensity of everything happening in the world. My willingness to simply be there, physically present in the office, emotionally available for whatever they needed, and comfortable with the kind of unstructured interaction that often makes extroverts uncomfortable, turned out to be exactly what people needed.

The Ripple Effect of Authentic Leadership

The most surprising outcome of my pandemic leadership style wasn't how it affected my team's productivity (though that remained strong) or even their morale (which, considering the circumstances, was remarkably good). It was how it changed my understanding of what management could look like when it aligned with rather than fought against my natural temperament.

I stopped trying to manufacture energy I didn't feel. Instead, I offered the kind of steady, reliable presence that came naturally to me. I stopped forcing constant communication and instead made myself available for the kind of deeper, less frequent conversations that actually moved projects forward. I stopped treating my introversion as a professional liability and started recognizing it as a leadership asset, especially in times of crisis when people need stability more than enthusiasm.

The result was a kind of leadership that felt sustainable in a way my previous approach never had. More importantly, it was leadership that my team could trust because it was genuinely me, not a performance of what I thought a manager should be.

Lessons for the Post-Pandemic World

As organizations continue to grapple with hybrid work models and the lasting changes COVID-19 brought to workplace culture, my pandemic experience offers a few lessons that extend beyond crisis management:

Authentic leadership is more effective than performed leadership. Your team doesn't need you to be someone you're not. They need you to be reliably, genuinely yourself, especially when everything else feels uncertain.

Different situations call for different leadership styles. The high-energy, constantly communicating approach that works in some contexts can be exhausting and counterproductive in others. Sometimes the most powerful thing a leader can do is create space for others to think, process, and respond at their own pace.

Small gestures can have big impacts. Ace's walks around Pasadena weren't solving the pandemic, but they were providing real mental health support for people who desperately needed it. Never underestimate the power of simple presence and availability.

Crisis reveals authentic character. The pandemic stripped away a lot of the usual performance aspects of professional life and forced everyone to figure out what really mattered. For leaders, it was an opportunity to discover whether their management style was genuinely effective or just well-rehearsed.

The Quiet Revolution

My pandemic experience taught me that some of the most effective leadership happens quietly, in the spaces between dramatic moments, through consistent presence rather than grand gestures. It taught me that authenticity isn't just a nice-to-have in leadership; it's essential, especially when people are scared, stressed, or struggling to adapt to unprecedented circumstances.

Most importantly, it taught me that being an introvert in a field designed for extroverts doesn't mean I need to become someone else to be effective. It means I need to understand how my natural strengths can serve my team and my organization, especially when the usual playbook doesn't apply.

The pandemic was a crisis that revealed what really mattered: not the ability to work a room or deliver inspiring speeches, but the willingness to show up consistently, to listen more than you talk, and to create the kind of environment where people feel supported enough to do their best work even when everything else feels uncertain.

And sometimes, apparently, it helps to have a friendly dog around to remind everyone that not all problems require complex solutions; sometimes they just require a walk around the block and someone who's genuinely happy to see you.

The quiet leaders, the ones who lead through presence rather than performance, through consistency rather than charisma, often find their moment during crises when authenticity matters more than energy. The pandemic was my moment, and Ace was my inadvertent co-teacher in the lesson that sometimes the most powerful leadership tool is simply being genuinely, reliably yourself.

Mole Day and Celebrating Science

Celebrating Science Geekdom and Nearly Two Decades at Caltech

Caltech Mole Day Celebration

October 23rd—10/23—is Mole Day, that wonderfully nerdy holiday celebrating Avogadro's number: 6.022 × 10²³, a cornerstone of chemistry that lets us count particles by the mole, and a perfect excuse for science geeks to throw themed parties, bake atom-shaped cookies, or just revel in atomic enthusiasm. For most people, it's just another Tuesday in late October. But for chemistry enthusiasts and science geeks everywhere, it's a day to embrace the beautiful precision of the molecular world. And after 16 years at the California Institute of Technology, I can honestly say there's no better place to celebrate your inner science nerd than on a campus where casual elevator conversations about quantum mechanics are completely normal. Especially in a year shaped by isolation and uncertainty, that shared love of science felt more grounding and more necessary than ever.

Where Being a Science Geek Actually Pays Off

At Caltech, intellectual curiosity isn't just tolerated, it's the currency of daily life. You might find yourself in an elevator with someone casually discussing their latest paper on gravitational waves, or overhearing a lunch conversation about the finer points of Mars geology. It's the kind of environment where Mole Day isn't just acknowledged with a passing nod; it's genuinely celebrated by people who get excited about things like molecular constants and stoichiometric calculations.

JPL's Mission Control facility

One of the unexpected perks of working at Caltech was the connection to NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory. Since Caltech manages JPL, I had incredible opportunities to visit the Lab and indulge the space science geek that's been hiding inside me since childhood. Walking through JPL's halls, seeing actual mission control rooms where engineers communicate with spacecraft millions of miles away, witnessing the hardware that would eventually travel to Mars or Saturn, it was like stepping into the future I'd dreamed about as a kid watching Star Trek.

These weren't just guided tours for VIP visitors. They were genuine glimpses into humanity's greatest adventures, tangible reminders that the theoretical physics discussed in Caltech classrooms eventually becomes the technology that explores our solar system. Standing in those rooms, I couldn't help but think about all the science fiction I'd consumed over the years and realize: this is how we actually get there.

Some of my favorite experiences were bringing my children to share in the wonder of these scientific environments. During "Take Your Daughters to Work Day" at Caltech, Faith and Kailey got to visit actual research labs and help scientists make ice cream with liquid nitrogen, pure magic for kids who thought science was just textbooks and homework. But perhaps even more memorable was bringing my son Teddy to JPL's open house, where we saw Mars landers being constructed and talked to scientists who were actively searching for exoplanets. Watching his eyes light up as researchers explained how they detect worlds orbiting distant stars reminded me of why I fell in love with science in the first place. There's something special about sharing your workplace with your children when that workplace happens to be connected to missions exploring the solar system and pushing the boundaries of human knowledge. Even if they didn't all end up pursuing STEM careers, those visits planted seeds of curiosity and showed them that science isn't just theory, it's adventure, discovery, and the relentless pursuit of answers to the biggest questions we can imagine.

When Hollywood Comes to Campus

During my time at Caltech, the campus became something of a magnet for Hollywood productions. It seemed like there was always a film crew somewhere, drawn by our authentic scientific atmosphere and those iconic academic buildings that just scream, "serious research happens here."

I got to witness some of the filming for both Numb3rs and Young Sheldon shows that, in their own ways, tried to bring scientific thinking to mainstream television. Watching the Young Sheldon crew work was particularly fascinating, knowing that the show's series finale would bring young Sheldon Cooper to Caltech as a graduate student. The attention to detail was remarkable. Those whiteboards covered in equations weren't just random scribbles but real physics, carefully vetted by actual Caltech physicists. It was Hollywood magic meeting scientific rigor, and seeing that process unfold was absolutely captivating.

Numb3rs brought a different energy to campus, showcasing how mathematical thinking could solve real-world problems. As someone immersed in the Caltech environment, it was thrilling to see mathematics portrayed as the exciting, dynamic field it really is, rather than the dry subject many people remember from high school algebra.

I even had my own brief brush with science television when I was selected for a "man on the street" interview for a cable science show. The irony? Because I could actually explain gravitational waves coherently, they didn't use my footage. Apparently, they were looking for one of those "gotcha" moments where random people fumble through complex scientific concepts. Still, I got to be part of the process and witness how science communication works from behind the scenes, a reminder that sometimes being scientifically literate works against you in the entertainment world.

Meeting My Science Heroes

But perhaps the most humbling aspect of my Caltech experience was the opportunity to meet and work alongside scientific legends. These encounters went far beyond what any science geek could reasonably hope for.

Having actual working meetings with luminaries like Kip Thorne, the theoretical physicist whose work on gravitational waves eventually earned him the Nobel Prize, was both intimidating and exhilarating. Here was someone whose research literally opened a new way of observing the universe, and I'm sitting in his office discussing fundraising strategy with him.

Voyager's Golden Record

One of my most personally meaningful encounters was getting to work with Ed Stone, a Caltech faculty member, former JPL director, and mission scientist for the Voyager project. As a kid, I was absolutely enthralled by the Voyager flybys of the outer planets, those stunning images of Jupiter's Great Red Spot, Saturn's rings, and the mysterious moons of the gas giants. They sparked my lifelong fascination with space science. Meeting Dr. Stone was like meeting one of my childhood heroes. In my work, I had the privilege of helping establish a scholarship that bears his name, and he came to my office several times during that process. Here was the man whose vision and leadership had given us those incredible cosmic postcards that inspired an entire generation of science nerds.

I also had the remarkable opportunity to meet Gordon Moore, the Caltech alum who co-founded Intel and whose famous "Moore's Law" predicted the exponential growth of computing power. Dr. Moore was always thoughtful and genuine in our interactions, mostly revolving around his annual philanthropic gifts to the Institute, and I was tickled that he remembered my name from year to year. One moment I'll never forget: holding a one-million-share Intel stock certificate in my hands while helping facilitate some of his philanthropy. The weight of that piece of paper, representing not just enormous financial value, but the legacy of innovation that built the modern computer age, was absolutely surreal.

These weren't just brief handshakes at formal events. These were real conversations, working meetings, moments where you could pick the brain of someone who had literally reshaped our understanding of the universe or revolutionized entire industries. Each brought their own infectious passion: Kip Thorne's enthusiasm for the theoretical beauty of physics, Ed Stone's wonder at cosmic exploration, Gordon Moore's vision for technological progress. Their ability to make the most complex concepts feel accessible and exciting reminded me of why I fell in love with science in the first place.

The Real Magic of Scientific Thinking

As we celebrate Mole Day, I'm reminded that the best part of being surrounded by scientific thinking isn't just the knowledge itself, it's the mindset. It's the curiosity that drives you to ask "what if?" and "why?" It's the collaborative spirit that brings together brilliant minds from different disciplines. It's the willingness to get genuinely excited about something as wonderfully specific as a number that helps us understand the fundamental building blocks of matter.

Caltech's Millikan Library (and my office)

That mindset felt especially vital in 2020. As I walked back to my office after a routine COVID-19 screening test, I was struck by how quiet and empty the Caltech campus had become. The vibrant intellectual buzz, the impromptu hallway debates about quantum mechanics, the packed lecture halls, and the bustling labs had been replaced by a pandemic-induced stillness. But even in the silence, science was at the center of our lives. It was science that helped us understand the virus, science that guided public health responses, and science that ultimately delivered the vaccines.

Reflecting on my experiences at Caltech, from holding Gordon Moore's Intel stock certificate to walking through JPL's mission control rooms, from meeting the visionary behind Voyager to watching Hollywood try to capture scientific authenticity, I'm struck by a common thread: science isn't just about understanding the world; it's about transforming it.

Ed Stone's Voyager missions didn't just teach us about Jupiter's moons; they fundamentally changed how humanity sees itself in the cosmos. Gordon Moore's insights didn't just predict technological growth; they enabled the digital revolution. Kip Thorne's gravitational wave research didn't just confirm Einstein's theories; it opened an entirely new window for observing the universe.

And in the face of a global pandemic, science once again proved its power not just through discovery, but through real-world action that saved lives.

The study of science matters because it's how we push beyond the boundaries of what we think is possible. Every equation on those Hollywood whiteboards, every conversation in a Caltech hallway, every moment spent geeking out over Avogadro's number, these aren't just intellectual exercises. They're the building blocks of innovation, the foundation of progress, and the source of solutions to challenges we haven't even imagined yet.

Whether you're calculating moles in a chemistry lab, pondering the mathematics behind gravitational waves, or simply marveling at the elegant patterns in nature, you're participating in humanity's greatest ongoing adventure: understanding our universe and our place in it.

So here's to Mole Day, to Avogadro's number, and to all the science nerds out there who understand that some of the most beautiful truths in the universe can be expressed in equations, constants, and the simple joy of discovery. After 16 years surrounded by people who dedicate their lives to pushing the frontiers of knowledge and during a year when science helped us confront a once-in-a-century crisis, I’ve learned this: the world needs more people who will unapologetically geek out over the profound mysteries that make life and the universe so astonishingly beautiful.

Happy Mole Day, everyone! May your calculations be accurate, your vaccines effective, and your sense of wonder never fade.

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 were 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. Those team members who 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.