He turned his chair around.

Twenty minutes I almost didn't have time for.

A couple weeks ago I was in Kona with Nym. We do this a few times a year. Two desks set up on his lanai, side by side, ocean out in front of us, and we just work. Sixteen hours a day, both of us heads down, barely saying anything to each other. It photographs like a vacation. It isn't one.

At some point on one of those days I looked over and started venting. The raise, the spend, the trough, whatever was sitting on top that day. I don't remember where I started.

And he stopped. Closed his laptop, turned his chair, looked at me.

Said something like, man, I'm really sorry you're going through this. I'm here for you. If you want to just vent I've got time, I'll listen. If you want to battle plan it and go find solutions I'll do that too. Whatever you need. I just want you to know I'm here and I'm sorry.

I've been at this sprint four years. Partners, clients, a team, a whole guild of operators I see every month.

I don't think anyone's ever said that to me.

The part I keep coming back to is that he gave me two doors and let me pick. Vent or solve. Nobody does that. I don't do that. Somebody brings me a problem and I'm three moves into the fix before they finish the sentence, because that's the muscle, that's literally what people pay me for. He didn't. He asked which one I needed.

On paper that conversation was the dumbest use of time in my whole quarter.

I run my calendar hard. I rank everything. Highest and best use, all day. And by that math, twenty minutes where nobody solves anything and the whole output is a guy saying sorry you're going through this should be the first thing I cut.

It's been the most useful thing I've done all year.

Here's what happens when I don't do it. I pace. I run every solution I've already run, again. I don't sleep. I'm up at three working a problem I worked at eleven and I'm not any closer.

I've ended up in tears more than a few times in this sprint. Not something I usually say out loud.

And the guy who comes out of that night is worse at his job the next day. That's the actual cost.

So the twenty minutes isn't the soft thing you do instead of working. It's the thing that lets you go back and work.

This gets lonely, and it gets lonelier right when it goes bad, which is most of the time. Nobody warns you about that part. You've got a team you can't dump on, a wife who's already carrying plenty of it, investors who need you calm. So you hold it. And then you tell yourself holding it is the job.

Half the people I talk to can't solve my problem anyway. They've just been where I am. Some of them have real answers. Most of them say some version of that sounds hard. Works either way, and I've stopped trying to explain why on a spreadsheet.

Two things I'd do with this.

Pick one person who's actually been where you are and tell them what's really going on. Not the update. The real version.

And when somebody brings you theirs, do what Nym did. Ask which one they need before you start solving.

Businesses come and go. People are forever.

I've been saying that for years. Didn't understand it until somebody turned their chair around.

Most owners I know don't have anybody who's been where they are. They've got a team, a spouse, and a bunch of people who need them to look fine. That's most of what Owners Club actually is. A room full of operators who've been in your exact week. Come see it at owners.club.