I had a meeting Monday morning with a guy who runs an entire division. He gave me the first hour of his week. The part of the calendar you protect, if you have any sense, because it sets the tone for everything after it.

And the whole time we talked, he never once looked at his phone.

I didn't think much of it in the room. It got to me later, driving away, because I know what that hour was worth to him. He had other things to do, probably more important things to do. I just never felt them. For that hour, there was nowhere else he needed to be.

And that's when I realized I'd felt this exact thing before, from the person who does it better than anyone I've ever met.

What Lori Does

My wife, Lori, won me over fast.

I've always said she's the most caring person I've ever met, which is true but doesn't actually explain anything. Caring is one of those words we reach for when we know how someone makes us feel but haven't bothered to investigate the machinery.

I think I finally understand the machinery. When Lori is with you, you don't feel like you're taking time away from something else. You feel like there's nowhere else.

Her parents are the same way. I used to think they made me feel important because they asked questions about my life. Monday made me realize it was never the questions. Anybody can ask questions. It was the absence of the clock.

And now for the embarrassing part.

I've criticized Lori for this exact quality. I've watched her give someone time she didn't really have, take on a problem she didn't need, make her own day harder because somebody needed her, and I've thought, why are you doing this to yourself? Be efficient. Protect your time. You've got your own stuff to do.

Meanwhile, I had fallen in love with her because of the exact thing I was criticizing.

Excellent work, Ricky.

Fifteen Years of “Keep It Quick”

For most of my adult life, I've been relentlessly task-driven.

Someone would come talk to me and I'd give them some version of what do you need, yep, got it, okay, already half-turned back toward the computer before they'd finished the sentence. I wasn't trying to be an asshole. I genuinely thought I was being responsible.

How many people did I make feel like they were interrupting something more important? I don't want the real number. Fifteen years is a lot of conversations to have been half-present for.

I had work to do. I was ambitious. People were counting on me. And underneath all of it ran the same quiet promise: once I get this done, I'll have time.

Which is pretty funny, given the historical completion rate of “the work.”

The work regenerates. There's always another email. Another project. Another thing that absolutely has to be handled before I can finally turn toward the people in the room. “After” never comes. “After” was never going to come.

The Slowest People I Know

That's what I couldn't stop chewing on after Monday.

Some of the busiest, most accomplished people I know are strangely slow with people. My team lead does it. He's training me while carrying his own full load, and I've watched him stop for conversations that could not possibly rank high on his list of Important Things That Must Happen Today. You'd never know it to look at him. He stops. He listens. Then he goes back to the work.

I used to think important people moved fast. Somewhere to be, something to close, someone more important waiting. I had it exactly upside down. Maybe the clearest sign that someone understands the value of their time is that they don't constantly remind you of it. They don't make you feel like an interruption. They don't efficiently listen to you. They just give you the damn five minutes.

I spent a long time trying to be impressive by getting more done, moving faster, guarding my time like it was the only thing worth protecting. The people who actually impress me have been quietly doing the opposite the whole time. They make me feel like I'm worth theirs.

So I'm trying something new. When somebody walks into my space, I'm going to work on leaving the clock out of it. Starting with the phone. Face-down, in the drawer, wherever I can't glance at it and pretend I'm still listening.

The work will still be there. It always is. The person across from me won't always be.

— Ricky

P.S. If somebody came to mind while you were reading this, the person who somehow makes you feel like there's nowhere else they'd rather be, send it to them and tell them you noticed. People like that have usually spent years making everyone else feel important. Seems worth taking a minute to return the favor.