Congratulations on your extra hour of sleep last night.

You probably needed it after a hootin’ Halloween.

I needed it after a week in Miami.

Oh lord.

👉 If you think “status” means making yourself feel big by making others feel small, you’re fragile as f*ck.

And now — the story behind why this advice matters:

Last Sunday, I donned a spray tan, boarded a plane in chilly Philly, and flew down to sunny Miami for the Urban Land Institute’s fall conference.

And I was stoked to be staying at a famous resort in the heart of Miami Beach. 

I planned to hit the surf each morning for an invigorating walk (and some glorious vitamin D) before hustling over to the Miami Convention Center to talk shop with the most inventive leaders in the built environment. 

Heaven, right?

Welp. I arrived to find that the resort was undergoing major renovations. The entire lobby was covered in cellophane and littered with industrial equipment. The beautiful pool deck, amenities, and bungalow restaurant were completely ripped up. Almost everything was closed except for the guest rooms.

To top it off, Miami was in the middle of record-high king tide, and this resplendent weather:

Y’all — this storm sat on us for three damn days.

Then finally, on day four, I awoke to the sun smiling through the curtains. I leapt out of bed, grabbed my hat and sunnies, and gleefully dashed down to the beach. 

It was 8am. I needed to hit the showers by 9am to be at the convention center and ready for business at 10am. So I made a quick plan to walk 15-minutes north of my hotel, turn, pass back by my hotel, walk 15 minutes south of it, and turn back. This would put me right back in front of my hotel at 9am, and give me an hour of sunshine, hitting all sides. 

Like a rotisserie chicken. (Bawk.)

But after that first turn… my goshforsaken hip was shrieking at me.

(If you’re new to this newsletter, I had major hip surgery last year which put me in a wheelchair for three months, and I’m still recovering.)

I’ve been walking better these last few months, but walking in sand is an entirely different brand of torture. Especially sand that has been butchered by a king tide.

But luckily, one of the amenities that was still available at my hotel, despite the renovation, was its beach chairs. 

As I approached my hotel, wobbling with pain, I eyed an army of 20 beach chairs, perfectly pointed toward the glorious sun I had been denied all week. I decided to spend my remaining 30-minutes of beach time lounging instead of limping.

I scooted over to a young man who was popping up an umbrella, told him I was a guest of the hotel, and pointed to the chair I wanted. “Cool if I grab that one?” I said, expecting him to take my room number and offer me a towel.

“No ma’am,” he replied. “We don’t open until 9:30.”

I again gestured to the chair a few feet away, “So… you’d be mad if I sat in that chair? You’d kick me out?”

“Yes ma’am. We’re still setting up. You can’t sit there.”

There was sadness in his face. He didn’t want to say no to me, but he was following the instructions he had been given. And I didn’t want to fight with him, get a manager involved, and ruin everybody’s f*cking morning.

So I hobbled down to the water, and just stood in the surf, thinking about how the word “no” had made me feel. 

Like an imposter. Like I was breaking a rule. Like I shouldn’t even be there.

Layer that into the broader circumstances: 

Miami’s bout of horrendous weather was making national news. This was the first peek of sunshine in days. And the hotel was an under-construction-shit-show. Any paying guest willing to endure those conditions should be treated like royalty.

But I couldn’t sit in an empty goddamn beach chair without causing a biblical scene?

On my way off the beach, the same young man approached me. It wasn’t yet 9:30am, but a few of the beach chairs had butts in them — assumingly because those folks just rolled their eyes and sat down. He said “Ma’am, you can have a chair now.”

Alas, my limited beach time was over. I had to get to work.

And as much as I wanted to uplift that young man from his cynical surroundings, I had to leave him there… stuck in a “culture of no”.

I’m currently working through the membership process at a distinguished private social club. My sponsor has been a member for 40 years, and as we were discussing the club’s amenities and programming, I had many questions about the nuances of what is “allowed”.

He replied, “Kristin, it’s a ‘culture of yes’ here. If a member wants something, the staff are encouraged to use their best judgment to make it happen.”

Oh god. Yes. Yes. YES.

A “culture of yes”. That phrase popped into my mind many times last week in Miami, and not just over beach chairs.

Whether I was arguing with a doorman about whether my heels were “high enough” to be permitted into a venue (he eventually determined they were, but wtf), or being chastised by a hostess because I sat down at an empty table at a half-empty bar (“The table is open, but next time you need to ask.”), I felt belittled everywhere I went.

Bitch, there won’t be a next time if you treat me like a damn child.

And I know I might get some heat for this statement, because Miami prides itself on being a hospitality Mecca, but I’m going to put it out there anyway: 

Miami is drowning in a “culture of no”.

You might argue that this is about establishing exclusivity. That it bolsters status in a town where status is the most valuable asset.

That’s utter bullshit.

I think “no” is about fear.

There is something deeply insecure about the need to constantly remind people how exclusive you are. The more secure an organization is in its status, the less it needs to enforce that status through arbitrary rules.

So if you're making yourself feel big by making others feel small, you don’t actually have status. If you’re worried that the height of the heel on my shoe is going to negatively impact the atmosphere of your nightclub, you are fragile as f*ck.

And you’re also handcuffing your employees. You’re stripping them of their judgment. You’re squashing their ability to serve your customers.

And the businesses with real status know this. 

The Ritz-Carlton famously empowers every employee, from bellhops to bartenders, to spend up to $2,000 per guest to resolve problems or create exceptional experiences, without seeking managerial approval.

You’d think that kind of allowance would put them underwater in a week, but the actual average spend per instance is only about $50. And the policy has been so successful that it has stayed in place for decades.

The policy signals to their employees that they are trusted — that their judgment and service to the customers of the Ritz-Carlton is valued. And it signals to customers that the quality of their experience is prioritized above all else. 

This is status.

It’s a “culture of yes”.

The poor pool boy at my resort this week really wanted to say “yes”. He really wanted to help. And the help he wanted to give would have cost precisely $0.

But his boss had given him a rule, and he was afraid of getting in trouble. This is what a “culture of no” looks like.

You don’t have to be the Ritz-Carlton, or a fancy private social club, to establish a “culture of yes” within your business. You just have to stop living in fear. The way I see it, there are two kinds of fear that create a “culture of no”:

The result is the same — everyone becomes preoccupied with avoiding mistakes. But that kind of rigidity creates the very ethos that these rules are trying to prevent: mediocrity. 

But the most confident organizations give their people room to make judgment calls because they know a single imperfect decision won't destroy everything they've built. 

That’s what status really looks like.

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If you enjoyed today’s essay, and haven’t yet read Unreasonable Hospitality by Will Guidara… Get. On. That. Shit. Immediately.

The hot dog story is my favorite (IYKYK).

Cheers! 🍻

-Kristin :-)

P.S. — I don’t just write Drunk Business Advice — I bring it to life on stage. And I’d love to speak at your next event. Hit reply or click here to learn more.