We all have it: that quiet internal signal warning us when something isn’t right. Call it intuition, instinct, or the sixth sense—it’s the feeling that nudges us to pause, reconsider, or walk away.
For CEOs and managers, this instinct often surfaces during pivotal moments: evaluating a job candidate, selecting a partner, or deciding whether to take on a particular client. In my experience, that voice is rarely wrong.
Throughout my career, I’ve been fortunate to work with strong, aligned clients. But like any long business journey, there have been exceptions. This is one of them—and it began with a warning I chose to ignore.
A little over a year ago, I met with the CEO of a company exploring a strategic turnaround and national expansion. He asked if his COO could join the conversation, explaining they were close friends with a quasi-partnership dynamic. Meeting them together provided immediate insight into their goals and challenges. On the surface, it felt like a promising engagement.
Yet something didn’t sit right.
That subtle hesitation—easy to dismiss, hard to explain—kept tugging at me. Instead of listening, I reframed it as end-of-year momentum and moved forward.
Once the agreement was signed and the retainer received, we delivered a comprehensive strategy and advised them to review it carefully before a follow-up meeting after the holidays. Even then, boundaries began to blur.
The day before Christmas Eve, the CEO called requesting immediate input on client rate increases. I spent hours—sitting in the only open McDonald’s in a remote mountain town—reviewing pricing and providing recommendations.
Days later, the COO began calling and texting, frustrated that the CEO was dismissing his recommendations. Once again, I stopped what I was doing to review materials, agreed with the COO’s plan, and encouraged the CEO to take a closer look.
It became clear that this wasn’t just a strategic disagreement—it was a cultural and leadership breakdown. The CEO openly expressed that other employees were “beneath him” and generally “useless.” That mindset soon spilled into every interaction.
After returning to Austin, we held the scheduled implementation meeting. The tension between the two leaders was unmistakable. After each session, the COO would call to vent his frustration over the CEO’s dismissive behavior. I continued to listen, to advise, and—ultimately—to overextend.
When the engagement concluded, the calls continued. I finally spoke candidly with the CEO and asked whether he had seriously reviewed the COO’s action plan.
“I’m not concerned,” he replied. “He works for me. He just needs to do his job.”
I suggested mediation as a separate engagement—bringing both leaders into the same room to work through their differences. It was a solution I had successfully facilitated many times before. The offer was dismissed.
After comping more than nine additional hours and continuing to receive one-sided communications, I drew a boundary. Without mutual willingness to address the issue, there was little more I could do.
Shortly after, the COO mentioned he was considering leaving. My response was simple: to everything, there is a season.
The following day, I received an angry email from the CEO accusing me of encouraging his COO to resign. He changed a previously glowing five-star review to a one-star rating, accompanied by a harsh and inaccurate account of events.
My instinct was to defend myself—to explain that I had been trying to salvage a fractured relationship. I understood the CEO’s difficult upbringing, recognized his potential, and genuinely wanted the company to succeed.
But after reflection, I chose not to engage further.
Some situations don’t need fixing—they need releasing. Continuing would have meant investing more time, energy, and emotional capital into an environment that was never aligned to begin with.
The lesson is simple, and it’s one I won’t forget:
Always listen to your gut.
That quiet voice warning you at the start may save you from a much louder problem later.