Human Sustainability is Infrastructure.

In hospitality, the word sustainability is everywhere now.

We talk about sourcing. About composting. About zero-waste cocktails and reclaimed wood and beautiful local everything. These conversations matter — but there’s one kind of sustainability we rarely talk about out loud:

The sustainability of the people doing the work.

The line cooks who haven’t had a break in ten hours. The servers working through injury because it’s “not bad enough to call out.” The managers who smile through a dinner rush, then cry in their car. The owners running payroll at midnight while telling the world they’re thriving.

These aren’t exceptions. They’re patterns. And they don’t get better on their own.

Over the past decade, I’ve worked across hospitality in a dozen forms — front-of-house, brand leadership, digital strategy, operations, training. I’ve built service systems for Michelin-aspiring restaurants, managed communications for cultural institutions, and developed brand strategy for teams across retail, fine dining, and nonprofit projects.

The environments changed. But the symptoms didn’t.

Many of us carry entire systems on our backs — organizing, holding, adapting, and fixing — with no room for our own breath. No recovery. No rhythm. And no clarity about what’s expected until we’ve already failed to meet it.

That’s why I talk about emotional sustainability. Not as a soft add-on. Not as something extra. But as the foundation for everything else.

Because when we design systems that give people room to rest, room to learn, and room to be human — the work becomes more consistent. The culture gets stronger. The guests feel it. The brand aligns.

I’ve seen it firsthand.

I’ve implemented systems that removed ambiguity from service.
Built scripts that eased tension between staff and guests.
Created digital flows that actually felt like the brand — not just looked like it.
I’ve watched team members find their rhythm again, and I’ve watched guests respond in kind.

And I’ve also felt the cost when that care wasn’t in place. I’ve lived the burnout. I’ve stayed silent to keep the peace. I’ve taken pride in overextension, thinking it meant I was strong.

It didn’t. It just meant I didn’t feel safe to stop.

I don’t want to build experiences that require people to disappear to make them work. I want to build systems that feel like support — not weight.

That beauty and sustainability can — and should — exist behind the scenes as much as on the plate.

If We Want To Nourish Our Guests, We Must Stop Starving Our Teams.

In my first year running a fine-dining restaurant, I lost more sleep over my team’s burnout than food costs. Each night, I’d leave long after the final guest, only to find my staff still there—heads down, wiping, polishing, resetting. If I struggled to cope with shorter hours, how were they surviving this relentless pace? Who championed their well-being?

The answer is sobering: no one. And the reason goes beyond our dining rooms. Hospitality faces a labor crisis policymakers and business leaders ignore. Food, water, and rest aren’t luxuries—they’re basic human needs. Yet in this industry, we treat them like rewards to be earned. Workers remind each other to eat like it’s rebellion. They refill water bottles in quiet solidarity against the grind. And still, they stay—present, never resting, burning out before they smell the smoke.

These conditions aren’t accidental. They stem from outdated labor policies and business models that prize efficiency over people. I’ve lived it—sick with pneumonia but afraid to miss a shift. Crying in the walk-in after being told margins weren’t “where they should be.” Wiping my face and going back to the floor like nothing happened. That’s the hospitality world I knew.

This hustle culture comes from militarized leadership. The brigade de cuisine, adapted from the French military, still shapes kitchens. The “mean manager” mantra—“If you can lean, you can clean”—was everywhere I worked. But discipline and suffering aren’t strategies—they’re liabilities. When I finally had the chance to build a team from the ground up, I promised the cycle would end with me.

At SHIA—a nonprofit, sustainability-focused tasting menu restaurant in Washington, D.C., where I serve as general manager—we’ve built our business around sustainability, including the well-being of our people. And it’s working. We’ve created a culture of trust, transparency, and care while advancing waste reduction—without compromising fine dining standards.

We cap hours and offer predictable schedules. Emotional honesty leads every shift, and “How can I support you?” echoes throughout the room. When burnout creeps in, I want my team to say so before it’s too late. One server came to me recently, shoulders tense and eyes tired. “I think I just need a weekend to get my head back on straight,” she said. No excuses, no faking a cough. She told the truth, and we made space for her to recover. Later, she told me it was the first time she’d felt safe being honest about her needs at work. That shouldn’t feel rare. It should be normal.

We also plan for time off and last-minute changes. That means a slightly smaller tip pool and marginally higher labor costs, all agreed upon by the team. The trade-off? Stronger retention, better guest experiences, and a healthier staff. One employee told me, “This is the first job where I feel like I’m building a future, not just wearing myself out.” Our team forages, creates, and researches for the restaurant because they want to—not because they’re asked.This isn’t charity; it’s strategy. Supported teams stay longer, work better, and create the kind of experiences no marketing campaign can replicate. That’s how real loyalty forms—among both staff and guests. Transparency shapes how we manage workload and recovery. Some nights, someone doesn’t have the energy to face guests but still wants to contribute. That’s fine. They take a support role. This flexibility keeps the system healthy and the team resilient.

But real change requires more than what we can do at the ground level. It requires policy and economic reform. In 2024, over half of hospitality workers who left their jobs cited burnout (Axonify, 2024). Seventy percent said they’d stay with better pay and benefits (Jennings, 2025). This workforce is willing to work—just not under the conditions that have become the norm.

In California, where tipped workers receive full minimum wage before tips, restaurants adapted without mass closures, and workers are better off. In New York City, predictable scheduling laws help workers plan their lives and have reduced turnover. Employers must also treat mental health support as essential infrastructure. Tax incentives should reward businesses that prioritize retention and meaningful benefits. Even Starbucks found that offering mental health resources improves retention—a model the industry should follow.

So, what can those outside the industry do?

Diners have power. Choose experience over entitlement. Be patient. Tip well until the system changes. Remember, servers and bartenders are skilled professionals who invest hours honing their craft. They deserve dignity and fair compensation.

Investors should fund people-first models that reduce turnover and improve performance. Burned-out teams aren’t just financial liabilities; they’re human tragedies. The future of hospitality depends on building workplaces where people want to stay. Without human sustainability, the industry won’t survive.

Hospitality should feed everyone—emotionally, physically, and economically. We aren’t here to pour ourselves out until we’re empty. We’re here to create environments where care flows in every direction—from the kitchen to the guest and back again.

And people notice. A guest pulled me aside recently and said, “I don’t know what’s different about this place, but your team looks like they genuinely want to be here. You can feel it in the room. And honestly, it made everything taste better.” That wasn’t luck. And it wasn’t the first time I’ve heard something like it. This is what happens when a workplace is designed to sustain its people. If we want to nourish our guests, we must start by nourishing our teams.

References:

Axonify. (2024). Deskless Report 2024: From circumstance to choice: The frontline’s new path forward. https://axonify.com/deskless-report/

Jennings, M. (2025, May 5). Why your favorite server quit—the real cost of hospitality burnout. Food & Wine. https://www.foodandwine.com/restaurant-workplace-burnout-11728181