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.