We weren’t there for the widget, but to understand it.

And in understanding it, we understand the culture and the soul of the place. In each case, we were hired to find a corporate executive—a Director of Finance, a President, a Chief Operating Officer, and a Director of Global Operations—but the environments were different. Different industries. Different products. Different end markets.

Still, the same thing kept jumping out at me. In each case, the executive offices told one story, but the shop floor told the real one.

You see it in the way people interact. The pride they take in their work and in each other. The small process improvements that never make it into a board deck but make all the difference. The informal leaders who may not have the title but clearly have the respect. It’s where culture lives and evolves. Not in the Mission Statement framed in reception, but behind the wall, where things actually get done.

For all the time we spend in boardrooms with CEOs, there is no substitute for simply walking the floor. Seeing it. Feeling it. Talking to the people doing the work.

Which brings me back to this: Ampersand No. 200. If there is a throughline across all of them, it’s this—business is personal. That belief has shown up in stories about my kids, outdoor rinks, and the occasional existential wobble. And walking those shop floors made something else clear: Every business has one. Including ours. Not in a literal sense, of course—but a place where the real work gets done.

That idea showed up early—in a borrowed office, a blank distribution list, and a monthly note that felt less like my original thought leadership and more like forwarding someone else’s. Writing not because I had something profound to say, but because I had few clients and needed a reason to stay on their radar. Over time, the notes got longer, the ideas sharper, and the audience—mercifully—larger. But even then, the thread was the same: trying to make sense of the work, the world, and the space in between.

It showed up in the moments that didn’t make the highlight reel. The false starts. The misfires and the bad hires. The economic cycles that seemed to arrive just as things were getting good. The late nights flogging myself for a lost pitch and wondering what we missed. Gradually, I came to see the work itself—search, leadership, building a firm—as a proxy for something else: understanding people, in all their complexity and contradiction.

And it showed up, perhaps most consistently, in the tension between the polished version of a business, the mannequin in the window, and the messy lived experience of one. In the stories behind the stories—the ones about resilience, missteps, small wins, and the occasional lucky break. Because if there’s anything 200 editions have reinforced, it’s that culture isn’t declared. It’s revealed. Slowly, unevenly, and almost always somewhere closer to the shop floor.

And maybe that’s where I missed it—when it mattered most.

Last fall, under bright lights at the AFP Awards luncheon—where we were honoured with the Small Business Philanthropy Award—I was asked a simple question and, if I’m honest, sort of botched the answer.

A room of 700 in a downtown hotel. No advance questions, even though I’d asked. The lights a little hotter than expected. A microphone suddenly very close to my face. Dallas Flexhaug, evening anchor from Global News—at ease live—impatiently appearing to be patiently waiting for an answer, the room just quiet enough to notice.

I was asked what I would say to my grandfather, Henry Singer—the family’s OG entrepreneur, who founded his namesake menswear store over 80 years ago—if he were still with us.

There was plenty to say. But in that moment, the best I could muster was a wobbly “nope.”

The better answer—the one I wished I’d offered—was sitting right there at my table. Table 17. Seventeen years. My wife and team assembled. The shop floor, right in front of me. And yet I still missed it. 

Surrounded by the people who have built this place alongside me, just as so many long-time employees did for my grandpa—store veterans with 30, 40, even 50 years of service, still working for one of his other grandsons, my cousin. I somehow missed the simplest observation: the story is never the award. It’s the people around the table. The people who walk the floor.

The irony, of course, is that I’ve known that all along. You can build a business, write 200 editions, even win the odd award—but none of it really belongs to you. As Harry S. Truman once put it, it’s amazing what you can accomplish when you don’t care who gets the credit. Sitting there at Table 17, it was obvious: the credit was never mine to take.

Our floor doesn’t involve steel or coffee beans or power meters. There are no forklifts. No roasting drums. But make no mistake—we have one. It’s the conversations happening before a client meeting. The judgment calls made on a shortlist. The discreet and nuanced reference checks. The debates about fit versus pedigree. The moments where someone on our team decides to push a little harder because they know it matters.

And like any good operation, the quality of what comes out is entirely dependent on the people doing the work. There’s a Richard Branson line that says clients don’t come first—employees do. Take care of your people and they’ll take care of everything else.

I’m not sure I would have said it that cleanly in 2009, and I certainly didn’t say it at the luncheon last fall, but looking back, it’s probably the most consistent through line in everything we’ve built. So, as a fitting tribute, I thought I’d introduce you to the current crew, though many before them have moved on to become clients and alumni, and always friends who played their part to make this place just a little better.

Every shop floor has its characters—the ones who keep the place running, whether or not their title says so. Ours is no different.

There’s Ranju, seventeen years in, Employee 002, the operational conscience—equal parts foreman and work mom. Cam, relationship builder and morale officer, and always the one making sure everyone feels welcome. Susie, ten years in, CPA, single mom of four, making this operation look like the easier job. Rachel, two words: The Closer. Kiara, nine years of steady orchestration—marketing, brand, profile—if you’ve seen it, chances are she did it. Breanne, our MacGyver, unflappable, clever and calm. Neel, curious, resourceful, and whip smart. And Kate, physically in Toronto but Calgary to the core—understated, thoughtful, and quietly excellent. And most recently, exactly one year ago, our Toronto and Vancouver colleagues (Jeff, Kelly, Michael, Lena, Paul, Marlene, Marcie, Jessica and Remy)—not merely an extension, but fully integrated into how we operate and show up.

Different roles, different personalities—but all working the same line. Like any good operation, it only works because everyone shows up and does their part.

When I think about what’s filled 200 editions of this newsletter, it isn’t strategy decks or market cycles—though there’s been plenty of each. It’s people. The ones who care about the work. Who take pride in getting it right. Who show up, day after day, and do their part—whatever their version of the floor happens to be.

If you’ve been reading since 2009, thank you. If you joined somewhere along the way, thank you. If you bought the book—truly, thank you (and Camp Chief Hector thanks you too). If you’ve ever forwarded one of these, replied, or critically panned it along the way, thank you.

Two hundred editions isn’t a finish line. It’s a marker. A chance to pause, look around, and appreciate the people who are still here. But like any good shop floor, the work continues tomorrow. Searches to close, pitches to win, and our June edition—already in production.

And maybe that’s the point of my regret from the awards reception. Like any well-run factory, I’ve developed a process for writing these now 200 editions. It’s not glamorous, but it’s reliable. Ideas form in my brain. They get sketched, shaped, sentences get sanded down. Month after month, the conveyor belt moves, and somehow, the piece gets built.

Give me that rhythm, that space, that floor—and I know how to do the work. I’m usually good on my feet. But in that moment, the weight of it all caught up with me. The gratitude. The people. I lost the rhythm. If the shop floor has taught me anything, it’s this: the real story is never out front. Not on the stage, not in the spotlight, not in the moment when the microphone is passed. It’s a little further back. On the floor. With the people who show up, day after day, and do the work.

Two hundred editions in, and still, it comes back to the same place.

Table 17, as it happened.

Regards,

Adam