I love to talk. It cost me a fortune.

A few weeks ago, a founder asked me a question I wasn't ready for. Not because it was complicated — because it was embarrassing. "Why do you have a paid consultation link on your website, but then you show up in my DMs with a free one? And then we talked for two hours. For nothing."

‍

I started to answer with something about filters — how I only reach out to people I'm genuinely curious about, no sales pitch, just wanting to understand what's going on behind the scenes. That's true.

‍

Then I almost said something about how I work in focused time blocks, and the free calls fit into my schedule by design. Also true.

‍

But then the real answer surfaced, and I felt my face get warm.

I just love talking.

‍

Not in a "good listener, asks great questions" way, although I try. More like: I start by listening carefully, asking about their business, their team, their problems — and then somewhere around minute thirty, the conversation quietly turns into two founders geeking out about operations, sharing war stories, debating ideas, laughing about the same mistakes. And an hour later, I look at the clock and realize I've given away everything I charge for, and enjoyed every second of it. This isn't new. This has been my problem for twenty years.

‍

What it actually cost

‍

I remember the early days of the agency. First office, small team. I'd walk up to someone's desk, start a conversation about their project, and forty minutes later we'd still be talking — now about something completely different. When we ordered pizza, it turned into an unofficial "strategy session" about everything and nothing. I loved it. It felt like culture. Like leadership. Like caring.

‍

It became a real problem when we opened offices in different cities and started doing team calls over Zoom. I'd get on a call with department leads and just... flow. I'd tell stories, ask questions, get into deep conversations with one person while everyone else sat there listening. Someone would bring up office expenses or a project update, and I'd somehow turn it into a thirty-minute discussion about our approach to client relationships.

‍

I felt important. Every topic needed my opinion. Every person needed to be heard — by me, personally, on this call, right now. I told myself I was building culture. I was building connection. I was being the kind of leader who cares.

‍

Then one day, my PM said something that stopped me cold. "Can I leave this call? I have actual work to do."

‍

She wasn't rude about it. She was just honest. She'd been sitting on a ninety-minute call, waiting to ask one question that could have been a two-line message, while I talked about things that had nothing to do with her projects. I sat with that for a minute. Then I did something I should have done years earlier. I calculated how much time we were spending on meetings across the company. All-hands calls where half the people didn't need to be there. Status updates that could have been emails. Discussions between me and one person that five others had to sit through.

‍

The number was hundreds of hours per year. Hundreds. Not productive hours — hours where people sat, listened to me enjoy the sound of my own voice, and silently wished they could go do their jobs. When I put a dollar figure on it — salaries multiplied by hours — I wanted to sink into my chair.

‍

The fix that hurt

‍

We replaced most meetings with asynchronous updates. Friday status emails from each department head — written, structured, clear. I could read them, leave comments, ask follow-up questions. The people who needed to respond did. Everyone else kept working. We kept one live call: Monday morning with department leads. But with rules I had to force on myself. A clear agenda sent in advance. Every discussion tied to a decision or an action item. Every call ending with owners assigned to next steps. If something only involved two people, it got taken offline.

‍

And the hardest rule: I wasn't allowed to turn a status update into a philosophical conversation about business. Not on the group call. If I wanted to talk to someone about an idea, I'd schedule a separate time — their time, not everyone's.

‍

It felt terrible at first. Like cutting off a limb. I genuinely enjoyed those long, meandering calls. They made me feel connected, involved, necessary. Giving them up felt like I was becoming a cold, corporate manager instead of the warm, approachable founder I wanted to be. But something unexpected happened. When the meetings shrank, my calendar opened up. I could block focused time and actually protect it. A call scheduled for an hour didn't become three hours. Calls didn't appear outside of planned windows. And because every meeting had a purpose and an expected outcome, people started coming prepared — which made the conversations better, not worse.

‍

The team got more done. I got more done. And the culture didn't die. It just stopped being held hostage by my need to chat.

‍

Where I still catch myself

‍

I talked to a founder recently who told me — proudly — that he holds a daily kickoff with his whole team. Every morning. They discuss plans for the day, what got done yesterday, everything. I asked him if he knew his break-even point or had a financial reserve. He said no, "we're fine, money comes in, it's enough."

‍

I didn't push. But I thought: he has no idea how much those daily calls cost. Not just the time — the focus, the energy, the context-switching for every person who has to stop what they're doing, get on a call, and listen to things that mostly don't involve them. I recognized myself in him instantly. The version of me who thought "more talking = more leading" and never stopped to count the price.

‍

Here's what I eventually figured out: it's easier to not buy candy than to resist eating it when it's in the drawer. If I leave my calendar open, I'll fill it with conversations — because I love them. So I don't leave it open. I structure my week in blocks. Calls go in specific windows. The Calendly link stays paid not because I need the money from every call — but because if it were free and open, I'd talk to people all day and build nothing. It's not discipline. It's design.

‍

Something to try this week:

‍

Add up the hours your team spends in meetings this week. Not just yours — everyone's. Then ask two questions for each meeting: did everyone in that room need to be there? And could the outcome have been reached with a written update instead? If even one meeting fails both tests — that's your starting point. Replace it with a short written update and see what happens to everyone's week.

So here's my question: how many hours is your team sitting in meetings right now — not because the meeting needs them, but because nobody's questioned whether the meeting needs to exist at all?

‍

P.S. That founder who asked why I give away free calls? He's not wrong. I still do it. I still love those conversations. But now I do just a few a week, in a specific time block, with people I chose — instead of fifteen a week with anyone who found my calendar link. Same love for talking. Different design around it. That's the whole lesson, honestly.