Why does your business exist?
Why does your business exist?Not the mission statement version. Not the answer you give investors or put on your careers page. The real answer. The one you’d explain if you gave yourself the time and space to think about it deeply enough. I'm currently on our annual family holiday on the Aegean coast in Turkey. It's somewhere we've been coming to for years—a place where I genuinely decompress. I read, walk, swim, sail, and think. Mostly think. I believe deeply that if you're in business, you should carve out time every day to sit quietly and let your mind go somewhere your diary and phone notifications can't reach. Almost none of us do it consistently. And that includes me. "All of humanity's problems stem from man's inability to sit quietly in a room alone." - Blaise Pascal But here, with long slow afternoons and no agenda, I do. And this week, my mind kept returning to a question I first wrote down properly a few years ago, after one of the most profound experiences of my professional life. Stephen’s Story.Stephen reached out to my company, Capital Partners, a few years ago. He and his wife Carol had been with another firm of financial planners but had lost confidence following some changes there. They were looking around. A couple of weeks later we sat together in a comfortable room in my office for what we call the Discovery Meeting. It's where we hold the kind of conversation most people rarely have—about values, family, aspirations, hopes, fears, and money. Stephen had built a successful business over many years and had recently sold it to take early retirement. Carol had built a travel company specialising in Alpine ski holidays while raising two children who were now grown up and living their own lives. They explained that they had now sold their London house and moved to Devon. Stephen had a pilot's licence, but was now bored with fixed-wing flying. Could they afford a helicopter? He sailed, played golf, and volunteered for the local RNLI lifeboat service. Carol ran the church choir, played keyboard, and sang in a band. They both skied and kept a chalet in the French Alps. They were busy enjoying life. I knew from the first meeting they were our kind of people. Cheeky, irreverent, adventurous—and completely family-focused. Married for forty years, their eyes lit up when they talked about their children. After our meeting, they were travelling to meet their newborn granddaughter for the first time. I was delighted when Stephen called me after that first meeting to say they wanted to appoint us as their new financial planners and help them navigate the inevitable ups and downs of a long retirement. Now in their early 60s, they needed to plan for another 30 years of living life to the full and ensuring they wouldn’t run out of money before they run out of life. Follow-up meetings were spent discussing and reviewing their FutureMap™, the interactive diagnostic that we use to ‘stress test the future’ and answer important questions like;
The detailed analysis was interspersed with plenty of laughs and some good quality wine over lunch in a local restaurant. Over time, we crunched the numbers, answered the questions, built the plan, and put everything in place. And life went on. Until the call came. I was working from home when Stephen's name appeared on my phone. He usually dealt with my colleagues for day-to-day matters, so I wondered what he wanted. My cheery “hello” was met with a stark response. "Look, Alan, there’s no easy way of saying this, so I'll just cut to the chase. I've been diagnosed with cancer, and I’ve been given a year to live." That hit me hard. The last time I'd seen him, Stephen was full of life, banter, and humour. What could I say? After we spoke, my colleague Charles and I travelled to Devon to see them. We went through everything—wills, powers of attorney, cash reserves, and a full revisit of their FutureMap™. The priority was giving Carol the reassurance she needed. To allow her to face the emotional reality of losing her soul mate, her ‘partner in crime’ for nearly four decades, the father of her children, and her best friend. We sat in their beautiful ‘forever home’—the one they’d retired to, the one they’d imagined growing old in together. It was one of the toughest meetings of my professional career. Halfway through, Stephen turned to me, grabbed my hand, and said, "I'm bloody glad you're with us." Tears welled. Silent nods, as men do. And on we went. That evening, Carol had booked dinner at a local gastropub only accessible by boat. Stephen’s boat, of course. A brilliant full moon lit up the chilly night as we arrived and clambered up the bank to reach the warmth of the pub. There, we enjoyed some of the best food I can recall eating anywhere. As it happened, celebrity chef John Burton-Race was guesting in the kitchen that week. The wine flowed, and there was storytelling, jokes, and laughter. I think we all forgot for a brief time the poignancy behind the dinner. The evening was truly magical. The next morning, Stephen drove us to the station. I looked him in the eyes as he gave me a hug and waved us off. Two months later, I received an email from Carol to say he had passed away quietly, surrounded by his family. I'm not too proud to say I shed a tear. As I was reflecting this week, the raw emotion of that experience came back to me. The spreadsheets and cash-flow plans were an essential ingredient. They created comfort, reassurance, and calm. But ultimately, this was about being a human being with warmth, love and compassion for other humans. Are these words too strong? Not if you were in that room that day. This is what we do; this is why I get out of bed each morning. This is what that overused phrase, ‘making a difference,' actually means. Most founders I know are brilliant at building. They’re relentless, resourceful, and almost pathologically focused on the destination. The growth strategy, the next hire, the big exit. The moment it all pays off. Stephen had done everything right. He built something real. He sold it at the right time. He and Carol had designed a life, and they had the means to fund it. He had planned the exit brilliantly. What he couldn't plan was the time. So my question for you to reflect on this weekend is, why does your business truly exist? What is the money in service of? What does life on the other side look like—in detail and with honesty? Take a moment to reflect on that. Oh, and one last thing. Please do me a favour and hug your loved ones a little bit tighter tonight. Until next time, Alan PS—To learn more about Capital Partners and the work we do with business owners, schedule a call or hit ‘reply’ and send me an email, and we’ll find the time. PPS—This week's podcast episode is one from the vault. Serial entrepreneur Mark Mills on how he scaled to a £170 million exit. Well worth tuning in. YouTube |