When the One Who Serves Can’t Stand

There’s a strange irony in building a life around taking care of people… and then suddenly being the one who needs help.

For most of my adult life, I’ve found meaning in hospitality. Not just cooking food—but creating moments. Anticipating needs before someone says them out loud. Making people feel seen, taken care of, comfortable in a way that sticks with them. That’s what drives me. That’s what Tastify was built on.

And if I’m being honest, I’ve always been a lot better at giving that than receiving it.

Lately, that’s been put to the test.

For the past couple of months, I’ve been dealing with pretty intense back pain—nerve pain that doesn’t really let up. It’s not the kind of pain you can just “push through” and get into a rhythm with. It’s unpredictable. Some days it’s sharp and electric, running down my leg like a live wire. Other days it’s more of a constant, dull pressure that makes standing feel like work and sitting feel like a gamble.

There are moments where I physically can’t move the way I want to. As a chef, that’s a weird thing to experience. Your whole identity is tied to movement—standing, lifting, turning, reacting. And suddenly your body just… doesn’t cooperate.

It messes with you.

Not just physically, but mentally. Because when your body slows down, your mind doesn’t automatically follow. You still want to show up the same way. You still expect yourself to perform at the same level. You still feel responsible for everything.

And that’s where things have started to shift for me.

I’ve had to lean on my team in ways I never really have before. Not just for help—but real ownership. Execution without me hovering. Decisions without me stepping in. And that’s been uncomfortable, if I’m honest.

Because when you build something from the ground up, it becomes an extension of you. Letting go—even temporarily—feels like you’re diluting it.

But what I’m realizing is… maybe that’s not true.

Maybe ownership isn’t about doing everything yourself. Maybe it’s about building something strong enough that it can carry itself when you can’t.

And maybe part of leadership is knowing when to step back—not because you want to, but because you have to.

On the medical side, I’ve been exploring everything.

I’ve already had a discectomy. I’ve tried epidural steroid injections. Medications like gabapentin and anti-inflammatories help take the edge off, but they don’t solve the problem. Some days I feel like I’m managing it. Other days it feels like I’m right back where I started.

The options in front of me aren’t simple.

Another epidural.
A nerve block.
Potentially another surgery.
Even disc replacement has come up.

None of these are small decisions. And none of them come with guarantees.

That’s probably been the hardest part—sitting in uncertainty while still trying to live a full life.

There’s this instinct in me to just push harder. To outwork the pain. To prove that it doesn’t control me.

And sometimes that works.

But sometimes pushing harder just reminds you that you’re human.

So I’ve had to find a different kind of strength. Not just in effort—but in patience. In letting people help. In trusting that stepping back right now doesn’t mean I’m stepping away for good.

Because the truth is—I still love this.

I still love walking into a space and knowing we’re about to create something meaningful for someone. I still love the details, the energy, the feeling of a night going right.

If anything, this has made that clearer.

It’s stripped things down to what actually matters.

And what I’m holding onto right now is this:

This is a season, not a definition.

I’m going to keep showing up in the ways I can. I’m going to keep building a team that can carry the vision forward. And I’m going to keep working toward getting my body back to a place where I can fully step into it again.

Because pushing forward—even when it looks different than it used to—that still counts.

And maybe that’s where the real meaning is right now.

Not in doing everything.

But in not giving up.