A COUPLE SUGGESTIVE EMAILS, a quick call, and soon a graphic designer and I found ourselves in a compromising position: working on a project as “brand consultants.” Believe me when I say this was uncharacteristic, that I’ve never wanted to be a brand consultant, that I’m not even sure what, exactly, a brand consultant is supposed to do. It’s just that sometimes one thing leads to another.
The little I did know about this strange art came from my time at a tech company, where I happened to watch an endless number of presentations by other brand consultants. They were thought-provoking. Specifically, they provoked the thought, “Is someone really getting paid for this?”
I wouldn’t blame you for assuming the project burned like a Roman candle firing sparks of failure in every direction. But, somehow, the presentation-deck gods smiled on us. The company’s leaders approved our work with almost no revisions, and then the founder asked us if we’d be interested in full-time roles at the company.
Although the designer accepted the job, I turned the offer down—largely because I started to get a better read on what was happening: The company had survived its start-up stage and entered its midlife crisis. The founders longed for the excitement of the early days and sought to make some upgrades the way one might buy a new car—a kind of “I’ve arrived” gesture.
In short, they had a business affair. And, because it had been fun, they wanted to keep things going. But I could tell the novelty would soon wear out.
The “affair” analogy might seem dramatic, but I’ve witnessed such trysts from the other side—sitting through those other consultants’ presentations—and knew my peers had felt cheated on. At that tech company, the leaders sensed something was missing, like they needed to do more and be more. So while the “in-house team” stayed at home, performing the tasks that kept things running, leadership ran off with fresh-faced consultants for a brief, self-indulgent whirlwind filled with the magic of “what if” and questionable decisions after drinks at a fancy hotel.
Matters grew tense when the leaders returned with a spring in their step to share the new “vision” they wanted to execute. To some, this was as insulting as having a partner provide play-by-play details of their romp and then getting told to go launder the sheets.
Weeks of resentment followed. I overheard comments like, “I made that suggestion nine months ago, and now some kid says it, and it’s suddenly genius?” More than one colleague resigned. Another approached a new hire and said, “Enjoy your first day, because your ideas here will never be more valued than they are right now.”
Eventually, people learned the stunning amount all that consulting cost, but by then most already understood the more-significant price of looking outside the office for change: It acted as a vote of no confidence, akin to calling the staff into a conference room and announcing, “So…here’s where your glass ceiling is.”
There are, of course, situations when outside help makes sense. For instance, if the project has nothing to do with the core business, such as replacing the refrigerator. But no one has more insight about how a company functions than those engaged in the day-to-day operations. So if it’s possible to give the in-house team a first crack at making improvements, it’s worth trying. You will earn a level of goodwill that pays dividends later.
Since this brief foray into consulting, I’ve worked on several more side projects with the graphic designer—these days, leaders aren’t the only ones with a wandering eye—and we’ve discussed our opposing decisions about that full-time offer.
With the benefit of hindsight, I’m glad I didn’t take the job. But I also regret accepting the project in the first place—because, in that situation, I’d been the home-wrecker. No amount of saying “It meant nothing to me” could undo the frustration it might’ve caused.
Were I given such a proposition today, I’d respond, “I’m sorry, but I’m just not that kind of guy.”
