As my mother frets over her 1000-piece puzzle, garlic roasting in the oven behind her, she complains that just when she gets on a roll, just when the pieces start to fit together, she gets stuck. Muttering to herself, she walks over to the oven to check on the garlic, but I know it's really to forget about her "stuckness."

I sit there, laptop where it always is on a Sunday afternoon, nestled on my lap. I'm only half-working and half-watching her. I'm partly annoyed, partly amused. I’m annoyed because I don't know why she bothers with these puzzles, yet amused at how into it she is.

I notice a gnawing knocking at my subconscious. I reluctantly still myself to listen and I hear it whisper, "Find the hidden meaning." I hate when the universe does this because now I have to work on yet another thing. But I also love when the universe does this, so I wait and listen a little longer.

That initial feeling of annoyance gradually intensifies because, without fail, each time she nears completion of the puzzle, she claims a piece is missing. Despite the potential of this setback, she summons the patience to persist, vowing to find a workaround, whether it’s a sticker or a piece of cardboard. I say nothing because I'm certain all the pieces are there; they always are.

During my next visit, she proudly announces the puzzle’s completion, yet laments the absence of a single missing piece. I examine her masterpiece – two horses grazing – a gift for my equestrian daughter, and indeed, in the grass, is a small gap.  

She insists she searched everywhere. When I suggest checking the box it came in, she looks at me as if I had asked the stupidest question. It doesn't occur to me to look for it, instead I assume that the puzzle is defective, so I file a complaint online with the puzzle company, hoping they might send a new one. I'm surprised to find that there is a section on the company's website dedicated to customers who file claims about missing pieces. In big bold letters there's a message that states: Check under rugs, furniture, shoes. Wait one to two days. "That's ridiculous", I think to myself. I order a new puzzle without checking anything, without waiting one to two days. I tell my mother they are sending a new puzzle.

She isn't satisfied, and lowers herself on all fours, crawling around on a mission. After only a few minutes, she squeals in delight as she pulls the missing piece from under the sofa. The puzzle company's advice proves to be spot-on.

Contemplating the hidden meaning, I acknowledge that it seldom surfaces on its own; one must delve and probe. The gift of insight is reserved only for those who work for it. There are the easy messages of course, such as the puzzle being a metaphor for life or the value of taking a break when you're stuck, but I know there's more. I sense a deeper message tailored for me.

I pride myself on being efficient, deeming it a virtue. I solved a problem by swiftly ordering a replacement puzzle without pausing to consider alternative outcomes. Did I jump to action too hastily? My mother was ready to adapt even if the piece was missing. Not me. I needed to make it right, and it needed to happen fast.

"Festina lente," Latin for "make haste slowly," cautions against rushing tasks, as haste often leads to errors and undermines long-term success.

I've spent my life in bootstrapped start-ups, and I'm sure that's shaped me in useful ways, but I believe it's worth relooking at what we are blind to, at the things that may no longer serve us. There's virtue in slowing down, though it's difficult to do when you're used to lightning speed. It feels good to take action quickly, and in some cases, it's necessary, but delaying immediate gratification is the mark of a great strategic leader.

This interaction with my mother revealed layers of lessons, not the least of which is to question if my actions are only serving my need to feel useful. It taught me that not all problems are mine to solve, especially when it's not my own passion behind it. Taking pause allows for solutions to emerge, sometimes from the dark, dusty corners under furniture.

‍