You see, Erin was leaving us to join someone else, through us. We placed her in her new role. And if that’s not the gold standard of career transition, I don’t know what is. Coincidentally, or perhaps not, we had been retained a few weeks prior to that coffee chat by long-time client, United Farmers of Alberta (UFA), in search of a Legal Counsel. The farm kid in Erin (the family still lives on the farm in Saskatchewan) couldn’t resist, and neither could our client when they stacked her up against the rest of the candidate pool. Importantly, Erin went through the same rigorous process as every other contender—no shortcuts, no thumb on the scale. Rusty though she was after a long while away from legal practice, the client saw in Erin what we figured out long ago: raw smarts, farm-grade work ethic, and insatiable curiosity are a winning combination.

It’s a funny thing about goodbyes in business. For some reason, they’re often treated like betrayals. "After everything we’ve done for you?" "Now?" "Why?" There’s an unspoken script that kicks in when someone resigns, even (especially?) someone we like and admire. The default reaction from many leaders, even the well-intentioned ones, is a cocktail of surprise, defensiveness, and panic. And often, a counteroffer.

But here’s the truth—and it may sting more than the resignation itself: By the time someone walks into your office to tell you they’re leaving, they’ve already had all the truly important conversations. They’ve spoken to their partner, their parents, their mentors, and their friends. You, the boss, are the last to know, not the first. That’s not a slight. It’s just the natural order of things, no matter how strong the culture, how open the doors.

So, when you respond with, "What can we do to change your mind?" you’re not just too late, you actually risk being disrespectful. A form of ‘boss-splaining’ kicks in, one that says you know better than them what’s best for them and all that needs to happen is for you to show them the error of their ways. Proposing a counteroffer in that scenario is not only dismissive, signalling that all those other people in their life, including the employee herself, know less about what’s good for her than you do. Not a great look and not backed by the data.

Multiple HR and executive search studies show that more than 80% of employees who accept a counteroffer leave within 6 to 12 months anyway. That’s not just a statistic; it’s a reality check. The reasons people leave—growth, misalignment, curiosity, change—don’t vanish because you threw money or a new title at them. In fact, you may have just bought yourself an unmotivated employee with one foot already out the door. You don’t resolve root causes with a bump in title; you just pay a premium for a temporary pause. Worse, there’s the message it sends to the rest of your team: loyalty only pays when you threaten to leave. Counteroffers can poison culture.

When Erin told me she was considering a return to her legal roots—"the heart wants what it wants," she said—we didn’t beg her to stay, we didn’t throw a last-minute Hail Mary. We did something I’m unreasonably proud of: we placed her into her next role.

We turned a teammate into an alumna into a client, in one clean motion. That’s not sentimentality; it’s strategy. Treat departures as dignified transitions, not betrayals. Keep the door unlocked and the coffee warm. Alumni become your best external advocates—they vouch, they call you first, and they share opportunities—if they’re treated like extended family rather than exes. These are people who understand

your culture, who know your values, and who—if treated well—become your greatest champions on the outside. They send clients, recommend candidates, offer insights, and sometimes circle back for another tour of duty. But only if the door remains open.

Unfortunately, too many companies still subscribe to the "don’t let the door hit you" school of exits. It’s short-sighted and oddly common in professional services. For all the talk of "our people are our greatest asset," we sure get possessive when they exercise agency. It’s remarkable how a trusted, long-time employee can enter the elevator as a star performer and exit at ground level as persona non grata—as if they magically got dumber on the ride down.

To be clear, I’m not suggesting we throw a parade for every departing employee. Circumstances matter. But I am suggesting we show up with grace. It’s okay to ask, "Are you sure?" It’s okay to explore whether a change of pace—not place—might suffice. But once someone tells you they’re leaving, respect them enough to believe they’ve thought it through. Leadership is about lifting people up—even when they’re walking away.

I’ll miss Erin. Her judgment, her loyalty, her steady presence. But I’m proud of the role we played in helping her take the next step. It’s a reminder that being a good leader isn’t about retention at all costs. It’s about stewardship. It’s about letting people grow, even if it means growing away from you.

In a nod to her unswerving professionalism, Erin’s final act at the firm was to lead the search for her replacement. During her last few weeks with us, we wore the dual hat of employer and client and, in that latter capacity, were the beneficiaries of the skill our clients experienced on countless occasions as Erin skillfully presented a long list, then a short one, until finally we landed on our newest hire, Ryan Kennedy.

Lawyer turned police officer turned executive search consultant. If Erin’s exit reminded us what healthy endings look like, Ryan’s entry is a masterclass in the value of unexpected beginnings.

Executive search often gets dressed up in strategy decks—talent mapping, succession planning, leadership advisory—and sure, all true. But day to day, it’s detective work. You’re chasing leads, sourcing helpful friends and contacts. You’re sorting tips from noise, separating alibis from explanations, deciding when to push and when to wait out the silence. You’re asking the extra question that unlocks the real story.

Ryan has done the literal version of that. Courtroom rigour. Street-level interviews. When I asked him in our one-on-one interview to describe his oral advocacy skills, or put more bluntly, as I’m prone to do, "are you a good talker?" he proceeded to describe life as a beat cop in one of Calgary’s tougher neighbourhoods, de-escalating volatile situations, calming heated disputes, and advocating for a positive outcome. Even our toughest clients should be no match for that pedigree.

He knows how to read the pause after an answer. He knows when two facts don’t coexist comfortably. The best candidates are often hiding in plain sight. They don’t always present as the tidy composite; sometimes they’re the person who stayed 14 months for a good reason or the one who didn’t get the promotion but earned the team. You need curiosity to find them, empathy to hear them, and enough professional skepticism to triangulate what’s said, unsaid, and implied.

Up until now, I have always maintained that seeing as there is no Bachelors in Recruitment Science, no top school from which to recruit the brightest grads, you couldn’t go wrong with backgrounds in team sports, military, or farm kids from Saskatchewan. Time will tell, but I expect I’ll soon be adding former PIs to the list.

Bringing Ryan on is an affirmation of what works in search: diverse paths that sharpen shared instincts. Great consultants come from law, business, government, operations—and perhaps even policing. The common threads are curiosity, judgment, and an almost old-fashioned respect for preparation.

At first glance these two files—a departure and an arrival—might look like separate stories. But really, the throughline is trust. Trust that adults make considered choices about their careers. Trust that your culture is strong enough not to crumble when someone leaves and curious enough to evolve when someone new arrives. Trust that playing the long game with people—on the way out or the way in—compounds.

Erin’s farewell reminded us that reputation isn’t what we write in proposals, but what alumni say when they’re gone. Ryan’s arrival reminds us that the best hires don’t always follow the straightest path, but they know how to listen. Together, they teach the same lesson: trust. Trust that people know when it’s time to leave. Trust that new voices can strengthen a culture.

Doors open, doors close. The hallway between them is where culture lives—the stretch that connects departures and arrivals, the space where values are tested and trust is built. It’s the fairway on a Scottish links course: narrow at times, flanked by rough and hidden hazards, with winds that shift and balls that bounce unpredictably. Yet the only way forward is the next shot, played with patience, judgment, and steady focus. Just as on the course, you can’t control every gust or uneven lie, but you can choose how to navigate what remains ahead of you.

Regards,

Adam