Nobody sees the feet.

Watch a duck on still water long enough and you'll notice something that bothers the mind the more you think about it. The surface is calm. The duck is calm. Everything looks effortless. But underneath, hidden from view, those feet are working — exactly as fast as necessary, no more, no less. That image never left me. I first understood it not in a boardroom, but in a hotel kitchen at thirteen years old, scraping plates in the back-of-house at eleven at night. Nobody out front knew. Nobody was supposed to.