The first day I took over the pizzeria, I’d struck a deal with Carrie—50% of the profits in exchange for sticking around and helping me build the business. Back then, I imagined there’d be plenty of profit to go around. In the end, I hadn’t paid her a dime beyond her hourly wage. Money had been too tight. I couldn’t even pay myself.
Still, Carrie had been indispensable. Without her, I might not have survived those early weeks. Her graduation was the day after the semester ended. Most of the students had already cleared out for winter break, so I closed the pizzeria early and threw her a private graduation party.
I brought in Maurice to play sax. Dedrick and I kept the ovens fired, sliding out pizzas as fast as we could. Carrie’s family and friends packed the shop, and I’m pretty sure a few strangers wandered in, lured by the jazz and the scent of free pizza.
Just after midnight, I popped a bottle of champagne (I’d splurged and put it on my credit card) and poured glasses for everyone.
I raised mine. “Carrie, it’s no exaggeration to say I might not have made it without you.”
“You definitely wouldn’t have,” she said, cutting in with her usual blunt cheer.
“Hear, hear,” Dedrick called from behind the counter, lifting a slice instead of a glass.
I cleared my throat, reclaiming the floor. “While my debt to you can never be fully repaid, I wanted to give you a small token of thanks.”
I handed her my present. She tore it open, then blinked at the poster Joanna had made: Free Pizza for Life.
Carrie stared for a beat, then smiled. “Thanks, Ty.” She stepped forward and hugged me—tight and quick—then leaned close to my ear.
“Just make sure you keep this dump open long enough for me to collect.”
I stayed in town and kept the pizzeria open through the holiday. But I wasn’t sure it had been worth it. With the students gone, the dining room echoed with silence. I missed Christmas with my family. All I got was a glitchy video call, my family caroling off-key in front of the tree while I tried to laugh like it didn’t sting.
Still, I had high hopes for New Year’s Eve. I kept the place open late, thinking drunk students might crave a late-night slice. But even then, I was mostly alone—me, a stack of empty chairs, and the drone of the fridge motor.
Was this really how I wanted to live? Alone on the holidays just to scrape together a few extra bucks?
At least I’d finished the semester. The business seminar counted for half my course load, and I’d earned an A from Professor Hunt. Maybe out of guilt. After all, she’d been the one to nudge me into buying this place. My other two classes were less stellar: a B and a B-minus. Not failing, but far from the GPA I needed for a top grad program.
So what was I doing all this for? The money? I wasn’t even paying myself minimum wage. I still didn’t have enough for a security deposit. The experience? Sure, I’d learned a ton—but that only mattered if I wanted to do this again. And right now, I didn’t.
The grade? That A didn’t seem worth dragging down the rest of my GPA.
Marques’s warning from the fall drifted back to me: She’s not doing this for you. She’s doing it to you. Well, Artemis had bagged everything she was hunting—the headlines, expanded enrollment in her seminar, a success story for her tenure file. And her prey? Ringing in the New Year behind an empty counter.
I thought again of Collin Porte. Maybe I should’ve taken his offer—sold him half the business for a dollar. If I had, I might have had time to study for finals, maybe even gone home for Christmas.
I started an email. Dear Mr. Porte, I’ve been thinking about your offer to purchase half of my pizzeria. I wanted to check with you to see if that offer is still available.
I stared at the screen. It would be so easy to hit send and pass my problems off to someone else. But really, who was I kidding? The problems would still be mine. What I wanted from Collin Porte was someone to hold the responsibility, to be the ultimate decision maker, to make sure I didn’t screw up. But Collin would never make a single pizza for me, nor would he throw in significant cash to get the place going. What would he give me? The ability to draw on his credit. A team of people I could turn to for answers.
But while the money might feel good, it would still only be borrowed. One thing I had going for me: I’d run this place lean. Collin would make sure I got paid for my time, but his team wouldn’t come cheap. Before long, I could find myself further in the hole than when I’d begun. Then what would I do? If I couldn’t make the place profitable again, I might have to fork over the other 50% of the business to settle my debts with him.
If that did happen, I’d certainly walk away with experience. But I wanted more to show for this business than just experience.
So what did I want?
It was New Year’s Eve. If there was any time to decide a direction, this was it, right?
I pulled out an old invoice, flipped it over, and wrote on the back, “What do I want from The Pizza Lab?”
Then I crossed out the question. It was too narrow. Instead, I wrote, “What do I want from business?”
Still not right. I crossed it out and wrote, “What do I want from my life? And what role do I want business to play in it?”
Now I was getting somewhere. So what did I want from life?
I wrote: Freedom.
But freedom from what? To do what?
First thought: the freedom to spend time with my family—something I’d missed this season. Why had I missed it? Because I’d convinced myself I had to work. Why? Because I was afraid that if I didn’t, I’d lose the business.
Below Freedom, I wrote Security.
Now I was getting closer. My family constantly struggled for money. I wanted to build a business that could give me something I never had: a stable foundation. That kind of security would buy freedom—freedom to spend time how I wanted, see the people I loved, and eventually start a family of my own.
Freedom and Security. The two were linked. But other than spending time with family over the holidays, did I even have a clear picture of what I wanted? I knew all too well that if I’d spent even a full week at home, I’d have been itching to get back to campus and have my own space again.
So where did that leave me?
Below Security, I wrote Passion.
That was the problem. I didn’t have any clear passion driving me. All I had was the pursuit of financial security. So what did I love doing?
The answer hit me. Below Passion, I wrote Learning. The times I’d been most excited during this whole Pizza Experiment, I was learning new things. Each new understanding brought a rush of excitement. It made me feel like I was growing. And each time I grew, I became more capable, my problems more manageable, and I felt electrified. Below Learning I wrote Growth.
So if I wanted my life to be about Freedom, Security, Passion, Learning, and Growth, then what did my business need to be about?
I wrote: My business can’t be my prison.
Because lately, that’s exactly what it felt like. I should have been with my family. Instead, I was chained to a hot oven and an empty dining room. And now, rather than a blessing, the business was strangling me like a curse. I couldn’t let that continue. Otherwise, I’d be forced to sacrifice my freedom for security, which would only make me bitter and drain me of passion, learning, and growth. That wouldn’t work.
I wrote: When I experiment in the business, I have fun.
It was true. The experiments—the Harvey Reese Special, the jazz night, even the chocolate pizza—had been fun. Not because they always worked, but because I got to play.
I wrote: When I’m afraid of loss, I don’t experiment and I don’t have fun.
That was super true. I wrote: When I’m stressed about money, about failing my classes, about working crazy long hours, I’m not creative, I’m not experimenting, and I’m not having fun.
I’d already covered most of that above. So why was it coming out again? Because I hadn’t actually resolved it. If I had a business barely squeaking by, how could it not be stressful?
Then I remembered something Professor Hunt had taught us.
I wrote: Strong business systems reduce stress.
Despite Professor Hunt’s lecture, the strongest business system I’d developed so far was painting a line to show when to order more napkins. I’d leaned way too heavily on Carrie. Now she was gone, and the stress was all mine.
I wrote: A business that depends upon one person to operate will always be a step away from disaster.
That felt very true. If I’d lost Carrie that first day when she threatened to quit, I would have been in a world of pain. Though I mostly needed Carrie for the transition. Had she agreed to stay on even a single month, I’d have had time to learn her tasks and train a replacement. But it would have meant even more hours for me, even more responsibility on my shoulders. Carrie wasn’t really the one the business couldn’t exist without. I was.
I wrote: If a business can’t function without the owner, the owner will never be free.
That was my issue. I wasn’t a business owner; I was a business operator. I couldn’t even afford a holiday to visit my family without fearing the business would fall to pieces.
I wrote: How can I build systems that still allow me to be creative?
I struggled with this question. Systems and creativity were polar opposites. A strong system dictates your steps. Creativity requires freedom to choose. So how do I get around that?
A couple came in. I put my list aside. “What can I get you?”
“We’d like one large pie. Pepperoni and mushroom.”
“You got it. I’ll bring you your pie when it’s ready.”
I made the pie and threw it in the oven. While it baked, I looked back at my question. Did a system necessarily have to block creativity? It had taken me no more than three minutes to make the couple’s pie. It used to take me a lot longer.
Having a good system seemed perfect for repetitive tasks that had to be done the same each time. If I put twenty slivers of pepperoni on a large pie and Carrie put forty, the customers would get an inconsistent product. That would be bad for business.
I wrote: Experimentation expands the vision. Systems deliver it consistently.
I’d reached the bottom of my slip of paper, but that was OK. I had my marching orders. I needed to build robust systems that let the pizzeria operate and succeed without my constant attention. That would cut my stress and free up time to experiment with ways of improving the business.
I pulled the pepperoni and mushroom pie out of the oven and cut it into eight equal slices (again, not the time for experimentation).
I grabbed another invoice and started a new list—this one titled: Systems I need to build.
It was time to work on the business, not just in it. And maybe, just maybe, find the freedom I’d been chasing all along.
