(Another piece on the cost of hesitation.)
I worked a catering event today. Not because I have suddenly discovered a passion for golf, nor because I have a secret dream of spending my evenings arranging chafing dishes and replenishing buffet stations. Like many adults in 2026, I was there because work is work, bills are bills, and opportunities rarely arrive dressed exactly as expected.
The event itself was fine. Better than fine, actually. I met a bartender who understood the strange state of creative industries. I learned more about catering in six hours than I thought possible. I discovered that event staff are somehow simultaneously overworked and underworked, often within the same fifteen-minute period. I survived the parking logistics. I survived the shuttle bus. I survived my first shift. But none of those things are what I have been thinking about since I got home.
I cannot stop thinking about the cookies. At the end of the night, there were trays of desserts left over. Cookies. Squares. Little sweet things that had done nothing wrong except exist in greater quantities than necessary. The hot food, I understand. Food safety is real. Buffet food sits out. Rules exist for a reason. Some things simply cannot be saved. But the cookies? The cookies were innocent.
The chef even gave us permission. “Take some,” he said. Nobody did. Not one person. A room full of grown adults stood around watching perfectly good desserts make their final journey toward a garbage bag. We all witnessed it. We all knew what was happening. We all had the exact same opportunity, yet nobody stepped forward. I don’t think anybody was opposed to taking them. Nobody objected. Nobody made a speech about professionalism. Nobody insisted the cookies belonged in the trash. We simply waited. For what, I am not entirely sure.
Perhaps we were waiting for someone else to go first. Human beings do this constantly. We wait for someone else to ask the question. We wait for someone else to open the door. We wait for someone else to admit they are lonely. We wait for someone else to take the cookie. The opportunity disappears. The conversation never happens. The business idea remains an idea. The cookies go to waste. We spend so much time waiting for permission that we fail to notice it was already granted.
These were cookies. Nobody’s life changed because they were thrown away. Yet hours later, after my shower, after walking my dog, after the event was long over, I found myself irrationally annoyed by the entire thing. Not because I wanted dessert. Well, partly because I wanted dessert. But mostly because I realized how often adults do this. We convince ourselves that hesitation is caution. That waiting is wisdom. That somebody else will handle it. Sometimes nobody does.
Sometimes perfectly good cookies end up in the garbage because a room full of adults could not decide who should reach for them first. Next time, I will take the cookies.
Postscript
A few days later I worked another event with many of the same people. This time there was far less waste. Food was packed into containers and shared rather than thrown away. I mentioned the cookie story to a woman on my team, who apparently took it to heart. At one point she tracked me down to make sure I grabbed something to eat before everything disappeared. Perhaps the cookies were never the point. But it was nice to learn that sometimes people listen.