MyTNLife.blog

There’s a strange thing that happens when you’ve been a GM long enough.

You can change titles. You can change shifts.

But you don’t actually turn it off.

Night audit is supposed to be quiet. And it is, technically. The lobby hums instead of roars. The phones slow down. The problems arrive one at a time instead of in waves.

But my brain still scans.

I notice the way the front doors close a half-second too slow.

I clock which lightbulb will be out by next week.

I catch the body language of a guest before they know they’re unhappy yet.

No clipboard. No authority. Just instinct.

At 2:47 a.m., a guest wanders down in slippers, confused about checkout. I don’t rush them. I don’t “handle” them. I just orient them back to calm. That skill didn’t come from night audit. It came from years of owning outcomes.

At 3:30 a.m., I’m fluffing pillows in the lobby. Not because anyone asked. Because I can’t not see them. Excellence becomes muscle memory when you’ve lived inside standards long enough.

What surprises me most is not that I still think like a GM.

It’s how much lighter it feels without the weight of constant consequence.

No budget calls.

No owner texts.

No cascading urgency.

Just clean numbers. Clean transitions. Clean handoffs.

There’s humility in this shift, but there’s also clarity. Leadership isn’t a title you wear. It’s a way you move through space. A way you regulate energy. A way you make people feel safe at inconvenient hours.

I get tips now. That still makes me laugh.

I get overtime too. Even better.

And when my shift ends, I actually leave.

That’s the part I’m learning.

You don’t have to abandon who you are to step back.

You just have to decide where you want that energy to live.

For now, mine lives quietly.

Between midnight and sunrise.