shared a picture from a coffee shop in Copenhagen. Special dedicated cups kept individually for their regulars.

I took a screenshot to share with a founder I’ve been talking to, then immediately started mentally unraveling all the logistics behind it.

When does someone qualify as a regular?
Who keeps track of which cup belongs to whom?
How does a new barista know where Karen’s cup is during a Saturday morning rush?
What if someone puts a cup back in the wrong spot?
What happens if a cup breaks?
What if someone switches their order from a cappuccino to an iced coffee?
What happens if someone doesn’t visit for three months? Can they take the cup with them?
What if a new customer feels left out because everyone around them has one?

At what point does this very sweet idea become 300 ceramic cups and a spreadsheet?

My first instinct as an operator who has experienced what it takes to scale a hospitality concept by 500% was to solve all of those questions.

Make it simple.
Standardize it.
Find a version that creates the same feeling without creating so much work.

Could we find space for storage away from the bar, where the guest has to grab their cup and bring it to the barista? It could be a win-win if staff didn’t have to worry about locating the cup and we didn’t have to ration storage space behind the bar.

The longer I looked at the cups though, the more I wondered if that instinct was missing the point.

Maybe some things are supposed to be a little inconvenient.

My brain has been wired to find friction, inefficiencies, dependencies. The things that will make you want to pull your hair out if you try to scale them as they are.

That instinct matters. I’m not trying to romanticize inefficiency.

But there’s a difference between unnecessary friction and intentional effort.

Sometimes inconvenience is the price of making someone feel seen.

I view hospitality as a way to be in service to other people. And serving people well isn’t always the most efficient option.

Sometimes the extra step is the whole point.

These coffee cups have given me a lot to think about this week. I think the extra human effort can be worth it when you’ve deliberately chosen a place you want to spend it.

Maybe the cups are worth the spreadsheet.

I was consulting remotely for biotech and pharma companies at the time when I was invited out to Chacahua to teach breathwork and yoga.

For anyone that isn’t familiar with Chacahua, it’s a tiny Afro-Mexican fishing village in Oaxaca with a population of less than 500 people. The community is so close-knit that there’s an expat who moved there years ago from Italy that built a pizza oven by hand on the beach and makes pizza for everyone on Friday nights.

There’s electricity, but no cell service (even with a local Mexican SIM card). The power can go out for days at a time. I used to pray my laptop and backup battery had enough charge to get me through my work, but somehow it always came back on just in time.

One of my clients would ask how things were in NYC.

“Yeah, it’s great. I love this city.”

I was trying very hard to keep the tipi out of the professional picture.

I think that sums up a lot of how I spent my twenties. I had a very clear idea of how I was expected to show up to be respected in the corporate world and I nailed the perfect professional version of myself: biotech and pharma consultant, HR, operations, organizational and process design.

I was good at what I did and it felt good to be successful. I built full R&D functions from scratch. I visited one of my clients up in Boston when they only had 2 VC founders and the first technical hire, we unpacked boxes in their new lab space. I made every single hire across the company and in 4 years they made it from pre-discovery through FDA approval with 100% employee retention.

But there was also the life I was quietly building outside of work. I wasn’t looking for a new hobby or trying to keep up with wellness trends. I was working 12–14 hour days, drinking far more than I should have been, and waking up with this growing sense of unease, dread, anxiety, and hopelessness. Breathwork, yoga, and contrast therapy were the only things I had found that gave me a small pocket of relief.

At the time, drawing a very deep line between these two people was the only thing that made sense to me. To be fair, could you imagine me bringing up energy healing in a conversation about vaccine efficacy during a global pandemic? These two versions of myself never needed to be in the same room.

Around that time though, I also started working with Bathhouse and fell in love with the concept of Aufguss. I was fascinated by the intentionality behind the music, the essential oils, the heat, the towel waving, and the cold. How all of those things could be brought together to create an experience that felt like more than just the sum of its parts individually.

I didn’t really have language for what I was interested in yet, I just knew I wanted to understand more about how and why that experience was so visceral and deeply felt. Especially why it seemed so effortless for some sauna masters to deliver the experience, but awkward and lacking the magic for others.

Then I went to a temazcal in Mexico.

I had agreed to join without really knowing what to expect. Huitzi and his family come from the Zapotec tribe, and they explained each step of the ceremony. Helping us understand the culture and meaning behind what we were being invited into as we moved through it.

When we entered the hut, we were crouched close together with the heated volcanic stones right in front of us. Huitzi poured water infused with medicinal herbs over the rocks, and the steam filled the hut almost immediately. Once the ceremony began, the entry was covered and it was pitch black. The drumming was loud. The tribal stories were visceral. At one point he passed around honey for us to rub on our bodies, and orange slices to eat.

Somewhere between the darkness, the heat, and the sound, I lost track of the space and time around me. We spent 2 hours in the temazcal, but I wouldn’t have known if it was 20 minutes or 6 hours.

When we finished, we went into the garden and lay face down in the dirt and grass. I can still remember how that felt.

What stayed with me wasn’t only the intensity of the heat. It was how much had gone into the experience before we ever entered the temazal, and how much care there was in what happened afterward. We weren’t just being taken through a sweat session. We were being invited into something that had deep meaning to the people sharing it with us.

I think that was the first time I really understood how much more there could be behind an experience that leads to the kind of transformation that really changes people.

I was talking about my newfound obsession with Aufguss and contrast therapy to a woman from Toronto while I was there. She said she knew someone building something similar who was getting ready to land in NYC. When I got back, she introduced me to Robbie Bent. We sat through one of Othership’s pre-launch nights in Flatiron, and he told me about the path that had led him there and what they were trying to build. I knew immediately that he understood the kind of experience I was still trying to put words to.

That’s been one of my favorite synchronicities in my career. I wasn’t out there trying to network or leverage anything, just genuinely excited to talk about how deeply these contrast therapy experiences could be felt. Robbie quickly became someone I really looked up to professionally, especially as I watched what he and the Othership team are building.

Shortly after returning from Mexico, I left the biotech/pharma side of my consulting work and joined Bathhouse full-time. We were going through a period of rapid growth, and I was excited by the challenge of building an HR function that could sustain that.

In theory, I thought the jump was a clean integration of my corporate growth-strategy consulting brain and my woo-woo heart that wanted to create these transformative and visceral experiences.

There was a second layer of integration I didn’t expect though. The more time I spent around wellness businesses, the more I started hearing some version of the same concern:

“We don’t want to become too corporate.”

“We don’t want a ton of bloated layers of process and policy.”

“We don’t want HR coming in and changing the culture.”

“We don’t want to lose the magic.”

And the funny thing is, I understood exactly what they meant. I didn’t want that for them either. I had spent years unknowingly chasing the feeling these founders were trying to protect. The thing that makes one sauna round feel completely different from another. The thing that made me lie face-down in the dirt after a temazcal and still remember exactly how the ground felt years later. I knew that something could be operationally sound and still feel completely lifeless.

But the more I looked back at the experiences that have stayed with me the most, the harder it became to ignore something else: none of them were actually unstructured.

The temazcal certainly wasn’t. So many tiny decisions had been made before I ever stepped inside that hut. We knew enough about what we were entering to feel comfortable participating in something that wasn’t ours. The cultural education didn’t feel like an orientation we had to sit through before the “real” experience; it made the experience richer. The herbs had been planted intentionally by Huitzi and his family, and we were invited to help gather them before the ceremony. The sequence, symbolism, and meaning were understood. There was enough preparation to make joining strangers feel natural, and enough care afterward to give everyone space to come back to themselves in their own way.

It wasn’t powerful because nobody had designed it. It was powerful because so much had been designed with care that the structure almost disappeared into the experience.

That changed the question for me, and led me to look at internal People and Ops structure the same way.

I don’t think the problem is structure. I think the problem is structure that has no relationship to the experience the business is trying to protect.

Wellness businesses don’t need to borrow layers of corporate machinery just because they’re growing. But growth does eventually ask a business to become more explicit about how it works. Things that once lived naturally between a founder and five people have to somehow survive fifty people, another manager, another location, more guests, more decisions, and more distance from the person who originally knew how everything was supposed to feel.

If you refuse to build structure because you’re afraid of losing the magic, structure doesn’t simply disappear. The structure will build itself. In workarounds, in unwritten rules, in a founder who has a hard time taking vacation, in the team member who answers everyone’s questions because they’ve been around the longest and “just get it.” In all of the tiny intricacies, exceptions, and ways of working that need to be verbally taught, observed, and relearned every time someone new joins.

And if the magic can only be recreated when the founder, the original team, or the one person who just gets it is in the room, I’m not sure you’ve actually protected it.

I think there is a version of growth where the point of infrastructure isn’t to make the business feel more corporate. It’s to understand what the business is actually trying to protect, and then make it strong enough to preserve those things without requiring the same handful of people to personally hold everything together forever.

That’s the space I’ve become obsessed with. It’s also the question sitting underneath a lot of my work with Groundwork: how do you give a business enough structure to hold itself without squeezing out the strange, human, hard-to-measure things that made people feel the experience and care about it in the first place?

I have a lot to say about where I think that balance lives. This is just the story behind how I started looking for it.

Somewhere between an empty biotech lab, a tipi on a beach, a two-hour sweat ceremony in Oaxaca, and a sauna in New York City, the two versions of myself I had worked so hard to keep in separate rooms finally started talking to each other. Turns out they were trying to solve the same problem all along.

If you are building, operating, or investing in this category, you don’t need another person telling you demand is real. You can feel it. The rooms are fuller. The guest is more fluent. The press is watching. Investors are paying attention. The Global Wellness Institute now projects thermal and mineral bathing as one of the fastest-growing corners of the entire wellness economy — roughly 10% year on year — and names social bathhouses as a reason why. Heat, cold, steam, and water are becoming part of how people recover, regulate, socialize, and return to themselves.

That is what makes the category powerful.

It is also what raises the stakes.

Because there is one version of this future where the beautiful spaces keep opening, the memberships keep selling, and the whole thing quietly runs on a founder, a strong manager, and a few irreplaceable people holding together what the business has not yet built into structure.

There is another version where operators build something that can actually carry the weight of what they have made.

The difference is not design.

It is whether the experience is held by a system, or by a handful of people.

The two of us first sat down for coffee in Downtown Brooklyn after the Aufguss National Championship a few months back. Two hours later, it was clear we were seeing the same gap from two different sides of the same room: one through a people and operating lens, the other through a premises and defensibility lens. The guest experience, human response, staffing, physical environment, and structure underneath it all were being treated as separate conversations, even though operators have to hold them all at once. That is where The Operator's Diagnostic began.

That is where we see the next threshold for thermal wellness: not whether the category can grow, but whether the operating layer underneath the experience can grow with it.

The first version can run on instinct

Most concepts worth loving in this category start with instinct.

Founder taste. Hospitality intuition. A feel for ritual. A clear sense of how the space should move, sound, smell, and feel. Early team members who care deeply and learn the standard through proximity. An informal culture that works because the founder is close enough to notice when something is off.

At the beginning, that closeness is a strength.

The founder can feel the whole room. They know when a first-time guest needs more orientation before entering the circuit. They know when the energy has shifted from social to chaotic. They know when someone is pushing too hard in the cold plunge. They know when a staff member needs to soften, step in, slow down, or hold a boundary.

That instinct is not the problem. It is often the reason the experience resonates so deeply.

You cannot spreadsheet your way into the feeling of a great bathhouse. You cannot policy-manual your way into care. The magic starts as a point of view, a felt standard, and a few people who know how to hold it.

The problem comes when the business grows and the structure underneath does not grow with it.

The standard a founder holds in their head on a quiet Tuesday does not automatically survive a packed Saturday, a second location, a third manager, and a team of twenty people who were not in the room when the culture was defined.

The thing that makes the first version special is often the same thing that makes the next version fragile.

Growth exposes what was informal

Operators do not usually feel this as one obvious problem.

They feel it in the small moments that are easy to explain away because the business is still working.

A guest issue technically gets handled, but still needs the founder’s read before the loop closes. A manager is capable, but keeps checking in because the decision rights are not fully clear. A strong guide knows exactly how to read a nervous first-timer, but a newer guide only knows the basics. The space resets beautifully when the right person is on, and thins when they are not.

The strongest people become load-bearing.

They hold the standard. They smooth over the handoffs. They catch what the system does not yet catch. They make the experience feel consistent through attention, memory, judgment, and care.

For a while, that can look like excellence.

Over time, it becomes expensive.

Not always in a dramatic way. More often, the cost shows up as slower decisions, inconsistent guest moments, manager fatigue, burnout, founder bottlenecks, staff turnover, guest recovery, rework, and the quiet sense that the business needs certain people in the room in order to feel like itself.

That is the pressure we are talking about.

Not failure. Not crisis. Not “something is wrong.”

The pressure that comes when the experience is ready for a stronger operating layer than the one that carried the first version.

Thermal spaces carry a different kind of complexity

Thermal wellness is not ordinary hospitality.

Operators are not just designing spaces for people to relax in. They are building environments where heat, cold, water, breath, bodies, vulnerability, guest behavior, staff judgment, safety protocols, and brand promise all meet in real time.

On any given day, a thermal space may be managing first-time guest education, contraindications, emotional release, group dynamics, consent, privacy, cleanliness, sensory intensity, and pacing. These variables don’t come one at a time. They stack.

And they often stack with guests who are still learning how to read their own limits.

A beautiful room matters. Ritual matters. Aesthetic matters. But the physical environment is not passive. The room is part of the operating system.

So is the signage. So is the intake. So is the handoff. So is the staff member who decides whether to ask one more question. So is the manager who notices when the wet area has crossed from lively into unmanaged. So is the protocol that exists on paper, but may or may not be practiced when the room is full or someone calls out sick.

This is not a hypothetical standard. In New York City — one of the country’s most visible bathhouse markets — the health code already requires supervision, monitoring, and response capability in these spaces. There, the human response structure is not a nicety. It is the law. Everywhere else, it is the standard that all serious operators should be preparing to meet.

This is where the work becomes unavoidable.

A beautiful space, a signed waiver, and good intentions are not a response structure.

The question every thermal business will eventually be asked (by a regulator, an insurer, a landlord, or a courtroom) is simple:

Does the human response structure match the foreseeable guest experience?

Foreseeable is the operative word. It is the word the law uses, and it is a question every operator needs to be asking before someone else does.

People and premises are the same system

Groundwork reads the people and operating layer: roles, standards, handoffs, decision rights, manager load, founder dependency, training transfer, and the invisible pressure that collects as a business grows.

Longevity Law reads the premises layer: the physical environment, signage, documentation, supervision, response practices, and whether those things match what actually happens on the floor — and what a business could reasonably have seen coming.

In a thermal space, those are not separate questions.

Consider one small, ordinary moment. A space opens with a clear rule: no one uses the cold plunge without a staff member in sightline. It is a good rule, and for the first year it holds — because the founder is usually there, and the manager enforces it without thinking. Then the space gets busier. The manager is carrying more. The rule quietly softens from in sightline to nearby to someone who will notice. Months later, a guest is alone at the plunge when something changes.

What began as a staffing strain is now a safety gap. A founder dependency has become a response gap. A vague role has become a missed handoff. Look at that moment through only a people lens, or only a premises lens, and you miss half of it.

The question is rarely whether people care enough. Most of the time, they do.

The better question is whether the business has made the right things clear enough to be held by more than the strongest person in the room.

The guest experiences one system. We read it that way.

The real risk is quiet erosion

It is easy to picture risk as a dramatic event.

The injury. The lawsuit. The viral post. The guest who has a bad experience and never comes back.

Those moments matter. But many businesses start drifting long before anything dramatic happens.

Quiet erosion looks like the guest experience becoming inconsistent between visits. It looks like managers carrying more context than their role was designed to hold. It looks like the founder becoming the second read on every real decision. It looks like protocols becoming decorative: written down, technically available, rarely practiced.

It looks like the strongest staff becoming load-bearing, holding the standard through effort instead of shared structure.

The business keeps working because people keep over-functioning to make it work.

That is what makes this stage hard to catch. Quiet erosion does not announce itself. It slowly becomes the standard the business operates around.

A crisis forces a response.

Erosion becomes culture.

Until the load-bearing person leaves. Until the second location exposes what the first location was absorbing. Until a busy day reveals that the system was never as clear as everyone thought. Until the gap between the promise on the wall and the practice on the floor becomes too visible to ignore.

Structural maturity protects the magic

A lot of operators hear “structure” and picture bureaucracy.

Corporate scripts. Sterile standardization. A concept that gets flattened until the thing that made it special is gone.

That fear makes sense. It is also the wrong version of structure.

Structural maturity means the business can protect the magic because the magic no longer depends on memory, proximity, or heroics.

The ritual can still feel handmade to the guest. The staff can still feel human. The space can still have taste, intimacy, and soul.

But underneath it, the standards are clear. The response structure is practiced. The guest journey is teachable. The staff model makes sense against the actual room. The physical environment and the human operating system are designed to hold the same experience.

The best version of structure does not kill the feeling.

It lets the feeling outlast one person’s attention.

Start by seeing where pressure is collecting

Before you open another location, increase volume, hire another manager, raise capital, or ask the business to hold more, it is worth knowing where pressure is already building.

Not only where things are obviously broken.

Where things still look fine from the front desk, but are being held together by proximity, memory, judgment, and quiet over-functioning.

That is why we built The Pressure Snapshot.

The Pressure Snapshot is a short, private self-check for thermal wellness founders and operators. It helps you see where your business may already be absorbing strain across the people layer, the premises layer, and the guest moments where those two meet.

It is not a plan, a certification, or legal advice.

It is a mirror.

A way to see which parts of the business are carrying more than they were built to hold.

Take The Pressure Snapshot → here

For operators ready to go deeper

For the right operators, The Pressure Snapshot is the first step into The Operator’s Diagnostic.

The Operator’s Diagnostic is a people + premises read for thermal wellness businesses that are growing, opening, expanding, or already feeling the strain of a more complex guest experience.

This is not two separate reviews stapled together. It is one integrated read of whether the experience you have built can hold under real operating pressure.

First, the Deep Dive. We start by understanding the vision behind the experience, the team carrying it now, the growth pressure already showing up, and what the business is being asked to hold next.

Then, the Field Read. We come into the space and look at how the guest experience actually runs: how people move through the space, where staff judgment is carrying the model, how the physical environment creates or reduces pressure, whether protocols match the floor, and where the business may be relying too heavily on founder proximity or key-person effort.

The deliverable is The Founder Brief: a clear, candid read of what the business is currently built to hold, where pressure is already collecting, and what needs to be strengthened before growth makes the gaps louder.

The people findings and the premises findings reference each other inside the same guest moments.

The integration is the point.

This is not implementation, SOP-writing, waiver-drafting, ongoing monitoring, or a certification.

It is two senior sets of eyes on your actual operating reality, reading the same guest moments from the people side and the premises side at once.

The point is to name what you may already half-suspect, catch what you may not be seeing yet, and give you a clearer understanding of what the next stage of the business is asking you to build.

We are opening a small founding cohort of operators by invitation.

If your space is growing, getting busier, preparing for expansion, or starting to rely too much on a few people to uphold the standard, this is the moment to look beneath the surface of the experience.

Start with The Pressure Snapshot → here

Already know you want a deeper read? Request info on The Operator’s Diagnostic → here

The Operator’s Diagnostic is a joint engagement of Groundwork Studio and Longevity Law LLC. It is an operational and premises-readiness diagnostic, not implementation, SOP-writing, waiver-drafting, ongoing monitoring, certification, HR or employment-law advice, jurisdiction-specific legal advice, or an opinion on insurance coverage.

A manager quietly cleaning up the same handoff every week. A studio director everyone texts before making a call. A strong operator who can’t take a real day off without the room losing its rhythm. A founder who is “less involved,” but somehow still becomes the final answer when something gets weird.

At first, it looks like a strong team.

And sometimes it is.

Someone steps in before the guest feels the gap. Someone remembers how it was handled last time. Someone knows the exception, the tone, the person, the policy that technically exists but still needs interpretation.

That kind of person feels like a gift to the business. A signal you’re hiring the right people to hold your vision.

But sometimes the workaround becomes the way the business works.

That is the pattern nobody names early enough.

The first version works because everyone is close enough

Most good experience-led businesses begin with proximity.

The founder knows what “good” feels like. The operator knows the rhythm. The studio director knows which policies can bend and which ones cannot. The lead knows when the room feels off before anyone says it out loud.

The team learns through repetition, taste, correction, and being close enough to the original standard to absorb it.

That closeness creates quality.

It is not fake. It is often the reason the business works in the first place.

The guest feels cared for. The room feels considered. The team finds a way. The business keeps moving because the right people are close enough to see, feel, remember, and adjust.

But closeness does not always travel.

A second location opens. The checklist exists. The training exists. The standards technically exist.

But the new team did not learn by standing next to the founder who created the original standard. They did not watch the same guest issue get handled twenty different ways. They did not absorb which details mattered and what to prioritize when the team is spread thin.

So the questions start moving.

Do we make an exception here?
Is this the right tone?
Who needs to know about this?
What would we do at the first location?

None of those questions feel dramatic on their own. A quick Slack message. A manager jumping in. An operator making the call because it is faster than explaining the judgment behind it.

But over time, those questions show you where the business actually lives.

Sometimes it lives in the process. Sometimes it lives in the training. Sometimes it lives in the role.

And sometimes it lives inside one person’s memory, judgment, and availability.

Dependency does not always disappear. Sometimes it moves.

Founder dependency is the easiest version to recognize.

Everything still comes back to the person who built the original standard. The team asks because the founder knows. The founder answers because it is faster. The business keeps moving because one person keeps interpreting the unclear parts.

But dependency does not disappear just because the founder steps back.

Often, it just changes hands.

It moves to the operator who knows how things actually get done. It moves to the GM who absorbs tension before it reaches the team. It moves to the studio director who knows when a guest needs softness and when the team needs a boundary. It moves to the lead who can keep the room calm because training has not fully caught up to what the room requires.

From the outside, that can look like maturity.

Fewer things go to the founder. The team seems stronger. The business feels less dependent on one person.

But if everything now routes through one senior person’s memory, judgment, and availability, the dependency has not disappeared.

It has just moved.

Experience-led businesses feel this faster

This shows up faster in hospitality, wellness, recovery, studios, bathhouses, thermal bathing, and other experience-led environments because the product is not only the service.

It is the feeling.

The timing of the handoff. The confidence at check-in. The reset between sessions. The tone of the room when something unexpected happens. The way a guest knows where to go next without feeling managed.

When something underneath is unclear, the guest may not know exactly what feels off.

The team usually does.

They feel it in the shift notes, the Slack messages, the same questions coming back, the manager who is always “just jumping in,” and the operator who cannot step away without the room starting to wobble.

This is where businesses often misread the signal.

They think they have a people problem. They need stronger managers, better communication, more ownership, more initiative.

Maybe.

But often, the deeper issue is that the business has not made the work clear enough to be owned.

The standard has not been translated. The handoff has not been built. The decision rights are implied. The process exists, but the real answer lives somewhere else.

Strong teams can compensate for a long time.

They remember what was not written down. They smooth over what was not designed clearly. They protect the guest from the gap because they care about the business and the experience.

That capacity is powerful.

It is also not infinite.

Care should not have to do the job of structure

The goal is not to remove care from the business.

Care is part of the product.

The goal is to stop making care do the job of structure.

The right systems do not ruin the magic. They protect it from depending on a few exhausted people.

Because the business may already be working. The room may still feel good. The guests may still be cared for. The team may still be finding a way.

That is exactly why this pattern is easy to miss.

The standard can live in people for a while. Most good businesses begin that way.

But if the standard deserves to survive growth, it eventually has to move out of one person’s head and into the way the business holds itself.

Not because the people care less.

Because what they care about deserves to be held by more than them.

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