The strategy of the next room
I have a confession. My most profound lessons in strategy no longer come from the frameworks of elite business schools or the high-stakes intensity of a corporate war room. They are being refined in the quiet, clinical stillness of my mother’s bedside.
In business, we are trained to chase “the next big thing.” We map customer journeys, invest in artificial intelligence and engineer “high-touch” experiences in a “high-tech” world. Yet sitting with my mother, I’ve come to a simpler realization: No system can replicate the value of presence. In an increasingly automated world, physical presence may be the only asset that cannot be disrupted, outsourced or digitized.
The memory bank
Since November 2025, my mother’s world has narrowed. The woman who once navigated life’s complexities now lives within a smaller, quieter space, shaped by routines and care.
A recent medical test introduced a possibility I could not ignore—that I may one day walk a similar path.
In business terms, it is a high-risk scenario. But instead of fear, it brought clarity. If memory can fade, then presence becomes an investment. Every visit, every hand held, every familiar voice is a deposit into a “memory bank”—not just for her, but for me.
We are not only caring for our parents; we are quietly defining the standard of care the next generation will learn from us.
Efficiency and presence
My days are structured around meetings, decisions and responsibilities. Like many executives, I am trained to optimize time, to batch tasks and protect the calendar. But when a caregiver sends a simple message, “amah is awake,” the decision is no longer operational. It is personal.
Whenever possible, I step in, even briefly. I reintroduce myself, hold her hand and sit with her for a few minutes.
I have realized that the quality of my attention is a singular resource. I give my best to my mother; therefore, I am able to give my best to my clients.
They are not competing interests. They are the same commitment to integrity, expressed in different rooms.
But there are mornings when the timing does not align. I may have an urgent board meeting or a keynote to deliver, and she has not yet awakened. In those moments, I have to take what I call my “antiguilt pill.” I remind myself that my commitment is to the consistency of my presence, not the perfection of every single hour.
By showing up when I can, I earn the right to step away when I must. It is not a compromise of care; it is the management of a dual responsibility.
Over time, I’ve learned this distinction. Efficiency is for tasks. Presence is for people.
What the heart remembers
From a purely analytical perspective, one could argue that these visits have limited “utility.” She may forget them shortly after. But life does not operate purely on transactions. There is something deeper at work, something beyond memory.
My eldest sister lives in Sydney, but she calls every single day, sometimes to sing to our mother. I was in the room recently during one of these calls. Mom’s eyes were open, searching the air, until the melody began. As my sister sang, Mom slowly closed her eyes, drifting into a peaceful stillness.
It wasn’t an act of falling asleep; it was an act of letting go. The mind may struggle with the distance of continents or the fog of age, but the heart recognizes the frequency of a familiar love.
When a child or grandchild enters the room, her face changes. There is recognition that does not depend on recall.
Simple gestures—holding her hand, performing mano—still carry meaning. They are signals that bypass cognition and go straight to connection. Even if she forgets the moment, I will not. And that matters.
The next room
My mother often asks me the same question, “Where do you live?”
For a time, I treated it as confusion to be corrected. Now, I see it differently. It is a search for reassurance.
In a world that no longer feels stable, she is asking if something familiar still holds. If someone she trusts is still near. My answer is always the same, “Next room, mom. I’m just in the next room.” And she smiles.
In that moment, success is redefined. It is no longer about titles, scale, or achievement. It is about being present enough that when someone calls out, you can answer.
The real opportunity cost
In business, we are trained to evaluate opportunity cost—what we give up when we choose one path over another.
In life, the greater risk is often unseen: the conversations postponed, the visits delayed, the moments assumed to be repeatable.
Time is a nonrenewable resource. But unlike capital, its depletion is not always visible until it is gone. We often say, “I’ll visit when things slow down.”
But things rarely slow down on their own. They are reprioritized. The question is not whether we are busy; it is whether we are allocating our time to what will still matter when the pace of everything else fades.
A strategic imperative
This Mother’s Day, my message is simple: show up. Not out of guilt, but out of clarity.
In business, we adjust priorities when conditions change. Life requires the same discipline. If you can, make the visit. Share the meal. Sit, even briefly.
The meeting can be moved. The task can be rescheduled. But some windows, once closed, do not reopen.
Presence cannot be delegated. It cannot be replaced by gifts, messages, or transactions. In the end, the highest return is not measured in efficiency, but in trust, in knowing that when it mattered, you were there.
I’m in the next room, mom. And I’m not going anywhere.
Happy Mother’s Day.
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Josiah Go is a husband, father, son, grandfather and a student of trust, in business and in life.
