April 6, 2026

Last night, I went to a fair with my kids.

It was good for about an hour. The food truck was surprisingly solid. I had a Philly cheesesteak that was not greasy or overdone. My kids had chicken tenders that were actually delicious. Then the evening took a turn.

My youngest wanted to go through a maze, but she needed an adult. My teenagers had bailed. One was, as usual, elsewhere with friends and the other, I’d left off the hook because earlier she had taken the youngest on a bike ride without complaining. So into the maze I went. Again. And again.

I was already tired from a late night before. Somewhere around the eighth time in that maze, I started to feel sick. Then came the teacups. I hate the teacups. Both little kids were too young to go alone, so naturally I became the sacrificial adult. The teacups absolutely did me in. Every time we went around, the worker was looking at his phone. I swear we were on the teacups twice as long as we were supposed to be. I could have screamed except then I probably would have vomited. I felt horrible the rest of the night.

And I had this thought: being the designated nausea vessel is, unfortunately, very on-brand for parenting.

Then today, while still feeling nauseous (so rude!) I am sitting at my desk with unanswered questions from my staff, a contract that needs rewriting, and a dozen unfinished projects. I feel strangely unable to handle any of it.

And I’m thinking: what is the on-brand CEO version of this?

I think it is this: being the designated ambiguity vessel.

As a parent, you absorb inconvenience, chaos, bodily discomfort, and the emotional weather of the people you love. As a CEO, you absorb uncertainty, half-formed ideas, shifting priorities, and other people's anxiety. You are often the person expected to stay steady while everyone else is reacting.

That does not mean you always know the answer. It does not mean you enjoy the ride. It definitely does not mean the spinning stops.

It means that part of the job is metabolizing what other people cannot yet process.

A team brings you conflicting inputs and then looks at you for the next strategic step. A client wants progress on a project they are not aligned on and has forgotten is blocked, and you find yourself writing the “remember, you are supposed to do this before I can do that” email for the third time. A campaign is still muddy, but someone already promised it publicly, so now the timeline is real whether the thinking is or not. People toss out half-formed ideas, ask “what do you think?” and then wait quietly for you to turn ambiguity into clarity on demand. Somehow, again, it has become your problem.

This is where a lot of leaders get into trouble. They think their job is to remove all ambiguity as fast as possible. So they overbuild. Overexplain. Overschedule. Overpromise. They reach for motion because motion feels better than uncertainty.

But leadership is not always about making the ambiguity disappear. Sometimes it is about holding it long enough to tell the truth about what is actually happening.

What problem are we really solving?

What do we know for sure?

What are we assuming?

Who owns this?

What decision actually needs to be made next?

That is not flashy work. It is often uncomfortable work. But it is the work that keeps you from building AI-powered dashboards nobody needs, launching offers that are simply not ready, or reacting to pressure just because pressure is loud and someone wants a progress report by 9:00 a.m.

So yes, last night I was the designated nausea vessel.

And in business, more often than not, I am the designated ambiguity vessel.

Neither role is glamorous. Both require a strong stomach. And both get easier when you stop expecting the ride to be smooth and start getting better at knowing what is actually yours to hold.

That, to me, is part of mature leadership.

Not eliminating uncertainty.

Not pretending it does not affect you.

But learning how to carry it without letting it spin you into nonsense.