The Difference Between Cooking and Leading

For a long time, cooking wasn’t something to love. It was simply what was there.

There’s a version of this industry that rarely gets talked about, the one where you show up every day without passion, without clarity, just doing the work because it’s the only path in front of you. That was the reality for years. No childhood dream, no defining moment growing up, no romantic pull toward the kitchen. Just repetition, long hours, and learning how to keep going.

Everything shifted not because of a place, but because of a person. A chef who cared, not only about the food, but about the people behind it. That kind of environment felt different. It made the work feel different.

For the first time, cooking wasn’t just about getting through a shift, it became something that could actually matter. It sparked a realization that changed everything: there was something real here. Something that could be built on. The idea that this craft could support people, contribute to sustainable agriculture, and genuinely make someone happy through a meal gave the work a new kind of meaning. That moment didn’t just change direction, it defined it. Since then, the goal has been clear: Be that person for someone else.

The foundation, however, was built in much less romantic places. The first kitchens were fast food spots, where the food itself was simple, but the standards were not. Cleanliness and organization were taken to extremes—baseboards scrubbed with toothbrushes, dumpsters bleached weekly. At the time, it felt excessive, but those habits became permanent. No matter the kitchen, those standards stayed. Keeping a station cleaner, sharper, more intentional than expected became a quiet way to stand out. Not through words, but through consistency.

By the time culinary school entered the picture, there were already years of experience behind it. Speed, awareness, and the rhythm of service were already there, shaped by real-world pressure. That made the experience different. Instead of focusing on fundamentals, there was space to understand nuance, to pay attention to detail, to absorb more from the people teaching. That’s where the connection to food deepened: Not just in execution, but in understanding.

Like most paths in this industry, the challenges weren’t unique. They were shared realities. Moving from a small environment into a much larger one and realizing how much more there is to learn. The physical and mental strain. The unhealthy coping mechanisms that too often become normalized. The feeling of constantly trying to keep up. There’s something grounding in that, though. Knowing that these struggles are not isolated. That others have faced them and found a way through. Progress came from accepting that and continuing anyway.

One moment, though, forced a deeper shift. After finishing culinary school and stepping into a sous chef role, there was a desire to prove something: To show readiness, to lead. But leadership revealed itself in a different way.

Running the pass during a busy service felt controlled until it wasn’t. A returning mentor didn’t hold back in pointing out what was missing. The truth was clear: it wasn’t a failure of skill, it was a failure of leadership. That distinction changed everything. Cooking and leading are not the same. One is technical, the other requires intention, awareness, and responsibility. From that point on, leadership became something to study and refine, just like the craft itself.

What continues to drive the work forward is a constant search for something new. Not just new ingredients, but new ways of understanding them: How they’re grown, raised, sourced, and the impact behind them. New people, new mentors, new environments, new stories connected to food. There is always something to learn, something to improve, something to see differently. The answer to what is most exciting to cook has never really changed: something new.

At the center of it all is a simple idea: Fire. Not just as a cooking method, but as a way to understand the work. Fire is unpredictable, but it can be guided. It requires balance. If it burns too aggressively, it consumes everything too quickly. If it fades, everything stops. But when it’s steady—strong, controlled, consistent, it creates something people can feel. That same idea applies to leadership. The energy brought into a kitchen shapes everything around it. People notice it, respond to it, and carry it forward.

The disruption of COVID brought a different kind of challenge. Time away from the kitchen created distance not just from the work, but from identity. When so much of life is tied to being a chef, stepping away forces a confrontation with who you are without it. Returning to the kitchen, even briefly, brought clarity. It reinforced both sides of that reality: The need to be more than the job, and the understanding of how deeply the work still matters. What stood out most during that time wasn’t just the cooking, but the people. A team dynamic that felt closer to a sports team than a kitchen: Everyone pushing toward the same goal, without leaving anyone behind. That kind of camaraderie stays with you.

The biggest shift came in stepping away from traditional kitchens altogether. Moving into farm work, building something independently, and redefining what cooking could look like. Now, the work happens over fire, outside, traveling, sourcing ingredients with intention. It’s a different pace, a different environment, but rooted in the same values. No pretension, no excess, just honest food, meaningful experiences, and a direct connection to the source.

Sustainability, in that context, isn’t a trend or a concept. It’s a way of living. It’s choosing to support local producers, understanding where ingredients come from, and building relationships with the people behind them. It’s about reducing distance between land and plate, between producer and cook. Not because it’s fashionable, but because it makes sense.

For a long time, the industry was driven by the idea of importing the best from somewhere else. The rarest ingredients, the most prestigious sources. But that mindset is shifting. The question now feels more grounded, more honest: what makes a place unique? What grows there? What stories exist there?

Because in the end, that’s what lasts. Not who had access to the most exclusive products, but who understood their surroundings and chose to cook from them.