In mid-December, about twenty of us got together for lunch—people who’d been part of our first startup, Impulsesoft. It had been years since many of us had been in the same room, and once we sat down, the stories came fast, almost non-stop.

Some were familiar; others I’d forgotten entirely. There were tales from the first two employees we’d hired, Pragya and Vikas. Stories of the first office in Domlur. Parental anxieties about career choices and marriage prospects. Irate customers we’d overcommitted to. Meetings that, in hindsight, mattered far more than we realised at the time.

The conversation had its own momentum. Laughter carried us from one memory to the next, each story triggering another. And for a while, it felt like that was the point of the lunch—to remember, to reconnect, to enjoy how vividly those years still lived with us.

What struck me wasn’t just the stories themselves, but the way they were told. The laughter—some of it very familiar. The easy silences. The feeling that time hadn’t really passed at all. Someone later captured it perfectly in a message they sent to the group: beyond the stories, it felt like those David-versus-Goliath days had simply been paused, not left behind.

It was only later, after the noise settled, that something else stayed with me. It was the quiet continuity between who these people were then, and the work they went on to do long after those years.

That reflection took me back to a book I first read years ago and have returned to more often than I can count: The Effective Executive by Peter Drucker. Not because it explains moments like this, but because it gives language to what you only notice in hindsight. Drucker wasn’t interested in brilliance or effort in isolation. He was interested in contribution that holds up over time.

Back then, we were focused on getting things to work, meeting commitments we’d made, and figuring things out as we went along. Responsibility showed up before authority did.

Looking back now, what’s striking is how much of the work that mattered most didn’t announce itself at the time. It wasn’t the dramatic moments that endured, but the quieter ones—the decision to follow through, the habit of finishing what was started, the care taken with things that wouldn’t be visible for a while.

Seen through that lens, the lunch felt less like a reunion of stories and more like a glimpse of compounded effort. The people around the table had gone on to build teams, products, and companies of their own. Not because of any single moment we could point to, but because certain ways of working had taken root early and carried forward.

What I took away from that afternoon wasn’t nostalgia. It was a renewed respect for the kind of work that doesn’t seek attention in the moment, but quietly earns it later.

Pay attention to the work you do that continues to matter after the moment has passed.

If you catch yourself gravitating toward what’s most visible, pause and ask:
What here is likely to keep compounding over time?

The work that people quietly rely on.
The work that keeps things moving when attention shifts elsewhere.
The work that shows up again when conditions change.

In meetings, notice what others depend on without needing to ask.
In your own work, notice what you return to when things get uncertain.

You don’t need to change how you work this week. Just notice what endures.

A Note from Us

In December we’d asked you to join us at something new we were starting this year. A small, warm community for people who want to practice the craft of storytelling together. Several of you had expressed interest. January got a whole lot busier than we’d planned. But there are still a few spots open.

So If you’d like to be part of it, or if you want a simple checklist to start a storytelling group of your own at work or with friends, reply to this email or click here.

Storytelling grows when it’s told.
Storytellers grow when they’re heard.