I have a confession to make. I teach followership for a living. I literally wrote the book on it. And last week, I violated one of my own cardinal rules.
Let me back up.
It was a big week. I was heading to New Orleans to speak to the Retired Members Club of New York Life, then flying to Deadwood, South Dakota, to deliver the opening keynote at a Northwestern Mutual Network Day—my first time presenting the material from my new book, Natural Born Follower. I was fired up. The itinerary was set. Everything was confirmed.
Or so I thought.
When I booked my room in New Orleans, I had originally reserved for Saturday. My plans changed, so I called the hotel and let them know I would be arriving Sunday instead. I even sent an email to confirm the change. Done. Easy. No worries.
The Saturday before I left, as I was finishing packing, a small voice in the back of my head said: Should you call again? You never got an email confirmation back. I brushed it off. I had called. I had emailed. We were good.
We were not good.
I arrived Sunday afternoon, right in the middle of a Saints game weekend and an LSU game weekend, which meant the French Quarter was something between a Cajun circus and a full-scale festival. I walked up to the front desk with my luggage and my game face, ready to check in. The clerk looked at the screen, looked at me, and delivered the news: they had marked me as a no-show. My room was gone.
I want to be very clear about what I said next. I did not raise my voice. I did not cause a scene. I simply looked that clerk in the eye and said: I don't care if it's a broom closet. I am sleeping here tonight, and this is not my problem to solve.
To his enormous credit, the manager stepped in and got to work. Within a few minutes he came back with an offer: we have one room available. It has a trundle bed. I said I would take it without hesitation.
What I walked into was a party suite. Fifteen-foot ceilings. A massive center table designed for catering. A very funky sofa. And a trundle bed that was not a bed by any reasonable definition—it was a squeaky metal frame that looked like it had survived several Mardi Gras weekends and was not entirely sure about a third. The one genuinely magnificent thing was the 20-foot balcony overlooking Iberville Street, one block from Bourbon Street. By day it was quiet—and as anyone who has been to New Orleans knows, there is NOLA by day and NOLA by night. I was about to find that out at the highest decibels possible.
Let's just say if I were 20 and a wild child, it would have been a hoot. At 63, not so much.
That night was the welcome dinner for the RMC event. Later, I set my white noise app to maximum—something I do in most hotels—and tried to sleep. What I had not accounted for was that the French Quarter does not have a noise ordinance, or if it does, no one has told Bourbon Street. By 10 p.m., it was a full concert below my windows. The music did not stop until Monday morning. I lay in that squeaky metal frame, staring at those 15-foot ceilings, and started laughing. What else are you going to do? I was already composing this blog post in my head. If you have followed my travel adventures—the Belize banana halo, the 4th of July cowgirl boots, the journey to the center of the earth and whiskey factory—you know this is just the latest chapter.
They moved us to a proper room the next two nights. Gracious of them.
Monday I gave my talk, was welcomed into the Retired Members Club family, and headed home. Wednesday I flew to Deadwood. Thursday I delivered the opening keynote at the Northwestern Mutual Network Day.
In that keynote, I tell the story of a maintenance officer I served with in the Air Force whose call sign was Dragon Lady, and it fit. Her entire mantra was three words said in triplicate, delivered at a volume you could feel in your sternum: follow up, follow up, follow up. She drove every one of us to distraction. Did you follow up? Who did you follow up with? When? She was relentless, demanding, and exhausting.
She was also right. I have built a career on it.
Thursday evening, after Mike and I returned from our own dinner, I ran into Christopher Schenkel, the Managing Partner of that Northwestern Mutual agency in the hotel. We exchanged a quick hello, and I asked how his group dinner had gone. He smiled and told me that my name and presentation had come up at dinner.
Then he told me the rest. His group had arrived at the restaurant only to find the host had no record of their reservation. His admin pulled up an email chain with seven confirmation messages. Seven. The host rearranged tables to accommodate the entire group.
Two events, one week, two cities, same story: the right information existed, someone had done the work to communicate, a system somewhere dropped the ball anyway—and the person who had followed up the most was in the best position when things went sideways.
It ain't over til the Dragon Lady sings.
I had followed up twice on my hotel reservation. I had called. I had emailed. I ignored that small voice on Saturday night that said: call again. And when I arrived in New Orleans, I paid for it—one night on a squeaky metal frame with a Bourbon Street concert outside my window.
The lesson is not that you should distrust people. It is not that you should micromanage or make everyone feel like they cannot be trusted. Following up is not about control. It is about understanding that communication does not confirm itself, systems do not maintain themselves, and good intentions do not equal completed tasks.
As Dragon Lady understood—and as I had to relearn the hard way—following up is one of the greatest gifts you can give your leaders and your team members. It is what tremendous followers do. It is what keeps organizations functioning, dinners happening, and speakers getting a decent night of sleep.
Follow up. Follow up again. And when that small voice tells you to call one more time—listen to it.
