I grew up in the service industry. My family owned one of the first Indian grocery stores in New York, and I helped out every now and then. Later, when my parents and I moved to the United States before high school, they opened an Indian fast-food restaurant. Every weekend was spent packing orders, cleaning, serving customers, or doing whatever needed to be done. That journey continued long after I left home. I built a career in hotels and revenue management before eventually stepping away a few years ago when I realized I had lost my passion for the industry. Ironically, I married a restaurateur, so despite my best efforts, there seems to be no escaping hospitality. Looking back, I realize the industry taught me something years before I ever started healing: You can smile while your nervous system is falling apart. This week’s blog is an ode to my family, my colleagues, mentors, managers who believed in me, my husband, and the incredible people I’ve had the privilege of working alongside. It is also an appreciation for an industry that shaped me in ways I didn’t fully understand until much later.
There is one interaction from my early days that I have still not forgotten. It had to do with a guest telling me (the only woman in the room) not to forget who paid my salary, because I was unable to find his stolen goods. I had moved heaven and earth to locate them, but lost goods usually are lost goods. The statement he made implied that he was responsible for my paycheck, and I was taking that for granted. It is one of the most degrading comments that I’ve professionally encountered. I remember walking out of the room after that statement, going to the back office, and shedding several tears. I didn’t know what more I could have done, and I recall feeling so small and worthless.
This guest had no idea that my boss had me working three different shifts every week, so I had no sleep cycle. I barely had time to grab a meal, and my social life was non-existent. Nevertheless, every shift, I smiled, pleaded, apologized, and put out fires. None of this was the guest’s problem, but his words cut deep, because I was trying so hard to keep my own life together without even realizing that’s what I was doing.
Hospitality is often mistaken for serving food or checking people into rooms. It is, but beneath that, it’s an industry built on emotional labor. You smile. You apologize. You stay composed. You absorb criticism. Then you do it all over again for the next guest. The work doesn’t stop simply because your life outside of work is falling apart. In fact, it never stops. Not on weekends, holidays, or even during disasters.
As a woman, there was another layer to navigate. Back then, appearance standards felt less like professionalism and more like performance. I was asked to remove my tiny nose ring—even though it was part of my heritage—or cover it with a Band-Aid because apparently that looked more professional. Skirts were only permitted with pantyhose. To this day, I’m still not sure who my bare legs were going to offend, but those were the rules.
It didn’t end there. One guest spent an entire conversation staring at my chest while complaining about something that wasn’t even true. I finally told him that my eyes were up here. Without missing a beat, he replied that the light was reflecting, so he couldn’t look at my face. I wish I could tell you that I was shocked, but I wasn’t.
Women in hospitality quickly learn that smiling politely is often expected, even when they’re deeply uncomfortable. Thankfully, the industry has evolved in many ways, but sexism and harassment haven’t disappeared entirely.
Then came the pandemic. I watched executives take symbolic pay cuts while thousands of hourly and mid-level salaried employees wondered how they were going to pay rent or mortgages. Overnight, the glamour that people often associate with hotels disappeared, revealing the people quietly holding everything together.
I remember lying awake wondering how I would pay my mortgage if things became worse. Compared to many of my colleagues, my worries were small, but they were real, nonetheless. The entire experience left me feeling disappointed, jaded, and questioning an industry I had devoted years of my life to. Despite all of this, I don’t look back with bitterness.
Hospitality introduced me to extraordinary mentors, lifelong friendships, and experiences that shaped the coach I am today. It taught me resilience before I knew what resilience was. It taught me how to stay calm when everything around me felt chaotic. It taught me that professionalism isn’t always about competence; sometimes it’s about quietly carrying burdens that nobody else can see.
For years, though, I expected people to see my humanity while I struggled to see it myself.
I wanted guests to recognize that I was more than a uniform, a name badge, or a cheerful greeting. Yet outside of work, I rarely extended that same compassion inward. I measured my worth by how much I could do, how composed I appeared, and whether I could keep going despite feeling exhausted.
Healing slowly changed that. It taught me that I don’t always have to earn my humanity through performance. That my value isn’t determined by how well I hold everything together or how convincingly I smile when I’m struggling. Perhaps that’s the greatest lesson hospitality gave me.
Every person is carrying a story you’ll probably never know. The receptionist welcoming you. The server bringing your meal. The housekeeper cleaning your room. The manager trying to solve a problem. And maybe even the guest standing across from them.
We all carry invisible battles that rarely make it to the surface. Healing has made me slower to judge, and it’s not because everyone is right. It’s because I’ve spent enough years behind the scenes to know that what we see is almost never the whole story.
In the end, I don’t think any of us are looking for perfect service or perfect lives. We’re simply looking to be seen. And perhaps that begins with seeing ourselves as human beings first, instead of believing we always have to keep smiling, performing, and carrying on to deserve kindness.
This is my small corner where I share what I’m still learning to hold. Somehow, you might find parts of yourself in it, especially the messy and quiet ones you don’t always show. If you see yourself here, you’re not alone, because we are all working on coming home to ourselves.
My 5-minute guide for when you’re feeling overwhelmed, stuck, or lost. Reset your energy and reconnect with yourself. Bonus audio guide included. Available here: Energy Guide
All the best,
Chaitni