Two stylized trees with intertwined roots and branches stand against a gradient background, symbolizing resilience, with floating leaves above them and abstract dark clouds overhead.
This essay is an installment of The Long Game, a Big Think Business column focused on the philosophy and practice of long-term thinking by Eric Markowitz, a partner at Nightview Capital and forthcoming author of OUTLAST. Subscribe to his weekly newsletter, The Nightcrawler, in the form above. Follow him on X (@EricMarkowitz) and LinkedIn.
Not long ago, I found myself in line at my local dry cleaner. It’s a modest shop, the kind of place you’ve passed a thousand times without a second thought. But the man behind the counter — let’s call him Howard — is not a modest man. He pays an almost fussy, forensic level of attention to every customer. He remembers names and checks garment tags twice. He asks follow-up questions about a persistent wine stain on a lapel that suggest he genuinely, deeply cares about the outcome of his work.
When it was finally my turn at the counter, I thanked him for the meticulousness he brought to his work and casually asked how business had been. Howard sighed. He smiled a weary smile and paused. “Where to start?” he said. Then he told me about 2020.
When the pandemic struck, dry cleaners were among the hardest-hit businesses in the country. It was a perfect storm of obsolescence. Offices shuttered and weddings were canceled. Between remote work and the sudden “Zoom-casual” dress code, the demand for pressed shirts and dry-cleaned suits collapsed almost overnight. Howard told me there were months when he was certain the shop wouldn’t survive.
Here is the crucial bit: No amount of marketing, no clever pivot to “wash and fold,” no aggressive advertising could rescue a business whose customers suddenly had nowhere to go and no reason to dress up.
Yet, Howard’s long-time customers began showing up anyway. They brought in curtains and area rugs. They brought in old winter coats that had been sitting in the backs of closets for years. They didn’t urgently need these items serviced. In fact, most of them probably didn’t need them cleaned at all. They came because they wanted to make sure Howard stayed in business. Over the years, Howard hadn’t just been cleaning their clothes; he had been building an invisible reservoir of trust. And when the world turned upside down, that trust turned into a literal lifeline.
Today, Howard’s shop is thriving. Meanwhile, many of the dry cleaners in the same neighborhood — shops that were arguably just as “gritty” or “hardworking” — are gone.
I think about Howard a lot because his story captures something essential about resilience that we almost always get wrong. In our culture — and particularly in the world of business — we tend to treat resilience as a crisis response. We frame it as a personal virtue, a kind of psychological toughness. We admire the CEO who “powers through” or the entrepreneur who “summons the grit” to fight back after being knocked down.
But if we look closely at Howard, we see that “grit” is a remarkably poor explanation for his survival. No amount of inner toughness would have convinced a customer to bring in a dusty rug in May 2020. Howard’s survival had very little to do with his performance during the crisis, and everything to do with the system he had been building for 20 years before the crisis arrived.
For too long, we’ve been sold a version of resilience that looks like a solitary figure bracing against a gale. And as our world grows more volatile, that version of endurance is no longer working; it’s leading to burnout — not durability.
The following exploration of long-lived systems is designed to help you unlearn the myth of the rugged individual — and to move the conversation away from how we “tough it out” and toward how we design lives, businesses, and communities that are inherently built to endure.
I wasn’t always interested in this topic. But for the past several years, I’ve been obsessed with a specific group of outliers while researching Outlast, my forthcoming book about the world’s oldest companies.
These are firms that have survived recessions, world wars, colonial collapses, and technological revolutions. The oldest of them, a Japanese construction company called Kongō Gumi, was founded in the year 578 A.D. That’s not a typo. They’ve been in business for over 1,400 years.
When you study these organizations, you realize that our modern definition of resilience is dangerously incomplete. We treat resilience as a character trait. But in the real world, over long horizons, resilience behaves much more like the defining property of an ecosystem.
If you optimize a system for a perfectly sunny day, that system will inevitably shatter the moment it starts to rain.
Think of a forest. A forest isn’t resilient because each individual tree is “tough.” A forest is resilient because it is an interconnected web. If one tree is attacked by pests, it sends chemical signals through the fungal network in the soil to warn its neighbors. If a clearing opens up, the surrounding trees race to fill the gap. The system has redundancy. It has slack.
In business, we have spent the past 40 years trying to eliminate slack. We worship efficiency. We want “just-in-time” supply chains and “lean” headcounts. But efficiency is the enemy of resilience. If you optimize a system for a perfectly sunny day, that system will inevitably shatter the moment it starts to rain.
If we want to fix our understanding of resilience, we have to stop looking at the individual hero and start looking at the architecture of the system. Based on my research into these thousand-year-old outliers, I’ve noticed three specific patterns where we’ve lost our way — and how we can find it again.
1. The fallacy of the human cost
Last summer, I spent time at Beretta, the Italian firearms manufacturer. They were founded in 1526. To put that in perspective, when Beretta started making arquebus barrels, Michelangelo was still working in Rome.
After World War II, Beretta faced an existential crisis. The demand for firearms evaporated and military contracts were torn up. In a modern American boardroom, the efficient move would have been obvious: immediate, sweeping layoffs. You cut the labor cost to match the revenue decline. It’s the standard playbook.
Beretta didn’t do that. Instead, they looked at their master craftsmen — men who had spent 30 years learning the subtle art of metallurgy — and realized that these people weren’t “costs.” They were the company’s actual infrastructure. If you fire them, the company’s soul leaves the building.
So, Beretta started making cars. They made small, somewhat uninspired vehicles. It wasn’t a brilliant “strategic pivot” designed to capture a new market; it was a stopgap. They did it solely to keep their people employed. Eventually, the market for their core product returned, and when it did, Beretta hadn’t lost a single ounce of its expertise.
In our modern world, we’ve turned layoffs into a badge of “decisive leadership.” But this ignores a fundamental rule of social systems: Trust is a structural asset.
When an organization cuts people the moment the wind changes, it damages its own nervous system. The people who remain become defensive. They stop taking risks. They stop sharing bad news because they don’t want to be the next name on the list. The organization loses its “institutional memory” — that subtle, unwritten knowledge of how things actually get done.
Enduring organizations treat people as a form of capital to be preserved, not a variable expense to be managed. They understand that when a crisis hits, you don’t survive because of your balance sheet; you survive because your people are willing to close ranks and solve the problem.
2. The trap of hockey-stick growth
There is a tree in the White Mountains of California known as Methuselah. It’s a bristlecone pine that is nearly 5,000 years old. If you look at a cross-section of a bristlecone, you’ll notice something striking: The rings are incredibly narrow. In some years, the tree grows only a few millimeters.
The bristlecone pine is the most resilient living thing on Earth precisely because it grows so slowly. Its wood is so dense that pests can’t bore into it. It’s so resinous that it’s nearly rot-proof. It has traded the excitement of rapid growth for the durability of structural integrity.
Compare that to the modern business world, where we are obsessed with “velocity.” We want 10x growth. We want “blitzscaling.” We treat a 5% annual growth rate as a failure.
Illustration of a tree with multicolored, swirling trunk and branches, vibrant green fern-like leaves, symbolizing resilience on a white background.
But growth that outpaces a system’s ability to absorb it is a form of pathology. When a company grows too fast, its culture becomes diluted. You’re hiring people faster than you can teach them the company’s values. You’re building processes on the fly. You’re taking on debt to fund expansion.
Fast growth creates fragility. It’s like building a skyscraper on a foundation made of sand — it looks magnificent while the weather is clear, but it has no give when the earth shakes.
The long-lived companies I studied grow at what I call “natural speed.” They expand at a pace that allows their internal capabilities to keep up with their external complexity. They don’t want to be the biggest; they want to be the most “coherent.” Coherence is the ability of an organization to coordinate its actions under stress. If you are coherent, you can pivot. If you are only “big” and “fast,” you usually just crash.
Consider Quibi, which launched in April 2020 after raising roughly $1.75 billion from elite backers ranging from Sequoia Capital to NBCUniversal. On paper, the streaming company looked destined for success: an enormous war chest, blue-chip investors, and a mandate to revolutionize mobile entertainment as fast as possible.
Founded by Hollywood power broker Jeffrey Katzenberg alongside former HP CEO Meg Whitman, it set out to conquer Hollywood using Silicon Valley’s favorite tools: scale, talent, speed, and money. Internal plans called for 7.4 million users in year one; after six months, it had barely crossed half a million. Flush with capital and confidence but short on coherence, Quibi shut down in December 2020, just six months after its debut.
As Quibi learned the hard way, accelerated timelines rarely produce Hollywood endings. Coherence takes time.
This brings us to the third and perhaps most counterintuitive lesson: the importance of continuous maintenance.
Kongō Gumi, the construction company I mentioned earlier, specializes in Buddhist temples. If you speak with their master builders, they don’t talk about “finishing” a project. They view these temples as living things. A roof might need to be replaced every 60 years. A beam might need to be inspected every decade. The temple is never done; it is in a state of perpetual stewardship.
In the West, we have a very different relationship with maintenance. We like “disruption.” Maintenance is boring. Maintenance is what you do when things break.
But the secret to longevity is to practice maintenance when things are going well. My wife and I recently bought a house that is over 100 years old. The contractor took one look at our back deck and told us, quite bluntly, that it wouldn’t survive another winter. He wasn’t being dramatic; he was pointing out the law of entropy. If you stop maintaining an old house, the decline doesn’t happen linearly — it happens exponentially.
Business systems are exactly the same. During periods of high growth and easy money, we let our maintenance slip. We ignore small frictions in our culture. We let our vendor relationships become transactional. We stop training our middle managers. We assume that because the machine is running, the machine is healthy.
Resilient organizations use their good times to pressure-test their assumptions. They go looking for micro-fractures while they still have the cash and the psychological bandwidth to fix them. They treat maintenance as a form of “organizational exercise” — it’s uncomfortable and easy to skip, but it’s the only thing that builds the underlying strength necessary to survive a system-level rupture.
When we look back at Howard the dry cleaner, we see all three of these principles in action.
First, he prioritized relationships over transactions. He didn’t just see a suit; he saw a person. Second, he was content with sustainable growth. He didn’t try to open 50 franchises; he focused on making one shop perfect. And third, he practiced continuous maintenance. He tended to his “customer ecosystem” every single day for 20 years.
We tend to tell the story of resilience as a story of “the hero’s journey.” We want to hear about the person who looked into the abyss and didn’t blink. It’s a stirring narrative. It makes for great movies. But it’s a lie. In the real world, the person who doesn’t blink usually just falls into the abyss. The person who survives the abyss is the one with a dozen people standing at the top holding a rope.
Resilience is not a solo sport. It is a collective achievement. It is the result of thousands of small, unglamorous decisions made over decades — decisions to be a little less efficient, a little more human, and a lot more patient. We don’t fix resilience by making individuals tougher. We fix it by building systems that are worth saving.
