千秋楽

千秋楽 — Senshuraku — the final day of a sumo tournament. The dohyō gets swept, the trophies get handed out, and whatever you brought to the basho is what you brought. You don't get another go.

Well, my little basho is over. Nine months ago a friend was generous (or foolish) enough to let me intern for 90 days at his company, and the end of November I handed over the keys.

What I left behind is the Product Operating Playbook — personas, jobs-to-be-done, a lightweight discovery cycle, some issue templates. Nothing earth-shattering. The hope is that it sticks. That six months from now someone opens a ticket and asks "but who is this for?" — and that the playbook is the small reason they thought to ask.

Whether it has a lasting effect is, honestly, no longer up to me. しょうがない. Hand it over, bow, step off the dohyō.

When I kicked off 90-in-90 I said it was about committing to something for ninety days and seeing where it took you. What I didn't fully admit at the time was that I needed a break from the norm — thirty plus years of doing the work the way the work gets done, and I wanted to find out what was left of me when I wasn't doing it that way. Turns out: people are my thing. Not roadmaps. Not frameworks.

The other gift of these ninety days is that I got off the screen for a bit. Wandered back into a couple of old record shops I hadn't set foot in for years — walked out with a pressing I'd been quietly hunting for, and one I had absolutely no business buying. Stopped by an old sumo haunt for early-morning keiko and remembered why I love it: two people, a circle, no place to hide. You move forward or you don't.

Not a bad mantra for product work either.

So — basho over. The trophies belong to the team. The music is still in me. And the next ninety days? まだわからない. But I am grateful for these.