Don't let them sleep at your company party

Carlos Cantú • June 12, 2025

Everybody deserves to be awake at a company retirement.

Retirement parties are bittersweet. On the one hand, you’re saying goodbye to someone who’s been part of the team for years. On the other hand, you’re celebrating the fact that they’ve made it to the finish line with stories, wisdom, and maybe even a cheeky plan to spend winters in Spain. But here’s the thing: the difference between a nice gathering and a truly memorable send-off often comes down to one detail—having a speaker.


A speaker gives the event structure. Instead of awkward pauses, scattered toasts, and someone mumbling a quick “cheers,” you get a clear thread that ties the night together. They guide the flow, highlight the retiree’s biggest wins, and set the right tone—whether you want heartfelt, humorous, or both.


Another perk? A speaker makes sure the retiree actually feels celebrated. It’s easy for these events to turn into a buffet-and-drinks situation where people chat in small groups and forget to actually say something about the person leaving. A dedicated speaker pulls the focus back, tells stories that everyone can relate to, and reminds the retiree just how much they’ve meant to the company.


And let’s not underestimate entertainment value. A good speaker knows how to read the room. They can bring in a touch of humor, keep the energy up, and save the crowd from long-winded speeches that make everyone glance at their watches. Think of them as the glue that keeps the evening flowing—and fun.

Bottom line: bringing in a speaker for a retirement event isn’t about formality, it’s about making the moment unforgettable. It shows respect, it creates connection, and it sends the retiree off with the recognition they deserve. If you want people to leave saying, “That was actually a great event,” get yourself a speaker.

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You can't Syndrome My Impostor!

By Carlos Cantú • June 12, 2025
Impostor syndrome is basically that little gremlin in your head whispering, “They’re going to figure out you have no clue what you’re doing.” Newsflash: neither does anyone else. Half the boardrooms in London, Berlin, or Paris are filled with people nodding confidently while silently Googling acronyms under the table. The difference isn’t who knows the answers—it’s who’s bold enough to fake composure with a straight face.  So why are we terrified to admit it? Because we’re conditioned to put on a polished act. At work, we strut around like we’re at some formal dinner in Brussels, trying not to drop the cutlery. God forbid anyone notices we sometimes feel like frauds. But the reality? The second you confess it over a pint, espresso, or glass of wine, most people will laugh and say, “Same here.” Suddenly the scary monster turns out to be a paper dragon. Here’s the twist: impostor syndrome isn’t proof you’re failing—it’s proof you’re stretching. You don’t get that sinking feeling when you’re stuck in your comfort zone, doing the same thing on repeat. You feel it when you’re in new territory—leading a project, pitching across cultures, learning the ropes of a new market. That shaky feeling? That’s growth disguised as doubt. And let’s be real: admitting it doesn’t make you weak. It makes you relatable. Nobody actually bonds over someone acting like a perfect professional robot. People connect over the messy truth—“Yeah, sometimes I’m just winging it too.” Authenticity wins out every time, whether you’re in Madrid, Milan, or Manchester. So, here’s a dare. Next time that impostor voice shows up, say it out loud. Ask a colleague, “Do you ever feel like you’re bluffing your way through this?” Chances are, they’ll grin and nod. And just like that, the silence cracks. Fear hates daylight, and impostor syndrome hates being talked about. Bottom line: stop letting it drive. Everyone’s faking it a little, and that’s fine. Owning it? That’s not weakness—that’s power.

The first time I got payed as a speaker was in a taxi

By Carlos Cantú • June 12, 2025
You’d think the first time I ever gave a proper “speech” would’ve been in front of a small crowd, maybe a work event, or at least a nervous toast at a friend’s party. Nope. My first real attempt at public speaking happened in the back seat of a taxi.