Alex Hoffer

Recently, I’ve spent some time thinking about the 1990s and what made that decade so special.

Some of this is undoubtedly nostalgia. Every generation tends to look back fondly on the years of its youth. But I don’t think nostalgia fully explains my appreciation for the 1990s.

What stands out to me is that life seemed more connected, even though technology was far less advanced.

Today, when we go to public places like gyms, parks, airports, or even on a walk through the neighborhood, most of us have earbuds in. I certainly do. We have immediate access to music, podcasts, audiobooks, news, and entertainment whenever we want them.

That’s an incredible benefit.

But it also means we’re often less available to the people around us.

Less technology, more connection

In the 1990s, people walked through their neighborhoods without AirPods. They sat in waiting rooms without staring at smartphones. They stood in line at stores and talked to one another. Casual conversations flowed more naturally because fewer distractions competed for our attention.

The same was true with opinions and disagreements.

People certainly argued about politics, sports, religion, and current events. Human nature hasn’t changed. But those conversations typically happened face-to-face or over the phone with people we actually knew. There was effort involved. There was accountability involved. There was usually a relationship involved.

The workday also had clearer boundaries.

The internet existed, but it hadn’t yet transformed every aspect of life. When you left work, you generally left work. Emails weren’t constantly arriving in your pocket. There were fewer notifications demanding your attention. Life moved at a slower pace.

Single-tasking was the norm. When you watched television, you watched television. When you read a book, you read a book. When you spent time with family, there was a good chance you were actually spending time with family.

Of course, there was also the cultural moment.

As a Chicago kid, I loved watching the Bulls dominate the NBA. In baseball, the Yankees were building a dynasty of their own. What both organizations had in common was that their success felt organic. Much of their talent was developed internally and grew together over time.

Whether or not that perception is completely accurate, it reflected something broader about the era: things seemed to take longer to build, but they also seemed more durable once they were built.

Creating friction on purpose

So what do I do with all of this?

I’ve been trying to create a little more friction in my daily life.

Instead of immediately downloading the latest audiobook, I’ve been reading physical books that I already own. I’ve been taking walks through the neighborhood without AirPods and looking for opportunities to strike up conversations with neighbors. I’ve been doing the same thing at the gym, and as a result, I’ve gotten to know a few people that I’ve genuinely come to appreciate.

I’ve been rewatching shows like Seinfeld and Friends with my kids rather than chasing the latest streaming series. In my opinion, those shows are still better than most of what’s on television today.

What I really miss

And perhaps most importantly, I’ve been taking stock of the people in my life who may not be here three decades from now and making sure I spend time with them.

That may be the biggest reason I love the 1990s: All four of my grandparents were alive then.

At the time, I didn’t realize how special that was. Looking back now, I do.

As I close this post, I want to be clear: I love technology. I benefit from it every day. I’m not interested in returning to a pre-Internet world.

But I am interested in slowing down.

I am interested in being more present.

I am interested in having deeper conversations, building stronger relationships, and living with greater intentionality.

Maybe that’s what I really miss about the 1990s.

Not the decade itself.

The pace.

The gym locker room is one of the great theaters of humanity.

The other day, after a workout, I overheard three different conversations happening almost simultaneously.

One guy was giving relationship advice to another man who was clearly going through conflict. From my vantage point — the cheap seats — the advice felt very candid and a little judgmental.

Across the room, another guy was discussing the upcoming NBA draft. He sounded like he had a full scouting department in his head. He already knew which prospects would be stars, which would be busts, and exactly who the Chicago Bulls should draft.

Meanwhile, he was buttoning up his work shirt and heading off to a job completely unrelated to professional basketball.

Then came the funniest moment.

A guy walked in, complaining that every morning, he wakes up sore.

“Can I just have one day where nothing hurts?” he said.

Another guy immediately responded, with an expletive mixed in:

“At least you woke up today.”

I laughed.

A Little Too Familiar

But honestly, the whole scene stayed with me longer than I expected.

As I’ve spent more time writing about leadership and personal growth, I’ve realized something important:

I’m still growing, too.

In fact, there have been seasons of my life — and probably moments even now — where I do all three of those things.

I give overly confident relational advice.

I act like I know exactly what a sports team should do.

I complain about how I’m feeling physically.

And while none of those things are uniquely terrible, they all share a common thread:

It’s easy to speak with certainty from the cheap seats.

One of the greatest gifts of becoming co-CEO has been discovering how much I don’t know. I learned that quickly. The seat itself has humbled me.

Leadership has a way of exposing complexity. Decisions that once looked obvious suddenly carry weight, nuance, and tradeoffs you never considered from the outside.

More than anything, the role has deepened my appreciation for the people around me.

I need the team. We all do.

After all, leadership is accomplishing things with and through other people.

And maybe that’s why I’ve discovered that I’m at my best this year when I’m encouraging others instead of evaluating them.

Encouragement requires humility. Judgment usually requires distance.

So when I head back to the gym in a couple of days, I think I’ll look for the guy navigating relationship conflict and encourage him. I’ll probably look for the guy dealing with all the aches and pains, too.

Because most people are carrying more than we realize. And if we’re honest, most of us are still growing too.

Leadership is the process of doing things with and through other people.

I was reminded of that recently, in real time, as we hosted eight other injection molding companies at our facility.

As the group moved through our plant, I watched our VP of Operations lead a tour through five different stations across the facility. I listened as two of our plant managers explained our metric boards and shared the continuous improvement initiatives happening throughout the facility.

I watched our Director of Quality walk through our quality systems and initiatives. I listened as our automation leader explained how we are using robotics, mir robots, and automated packing cells to improve efficiency and consistency.

I observed our tool room team explain how we manage preventative maintenance and move countless injection molds through the department to keep production running. And finally, I watched two of our maintenance leaders showcase our power plant and explain how we keep the facility operating around the clock.

As I stood there, I realized something important:

My role was secondary.

And that is exactly how it should be.

It Isn’t About Being the Hero

Leadership is not about being the hero of the story. Leadership is about putting other people in positions to succeed. It is about building a team capable of performing at a high level without needing the spotlight to constantly point back to the leader.

In many ways, it reminds me of being a point guard in basketball.

The point guard’s job is to distribute the ball, create opportunities, and help the team score. Success is not measured by how many shots the point guard takes, but by whether the team wins.

That is how I increasingly view the role of a CEO.

My responsibility is to help put our team in a position to succeed — to create clarity, remove obstacles, allocate resources, and empower great people to do great work.

And on that day, our team absolutely delivered.

I left the event feeling incredibly grateful for the people we have at Hoffer Plastics. I was also reminded that I am not the hero of this story.

Our team is.