The night before we opened for the first time, nobody slept well. This is normal, we told ourselves. This is what opening feels like. You’ve prepared. The product is good. The room is right. The team knows what they’re doing.
None of this helped.
The fear before an opening isn’t really about the product failing. You know if the product is good — you’ve made it a hundred times in test, you’ve fed it to people whose opinions you trust, you’ve thrown out the batches that weren’t ready. The fear is about the gap between what you imagined and what other people will see.
When you’ve been working on something for months, you stop being able to see it clearly. You see the intention behind it. You see the ideal version. You’ve forgotten how to look at the actual thing in front of you.
The first customer walks in. They order. They eat. They don’t say anything particularly profound. They pay. They leave.
And you realise: the gap was smaller than you thought. The thing you made is mostly the thing you meant to make. Not perfect — it never is — but honest. Good enough to deserve the room it’s in.
That’s all you can ask for on day one.