For years I ran my business trying to make it look impressive. Impressive to peers, to prospects, to whoever happened to be watching at a networking event. Every new tool, every new process, every clever workaround was another thing I could point to and say, look how sophisticated this is. The problem is that nobody scales a business off how it looks from the outside. They scale it off how it actually runs on a Tuesday afternoon when three clients call at once.
Somewhere along the way I stopped building for the audience and started building for me. For how the work felt to do. That single shift is the closest thing I have to a real explanation for how we went from eight million a year to twenty.
The mess was self-inflicted
Here’s the uncomfortable part. The complexity that was strangling the business wasn’t forced on me by clients or by Microsoft or by the market. I built it. Every duct-taped process was a decision I made at some point to patch a problem rather than fix it. A spreadsheet here to track what a proper system should have tracked. A manual checklist there because nobody trusted the automation. A Teams channel for this, a separate one for that, a third one nobody remembered the purpose of.
None of it was wrong on the day I added it. It was all reasonable in isolation. But reasonable decisions stacked on top of each other for five years become a structure that no one person can hold in their head. And when no one can hold it in their head, everything slows down. People stop deciding and start asking. The business gets heavier with every fix.
Why adding more is the instinct, and the trap
When things feel chaotic, the instinct is to reach for another tool. New ticketing platform. New project board. Another layer of approval to stop the mistakes. It feels like progress because you’re doing something. But you’re usually just adding another joint to a structure that already has too many.
I had to break that habit in myself first. The question I started asking wasn’t “what can I add to fix this” but “what can I remove so this stops happening at all.” Removal is harder. It means admitting that something you built no longer earns its keep. It means killing the spreadsheet you were quietly proud of.
This is where I leaned on the Microsoft 365 stack properly rather than around it. We were running four overlapping trackers, so I had Copilot in Excel pull them apart and show me where the same data lived in three places. Then we cut it to one source of truth in SharePoint and let Copilot answer the questions people used to dig through the others to find. The chat channels got the same treatment. Half of them went. The ones that stayed got a clear job, and when someone asked “where does this go,” the answer was finally obvious.
Simplicity is a discipline, not a milestone
The thing nobody warns you about is that simplicity doesn’t stay. It’s not a state you reach and then relax. Complexity creeps back the moment you stop watching, because every small patch feels harmless in the moment. So now I run a regular review where the only acceptable change is a subtraction. What process can we retire. What approval step is just fear wearing a hat. What report does nobody actually read. I use Copilot to summarise where time is going across the team’s Outlook and Teams activity, and more often than not it points straight at something we could stop doing entirely.
That review is the most valuable hour in my month. Not because it adds capability, but because it protects the lightness that let us grow in the first place.
The takeaway
If your business feels stuck and heavy, resist the urge to bolt on one more thing. You almost certainly don’t have a tooling gap. You have an accumulation problem, and you built the accumulation yourself, one sensible patch at a time. Growth didn’t come to me from being more elaborate. It came from being willing to cut, to trust the simpler version, and to stop caring whether it looked clever to anyone else.
The hard part isn’t knowing what to remove. It’s having the nerve to actually pick up the scissors.