Apr 30 2026

My 2 Cents: What Did I Do to You? That may be the wrong question Posted 3 hours ago ago by Admin

Author: Randy Rowles

There is a hard truth in life and business that most people learn the slow way: some people are only close to you when they need something from you. The moment the need is gone, so are they.

The helicopter industry has more than its fair share of this type of person. Ours is an industry that likes to talk about relationships, trust, mentorship, and reputation. We describe it as a small community. We speak of loyalty, professionalism, and looking out for one another. We shake hands at events, share stories in convention halls, and talk as though this business is built on something deeper than opportunity. But if you stay in it long enough, you start to see another layer beneath all of that.

You begin to notice the people who call only when they need help, access, knowledge, influence, support or a favor. They know exactly where to find you when you can solve a problem, open a door, make an introduction, lend credibility, or help carry their load. In those moments, they act like you matter. They speak warmly. They remind you of your value. They praise your experience and your insight. They want your time, your energy, your reputation, and sometimes even your name next to theirs.

Then one day, without warning, the calls stop. The messages stop. The invitations stop. The warmth disappears. And you are left asking a question many of us have asked in silence: What did I do to you?

That question can work on a person. You replay conversations in your head. You rethink decisions. You wonder whether you spoke too directly, stood too firmly, told too much truth, or refused to bend when bending would have made life easier for someone else. You search for the moment things changed. You look for the fracture. 

You try to identify the offense, but time and experience teach an uncomfortable lesson. Sometimes, you did not do anything to them at all. Sometimes, the relationship simply expired the moment your usefulness did.

That realization is one of the colder truths in business, and especially in aviation. In this world, utility is often mistaken for friendship. Access is mistaken for respect. Proximity is mistaken for loyalty. As long as you are helping someone move upward, outward, or onward, they keep you close. Once they get where they were going, some no longer see a reason to maintain the connection.

That truth is painful, but it is also freeing. Once you understand it, you stop wasting time chasing explanations from people who were never going to give you an honest one. You stop assuming every disappearance act was caused by some failure on your part. You begin to see that not every relationship ends because of conflict. Some end because the transaction is over.

It reminds me of something I have seen too many times in life. There are people who will not drive down the street to see you while you are alive, but they will drive across the state to attend your funeral. They will stand there in polished shoes and quiet faces, speaking about your kindness, your wisdom, your talent, and the impact you had on their life. They will say they always respected you. They will say they always meant to reconnect. They will offer beautiful words over your casket that they never offered while you were still here to hear them.

That is not honoring. Often, that is guilt dressed up as tribute.

The helicopter industry has its own version of that behavior. There are people who will not support you while you are building something. They will not stand beside you when you are taking hits. They will not defend you when it costs them something. They will not check on you when you are isolated, misrepresented, or carrying a burden alone. But years later, when the risk is gone and the outcome is settled, they suddenly become admirers. They praise your contribution— once it is safe to do so. They celebrate your standards after benefiting from a culture they once ignored. They speak highly of your courage only after they no longer must share in the cost.

That may be one of the loneliest parts of leadership. Many people admire strength from a safe distance, but very few want to stand by a target while he or she is under fire.

Over time, I have come to believe that one of the most important skills in life is learning to distinguish between people who value you and people who value access to you. Those are not the same people. The ones who value you will call when they need nothing. They will check on you when there is no deal to discuss. They will make time for you when there is no audience watching. They will stand with you when doing so offers them no advantage. They will tell you the truth, not just the version that protects their position. They will not disappear the moment the room changes, the board shifts, the title goes away, or the opportunity dries up.

Those people are rare, and when you find them, you should hold on to them.

The rest serve a different purpose. They teach you not to confuse activity with relationships. They teach you not to mistake applause for loyalty. They teach you that some people are assigned to a season, not a lifetime. They teach you that being respected for what you can provide is not the same as being valued for who you are.

Once you have lived long enough to see this pattern clearly, there is only clarity, not bitterness. Not everyone who leaves betrayed you; some simply revealed themselves. Not everyone who praises you truly believes in you; some are managing their image. Not everyone who once stood near you was ever truly with you.

That is why your circle matters so much. I once heard something that stayed with me: your circle can either be your power or your poison. Choose it wisely! In aviation, that may matter even more than it does in most businesses, because this industry runs heavily on reputation, referrals, shared history, and trust. The wrong people around you can drain your energy, distort your judgment, and leave you questioning yourself. The right people sharpen you, steady you, and remind you who you are when the noise starts building.

Consider another possibility than asking: What did I do to you?  Maybe you told the truth. Maybe you stopped being convenient. Maybe you refused to play the game. Maybe you carried standards they no longer wanted. Or maybe you simply outlived your usefulness to people who never intended to know you beyond your usefulness. 

That truth may sting, but it also protects. It teaches you to invest in the people who show up before the funeral, before the victory lap, before the spotlight, and before the need. Those are your people. The others were just passing by.

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