Detaching

Suits, sportswear, and the fine art of letting go.

I was a mess. January 1998. Driving back from San Diego to San Francisco, tail between my legs, devastated, and on my way to my “not first” divorce. 

I couldn’t eat. Panic attacks hit me in waves. Worst of all, I couldn’t sleep. Sleep had always been my refuge—anytime, any place. My fail-safe. Until it wasn’t. 

Desperate for exhaustion, I started working out late at night. One Tuesday, I saw a sign for a yoga class at the gym near my apartment. Why not? I hopped on the treadmill for 30 minutes, stretched, then took a quiet place in the back of the room. I had no idea what I was doing—couldn’t tell my ass from the asanas—but for the first time in weeks, I felt calm. Probably because, for the first time in weeks, I was actually breathing. 

After class, I sheepishly asked the instructor, Kristen, if she did private lessons. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I knew I wanted more of whatever I’d just felt. That was the beginning of a three-year routine. I’d show up at Kristen’s studio every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 8 a.m. Mondays and Wednesdays began and ended with short meditations. Friday was reserved for what I later called “Big Meditation”—kapalabhati and pranayama breathwork, followed by meditation. No need to explain the breathwork here. Suffice it to say that hour left me in a state of bliss and clarity. 

Meanwhile, I was trying to find my footing again at Men’s Wearhouse. Moving to San Diego had been my first attempt at retiring from the company. I’d been commuting—flying to the Bay Area on Mondays and returning on Thursdays. What’s that saying? “We plan; God laughs?” The joke was on me. And while I still had one foot out the door, I needed Men’s Wearhouse more than it needed me by the time I moved back to San Francisco.

One day, I approached George with an idea I’d been kicking around: a chain of sportswear-only stores to compete with Banana Republic. Men’s Wearhouse carried some sportswear, but as an afterthought. My plan? Keep this new brand completely separate—consumer-facing, at least—while running purchasing, real estate, and personnel through Men’s Wearhouse. George thought it was worth exploring. I put together a team from marketing, merchandising, and our creative agency. We worked for months, prepping for a big presentation to the Executive Committee and a few board members. It was a Friday. 

After my morning session with Kristen, I usually lost my post “Big Meditation” bliss during the one-hour drive from San Francisco to my Fremont office. But that Friday, the meeting was in San Francisco, just minutes from Kristen’s studio. I walked in—still in my sweats—minutes before it started. Twenty chairs were arranged in a horseshoe. A whiteboard and screen at the open end. I opened by thanking my team, then took my seat at the end of the horseshoe. 

The presentation wrapped up. Questions followed—lots of them. One marketing question came my way, and I had no answer. Rather than stumble through, I admitted, “I don’t know.” Someone from the agency answered, but I disagreed. I said as much, diplomatically. More questions. And I started asking a few of my own. 

Then it happened. I wasn’t just considering the idea anymore—I was inside it, feeling it unravel in real time. It was incredibly unnerving. After one of my questions, George spoke up. “Richie, I get the feeling you don’t think this is a good idea after all.” 

All eyes turned to me. Even mine. And then, without hesitation, I said, “You know what? It doesn’t feel right anymore.” 

Silence. Stunned faces. Confusion, disbelief, even anger. Then I spoke again. “I think we ought to open sportswear stores—inside Men’s Wearhouse.” 

And just like that, we shifted course. That meeting led to the company growing the size of its stores from 4,000 to 5,000 square feet, with a greatly expanded sportswear selection. And the subsequent decision was made to start advertising that Men’s Wearhouse wasn’t just a suit store. 

Ideas are funny things, interesting things—kind of like suits. You go to the store, debate your choices, pick one, have it altered, bring it home, and wear it. Most often for way longer than you really should. And then, one day, you take the suit off, look at it, and realize it just doesn’t work anymore. 

Could Men’s Wearhouse have succeeded with standalone sportswear stores? I’ll never know. But I do know this decision was a game-changer. The early 2000s brought a major shift away from suits toward business casual. We were ready. 

Two Lessons: 

First: Even a massive company can pivot—if it’s willing. No research, no consultants, no endless subcommittees. Just a decision.  

Second: No matter how committed you are to an idea, sometimes the smartest move is to take a breath, step back, and detach. 

TL;DR: Even the biggest companies can pivot quickly. And sometimes, the bravest—and smartest—thing you can say is: “This doesn’t feel right anymore.”

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