I knew the reforms would face pressure during difficult quarters.
When profits fell, someone would suggest reducing the cost of complaint review.
When a major corporate account threatened to leave, someone would argue for an exception.
And when schedules became difficult, employees would be tempted to use the fastest available workaround.
Those moments would be the real test.
Not the public announcement.
Not the viral video.
Not the day everyone learned my name.
The test would come when protecting a passenger's rights required someone to make an inconvenient decision and nobody important was watching.
That evening, I returned home and placed my navy hoodie on the back of a chair.
It was beginning to show its age.
The cuffs were worn.
One seam near the pocket needed repair.
And the fabric had softened from years of washing.
Olivia had once offered to buy me a replacement.
I told her no.
The hoodie wasn't important because it was expensive.
It was important because my mother bought it when I was starting a new life in Atlanta.
She'd been proud of me then.
Long before I sold a company.
Long before I became a chief executive.
Long before anyone greeted me as someone important.
I looked toward the framed photograph on my desk.
My mother smiled from behind the airport counter, holding her paper coffee cup.
For a moment, I imagined telling her the entire story.
The wealthy woman.
The seat.
The coffee.
The flight attendant who looked away.
The captain who came out of the cockpit.
And the investigation that followed.
I imagined her listening patiently.
Then asking the question she always asked when I became too focused on my own problems.
"What about the other people, baby?"
I smiled.
Because I finally had an answer.
We found some of them.
We listened to their complaints.
We corrected records that shouldn't have described their choices inaccurately.
We changed procedures.
And we began teaching employees that the person standing in front of them wasn't less deserving of respectful service because somebody more influential wanted an exception.
I couldn't undo every unfair encounter.
I couldn't recover every missed moment.
And I couldn't guarantee nobody would ever be treated badly on one of our aircraft again.
But I could help build a company where the next complaint had a better chance of being heard, the next dishonest record had a better chance of being detected, and the next employee who recognized wrongdoing had a safer way to speak.
I looked toward my mother's photograph.
Then whispered, "I'm trying, Mom."
For a long time, people asked me the same question about Flight 617.