Eric used to start management meetings at Opendoor with a simple question: “On a scale from one to ten, what’s your battery level?”

It was an effective reset. People would walk in carrying the residue of whatever conversation they’d just come from, and the question forced a pause before we dove in. Someone might say they were doing well, another that they were struggling, usually with a bit of context attached.

The CFO might offer, “Eight out of ten. It’s been a good month. We hit most of our targets. I have some concerns about inventory in Vegas and DFW, but overall, eight.”

A GM might follow with, “Honestly, more like a three. A key leader just left, and the team’s scrambling to keep up with SLAs.”

There would be a few follow-ups, offers of help, tension released. We could see each other as people before getting into the work.

One morning, Keith joined the meeting. It was a difficult stretch for the company, and battery levels were coming in low across the board—three, five, six, usually with an explanation.

When it was Keith’s turn, Eric looked over and asked, “Keith, battery level?”

“Ten out of ten,” Keith said. “I don’t believe in off-days.”

The room went quiet. Eric raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes,” Keith said. “It’s the job of the leader to show up every day, to every meeting, a ten out of ten.”

Keith meant it. He always does. This is someone who treats Barry’s like a warm-up.

Then it was my turn.

I was exhausted. We’d just come off a site outage, deliveries were behind, recruiting wasn’t going well, and I hadn’t slept much in weeks. But Keith had just said ten, and when Eric looked at me, I said, “Seven.”

I knew immediately it wasn’t true.

Walking out of the meeting, what stuck with me wasn’t that I’d been dishonest so much as that I hadn’t been useful. Saying “two” wouldn’t have helped the room. Saying “seven” hadn’t helped either. I’d simply reported my internal state and moved on.

Over time, especially as a leader, how you feel and how you show up stop being the same thing. Your job isn’t to narrate your internal weather. It’s to decide what kind of room people are walking into.

Some days that means acknowledging plainly that things are rough. Other days it means bringing calm, or clarity, or energy you don’t fully have yet—not because you’re pretending, but because people are taking cues from you whether you intend to give them or not.

After that meeting, I started paying closer attention to leaders I respected. They weren’t always upbeat, and they weren’t always transparent about everything they were carrying, but they were consistent about one thing: they were deliberate about the tone they set.

You can be exhausted and still steady. You can be anxious and still clear. You can be a two internally and still show up in a way that helps others do their best work. That isn’t posturing. It’s part of the job.