As a reader of Franchise Canada magazine, you may already be a franchisee—or you may be among the nearly 50 per cent of Canadians who want to start a business in 2026. For aspiring entrepreneurs, franchising is an ideal path to go into business for yourself, but with the support of a proven system to help guide you along your journey.
While a franchisor provides guidelines for the products or services the brand provides, training, and ongoing operations support, it is the franchisee who is responsible for hiring staff for their location and cultivating a positive workplace environment at their location. As a local small business owner, every franchisee is empowered to lead and manage their employees.
As you consider the kind of work environment you hope to cultivate in your future or current business, Franchise GrowthLab co-founder Travis Tinning offers this parable of what true inclusivity means—and how moving beyond acceptance to inclusion can be an important business decision.
This is a fictionalized case study written through an allyship lens, intended to support equity, diversity, and inclusion.
The Hearth Coffee Shop was special.
Not in the way every company says they are, with their core values stenciled on the wall, but special in the way people said it quietly to each other, customers and employees alike. You could feel it when you walked in. The place hummed, and just like the name suggested, it felt warm. From the second the doors opened in the morning, the smell of fresh coffee and baked goods lingered down the block, and you could hear the kind of laughter that comes from people who actually like each other.
The Hearth isn’t a real franchise location, but it could be any of them. Matching shirts, scripted greetings, binders filled with standard operating procedures, photos from staff get-togethers pinned to a corkboard in the office, it was the kind of place that called its team a family, but in this case, it felt true.
There was a reason for that, and everyone knew the reason. Her name was Alexa.
Alexa had been there longer than most. She knew regulars by name, by order, and by the “goings-on” in their lives. “He’s going to ask for a half pump of syrup, but he really means a little more than half,” she’d whisper to the new staff. “Her kid just applied for his first job. Ask how the interview went.” When a new hire froze on a busy Monday morning, Alexa slid in beside them and said, “It’s just a rush. You’re fine.”
She was steady. People said things like, “The Hearth doesn’t work without Alexa.”
Then something shifted. It came in very quietly.
There was no announcement, no meeting, no new company policy … it came in a box.
The delivery that morning included cups, lids, syrups, and a set of fresh uniforms. At the bottom of the box was a small stack of black rectangles with white stitching, the name tags for the new hires. One of them read: “Alexander.”
Alexa pinned the name tag to her shirt and exhaled like someone who had been holding their breath for longer than most people could imagine. She didn’t ask for attention or approval, she didn’t ask for anything.
From that day on, he wore “Alexander.”
The first moments after that were small, almost unnoticeable. A pause in a conversation that normally wouldn’t have paused. A smile that came a second too late. Nobody said anything cruel. Nobody mocked or said, “I just don’t get it.” In fact, if you had walked in that day, knew the situation, and watched the room, you might have said, “See, everyone here is respectful.”
But you would have been wrong. Two coworkers who always took lunch with Alexander suddenly began taking lunch in the office “to get caught up.” The group text that used to light up with memes and “anyone want to grab a drink after close?” went quiet. A teammate who used to greet Alexander every morning with “You’re here, thank God,” switched to just, “Morning,” and busied herself with prep work.
“The Hearth had always sold the feeling of welcome, that was the brand. The Hearth was never the cheapest. The Hearth was where you felt seen.”
The warmth didn’t turn to hate, it turned to distance.
The franchise owner told himself he just didn’t want to say the wrong thing. He called it professionalism. He told himself this was leadership. But leadership used to sound like, “You’re the reason this team works,” and now it sounded like, “Just keep it smooth during the rush today, okay?”
The Hearth had always sold the feeling of welcome, that was the brand. The Hearth was never the cheapest. The Hearth was where you felt seen.
And then, slowly, The Hearth stopped seeing its own.
The part that matters? Alexander never changed.
He still noticed when the new girl from the late shift came in looking wrung out and shaky. He still said, “Take drive-thru. I’ll cover front, you sit.” He still fixed the grinder with nothing but a screwdriver and the know how that only a veteran has. He still said to panicking first-day hires, “It’s okay to not know what you’re doing yet.”
The only thing different about Alexander? His shoulders relaxed in a way they never had before. There was a lightness in him that hadn’t existed before, like a tightness had eased. We’ve all experienced it, when you just feel like yourself. If you were paying attention, you could see it.
Most people were not paying attention.
Over the next few months, something else began to shift.
The smiles at the counter felt less natural, the music wasn’t quite as loud, and shift switches seemed more tense. Some newer hires quit after a couple weeks, then a few more left. The franchise owner told the franchisor it was just a tough hiring market.
Service time slowed, not because Alexander wasn’t doing his job, but because the team stopped moving like a team. People were hesitating, second guessing, and employees worked next to each other like strangers.
The regulars noticed. They still came in at first, but they didn’t stay as long. They didn’t lean on the counter and talk about their day. It just didn’t feel as “homey” as it used to. Some of them started going to the place down the street.
Sales dipped. Not in a dramatic crash, but a slow leak. By the end of that quarter, The Hearth wasn’t hitting the easy numbers it used to.
People said, “It doesn’t feel the same in there anymore.” A few of the staff even blamed Alexander, typing in private messages that “Things were just smoother before” and “We never had drama until this.”
That story was clean and easy to them, however, it wasn’t true.
The Hearth didn’t start to fail because a trans man worked there. The Hearth started to fail because the people who claimed to care about each other decided their comfort, created by old biases and learned behavior, mattered more than his dignity. Once that happened, subconsciously nobody trusted the word “family” anymore.
One evening near close, the chairs were turned up and the air smelled like disinfectant. A new employee was at the counter with her head down. She was trying to balance the till, and her hands were shaking.
Alexander moved in beside her, calm as always. “Breathe,” he said. “You’re fine. Let’s do it together.”
He showed her how to do it, assured her that it never matches perfectly, and explained what’s acceptable. He said to her, “You’re not going to get written up. You’re learning, and honestly, you’re doing great!”
Her breathing slowed and her shoulders dropped. “You’re the only one here who doesn’t make me feel like I’m getting in the way,” she said. “You make this place feel safe.”
Alexander nodded once. “That’s what The Hearth is supposed to be.”
That single moment should have been ordinary. It used to be ordinary. The Hearth used to sell the feeling that you mattered when you walked through the door and that every employee had each other’s back, no matter what. Then it stopped, when the people inside chose to make that sense of belonging conditional.
Here’s what never changed, from the first day to the last: Alexander still showed up. He still guarded the newer staff, still absorbed sharp words from impatient customers so nobody else had to, still stayed late and opened early.
He never asked for special treatment. He just wanted to be seen the way he had always been seen, as part of the core, as part of the story.
Belonging doesn’t vanish when someone becomes their truest self. It vanishes once they no longer fit the story we’re comfortable telling.
And when belonging leaves, it doesn’t just take a person with it, it can take the business with it.
Travis Tinning is Chief Development Officer at Franchise GrowthLab, a franchise consulting firm specializing in helping emerging franchisors scale their business. Bringing decades of experience as a franchisee himself, Tinning has helped other franchise professionals strengthen their businesses through sales and marketing as well as community building. He is also a member of the Canadian Franchise Association (CFA) committee on Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion.
Opinions of contributors do not necessarily imply business advice or reflect the views of Franchise Canada magazine.