Dear Private Equity,

I’ve been meaning to write this for a while. I started a few times and stopped, because I didn’t want to sound needy.

But here goes…

I like you – I always have. Everyone in my world does, really. We talk about you constantly, we dress up our best businesses hoping you’ll notice, we rehearse what we’ll say if you call. You’re clever, you’re patient, and you’ve got the kind of capital that turns a good company into a great one.

So, this isn’t a break-up letter. If anything, it’s the opposite.

After enough years walking founders across the room to you, a girl starts to notice things. The way you say one thing on the buy side and something quite different on the sell. The way you fall for her hardest when somebody else is watching. The way your patience keeps a calendar in its back pocket.

This is less a letter than a diary. The kind you write at midnight about someone you adore but cannot quite figure out. And like all good diary entries, it isn’t meant to be read by anyone. Except, well, here we are. Because lately, some of the things you tell me don’t quite add up:

1. You keep saying you don’t like a crowd
“Please,” you tell me, “don’t bring me anything that’s in process.” You want it quiet, off-market, no other suitors in the room. And I get it, nobody wants to feel like one of many.

But here’s the thing: you only really decide you want her once you can see that somebody else does too. You want her to be wanted; you just don’t want to watch it happen. You want the certainty that competitive tension creates and the price discipline it removes, both at once. And when it’s your turn to sell, you’ll run the tightest, most beautifully organised process this market has ever seen – funny, that.

2. There’s this thing about her history
“I don’t want anything that’s already been owned by one of the other funds,” you say. You want her fresh, untouched and, ideally, cheap. But we both know that one day, you’ll be the seller, standing there hoping the next fund looks at everything she’s been through – the systems you built, the governance you installed, the earnings you cleaned up – and decides she’s worth more for it, not less.

You want to buy the promise and sell the polish. It’s hard to be a discount buyer of the very thing you plan to charge a premium for.

3. Now I say this gently: you tell two different stories about the same girl
When you’re deciding whether to commit, you’re all caution. The market’s uncertain, the timing’s tricky, the multiple has to reflect the risk. Very sensible, but the moment you picture the exit, suddenly she’s remarkable, the market’s deep, everyone can see how special she is, and the multiple expands to match. Same company, same fundamentals, but two entirely different worldviews, and which one you reach for seems to depend on whether you’re the one paying or the one being paid.

4. And there’s a thing about time
You tell me you’re a long-term partner. Five years, seven years, a full business cycle. But the moment a portfolio company misses its quarterly EBITDA by a whisker, the calls get shorter, the reporting packs get thicker, and the board meeting has a very different energy. Long-term, yes, but only if the short-term keeps cooperating.

I don’t hold it against you; the LP clock is real. I’m just saying, don’t be surprised when the founder who ran the place for twenty-six years on instinct and relationships finds the quarterly cadence a little… suffocating. They built something real. They just weren’t expecting a new performance review every ninety days.

I’m not writing to catch you out.

None of this makes you wrong to want a good deal, and you’re better at it than almost anyone. I’d just love it if the game were a little more even.

And if I’m being honest with myself, which is the whole point of a diary, I keep setting you up on these introductions because the best version of you is genuinely extraordinary. The fund that comes in with real operational support. That brings the governance without the grief. That gives the founder a seat at the table, not just a cheque and a handshake. I’ve seen it. It’s rare, but I’ve seen it, and that version of you is worth writing letters for.

The people I really care about aren’t the funds, or even the advisers. They’re the founders, the families who spent thirty years building something real and asked me to introduce them to you. They deserve to feel chosen for what they are, not quietly picked up on a slow afternoon and dressed up for someone else later.

They deserve an investor who reads the room, not just the model. Someone who understands that behind the number on page four of the IM is a person who lay awake last night wondering if this was the right decision.

So this is me, still hopeful, asking the same thing I always do. Let’s talk… properly. Same table, cards up, both sides of the bread buttered fairly. I’ve long thought we’d be good together.

Yours (as ever),
An adviser who keeps setting you up on dates

Kosie Kritzinger is a Director, Corporate Advisory | Baker Tilly Greenwoods

This article first appeared in Catalyst, DealMakers’ quarterly private equity publication.

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