The Rosenbaum Law Firm P.C. Blog

In this business, every conference has that one person who wants everyone to know they’re the smartest person in the room. They quote obscure ERISA sections, correct speakers mid-panel, and use acronyms like they’re throwing fastballs. The problem? No one hires the smartest person in the room—they hire the one who makes their life easier.

I’ve built a career in a field full of technical experts, but what separates a real plan provider from a walking compliance manual is the ability to translate complexity into clarity. Plan sponsors don’t want to hear the Internal Revenue Code recited back to them; they want to know what it means for their plan, their employees, and their risk.

I’m not saying expertise doesn’t matter—it’s everything. But expertise without empathy is arrogance. The job isn’t to impress; it’s to guide. When a client calls in a panic about a failed ADP test, they don’t want a Latin lecture—they want calm, clear action steps.

Being the smartest person in the room might stroke your ego. Being the most useful keeps you in business.

When I started in this business, plan sponsors worried about lost checks. Now, they should be worried about lost data. Back then, if a participant’s address was wrong, you mailed a letter and hoped for the best. Today, if a hacker gets your payroll feed, you’re not mailing letters—you’re calling your cyber insurer and your lawyer.

ERISA’s Section 404 talks about acting prudently and solely in the interest of participants. That used to mean watching fees, monitoring investments, and keeping minutes. But in 2025, prudence means locking down your participant data like it’s Fort Knox. Every Social Security number, every date of birth, every account balance—those are plan assets in digital form.

The Department of Labor isn’t subtle about it anymore. Cybersecurity is a fiduciary issue. If your TPA or recordkeeper treats data protection like an afterthought, that’s your problem too. Because if participant data gets breached, no one’s pointing fingers at the IT guy—they’re pointing them at you, the plan sponsor.

So, ask questions. Demand documentation of your providers’ security protocols. Review your internal controls. Don’t let an intern email participant data unencrypted. You wouldn’t leave plan assets in a shoebox under your desk, so don’t leave sensitive data floating around in Outlook.

Fiduciary prudence used to mean “protecting the money.” Now it also means protecting the information about the money. Data is the new 404—and unlike plan assets, once it’s leaked, you can’t roll it back into the trust.

I’ve been in this business long enough to know that the only thing “simple” about a 401(k) plan is the way people pretend it is. Every provider brochure says “turnkey,” “easy to administer,” or my personal favorite, “set it and forget it.” The problem is that the Department of Labor never forgets.

When I started out, I thought complexity was the problem. Now I know it’s denial. Plan sponsors want to believe a retirement plan runs itself. Payroll’s on autopilot, the TPA’s on it, and the advisor’s keeping watch. But one missed deposit or a misclassified employee later, and that “turnkey” plan turns into a compliance whack-a-mole.

Good providers don’t sell simplicity, they translate complexity. They build systems that catch errors before they become DOL letters. They educate clients who think an audit means “someone’s getting fired.” And they never promise perfection, just accountability.

If your client thinks their plan runs itself, remind them: 401(k)s aren’t Crock-Pots. You can’t just set it and walk away. Because when things boil over, it’s always the provider cleaning the mess.

Somewhere in Washington, someone at the Department of Labor must have a “Fiduciary Rule” dartboard. Every few years, they take a throw, hit a new buzzword, and decide it’s time for another rewrite. We’ve had more drafts of this rule than Rocky sequels, and at least with Rocky, you knew he’d eventually get up off the mat.

For plan providers, it’s déjà vu all over again. We’ve built policies, rewired procedures, rewritten disclosures, and retrained staff more times than I can count. Then, just when the industry adjusts, a new administration decides to “reimagine” what fiduciary really means. Translation: everyone spends six months reading proposed regs and pretending they understand them.

Here’s the truth, being a fiduciary isn’t about whatever version the DOL drops next. It’s about acting in the client’s best interest every single day, whether there’s a rule or not. The good providers don’t wait for Washington to tell them how to behave, they already have a compass.

Still, every time this roller coaster starts again, I keep my seatbelt fastened and my expectations low. Because unlike Rocky, this saga doesn’t end with triumph, it just resets for the sequel nobody asked for.

Working with a plan sponsor recently, I was helping sort out a late Form 5500 issue. Pretty routine stuff, until I learned they’d already heard from the IRS about it a year ago. A year! It reminded me of my mother-in-law, who’d never tell you she was sick when it happened, but would casually drop the news six to twelve months later, like it was an afterthought. (“Oh, did I mention I had surgery last spring?”)

That kind of delayed disclosure doesn’t just cause family headaches, it causes plan headaches.

Your 401(k) provider, whether it’s a TPA, ERISA attorney, or recordkeeper, can’t fix what they don’t know. We’re not mind readers, and we don’t have a magic portal into your inbox. If the DOL or IRS sends you a letter, tell us. Immediately. The longer you sit on it, the worse the problem gets, and the fewer options we have to make it right.

Providers are supposed to be your retirement plan experts, but we can’t help you if we don’t know what’s going on. Silence is not a strategy. Communication is.

So next time you get a notice, an inquiry, or even a nagging sense that something might be off, loop in your plan team early. They’ll thank you, and you’ll avoid turning a fixable issue into a full-blown regulatory migraine.

Because in the 401(k) world, just like in family life, the sooner you talk about the problem, the easier it is to solve.

The U.S. Department of Labor has announced plans to revisit and likely revise the fiduciary-advice rule in 2026, signaling significant potential shifts for plan sponsors and advisers.

Here are my key takeaways:

· At issue is the definition of “fiduciary adviser” under ERISA. The current rule — known as the “Retirement Security Rule” — is still tied up in litigation in the 5th Circuit.

· The DOL’s regulatory agenda offers little detail on exactly how the rule will change, stating only that the new regulation “will ensure that the regulation is based on the best reading of the statute.”

· Two realistic pathways:

1. Rescind the existing rule outright, reverting to the 1975 standard.

2. Rewrite the rule: either amend the current structure or overhaul it from scratch.

· A wrinkle: the DOL may also seek to consolidate multiple guidance items (like Prohibited Transaction Exemption 2020-02) into one coherent fiduciary framework. That would help reduce fragmentation and confusion.

· Timing and priorities matter. With ESG, alternatives, government funding, and staffing constraints all in play, it’s far from guaranteed the DOL will finalize a new rule by its target date.

Why this matters If your role involves advising, sponsoring, or managing retirement plans, this rulemaking could alter who is deemed a fiduciary, what advice triggers fiduciary status, how compensation is treated, and how plan fiduciaries oversee advisers. Governance, contracts, disclosures, and adviser-selection processes may all need revision.

My takeaway While the exact form remains unclear, the fiduciary landscape is headed for change. Plan sponsors and advisers should stay ahead: revisit current adviser arrangements, consider where fiduciary risk may exist now, and plan for adjustments to governance and oversight. The fiduciary bar may not get lowered, it might just shift.

I’m encouraged by the DOL’s issuance of Advisory Opinion 2025-04A, which affirms that a managed-account strategy incorporating a lifetime income component can qualify as a Qualified Default Investment Alternative (QDIA). This is an important milestone for defined-contribution plans.

Here are a few thoughts for retirement-plan sponsors and fiduciaries:

1. Broadening default investment design The Opinion confirms that default investment options can now include more than traditional target-date or balanced funds, specifically, a managed account that gradually allocates into an income-generating portfolio (including annuity-type guarantees) can qualify as a QDIA. Plan fiduciaries should review whether their current default offering aligns with this evolving landscape.

2. Liquidity and transferability remain essential One of the keys to the DOL’s comfort was that the program preserved participant rights: the ability to transfer or withdraw assets without surrender penalties and full notice disclosures were built in. Fiduciaries considering lifetime-income default options must ensure these structural features are present, the devil is always in the details.

3. Fiduciary diligence in selecting insurers and guarantees Even though lifetime-income components (including variable annuities or GLWB-type features) are now more clearly permissible, the Opinion emphasizes the continuing duty of prudent selection and monitoring of insurers and guarantee structures. Adopting the safe harbor frameworks for annuity-provider selection remains best practice.

4. Education and communication matter more than ever When you mix “accumulation” vehicles with “decumulation” features (i.e., lifetime income), participants and sponsors need clear education: how the income guarantee works, what happens if withdrawals exceed the guaranteed amount, what options exist for beneficiaries. Without proper communication, the risk is misunderstanding and unintended behaviour.

5. Opportunities for sponsors to differentiate This development opens the door for plan sponsors who want to move beyond “just a target-date fund” in their default lineup. Offering a managed-account QDIA with a lifetime-income component may help address the growing concern that participants will outlive their savings. On the flip side, cost, governance and operational complexity require thoughtful vetting.

In short: the regulatory door is now more clearly open for default investment offerings that combine accumulation and guaranteed lifetime income features — but as always, the fiduciary bar isn’t lowered. Sponsors should proceed deliberately: update governance charters, review vendor capabilities, ensure participant notice and liquidity rights, and reinforce education.

If your plan or committee is evaluating a QDIA redesign or adding a managed-account + lifetime-income option, I’d be happy to discuss the key checklist items and governance implications.

I love networking on LinkedIn. Some of the best connections I’ve made in this business, people I actually trust and respect, started with a simple connection request. The platform is an incredible tool for building professional relationships, sharing insights, and even a little self-promotion (in moderation, of course). But like everything else in life, there’s a right way and a wrong way to do it.

And as you know, I’m a little like Larry David when it comes to pet peeves. One of my biggest? The connection request that’s immediately followed by a sales pitch. You know the one: “Thanks for connecting, Ary! Have you ever considered a cash balance plan for your firm?” The same firm where I’ve spent the last few decades writing about, speaking on, and consulting about, yes, retirement plans.

It’s like asking a chef if they’ve ever heard of salt.

I’m not in sales, but even I know that approach doesn’t work. When someone pitches me right after connecting, it feels like that door-to-door salesperson who knocks just as I’m sitting down to dinner. I don’t answer my front door when I know someone’s selling something. So why would I respond to a cold digital knock from someone who clearly didn’t take ten seconds to see who they’re talking to?

Sales, like trust, takes time. The people I rely on, the TPAs, recordkeepers, and advisors I refer clients to, are relationships that were built over years. Real relationships. They weren’t built by a one-click “connect” followed by a canned pitch. They were built by consistency, relevance, and mutual respect.

If you’re going to use LinkedIn to sell, do it the right way. Start by engaging. Comment on posts. Offer insight. Build a rapport. And when the time is right, make your pitch relevant. Know who you’re talking to and why your service might actually help them. If you’re reaching out to an ERISA attorney, don’t ask if they’ve ever thought about having a cash balance plan—unless you’re looking for an answer that starts with sarcasm.

LinkedIn is about relationships, not transactions. If you treat it like a quick sale, you’ll end up with a lot of ignored messages. But if you treat it like a place to build trust, you’ll find yourself surrounded by the best kind of network, one built on genuine connections, not cold calls.

I love networking on LinkedIn. Some of the best connections I’ve made in this business, people I actually trust and respect, started with a simple connection request. The platform is an incredible tool for building professional relationships, sharing insights, and even a little self-promotion (in moderation, of course). But like everything else in life, there’s a right way and a wrong way to do it.

And as you know, I’m a little like Larry David when it comes to pet peeves. One of my biggest? The connection request that’s immediately followed by a sales pitch. You know the one: “Thanks for connecting, Ary! Have you ever considered a cash balance plan for your firm?” The same firm where I’ve spent the last few decades writing about, speaking on, and consulting about, yes, retirement plans.

It’s like asking a chef if they’ve ever heard of salt.

I’m not in sales, but even I know that approach doesn’t work. When someone pitches me right after connecting, it feels like that door-to-door salesperson who knocks just as I’m sitting down to dinner. I don’t answer my front door when I know someone’s selling something. So why would I respond to a cold digital knock from someone who clearly didn’t take ten seconds to see who they’re talking to?

Sales, like trust, takes time. The people I rely on, the TPAs, recordkeepers, and advisors I refer clients to, are relationships that were built over years. Real relationships. They weren’t built by a one-click “connect” followed by a canned pitch. They were built by consistency, relevance, and mutual respect.

If you’re going to use LinkedIn to sell, do it the right way. Start by engaging. Comment on posts. Offer insight. Build a rapport. And when the time is right, make your pitch relevant. Know who you’re talking to and why your service might actually help them. If you’re reaching out to an ERISA attorney, don’t ask if they’ve ever thought about having a cash balance plan—unless you’re looking for an answer that starts with sarcasm.

LinkedIn is about relationships, not transactions. If you treat it like a quick sale, you’ll end up with a lot of ignored messages. But if you treat it like a place to build trust, you’ll find yourself surrounded by the best kind of network, one built on genuine connections, not cold calls.

When I was younger, I wanted to get along. I really did. I wanted to keep the peace, stay out of trouble, and believe that if I worked hard and did the right thing, people would notice. They don’t. Not in school, not at work, and certainly not in life. I thought silence was maturity, that it showed restraint. What I didn’t realize then was that silence looks a lot like consent, and people mistake consent for weakness.

That’s one of the hardest lessons I’ve ever learned: when you don’t speak up, people assume you agree. And when you stay quiet long enough, you start to disappear.

In Full Circle, I wrote about the moments that define us, the ones that make you realize no one’s coming to save you, no one’s going to hand you what you deserve. You have to ask. You have to demand. Because waiting politely for fairness is a fool’s errand. Fairness doesn’t show up on its own; you have to drag it to the table.

I was never handed anything. Anything I truly wanted, a position, a promotion, a fair shake, I had to fight for. Whether it was trying to get a role at a synagogue youth service as a teenager or earning a raise at work, I learned that “deserving” something and actually getting it are two very different things. Very few people in power reward you just because you worked hard. They reward the people who make noise.

When I worked as a lawyer for a school board, I noticed that everyone was getting bonuses, everyone but me. A few years earlier, I had earned one, so I knew how the system worked. But this time, nothing. I asked why. I was told some nonsense about “budget constraints,” even though the same constraints didn’t apply to the others. So I demanded one. And I got it. Not because they suddenly recognized my value, but because I didn’t let it go.

It wasn’t the money that mattered; it was the principle. You either set the tone for how people treat you, or they’ll set it for you.

The same thing happened later at my synagogue. A friend of mine, a nice person, but not qualified, was about to be handed a paid position she wasn’t entitled to. Everyone else stayed quiet because it was easier. I didn’t. I spoke up. Because fairness only works when someone enforces it. And more often than not, that “someone” ends up being me.

Then came Oceanside. I watched people on the school board destroy what generations had built, not through malice, but through incompetence and self-interest. Positions were handed out like candy to friends and relatives. Contracts were given to cronies. The schools, and the kids, paid the price. So I spoke up again. Not because it was fun. Not because I wanted attention. But because silence was no longer an option.

And that’s the point I’ve reached in life, I’m fine not getting along if it means standing for something. It’s easy to stay quiet, especially when speaking up makes you the odd one out. But I’ve made my peace with that. I’m not built to look the other way.

Some people call it being difficult. I call it being awake.

The older I get, the more I realize how rare that is. Most people convince themselves that keeping quiet is the smart move, that rocking the boat just makes you a target. But you can’t steer the ship from the passenger seat. You either take the wheel or you drift wherever the current takes you.

That’s why I still believe in being the last Boy Scout, the one who follows the code when everyone else is cutting corners, the one who speaks when everyone else whispers. It’s lonely sometimes, but integrity often is.

I don’t regret the times I spoke up, even when it cost me something. What I regret are the moments I didn’t. Because the truth is, every time you swallow your voice, you give away a little piece of yourself. And if you do that long enough, there’s not much left to defend.

So no, I don’t go along to get along anymore. I don’t wait for fairness or hope someone notices the work. I ask. I push. I demand. Not because I’m angry, because I’ve seen what happens when you don’t.

The Boy Scout in me still believes in doing the right thing. The lawyer in me knows you sometimes have to fight for it. And the older, wiser version of me — the one who’s been around long enough to see how things really work, knows this: getting along is overrated. Standing up is everything.

Because in the end, I’d rather be remembered for making noise than for staying quiet while everything around me went wrong.