Because we’d rather die predictably than live differently
Ah, the fabled last words of every empire on the brink, every deluded CEO polishing their golden parachute, and every middle manager rearranging deck chairs on a vessel that’s already made passionate contact with the iceberg.
Back in my final corporate exile—an institution swollen with Cold War hangover and embalmed in peacetime inertia—I held the enviable title of “contracts specialist.” A fancy way of saying I shepherded gas supply fantasies through the bureaucratic digestive tract. Picture grand hallucinations of pipelines snaking through North Africa, desert mirages in the Middle East, and even, rather audaciously, a project in Iran. Bold on PowerPoint, buried in SharePoint.
I’ve always worked fast—an affliction in most corporate environments. Naturally, boredom set in. So I did what any under-stimulated cynic would do: I explored the digital catacombs of failed projects, long forgotten by their original authors but still rotting gently on the shared drive. That’s where I found Algeria—not the country, but a mausoleum of memos and PowerPoint decks orbiting a tragic epic known internally as the “letter project.” Yes, a letter. A missive to Sonatrach, Algeria’s national oil company. It had its own task force. Meetings. Milestones. Timelines extending into geologic epochs.
Eventually, the letter was sent. No reply ever came. The project died unceremoniously, unloved, unmourned. I should mention: this was at Central Europe’s largest oil and gas conglomerate—an industrial behemoth part-owned by the Austrian state and a major employer across the region. Hardly a haven of agile innovation or creative risk-taking. The culture didn’t reward initiative. It punished deviation. People painted by the numbers not because they lacked imagination but because stepping outside the lines landed you in the hot seat of accountability. And if you’ve ever sat in that chair, you know—it’s the one seat nobody wants.
Curious, I asked my boss if I could take a crack at Algeria. I spoke French, after all. He shrugged, giving the kind of approval that came with an implied “don’t get your hopes up.” Translation: he was certain nothing would come of it—otherwise he’d have made sure he controlled the outcome himself.
A few hours later, I had the head of gas exports at Sonatrach on the phone. We chatted. Cordially. He agreed to meet in Algiers. By the end of the week, we were on a plane and in serious talks.
What the Letter Task Force failed to achieve in two years, I knocked out before my afternoon coffee cooled.
And that, dear reader, is where institutional decay begins: in the neurotic devotion to process over result, method over outcome, ritual over reality.
The Danger of the Default
Most organizations—from imperial dynasties to your local HR department—prefer the devil they know. They’ll cling to a collapsing formula rather than face the embarrassment of doing something new. Not because they believe in the formula. But because nobody wants to be the fool who tried something different—especially if it doesn’t work.
In calm weather, that’s tolerable. Even prudent. You don’t replace the engine because it makes a funny noise. But these are not calm waters. We live in a time of terminal acceleration. The waves are higher. The ship is old. And still, people clutch their laminated checklists like toddlers gripping a crusty security blanket.
This pathology isn’t confined to companies. It metastasizes across institutions—governments, universities, NGOs—and yes, into the bones of individuals. Because when everything else crumbles, your life is the one domain you still (allegedly) control.
So if you’re not calcifying by now, congratulations. You’re the anomaly.
Everyone Wants Change—Until It Arrives
Humans love to talk about change. We quote it. We vote for it. We slap it on mugs and Instagram stories. But when it shows up in the flesh—chaotic, messy, inconvenient—we run for the cellar.
We crave the mediocre familiar over the promising unknown. Because the unknown might demand something. It might ask us to adapt. To act. And let’s be honest—our instincts aren’t wrong. Change can be catastrophic.
Ask the Syrians. Assad’s regime was horrific, but for many, it still beat the apocalypse that followed.
Or ask the French. In 1789, they stormed the Bastille with ideals: democracy, accountability, maybe a polite execution or two. What they got was the Reign of Terror. Then the Great Terror, for those who thought the original wasn’t terrifying enough. Monarchy had its problems, sure, but at least it didn’t guillotine you before breakfast.
The lesson? Change for its own sake isn’t progress. It’s just chaos wearing a press badge.
When Inaction Kills
Still, there are moments when staying still is the most dangerous move you can make. And we’re in one now. Our political, financial, and industrial systems have grown brittle—ossified by decades of routine, ritual, and the comforting lie that tomorrow will look just like yesterday.
During negotiations for a regasification terminal in Rotterdam, I was part of the team reviewing the contract. What we received from the other side wasn’t just outdated—it was actively hostile to the modern LNG trade. After a heated exchange involving my boss’s boss—who clearly thought my presence was a clerical error—I was told, fine, draft your own damn contract. These things are 250-page monstrosities, mind you.
I said I would. He grumbled all the way home, convinced I was dragging us into a PR disaster. I told him: “Fine. Blame me if it goes wrong.” That draft? It ended up making LNG history.
We forget: change only happens when the pain of staying the same exceeds the fear of doing something different. And we don’t prepare people to embrace that fear—we train them to freeze. Our education systems don’t produce thinkers. They manufacture compliance. They condition the brainstem. The amygdala—our little reptile panic button—gets wired for fear, not curiosity.
Society tells us that stability is safety. Ironically, that obsession is precisely what makes us unstable.
It feels safe.
Until it isn’t.
The Graveyard of Civilizations
Fifteenth-century China had the largest navy on Earth. Admiral Zheng He’s treasure fleets reached the shores of Africa. But back home, imperial mandarins decided it was all too dangerous. Too uncertain. They burned the ships. Burned the records. Sealed the empire off from the world.
Three centuries later, the British came knocking—with cannons and opium. China, marinating in its own nostalgia, crumbled like a dynasty-shaped biscuit.
Or take Carthage. After losing the First Punic War, it could have evolved. Restructured. Reshaped its strategy. Instead, it doubled down on mercenaries and maritime trade. Rome, meanwhile, professionalized. Innovated. Then returned and flattened Carthage so thoroughly they salted the earth just to make sure the point landed.
Failure to adapt is not neutral. It’s fatal.
And if that feels like ancient history, try the 20th century. The Soviet Union maintained control through rigidity and paranoia. Innovation was treason. Deviation was blasphemy. By the time reform became unavoidable, the system was so brittle it couldn’t bend—it snapped.
Gorbachev didn’t want to bury the USSR. He wanted to preserve it. But brittle systems don’t reform. They collapse. Economically. Politically. Culturally. And once collapse sets in, there’s no orderly reboot—only fallout.
The Cost of Certainty
The problem with sticking to what once worked is that every repetition builds inertia. Habits fossilize. Procedures become liturgy. What starts as a best practice becomes a sacred cow—and pretty soon you’re kneeling before a spreadsheet like it’s the Ark of the Covenant.
During my ascent through the aforementioned conglomerate, I was eventually shunted into Business Development—partly because they wanted me out of operational trouble, partly because nobody sane wanted to handle “the weird stuff.” So I made it my sandbox. My bomb shelter. A place to try the unconventional.
Naturally, my old boss hated it. He saw it as an insult to tradition. He delighted in flinging mud at anything I touched. What he didn’t realize was that I used his disdain to pressure-test my work. If my ideas could survive his barrage, they could survive anything. I welcomed the early beatings so I’d be ready for the final showdown in front of the board.
That’s the point. We all ossify. We get too comfortable in our own skin, too certain our family life will just work out, too convinced that politics alone will hand us the next promotion. They won’t.
Daring to try invites discomfort. But discomfort is the crucible. It’s where resilience is forged. And trust me: you’ll need every ounce of it for what’s coming.
Because the more you repeat yourself, the more brittle you become.
And the more brittle you are, the harder you shatter.
How Not To Rot
Avoiding the slow rot of institutional—and personal—decay doesn’t require a revolution. It requires lucidity.
You don’t need shinier consultants. Or louder influencers. You need clarity. The will to look at reality, not ideology. To act, not perform.
It starts with questions: What still works? What doesn’t? What must be protected? What should be discarded?
Most won’t do this. Most will double down on the familiar.
And that’s how systems rot. Quietly. From within.
But you don’t have to follow them into the pit. There’s still time to think differently. To act decisively. To resist the comfort of inertia and the paralysis of legacy.
Start by getting informed. Ask better questions. Challenge what you’ve inherited, even—especially—when it feels sacred.
And yes, this blog—and the podcast that walks beside it—is a damn fine place to begin.