We confuse progress with movement.

“Speed is useful only if you are running in the right direction.”
Bill Gates

Many years ago, I worked with a client that looked like they were winning.

Sharp team. Generous budget. A roadmap packed with features. Processes were tight. Sprints were smooth. Velocity was high. They were shipping constantly.

To anyone watching from outside, it looked like a well-oiled machine.

But something felt off.

Despite all the pace and productivity, the organization was standing still. Every release landed, but nothing seemed to last. No real shift in how teams worked. No lasting change in how customers engaged. The output was constant. The outcomes were flat.

You could feel it in meetings. Execution was flawless, but direction was fuzzy. People were busy but untethered. No one could clearly say where they were headed or why it mattered beyond the next backlog ticket.

Beneath all that motion, something essential was missing. Meaning.

So we paused

Not because something was broken. Because something important hadn't taken root yet.

We didn't need a new prioritization framework or another productivity hack. What we needed was space. Space to ask better questions.

I know how this sounds. Consultant walks in, tells busy people to stop and reflect. Revolutionary.

But we pulled the core team together and stepped back. Not to critique the roadmap, but to reframe how we were thinking about the work.

We asked: What future are we actually trying to create? What shift is needed—in belief, behavior, direction—to get us there? Are we designing for progress, or just for pace?

At first, those questions felt unfamiliar. A little disruptive. You could see people thinking "great, another workshop where we pretend to have insights." But once they settled into them, something powerful surfaced.

The conversation shifted

Instead of debating which feature should ship first, we started asking what those features were meant to change. Instead of chasing KPIs in isolation, we began imagining the kinds of outcomes we actually cared about. In the business, in the user experience, in our own team culture.

A feature conversation became a values conversation. A release plan became a shared narrative. What once felt like a treadmill started to feel like direction.

People designed with more clarity and more care. They weren't just asking what's next. They were asking what matters next.

Our speed didn't change. Our alignment did.

The work didn't just land. It started to stick.

Looking back

That was one of the clearest expressions I've seen of what I now call The Possibility Principle of Design.

That moment before momentum. When you pause just long enough to let insight become belief, and belief become behavior.

When the focus shifts from delivery to direction. From execution to orientation. From moving fast to moving meaningfully.

And it didn't happen because of process. It happened because of presence.

Someone had to stop. To step back. To ask what are we really designing toward.

That posture changed everything.

Took me about 25 years to figure that out, but who's counting.

Why this matters now

Today, teams are under relentless pressure to move fast, ship often, prove impact.

Speed matters. Results matter. But without clarity of direction, speed becomes motion without meaning.

We confuse progress with movement. The real challenge is designing progress with purpose.

And that often begins in the in-between moments. The moments when we choose presence over process. When we ask not just what should we do next, but what future are we enabling.

That's the heart of the Possibility Principle.

It's not a tool. It's a mindset. A willingness to stand in the space between now and next and design from there. Not with certainty, but with clarity. Not with perfect plans, but with purposeful posture.

I'm still working on the certainty part myself.

What this shift requires

Leading this kind of shift takes courage.

You have to protect reflection in environments built for speed. You have to make room for meaning even when the clock is ticking. You have to guide people not just through what they're doing, but toward who they're becoming.

It's subtle work. Quiet work. The kind that doesn't make for impressive LinkedIn posts about your productivity system.

But it's the kind of work that transforms.

Because when teams reconnect to the deeper why, something shifts. Energy aligns. Decisions deepen. Design stops being reactive and starts becoming directional.

What about you?

Have you ever been in a moment like this? Where everything looked productive on the outside, but inside, you knew the real work hadn't happened yet? Where you paused, or wished you had, to ask the deeper questions?

If so, I'd love to hear. What helped you make that shift? What got in the way? How did the team respond?

Because these are the moments that shape us. Not just as designers or leaders, but as changemakers.

We don't always need to do more. Sometimes we just need to see more clearly. And lead from that place.

Even if it takes us a few decades to learn that lesson.

This is part of my ongoing exploration of The Possibility Principle of Design.

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