The phone sat there, a silent slab of glass and aluminum on the kitchen counter, and I didn’t hear a single vibration. It was only when I picked it up to check the weather at 17:03 that the notifications cascaded down the screen like a slow-motion car crash. I had missed 13 calls. My phone had been on mute for the last 43 minutes, and in that time, my world had tried to scream at me through a digital void. There is a specific kind of sinking feeling that hits your stomach when you realize you have been unreachable during a crisis, a silence you cultivated by accident while others were desperate for a word. It made me think about the nature of silence-and more importantly, the nature of the words we use when we finally do speak. Sometimes, being on mute is more honest than the noise we produce in a boardroom.

💡 Critical Insight

I was looking at an email that had arrived just before the calls started. It was from a CEO I’ve consulted for, a man who prides himself on ‘visionary leadership,’ yet whose prose looks like it was generated by a malfunctioning law-bot. The subject line was ‘Strategic Realignment and Human Capital Optimization.’ I had to read it 13 times before the fog cleared enough for me to see the jagged rocks underneath. This wasn’t a vision; it was a burial notice. The company was cutting 23% of its staff, but the word ‘layoff’ or ‘firing’ appeared exactly zero times. Instead, there was talk of ‘unlocking synergies’ and ‘right-sizing our footprint for the upcoming fiscal cycle.’

The Mechanics of Evasion

This is not a failure of the English language. It is a masterpiece of tactical evasion. We often treat corporate jargon as a joke, a series of buzzwords that we mock over 43-cent cups of lukewarm coffee, but that’s a dangerous simplification. Vague communication is not an accident of poor writing; it is a deliberate tool of power. It is designed to maintain maximum flexibility for the people at the top while creating a state of permanent, low-grade anxiety for everyone else. When no one knows exactly what ‘strategic realignment’ means, no one can hold you accountable when the floor drops out. It is the language of the escape artist.

Take my friend David J.-M., for instance. David J.-M. is a medical equipment installer. He spends his days in the sterile, fluorescent-lit hallways of hospitals, hauling machines that cost $433,000 into rooms that have to be shielded with lead. His job depends on the absolute absence of ambiguity. If a manual tells David J.-M. to ‘secure the anchor bolt until it reaches 53 foot-pounds of torque,’ he does exactly that. If the manual said, ‘Ensure the structural integrity of the fastening system is optimized for long-term stabilization,’ David J.-M. would be standing there with a wrench in his hand, wondering if the MRI machine was going to fly through the wall the first time it was turned on. In David’s world, ambiguity is a death sentence. In the corporate world, it’s a promotion strategy.

The Comfort of the Pivot

But the CEO doesn’t want to say they don’t have the answers. To admit uncertainty is to lose the aura of the ‘all-seeing leader.’ So, they hide behind the strategic ambiguity of the ‘pivot.’ By keeping the goals vague, they can never truly fail. If the goal is ‘to enhance our market presence through innovative engagement,’ then any result can be spun as a victory. If the goal is ‘to sell 63 units by Tuesday,’ and you sell 53, you have failed. Managers who fear failure love the fog. It provides a comfortable place to hide their mistakes, though it leaves the rest of the team wandering in the dark, tripping over the furniture.

There is a profound difference between the calculated murk of a corporate memo and the directness required in the real world. Think about the last time you received truly excellent instructions. I recently went on a guided tour where the stakes were high-not life-or-death like David J.-M.’s MRI machines, but certainly high enough to involve some physical risk. It was a segwaypoint duesseldorf. The guide didn’t talk about ‘optimizing our kinetic interface with the urban landscape.’ He said, ‘Lean your toes forward to go, pull your heels back to stop.’ It was direct, visceral, and immediately actionable. Because the communication was clear, the anxiety vanished. You could focus on the experience, the sights of the city, and the 53-degree breeze on your face, rather than worrying about whether you were about to face-plant into the pavement. That is the power of clarity: it creates the space for performance.

The Graveyard of Accountability

[Ambiguity is the graveyard of accountability.]

We need to stop pretending that this is just ‘how business is done.’ It’s a choice. It’s a choice to prioritize the comfort of the speaker over the comprehension of the listener. When a manager sends out a vague email about ‘shifting priorities’ instead of saying ‘we are canceling Project X,’ they are choosing to protect themselves from the discomfort of a difficult conversation at the expense of their team’s mental health. They are letting 33 people twist in the wind so they don’t have to deal with the 3 people who might get angry. It’s a coward’s gambit.

We should all strive for that 3-degree precision. We should be terrified of the word ‘synergy’ and the phrase ‘moving forward.’ We should demand that our leaders speak to us like human beings who are capable of handling the truth, even when the truth is unpleasant. Because the irony is that while strategic ambiguity is meant to provide flexibility, it actually creates a rigid, paralyzed culture. People who don’t know the plan are afraid to move. People who don’t trust the words are afraid to commit. You end up with a company of 2,333 people all standing perfectly still, waiting for a signal that never comes.

I eventually called those 13 people back. I apologized, I didn’t make excuses about the mute button-even though it was the truth-and I spent the next 63 minutes being as clear and direct as I possibly could. It was exhausting, but the relief on the other end of the line was palpable. Silence can be a mistake, but vague noise is a choice. I’m choosing to leave the fog behind. I’d rather be wrong in the light than ‘strategically aligned’ in the dark. How many hours of our lives have we wasted decoding the indecipherable? It’s time we stop the 33-minute meetings that say nothing and start having the 3-minute conversations that actually matter.