Pivot, Please

Pivot, Please (If you just want to listen try the Audio Deep Dive in English)

On a recent trip, I had to make a quick decision — a “pivot,” as we now call it. You remember “pivot,” right? The sacred buzzword of the Covid era. Back then, it was corporate-speak for “we have no idea what’s happening, so let’s pretend this is the best thing after sliced bread.” Everyone was pivoting — restaurants, universities, your yoga instructor, even your dog groomer, not to mention your lover who would spend countless data on secretive video calls. The word became a badge of virtue. So, there I was, on an international trip, forced to pivot. Pivoting was essentially managing risks, because we all take risks and when we have choices between the most risky to somewhat risky decisions we pivot to the least risky. Risk-taking always brings along its anxious sibling: risk management. You can’t take a risk without simultaneously crafting the story of why it was “the right move,” and pivoting was selecting the least risky story. I didn’t want to look like an idiot because I took a risky decision. The risk itself is one thing; the justification is the real work. Because here’s the trick: every risky decision has to be justified twice — once to yourself, and once to everyone watching – in my case convincing first myself and then my co-traveler that the risk of abandoning a flight from Newark to Dubai for a flight from Washington to Rome and onwards to Dubai was worth taking. The first is internal PR (“I made the bold choice because this is the best thing for me and I will be happy ever after”). The second is external PR (“Look at me being brave, competent, and absolutely moving forward in life emotionally and in practice”). Both are elaborate forms of storytelling. That’s when it hit me — risk management isn’t about minimizing risk; it’s about managing the narrative of the risk. You don’t just jump; you make sure the new landing looks like the best thing for yourself and everyone you have to convince. You polish the story so that even if everything goes to Hell, the audience claps for the ability to decide your future for yourself. We tell ourselves we took the risk because it was necessary, visionary, and an escape from a life that was not worth living (in my case it was simpler – I need to take the risk so that I do not miss a meeting). We downplay the old truths that warn us otherwise — the voices that say, “Maybe don’t just go off to Rome.” We conveniently delete the possible bad outcomes from the story draft. In short, we spin. And we spin beautifully. But there’s a darker subplot no one talks about: the third-party beneficiaries. That one person who cheer your risk because that person  has something to gain from your leap, thankfully that was not my case. The advisor, the colleague, the newfound friend — the ones whispering, “You’ve got this,” with a smirk. These people are the human version of stock market analysts: they make a profit on other people’s misery. They underplay the cost, overstate the opportunity, and frame your hesitation as weakness. And then, when the risk doesn’t quite pay off, they pivot too — away from you. They vanish into the fog of plausible deniability, muttering something about “I knew this would happen” and “lessons learned.” Every risk we take is a narrative waiting to be written – by the risk taker and one who benefits from the risky decision. We tell ourselves we’re daring; we tell others we’re saving ourselves. Meanwhile, somewhere in the background, someone else is quietly rewriting the story — positioning themselves as the savior promising that the risk is worth taking, not for you, but for the other person who says, “don’t worry, do it, I will come and rescue you when the shit hits the fan because of the risky decision you took.”. The moment when everyone involved finds a way to make the outcome — whatever it is — sound like part of their plan. Because in the end, pivoting  is just another storytelling genre. And as with every good story, everyone wants a writing credit. And in most cases the risk taker is edited out while the third party walks away after a good time at the cost of the risk taker. The one benefiting from the pivoting parrots the song from Abba: “Take a chance on me,” knowing full well when things go south, the “me” will just disappear.