The fluorescent hum of the conference room settled, a flat note beneath the CEO’s booming voice. I felt my eyelids droop, a deep, involuntary yawn threatening to break through the polite facade I’d worn for the past 43 minutes. He was on his third slide, proclaiming a BHAG-a Big Hairy Audacious Goal. Doubling revenue by Q4, with the same headcount, the same budget, and somehow, the same tired smiles. Across the table, a colleague’s eye roll was so subtle, it was almost a twitch. Tuesday, we all thought, a Tuesday like any other, just with a new impossible demand dressed in motivational glitter.

It’s this kind of manufactured enthusiasm that gets under my skin.

We’re told these goals are meant to push us, to find new limits, to foster innovation. But what they often do is push people to the brink, erode trust, and create a culture where the only metric that matters is the illusion of success. I’ve been there, nodding along, even trying to find the kernel of possibility, only to realize it was a fool’s errand from the start. It’s a trick that feels like a betrayal, because deep down, everyone knows the numbers don’t add up.

I remember Hans L.M., a neon sign technician I met years ago. His craft was precision, every bend of the glass tube a testament to exact heat and delicate pressure. He’d spent 33 years perfecting his art. When a new client came along, demanding a massive, intricate sign-the largest he’d ever attempted-in a ridiculously short timeframe, Hans just shook his head. “The glass,” he’d explained, his hands gesturing with an almost spiritual reverence, “it tells you what it can do. You can’t rush the physics of 2,333 degrees Fahrenheit. You ask for the impossible, you get bad light.” He wasn’t being negative; he was articulating reality, a reality that leadership often conveniently ignores.

That conversation with Hans has stuck with me for decades. He understood the fundamental difference between a challenging goal and a destructive one. A challenging goal stretches capabilities, yes, but it respects the inherent limitations of resources, time, and human capacity. A destructive goal, by contrast, is an abdication. It’s leadership offloading the responsibility of strategic planning onto the team, telling them to “figure it out” when the “it” is inherently unachievable. This isn’t inspiration; it’s dereliction. It doesn’t build resilience; it builds resentment.

We’ve all seen the fallout. Teams scrambling, cutting corners, working unsustainable hours, all to hit a target that was never realistic to begin with. The resulting stress manifests in various ways-quiet quitting, actual quitting, or worse, a subtle erosion of ethical boundaries as people try to fudge numbers or oversell capabilities to create the *appearance* of progress. It’s not about being a pessimist; it’s about being grounded in reality. The CEO’s grand vision doesn’t magically multiply budget dollars or add 23 hours to a day.

Part of the problem, I’ve come to believe, is a failure to properly document and verify initial commitments and resource allocations. When goals are set, and especially when they shift into the nebulous realm of “stretch,” clear communication is paramount. It’s not just about what was said, but what was *understood* and *agreed upon*. Having accurate records of these discussions can make a world of difference, clarifying expectations versus the unwritten demands. It’s why tools that capture every word spoken, every detail debated, become so critical in environments prone to ambiguity. Imagine if Hans had a clear, undeniable record of the client’s impossible deadline versus his precise technical estimates. This level of clarity helps leaders and teams remain aligned and accountable for what is truly feasible. Capturing these important conversations means nothing is lost in translation or conveniently forgotten, allowing for a factual baseline against which to measure future “stretches.”

[[convert audio to text|https://audiototext.com]] technologies, for example, can be invaluable here, turning fleeting discussions into concrete, searchable documents that hold everyone accountable for what was decided, not just what was hoped for. It transforms vague aspirations into tangible agreements, or at least, clear points of disagreement, which is itself a valuable outcome.

I’ve been guilty of it myself, to a degree. In a moment of naive optimism, or perhaps just wanting to appear capable, I once agreed to deliver a product by a deadline that, upon reflection, was predicated on a series of fantastical assumptions. I didn’t push back hard enough. I took the “challenge.” The outcome wasn’t catastrophic, but it required a brutal sprint, sacrifices, and ultimately, a product that felt rushed, not polished. The cost was paid in team morale and the quality of the final three features, which never quite shone.

It was a lesson that cost us about $3,733 in lost opportunity and a significant chunk of sleep. The irony is that leadership probably saw it as a win, another demonstration of our ability to “make it happen.” But at what cost? And what happens when the well runs dry? The continuous pressure to hit these phantom targets turns motivation into anxiety. It cultivates an environment where honesty about roadblocks is perceived as weakness, and where creative problem-solving is replaced by desperate firefighting.

We need to stop confusing aspiration with negligence. A true audacious goal isn’t just a number plucked from thin air; it’s a vision backed by strategic investment, clear pathways, and a genuine understanding of the human and technical effort required. It’s about building a bridge to a better future, not just pointing at a distant island and telling everyone to swim harder. Hans L.M. understood that a well-crafted sign glows brightly for 30 years, while a rushed one flickers and dies within three. Some lights are simply not meant to be stretched thin. They burn out.