http://childpsychiatryassociates.com/?p=1882
There was a time when impact was a thing that happened when your car hit a tree. Now it’s something that happens when Becky updates her résumé.
“Seeking high-impact opportunities in the wellness optimization space.”
Translation: She got fired from the smoothie bar and wants to manage an Instagram page about crystals.
We used to use impact for actual force. Collisions. Catastrophes. You know, reality. An asteroid has impact. A divorce has impact. Death is only impact.
But your team’s Q2 synergy meeting? That’s just a conversation with a PowerPoint and dead eyes.
It’s like someone took a useful noun, beat it senseless with a TED Talk, stuffed it with buzzwords, and turned it loose on corporate America like a motivational ferret in a pantsuit.
Now everything’s about “maximizing impact,” “delivering impact,” “creating impact at scale.” Christ, even toothpaste commercials promise “gum health impact.” Who knew minty could be so violent?
And don’t get me started on impactful. “The retreat was so impactful.” No, Chad, it was a weekend at a Ramada where your boss cried during goat yoga.
We’re told to measure impact. Leverage impact. There’s social impact, brand impact, environmental impact. At this point, even your mother’s casserole has impact, because it made everyone shit themselves.
The problem is, when everything has impact, nothing does. Words matter, or they used to. But now, we’re allergic to saying what we actually mean. You didn’t make a difference. You didn’t help. You didn’t even do anything. You just had impact. It’s vague enough to sound important and slippery enough to dodge responsibility.
“This ad campaign had real impact.”
Yeah? Like a tooth?
People don’t actually want impact—they want the illusion of it. They want the brand of impact. Like those asses who post photos of themselves picking up a piece of trash on Earth Day, wearing $300 sneakers made of “recycled hope.”
You want to make an impact? Turn off your phone. Talk to someone. Feed a stray dog. Write a check to a teacher. Something that doesn’t come with a hashtag and a LinkedIn endorsement.
So here lies impact, a once-honest word, inflated into a balloon animal of self-importance and corporate cotton. It didn’t die. It was overused. Which, in America, is the same thing.
Rest in Fluff, Impact. You were briefly meaningful. And then Becky got ahold of you.
