The Next Economy Is Coming

Grab a cuppa. I want to tell you something, and I reckon it's going to feel right.

You know that feeling on a Sunday night? When you're loading the dishwasher and there's this weight in your chest and you're already thinking about Monday?

That's not stress. That's not being tired. That's you knowing something isn't right and not letting yourself say it out loud yet.

I want to talk about that.

Because right now every boss, every board, every LinkedIn guru is banging on about “the next economy” and “the future of work.” AI this. Automation that. New tools. New teams. New ways of working. Everyone's spending huge money on software and calling meetings about “transformation.” There are people in your building right now getting paid a fortune to draw arrows on whiteboards!

And here's the thing I reckon you already know but nobody's said to your face:

It's not going to work. Not because of the tech. Because of the people.

And when I say the people, I mean you.

Not because you're not smart. You're smart. You wouldn't be reading this if you weren't. It's because of what life has done to you over the last thirty or forty years. And I don't just mean work. I mean all of it.

Let me show you what I mean. (Tell me if any of this sounds familiar).

You're in a meeting. Someone senior says something and you know (you actually know) it's wrong. Not a bit wrong. Wrong wrong. And you feel your mouth open a little bit. And then you close it. And you nod. And you write something down that you're never going to look at again. And later, in the kitchen making a tea, you tell your work friend “yeah that's not going to work” and they go “I know, right.” And that's the end of it.

You've done that this month. Probably this week.

Or this one. You get an email. Bit of a dig in it. Bit passive-aggressive. You write a reply. It's honest. You read it back. You go “I can't send that.” You rewrite it. Softer. You rewrite it again. Softer. By the time you send it, it says “Thanks so much for flagging! Happy to jump on a quick call to align” and inside you feel a bit sick because the person you actually are would never in a million years say those words.

Or this. Someone asks you at a barbecue what you do. You tell them. And you hear yourself talk about it and there's this small voice at the back of your head going “I don't even know if I like this anymore.” And you shove that voice back down because you can't afford to hear it. The mortgage. The kids. The private school fees. The renovation. So you smile and say “yeah it's really interesting actually” and change the subject.

Or this one. You had an idea. About two years ago. A really good one. You brought it up. Your boss said “love your energy, let's park that for now.” You never brought it up again. And the other day someone else in the company had a version of it and got a promotion. And you felt something you didn't want to feel and you didn't tell anyone about it. Not even your partner.

This is what I'm talking about.

You have spent years - actual years of your life - learning how to be a slightly smaller, safer, quieter version of yourself so that everything would keep flowing. And it didn't start at work. It started way earlier.

It started in year three when the teacher told you to stop calling out even though you had the answer. It started when your parents said “don't be difficult” at your aunty's place. It started at high school when having a strong opinion got you called intense, or too much, or up yourself. It started every time you got the message... from teachers, from mates, from ads, from every romcom you ever watched, that the goal was to fit in, be liked, don't stand out too much, don't be “that person.”

By the time you got to work, you were already halfway trained. Work just finished the job.

And you got good at it. You got promoted for it. Every year they told you that you were doing great. You even got the obligatory 3% cost of living raise so it felt like progress. And every year you left a little bit more of yourself in the car park before you walked into the building.

That was the deal. That was how the last economy worked.

Play nice, don't rock the boat, be reliable, be “a team player,” and the money keeps coming in. And the approval. And being liked. And being respected. Being seen as safe, secure, sensible. Being part of the team. Getting invited to the corporate lunches. Getting picked for the good training. Getting the nod from the people whose nod you'd been chasing since you were about six.

That's a hell of a lot to give up. Nobody was ever going to walk away from that lightly. Of course you played along. Anyone would have.

Now here's where it gets interesting.

The same companies are now walking into all-hands meetings and saying, and I quote:

“We need you to be bold.” “We need you to bring your whole self to work.” “We need creative thinking.” “We need people who can challenge the status quo.” “We need to build a culture of innovation.”

And you're sitting there thinking “mate, you literally told me off in my last review for being 'too direct' with the CFO.”

You're not imagining it. You're not being negative. You're right.

"The rules changed. Nobody sent the memo."

For twenty years the reward was for sitting down and now the reward is for standing up, and most people can't do it because the muscle isn't there anymore.

It's not their fault. It's not your fault either. But it's still the situation.

You already know this. You've said a version of it in the car on the way home. Probably to your partner. Probably at about 6:47pm on a Wednesday. Probably ending with “I don't know how much longer I can do this.”

Now here's the bit I really want you to hear.

The real question of the next economy isn't “will AI take my job.” Everyone's asking that one because it's the easier question. It's a distraction. A comfortable one. It lets you feel like you're preparing while not actually changing anything about your life.

The real question is this:

Can you find your way back to the parts of yourself you stopped using? The bits that made you actually you, before you learned to blend in? And can you find them fast enough?

Because those parts - the instinct, the intuition, the perspective only you have, the way you see a problem that nobody else in the room can see, the taste, the read on a person you get in the first thirty seconds, the weird angle that turns out to be the right one - those are the parts that matter now. That's your actual value. That's the thing the next economy is going to pay for. Not because it's romantic. Because a computer can already do the polite, agreeable, “happy to align” version of you. It's better at it. It's cheaper. It doesn't need annual leave.

The only thing you've got that a machine hasn't is the bit of you that you stopped using because it wasn't rewarded or recognised.

And that's the part that's rusty. That's the part you can't quite feel anymore. That's the part where when someone asks you “what do you actually think?” you feel a bit of panic because you honestly don't know.

You know what you're supposed to think. You know what will land well. You know what your boss wants to hear.

But what you actually think? What your gut says? What you'd bet money on if it were your own money? You'd have to sit with that for a while. You haven't done it in years.

That's the problem. That is the problem. Not the tech. Not the org chart. Not the strategy. That.

I'm going to say the thing.

A lot of the people at the top of your organisation are not going to make it through this. Not because they're bad people. Because they got to the top by being brilliant at the old game, and the old game is over, and the new one asks them to use the parts of themselves that made them stand out in the first place (the instinct, the sharp opinion, the thing only they saw) and they packed those away thirty years ago because that's what the climb required. They'll retire. They'll get pushed out. They'll cling on and make everyone miserable for another five years. But they're not the future. And deep down, if you're honest with yourself over a wine, you already know which ones I'm talking about.

Now, the harder bit. Some of this is about you too.

You know that idea you had? Bring it up again. Yeah, I know what happened last time. Bring it up again. Sure, it might not go great. Dali got expelled from art school first. But then it might go gangbusters! (He went on to sell paintings for tens of millions).

You know that meeting where you always nod? Don't nod this week. Just once. Just say “I don't actually agree, can I say why?” and see what happens. Probably nothing bad. Probably someone else in the room will go “oh thank god, I thought it was just me.”

You're not choosing between safety and risk here you see. You think you are, but you're not.

Staying quiet is a risk. Staying small is a risk. Spending another ten years being the agreeable version of yourself while the world moves on - that's a risk too.

It just doesn't feel like one because it's the risk you're used to.

You know that email you're about to soften for the fourth time? Send the second draft. Not the seventh. The second.

Both roads cost you something. Pick the one where at least the cost buys you something back.

And that Sunday night feeling? Stop pretending it's normal. It's not normal!

It's information. It's the last honest bit of you trying to get your attention.

I'm not telling you to quit. I'm not telling you to blow up your career. I'm not one of those “follow your passion, sell everything, move to Bali” people. I think that's rubbish too.

I'm telling you that the next economy... the one everyone's spending millions preparing for with software and consultants and offsites; is actually going to be won by the people who can find their voice again. Their real one. And their value. Their insight. Their instinct. Their intuition. The perspective only they have. The thing they used to bring to the table before they learned to bring the safe version instead.

That's it. That's the whole thing.

And you can start this week. Not with a plan. Not with a framework. Not with a course. Just with one moment where you bring what only you can bring - instead of what anyone in the room could've said.

See what happens.

I reckon you already know what will.

— Amanda Anderson, The Playing Small Speaker

P.S. This is what I talk about on stage. If you're reading this and thinking “half my leadership team needs to hear this out loud, not just read it” - that's the conversation. Just message me here.