Momentum is such an interesting thing. We tend to think we either have it or we don’t. We imagine that losing momentum requires some dramatic event, a major failure, or a crisis that changes everything. But I’ve come to see it very differently. Most of the time, momentum does not disappear in one moment. It often gets chipped away through decisions that seem too small to matter. One thing gets postponed or pushed aside while a difficult conversation waits another week, or a commitment that once mattered becomes negotiable. None of these choices feels consequential when we make it, but over time, they can begin to change the direction we are moving in.
I became much more aware of this after my life-saving stem cell transplant in 2024. Once I had enough strength to begin rebuilding a life that felt somewhat normal again, I expected momentum to return naturally. Instead, I found myself having to make hundreds of small decisions about how I would spend my energy, what I would prioritize, when I would push myself, and when I needed to step back. Some days I made choices that moved me forward. Other days I made choices that were easier in the moment but did not serve me later. I might put something off because I was tired, tell myself I would get to it tomorrow, or allow one disrupted day to become another. None of those decisions seemed important enough to worry about. But that was precisely the problem.
After spending so much time focused on survival, I had to relearn something that sounds simple but is not always easy: life is shaped by what we choose to do when there is no immediate consequence for choosing otherwise. During treatment, so much of my life was determined by circumstances outside my control. There were appointments, medications, chemo, immunotherapy, blood tests, PET scans, CT scans, ultrasounds, hospital stays, IVs, physical therapy, and decisions being made around me. Recovery was different. I had more freedom, but that freedom came with responsibility. I had to decide what came next. There was no single moment when someone could tell me, “This is how you rebuild your life.” Much of it came down to simple decisions repeated over time.
That changed the way I think about discipline. For the majority of my life, I associated discipline with pushing through, staying productive, and doing what needed to be done whether I felt like it or not. Recovery taught me that discipline can look very different depending on what the moment requires. Sometimes discipline means doing the thing you have been avoiding, having the conversation you would rather postpone, or saying no to something that is pulling you away from what truly matters. It can also mean resting when continuing to push would be the wrong decision. The difficult part is knowing which one the moment is actually asking of you. That distinction matters because we can make almost any decision sound reasonable when we explain it to ourselves. We were tired or busy. Something more urgent came up, so we told ourselves we would handle it next week. Maybe we did not have enough information yet, or we were waiting for a better time. Often, those explanations are legitimate. But the problem begins when a temporary choice becomes a pattern and the pattern becomes our normal way of operating.
I started noticing this in my own life by paying attention to what happened after the decision, rather than judging the decision by how it felt in the moment. Some choices gave me energy and clarity. Others gave me temporary relief but created more friction later. That became an important distinction. Sometimes the decision that required more of me was the one that restored a sense of purpose and direction.
I think leaders face the same tension every day. Executive life is filled with decisions that appear small when viewed individually. A concern raised by a team member gets acknowledged but not followed up on, while a difficult performance conversation gets moved to the next week. A question gets pushed aside because another operational problem demands attention. Sometimes, a problem that should be fixed is tolerated because the team has learned how to work around it. An initiative that once had a clear purpose can also become diluted through a series of small compromises. From the outside, everything can look fine. None of these decisions necessarily creates a crisis. The organization keeps moving, meetings continue, and projects get completed, even as small compromises begin to accumulate beneath the surface.
But momentum can be disappearing underneath all of that activity.
That is where I think leaders sometimes confuse movement with direction. An organization can be extremely busy and still be drifting. There can be full calendars, strong activity, and constant decision-making without much progress toward the future the organization actually wants. The issue is not always a lack of effort, but the inability to stay focused on what matters most.
I have seen versions of this in conversations with healthcare executives, particularly in organizations that have spent years operating under pressure. The organization is still functioning, but it is no longer making decisions from the same place. What starts as something temporary can begin to feel permanent. An exception becomes normal, and a short-term compromise gradually becomes part of the operating model. Eventually, leaders can find themselves spending a vast amount of energy maintaining a system they never consciously decided to create.
The same thing can happen personally. After everything I had been through, I realized I could not spend the rest of my life simply responding to whatever happened next. Survival had required a tremendous amount of adaptation, but living required something else. I needed to become intentional about where I was directing my energy and attention. That did not happen through one grand decision. It happened through small choices that, repeated often enough, began to create a different kind of momentum.
Choosing to rest when my body was telling me to was not something anyone would have considered an achievement. Saying no to people and things that no longer made sense for me was sometimes uncomfortable. None of these choices looked profound on its own. But together, they helped me rebuild a life that was not simply a return to the one I had before. That is what I now understand about momentum. It is not something that suddenly appears when we finally become motivated enough. It is something we create and protect through the decisions we make repeatedly. Some decisions give it energy. Others quietly drain it. The important thing is whether our choices are taking us toward the person, organization, or future we say we want, not whether every choice is perfect. This is particularly important for leaders because the consequences of small decisions are rarely immediate. Teams learn what matters by observing what gets attention, what gets deferred, and what gets tolerated. Those decisions become signals, the signals form patterns, and those patterns begin to shape the organization. They tell us what we are willing to protect, what we are willing to postpone, and what we are allowing to become normal.
I used to look for the big moments because they were easier to recognize. Now I pay much more attention to the small ones. Discipline can show up in the decision to make the call, have the conversation, rest, begin again, or stop carrying something that no longer belongs to me. They may not feel like momentum when we make them. Over time, those choices can become our compass and shape the direction we’re moving in. And direction, more than speed, determines where we eventually arrive.
I’m a journalist, keynote & TEDx speaker, best-selling author, and creator of Adaptive Resilience Leadership, a framework for leaders navigating what I call the Post-Crisis Leadership Gap: the period after disruption when performance is expected to return, but clarity has not fully recovered. I write about how judgment shifts under pressure, why decision quality can quietly degrade, and what it takes to restore clear thinking in high-stakes environments. I’ve interviewed more than 2,000 leaders, experts, and cultural figures across healthcare, business, and leadership. Across those conversations, one pattern continues to emerge: performance does not fail first. Clarity does. I’m also a board-certified health & wellness coach (NBC-HWC, ACC) and a two-time cancer survivor. After a life-saving stem cell transplant, I rebuilt my relationship with recovery, perspective, and decision-making under sustained pressure. 🔗 saviopclemente.com ↗
The line about judging a decision by what happens afterward rather than how it felt in the moment seems significant. That human nature that I see all the time. Under pressure, a small postponement can stop feeling like a choice at all. Especially if it is accompanied with internal pressure. Attention narrows toward whatever offers the quickest relief: the immediate fire, the less charged task, the conversation that can wait one more week. The decision then gets judged by whether it reduces strain now, rather than by what it quietly teaches a team about what matters. By the time the drift is visible, it has usually already become familiar.