Anchor Dragging

Anchor Dragging

Anchor Dragging

When your history is steering the ship

In 1852, Isambard Kingdom Brunel sketched a ship in his sketchbook and wrote underneath it: "Say 600 ft x 65 ft x 30 ft." Six times larger than anything afloat at the time. No company had commissioned it. Brunel, maybe the most celebrated engineer in Britain, would build The Great Eastern anyway. He told colleagues he had never embarked on anything "on the success of which I have staked so much reputation." His reputation would drag the whole thing down: The Great Eastern bankrupted her first owner before reaching the water, the sideways launch alone took over three months. A boiler explosion during sea trials killed six crewmembers. Brunel himself collapsed with a stroke on deck and died ten days later, aged fifty-three. But the ship survived. It was Brunel's ship. Too big for any port, any cargo route, any commercial purpose that existed — but built by the man who built modern Britain. Four successive companies bought her, tried to make her pay, and went bankrupt. She was relaunched, failed, relaunched, failed, relaunched. Thirty-one years of owners who knew she didn't work but couldn't bring themselves to scrap the greatest engineering achievement of the age. In 1886, the largest ship in the world was moored in the Mersey, ending its days as a floating billboard for Lewis's department store.

In 1852, Isambard Kingdom Brunel sketched a ship in his sketchbook and wrote underneath it: "Say 600 ft x 65 ft x 30 ft." Six times larger than anything afloat at the time. No company had commissioned it. Brunel, maybe the most celebrated engineer in Britain, would build The Great Eastern anyway. He told colleagues he had never embarked on anything "on the success of which I have staked so much reputation." His reputation would drag the whole thing down: The Great Eastern bankrupted her first owner before reaching the water, the sideways launch alone took over three months. A boiler explosion during sea trials killed six crewmembers. Brunel himself collapsed with a stroke on deck and died ten days later, aged fifty-three. But the ship survived. It was Brunel's ship. Too big for any port, any cargo route, any commercial purpose that existed — but built by the man who built modern Britain. Four successive companies bought her, tried to make her pay, and went bankrupt. She was relaunched, failed, relaunched, failed, relaunched. Thirty-one years of owners who knew she didn't work but couldn't bring themselves to scrap the greatest engineering achievement of the age. In 1886, the largest ship in the world was moored in the Mersey, ending its days as a floating billboard for Lewis's department store.

What is it?

Every organisation accumulates baggage. At some point you notice that every course change takes more effort. Not because anyone objects, but because you're dragging everything you ever built along with you. Products that were once successful. Platforms everything runs on. Mandates granted long ago. Changing that has consequences. The old product line still generates some revenue. The legacy system still supports something. Each valid on its own. Together, an anchor dragging across the seabed while you're trying to steer.

Why does it matter?

For leadership, the cost is invisible until it isn't. Money and people stay tied up in things that no longer matter. New initiatives struggle to get off the ground because the resources are already spoken for. The logic behind it feels sound: you protect what you have, you avoid hassle, you hold on to what once worked. But while you're holding on, the world changes. Markets shift and technology leaps forward. What once provided stability is suddenly in the way. And when everything stays where it is, there's no room for anything new.

What causes it?

Anchors are attached to something. They're someone's achievement, power base or proof of success. Divesting threatens careers. Shutting down signals failure. Stopping creates accountability.
The result: letting go becomes more dangerous than holding on, even when holding on slowly pulls the organisation off course. The conversation about what should go gets postponed again and again, until it's no longer a choice but a crisis.

How to recognise it:

  • When strategy conversations are mostly about what you can't do, and every new direction meets the same objections: existing commitments, current contracts, political sensitivities.

  • When budget rounds feel like a fight, and everyone at the table is there to defend what they have rather than look at what's needed.

  • When small product lines persist for years because no one has the energy to have the conversation, and it takes more effort to stop something than to let it limp along.

What you can do:

  • Make letting go a normal act. As long as stopping only happens in crisis mode, everything hangs around until it's too late.

  • Do the honest maths. The question isn't whether something still delivers value, but whether you could do more with it elsewhere. That conversation rarely happens.

  • Decouple people from programmes. As long as the fate of an initiative is the fate of the people leading it, no one will voluntarily pull the plug.

  • Start small. You don't have to overhaul the entire portfolio at once. Lifting one anchor already makes you faster.

What is it?

Every organisation accumulates baggage. At some point you notice that every course change takes more effort. Not because anyone objects, but because you're dragging everything you ever built along with you. Products that were once successful. Platforms everything runs on. Mandates granted long ago. Changing that has consequences. The old product line still generates some revenue. The legacy system still supports something. Each valid on its own. Together, an anchor dragging across the seabed while you're trying to steer.

Why does it matter?

For leadership, the cost is invisible until it isn't. Money and people stay tied up in things that no longer matter. New initiatives struggle to get off the ground because the resources are already spoken for. The logic behind it feels sound: you protect what you have, you avoid hassle, you hold on to what once worked. But while you're holding on, the world changes. Markets shift and technology leaps forward. What once provided stability is suddenly in the way. And when everything stays where it is, there's no room for anything new.

What causes it?

Anchors are attached to something. They're someone's achievement, power base or proof of success. Divesting threatens careers. Shutting down signals failure. Stopping creates accountability.
The result: letting go becomes more dangerous than holding on, even when holding on slowly pulls the organisation off course. The conversation about what should go gets postponed again and again, until it's no longer a choice but a crisis.

How to recognise it:

  • When strategy conversations are mostly about what you can't do, and every new direction meets the same objections: existing commitments, current contracts, political sensitivities.

  • When budget rounds feel like a fight, and everyone at the table is there to defend what they have rather than look at what's needed.

  • When small product lines persist for years because no one has the energy to have the conversation, and it takes more effort to stop something than to let it limp along.

What you can do:

  • Make letting go a normal act. As long as stopping only happens in crisis mode, everything hangs around until it's too late.

  • Do the honest maths. The question isn't whether something still delivers value, but whether you could do more with it elsewhere. That conversation rarely happens.

  • Decouple people from programmes. As long as the fate of an initiative is the fate of the people leading it, no one will voluntarily pull the plug.

  • Start small. You don't have to overhaul the entire portfolio at once. Lifting one anchor already makes you faster.

Not yet ready to talk? Look over our captains' shoulders. One insight per week you can actually use tomorrow.
No jargon, no hype, 100% bullshit-free advice.

Not yet ready to talk? Look over our captains' shoulders. One insight per week you can actually use tomorrow.
No jargon, no hype, 100% bullshit-free advice.

Let's talk.

Let's talk.

Let's talk.

Know what needs to go but somehow never does? We'll start the conversation that keeps getting postponed.

Know what needs to go but somehow never does? We'll start the conversation that keeps getting postponed.