Disruption gets a bad rap. Too often, disrupters are seen as reckless troublemakers—people who tear things down just for the sake of destruction. But that’s not disruption. That’s chaos. And chaos isn’t leadership.
We see this play out time and again when leaders step into new roles and start slashing before they even understand what they’re dismantling. There’s a difference between challenging the status quo and gutting an organization with no plan beyond “out with the old.” Even those who cheer on bold moves can’t help but side-eye an approach that starts with mass firings and sweeping cuts before grasping the purpose of what’s being destroyed.
Imagine walking into a leadership position and, on day one, eliminating the very people responsible for keeping the most critical operations running. No transition plan, no assessment—just a belief that “new” is automatically better. It might look decisive, even revolutionary. But what happens next? A scramble. Backpedaling. A frantic attempt to undo the damage, rehiring the very people who were just shown the door.
Even if you supported the shake-up, at some point, you have to ask: Is this strategy, or just carelessness disguised as courage?
There is waste everywhere. I saw it firsthand when I was promoted to administrative lieutenant in 2008, overseeing my department’s entire budget. If you recall, the nation went into a recession that year, and my marching orders from the Mayor and my Chief were clear: cut the fat—and the muscle—down to the bone. The Chief’s philosophy was simple: “Do we need paperclips? Cut them.”
The lieutenant before me took me under his wing and showed me where he had tucked away hidden reserves—what he called “honey pots.” These were artificially inflated budget lines designed to create a buffer, allowing funds to be reallocated as needed. A clever game in more abundant times, but one that collapsed when the recession hit. Those honey pots were the first thing to go.
But I didn’t just start slashing blindly. There were units and divisions I had never worked in, and it would have been easy to gut funding with the stroke of a keyboard. Instead, I did what disruptors should always do—I asked questions.
I remember seeing a significant budget line item earmarked for Undercover and Informant Funds. At first glance, it looked wasteful—piles of cash set aside for informants and undercover operations? It seemed like an easy target for cuts. But before I made a move, I sat down with the detectives who used those funds. What I learned changed everything. Confidential informants provided inside access to drug trafficking, violent gangs, and organized crime. Without them, major cases would go unsolved. Without them, our efforts to drive down violent crime would take a massive hit. That money stayed right where it was.
Other conversations ended differently. As I went to each division, I told them that in an ideal world, we could keep business as usual—but that wasn’t our reality. I asked them to be brutally honest: What could we cut? In a surprising twist, they often did the hard work for me. Instead of justifying excess, they acknowledged where waste existed and voluntarily sacrificed it. They diagnosed the problem before we prescribed a solution.
And that’s the lesson.
Diagnose before you prescribe.
If you want to disrupt, you better damn well understand what you’re disrupting first. People get comfortable and complacent with the status quo, and I’m all for challenging “the way we’ve always done it.” People will resist. They will justify their comfort and complacency until they can’t anymore. And when the evidence is stacked against them, they’ll either change or expose themselves as part of the problem.
There are times when disruption must be aggressive—when asking questions isn’t enough, and drastic change is necessary. Some structures are so broken that they can’t be salvaged, only replaced. Some leaders are so corrupt that incremental fixes won’t cut it. There are moments when you don’t negotiate, you dismantle. When entire systems exist solely to perpetuate inefficiency, discrimination, or abuse, then yes, you set them ablaze. But the key difference? A true disruptor doesn’t burn things down for the spectacle. They do it with precision, ensuring what rises from the ashes is something better. Reckless arsonists create destruction; strategic disruptors create transformation.
Sometimes, disruption does mean setting things on fire. I believe in burning bridges. Some relationships aren’t worth preserving. Some systems deserve to be dismantled. But hear me loud and clear: You can burn a bridge without burning down the entire city.
And if you’re going to set fire to something, make damn sure you’re not torching something that could have been reinforced or rebuilt. Make sure you’re not recklessly harming people in the process. True disruptors don’t burn everything down. They build something better in its place.
Before you tear something down, ask yourself—are you solving a problem, or just creating a bigger mess? Disrupt wisely. Because if you call yourself a disrupter but all you’re doing is setting fire to everything in sight without a plan, you’re not a visionary.
You’re just an arsonist.
