“We need to socialize this across all stakeholders before we green-light the downstream deliverables.”

I’m standing there, hands deep in a 48-liter vat of lukewarm dishwater, scrubbing the remains of a beef stroganoff that survived a tactical maneuver through the North Atlantic. The Lieutenant Commander is leaning against the bulkhead of my galley, talking to the Supply Officer as if they aren’t both currently trapped in a steel tube 298 feet below the surface. They aren’t just talking; they are performing. They are weaving a net of words so dense that I, the man currently responsible for the 188 meals they consume daily, feel like I’ve suddenly forgotten my native tongue.

It’s a strange sensation. It feels exactly like that moment this morning-well, subjective morning, since we haven’t seen the sun in 18 days-when I was driving to the base and that silver Audi stole my parking spot. You know the feeling? That sharp, jagged realization that someone else has decided they are more important than you, and they didn’t even have the decency to look you in the eye while they did it.

I’ve watched this play out in 28 different meetings across my career. A manager stands up and says, ‘We need to leverage our core competencies to synergize our value-add propositions.’ The room goes quiet. You can see the flicker in people’s eyes-the brief, terrified calculation of whether they should ask for a translation or just mimic the facial expressions of the person sitting next to them. Usually, they mimic. They nod. They write it down. They participate in the collective lie.

[the sound of silence is often just the sound of people being too afraid to look stupid]

The Shield of Clinical Detachment

There is a specific kind of cowardice in jargon. It allows people to speak without saying anything. It’s the ultimate shield. If a project fails, you didn’t ‘mess up’; you had a ‘misalignment of strategic objectives during the pivot phase.’ If you have to fire 108 people, you aren’t destroying lives; you are ‘right-sizing the human capital infrastructure.’

It’s clinical, detached, and utterly devoid of the messy, vibrating reality of human experience. I think about that a lot while I’m down here. In a submarine, if I tell a deckhand to ‘utilize the thermal distribution apparatus to facilitate caloric intake,’ he’s going to stare at me until the ship hits a seamount. I tell him to turn on the oven. If I don’t, people don’t eat. The stakes are clear.

But in the air-conditioned towers of the corporate world, the stakes are often obscured by a fog of $878-an-hour consultant speak. This over-reliance on jargon indicates a culture that values the appearance of intelligence over the clarity of communication. It’s about power. By using acronyms like ‘KPIs,’ ‘ROIs,’ and ‘SOPs’ as if they were holy incantations, leaders create a barrier that discourages questioning. After all, if you don’t know what the acronym means, how can you challenge the logic behind it?

I remember one particular briefing where the ‘optimization of cross-functional silos’ was mentioned at least 38 times. I counted. I started making tally marks on my apron. By the end, I realized that if they had just said ‘we need the engineers to talk to the mechanics,’ the meeting would have lasted 8 minutes instead of 58. But ‘talking’ doesn’t sound expensive. ‘Optimization’ sounds like something you can bill for. It sounds like something that requires a degree. It sounds like the silver Audi.

The Moral Weight of Clarity

This isn’t just about being annoyed by buzzwords, though my blood pressure would certainly benefit from their extinction. It’s about trust. When a client or a patient walks into a professional setting, they are usually in a position of vulnerability. They are looking for expertise, yes, but they are also looking for a connection. They want to know that the person across from them understands their problem and can explain the solution in a way that doesn’t make them feel like an outsider in their own life. This is why clarity is a moral imperative.

In fields where the stakes are high-medicine, law, aesthetics-the use of clear, simple language isn’t just a courtesy; it’s a foundation of ethical practice. For instance, at a place like dermal fillers for penile enlargement, the commitment to using clear, professional, and accessible language is what builds the bridge of trust between the practitioner and the patient. You aren’t there to be blinded by science; you’re there to be helped.

When someone takes the time to strip away the jargon and speak to you as a human being, they are showing you respect. They are saying, “I am not better than you because I know these terms; I am here to use my knowledge to serve you.” That is the exact opposite of the ‘weaponized’ language I see in corporate boardrooms. It’s an invitation rather than an exclusion.

The Simplicity of Survival

I think we’re all a bit tired of the performance. We’re tired of the ‘deep dives’ that never reach the bottom and the ‘blue-sky thinking’ that ignores the storm on the horizon. I’ve spent 8 years in the Navy, and if I’ve learned anything, it’s that the most important information is always the simplest.

There’s no room for ‘synergy’ when the hull is groaning under the weight of the ocean. Why should we tolerate any less clarity in our daily lives?

[language is the only tool we have to truly see each other; why would we use it to hide?]

I’m back at the sink now. The Lieutenant Commander has finally left, probably to go ‘interface’ with the sonar team about some ‘granular data points.’ I’m left with the pots and my thoughts about that stolen parking spot. Maybe the guy in the Audi was just having a bad day. Or maybe he’s so used to ‘leveraging’ his way through life that he’s forgotten how to just be a person in a world full of other people. When we use jargon, we are doing the same thing. We are cutting people off. We are taking the space that belongs to everyone and claiming it for ourselves.

I’ve made mistakes too. There was a time when I thought knowing the technical names for 128 different mother sauces made me a better cook than the guy who just knew how to make a damn good gravy. I was wrong. The name doesn’t feed anyone. The gravy does. We need to stop worshiping the names of things and start focusing on the things themselves. If you can’t explain your business model to a 10-year-old-or a submarine cook with a grudge against silver Audis-then you probably don’t have a business model. You have a vocabulary. And a vocabulary isn’t a strategy.

Next time you’re in a meeting and someone starts throwing around words that sound like they were generated by a broken AI, ask them what they mean. Not with aggression, but with a genuine desire for clarity. Watch the reaction. Sometimes, they’ll appreciate the opening to speak plainly. But more often, you’ll see that flicker of fear. You’ve asked them to put down their weapon. You’ve asked them to step out from behind the moat. And in that moment of silence, you might actually find a way to work together. Or at least, you’ll realize that the emperor isn’t wearing any clothes-he’s just wearing a very expensive, very confusing suit made of 558 buzzwords.