Purpose Died, and All I Got Was This Lousy Tote Bag

It hit me somewhere between my fifth coffee and second doom scroll: Purpose is dead. Not the kind of death that inspires a tear-streaked eulogy, but the kind where someone notices your mailbox overflowing and assumes you’ve simply taken an extended sabbatical to “find yourself” in Bali.

I was scrolling past a LinkedIn post about a company that had “realigned its purpose to better serve today’s values,” and thought, Serve today’s values? Isn’t that just corporate speak for changing your mind because the old plan didn’t get enough likes?

Remember when “purpose” had its moment? Every brand, from fast food chains to chemical manufacturers, suddenly became purpose-driven. Oil companies wanted to save the environment—presumably from themselves. Soda companies were uniting humanity, one diabetes diagnosis at a time. Even my local bank had a purpose, which apparently involved helping the community, though their main contribution seemed to be finding ever more creative ways to charge fees for simply existing.

And for a while, I fell for it. I thought, Maybe this is how it happens—maybe capitalism is finally growing up. I pictured CEOs gathering their families around the dinner table to say, “Kids, I think it’s time we stopped exploiting people for profit.” Spoiler: they weren’t. What they were actually doing was debating whether the word “impact” felt too aggressive for their marketing materials.

The thing about purpose is that it’s free to talk about. Living by it, though? That’s where it gets tricky. Talking about it gets you applause at conferences, glossy profiles in business magazines, and a cascade of clapping emojis on LinkedIn. Living by it means spending money. It means making decisions that might irritate shareholders, and that’s about as appealing to a CEO as going a full quarter without a LinkedIn post about their “inspiring” offsite in the Alps.

I recently sat through a keynote where a corporate exec proudly declared their company’s purpose: “building a better world for future generations.” The audience nodded along as the slogan flashed on every slide, tote bag, and coffee mug, like a mantra for the morally superior.

During the Q&A, someone asked about their investments in renewable energy. The exec froze, their face twisting into the sort of smile usually reserved for bad improv. “It’s something we’re exploring, but scalability is a challenge,” they said. Corporate code for, “We’re not doing anything, but we’d like you to think we are.” Pressed further, they deflected with a vague mention of balancing costs with long-term impact, before quickly pivoting to their reusable cutlery initiative.

This is where purpose falls apart. It’s not about doing the right thing; it’s about looking like you’re doing the right thing. Companies will tell you they’re “going green,” but dig deep enough, and you’ll find more carbon offsets than actual change. They’ll post about “diversity and inclusion,” yet their leadership teams still look like the before photo of a Brooks Brothers catalog.

I was stuck in a fog of mild existential irritation when my son, Otis, wandered in. Otis is six, with a level of empathy and clarity that I suspect will one day land him in charge of an actual cult. He climbed into the chair next to me, his hair sticking up like he’d just emerged from a wind tunnel, and asked, “Why are you making that face?”

“It’s just work stuff,” I said.

“Did someone do something mean?”

“Not mean exactly,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “More like lazy. They said they’d do something good, but then they didn’t because it was hard.”

Otis nodded thoughtfully, his way of signaling that a truth bomb was imminent. “Why don’t they just fix it?”

The simplicity of his question hit me like a ton of branded tote bags. It was pure, logical, and almost accusatory. If something’s broken, you fix it. If you say you’re going to do something, you do it. Why, as adults, do we insist on making everything so complicated?

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Adults love to overthink. We’ve taken something as basic as doing the right thing and buried it under a mountain of buzzwords and workshops. Companies don’t actually want to fix problems; they want to look like they’re fixing them.

Companies don’t need purpose; they need spines. They need leaders who care more about action than about winning awards for “Most Inspirational Brand Video Featuring a Puppy.” But spines are messy. They don’t fit on mugs or tote bags. You can’t write a press release about them.

As Otis hopped down and wandered off to build a Lego city that was already better planned than most urban areas, I sat there wondering if anyone would ever take his advice. Maybe someday, someone will stand up in a boardroom and say, “Why don’t we just fix it?” And maybe—just maybe—someone will listen.

Until then, I’ll be here, scrolling, waiting, and wondering if scalability is just another word for not my problem.