I was maybe 11 at the time. My stepfather was in the kitchen trying to install some organizers—trying to make better use of the space.
It wasn’t going well.
He was under the counter, tools scattered, muttering to himself.
“We don’t have enough room.”
I was standing in the archway between the kitchen and the living room. From there, I could see straight through to the dining room on the other side.
So I said, “Why don’t you make it bigger?”
He pulled his head out from under the cabinet.
“What?”
“Make the kitchen bigger.”
He stood up, picked up his glass of tea, and looked at me for a second. Then he smirked.
“Oh yeah? How?”
I pointed past him into the dining room.
“Move the cabinets that way. Make the dining room a little smaller.”
He turned and looked.
And then he saw it.
He set the tea down and got back under the counter—this time looking at how everything was actually mounted.
A few seconds later he pulled himself back out, grinning.
He reached over, messed up my hair, and said, “Go get the drill.”
At 11, I didn’t know if that idea would work. I didn’t know how much effort it would take. I didn’t know if it was realistic.
I just hadn’t learned yet to rule it out.
Somewhere along the way, we all do.
We decide too early. We label something unpossible—not truly impossible, just ruled out before we understand it.
There’s a name for part of this. Psychologists call it functional fixedness—our tendency to see things only in their usual form. A kitchen is the size it is. A process works the way it’s always worked.
We inherit those boundaries. And then we operate inside them.
But we don’t stop there. We fence in our imagination before it ever gets a chance to run.
We don’t explore ideas—we evaluate them immediately.
“Make sure it doesn’t cost more than…” “We tried that before.” “That’s too crazy.”
Limit after limit. The fence goes up before the idea takes a single step.
The problem isn’t constraints. The problem is when we apply them.
There are two ways we think: One opens possibilities (divergent thinking). One narrows them (convergent thinking).
Both matter. But they’re not meant to happen at the same time.
When we judge an idea while we’re generating it, we strangle it. We need to let the idea run first. Let it stretch past what feels reasonable. Let it explore the edges.
Then—after it has somewhere to stand—bring in reality.
Now apply the budget. Now apply the timeline. Now apply the constraints.
You’ll still end up grounded. But you’ll be grounded somewhere further than where you started.
One way I’ve learned to do this is to see the end first.
Not perfectly—but clearly enough to recognize it. What does it look like if this works? What exists now that doesn’t exist yet?
Then I work backward. What would have to be true? What gets me there?
And if that’s still too far—what gets me closer?
Then again. And again. Until I can loosely connect it to where I am now.
Sometimes the path isn’t complete. But now I’m not staring at something impossible. I’m looking at something partially built. And that’s enough to move.
You don’t need all the answers to begin. Most of the time—you won’t have them.
That’s where questions come in.
You don’t know what you don’t know. But you can ask in the direction you want to go: What would this require? Who’s done something like this? What am I missing?
Some answers only show up once you’re already in motion. They show up because you moved.
Sometimes what you end up with isn’t what you imagined. It’s better.
Not because you planned it that way—but because you stayed in it long enough to discover what was actually possible.
Most ideas don’t fail reality. They fail our imagination first.
We don’t run into limits. We assume them.
You don’t have to believe everything is possible. You just have to stop deciding it’s impossible too soon.
Because once you see the fence for what is— you can step past it.
And come back with something more than you had before.
#Unpossible #LeadershipDevelopment #PersonalGrowth #Resilience #BusinessLessons #Mindset #Creativity #Innovation
