I’ve always been more of a product-oriented person. I care about what gets built, finished, shipped, or accomplished. I want to see results—something tangible, something I can point to and say, that’s what I meant to do. And while I can sometimes get dogmatic about the process (who can’t?), it’s become clearer to me over time that focusing on the product—the goal—is far more important than obsessing over how you get there.

Of course, that idea can raise some red flags. “The ends justify the means” has been used to excuse some terrible things, and I’m not interested in becoming an apologist for ruthlessness. There’s a necessary ethical boundary here. But I’m not talking about trampling over people or principles to get your way. I’m talking about something more subtle, and in some ways more dangerous: the comfort and illusion of safety we get when we treat process as sacred.

“This is how we’ve always done it.” If I had to nominate a single phrase for the cause of more failures in institutions, businesses, and personal lives, that would be it. Clinging to a method because it’s familiar, even when the landscape has changed, is not stability—it’s stagnation.

In business, this trap is well documented. In The Innovator’s Dilemma, Clayton Christensen showed how even dominant companies get disrupted—not because they’re unintelligent, but because they become prisoners of their own processes. They double down on what used to work and fail to notice the world has moved on.

Agile development, Lean Startup methodology—these emerged as antidotes to that rigidity. “Working software over comprehensive documentation.” Translation: solve the real problem. Let process follow purpose, not the other way around.

In education, the pattern holds. Bureaucracies cling to standardized tests and curriculum checklists. They’re optimized for the system, not the student. And yet, the most effective teachers are often those who break the rules to actually reach someone. They improvise, adapt, and sometimes abandon the “correct” method to pursue the right outcome: actual learning.

In art and creativity, the phrase “trust the process” is common. Sometimes it’s wise advice—when you’re chasing discovery or spontaneity. But other times, especially when you’re trying to build something that people need or that needs to ship, trusting the process too much becomes a liability. It becomes an excuse.

And that brings me to recovery—where this really hits home for me.

I have to remind myself that the product in recovery isn’t the process itself. The product is a meaningful life. The product is remaining abstinent. The product is learning how to navigate life well enough that when the occasional thought to use crosses my mind, I can recognize it, breathe through it, and choose something better.

It’s easy—far too easy—to get religious about the method. If you’ve used a 12-step fellowship or another structured path to get clean, it can feel like this is the one true way. And to be honest, the process I was taught in recovery is the only one I really know how to pass on. But the truth is, while the specific steps may differ, the fundamentals tend to be the same across all recovery paths: honesty, connection, accountability, growth.

Different methods work for different people. And I have to stay vigilant not to confuse my method with the goal itself. If the method stops working—or if someone else finds healing another way—I need to stay focused on the outcome, not the ritual.

The same thing happens with health and weight loss. I’ve found what works for me, and when I follow it, I do better. But I can become rigid—dogmatic even. Not because I think others need to do it my way, but because I get attached to my own system. I stop listening to new input. I become resistant to change. And what am I really chasing? It’s not about strict adherence to a diet plan. I want to feel better. I want energy, health, confidence. I want to live longer, move easier, and suffer less. That is the product. The rest is just a delivery system.

Even work—career, business, making a living—gets muddied by this. We fixate on “how to do it” instead of why we’re doing it. But what I want isn’t a job or business for its own sake. I want time. Autonomy. Enough money to breathe, to share, to take care of the people I love. I want to do work that reflects who I really am—not something that drains the soul in exchange for survival. That’s the product.

Process matters, of course. But only in service of that outcome.

Even drugs, once upon a time, were a process. A twisted, destructive one—but they felt like a solution. The means to feeling better. Until they weren’t. They caused more damage than they solved, and that’s a stark, real-world case of the ends not justifying the means. But it also shows how badly we need to stay conscious of what we’re actually after. Because if you don’t define the product, you’ll cling to a process that betrays you.

When you strip everything else away, it’s this simple: I want a happy life. I want real relationships without constant tension. I want to be myself, without hiding. I want to feel good in my body and calm in my mind. I want enough—not excess, just enough. I want time, freedom, connection, a sense of belonging, and maybe even meaning. Call it self-actualization if you want. I just call it what matters.

And once you’re clear on that, the process is yours to shape. To change. To discard. Form follows function. Ritual must serve reality.

That’s why it’s not just an abstract debate—product vs. process. It’s not just a design philosophy or a business theory. It’s how you live. How you change. And how you stop mistaking the map for the destination.

So ask yourself: What do you actually want? What’s the product?

And is the process you’re clinging to still getting you there?