We just wrapped up two months of non-stop grinding on this new platform launch. I’m not talking about some small patch; this was the whole damn thing. Every API, every dependency, every front-end piece was new. The whole time, it felt like we were all running a race, but nobody actually agreed on the finish line.
When we finally hit the release button, the aftermath was a pure, unadulterated mess. It wasn’t the code that broke; it was the people. Everybody was burnt out, snapping at each other, and the project lead had just totally checked out mentally, maybe physically too—I don’t know where he went. Our daily stand-ups turned into twenty minutes of people pointing fingers about whose fault the timeline slippages were. Total chaos. I saw three people quit in one week, just straight up packed their stuff and walked out.
I usually avoid this kind of thing because it feels a little too woo-woo, but I was so stressed out, I couldn’t sleep. My brain was cycling through every bad meeting, every half-baked decision, every moment of confusion. I needed a clean break from the logic that got us into this mess. So, late one Tuesday night, I did what I hadn’t done in years. I dug out the worn-out I Ching book my grandmother gave me and found three old pennies in a jar.
The Moment I Drew Hexagram Seven
I needed a gut check on how to fix this train wreck of a team, and specifically, what my role should be, because I was definitely not the official boss. I sat there in the quiet kitchen, ran the pennies through my hands for a minute, and started the process. Six throws, one after the other. It’s a mindless, meditative action. You just focus on the sound of the metal hitting the wood table and mark the lines down.
Line one, solid. Line two, broken. Line three, solid… you get the picture. I wrote it all down on a crumpled receipt. When I looked at the final configuration, it was Hexagram 7. Shi. The Army. I actually laughed a little. The Army? We were supposed to be building software, not invading a small country. I thought maybe I’d messed up the coin toss and threw them again, but nope. Still Seven. I had to face it. This ancient book was telling me that my tech team was currently a disorganized, useless mob, and what we needed was military-grade organization.
I stopped trying to look for a complicated philosophical answer and just read the simple translations. The structure of the hexagram itself—Earth over Water—talks about hidden potential and disciplined action. I spent the next hour just hammering out what that actually meant for our Monday morning meeting, not some battle on a far-off field. I realized the message wasn’t about being bossy or aggressive; it was about organization and sincerity of purpose. Here’s what I worked out—the five keys that went from ancient text to my personal to-do list.
5 Keys to Understanding The Army (Shi) in Real Life
- Don’t Try to Please Everyone, Just Lead.: The Hexagram says the army needs a strong general who is devoted to the people. It’s not about ego. I realized the whole mess started because everyone tried to be agreeable and no one would enforce a decision. Key number one was simple: someone had to step up, make the call, and stick to it. I decided I was going to be that person on the next feature sprint, no apologizing.
- The Focus is Outside, Not Inside.: The Army doesn’t spend its days fighting itself; it focuses on the enemy, the objective, the mission. We had lost sight of the product entirely because we were too busy arguing about internal processes and who was right. I wrote down: “Stop the internal drama. What is the one thing the user needs from us today?”
- Discipline Over Emotion, Every Time.: We were all running on fumes and feelings. Someone got mad, so they shut down. Someone got defensive, so they wrote sloppy code. The Army demands discipline. It’s about showing up, doing the job, and following the clear rules, even if you don’t feel like it. I decided to start enforcing a strict ‘no meetings about feelings’ rule.
- You Need the Right Tools Before You Fight.: Hexagram 7 warns against being unprepared. We went to launch before documentation was finished, before testing was complete, and before we had proper monitoring tools. We were fighting with wet paper towels. The fourth key was pulling back, admitting we were wrong, and spending a whole week just setting up the processes and tools we should have had months ago. Stop coding, start prepping.
- The Mandate Must Be Clear.: The book talks about the great King who gives the official orders. No one on our team actually knew what the ultimate, non-negotiable goal was anymore. It had shifted five times. I made myself the mandate-giver and simply wrote down three sentences defining success for the next month. If a task didn’t serve one of those three sentences, it got dumped.
I walked into the office that next day feeling totally different. I didn’t have a big speech prepared. I just took the five keys I had scrawled out, printed them on a plain sheet, and taped it to the whiteboard without saying a word. When people asked, I didn’t quote any philosophy. I just said, “This is the plan now. You don’t have to like it, but you have to execute it.”
The change wasn’t instant, but it was brutal and effective. I started pushing back hard when people tried to deviate. I wasn’t mean about it, but I was firm. The whining didn’t stop, but the chaos did. Suddenly, people knew where to put their energy. We weren’t a disorganized mob anymore. We were actually getting things done. It was honestly the weirdest pivot I’ve ever implemented in my career. That crazy old book somehow gave me the practical permission I needed to stop playing nice and actually run the damn thing like a tight ship.
