How to kill your darlings

Every few months the industry reminds us that nothing is sacred, this month particularly.

Whole departments get folded, platforms mutate, beloved products get sunsetted like they were never the backbone of someone's career KPIs. CEOs make billion-dollar calls before breakfast like they're deleting a typo.

It's a dog-eat-dog world. And, baby, everyone's chowing down.

It's made me really think about how hard it must be to make seismic decisions at the top level. Because I know at my level, with ideas that fall far from billion-dollar entities, and instead are more like tiny little Frankensteins, stitched together with love, caffeine, and the delusion, it feels damn near impossible.

Nonetheless, sometimes, it must be done. Sometimes, we have to kill our darlings. Even if we do it with eyes full of tears.

A darling can be anything.

The idea you keep pitching even though no one laughs anymore. The workflow you built for your team three years ago that now feels like medieval torture. The experimental series you're low-key embarrassed by but refuse to cancel. The colleague who's been here forever but has outgrown the role (and knows it).

Darlings are things you love too much to admit they're holding you back.

So, how do you recognise a darling?

A darling usually has at least three of the following symptoms:

It no longer performs, but you keep defending it like a problematic boyfriend. You're making excuses. "It just needs time." "People don't get it yet." "I think the algorithm is shadow-banning it." Okay, babe, wrap it up.

It only exists because you made it. If it were pitched by anyone else, you'd have said no. But your ego is playing Project Manager.

It consumes resources wildly disproportionate to its return. If this were a media giant, this is where the CFO would politely slide a knife across the table.

The team rolls their eyes every time it's brought up. Social cues are free. Use them.

It represents an older version of you. The version who thought this was your big creative thesis. Spoiler: that person is gone. You're better now.

Why killing your darlings is an act of creative maturity

This isn't about cruelty. The world is full enough if that. It's about clearing room for evolution. Marie Kondo-ing your sh*t.

Every industry shift we're witnessing right now is a direct response to one truth: what worked then doesn't work now. Not because it was bad, but because time moved. The natural order of things etc. etc.

We looooove to romanticise growth until it requires actual sacrifice.

We want transformation without the part where something has to die. We want the next season of our career without writing the finale of the last one.

But growth is subtraction, real strategy is subtraction. Making space for your next breakthrough is subtraction. There is nothing more liberating than removing the thing you've been carrying out of obligation, nostalgia, or pride.

So, here's how to commit a murder. Yes, even if your hands are shaking.

Interrogate the sunk-cost fallacy in broad daylight. Ask: "If I discovered this idea today, would I invest in it?" If the answer is no, congratulations, you've located a corpse.

Bring in a neutral third party. Someone who isn't emotionally attached. Someone who will joyfully say the thing you're too cowardly to admit: "errrr, I don't think this is working."

Map the opportunity cost. What could you build with the time, energy, budget, or emotional bandwidth this darling is hoarding? Visualising the alternative makes the kill easier.

Give it a ceremonial funeral. Archive it. Screenshot it. Put it in your "ideas that walked so better ideas could run" folder. If you're a sentimental person like me, closure matters.

Replace it intentionally, not impulsively. Nature abhors a vacuum, but your calendar doesn't have to. Let the absence breathe. Let the next idea earn its space.

The truth no one tells you

Every time you kill a darling, you upgrade your taste, refine your standards. You sharpen your instincts, stop clinging and start curating. Media giants do this at scale because survival demands it. We do it on a smaller scale, yes, but the stakes feel just as high because the darling was ours.

But on the other side of every darling you let go, something better, sharper, and far more aligned always emerges. Every. Single. Time. I promise.

It's not about being ruthless. It's about being honest.

Some things just need to die so you can finally live (I'm not crying you are).

-Sophie Randell, Writer