The Evidence Question

The conference room felt tired. Fifteen people sat around a long oak table, and the exhaustion wasn’t physical — it was the kind that comes from knowing what’s about to happen. Another meeting. Another directive wrapped in enthusiasm. Another thing they were supposed to care about whether they actually did or not. Their laptops were closed. Their phones silenced. But their energy was elsewhere, waiting for this to be over.

Amina had arranged the chairs carefully, though the long table made the room feel more corporate than intimate. She sat three seats down from her boss, Marcus, whose impatience was already visible in the way he kept checking his watch. She could feel her own doubt settling in her chest. What if this was a mistake?

Jim was already there when they filed in, standing by the window with his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t what anyone expected. Seventies, maybe, with silver hair pulled back into a loose ponytail and a weathered face that suggested he’d spent time thinking outdoors. He wore a linen shirt, untucked, and didn’t shake hands when people arrived. He just nodded — a small, genuine acknowledgment of each person as they came in.

Marcus had been clear about what he wanted: Get someone in here who can move the needle. We’re falling behind if our team isn’t all in on AI. Amina had nodded, said she’d find the right person, and then called her mother to ask about that man her grandfather used to talk about. The one who helped people see clearly. The one who wasn’t afraid to say what was true.

Now Jim was settling into a chair, and Marcus was settling back, arms crossed, waiting for the pitch that would finally get everyone on board.

“Before we talk about whether AI is right for you,” Jim began, his voice steady and unhurried, “I want to talk about how you know what’s right. Not for me. For you.”

He pulled out a simple sheet of paper — hand-drawn — and laid it on the table so everyone could see. Five levels, sketched in blue ink.

“When you make a decision about anything important,” Jim continued, “you’re using evidence. The question is: what kind of evidence are you using?”

He pointed to the bottom level. “Level one: someone told you. Your friend loved it. Your boss said you should. You read something that scared you. That’s anecdotal. It happened to them.”

He moved up. “Level two: you tried it yourself, once or twice. You have a feeling about it based on your experience.”

“Level three: you’ve seen a pattern. Multiple people you trust have used it in similar ways. You’re starting to see something real.”

“Level four: there’s actual research. Case studies. Measurable outcomes from people doing work like yours.”

“Level five: long-term data. Real consequences. You can see what actually changed over time.”

Jim set down his pen and looked at the room. “Most decisions about AI right now are happening at level one or two. Someone’s excited, someone’s scared, and you’re deciding based on their emotion, not your evidence.”

A few people shifted in their seats. Amina felt her chest tighten. This wasn’t what Marcus wanted to hear.

“Here’s what I’m not going to tell you,” Jim said. “I’m not going to tell you that using the tool is right or wrong. I think you need to base that on evidence and be aware of what level of evidence you’re using.”

Marcus stood up. His chair scraped back loudly.

“Wait a minute,” he said, his voice sharp. “That’s not what we brought you in here for. We need our team aligned. We need them moving forward with AI, not sitting around wondering if they should use it. This is exactly the kind of wishy-washy thinking that holds companies back.”

Jim didn’t move. For a moment — just a breath, really — nothing happened. But in that moment, something shifted. Jim’s shoulders drew back slightly. His spine straightened. His whole frame seemed to expand, to take up more space, though he hadn’t stood or moved at all. It was as if he’d been standing in water and suddenly the water had drained away, revealing his full height. His eyes — which had been soft — became clear and direct. Present.

The pause held. Marcus’s anger hung in the air, unanswered.

Then Jim spoke. His voice was calm, almost conversational. But it carried weight now.
"Let me tell you about two travelers," he said.

He didn't look at Marcus when he started. He looked at the table, at the sheet of paper with its five levels, as if the story were written there too.

"Two people came back from the same mountain pass. The first one said it was safe — he'd walked it himself, made it through fine. The second one said it was dangerous — her cousin had tried it and turned back shaken. They argued for a long time. Each one certain. Each one a little louder than the last."

Jim paused.

"Neither of them ever asked how many people cross that pass in a year. Or what the weather had been the day each of them went. Or whether the cousin had gone at night, alone, in winter." He let that sit. "They weren't arguing about the mountain. They were arguing about whose story was bigger."

The room was very quiet.

Jim finally looked up at Marcus. Not unkindly.

"I'm not telling you which traveler was right," he said. "I'm asking which one you'd want making this decision."

It wasn't aggressive. It wasn't even a statement, really. It was a question, genuine and open, as if Jim truly wanted to know the answer.

The room held its breath.

Marcus stood there, his mouth slightly open. Around the table, every face had turned toward him. Not in judgment. Just in attention. Waiting to see what he would say. Waiting to see if he would defend the need for compliance, or if he would acknowledge that Jim had just named something true.

His shoulders dropped. His posture folded inward — not dramatically, but noticeably. He sat back down slowly, as if the air had gone out of him.

And in that silence, something shifted. The people around the table seemed to sit taller. Their expressions had changed — less fearful, more present. As if they'd just reclaimed something that had been quietly taken from them.

Think about a decision you're carrying right now. Maybe it's about AI. Maybe it's about something else entirely. Ask yourself: what level am I actually deciding from?

There's no wrong level. Sometimes a story from a friend is all you have, and you decide anyway. That's allowed. But it helps to know which one you're standing on.

So this week, when you catch yourself certain about something — pause. Ask whether you're arguing about the mountain, or about whose story is bigger. Then decide.

With your eyes open.