Looking Up

My father placed a blanket on the grass. As we parked ourselves on it, he encouraged me to look up at the night sky.

I glanced upwards. It didn’t look like much to me at first.

But then my father started pointing at the little specks illuminating the darkness.

See that? It’s Orion’s belt. And over there is the big dipper.

I stared on, struggling to see the patterns in the stars. I was only four years old, more prone to aimless daydreaming than structured visualization.

Yet, I still recognized how special this moment was. I idolized my father, but I didn’t get to spend as much time as I wanted to with him.

Now, here we were. Our backs to the ground, our eyes fixed on the vastness of space. It was quiet. It was comfortable. It was mesmerizing.

And I never wanted to stop looking up.

A few years later, I was in the middle of a school day when my mother showed up to sign me out of class.

She explained that my father had gotten injured on his way to work. He had slipped on some ice and fractured a couple vertebrae in his back during the ensuing fall.

My mother had scooped me from school early so that we could help look after him.

My father would ultimately be OK. But through his arduous recovery, my father kept reminiscing on one moment from his injury.

As he lay prone on the sidewalk, my father remembered looking up. He saw the pale blue of the morning sky. He saw the tops of the tree branches. He saw a few rogue birds who hadn’t migrated south for the winter.

It was as if my father was back staring up at the stars again. Indeed, the world around him faded away in that moment. My father felt no pain and sensed no panic.

He was at peace. And that sense of peace helped carry him through.

Looking up will do that.

Roughly a decade after all this, I went to Italy on a family vacation. A few days into the trip, I found myself inside the Sistine Chapel.

I was a teenager by now, full of confidence and oblivious to the lessons of my past. So, I was equal parts annoyed and perplexed when I was urged to glance upwards to the frescos on the ceiling.

Why were those painted all the way up there? I asked my parents as we left the vestibule. It makes no sense.

My parents offered up an answer that I can’t recall. And we moved on through the Vatican.

These days, I realize how misguided my question was. Indeed, the placement of the art was part of what made it so special — and what continues to spark amazement to this day.

Michaelangelo defied death to paint the elaborate scenes. After all, there were no automated bucket lifts in the 16th century, only wooden scaffolds.

The artist took this risk willingly to create a masterpiece. And he dared us to cast our gaze upwards to take it in.

We’ve done so in the Sistine Chapel — for centuries.

But it has become the exception, not the rule.

I had just finished a set of sit ups at the gym when I lay back on the workout bench.

There were two more sets to go, but I needed a moment to recover.

As I lay there, feeling the burning in my abs and thighs, I studied the ceiling. The banks of recessed florescent lights. The electrical conduit covers. The flat, even surface denoting the top of the room. And the white coat of paint covering it all.

It looked so blasé, so ordinary, so sterile. And I felt a bit wrong for staring up at it.

I might wax poetic about looking up at the stars, the tree branches, or the frescos. But staring in that direction has fallen out of favor. Indeed, we’re more likely to glance horizontally at our surroundings, or hunch over to read the smartphones in our hands.

Looking up is reserved for the compromised moments. When we’re counting sheep in bed, or to recover our muscles for the next set of reps. The vertical view is but temporary, and hardly worthy of illustration. So, we don’t bother to make that view notable.

But perhaps we should.

You see, our fixation with horizontal vistas has its limits. There is a sense of awe that comes with looking toward the horizon. And there’s a sense of adventure in heading off to see what’s beyond it.

Still, the truth of the matter is that nearly every accessible corner of this planet has been explored. Someone else has been to where we’re going. Someone else has uncovered the mysteries in our midst.

Looking up has no such baggage. The law of gravity proves that few have headed to where we now stare, and we’re unlikely to head there ourselves.

It’s our imagination that must run wild when staring at the vast expanses above us. The stars, the birds, the tree branches — they all provide a launching point. The rest of the journey lies between our ears.

Of course, we can’t always be out in the open. Many times, we find ourselves with a roof over our heads.

Such structures can block our view of the vast expanses above us. But they needn’t stymie our imaginations as well.

Michaelangelo was onto something when he wandered onto that scaffold with his paintbrush. He recognized that a ceiling is more than a protective edifice. It can be a canvas to what lies beyond — if we care to provide the inspiration.

It’s time that we follow his lead. That we view the act of looking up as more than a novelty case or a last resort. And that we prime ourselves to make such a view worth our while —regardless of where we take it in.

Looking up can yield some powerful perceptions. It’s time that we unlock them.

Problem Solvers

We hadn’t spent five minutes in the living room when my dad piped up with a question.

When you hung these pictures on the wall, were you standing up?

Our host— a family friend — acknowledged that she had.

Well, they’re hung too high, my father replied. But don’t worry. I’ll get them fixed.

A few minutes later, my father headed to the restroom to relieve himself. When he re-emerged, he had a quizzical look on his face. He wanted to know how long the toilet handle had been loose.

Our host admitted the handle had been that way for some time. But she insisted it wasn’t a big deal.

Nonsense, my father replied. I’m happy to fix it. In fact, I’ll feel better if I do that.

I stared at my father in disbelief. Here we were enjoying free shelter in the company of a friendly face. And instead of expressing gratitude, my father was exerting control.

But my father didn’t see it that way. He noticed that some problems around the house needed fixing. And in his eyes, gratitude came through the salve.

Every river tells a story.

So goes an old axiom.

Few other features in the natural world are as elaborately complex as river. Mountain ranges rise up to the sky in thick lines. Oceans stretch uniformly to the horizon – and beyond.

But rivers bend and wind through canyons, prairies, and forests. They dart and meander through rugged terrain with a determined ferocity.

The water in those rivers seeks the simplest route downhill to the sea. The path of least resistance.

Those twists and turns are obligatory in achieving this objective.

Much like rivers, we are taught to seek the easiest route forward. To eschew complexity and to keep from flowing uphill.

This is the mandate our family friend was living under when she left her pictures hanging too high and her toilet handle too loose.

But my father saw right through it all. He knew that the path of least resistance was futile. Things had to get fixed, as unpleasant as that work might seem. And he was going to be the one to fix them. 

My father’s resoluteness left an impact on me then. An impact that still resonates now.

Late in my elementary school years, I was asked to read The Odyssey.

The book was thick and bulky. As I brought it to class and back home, it turned my backpack into a rock.

And by the time I’d read about 100 pages, I’d had enough. The story had just begun, but I was in full protest mode.

Why did this work have to be so drawn out, I asked my mother. Couldn’t Odysseus have just made an easy, simple trip home from Troy?

My mother responded that the travails were what made the book stand the test of time. We don’t remember the stories of the warriors who had an easy trip across the Aegean Sea. We remember Odysseus because he went to hell and back on his journey.

That description resonated with me. No longer was the easy path the default path.

I realized I’d eventually be defined by the complexity I navigated, by the problems I solved. I recognized we all would be defined by these characteristics

So, I started embracing the problem solver’s mindset. I started tackling the challenges in my midst head on, instead of trying to avoid them.

This didn’t seem like a big deal at first. But over time, I started to realize how much of a seismic shift it was.

I’d become more engaged in school — fully committed to answering the questions my teachers posed to the class. I felt less helpless when my daily routine got knocked off kilter. And I started — for the first time — to truly consider what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.

Which would become an odyssey in itself.

In our age of modernity, there remains a fascination with Leonardo DaVinci.

The Renaissance figure left this earth more than 500 years ago. But his impact still resonates.

DaVinci was a polymath — a person of a wide range of expertise and interests. And he had a keen desire to express himself in many of these areas.

Much like his contemporaries, DaVinci painted frescos. But when he wasn’t holding a paintbrush, he was seeking answers to the mysteries of the day in botany, biology, physics, and engineering.

DaVinci mocked up contraptions for flying, for mobile warfare, for harnessing the energy of the sun, and for adding numbers together. The airplane, tank, solar panel, and calculator wouldn’t arrive for several more centuries. But all of them owe partial credit to DaVinci’s problem solving expertise.

I’m nowhere near the genius that Leonardo DaVinci was. But when I look at my life’s journey, I still see some parallels.

For my tale has been anything but simple. I’ve moved around the country and across the state of Texas. I’ve shifted careers and nearly gone broke. I’ve fallen headlong into new hobbies and ping-ponged between social circles.

These developments have not been without their fair share of challenges. Meeting the moment meant solving each problem in my midst, one by one, with an unrelenting air of zeal.

I needed to fashion myself as a polymath — much as DaVinci did. And I needed to harness the right mixture curiosity and grit to get difficult things done.

I’ve done that, and I’ve been rewarded for it.

But that’s only part of the story.

The movie Pulp Fiction is full of indelible characters. But the one that stands out to me is The Wolf.

The Wolf is not a costumed vigilante or a brutish thug. He’s Winston Wolf — a middle-aged man in a sharp tuxedo.

The Wolf arrives when two of the film’s main characters find themselves in an unconventional and messy situation. He helps the men get out of a jam by breaking the big dilemma into a series of smaller ones — and then making those dilemmas disappear.

This is The Wolf’s superpower. He’s a professional problem solver. A man who thinks quickly on his feet and takes control of a situation.

These days, I see a lot of The Wolf in myself. I not only have the motivation to solve any problem in my path, but I also have the touch needed to take control of the situation.

I’ve learned the principles of all this from my father, Odysseus, and Leonardo DaVinci. But I’ve learned the application from Winston Wolf.

I hope I can carry the torch they lit with honor. In fact, I hope we all can.

For problem solving needn’t be a special skill for special people. It’s available to all of us.

But no one can force us to take up the mantle. The inspiration must come from within.

Let us find that spark and act upon it.

The Imitators

The image is iconic.

Beyonce, dressed to the nines and looking bewildered.

The fodder for endless memes and GIFs across the Internet originated at the Grammy Awards. The iconic performing artist had tried her hand at a country album — Cowboy Carter. And Cowboy Carter had just been named Country Album of the Year.

Beyonce might have been stunned by her rapid ascent to the pinnacle of a new segment. But she shouldn’t have been.

From Post Malone to Shaboozey, and Chappell Roan to Bon Jovi, plenty of artists have crossed over to country music in recent years. While all of them found success, none have the pedigree of Beyonce — an international cultural icon with Texas roots.

So, while a Grammy award wasn’t predestined, it wasn’t exactly unexpected either.

And yet, when the moment arrived, many shared Beyonce’s reaction. For something had fundamentally changed. Something that could no longer be ignored.

After a moment of reflection, Beyonce took the stage to deliver her acceptance speech.

Humble as ever, Beyonce thanked God and expressed her surprise in winning. But she quickly pivoted into something more profound – the why behind Cowboy Carter.

I think sometimes genre is a code word to keep us in our place as artists. And I just want to encourage people to do what they’re passionate about, and to stay persistent.

With these words, Beyonce was seeking to sidestep the label of Imitator. She was hoping to reframe Cowboy Carter as art – no more, no less.

But this would prove to be a tough sell.

You see, I’m a longtime country music fan. And I listened to the songs on Cowboy Carter.

I thought they were good – really good. I thought they were creative and innovative. But I didn’t think they were particularly deep.

Sure, there are references to Americana, to poker, to outlaws and Levi’s jeans and cheating scoundrels. But those lyrics seemed disjointed and somewhat superficial to me.

The work seemed to lack the depth displayed by Martina McBride and Reba McEntire. It seemed to avoid the edginess conveyed by Miranda Lambert or Kacey Musgraves. It somehow seemed absent of the flair shown by Carrie Underwood and Lainey Wilson.

It was, in my view, an imitation. A tasteful, acclaimed imitation. But an imitation, nonetheless.

And I’m certain I’m not the only one who viewed the album this way.

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

This axiom aims to take the sting out of mimicry. And rightfully so.

Artists like Beyonce mean no malice by trying their hand in a new genre. They are expressing their artistic freedom — and seeking to expand the genre in the process.

That’s noble. But the shift behind it is troubling.

You see, a wave of imitation requires a lifting mechanism. Something to set the scene and provide the imitator license to proceed.

In the case of country music, that launchpad has been slow to develop. But that extended timeline has only broadened the impact of the imitators.

A few decades ago, country music was in a far different place than today. Songs were full of depth and dripping with authenticity. But the audience hearing them was somewhat limited – mostly to rural areas across the heartland.

That started to change in the 1990s, as more artists went mainstream. I remember hearing music from Faith Hill, LeAnn Rimes, and Shania Twain over the intercom at suburban grocery stores back then. Those encounters were my first foray into country music.

As the mainstream shift continued, the songs coming from Nashville changed. The hyper-specific ballads of love and loss made way for fantasies of partying on truck beds in an open field. Bubblegum country took over.

The trend only accelerated as the years went by. Streaming shows like Yellowstone led to a surge in interest for everything rural. And the larger audience, combined with watered down country lyrics, made conditions ripe for imitators.

It’s no wonder then that Beyonce could win a Grammy for a country album. It’s no wonder that Amazon founder Jeff Bezos would sit for a Vogue cover shoot in an old truck, sporting a cowboy hat. It’s no wonder that honky tonks from coast to coast have become twice as busy as they were two decades ago.

The illusion is real. But how real is the illusion?

As I write this, I’ve lived in Texas for the better part of 15 years.

I’ve spent a fair bit of this time in boots and Wranglers, with pearl snaps adorning my shirts. I’ve sported this look to the office from time to time, and to countless rodeos and concerts.

Such a look is not out of place in the Lone Star State. But every now and then, someone will see it and ask if I’m playing cowboy.

When they do, I’m obliged to remind them that I’ve rode horses before. That I’ve milked cows, cleaned stalls, cleared mud from hooves, and fetched eggs from the chicken coop.

I may not be a cowboy, but I’m more than an imitator.

These bona fides matter to me. Because authenticity matters.

You see, I’ve viewed myself as a Texan from my earliest days living here. But the stigma of being non-native – of growing up beyond the state’s borders – it looms large.

I’ve long known that my zeal for Texas could be miscast as imitation if I wasn’t authentic. And being authentic meant leaning into any prior experience I had with the state’s cultural hallmarks, while becoming a student of the rest.

So yes, I’ve taken steps to assimilate. To make this place a part of me, and myself a part of it.

The same can’t always be said of other non-natives. They might treat the place like an eastern annex of California. Or wear their cowboy hat comically wrong. Or appear like they’re recreating the cover of Varsity Blues, as Bezos did.

When this happens, Texans will grumble and mock the imitators. The natives and the assimilated transplants alike.

For this is not a good look — for any of us. The state’s cultural code must be adhered to for true acceptance to be gained.

I think the same reckoning is needed in country music. So long as bubblegum country rules the roost, the genre will be a shadow of its former glory. And the bar to clear for imitators will be exceptionally low.

Put standards for depth and meaning back into country music, and only the best imitators will cross over. For doing so will require more than a catchy hook and a few superficial lyrics. It will require an immersion — an immersion that yields a more authentic product.

This is worth striving for. Let’s make it real.

Right Move, Wrong Moment

The call came in from a number that looked somewhat familiar. I rushed to take it.

My SUV was at the dealership for repairs, and I figured my service advisor was calling with an update.

I was partially right.

The call was from the dealership. But it came from the sales department.

Sir, I see that your vehicle is in for service. What would it take for us to buy it off you and get you in a new one?

I hadn’t considered the idea. My mind was consumed with fixing what ailed my vehicle, and hopefully not going broke in the process.

I told the sales representative as much, hoping that would end the conversation. But he countered by asking when I might feel differently.

I don’t know, I replied. Maybe when my registration renewal is due in the spring.

Sure enough, when springtime rolled around, I was got a call from the same representative. He was polite, but persistent. Persistent in coaxing me to follow through on the swap he’d proposed.

I wasn’t taking the bait. I politely told the sales representative to leave me alone.

Several years have passed since this encounter. But it remains top of mind for me.

These days, when I drop my vehicle off for service, I expect a call like this. So, I save my service advisor’s phone number in my contact list. And I don’t pick up calls from similar looking numbers.

I know too well who’s on the other end of the line. And I have no interest in playing that game.

There may well be a time when I feel the need to replace my vehicle. Perhaps it will become inoperable, or the repair bills for it will get too high.

But when that day comes, I’d like to be the one initiating the buying process. The same way I did when I purchased my current vehicle.

As far as I’m concerned, a proactive sales motion will always be a case of right move, wrong moment.

Place and time.

They make for odd bedfellows.

One is a physical reality. The other a mental construct.

There are nearly 200 million square miles of places on this earth. Some are inhabitable, others less so. But the forensic proof of their existence is irrefutable.

Time offers a different challenge. Yes, we have clocks and calendars to mark its passage. And nature has its sunrises, sunsets, leaf falls and snowfalls. But even with all that, when is more open to interpretation than where.

Perhaps this is why mastering the moment is so challenging.

We know better than to wander into a burning building on our own accord. But avoiding a building that’s likely to ignite? That’s a trickier proposition.

I learned this principle early on.

During a childhood vacation in Maine, my family ventured across a sandbar from Bar Harbor to a small island.

My parents checked their watches as we ventured across the wet sand. Their behavior seemed curious, but I didn’t question it.

By the time we’d reached the island, I’d all but forgotten about the watches. There were new trails to hike, and new sights to see. I was full of excitement.

My explorations would soon be cut short though, thanks to a warning from my father.

We have to head back now. If we don’t, we’ll be stuck here until tomorrow.

You see, the tide was coming back in, and the sandbar we’d crossed would soon be submerged. Our only route back to shore was evaporating.

So, we hustled our way back across the sandbar. But once we emerged in Bar Harbor, I was forever changed.

No longer would I be ignorant of the moment. I would be sure to factor in the when along with the where.

Even if others failed to do the same.

In 2017, a Yale law student named Lina Khan wrote an article that gained national acclaim.

Khan argued that the traditional markers of antitrust regulation were outdated and needed reframing.

You see, in previous generations, business monopolies had largely focused on pricing power. As the only game in town for the goods they offered, they could charge as much as they want. And consumers were forced to part with bigger and bigger portions of their budget to get by – at least until antitrust regulators stepped in in.

But now, companies like Amazon were managing to stifle competition while keeping prices low. Such were the advantages of the internet era, where volume alone could yield value.

Consumers were all too happy to feed Amazon’s monopolistic engine. The goods they used to trek to stores for were now even more affordable. And they didn’t need to leave home to get them.

But while consumers were thriving and prices were low, Amazon’s competitors were suffering. Khan saw this as a problem – for commerce and for capitalism. And she argued that antitrust practices needed to shift.

So began a meteoric rise for Khan’s career. The newly minted Juris Doctor soon found work in think tanks, academia, and government. By 2021, she had risen to the top post at the Federal Trade Commission.

Khan wasted no time getting to work. The FTC quickly objected to a series of corporate mergers. And the agency got involved in several high-profile investigations of Amazon and other technology giants.

The FTC notched some major wins during this time. It blocked the merger of grocery chains Albertsons and Kroger. And it helped derail several consolidation attempts for budget airlines.

But such victories often proved hollow.

You see, Khan’s crusade came in the wake of major economic headwinds. A dissipating pandemic, a global supply chain snarl, and a bout of inflation had made life difficult for businesses and consumers alike.

Instead of lining their pockets through mergers, many businesses were seeking consolidation simply to survive. And when the FTC blocked their path, they fell apart.

Albertsons and Kroger have closed many locations since their merger went up in smoke. Spirit Airlines – one of the budget airlines the FTC helped thwart – has since gone bankrupt. And these developments have left consumers with fewer options and persistently higher prices.

Khan’s effort to stiffen antitrust enforcement might have been the right move. But it was executed at the wrong moment. And America suffered for it.

Place and time mean everything.

Some years back, I was at an arcade when my friends goaded me into trying out the fighter jet simulator.

I had never operated one of those before, and I had no idea what I was doing. But I concocted a plan anyway.

The button under my left thumb controlled the jet’s gun, while the button under my right thumb launched missiles.

I knew that each weapon could represent the right move. But only at the right moment.

So, as the simulator reached “cruising altitude,” I’d look for enemy aircraft in the area. If they appeared close, I’d fire the gun a time or two. And if they seemed to be further away, I’d launch a missile.

By the time the ride was over, I’d maintained a respectable score.

Here in the ride of life, it’s critical that we all follow similar guidance. That we avoid succumbing to rigidity and stubborn ideology. That we consider the when as much as the what.

The right move only works when deployed at the right moment.

Let us not forsake one for the other.

The Energy Budget

It’s now or never.

That’s what I told myself as I prepared for my first all-nighter.

I was 17 years old, and I’d just spent a month in a college prep summer program on the west coast. I’d connected with new friends, made new memories, and just generally had a time of it.

But now, it was the last night of the adventure. When the sun rose again, everyone would return to their homes in different corners of the globe. We would never all be in the same place again.

Mindful of this, the leaders of the program lifted the nightly curfew. And we took full advantage of that freedom.

Reminiscing at 11 PM. Karaoke at 2 AM. Delirious laughter at 5 AM. It all happened.

We cursed the dawn when it arrived. And we started saying our solemn goodbyes.

As my shuttle headed away from the college campus, I was stone faced and composed. But once I arrived and the airport, reality set in. Surrounded by strangers, my eyes started to well with tears.

I reminded myself that an airport was no place for a breakdown. So, I pulled myself together — making it through the security line, through the concourse, and onto the plane.

As it took off, and I watched the West Coast disappear out of the tiny double-paned window.

And then I fell into a deep slumber.

When I woke up, the plane was over Detroit. Day had turned to night, and we were an hour from landing on the East Coast.

I knew that my parents would be waiting at the airport once I arrived. I knew they’d be excited to see me after a month away. And I knew that I needed to match that excitement.

So, I spent the remainder of my flight preparing myself for that moment. And I did indeed manage to stay upbeat at the moment of reunification.

But once my parents started asking me to share details from the program, I lost it. Sobbing uncontrollably, I felt the urge to apologize for my behavior.

My parents deflected my pleas.

How much have you slept recently? they asked.

I confessed that I’d been awake for 34 of the prior 38 hours. And my parents told me to head up to bed.

The stories of the prior month could wait. I needed to recharge.

As dawn’s light entered my childhood bedroom, I found myself cheerier — and wiser.

For the first time, I recognized that the energy at my disposal was not infinite. And I resolved to be more judicious with how I used it.

Well, sort of.

As I moved on to my senior year of high school — and then college — I generally steered clear of all-nighters. But I did tend to stay up late and wake up somewhat early, relying on caffeine to pull me through.

I had one speed, and I gave myself full license to use it. As long as my energy reserves didn’t go into the red, I’d be alright. At least that’s what I told myself.

But as I got older, I could feel things start to shift.

My body was requiring more sleep. And continuously going all out no longer seemed possible.

So, I made some changes. I got rid of those late nights. And I moderated my effort levels throughout the day.

Those adaptations proved prescient for many years. But recently, their shine has started to fade.

These days, it’s not just how much energy I spend that matters. It’s what I spend it on.

Early in adulthood, I ran into some financial challenges.

I’d lived paycheck to paycheck in my first career. And when I switched careers, I found myself unemployed for three months. As I powered through job applications and showed up for fruitless interviews, what little savings I had to my name disappeared.

Eventually, I did land a job with a steady income. I got a new apartment and moved my furnishings out of storage.

But ridding myself of the credit card debt I’d accumulated in prior months proved trickier. So, I met with a financial advisor to strategize.

The advisor reacquainted me with some advanced budgeting techniques, which I followed to a T. And soon enough, my house was back in order.

The lessons from that experience remain ingrained. Every now and then, I might incur a charge or two beyond my means. But when I do, I moderate my spending until I can balance the books. It’s just the way my brain works now.

And in the past few years, such budgeting habits have started to extend beyond dollars and cents. Now, I’m mindful of which daily activities I should devote energy to and which ones I should defer to other forces.

For instance, where I was once militant about reducing my thermostat usage, I now tend to keep the heat or air conditioning running continuously. I recognize that the mental calculus of toggling the on-off switch was taking too much of my daily attention. And I understand that preserving mental energy is more precious to me than saving a few dollars on an electric bill.

So, it goes for other aspects of my life as well. I divvy my focus wisely, no longer striving to control the most granular details of anything in my midst. Adherence to routines, healthy habits, and technological assists tend to make this shift easier.

But every now and then, the system breaks down. Something that should just work no longer does, and I find myself diving into troubleshooting.

Perhaps my SUV ends up in the shop for a few days longer than anticipated, forcing me to get creative with transportation and meal planning. Maybe one of the appliances in my home malfunctions, forcing me to alter my dishwashing or laundry routine. Or one of the many computerized systems I use has an outage, forcing me to handle processes manually.

Such occurrences are more than annoyances for me. They carry collateral damage.

Indeed, the energy I need to divert toward workarounds is diverted from other portions of my daily life. I’m left with reduced capacity to think deeply, to function professionally, and to stay connected socially. And what little energy I have left over for these critical endeavors is depleted far earlier in the day than usual.

There’s little I can do to fix these situations. I can’t just generate more energy to power through, the way I once did. And I can’t abandon my daily responsibilities.

With that in mind, I do my best to minimize the blow. I prepare myself as best I can for adverse outcomes before they strike. I put intention into my pivoting strategy, so that I don’t lose steam while changing course. And I treat my energy budget as a central force underpinning it all.

It’s far from a perfect solution. But it works.

It works for me. And it will likely work for anyone else in a similar conundrum.

So, if you find yourself flustered and exhausted by the frustration, consider the energy budget approach. Accept limitations. Shift habits. Build resilience.

It might not be a perfect salve. But you’ll be better positioned to reap the benefits.

When It Goes Right

As I strode up to home plate, memories flooded my mind.

Memories of the last time I’d dug into a batter’s box.

It was a couple games ago, on a baseball field 25 miles away. I had been summoned off the bench as a pinch hitter. And everything seemed to be moving at a million miles a minute.

I took a couple of pitches, with the umpire calling one a strike. Then I slashed a ball into foul territory.

I was down to my last strike. And I was terrified of looking like a fool in front of my teammates.

So, as the next pitch came in, I left the bat on my shoulder. It spun toward the outermost edge of home plate, landing with a dull thud in the catcher’s mitt.

Strike three, the umpire shouted. I made the short walk back to the dugout, all semblance of self-confidence extinguished.

So, as I dug into the batter’s box for this delayed second chance, I had just one objective.

Don’t strike out looking.

The pitcher wound up and hurled the baseball. It bounced in the dirt several feet to the outside of home plate.

I smirked. No one was going to swing at that. Not even me.

Still, now was no time to get cocky. With a pitch that bad, who knew where the next one was going?

So, I zoned in. I stared intently at the pitcher as he prepared his next offering.

It sailed toward the upper part of the strike zone. A bit away from my body, but still reachable.

I took a swing and felt my bat connect with the ball. Then I watched the ball head straight toward the second baseman.

He leaped, and my heart sank. Another at bat was about to go to waste.

But a funny thing happened on the way to despair. The ball kept rising over the second baseman’s outstretched glove, before dropping to the ground in the outfield grass behind him.

I’d gotten a hit — the first of my high school baseball career.

As I stood on first base, my coach gave me a fist bump.

Good job. Now, stay focused.

I nodded. But this would prove to be an impossible task.

You see, I was still flabbergasted. I’d shown myself capable of close to nothing up in that one prior at bat. But somehow, I’d just peppered a humpback line drive into right field. What was happening?

The disbelief continued into the next game. Summoned off the bench yet again, I rolled a ground ball past an infielder’s lunging dive. I had another hit.

Now, I was 2 for 3 on the season. And technically I — the last guy on the depth chart — had the team’s highest batting average.

Where had this surge of success come from? And what was I to do with it?

I’ve spent more than half my life trying to figure that out.

Those three at bats were my final ones of organized baseball.

I tried out for the team again the next spring. But this time, I didn’t make it.

I none too surprised. There was a reason I was the last guy on the depth chart the season prior, after all.

Still, getting cut from the team exposed me to the rawness of reality. If baseball wasn’t going to be my future, I needed to figure out what would be.

That quest took several years. And even when I thought I had it figured, life had a few curveballs for me.

A recession. A career change. A layoff. Several drawn out job searches. And more than my fair share of work projects that didn’t yield the expected results.

After more than a decade of these occurrence, I’ve come to expect the worst. I might stride to the plate with the best of intentions, but I know that Strike Three call is coming.

So, when it doesn’t, I’m dumbfounded. I find myself frozen in my good fortune, unsure what to do next.

It might seem like a good problem to have. But it’s still a problem.

There’s a scene in the movie Talladega Nights that’s etched in my mind.

Main character Ricky Bobby is out to dinner with his sons and his parents at Applebee’s. It’s the first time in his life when the family is enjoying a restaurant meal together.

Suddenly, Ricky’s father — Reese — causes a commotion. He quickly gets kicked out of the restaurant.

When Ricky chases after his father, Reese explains that things were going too well for his liking. He caused a scene to find an escape.

I’m nowhere near as ornery as Reese Bobby. I’m not inclined to sabotage my success.

Still, I understand his perspective.

For a favorable outcome means little in the grand scheme of things. In a world that’s often cold and random, a glimmer of light is just a flash in the pan. It’s foolish to make anything more of it.

Yet, our world relies on us making more of it. On getting base hit after base hit. On going on a winning streak.

Life favors those who can handle success. The optimists. The dreamers. The charismatic.

The rest get left behind. And if I’m not careful, I will too.

Own your wins.

I share these words with my co-workers whenever they deflect the praise I send their way.

Modesty is considered a proper approach in professional settings. But it condemns far too many of my talented teammates to the shadows. So I break through its defenses, time and agein.

But when it’s time for me to step into the limelight, I tend to resist. Why bask in the glory of something that I can’t explain or knowingly replicate? Why search for meaning in the meaningless?

After all, the struggles I’ve endured – the challenges, the failings – they matter far more. That’s what I’ve told myself for years.

Lately though, I’ve started to change my tune.

I’ve come to recognize that the narrative of a realist is anything but a best seller. The community around us will only be regaled in the woe of dead ends if there’s some hope on the horizon.

My wins – spurious as they may seem – provide that hope. They make my story palatable to others. Others who might, in turn, open the door to more opportunities.

So, I’m taking my own advice. I’m accepting my successes for the mysteries they are. I’m owning my wins.

I don’t know if my new approach will yield me more favorable outcomes. But one can hope.

And for the first time in a long time, I am.

Means to an End

As I made my way into the starting corral, I started to shiver.

It was a frigid morning, reinforced by a fierce north wind. And I was hardly dressed for it.

As I leaned down to stretch, I noticed the contradiction. I was wearing shorts and an athletic t-shirt, while everyone else around me was decked out in sweatpants and jackets.

Most of these outerwear items appeared ragged and mismatched. But that was beside the point. Those sporting them seemed warm, while I was burning precious energy trying to keep from freezing.

As I pondered my predicament, I heard an announcement over the loudspeakers.

5 minutes until the starting gun.

Almost in unison, I saw the fellow runners around me shed their outer layers and tossed them aside. Piles of sweatpants accumulated on the edges of the corral. Scores of jackets cascaded over the perimeter fencing.

The finish line for this race was located several blocks away from here. We wouldn’t be coming back, and there would be no opportunity to retrieve these items. The other runners were effectively throwing them away.

But no one seemed worried about that. After all, there was a race to run.

A few weeks after I crossed the finish line, I stepped onto a running track near my home before sunrise.

It was Track Tuesday, and I had a workout planned on the circuit. But first I needed to warm up.

So, I joined a group of fellow runners who were jogging a few laps on the track.

I knew these runners well enough to expect a conversation topic to dominate our warmup. But this morning’s topic caught me off guard.

Throwaway clothes.

This was the accepted term for the sweatpants and jackets I’d seen littering the corral at my recent race. It represented warmup gear that was intentionally abandoned.

My fellow runners explained that throwaway clothes were best purchased on the cheap at thrift stores or Walmart. The look and fit didn’t matter, because you wouldn’t have those items on you for long anyway.

Essentially, throwaway clothes were a means to an end. Much like the carbohydrate gel packs runners kept in the pockets of their shorts, or the water cups at the aid stations on the racecourse, they were meant to be used once and quickly disposed of.

No looking back. No remorse. No regret. The clothes did their job so that we could do ours.

I struggled to accept this concept. For it clashed heavily with my ethos.

I had become accustomed to looking stylish while exercising. I was convinced that mismatched shorts and shirts were for hobby joggers. As a competitive distance runner, I aimed to appear professional.

On top of that, I was beholden my late grandfather’s golden rule. Never throw anything away if you can get more use from it.

Now, I was being advised to violate both principles. All in the service of a greater goal.

Fortunately, I had time to adjust. Winter was nearing its end as we bantered on the track, and warmup gear was already becoming a moot point.

I would soon be showing up at the starting lines my usual garb. And so would everyone else. No sweatpants or jackets to be found in the corral.

Still, I knew I needed a plan for the cooler mornings ahead. If I was to race well in the fall, I needed to avoid freezing in the corral again.

So, I began to get my throwaway gear plan in order. But fate kept me from rolling it out.

I sustained an injury while training in the summer. I recovered, only to retain another series of injuries and undergo ankle surgery.

I never did make to the starting line of another race. And I never did end up purchasing throwaway clothes.

The end I was working towards had evaporated. And so had the means to get there.

I am proud of what I achieved in my racing career, abbreviated as it was.

The race times I posted still astonish me. The hardware I collected adorns a wall in my home. The talented people I trained with remain dear friends.

Still, it’s hard not to wince when reminiscing on it all. For even without throwaway clothes, the means to an end perspective percolates through my competitive running odyssey.

Each training block I tackled was designed to get me through the next race. Each race time I posted was the bar to clear for the next one.

I was on a long-distance journey, but each milestone was disposable.

Perhaps I should have paid more attention to where I was, instead of where I was going. Perhaps I should have soaked up the moment a bit more.

But it’s hard to blame myself. After all, I’m hardly the only one to make this type of error – both in the running community and outside of it.

Indeed, means to an end describes a great portion of our society. So much of what we do, what we consume, and what we expose ourselves to is devoid of cultural relevance.

It’s what those actions, those goods, and those experiences can lead us to that’s deemed important. The rest is simply the price of admission.

Yet, we struggle to accept that reality.

For we are wired to find meaning in utility, to seek purpose in the journey. The narrative arc is not just the domain of Disney movies; it’s the cornerstone of our lives.

Furthermore, we are appalled by the notion that we might be means to an end. That we could be viewed as interchangeable, non-essential, or otherwise lacking in unique value.

So, we fight the good fight. We strive to prove how essential each stone along our path is. And we take each rebuke as an affront to our self-worth.

In essence, we set ourselves up for misery – day in, day out. And we suffer accordingly.

How do we get out of this rut?

How do we accept the transactional, the interchangeable – all without losing our soul in the process?

It starts between the ears.

Fighting against society’s gravitational pull is like shouting at a brick wall. It’s a lot of effort that yields few results.

It’s far better to work on our own narrative. To take stock of what we feel is essential and what we deem disposable. And to separate those sentiments from the prevailing winds.

Such defined dissonance requires discipline. It requires focus. It requires grit.

It’s a hard bargain. But for the sake of our sanity, it’s worthwhile.

So, let’s get after it.

The Culture Flub

I got the text in the middle of the night.

Bro, I thought this was a joke.

The “joke” my friend was referring to was encapsulated in another alert on my phone. The Dallas Mavericks had traded away their superstar point guard Luka Doncic.

I sat up in bed and reread the alert. There had been no indication this was coming. But then again, there was no reason it couldn’t happen.

Yes, Doncic was one of the best basketball players in the world, in the prime of his career. But even those elite players had a price – usually another superstar and a boatload of draft picks.

But glancing over the alert a third time, I found no indication of such a return. Yes, there was another superstar coming back to Dallas – an older one with a lower ceiling. But the rest of the return was a role player and a solitary draft pick.

The value exchange seemed nowhere near even. For all intents and purposes, the Mavericks had given away a generational player.

Roughly 12 hours later, Mavericks General Manager Nico Harrison sat in front of reporters, attempting to explain the move he’d just made.

Harrison spoke about the team’s desire to win a championship, after having fallen short several months earlier. And he emphasized the importance of bringing in players who could add to the team’s culture.

It was quite the theory. But it was already clear that most Mavericks fans weren’t buying it.

Many had already spewed vitriol online. Others had staged a mock funeral for Doncic’s Dallas tenure – complete with a casket – on the plaza outside the team’s arena. A memorial shrine to the superstar had blossomed nearby.

One of the reporters highlighted this to Harrison, who replied that the fans would come around once the team won a championship.

And if they didn’t win one in the next few years?

Well, they’ll bury me then, Harrison replied.

He was wrong. They already had.

I’ve lived in the Dallas area for many years. And I still find myself amazed by the misconceptions the region contends with.

There are still the lingering stereotypes of Big Hair and Trophy Wives from the 1980s. There are still the Land of Steakhouses and Strip Clubs claims. And there are the reductive barbs about the region being filled with a sea of snobs in their Mercedes.

But the one that gets me riled up the most is the claim that Dallas is a winner’s town.

Now, this reductive claim holds true across most large southern cities. While all of America is captivated by success, there seems to be a more ruthless demand for it in the Sunbelt – particularly when it comes to professional sports. If a team struggles to win in Atlanta, Tampa, Miami, Houston, Phoenix, or Charlotte, there’s a good chance fans will stop packing the stands.

On the face of it, this can appear true in Dallas too. When the Texas Rangers and the Dallas Stars struggled in baseball and hockey, respectively, it wasn’t hard to spot empty seats around the ballpark or the arena.

But that hasn’t proved true at all for the Dallas Mavericks. For a generation, fans have packed the stands for each game. And they’ve proudly worn their replica basketball jerseys around town.

Some of this can be attributed to sustained success on the court. The Mavericks made the postseason in 20 of the first 25 seasons of this millennium, winning a championship in one of those seasons.

But the city’s lovefest with the Mavericks has more to do with two names – Dirk Nowitzki and Luka Doncic.

Each arrived in Texas from Europe to play basketball for the club — 20 years apart. And as each developed into a superstar on the court, they came of age off it — in the same community that filled the stands at the arena.

Nowitzki and Doncic only shared the court for one season. But that year felt like a passing of a torch.

Doncic saw how Dallas embraced Nowitzki wholeheartedly — how the city viewed him as a key strand of their fabric, rather than just a great basketball star. And he took strides to follow in those footsteps.

Indeed, Luka Doncic was core to the culture of Dallas. He was in rap songs and on billboards. He enthusiastically gave his time and energy to community service around town. He willingly mingled at local establishments with the masses who picked the stands at his games.

He was a man of the city. He was the city.

Until Harrison shipped him away in the dead of the night.

In the business world, there’s plenty of discussion about culture.

Maintaining a strong corporate culture is paramount. So is understanding the culture of consumers.

If either process is broken, a company will leak oil. Progress will be halted, and viability will become a concern.

Nico Harrison knows this well. He previously was an executive at Nike — a company lauded for harnessing both sides of the equation.

And yet, he somehow failed to follow those principles in Dallas.

Perhaps, yes, the Dallas Mavericks internal culture could be improved by a personnel shakeup. For all his greatness, Doncic did have deficiencies on defense. And he complained to the referees far too often.

But by ignoring the effects such a move would have on the associated consumer culture, Harrison failed. He failed himself, he failed the Mavericks, and he failed the city of Dallas.

And when Harrison inferred that local fans embrace championship rings more than the players who earn them, he made himself an eternal pariah.

All of this has far-reaching consequences.

There’s no doubt that the Mavericks’ brand has been degraded by this culture flub, and its connection to the city is in tatters. Harrison himself has unfortunately faced death threats, and the coffee shop where he started the clandestine trade talks has become terra non grata.

There are still chapters to be written, of course. Maybe the new players connect with the Dallas community and become part of its culture – all while delivering a title to the city. Maybe a new hope rises – Star Wars style – and becomes the next Nowitzki or Doncic.

But regardless of what transpires, a cloud will remain over the Mavericks organization.

The franchise got the city of Dallas wrong. They got the rules of culture wrong.

And that won’t ever be forgotten.

A Capital Gamble

It was a weekday afternoon in June.

The sun was blazing. The air was heavy. And the mercury had eclipsed 100 degrees.

Yet, as I made my way into the air-conditioned comfort of a chain restaurant, I found it nearly empty.

Apparently, this wasn’t dining-out weather for others. But it was for me.

So, I ambled over to the bar and asked for a food menu.

The bartender glanced at the suit I had on and smiled.

You look real fancy for the bar at a Razzoo’s.

I explained that I’d just come from a job interview up the road. One that I thought had gone well.

That’s great, the bartender replied. I’m sure you’ll land the role.

A few moments later, a basket of fried crawfish and shrimp appeared in front of me. And as I dug in, I started to daydream.

What if the bartender was right? What possibilities would that unlock?

Plenty.

I’d finally get to move out of the extended stay hotel I’d been in for months. I’d pay down the credit card debt I’d accrued. Maybe I’d go out on the town and meet people.

This job was the key to unlocking my life. I just needed the opportunity.

A few days later, my phone rang. It was the Marketing Director I’d interviewed with, calling to offer me the job.

I happily accepted.

Over the next several months, I transformed myself from a business novice into a reliable marketing professional. My employer took on clients, and I helped drive results for them. The Marketing Director added two more marketers to work alongside me.

But then, one client decided our services weren’t good enough. They forced their way out of their contract, leaving my employer short on revenue. Tension started to build.

I pressed my nose further into the grindstone. I told myself that my hard work would cure all – preserving the company and my spot in it.

Besides, it wasn’t like I had any other option. I was still low on cash and high on debt. And now, I had an apartment rent to cover.

It didn’t matter.

I soon got the dreaded Hey do you have a moment to talk? Prompt from the Marketing Director. Despite my best efforts, I was being let go.

By the time I made it home and unloaded my belongings from the car, reality had sunk in.

Despite my best efforts, I had failed. Failed at keeping my job and earning a steady income.

I realized how dire my situation was. Before that lunch at Razzoo’s, I’d spent three months in career limbo. I watched helplessly as job application after job application went awry.

Now, I was in a similar spot — with only marginally more experience on my resume.

If I wanted to keep my apartment and the possessions in it, I needed someone to offer me another job. And this needed to happen before my severance dried up.

Fortunately, my luck was better this time. Within days, I was in discussions for three digital marketing positions. I got two offers from those conversations, and I was able to take my pick of employer.

I had gone from losing to winning in a flash. But I remained on edge.

For what had just happened to me could easily reoccur down the line. And if it did, I might not find the same good fortune.

Capitalism is one of America’s great legacies.

It’s no coincidence that the country that declared itself independent in 1776 adopted the economic theories of Adam Smith – theories first were published that same year.

The invisible hand of the free market has helped propel America from a fledgling nation to a global powerhouse. It’s built prosperity and fostered influence.

But those outcomes are far from guaranteed.

You see, capitalism is built on the premise of equal access. Of supply and demand having free reign in a marketplace.

When the two meet, opportunities can proliferate. And when those opportunities are seized, magic can happen.

But even if the conditions are ripe, such opportunities don’t appear on their own. They must be offered up by people. And people are notoriously unpredictable.

As such, the game of capitalism is lathered with risk. If an opportunity falls through, there’s no guarantee that the next one will be as juicy. In fact, there’s no guarantee that there will be another opportunity at all.

I think about this when looking back on my early career journey, and all the bumps in the road I endured. Sure, well-wishers were quick to tell that everything would work out. But was that actually true?

Not in the least.

The truth was that I was taking a capital gamble each time I readied myself for work in the morning. A gamble that my opportunity would still be there at the end of the day. And that another would follow if this one fell through.

This game wasn’t for the faint of heart. I understood that.

But I swallowed my anxiety and played along. Just as I do today.

More than a decade has passed since I was last unemployed. And these days, I’m far more prepared for that adverse outcome.

I’ve built up an emergency fund to cover expenses. I’ve gathered years of marketing experience. I’ve earned a master’s degree in business administration and built a professional network.

But even with that elaborate buffer, I’m hardly at ease. Far from it.

For I know that despite my successes, I’m only three steps removed from desperation. And I recognize that each opportunity that eludes my grasp might be the last one I get.

It’s a sobering reality. But it’s one I readily accept.

You see, I now recognize that life is inherently unfair. Even at its elemental level, outcomes can vary arbitrarily.

A full safety net, a clean slate — it might artificially raise our floor. But it also lowers our ceiling. All while merely distracting us from the world’s sobering realities.

It’s better to face the darkness. To take a bit of risk in pursuit of the golden glow of opportunity.

That’s why I keep riding the roller coaster into parts unknown. That’s why I keep embracing the challenge and accepting the process.

A capital gamble is nothing to sneeze at. But it’s nothing to run away from either.

Moral Hazard

I had only been on the highway for a minute when I saw the flashing lights behind me.

I looked down at my speedometer. It read 80 miles per hour.

My hands started to tremble.

I was still in high school and had only been driving for a couple months. Yet, I’d already gotten myself into trouble.

I slowed down and pulled to the side of the road. As I waited for the officer to get out of his vehicle, I stared at my reflection in the rearview mirror.

I was in formal attire and my hair was neatly trimmed. Was I presentable enough to escape with a warning?

I saw the officer approaching. I was about to get my answer.

License and registration please.

I handed the documents over to the officer. His expression did not change.

I clocked you going 82 miles per hour back there under that bridge. You do realize that this is a work zone, don’t you? The speed limit is 45.

I had not realized that. Sure, there were orange cones sitting in the grassy median beside my vehicle. But I hadn’t seen any in the road. And I hadn’t seen a single construction vehicle either.

Still, it didn’t matter. I was getting written up.

The officer went back to his car to print out the citation. With the excessive speed violation and the work zone violation, I was on the hook for more than $1,000.

As I let the numbers on the ticket sink in, the officer gave two parting words of advice.

Slow down.

I drove home in a daze. I had no idea how I was going to pay the citation.

I broke the unhappy news to my parents as soon as I walked in the front door. They were justifiably furious.

Still, after a few moments, cooler heads prevailed. My father offered to cover the fine if I attended defensive driving classes.

I’d essentially be getting a clean slate.

I quickly accepted the terms. A couple of weeks later, I spent a morning in a hotel conference room watching presentations about how to check blind spots and safely pass vehicles. And soon after that, I was back on the road.

It was as if nothing had changed. And that was a problem.

Moral hazard.

This term is a hallmark of risk management circles.

It explains the behavior of those who act with impunity. Free of consequences for their actions, these individuals throw caution to the wind. And everyone else is saddled with the ensuing mess.

This was my experience after my father covered my hefty speeding ticket. I drove nearly as unburdened as I had before, leaving other drivers with little peace of mind.

On its face, Moral Hazard seems both reprehensible and avoidable. But the truth is far more complicated.

You see, institutional forces are out there to buffer us from risk’s implications. Not everyone has a father who will cover a $1,000 speeding ticket. But most drivers have insurance policies to cover the liability they might cause to other vehicles – and the people inside them – while behind the wheel.

The same principle has long held true for houses across our nation. Home insurance would offer financial protection against a variety of maladies. And until recently, this encouraged people to put down roots wherever they fancied.

And the business world? It’s littered with Moral Hazard too. Remember when the United States government bailed out major banks in 2008, and regional bank depositors in 2023? Those actions hardly deterred the risky behavior that preceded them.

The carte blanche – the blank slate – it’s meant to help us boldly plod ahead without being crippled by a one-off event.

But if it leaves us too bold for our own good, what’s the point?

Several months after my speeding ticket, I graduated from high school.

As I prepared to head off to college, I left the car behind. My father stated that I’d need to earn the right to drive around campus. The best way to achieve that right, he said, was with a few semesters of stellar grades.

About 18 months later, it was evident that I’d earned those stellar marks. So, at the end of winter break, my father accompanied me on the 1,300-mile journey to school.

Throughout that two-day trek, my father raved about how much I’d matured in college. He stated that I was ready for the responsibility of having a car.

But behind the wheel, I’d experienced little of that growth. The shadow of my speeding ticket had faded away, aided by the check my father had written. Bad habits were everywhere.

Moral Hazard had become entrenched. I was living on borrowed time.

And eventually, my luck ran out.

During my senior year of college, I totaled my car in a wreck on the highway. It was a humbling experience – and it left me without the means to get from my rental home to campus each day.

A few weeks later, my father surprised me once again. He’d be bringing one of the family sedans down to school that coming weekend and handing me the keys.

My graduation gift was arriving early. There was only one condition.

If I totaled this car, I’d be on my own.

I thought about how hard the past few weeks had been. I’d spend hours walking around campus with heavy textbooks turning my backpack into a boulder. And at the end of the day, I practically needed to beg friends for a ride home.

I thought about my time at the assessor’s lot a couple of days after the wreck. An insurance claims representative took one look at my mangled car and wrote me a paltry check. One that could never make me whole.

I thought about the accident itself. Of seeing the airbags deploy. Of that terrifying moment when I wasn’t sure if my friend in the passenger seat was alright.

I had seen the consequences of my actions. And I never wanted to experience them again.

So, I pledged to become a safer driver. And I’ve held true to that promise ever since.

Moral Hazard has no quarter here anymore.

Back in the 1980s, Nancy Reagan launched a crusade against drugs.

The First Lady sat in front of a camera in the White House and addressed the nation’s youth. She encouraged them to Just say no when illicit substances were bandied their way.

It’s tempting to view Moral Hazard in this way. If we reject it out of hand, we’ll act more responsibly.

But such temptations are nothing more than delusions. Moral Hazard is too embedded in our subconscious to be rooted out that easily.

It takes something more.

Ridding ourselves of this scourge requires a thought experiment. It demands that we actively consider the contours of the safety net around us – who builds it and who funds it. Then, it implores us to consider what would happen if that safety net wasn’t around – and to act accordingly.

These considerations consume plenty of mental bandwidth. They’re unpleasant. But they’re also necessary.

So, let’s take the initiative to open our eyes. To go the extra mile to banish our bad tendencies. And to lean into the responsibility that comes with risk.

We’ll all be better for it.