In the Moment

The two trains left the station simultaneously.

I stared out the window of one of them.

What would normally be a nondescript view of a dark tunnel was now anything but.

Instead, I was staring at a corresponding car of the other train, illuminated as bright as day.

I could see the woman reading her book, the teenager listening to music through earbuds, and the old man staring off into space.

It was as if I was glancing into an immersive exhibit or a scene from a sitcom. The glass windowpane hardly existed. Our two train cars seemed kinetically connected.

This experience lasted for a minute or so. Then the train I was on activated its brakes. We were approaching the next station.

The other train was skipping this stop. As it roared on, the corresponding train car exited stage left in a blur – followed by the rest of the cars.

The moment had passed. And reality had returned.

At least that’s what I thought.

Be where your feet are.

This phrase ain’t exactly commonplace, but it’s still quite familiar.

It encourages us to live in the moment. To stay grounded. To focus on what’s now, instead of what’s next.

I’ve long struggled with this concept. I’m the opposite of a restless soul. But I find the single snapshots to be hopelessly narrow.

The peripherals matter to me.

I’m fascinated by what led up to the moment I’m in, and I’m intrigued by what that moment will ultimately yield.

So, I pry. I delve into my well of memories for inspiration. And I try to anticipate the next move.

This approach has yielded dividends over the years — including more than 500 Ember Trace articles. But at what cost?

After all, if I can’t zoom fully in on the here and now, I can hardly expect to make the most of it.

I’ve taken steps to fill the gap over the years. I’ve attended mindfulness sessions, locked myself in distraction-free rooms, and even tried my hand at journaling. But none of that fully narrowed the lens.

Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be narrowed in that way.

When I was in college, I took a series of broadcast news production courses.

Instead of the usual litany of lectures and exams, these classes consisted of field exercises.

Each week, I would take on a new task, such as balancing a new camera on a tripod, framing an interview subject, or filming in Steadicam mode.

These exercises drove home a central point. Even with the advent of multimedia, news stories were best told through a series of snapshots.

The vertigo-inducing camcorder shots featured in films like The Blair Witch Project – not to mention countless home videos – were unprofessional. They needed to be avoided at all costs.

I took these lessons with me into the real world. During my time as a small-market TV news producer, I checked the footage from reporters and news photographers religiously. I trusted their work, but I still needed to verify that nothing unsteady had found its way in.

Around this time, I noticed a new trend taking hold. People started strapping custom-built cameras to their foreheads and hitting record. They’d glide across ziplines, carve through the fresh powder of a ski slope, or get big air at the skate park – with the camera catching every moment from their perspective. And when it was all done, they’d post those videos to social media.

These cameras were made by a company called GoPro. And these GoPro videos were seemingly everywhere.

I felt conflicted by this development. On one hand, I felt my agency as a professional storyteller was under siege. But on another, I saw the power of capturing a moment in motion.

For movement is the truest form of stillness. Our entire existence takes place on an orb spinning at more than 1,000 miles per hour. And we often shift to and fro on that orb, adding yet another layer of movement to the puzzle.

The concept of storytelling through snapshots was little more than an illusion. A concept designed to smooth the edges, organize the chaos, and make the finished project look more polished.

The truest expression of a moment is but a blur. And reading the complexion of that blur is the definition of being present.

There was a sense of freedom to be found in that complexion. But no one was going to wrangle it for me.

I’d need to do so for myself.

As I write this, my news production days are well behind me.

But my storytelling era is still going strong.

I’ve found plenty of new outlets to share narratives. This, of course, is one of those outlets. But another has a special place in my heart.

It occurs on suburban trails under the moonlight – at roughly 8 miles per hour.

You see, several friends and I will often meet before dawn on weekday mornings to run together. The world is quiet at that hour. But we are anything but.

As miles of pavement fly by under our feet, we are deep in discussion – providing updates on our lives, sparking debates, and regaling each other in stories. It’s a conversation only audible to a group of people in motion — a secret that’s shared out in the open.

I feel more present on these group runs than I do anywhere else. My senses are heightened, my recall is impeccable, and my sense of inner peace is unmatched. Surrounded by people with a similar passion, I find sanctuary.

There’s a sense of irony here. For I’m being where my feet are, even as they glide across the ground at high speed.

But maybe that’s the whole point.

Maybe being static doesn’t need to mean being still. Maybe it means glimpsing through the window at the patrons of the adjacent car as both trains barrel down the track. Maybe it means partaking in a conversation that literally lasts for miles.

Maybe it’s all of that — and more.

Living in the moment needn’t require a pause button. Let’s embrace the blur.

The Shadow of the Long Goodbye

A middle-aged man walks into a diner.

He sits down in a booth facing the front door and thumbs through the tableside jukebox selections.

Each time he hears the door open, the man looks up to assess who it is. Then he returns to the jukebox menu.

Eventually, he makes his selection, and Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’ starts blasting through the diner’s sound system. The man then turns his attention toward the diner menu.

Soon, the man’s wife arrives, followed by his son. As they wait for his daughter to appear, they make small talk. All as a strange man sits nearby at the counter, discreetly watching.

The daughter struggles to parallel park her car in a space across the street, prolonging her family’s small talk. Meanwhile, the strange man gets up from his counter seat and heads to the diner’s restroom.

The daughter finally parks and hustles toward the diner’s front door. As it opens, her father looks up and…

Everything cuts to black.

This diner scene represented the final moments of the hit TV show The Sopranos.

The mob drama had been a massive hit during the 2000s, as audiences followed the life of the main character Tony Soprano.

Tony was in some danger during the last season of the show. That’s why he was watching the diner door so intently during that final scene. And that’s also why the audience felt the tension as the man by the diner counter lay in wait.

But with the scene ending as it did, that tension remained indefinitely. Even now, nearly two decades after the final episode aired, Tony Soprano’s fate is uncertain.

And this caused the audience great distress.

I only watched one episode of The Sopranos during its run – one from an earlier season. But the uproar over the series finale was so intense that even I knew about the abrupt cut to black.

There were news stories on the ending. There were ample talk show segments delving into it. There were theories about what happened to Tony proliferating on blogs and fan websites.

It was a circus.

The screenwriters of The Sorpanos had seemingly caused a great disservice by refusing to add a period to the show’s final sentence.

But had they really?

It’s time to get your coat.

My mother’s words dented my spirits.

It was Thanksgiving, and I was having a blast hanging out with my cousins. I wasn’t ready to leave, and I told my mother as much.

Don’t worry, my mother replied. We’re not leaving just yet. It will take some time to say goodbye to everyone.

You see, my parents had a protocol. Whenever we went to a family function, we made sure to work the room. Each person we encountered got their own unique greeting and farewell.

This protocol was far from unique. But it was time-intensive. Even if those greetings and farewells took a minute apiece, they likely constituted an hour of the total time spent at a function.

The parting portion of this ritual has gained several names. The long goodbye. The Italian goodbye. The Jewish goodbye. The Cuban goodbye. The Southern goodbye.

And I was a fan of it. At least at first.

For this extended goodbye ritual allowed me to wind down my social activity. The scene could come to a more natural conclusion than an abrupt fade to black. I could slowly move from the excitement of a family gathering to the solitude of home.

As a shy and quiet kid, I needed that.

But as I grew up, I started to detest the whole protocol. It felt like I was on one of those flights that never got to cruising altitude. My family was spending more time with hellos and goodbyes than with actual discourse.

Despite my displeasure with this pattern, I perpetuated it in my early adult life. When attending social functions with my friends, I would work the room vigorously upon arrival and departure. It was the polite thing to do, even if it wore me down and led me to come home later than I intended.

While making the farewell rounds at one of these functions, I failed to locate one of my friends. Panicked, I circled the room again until another friend intercepted me.

Don’t keep searching for him, the friend quipped. He Irish Goodbyed it.

I somehow had never heard the term Irish Goodbye before this. I thought it was just another variation of the long goodbye.

But this friend explained that it was quite the opposite. An Irish Goodbye meant departing without a word, disappearing without a trace.

The introvert in me found this all quite appealing. And I started employing the Irish Goodbye myself from time to time. It felt freeing and strangely practical. And it didn’t lead to the ostracization I feared.

This experience brought me back to The Sopranos, and that fateful final episode.

Maybe the screenwriters were onto something after all.

In these modern, turbulent times, we seem to have little in common.

But one attribute we do share is a love of stories.

Storytelling has a distinct hold on our psyche, capturing our attention and influencing our behavior. As a writer, I recognize this all too well.

But storytelling is not without its boundaries.

We expect stories to have a certain structure. Whether we support Kurt Vonnegut’s Shape of Stories theorem or Joseph Campbell’s depiction of The Hero’s Journey, we demand a rhythm to the tales we encounter and the ones we tell. And above all else, we yearn for a definitive resolution.

The abrupt cut to black in The Sopranos and the Irish Goodbye — each violates this implied promise. They leave the stories we’ve just experienced as a scattered mess, rather than a tidy package. They require us to use our imagination to tidy things up. And they delay our ability to digest all that we’ve encountered.

This is more than a shock to the system. It’s a repudiation of an ideal.

And yet, it’s likely a more accurate depiction of finality than the version we yearn for.

Yes, abrupt endings dot the landscapes of our lives. Anything from injury to job loss to natural disaster can impact us – or those we know – without warning.

When they do, carefully crafted exit plans go up in smoke. And we’re left to pick up the pieces.

Given our story structure preferences, we’re all too likely to relitigate the terminal event. But the more energy we spend on how it ended, the less we have left for what we do next.

This is the problem with the long goodbye. What might seem like good manners can turn into a debilitating vice, paralyzing us in place when the story we live doesn’t fit the mold we built for it.

It’s far better to lean into the discomfort every now and then. To appreciate the unconventional ending to one of TV’s legendary shows. To walk out the door without making a sound.

It prepares us to face the world as it is, rather than quibbling over how it should have been.

The shadow of the long goodbye is formidable. But it needn’t be all-powerful.

Let’s take some control back.

The Dual Mandate of Responsibility

The announcement came in over the loudspeaker as I sat by the airport gate.

For those passengers flying to Dallas, this flight is completely full. Every seat is taken, and we will run out of carry-on space. Come see the gate agent to check your carry-on bag free of charge to your final destination.

This announcement went over like a lead balloon. Not a single person approached the gate.

So, about a minute later, the gate agent activated the terminal loudspeaker again. And she shared the same message word for word.

The same thing happened a minute after that. And then again, a fourth time.

By now, we were all staring daggers at the gate agent.

There was clearly something wrong with her message. But she seemed to be the only one not to know it. And our eardrums reverberated with the collateral damage.

What are the elements of an effective message?

The answers to a question like this can be infinite. But, in my view, three tenets tend to stand above the rest.

Brevity, clarity, and specificity.

The best communicators keep their messages short enough to command attention, simple enough to remember, and specific enough to drive action.

The gate agent’s message was relatively simple and clear. But it was hardly specific enough to be effective.

Sure, the overhead bin space would fill up at some point on a full flight. But when exactly would that happen? The message didn’t make that clear.

Passengers were left to their own calculus regarding that cut-off. And after doing that quick math, most assumed they’d be fine taking their bags down the jet bridge.

This was the initial issue that the gate agent was contending with. But as she repeated her flawed message, she did more than exacerbate the problem. She caused a new one.

You see, as each redundant message blasted into our ears from the terminal loudspeaker, one thing became clear. The gate agent didn’t care about us at all.

This was all about making her life easier and easing the burden on the rest of the staff. There was nothing in it for the passengers.

This was no trivial concern.

You see, we are more than passengers traversing the skies across America. We were paying customers of the airline. And we’d been through the wringer already.

Even after we’d given up our hard-earned money to book our tickets, we had to deal with ground transportation hassles, convoluted check-in procedures, and tedious security screenings just to make it to the airport gate. Yet, after all that, this gate agent still had the nerve to patronize us.

It left a bad taste in our mouths.

As I waited for the steam to evaporate from my body, I asked myself a seemingly random question.

What would the shareholders think of all this?

The investors who owned little pieces of this airline were not in the gate area with me. They hadn’t heard all the redundant messages or felt the heat of our glares.

But they mattered. Perhaps more than we did.

At least that was the conclusion of the Friedman Doctrine – a piece of capitalist theory that’s held sway in corporate America for a half century.

In a 1970 New York Times article, economist Milton Friedman posited that the primary role of a business was to maximize shareholder value. Other stakeholders – including employees and paying customers – were not deemed first in line when it came to operational strategy.

This conclusion had an air of shortsightedness baked in. But in Friedman’s era, it made sense.

Back in the 1970s, consumer satisfaction and shareholder value were closely aligned. If consumers cut back on shopping for a company’s goods, that business’ revenue would crater, and so would shareholder returns.

Additionally, employees were essential to corporate operations. Far fewer functions had the benefits of automation back in that era. Without a well-staffed workforce, a company would have little chance to offer anything of note to its investors.

These days, of course, things are far different. Shareholder satisfaction is no longer strictly tied to business fundamentals or even the laws of economics. The hype – and ballooning valuations – surrounding heretofore unprofitable AI companies make that clear.

With that divergence comes a decision. Businesses can either support shareholders at the expense of their employees and customers, or vice versa.

Most have chosen the first option. And in the process, they’ve left paying customers to wallow in misery.

But hopefully not forever.

There’s a little game I play every time I find myself at Chick-Fil-A.

Whether I’m placing my order or picking it up, I always thank the employee who engages me.

When I do this, I’m looking for two words in response.

My pleasure.

You see, Chick-fil-A prides itself on its customer service almost as much as its chicken sandwiches. All employees are trained to respond to the words Thank you with My pleasure. And I’m continually trying to see how well that principle holds up in real time.

The answer? Generally favorable.

I’d estimate that 90 percent of the employees I’ve thanked over the years have responded with My pleasure. Even when the restaurant is swamped with customers. Courtesy and respect are more than nice-to-haves at Chick-fil-A. They’re need-to-haves.

And I’m far from the only customer to notice. A recent Qualtrics survey of businesses with the best customer service puts Chick-Fil-A right at the top.

Now, it should be noted that Chick-fil-A does not have shareholders. It is still privately held — allowing all locations to remain closed on Sundays, as they have been for years.

And yet, if Chick-fil-A did ever list itself on the stock market index, I have no doubt that it would continue to stand apart from McDonald’s and Burger King. Most notably, its commitment to customer service would remain.

I know this because the business that inspired the Chick-fil-A culture has managed to go public without selling itself out.

Ritz-Carlton hotels were the originators of the My pleasure response. Hotel staff there have long been instructed to use that reply whenever a guest thanked them. This tradition has continued, even after Marriott International – a publicly traded company – acquired the upscale hotel chain.

Ritz-Carlton and Chick-fil-A each understand the dual mandate of responsibility they operate under. They’re focused on delivering strong results for those who fund the business. But they haven’t forgotten about who they serve, or their duty to serve those constituents well.

This duality provides a north star for the employees of those companies. Staff members can see how critical their roles are to fulfilling the mandate, and they can deliver for both audiences with aplomb.

No one is ramming obnoxiously redundant messages through the loudspeakers at those establishments. And the patrons tend not to glare as much as a result.

Ritz-Carlton and Chick-fil-A are outliers in the modern era, to be sure. In an age defined both by disruptive innovation and intensive consolidation, it’s all too easy for businesses to overlook their customers or to treat their employees as unwanted expense items on an accounting statement.

But such behavior has a limited shelf life. There’s only so much indignity consumers and employees can take before they abandon the system – leaving businesses spiraling and the shareholders in crisis.

It’s time for businesses to recognize this fact. And to adapt accordingly.

I hope they take that initiative soon. For everyone’s sake.

The Morass of Expectation

Turn the air up.

The request came from the back seat of my car.

I was only driving down the road with some friends in tow. But we were all getting roasted by the June heat.

Staring down at the temperature gauge, I noticed that the fan was at its highest setting and the air conditioning was on. But the air blowing through the vents was not cold. At all.

I sighed. A trip to the mechanic awaited me.

A couple of days after this incident, I got the verdict from a local mechanic.

The car’s AC system was fine. But the unit that brought the cold air into the cabin would need to be replaced. And that repair would run $800.

I was still early in my career, and I wasn’t prepared to absorb such a hefty charge on my credit card. But it was summertime in Texas. A hot car would quickly become unbearable – even deadly.

I called my parents for advice. I figured they could speak with their local mechanic and see if I was getting ripped off.

But my father’s response caught me off guard.

Why don’t you trade in the car and get a new one?

I replied that I couldn’t afford a new car. If an $800 repair was outside my price range, a $25,000 purchase certainly would be.

My father laughed. I could finance the new vehicle, he said – committing to modest monthly payments over several years. It would make more sense than pouring money into repairs.

His reasoning won me over. But my exuberance quickly gave way to fear when I realized I’d need to set foot in a car dealership.

Our family had made a disastrous trip to a car dealership when I was young. We were literally held hostage by the sales staff until my father threatened to call the police. And I didn’t want to get trapped like that again.

So, I dug into online research on vehicle models, features, and prices. I set a budget and checked the inventory at multiple dealerships. Then, I took a deep breath and headed out to those dealerships for test drives.

The advanced research served me well. I was able to see through sales tricks and smoke screens. And I successfully walked out of three dealerships that couldn’t provide what I was looking for.

But when I found my desired vehicle at the fourth one and agreed to buy it, I found myself in a small office facing a finance manager. And suddenly, I was getting sold again.

I know you said your budget is fixed. But you should really consider getting the version with leather seats. Oh, and an extended warranty.

I was fully unprepared for this development. Still, my instincts served me well. And I firmly declined all the upsell pitches aside from one – gap insurance for the car loan.

I drove off the lot with a mix of euphoria and relief. I had survived.

And that was notable.

Back in ancient times, a scandal enveloped the shores of the Aegean Sea.

Prince Paris of Troy wooed Helen of Sparta, stealing away with her across the sea. Enraged, Helen’s husband – King Menelaus – convened an army of Greek soldiers and set out to fight the Trojans.

The city of Troy had prepared itself for battle. And after days of fighting, the Greeks had failed to gain any ground.

So, their army turned away from the shoreline, leaving just a giant wooden statue of a horse in their stead.

The Trojans, seemingly victorious, exalted. And they brought the wooden horse inside their city walls.

But as night fell, a company of Greek soldiers emerged from the woodwork. They incapacitated the Trojan guards, sabotaged the city’s defenses, and signaled for the rest of the army – who were hidden just out of sight – to return. The Greek forces quickly laid waste to Troy.

This cautionary tale – made famous in Homer’s Iliad – has spawned its own term.

The Trojan Horse Effect.

This effect is what happens when we fail to remain vigilant. It illustrates the cost of letting our guard down.

If the Trojans had been just a bit more skeptical of the Greeks’ quick retreat, they would likely have survived. And if they had burned the wooden horse, they would have claimed a true victory, rather than set the table for a catastrophic defeat.

The lesson from all this is clear. We must prepare for a wide range of outcomes, never letting the finest details slip from our grasp. We must expect the unexpected.

But how exactly can we do that? After all, the unexpected – by nature – is something that’s impossible to prepare for.

It’s a question with no definitive answer. And yet, I might have found the path forward.

If you ask most football fans what the most important position on the gridiron is, they’ll likely point to the quarterback.

Those are the players who orchestrate the offense. And they handle the ball in some fashion on nearly every play.

There are many traits that define good quarterback play. But those traits can generally be boiled down to three words: Read and react.

Before a play starts, a quarterback must be able to read the defensive alignment and properly react to what their opponent is trying to do. The same is true when the play is in motion.

The best quarterbacks are masterful at this. As such, they never appear flustered or unprepared. Even when the unexpected occurs, they can meet the moment.

I believe that these principles can hold true off the field as well. In fact, the read and react protocol is essential in navigating the morass of expectation.

I certainly wasn’t prepared for my car’s climate control unit to fail on that hot summer day. And when I definitely wasn’t prepared to re-negotiate an agreement for a new vehicle in a dealership finance office.

But thanks to my preparation and my instincts, I was able to read and react with aplomb. And I navigated the turbulent waters of the unexpected without catastrophe.

These same principles can apply to all of us. Indeed, they must.

For the world is becoming a less predictable place by the day. And the unexpected is around every turn.

We can’t bury our heads in the sand in the wake of the unfamiliar. But we can’t let deviations from our expectations destroy us either.

So, let’s commit to reading and reacting. Let’s seek to prepare for the unpreparable. And let’s expect the unexpected, to the degree that we can.

We’ll be better for it.

Faith and Fundamentals

On January 20, 2019, the New England Patriots and the Kansas City Chiefs faced off for the right to go to the Super Bowl.

This was familiar territory for New England. It was the Patriots’ eighth straight appearance in the American Football Conference Championship Game, and their 13th in 18 years. Patriots Quarterback Tom Brady had been under center for the entire run, and by now, he was considered the game’s greatest all-time player.

Kansas City, on the other hand, had not made it this far in the playoffs in 25 years. Yet, Chiefs quarterback Patrick Mahomes – in his first season as a starter – had outplayed Brady. Mahomes had thrown for 5,000 yards and 50 touchdowns, and he would later be named the National Football League’s Most Valuable Player.

The Chiefs had also won more games than the Patriots over the course of the season. So, Kansas City had the opportunity to host the contest.

All of this led to a changing-of-the-guard narrative. Brady’s legendary run was seemingly nearing its end. It was Mahomes’ turn now.

But those prognostications proved premature. It was the Patriots who prevailed in overtime.

New England would go on to win its sixth Super Bowl a couple of weeks later. Yet, the buzz remained on the team they’d outlasted on the frigid Missouri plains.

The Mahomes era was imminent. The Chiefs would be back.

Looking back at this moment, less than a decade later, this all appears so quaint.

These days, the Kansas City Chiefs are the pre-eminent franchise in football. And Patrick Mahomes is the face of the NFL.

The team has been to six more AFC Championship Games since that overtime setback. They’ve advanced to five of the past six Super Bowls, winning three championships.

The Chiefs gained pop culture status, thanks to tight end Travis Kelce’s engagement to Taylor Swift. And Mahomes has taken home a second MVP award – while appearing in countless commercials.

Brady didn’t exactly fade into the background during Kansas City’s dynasty. He moved from New England to Tampa Bay to finish out his career. And he actually beat Mahomes and the Chiefs in a Super Bowl at the end of his first season with the Buccaneers.

But the proverbial torch-pass had clearly been passed.

So yes, the pundits were right.

It was inevitable that someone with Mahomes’ talent and competitiveness would dominate the league. It was just the natural order of things.

Or was it?

On the night when Brady and Mahomes faced off in that AFC Championship Game, I was on a flight back from Miami to Dallas.

The football teams in both those cities – the Miami Dolphins and the Dallas Cowboys – have suffered cascades of disappointment for decades. But the Dolphins’ plight is particularly severe.

Miami was once the toast of the NFL. The Dolphins won two consecutive Super Bowls in the early 1970s, and the 1972 squad was the only team to go unbeaten through the regular season and playoffs.

As the decade wore on, the Pittsburgh Steelers became the league’s new “it” team, winning four Super Bowls in six years. But by the time the early 1980s rolled around, Miami was ascendant – thanks to a quarterback named Dan Marino.

Much like Mahomes, Marino burst onto the scene in the NFL. In his first full season as a starter, he threw for 5,000 yards and 48 touchdowns – winning an MVP award in the process.

Marino led Miami to the AFC Championship game that season, and he proceeded to shred the Steelers vaunted defense in that game. However, in the ensuing Super Bowl, the Dolphins fell to the San Francisco 49ers.

It was a disappointing end to a stellar season. Yet, most of the fans and media in South Florida remained upbeat. It seemed it would only be a matter of time before Marino led Miami back to the Super Bowl.

But that return trip never came.

Even as he rewrote the NFL record books throughout his Hall of Fame career, Marino would never win a Super Bowl ring with the Dolphins. And Miami has fallen off even more since his retirement a quarter century ago. The team hasn’t even won a playoff game in that time.

All the elements present in Mahomes were inherent in Marino. But the story had a vastly different ending – for both player and team.

Why is that?

American football is a strange sport.

Despite its name, it relies far more on a player’s hands than their feet. And the ball that players handle is more oblong than round.

This means that there are plenty of chances for strange bounces, particularly when the ball is knocked free or kicked. Those bounces can determine the fate of a game, a season, or a career.

Tom Brady was a beneficiary of one of these bounces. Late in his first playoff game with New England, he appeared to fumble the ball away to the Oakland Raiders. But the referees ruled that Brady had lost the ball while attempting to pass, thereby nullifying the turnover. The Patriots went on to win that game, sparking a run to their first Super Bowl championship.

Mahomes and the Chiefs have also been the recipients of good fortune – lucky bounces, favorable calls, and missed opportunities for the opposition. Some have cried foul about these breaks, claiming a conspiracy. But these calls have no merit.

You see, luck is a great determinant of legacy in just about any corner of life. Talent and a good work ethic can set us up for success, but favorable winds help glide us into position.

Those bounces that determine our fate are beyond our control. There is no genie to summon, no token to cash in. We must do the best we can, while hoping that our efforts will yield the outcomes we seek.

The truth is that Dan Marino was not less of a quarterback than Patrick Mahomes or Tom Brady. He just didn’t get the bounces that they did. But it wasn’t for lack of trying.

Indeed, Marino – a Catholic – relied on his faith to guide him through his football career. In his Football Hall of Fame speech, he recounts playing for a parochial school team in Pittsburgh during his middle school years.

Before each game, the team would go to church and pray for victory. And victory always came.

Of course, that faith didn’t lead Marino to an undefeated pro career, and it didn’t net him a Super Bowl ring. But that faith – along with fundamentals like talent and work ethic – still allowed him to realize his childhood dream. And it still enabled him to take the quarterback position to new heights.

Faith, it seems, is still worth having.

We’d all be wise to follow the lead of Dan Marino. We should try to balance fundamentals and faith.

This concept doesn’t come naturally in our society. We’re primed to either tie results to core attributes or to chalk everything up to luck. There’s rarely a lane for both.

But it’s time for us to make one.

For the by the book approach has a limited odometer in life. Airtight processes and sweat equity might point us in the right direction, but they guarantee us nothing.

It takes something beyond our grasp to get us over the top. Good fortune. Magic. Divine Intervention. Whatever we want to call it, we need it.

We can do better than to deny this basic fact. We must do better.

So, let’s make that shift.

Let’s commit to putting in the work. But let’s remember to keep the faith.

The Foundation of Promises

But…you promised…

My face contorted and my eyes welled up with tears. My father had reneged on something, and I was now in full-on despair mode.

My father wasn’t having it.

I did no such thing, he retorted. I said I’d try to make it happen – and I did try. It just didn’t work out.

I don’t make a lot of promises. Promises are rare because you can’t break them. So, you’d better be sure when you make one.

This explanation did little to assuage me. If anything, it made the matter worse.

For my father’s mantra undercut the daily promise bartering I engaged in at elementary school.

Each day – in the hallways or at recess – I would make lip-service commitments to my classmates. My peers would reply in kind would make some back. Then we’d break those pledges faster than our favorite crayons.

Our promises were nothing more than a figure of speech. But now, my father was stating that we had it all wrong.

I felt betrayed. I felt confused. But eventually, I saw the light.

My life is filled with habits.

Routines and rituals – instituted over time – have come to govern my daily behavior. They’ve offered a template for what others can expect of me, and what I demand of myself.

I’ve picked up most of these habits in adolescence and adulthood. But a scant few stretch back to my youth.

Including my stance on promises.

You see, that little speech my father gave all those years ago resonated with me. Even at that early age, I could see the value in honoring a commitment.

Promise became a rarely used word in my vocabulary after that. Even as my peers played fast and loose with the term, I kept my power dry.

Over time, this steadfast approach earned me plaudits. Others would speak to my integrity, grit, and heart. They would place their trust in me proactively, with no strings attached.

I was honored. And more than a bit terrified.

For I’d come to understand the pressure that lay behind a commitment. I realized that I needed to deliver the goods. And I felt the heat of that demand.

I started to wonder if any promise was worth the risk. I was tempted to waver from even the most basic of commitments, to buffer me from the humiliation of seeing them fall short.

But I recognized that danger lurked behind that door too. After all, trust is borne from commitment. I needed to stand for something to retain the reputation I’d built.

So, with hesitation, I plowed ahead. All the while wondering where the road might lead.

For more than a decade, I’ve worked for companies that support the insurance industry. And over that time, I’ve come to understand that corner of the business world quite well.

Insurance, in its purest form, is the textbook definition of a promise. Consumers pay premiums to their insurer when times are good, all so that insurers can make them whole when times are bad.

I’ve seen this work in practice. When a wayward driver plowed their truck into the rear door of my SUV some years back, my insurance policy covered the cost of both the repairs and a rental vehicle. The promise outlined in my coverage summary was realized, smoothing over a challenging moment.

Yet, that promise still had its white-knuckle moment. I reported my claim with no guarantee that it be approved. That promise hung by a thread as I waited for the verdict from my insurer. And I waited for a while.

It turns out the promise business ain’t what it used to be. With all the emergent threats in our world – a pandemic, an inflationary surge, the rise of AI-based cyberwarfare, and more – it’s hard for players in the insurance industry to make people whole while remaining solvent.

And that’s led to some changes.

Some providers have charged consumers more for the privilege of their promise. Others have started peeling back their commitments.

It’s an ominous sign. And yet, one that somehow seems overdue.

For outcomes have always been uncertain. Even the most seemingly secure promises always had a chance of falling through.

We’ve just tended to plow over that fact with bluster and ingenuity in the past. We’ve captivated the masses with the fantasy of the sure thing. And we’ve relied on a mixture of grit and faith to make it real.

But now, the veil is lifted. In a world turned upside down, some promises have proven to be empty vessels.

And we’re left to pick up the pieces.

A little over a decade ago, I made one of the biggest promises of my life.

I had just launched Ember Trace. And I’d committed to adding a fresh article here each week.

For 523 consecutive weeks, I did just that. Through life changes and world changes, I kept on writing and kept on posting.

I lauded this fulfilled commitment as a testament to my perseverance. But was it really?

In truth, the decade-long writing streak was as much a function of luck than anything else.

I could have been maimed and rendered unable to tap my keyboard at some point during that decade. My computer could have broken down, or my Internet could have gone out. I could have taken a blow to the head and struggled to write.

None of those outcomes would have been my fault, per se. But they would have led to empty promises and broken commitments.

Guarantees are that fragile. We might think we determine the state of play, thanks to our character and determination. But control over the outcome is never quite in our grasp.

We must accept that solemn fact, while somehow willingly ignoring its existence.

For that contradiction is what sets the foundation for our character and our accomplishments. It’s what determines how far we’ll go — and who will join us on that journey.

So yes, my promises might be limited these days – and their fulfillment might be partially out of my hands. But I’m still willing to commit to them, and to do all that’s in my power to see them through.

Will you?

The Next Chapter

From 30,000 feet above the ground, I stared out at the Plains.

Through the airplane window, I could see pastures stretching straight to the horizon. The late-day sun cast a golden glow over it all.

I might have been over western Illinois at this moment. Or maybe eastern Missouri. Even after all the times I’d flown this route, I couldn’t quite tell.

But the GPS coordinates were inconsequential. The majesty of the view meant everything.

Many people have looked at this same vista and come to a different conclusion.

They see no mountain peaks. They see no coastline. And they slide their window shade shut.

I get it.

The sight of the Rocky Mountains has taken my breath away before. And I’ve found myself transfixed with wonder as I stared at the Pacific Ocean from the bluffs of La Jolla.

Middle America is not that. It’s a different brand of special.

There’s just something about vast, open land that stretches to the horizon. It’s a blank canvas fit to be painted with a million tales – all distinct, yet somehow familiar.

This glimpse of that canvas in the late-day sun told one story. But a couple of hours later, a traveler peering out of a plane crossing these same coordinates would see something far different. The faded light of dusk would punctuate the vista of those pastures.

The next morning, fliers on the red eye might witness yet another perspective from this spot. The shadow of the sunrise would stretch all the way to the western horizon, marking the landscape with an understated sepia.

Even this late-afternoon moment I was witnessing seemed to lack routine. In the dead of winter, the light of the day would illuminate the plains far differently at this hour. The same would be true during the dog days of summer.

Yes, each of the views from this one spot is familiar. Yet each is also distinct.

It’s in those differences that I find solace.

I remain amazed at how one small shift in perspective can make the ordinary captivating, time and again.

It’s simple. But it’s also special.

A decade ago, I set out on my own journey to fill a blank canvas.

I launched Ember Trace, putting my thoughts and experiences out in the open for all the world to see.

As I prepared to post that first article, I was full of apprehension. I didn’t want that first entry to be a one-off. And I didn’t want to fall into a scattershot publication approach. My readers needed to know what to expect from this publication – and when to expect it.

So, I made a commitment. I would post a fresh article every week. No excuses.

I’ve held to that promise now for a full decade. For 523 straight weeks, to be exact.

The world has changed drastically during that time. My life has as well. But through it all, I’ve kept on writing.

This is quite an accomplishment. One I’m immensely proud of.

And yet, I find myself questioning its power.

You see, if you stare out that airplane window enough times, the majesty of the view starts to fade. Dawn and golden hour morph together. Summer and winter begin to blur. And everything just starts to look gray.

I’m wary of that fate overtaking my work on Ember Trace. I don’t want the quality of what I write to go down, just so the quantity can go up. I don’t want a writing schedule that I set a decade ago to become the headline.

It’s time to try something different.

My first view of the Plains was from ground level.

I was 8 years old, and my family was taking a cross-country train trip. I saw cornfields and cow pastures roll past my window for hours on end.

This was the mid-1990s. There were no tablets or smartphones in the train car to divert my attention. For two days, I was transfixed.

Cross-country flights would soon follow. As my family jetted off to the opposite coast for vacation, I’d stare at those cornfields and cow pastures from above for hours. The view was far different than the one from the train. But I still found it stunning.

As I grew up, I still found myself soaring over the same plains. Both leisure activities and celebrations kept calling me back to the heartland.

Those same vistas awaited me along the journey. But somehow, I still hadn’t grown tired of them.

This sentiment was fresh in my mind when my employer was acquired by a Midwestern-based company. Suddenly, flights across the prairie became a business obligation – a fait accompli every few months. And with all that back and forth, my zeal for the vistas of Middle America faded.

That view out my window stopped feeling so novel. It became ordinary and boring. And I’d had enough.

I started buying the Wi-Fi on those flights, occupying myself with work tasks and streaming entertainment. I stopped gazing beyond the airplane cabin.

I needed a change.

That change came in the form of an economic shift. Costs increased, and opportunities to travel to headquarters decreased for a couple of years.

I all but forgot about the familiar aerial of the Plains during that time. But eventually, the travel restrictions were lifted, and I was reacquainted with that vista.

Like an old friend, that sense of wonder returned. A sense of awe washed over me once again.

And in that moment, something strange happened. I started musing about my writing.

I’d been in a creative rut with Ember Trace. And it dawned on me that a prescribed break might revitalize my work — much in the same way that my travel hiatus had rekindled my zeal for staring out at the Plains.

I didn’t act on that instinct then. But I am doing so now.

What does the next chapter look like?

It’s a question that many an author has struggled with. But in this instance, I have clarity.

Ember Trace is not going away, dear reader. You can still expect my thoughts and reflections to fill this space. Just not quite as frequently.

Going forward, I will share an article once a month, rather than once a week. This will give me more time to find inspiration, sharpen my craft, and share more articles worthy of awe and wonder.

I am sure that this is the right move. And I’m sure that it’s the right time to make it.

But what I don’t know is if my audience will follow me into the next chapter.

I hope so. But hope is not a strategy.

On September 20, 1998, the New York Yankees and Baltimore Orioles faced off for a late-season game at Baltimore’s picturesque Camden Yards.

Three future Baseball Hall of Famers appeared in that game – Derek Jeter, Roberto Alomar, and Mariano Rivera. But a fourth future Hall of Famer remained on the bench for all nine innings.

And that became the story of the evening.

For the first time in more than 16 years, Cal Ripken Jr. sat out a baseball game. His record-setting streak of 2,632 consecutive games played was history.

Baseball’s previous Ironman – the Hall of Famer Lou Gehrig – never played another baseball game after he ended his streak. Roughly two years after taking himself out of the lineup, he died of a cruel disease that now bears his name.

But Ripken’s time on the bench wasn’t to be permanent. The next day, he was back in the lineup, manning third base for the Orioles up in Toronto.

Ripken would play three more seasons for Baltimore. He joined baseball’s vaunted 3,000 hit club and won an All-Star Game Most Valuable Player award during that time. He remained distinguished, even after untethering himself from the streak.

Like Ripken, I still have more in the tank. More stories to tell, and more articles to share with you, dear reader.

The next chapter might look a tad different. But it’s still worth turning the pages.

It would be my honor if you did so.

Give and Take

We lined up in the grass. Alongside us was a thick rope, which had a knot every foot or so.

My classmates and I looked back at our teacher, waiting for her command. When she gave it, we each grabbed the knot closest to us. Then we collectively lifted the rope off the ground.

We were quickly divided into two sections. Classmates closer to near end of the rope were now on one team. Classmates on the far end were their opponents.

With that settled, our teacher laid out the objective of the contest.

When I give the signal, pull the rope towards you as hard as you can. Rely on your teammates and work together.

That signal came a moment later. The battle was on.

My team pulled ferociously on the rope, even as the counterforce from our rivals threatened to lurch us forward.

In the end, our persistence paid off. The other team lost its edge, and the twine lost its tautness. We yanked the rope towards us, dragging our opponents over with it.

My first tug-of-war was a rousing success.

I wasn’t the first kid to take part in a tug-of-war. Nor was I the last.

Indeed, this activity has long been a staple of field days for elementary schools across this nation.

The meaning of this exercise remains a Rorschach test. Some see it as a testament to collaboration. Others view it as a showcase for the biggest and strongest. No opinion is definitive.

Regardless, these tug-of-war battles tend to fade into the rearview as we grow up. There are better things to be doing with our time than pulling on a rope.

Or are there?

We may be done playing tug-of-war by the time we reach adulthood. But the game is never quite done with us.

You see, tug-of-war is a parable for life. A simplistic demonstration of the give and take that dominates our existence.

Think about it.

We come into this world with much given.

Our very existence. Shelter. Clothes. Nourishment. Fresh diapers. Doting adoration. Holiday gifts. It’s all bestowed upon us.

This pattern continues through our scholastic years. Yes, we have homework and we take exams. Some of us even earn money for household chores. But in general, what we get is still what’s given to us.

The pattern starts to shift once adolescence morphs into adulthood. Now, we’re balancing what we give with what we take.

We give our talents to a profession so that we can take home a living wage. We give our heart to our soulmate so that we can take their hand in matrimony. We give the same existence we were once bestowed to a new generation — even as it takes our time, energy, and patience.

This phase continues for years, in a choreographed equilibrium. And then subtly, something sinister happens.

The act of taking becomes more pronounced. And we’re given less and less in return.

Our features are often the first to be taken from us. We look in the mirror to find smooth and vibrant replaced by wrinkled and gray.

Then our abilities are slowly taken away. Those physical benchmarks we once hit become unattainable. Those crystal clear memories become cloudy.

Opportunities are the next layer to be stripped from us. In the blink of an eye, experience goes from an advantage to a perceived liability. We watch helplessly as we’re passed over in favor of the next generation.

And finally, our loved ones are taken from us. Those further down the trail than us find its end, and we’re forced to reckon with their eternal absence.

At this point in the tug-of-war of life, we’ve lost our footing. We’re being dragged across the field, picking up bumps and bruises as we hang onto the rope for dear life.

It’s a process that’s as cruel as it is inevitable.

Never look a gift horse in the mouth.

I heard that phrase plenty in my youth.

You see, I’d been given a great deal. But I’d also developed distinct tastes.

Maybe I was just picky, or particular. But I could have – I should have –  appeared more grateful for what I received.

So, those around me stayed on my case.

They implored me to stay humble. They encouraged me to practice gratitude. And they commanded me to send thank-you messages whenever possible.

None of this advice was particularly unique, of course. It all came from a societal playbook of manners and ethics.

Similar codes guide us through the early adulthood. They help us to maintain balance between giving and taking, keeping us sane and in the good graces of other.

But no playbook exists for that third phase of the tug-of-war of life, when everything is steadily taken from us.

We have no unified guidance on managing this distressing development – which can lurk over a large chunk of our lifespans. We’re left to deal with it on our own.

Generally, we manage this burden in one of two ways. We either rebel against our crumbling reality, or we paralyze ourselves in grief over it.

Neither does us any favors. Indeed, they only serve to make the situation worse.

It’s time for a third option to emerge from the shadows. And to remain transcendent in the limelight.

Let’s get to it.

The doubt set in shortly after my return to running.

I’d been on the shelf for four months, thanks to ankle surgery. Week after week, I’d hobbled around in a protective boot and endured physical therapy sessions – all to help my ankle heal and regain range of motion.

But now, I was back. I was cleared to run again, and to start building up for race training.

At first, I was confident. It would take a bit to get back in shape, sure. But once I did, I’d be just as I was before the surgery. I’d continue pursuing my goals and chasing medals in distance races.

But a few weeks into the process, reality hit me hard.

I was striding forward with the same effort as countless times before. But my feet weren’t hitting the pavement nearly as quickly.

My body seemed tentative. And yet, I felt just as sore and winded as I did in the old days.

I wasn’t slacking off. I just wasn’t as fast as I had been before.

Something had taken away one of my natural gifts — my speed.

Maybe it was the surgery. Maybe it was the passage of time. Perhaps it was both.

Regardless of the culprit, I was distraught. And I felt lost.

But amid my despair, a revelation hit me.

Maybe I couldn’t blaze across the pavement and stand atop the medal stand anymore. But I could still run at a decent pace.

I could still feel the wind in my face and the ground gliding under my feet. I could remain fulfilled with every stride.

In other words, I might have had something taken from me. But I still had plenty left that was worthy of enjoyment.

I try to use this same framing with other aspects of my life that have been stripped away. I might miss departed loved ones, for instance, but I still have the memories and lessons they’ve imparted on me.

It’s not everything. But it’s something.

This reframing is far more than a parlor trick. It’s a suitable path forward for all of us faced with the take era of our lives. It’s a glass-half-full approach tailor-made for an time of distress.

That’s a rope worth grabbing onto.

Let’s do so.

Healthy Differences

The light turned green, and the SUV in front of me inched into the intersection.

I followed, driving at a reasonable pace but an unreasonably close distance.

What else could I do? Keeping space going to be tricky with this vehicle moving at 2 miles an hour ahead of me. Both my view and my way through were obstructed.

I knew I needed to reach the other side of the intersection before the light turned red. Or else, I’d get t-boned by an oncoming vehicle.

So, once I had an ounce of daylight, I pounced. I cut the wheel and accelerated, heading for a lane to the inside of the SUV. As I did, I craned my neck to stare at the driver of then9tyer vehicle.

A young Asian woman was behind the wheel. She was holding a printed-out pamphlet. And she seemed to be reading intently from it rather than looking at the road.

Reading. A document. While driving!

As I sped away from this unconscionable sight, I had but one thought.

Lord have mercy.

About 200 miles away from this ill-fated intersection, there’s a restaurant with a letterboard sign.

El Arroyo is a known entity in Austin, Texas. A restaurant so famous for its Tex-Mex cuisine that it once was mentioned in a Pat Green song. But that letterboard – and the witty sayings displayed on it – has gained even greater renown.

I’ve shared plenty of those letterboard wisecracks with my friends over the years. But only one has made my simultaneously laugh and wince.

It reads: I’m going to need you to drive with the same energy you pulled in front of me with.

I laugh because of the tone this line implies. I wince because of the experience it illustrates.

You see, Miss Pamplet Reader is far from the only clueless driver I’ve needed to steer around over the years. It seems that a great many people have forgotten their Driver’s Education lessons. Or any kernels of common sense, for that matter.

There are the slow drivers who clog up the passing lane. There are the lost drivers who come to a dead stop in the middle of the road, rather than pulling over. And there are the inconsiderate drivers who turn without signaling or merge without looking.

It’s enough to drive an upstanding citizen to road rage.

Of course, I know better than to go nuclear. So, to spare my sanity, I recite a couple lines from the safety of my vehicle when I encounter these troublemakers.

I drive like I have somewhere to be. You drive like you’re just messing around.

It’s neat and tidy. And it draws a clear lane line between me and the imbeciles I encounter on the road.

If only they stayed out of my lane.

These days, there’s a lot of talk about the dangers of divisiveness.

Perhaps this is a function of modern times.

Misogyny is no longer ignored. Racism is no longer broadly accepted. It seems to be a peaceful, enlightened era.

And yet, polarization is everywhere we turn.

It’s a whirlwind.

The knee jerk responses to our puzzling present are pulls to the extremes. Attempts to stamp out any semblance of dividing lines, or to draw them ever thicker.

Neither option is correct.

You see, differences can be useful in certain circumstances. They can provide needed context and help define model behaviors.

Driver classification is one of those circumstances. If we normalized the foibles of bad drivers, our roadways would become an even bigger mess than they currently are. Calling out poor behaviors is necessary to keep things moving properly.

But differences can be a poison pill in other situations. Dividing on the basis of gender, religion, or ethnicity has never been an optimal decision. Nor has doing so led to equitably productive outcomes.

So yes, nuance is everything when it comes to differences. And when matters more than what.

But how do we know the right moments to lean in – and which moments to pull back?

The answer’s not as hard to find as we might think.

In the early 1960s, the United States Supreme Court faced a difficult case.

The nine justices were asked to determine if obscenity was protected by the First Amendment of the U.S. Constitution. But the answer hinged on an even tougher question: What exactly was obscenity?

For all the uproar the term brought, no one could quite define it succinctly.

So, in an opinion for Jacobellis v. Ohio, Justice Potter Stewart introduced a threshold test for obscenity. That test was punctuated by seven words: I know it when I see it.

More than a half century later, few people can recall the details of that case. But they can quote that line ad nauseum.

You see, Stewart’s words were both memorable and resonant. And his phrasing would set a template for other tricky definitions.

Culture is one of them.

It’s easy to identify strong cultural tenets. But have you tried explaining what culture actually is, clearly and succinctly?

If so, I doubt you’ve gotten far.

Fortunately, Seth Godin is up to the task. The marketing guru has defined culture with his own seven-word phrase – one that would make Justice Stewart proud.

People like us do things like this.

Godin and Stewart’s phrases should serve as guideposts for highlighting differences. They can help determine when doing so is healthy and when it’s toxic.

For one phase leans into description, while the other tilts toward action.

I know it when I see it relies solely on our snap judgments. It appeases our own sensibilities but hardly goes deeper.

Such a self-serving approach can lead us to divide based on skin tone, faith, or class – all of which can easily turn toxic.

But People like us do things like this answers a higher calling. It commands us to consider collective values and behaviors. And it inspires us to influence others toward them – generally in mutually beneficial ways.

There are exceptions to this principle of course. History is littered with examples of societies that have exploited groupthink to cause great harm. And plenty of cults are built on the premise of People like us do things like this.

Still, on the balance, action-based differentiation is a signal of a benevolent culture. It helps us to strive for better. To lift each other up, rather than put each other down.

That’s a calling that speaks to me.

So, I will continue to keep my eye on the dividing lines when I’m driving, exercising, working, or otherwise engaged in an activity. I will embrace the variety with a full heart and an open mind.

Spotting differences can be healthy. And I’m here for it.

Are you?

The Insecurity of Power

On August 8, 1974, Richard Nixon addressed the American people.

As White House cameras rolled, Nixon announced that he would be vacating his presidential term the following day.

It was a painfully ironic moment.

Nixon was seemingly at the height of his powers. He had already implemented much of his campaign agenda, and he’d won re-election in a landslide almost two years prior. But now, he was stepping away from it all.

For Nixon had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Dogged reporting had uncovered Nixon’s role in a break-in at the Democratic headquarters two years prior. And in the face of a congressional inquiry, Nixon had tried to cover up his involvement in the whole affair.

These revelations were more than an embarrassment. They constituted a crisis.

And so, facing public pressure and the threat of impeachment, Nixon relinquished his post. He gave up the most powerful position on the planet. And he slunk into obscurity for the rest of his life.

It was a sad ending to Nixon’s story. An ending that was all too predictable.

When I was in school, English class wasn’t my jam.

I didn’t geek out on arcane grammatical exercises or enjoy reading about faded romances in the passages of Jane Eyre. I much preferred history class, or Spanish class, or even photography class.

And yet, when my English teacher assigned the class Macbeth, I found myself captivated by it.

William Shakespeare’s play had all the necessary elements to capture an adolescent’s attention. Ambition. Betrayal. Suspense. Murder. Comedy.

Macbeth was a fun read, no doubt. But it would take me years to internalize its underlying message.

Namely, that absolute power corrupts absolutely.

You see, when we first meet the title character, he is an upstanding and loyal member of the Scottish nobility. But once he’s given a prophecy of greatness by three witches, the shine of his character starts to fade.

This obsession leads Macbeth to slay the Scottish king and cover up his involvement in the dirty deed. The ploy vaults him to the throne. But it also sends his paranoia into overdrive.

Macbeth starts killing off his friends and associates to keep them from taking the crown from him. He becomes obsessed with legacy and succession. And he generally becomes insufferable.

These traits eventually lead Macbeth to overconfidence, which portends his downfall. And that downfall transcends Macbeth into a cautionary tale.

Be careful in how you attain power, the conventional wisdom reads. And be even more careful in how you wield it.

If only it were that simple.

In recent years, there’s been plenty of grumbling about powerful figures in our society. Particularly the well-heeled ones.

The excesses of the billionaire class have been thoroughly documented. And their moves to consolidate power have led to vehement protests.

To those with less than 10 columns of numbers on their net worth statements, these billionaires seem unconscionable. They seemingly have it all, and yet they seem to be squeezing society for even more. It’s a practice that seems wholly unnecessary.

Or is it?

You see, if we put ourselves in the ornate shoes of these elites, we might find them in the same dilemma as Macbeth.

No, they likely don’t have a bloody dagger lying about. And they aren’t channeling their inner Nixon to bury the evidence.

But those same sensations of insecurity are omnipresent within them. In fact, they’re inherent.

For these elites had but two paths to their station in life. They either climbed the ladder from obscurity – as such titans as Jeff Bezos did – or they were born into familial wealth – as it the case with the Waltons, Murdochs, and Hunts.

In each situation, the pressure to maintain is immense. Jeff Bezos and his kind don’t want to lose what they’ve worked so hard to accrue. And the scions of silver spoon families don’t want to waste away multi-generational legacies.

This pressure begets insecurity. That insecurity begets paranoia. And that paranoia leads to sequestration.

Elites build barriers to protect their treasure troves. Then they expand those barriers outward, trampling those below them in the process.

It’s cruelty spurred by caution. A toxic cocktail.

Back when I first learned about Nixon’s foibles and Macbeth’s misdeeds, I had but one reaction.

If I were in that position, I’d be better than that.

It was easy for me to say. I was a good kid who stayed out of trouble. Perjury and murder seemed beyond the pale of my capabilities.

But as I grew older, I realized how wrong that statement was.

Truth be told, if I ascended to such power, I would likely act similarly to those disgraced figures – or the modern-day aristocracy. For I would be afflicted with an insecurity-laden dissonance.

This revelation altered my approach to life.

I still strove to enhance my station and to challenge myself at every turn. But I no longer kept the penthouse in my crosshairs.

It wasn’t a distaste for whitewashed mansions or haggis that kept me from the express escalator.

No. It was an urge to maintain my essence that kept me in check. By failing to chase power, I’d instead find maximal peace. I wouldn’t hear the footsteps. I’d maintain my best qualities and personality traits.

To be clear, such an outcome might still have been possible with full power. Jeff Bezos’ ex-wife Mackenzie Scott, for instance, has remained both well-heeled and well-regarded through the years. She’s kept her head – and a semblance of relatability – through a tireless devotion to philanthropy. And she’s earned plaudits from Time and Forbes magazines in the process.

Still, Scott’s path is a narrow one. It’s a tightrope act that few can traverse.

Indeed, the surest way to avoid the fall from grace is to avoid the pull of power. To leave such dark callings to others, and to entrench oneself in the proletariat.

That is what I believe. That is the path I follow.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.