Month: August 2018

On The Precipice

I’m on the edge of glory, and I’m hanging on a moment of truth.

These iconic Lady GaGa song lyrics speak volumes.

Whether we’re watching our favorite TV show, playing Monday Morning Quarterback after a football game or researching business case studies for work, the narratives we absorb have one thing in common.

They hang on the precipice. On the point of divergence between what got us here and where we’re going from here.

These cliffhanger moments are both overdramatic and overly cliché. But we continue to see them because they work.

That feeling of being on the edge of something new exhilarates us. Much like the moment before that first big drop on our favorite roller coaster, we can feel the butterflies of anticipation.

We’re addicted to this narrative. And the content creators are addicted to our addiction.

So, the literature we read, the hot air we listen to on the radio, the moving pictures we binge on our flatscreen TVs — all are filled with moments of truth.

It’s as if these game changing moments are a dime a dozen, just waiting for us to grab them.

They shouldn’t be.

You see, continually living life on the precipice is as irresponsible as it is exhilarating.

For those turning point moments are more than just high drama. They’re often the result of a lack of prior execution.

If the person or company facing a moment of truth had acted earlier, their future wouldn’t hinge on one make-or-break decision.

Debate the thought process for the fourth down play all you want. If you’d moved the ball enough on the first three downs, it wouldn’t have come down to one play.

Evaluate that big acquisition all you want. If the company had kept its financial health in order, then maybe it wouldn’t have had to bet the farm on such a risky move.

Glorify Jordan Belfort’s life all you want. But The Wolf of Wall Street wouldn’t be writing memoirs and sales coaching books for restitution money if he hadn’t spent years defrauding investors.

Yes, just like our fixation with the Rock Bottom Paradox, we can’t seem to move off of the life-and-death moments. We celebrate the winners and take lessons from the losers — all without realizing that all participants have already lost.

The real winners? They’re the ones who never brought their venture to the edge of a cliff. They planned ahead, executed with consistent precisions and heeded the warning signs of lurking danger.

You don’t hear about these winners, because their stories are wholly unmemorable. The highs and lows of their journey don’t captivate our imagination, call to our fears or stimulate our aspirations.

Make no mistake, though. This is the path we should follow.

It’s far more likely to get us to where we want to go. And it’s far less likely to put us in a spot where we risk losing it all.

So, forget the fancy narratives and the juicy cliffhangers.

The steady path forward is enough.

No Filter

How will you act with no net?

With no excuse? No safety blanket?

With no filter?

I try and answer as affirmatively as possible. For it’s the way I live my life.

I don’t pass the buck for my actions. The responsibility lies with me, and me alone.

If I make mistakes, I do what I can to rectify them. I’m not perfect, but I can strive to be better.

For I am the master of my domain. It’s critical that I assert control over my actions, even when I’m not in prime condition.

If I do something out of step because I’m sleep deprived, ill or under any number of influences, I own it. Then, I take the steps to depreciate those conditions moving forward.

Those steps could include giving up drinking, maintaining a healthier diet or adhering to a proper sleep schedule.

Regardless, the end goal is simple. I get to look upon the world without a filter. And the world gets to see the real me in real time. All the time.

Others know what to expect of me. They know how I’m likely to act.

And they know that the words coming out of my mouth — or being typed into this article — have gravitas. They have intention behind them.

I adhere to a consistent, accountably approach because I believe strongly in the One True Self philosophy. While others might believe in Being Their Best Self, I see that line of thinking as a farce — one that gives people an unwarranted Mulligan for times when they don’t act up to par.

Make no mistake. The world is watching our every move. Our actions carry more weight than our excuses.

The guy who makes a fool of himself while drunk doesn’t get a pass. Neither does the girl who says offensive things to others when she’s tired and cranky.

What we say and what we do resonates. Regardless of context, it resonates.

Heck. In this era, our facepalm moments might even go viral — for all the wrong reasons.

It’s time to cut ties with the Best Self Fallacy. To stop stumbling through life dazed when we find it convenient.

It’s time to be more accountable. To be more aware.

This might be uncomfortable at first. Especially in a world where the radio implores us to Blame it on the alcohol, amongst other vices.

But we must power through. We owe it to all those around us to take this step forward.

For we can offer so much more by being more consistent. And we can eliminate a great deal of collateral damage.

So, let’s find greater clarity.

Let’s approach life with no filter.

The Rock Bottom Paradox

At the start of the year, I gave up drinking.

I was not in crisis, but I had my reasons.

I didn’t like what alcohol did to my body or mind. I wanted to save the money that beer and liquor cost. And I wanted to ensure I was always in a situation where there was someone sober that could get behind the wheel.

It was a necessary move. A calculated one. But I wasn’t prepared for what would come of it.

For while my decision made me feel healthier and more fulfilled, it also opened me up to a constant line of questioning.

Why did you stop drinking?

What’s wrong with having a cold one now and then?

Did something bad happen?

Is there something wrong with booze?

Is everything OK?

I tried to anticipate the question. To have an answer at the ready.

But in truth, I felt like I was in that scene in Forrest Gump when the media bombarded Forrest with questions about why he was running.

As question after question rolled in, he gave one simple answer.

I just felt like running.

I can relate to that. I just felt removing alcohol from my life was the best thing to do. Simple as that.

And getting a barrage of questions about it quickly wore me out.

I understand the source of these questions. I don’t live in Utah, or a dry county in West Texas. Drinking is very much a societal norm. And I’m an outlier.

Yet, I find the line of questioning troublesome.

You see, the first question in the series is innocuous. People want to figure out what keeps me from raising a glass or clinking a beer bottle with them.

But once people find out I didn’t make my choice because of alcoholism or a DUI, they start grilling me with question after question.

They simply can’t grasp that someone would shun drinking all on their own. That no demons would be involved in the decision.

I’m not sure why this perception is so prevalent. But I don’t like it.

Why must we hit rock bottom in order to better ourselves?

I fail to see how that trajectory does anyone any good.

For when we wait until we bottom out to seek change, there’s collateral damage. Traumatic things happen. People get hurt. Or worse.

Sure, it makes for a better story when someone reforms themselves and emerges from the darkness. When an antihero finds redemption, everyone soaks up the narrative.

I know this pattern well. I’m a storyteller and a former news producer.

But are the warm fuzzies of a comeback from despair really worth the price paid to get there? Are they worth the suffering, the ruined lives and the traumatic memories that ensue when we let bad habits spiral into disaster?

Not at all.

I might not have ever hit rock bottom with my drinking habits. I might never have seen firsthand the misfortune and devastation that alcohol can bring.

But I wasn’t willing to take that chance.

I wasn’t willing to cede control of my mind just to live without inhibitions. I wasn’t willing to shed my dignity just to make it onto the dance floor. I wasn’t willing to drag my body through a round of beers — let alone 10 rounds with Jose Cuervo — just to fit in.

No, I drew the line. No demons were going to come out of that bottle. Not for me anyway.

Now this is not to say I think drinking is a bad thing. What’s wrong for me might not be wrong for everyone.

But the Rock Bottom Paradox needs to go.

We need to stop looking to the chasm as our source of redemption. To stop glorifying the canyon floor as the launchpad for the stars.

Far more good comes from righting the ship before it teeters over the edge. From finding salvation through pre-emptive action.

It won’t make for a compelling Hollywood script. It won’t make us memorable or legendary.

No. Instead we will all prosper. No one and nothing will have to be sacrificed for us to see the light.

Isn’t that worth it?

How We’re Wired

How are you wired?

It’s a question that gets to the heart of our individuality.

For the way we operate is not standard. Everyone has their own approach, their own flavor.

And that variance in styles — that diversity — is what makes us innovative. It allows us to grow and adapt in ways that our ancestors never could.

If we are able to fully understand exactly how we operate, we can use that information to maximize our effectiveness. We can actively work to make the world better.

As such, determining how we’re wired is both personal and powerful.

I recently discovered then when I set out to determine how I am wired.

It all started with a career assessment. The exercise highlighted that I approach situations with an “engineering mindset.”

I saw those words and laughed incredulously. After all, I considered myself the furthest thing from an engineer. My arithmetic skills have long been lacking, and I struggled mightily in most science classes I took.

Yet, the more I thought about it, the more I understood what the assessment said.

You see, an engineering mindset is not about complicated math formulas and high-level scientific laws. It’s about developing a consistent process for problem solving.

This means classifying what occurs in an often-messy world into a set of inputs and outputs. It means focusing on the journey between those points as much as the result.

It takes intense discipline, obsessive organization and a Spockian adherence to logic to live into this mindset.

It’s a trio that’s hard to put into practice. Yet, I’ve been making it work for years. I just hadn’t realized it until I took that assessment.

Why not? Because, as a writer and former journalist, I’ve traditionally considered myself a connoisseur of the softer skills. I’ve believed in the power of logic, but have long felt that emotion was a more critical element in my work.

Emotion is what inspires connection. It’s what drives action. It’s what makes one resonant and makes contributions memorable.

As such, I’ve harbored a profound obsession with emotion. I’ve shared my thoughts on connection, context and intent in this space and throughout my daily life. I’ve rehashed the memories that have taken my breath away, in the hope of inspiring those same feelings in others.

I can’t help it. I’m a storyteller. This is the way I communicate.

Yet, under the hood, my day-to-day life looks much different.

From the moment I spring out of bed to the moment I collapse back into it, my day is full of choices.

Everything from what shirt I wear to whether I buy a pack of Skittles from the checkout line rack is up for grabs. Anything and everything that requires time or money sparks an internal deliberation.

These choices I face daily represent a series of inputs. And the decisions I make in each instance represent outputs.

In between, I do a lot of careful calculations in real time.

I look at the costs and benefits of each option, and their probabilities. Then, I determine whether each option worth the requisite resources.

I am both deliberate and decisive in choosing the best path forward.

Many times, the choices I make put me in a better position to succeed. Or at the very least, they keep me in line with my goals.

Other times, things don’t work as anticipated. Whether through bad luck or bad choices, I don’t get the result I’m looking for.

But either way, I know that I did my due diligence. I recognize that my careful and calculated approach gave me agency over the decision. And I understand that I eliminated much of the variability of outcomes.

This approach is not for everyone. It takes a lot of energy and willpower. And that probably explains why I’m continually in thought, and able to carefully observe the details of my surroundings.

Yet, this is the way I’m wired. And now that I recognize it, I must admit that I’m quite comfortable with it.

In fact, I can’t see myself approaching life any other way.

Still, I know that others approach their daily lives quite differently. And that the world is better for this diversity of thought, this balance of cognitive approach.

The key is for us all to recognize our patterns. To see which ingredients we bring to the table, and then use them to build and innovate.

So, let’s start that process — with a question.

How are you wired?

Your answer could make all the difference.

The Big Shift

The afternoon was cold and raw.

Rain was cascading nonstop from the gray October sky.

It was the perfect weather to stay inside and read a book, or watch television. But I was doing neither.

I was out on wooded dirt trail in the 38-degree chill.

Outfitted in a T-shirt, shorts and a pair of running shoes, I sprinted for a quarter mile up a steep hill. Rain drenched my face and stuck to my clothes with every striding step.

My reward when I got to the top? To jog back down to the bottom of the hill and do it all over again.

Jog, not walk. After all, the number one rule of Cross Country practice: No Walking Allowed.

By the fourth jaunt up the hill, I was dragging. My quad muscles were so full of lactic acid that I felt like I’d been stabbed. My arms were raw from the elements. My teeth were chattering.

I made it to the top, and our coach mercifully called it a day.

By the time we got back to the locker room — a full mile from Hell’s Hill — I could barely move. I sat on a bench for what felt like eternity.

Never again, I told myself.

Never again will I subject myself to this.

 

If you had told me how this scene would play out two months earlier, I flat out would not have believed you.

I was preparing to start high school, and to experience all the changes that would bring.

One of my main goals for my freshman year was to make the Junior Varsity baseball team. So, when the baseball coach encouraged me to join the Cross Country team — which he also coached — I didn’t think twice.

How hard can this be? I thought. I’ve run before.

I quickly learned just how wrong I was.

For my first practice, my task was to run a mile-long loop on the backcountry trails near school. I didn’t run up Hell’s Hill that day, but I did weave my way through some remote and hilly trails.

All the while, the coach paced me on his bicycle. There was no chance to slow down, even after I began to suck wind a half mile into the run.

Still, discouraged as I was, I decided to keep going. It was important for me to show the coach how resilient I was. It would pay dividends in the spring. And staying in shape couldn’t be a bad thing — although I was a string bean back then anyways.

Over the following months, I learned to shift my habits. I swapped out fries and Coca-Cola for Subway and Gatorade. I committed to stretching properly. And I learned to conserve my energy on race day.

I found that by sprinting that final quarter mile of the race, instead of the first one, I could pass dozens of fatigued runners and bolster my final position. That tactic became my secret weapon.

It seemed as if everything was working out. That I could learn to love this brutal sport after all.

Then, that fateful afternoon in the rain came to pass.

No more, I told myself. This would be my first and last season on the team.

I finished the year with a medal in the Freshman State Championships. Then, I walked away.

There was no going back. Not to Cross Country. Not to running regularly.

I was done.

Or was I?

I’m doing it again.

The thought crossed my mind as I scaled a 100-foot hill, with the day’s first light ahead of me.

The origins of what was sure to be another triple-digit summer day were taking its toll on me. As I cut through the muggy predawn air, my shirt and face were drenched in sweat. My quads felt the familiar resistance of that cold afternoon from half my life ago.

Yet, I powered through. I continued to push the pace.

Yes, a lot had changed since I walked away from running. I grew up, fell out of shape and had a shift in perspective.

Somewhere along the line, I decided that running could help me get back on track. So, I started spending 10 minutes on the treadmill twice a week.

But even with that workout in tow, I felt something was missing. I missed the thunder of my shoes hitting the pavement, the freshness of the air in my lungs, the excitement of every stride taking me somewhere new.

So, I started running a mile in my neighborhood. That mile run quickly became a two-mile loop. Then, I added a third run to my weekly routine, so that I was hitting the pavement roughly every other day.

I could feel the difference. My running regimen made me healthier, happier and more balanced. What was once a nuisance activity was now an essential part of my life.

So, I made sure to get my scheduled running in each week, no matter the weather. I ran in everything from 1-degree wind chills to 107-degree heat indices, blazing sunshine to pouring rain.

Then, I moved.

I had to find a new running route. And my search led me to the 100-foot hill.

At first, I didn’t want to mess with it. Too steep of a grade. Too tall a task.

But eventually, curiosity got the better of me.

And now, here I was. Scaling the hill. Dealing with déjà vu all over again.

Only this time there was a twist.

I wasn’t taking on this grueling workout because I had to. I was taking on “The Death Run” because I wanted to.

The steady hands of time and fate had gradually guided my back to one of the most miserable moments of my youth. And somehow, they led me to find joy in it.

The irony was palpable. It lingered long after my workout ended.

There must be a lesson in this, I told myself. It can’t be pure circumstance.

Still, I had trouble finding the connection, until I put pen to paper.

I realize now how well this experience showed life’s circuity. That over time, we can learn to love the things we once despised. We can embrace experiences we once abhorred.

Better yet, we can thrive off of these changes. We can use them to push our boundaries, gain fulfillment and become more well-rounded.

We’re all better served by embracing the power that big shifts can have in our life. By adopting a growth mindset. By replacing the word never with perhaps someday.

For we don’t know what surprises the future might hold. We don’t know if the mountain standing in our way now might provide the key to self-fulfillment later.

Endless possibilities await. An open mind is the key.

Don’t throw it away.