Month: July 2019

On Excess

How much is too much?

That’s a loaded question. One that varies by where you come from and who you are.

In collective cultures, what is enough to provide for your immediate circle is the upper limit. That means what’s enough to keep your family clothed, housed and fed. The bare necessities.

In individualistic cultures, what’s enough to live the good life is often the upper limit. That means enjoying more than just the requisite. It means taking advantage of fine cuisine, art or entertainment.

And in America? Well, there is no upper limit.

Our society is one built on excess. On taking all we can, and then taking some more.

It’s part of our heritage. Our westward expansion in the 1800s was dubbed Manifest Destiny. That wording transformed the forceful relocation of native tribes and the wars over Mexico’s northern territories from acts of savagery to actions ordained by God.

That spirit has stuck with us to the present day. Drive around Malibu in California or cruise around Star Island in Miami and you’ll see the temples we’ve built to celebrate excess. Mansions owned by the uber-rich — many of whom maintain lavish homes in other locations.

If you were to look in the master closets or garages of these mansions, you’d probably find extravagant clothes that are never worn and sports cars that are rarely driven.

If a utilitarian were to look at this scene, they’d consider it a waste of resources. But that’s precisely the point.

Excess is part of our DNA. It tells the story of who we are better than anything else.

Excess is what popularized the all-you-can-eat buffet and the 30 page menu at The Cheesecake Factory. Excess is what spawned the endless array of TV channels and smartphone apps. Excess is what built the city of Las Vegas into the shrine of decadence it is today.

Excess has appeal. Visitors from other societies find themselves drawn to it, by pure novelty, if nothing else. And emerging cities around the world have even emulated it, through the creation of elaborate skylines and other lavish features.

But excess has severe risks as well.

It’s unhealthy, it’s self-serving, and it’s unbecoming.

If we seek to be treated with dignity and build a legacy filled with reverence, our tendency toward excess is the biggest obstacle to realizing our dreams.

For excess makes us seem primal. Even animalistic.

How so? Consider a tangible example — alcohol consumption.

Imbibing alcoholic beverages has been a time honored tradition throughout human history. Tales of drinking stretch as far back as the Bible. And they’re featured prominently in ancient Greek mythology.

Even in the disjointed world that preceded transcontinental trade routes, alcohol consumption was common in several corners of the globe.

However, the way cultures approached the activity varied. And those variances have persisted into the modern era.

Collective cultures predominantly drink as a form of status. The context of the occasion tends to matter most — particularly in Asia, where familial social customs are critical in maintaining honor and identity. The fact that the beverage consumed at these gatherings happens to be alcoholic is immaterial.

Individualistic cultures predominantly drink for artisanal reasons. Think of the French pairing the right wine with their dinner, or the British enjoying a pint at the pub. Beverages are meant to be savored, even cherished. The attributes of the beverage chosen — taste, smell and fullness — matter as much as the act of drinking it.

And then, there’s America. Where pure volume consumed is the only measure that matters.

Our culture has turned drinking into an ugly form of competition. One replete with a tradition of overbearing peer pressure and a total lack of accountability.

Go to any lake or river and you’ll find people downing drinks by the dozen. Go to the club and you’ll find people ordering bottle service. Go to a wedding or holiday party and you’ll find people cycling back to the open bar, over and over.

Somewhere along the line, we’ve been taught to drink, drink and drink some more. To spend our free time hitting the bottle until we can’t taste what we’re putting into our bodies anymore. To transform our social interactions into inebriated soirees that we won’t remember the next day.

Those critical of this behavior have placed the blame in many corners. But I can find only one such source that best explains it — our culture of excess.

In a society that bends toward decadence, Go big or go home is a rallying cry. Not taking it to the max is considered a sin.

So, we don’t savor cold boozy beverages on a hot day. We force them down our throats it the way Kobayashi or Joey Chestnut inhale hot dogs. And then we down 5 more.

We keep at it until our bodies give in. Even if the end result is a raging headache and a list of regrets, it’s still better than the scorn we’d get for only sticking to a drink or two.

Both collective and individualistic cultures look at this behavior with horror. Getting drunk can be akin to losing face. And downing drinks three at a time is the antithesis of the artisanal credo.

Is it any wonder why American culture is frequently lampooned outside its borders? While other cultures are fascinated by the idea of excess, they’re also disgusted by our implementation of it.

Just as critically, our culture of excess is destroying us from the inside out. The prevalence of binge drinking has caused a trail of collateral damage that has destroyed lives. Our oversized food portions have helped lead to several health crises, from obesity to heart disease. And our desire for more, more, more has helped us get addicted to everything from caffeine to opioids.

By any measure, things are moving in the wrong direction. But there’s an easy way to reverse this trend: Embrace moderation.

This doesn’t mean giving up what we enjoy. It just means giving up on enjoying it endlessly.

It means taking a stand. No more will we clamor for more than we need. No longer will we succumb to the social and marketing pressures telling us that enough is never enough.

When we have enough to be comfortable, we should be comfortable enough to say no to temptation. To use our powers to help others rather than denigrate ourselves through needless decadence.

Some may call this un-American. And they might be right. After all, they have two centuries of history to point to as evidence.

But look around. Excess has caused more harm than good. We — the society that has it all— find ourselves more broken than ever these days.

Let’s put ourselves back together again. Let’s chart a new course.

One that starts with three words.

No. That’s enough.

Are you up for the challenge?

The Favorability Conundrum

It doesn’t matter if people like me, so long as they respect me.

We’ve likely heard this phrase before.

It’s a statement of priorities. A clear proclamation of what we stand for, when push comes to shove.

But it also has an underlying manifesto.

That manifesto claims that popularity is childish. That currying for favor only serves to compromise our integrity.

It’s better to act within our character, this philosophy claims. That way, we will remain respected, even by those unlikely to cheer us on.

And with that respect comes synergy. Others can work with us and for us, without the destructive patterns of overt subversion.

There are many figures in our society who treat this philosophy as gospel. Figures who espouse a degree of authority.

School teachers. Military commanders. Sports coaches. Mafia bosses.

And while I have far less influence than any of these figures, I tend to espouse the same philosophy.

I don’t concern myself with how many people like me or loathe me. I don’t think I’m greatest thing since sliced bread, so why does it matter whether others do?

It’s far more important to me that I am treated with respect. That others give me the benefit of the doubt and provide me the opportunity to deliver on the promises I make.

I’ve long managed my life this way. While others have expanded their social circles for camaraderie and companionship, I’ve generally expanded mine exclusively to discover new opportunities to prove myself. While others yearn to be the life of the party, I seek to be just visible enough that I don’t get trampled.

Let the social butterflies bask in the glow of adulation, I say. Trust is the catnip for my soul.

While I won’t win any popularity contests this way, I don’t feel I need to. So long as I maintain my dignity, I will continue to move forward.

Yet, this philosophy I cherish appears to have hit a dead end. For no matter how much I try and deny it, two words ring true.

Favorability matters.

In a world that changes by the minute, there seem to be few ideals that can be classified as timeless.

Beauty and personality are among those few.

These concepts appear in some of the earliest literature, including the Bible. And some of the most powerful examples of them can be found in Homer’s epic The Odyssey.

The Odyssey is one of the greatest travel narratives of human history. It follows Odysseus as he sails back from the conquest of Troy, running into exotic adventures each time the wind changes direction.

One of the most poignant challenges Odysseus faces comes when he nears the Sirens — beautiful women who sing in harmonic voices. The beauty of the Sirens has lured many a seafarer off-course, causing their ships to splinter on the rocky coast and their crew to perish.

Odysseus has heard rumors of the lethal danger of the Sirens, but he is too charismatic to chart a new course to avoid them. He wants to hear their songs and live to tell others about them.

So, Odysseus orders his crew to chain him to the ship’s mast. And he fills the ears of the crew members with wax, so that they may not be led astray by the divine voices as they sail by.

Thanks to these preparations, Odysseus hears the Siren Song and doesn’t pay for the experience with his life — or the lives of his crewmembers.

He survives to tell the tale. And Millenia later, we still love him for it.

Odysseus’ Siren adventure demonstrates why beauty and personality are timeless. For they can spice up just about any story. And we’re addicted to stories.

The problem is that beauty and personality have been used in countless stories since the Odyssey. They’ve become staples of narrative, gradually conditioning us to the fallacy that good looks and a powerful personality are the keys to success.

This is a myth — a vain and shallow one, at that. But it’s a myth we fully believe in.

So, we aspire to be the cool kid in our school. We spend hours of effort to look our best. And we read How to Make Friends and Influence People in order to fine-tune our personality.

All to achieve the Holy Grail of reverence, and the social status that comes with it.

Yes, being likeable is a societal prerequisite these days.

Favorability matters.

Our bias toward likability has its benefits.

It elevates connection in our society. It promotes friendliness. And it reminds us to do the right thing.

These attributes are a package deal. After all, morality and decency are prerequisites for favorability. Throughout humanity, we’ve found jerks and tyrants repulsive.

But while favorability brings out the best in us on a macro level, the finer details are far less rosy.

For we are a diverse set of people who like many different things. And this divergence of favorability has led directly to the polarization infesting our culture.

If there are some who like our views and tastes, it safe to assume there are others who loathe us for the same qualities.

There is no escaping this quandary. If we take a neutral position and become our own private Switzerland, we end up marginalized and forgotten.

We find ourselves barred from opportunities where likeability is a prerequisite. Which these days is just about any opportunity.

This is hopelessly discouraging to those of us who would rather be struck by lightning than pander to the crowd.

For it proves that merit means next to nothing. That we have far less control over our destiny than we’d like to believe.

Yes, all too often, the doors to our success are manned by others. Others who have the discretion to let us in or keep us out.

If these gatekeepers like us, our window of opportunity remains open. If not, we have no chance.

While we do our best to influence that perception, the truth of the matter is we ultimately do not have control over it. Our destiny is out of our hands, hanging tenuously on a single attribute.

Favorability matters.

With this in mind, what should we do?

Should we build a persona? Should we try and be the person others adore, even if it makes us feel hollow inside?

Should we let it ride? Should we maintain our authenticity and take advantage of whatever opportunities come from it.

I’m honestly not sure. I don’t have the right answer, because I don’t believe there is one.

I’ve seen various approaches work in certain cases. And I’ve seen them go down in flames in others.

So, your mileage may vary.

It’s on you to tinker. To experiment and determine what works best for you.

But no matter what approach you take, keep one thing in mind.

Favorability matters. Proceed wisely.

Leap of Faith

I stood on the platform and took in the view.

To my left and right were palm trees and buildings, illuminated in the steamy morning sunshine.

Below me — some 33 feet below me — was a swimming pool.

I was at the top of the 10 meter dive tower at the University of Miami. And at this moment, I was wondering what I had got myself into.

Wow, I thought. I can see all of campus from here.

Not exactly a reassuring thought, as I prepared to plunge into the water three stories below.

My mind started to race.

What if I overshoot the pool and land on the concrete? What if I injure myself hitting the water? What in the world am I doing?

I thought back to the only time I had seen someone up on the platform who wasn’t on the diving team. It was a girl who won a belly-flop contest the lifeguards set up. She ran off the edge, screaming in terror until she was underwater.

We all laughed insensitively, because that’s what college kids do. But now, the joke was on me.

I looked back at the narrow ladders I had climbed to get here. They looked even more treacherous to descend.

There was only one realistic way down. I knew it. But I wasn’t ready.

I felt a pit in my stomach. The sweat from my anxiety mixed with that from the humidity.

I closed my eyes and opened them. Then I ran off the edge.

The first thing I remember seeing was the water through my peripheral vision.

No, not the peripheral vision that helps us see what’s to our left and right without us turning our heads. The peripheral vision that helps us see what’s above and below us.

We normally don’t think about what we visualize from this vantage point. After all, looking at our shoes gets old pretty quick.

But we’re normally not hurtling 30 feet toward the ground. That changes things.

I was falling, but the water still looked distant. So I started flailing my legs, thinking that would somehow soften the blow.

Suddenly, I remembered the instructions I was given: Run off the edge and make sure you’re straight up when you hit the water.

I stopped moving my legs and let gravity run its course.

As soon I did this, something unexpected happened. I felt a strange sense of calm.

I let gravity do its work. Everything felt Zen.

Well, everything except that rushing sound in my ears. It kept getting louder and louder.

That sound was the air flying by me as I was in freefall. And it was getting louder because I was speeding up.

Suddenly, the water was right below me. I was close — painfully close — to impact.

I made a last ditch effort to straighten my legs. Then, SPLASH.

I hit the water like a ton of bricks. My feet and ankles felt the sting of impact.

After dropping close to 10 feet underwater, I started to ascend back to the surface. Then I slowly swam over to the ladder and climbed onto the deck.

My classmate approached me, holding my digital camera and a few other items I’d temporarily put in her care.

This whole crazy experience was her idea.

She was an NCAA champion diver, and we were in a video production class together. She was at the pool that morning filming a promo for a class project.

She had asked me to tag along to help her carry the video equipment, since some of the clips she was filming were from the 3 meter springboard — about 10 feet above the pool deck. I happily obliged.

“Wear your swim trunks,” she told me the day before the shoot. “That way, you can jump off the 10 Meter when we’re done.”

Now, I had just that. And the adrenaline had yet to wear off.

“Oh, that was something else!” I told my classmate. “Say, which height did you win the NCAA title in, again?”

“The 10 Meter,” she calmly replied.

I stared at her, awestruck.

Diving off the 10 Meter means walking to the edge of that 33 foot high platform and turning around in such a way that your toes are just about the only part of your body still making contact with that platform. It means propelling yourself backwards off the edge, headfirst. It means contorting your body into a set of elaborate twists and rolls as you’re falling. And it means entering the water with pinpoint precision.

It takes a leap of faith just to do this once. As NCAA champion, my classmate had done this hundreds of times — often in the heat of intense competition. And she executed it to precision when it mattered most.

This was no fluke. Three years after my leap of the 10 Meter, my classmate was in London, representing the United States in diving at the Olympic games. There’s no doubt that she’s the best athlete I’ve ever personally met.

Even so, her daily accomplishments from the diving platform put everything in perspective. That acute fear I’d felt moments earlier seemed downright silly now.

I took a deep breath, and resolved not to make such a big deal out of what I’d just done.

In the years since my plunge from the 10 Meter, I’ve had other aquatic adventures.

I’ve jumped off a 10 foot dock into a lake inlet. And off the top of a party barge into the middle of a different lake.

It was fun to take flight. And on scorching Texas summer afternoons, I dare say it was necessary to plunge into cooler waters.

Yet, both times, I failed to feel the exhilaration I did after I jumped off the 10 Meter. The apprehension was gone, but so was the rush of energy.

This was not because of differences in the height I jumped from. It was because of something far more fundamental.

My 10 Meter experience represented the first leap of faith I ever took. Quite literally.

I put myself in a position to do something both novel and uncomfortable. I felt the fear and I did it anyway.

I was better for the experience. I unlocked confidence and courage I didn’t realize I had before.

This confidence and courage came in handy months later, when I moved halfway across the country to a city I had never been to and started working in a field I had little experience in.

It helped me again years later, when I switched careers and moved to another new city without a job lined up.

And it has helped me in countless other, less-dramatic scenarios as well.

Feeling the fear and doing it anyway is a vital part of growing up.

For we will all encounter a new experience in our lives. Whether that starting a job, starting a family or starting to notice changes in our physical abilities. Or maybe even all three.

There’s no reference guide for these experiences. Sure, we can lean on the knowledge of those who’ve encountered these experiences before, but that won’t fully prepare us for what we feel in the moment.

We will feel apprehension —  if not abject terror — as we navigate these experiences firsthand for the first time. This is normal.

Yet, our ability to make it through the changes, and to grow from the experience, only comes if we’re willing to take a leap of faith. To feel the fear and do it anyway.

And that journey has to start somewhere.

Maybe not on the top of a 10 Meter dive tower, as mine did. But somewhere.

So, let us resolve to be bolder. To look out upon that new experience on the horizon that terrifies us and to face it head on.

Let us resolve to take a leap of faith.

Our future depends on it.

No Rest

I’m wide awake.

The dulcet tones of Katy Perry reverberated through the taxi as it pulled away from Chicago O’Hare Airport.

It was a chilly, rainy morning in early fall. One of those dreary days where a cup of Starbucks and Katy Perry on the radio would be a nice proxy for an alarm clock.

Yet, I had been awake for six hours already. I had caught two separate flights while traveling from Texas to Illinois to visit my sister. And I’d done all this on three hours of sleep.

Hearing I’m wide awake over and over again in that vehicle was like a cruel joke. I wasn’t having it.

No! I thought. I am NOT wide awake!

Yet, I soldiered through.

I survived the long ride to Evanston, where I rendezvoused with my sister — at the time a senior at Northwestern University. We then headed down to Chicago for some sightseeing, culminating our trek with dinner at my favorite restaurant.

It was a great day. A glorious day. Yet, my only ammunition to ward off exhaustion was iced coffee and a catnap.

So, by about 8:30 PM, I was toast. I passed out on my sister’s couch.

 

I think about this day often, for two reasons.

First, it ruined a perfectly good Katy Perry song.

Second, it encapsulates the past decade of my life.

I’ve kept my days busy. I’ve achieved a lot in a condensed period of time.

But what I’ve not done is get enough sleep.

This is partially due to logistics. Working an evening shift in my TV news days — and, years later, taking business school classes at night — meant I had to get used to jetting out of town at the crack of dawn when I wanted to travel.

This is partially due to necessity. I could tackle my tri-weekly two-mile outdoor run on a scorching Texas summer afternoon, I suppose. But running at dawn — when the heat is less oppressive — seems like a safer bet. And that requires getting up early.

And this is partially due to my nature. I’m a morning person who would rather be out and about than sleep in.

But regardless of the cause, all of it is an issue.

Don’t count the days. Make the days count.

Those powerful words come from the late Muhammad Ali. They’ve been quoted time and again.

But with great power comes great responsibility. And we’ve been using The Greatest’s words in vain.

Entrepreneurs — particularly those in Silicon Valley — invoke Ali when they treat sleeplessness as a badge of honor. The gig economy encourages millions of people to work 18 hours at a time. And many of us — including me — pack our days with activities, whether it’s a workday or not.

This is asinine.

We are humans, not machines.

We perform best when we’re most energized.

Yet, we only have a finite amount of energy. Energy that depletes over time and must be replenished.

Much as it takes time for our smartphones, laptops and other electronic devices to recharge, our bodies take time to replenish energy.

Traditional wisdom has said we need eight hours of uninterrupted rest. I’m lucky if I get six hours in an average night. Many others are even worse off than I am in this regard.

And no matter what some might say, we can’t make these hours up. Binge-sleeping doesn’t undo the damage of chronic exhaustion.

This is an issue. A major issue.

And motivational quotes about our productivity culture aren’t helping it one bit.

There is a prevailing narrative that as long as we’re awake, we’re capable of great things.

This is a myth.

When we’re exhausted, we’re compromised.

Sure, we’re able to see, to walk, to speak. But we’re also more easily agitated, more prone to error and a danger to ourselves and others.

Drowsy driving can be as devastating as drunk driving. And those heated late-night arguments with loved ones are extra vicious because our emotional control mechanisms are compromised

Even the toxic culture found at companies like Uber in recent years likely has roots in exhaustion. A company built on long days and sleepless nights doesn’t, by itself, spark misogyny. But the lingering corporate culture can spread acceptance system-wide.

Yes, there are profound dangers to our always-on culture.

Rapid advancements in technology might have made 24/7 commerce possible. And drinks supercharged with sugar and caffeine might have extended our daily time horizons.

But our bodies still rely on circadian rhythms. They’re in our nature.

We can try to innovate around this, but the results are inevitable. Inevitable and devastating.

As Dr. Malcolm says in Jurassic Park, Nature will always find a way.

So, what can we do to right ourselves?

It’s pretty simple. Commit to more sleep.

And while some might take this as an excuse to sleep in more, or work later shifts, I believe in the opposite.

I believe the answer lies in going to bed earlier and rising with the morning light.

For the sun is our ultimate guide. In the days before electricity and blackout shades, it had profound influence on our schedule.

Today — in the age of bars, nightclubs and late night TV — that pattern is reversed. We burn the midnight oil. We fight the sun, rather than work with it.

Getting back on the right track means getting attuned with nature.

And while I find this edict challenging as I balance a job and night classes, I am taking steps in the right direction.

I am committed to going to bed earlier on weekends, and on weekday evenings when I’m not in class. I even took a break in writing this article to get some shut-eye. At 10 PM on a Saturday when I had nothing on my schedule for the next day.

The result? I get my eight hours of sleep more often than I used to. And I wake up fully recharged more often as well.

We can all see benefits from following a policy like this one.

Sure, there will be sacrifices. No more midnight movies. No more taking advantage of cheap fare on red-eye flights.

But the benefits outweigh the costs.

Not only for us, but for everyone we come in contact with.

So, let’s do what we can to get the right amount of rest. Consistently.

That way, I’m wide awake can be more than a line in a Katy Perry song. It can be a universal reality.

Self-Monitor

How well do you understand yourself?

Probably not as well as you think.

This statement is not meant to be an insult. It’s more a recognition of inherent blind spots in our own understanding.

For there are three components to our existence: Which values we hold internally, how we project those values externally and how others receive those projections.

All too often, when we claim self-actualization, we only have a grasp on the first two of these components. Or perhaps only the first one.

Calibrating our internal compass is important. It shields us from a self-fulfilling destiny of falsehoods and inconsistency. Having that True North reminds us of who we are and what we stand for, so that we may live our life consistent with those principles.

Yet, we do not live our lives in a vacuum. We rely on others for community and companionship. And as such, we must be vigilant when expressing our core tenets to those around us.

If we maintain consistency of purpose, clarity of vision and an unwavering commitment to our North Star, we can evoke clarity. We can engender trust. We can build connection.

The act of projecting our values doesn’t have to be flashy. But it should remain within character at all times.

Some of us might consider ourselves proficient at pulling this off. Others of us might not. Still others couldn’t care less.

Regardless of how we feel, the honest truth is the same: We likely have no clue about our ability to show the world who we are.

That’s because it’s not entirely up to us. It’s also up to those who receive our message and make their own assessment of it.

The opinion of others matters. It can open the door to opportunities or bar us from them. It can secure us a golden legacy or one of infamy.

We’ve traditionally downplayed this aspect of self-understanding. After all, other people can be unpredictable; gaining their acceptance can quickly devolve into a high-stakes guessing game. And pandering to the crowd could cause us to sacrifice our long-term values for short-term acceptance.

None of this is desirable.

So, we resolve to stay true to ourselves and focus on staying on a righteous path. The idea being that if we do this, everything else will fall into place.

It’s a nice thought. A utopian thought. And a deeply flawed thought.

That flaw in this idea? Our own humanity.

We are not perfect. Far from it.

And our bias blinds us to the truth.

Even if we believe we’re on the right path, there could be all manner of mistakes to stealthily sabotage our mission. There could be all sorts of blind spots to trip us up.

Workplaces have started to recognize this issue in recent years. That’s one reason why 360 degree assessments have taken over an increasing share of performance reviews.

Seeing how employees view themselves compared to how others view them provides a clearer picture. Aggregating these responses allows for more actionable feedback.

Yet, while this system has been helpful inside office walls, much of our life exists outside of them. And there are no scheduled performance reviews in the Real World.

So, how can we make sure we’re staying on track? How can we better understand the whole picture?

We can self-monitor.

Self-monitoring involves discovering our latent flawed tendencies and taking proactive steps to eradicate them. Much like a 360 feedback session, it requires us to step outside of our common perspective and view ourselves in a new light.

But this time, it’s not a supervisor initiating the cross-examination process. We’re running the show.

That means the right mindset is critical.

Self-monitoring requires humility, vulnerability and flexibility. It demands that we keep our eyes open, as well as our minds.

We must get comfortable with these traits, even if they make us squirm at first. For it is only by encountering our weaknesses that we can find our true strength.

Once we’ve bought into the self-monitoring mindset, we can commit ourselves to observation. We can see to how others react to us and follow up with subtly probing questions to get more context.

A self-critical perspective is crucial here. If we take on this task convinced of our own greatness, we won’t give these subtle cues from others their due process. We’ll consider them to be a nuisance at best, and an affront at worst — ignoring the critical role they might play in our identity.

A contrarian view provides for an open mind. And an open mind can lead to greater success.

After our period of observation, we should take some time to reflect.

What insights can we draw from the reactions we’ve seen? Are there situations where we’re viewed more favorably than others? Are there times when we act out of character?

This period of reflection can alert us to our unsavory tendencies — particularly those tied to a particular state of mind.

Perhaps we snap at others under stress. Or, we freeze when we unexpectedly find ourselves in the middle of a crisis.

If we hadn’t self-monitored, we likely wouldn’t have unearthed inconsistencies like these. But now that we’ve discovered them, we can work on replacing them with habits that better reflect our values.

We can come up with action plans for these new habits and practice them until they become muscle memory. Until the old tendencies are fully wiped away by the new ones.

Then, we can repeat the entire self-monitoring process. We can make new observations, find new insights and break new ground in ridding ourselves of inconsistencies and bad habits.

We can repeat the process, over and over — improving ourselves with each cycle.

This will make us well-rounded. And it can curry favor among those who once quietly disapproved of some aspect of our persona.

We still won’t be perfect, but we’ll be less flawed.

All of this is only possible when we surrender to a deeper level of introspection. And that’s only possible if we take the time to self-monitor.

So, let’s stop hiding in the safe havens of our own perspective. Let’s do the heavy lifting to truly understand ourselves. And to elevate ourselves to be the best we can be.