October 2019 - Ember Trace

Being Deliberate

Speed.

It’s exhilarating. Intoxicating. Addicting.

We strive to use speed whenever we’re in action — whether we’re driving, running errands or making important choices.

We can’t help ourselves.

Time is money, as they say. And life’s too short for us to waste any of it.

So we go ever faster.

We engineer our lives to win the next sprint — whether it be a week, a day or a singular moment. We rely on technology to cut out the slack in everything from ordering food to managing our finances. And we prioritize snap decisions at every turn.

It might seem as if the sky’s the limit with this approach. As if our skyrocketing productivity can lead to skyrocketing potential.

But looks can be deceiving.

In an era where everything moves fast, few things stand the test of time.

But one movie does just that.

The movie is called 12 Angry Men. It was released back in 1957, but still remains relevant today.

Why? Because it focuses upon a time-honored American tradition — jury trials.

The concept of justice being determined by a jury of one’s peers dates back to the drafting of the United States Constitution. And each week, somewhere in America, a group of 12 people sit in a room and determine the fate of the accused.

I’ve yet to meet someone who enjoys this task. After all, the burden of consequence for the jury’s decision is profound. And these discussions generally come after grueling days of testimony.

For men and women who have sacrificed their job and family responsibilities in the name of civic duty, this decisive phase of the trial can seem excruciating.

Yet, there’s another reason a jury decision seems as pleasant as a root canal to many of those involved. It’s a reason that cuts to the crux of 12 Angry Men.

Moments like these force people to be deliberate.

Jurors must consider the facts at hand and weigh their veracity. Then, they need to come to a unanimous decision.

Quick decisions generally won’t work here. There is often too much ambiguous information to consider. Expecting 11 others to come to a consensus in less time than it takes to heat up some taquitos in the microwave is simply unrealistic.

No, jurors must take their time, hash everything out, and then make an informed decision.

Jury deliberations are great examples of what the Nobel Prize-winning economist Daniel Kahneman has coined Thinking Slow.

Although this phrasing might make it seem like slow thinkers are dim witted, this is actually not the case. They are usually quite bright.

The difference between slow thinking and fast thinking comes down to approach. Fast thinkers prioritize the speed of the decisions they make over the breadth of information considered. Slow thinkers prioritize the breadth of information over the speed of decisions.

To be sure, there are situations that call for each type of thinking. If military commanders are under fire in a war zone, for instance, they must make decisions quickly to keep their entire unit from getting killed. But when out of imminent danger, such commanders are best served considering all the possibilities before deciding whether to move forward.

There is a delicate balance — one defined by the contours of context.

This balance is critical. Yet, it seems to have shifted in recent years.

Indeed, away from the jury room, the military base or the chess table, it’s hard to find places where slow thinking is encouraged anymore.

And that is a significant problem.

I am a deliberate thinker.

I take pride in gathering all the information I can before making my move. Even if it takes me a while to take decisive action.

When I was applying to business school, I spent five days determining which school’s offer I would accept.

When my car was in the shop for an AC issue, I built a full financial model comparing the likely cost of the repair with the cost of paying off my loan and replacing the vehicle.

In both these instances — and many others — my approach has helped guide me to the right choice. Even if that choice might not have been evident at first glance.

By removing the emotional influence of initial impressions, I can make decisions that are logical. By taking the time to digest the relevant information, I can make decisions that are well-informed.

The end result is worth the extra time it takes to get there.

But in a world set up for fast thinkers and quick decisions, my mission is challenged at every turn.

Critical decisions are often thrust at me without advance warning. And supporting information is often withheld.

All of this is done in an attempt to get me to make a hasty, emotion-laden decision. The kind of decision that separates me from my wallet.

This behavior is not unexpected. Consumer purchasing power is the fuel for capitalism’s engine. So, it’s only natural that others would covet my attention, my loyalty and my money — even if they have to resort to Jedi Mind Tricks to get it.

If I were inexperienced at this fast thinking game, I’d be vulnerable. Fortunately, I have the tools to operate in it — thanks to the time I spent as a TV news producer.

But while I can navigate the treacherous waters of fast thinking, it’s not a task I enjoy.

So, I do what I can to flip the switch.

I use guile in order to make decisions my way. To give myself the opportunity to be deliberate whenever possible.

This often means considering the what ifs.

It means anticipating a repair cost before I get the estimate. It means thinking about downstream results of a potential decision, and pontificating on the new choices those results will bring me.

These types of mind games take ingenuity, an understanding of systems and a fair amount of paranoia. They require me to abandon any air of the naivete that comes with living in the moment — all so I can imagine a far more ambiguous future.

Yet, I find this sacrifice is worthwhile.

For it allows me to prepare for those fast-thinking moments. And it allows me to make the decisions that are in my best long-term interest.

We all can benefit from being deliberate.

It will make us more conscientious, more self-aware and savvier. It will allow us to broaden our time horizon when evaluating decisions. And it will allow our minds to find a greater equilibrium.

So, don’t be afraid to ease off the accelerator. To pause long enough for a deep breath. To consider all the options before making your choice.

Slower can often be better.

Reference Points

Shake it. Shake it. Shake it. Shake it like a Polaroid picture.

These are lyrics from an up-tempo hit song called Hey Ya — which was released by the Hip-Hop duo Outkast. If you’ve been to a party in recent years, this song was likely on the playlist.

The song was recorded in 2002. Which means it’s not all that old, but it’s not exactly hot off the presses either.

And while the tune remains distinctive, signs of its age are evident.

There are some lines that name-drop figures that remain relevant today (Beyonce), and others that don’t (Lucy Liu).

And then there’s that reference to Polaroid pictures. A reference that’s starting to wilt against the weight of time.

Why? Consider this.

There are many several high school students across America who weren’t even born when Hey Ya first hit the airwaves. Teenagers who don’t even know what a Polaroid picture is.

In a few short years, these high schoolers will be the young adults at the parties where Hey Ya is played. And they won’t understand what Outkast is talking about.

A musical masterpiece will fade into mediocrity. All because the perspective will have shifted.

And that, in no small way, is tragic.

Hey Ya is not the only entertainment staple to age poorly. Far from it.

Many songs feature over-the-hill cultural references. Many TV shows have dated set decorations and graphics. And many movies feature “cutting-edge” features that have become a punch line in the years after their cinematic releases.

When we encounter these works of art today, we’re ensconced by nostalgia. The memories come flooding back, and our hearts gush as we reminisce.

Yet, there’s a bittersweet side to all the warm fuzzies.

For we know that there are others who won’t ever have a chance to see the world as we once did. To truly participate in the trips down memory lane these pieces of entertainment provide us.

There’s a connection that’s missing — one that has drifted out of sight behind us. These entertainment relics and our own memories are the only bridges connecting us to them.

Sometimes that connection is more style than substance. Polaroid pictures were one a nice gimmick — glossy photos that developed in real-time — but digital photography quickly proved them obsolete.

Other times, the connection is more substantial. Payphones might seem ludicrous to anyone under the age of 25 these days, but they were once an important part of life to everyone else. In an era before everyone had a supercomputer in their pocket, payphones were critical for making plans on the go.

As time moves on and new tools emerge, these erstwhile staples of life get lost. And the cultural remnants capsize with them.

For the perspective has shifted. The new reality is all that’s relevant now.

Reference points mean everything.

Four years ago this week, I launched Words of the West with a confession. One that read I am not perfect.

That statement is as true today as it was then. But I wonder how much else from those early days is still valid.

The world has changed a lot in four years — becoming ever more complicated, divisive and cynical.

And I have grown a lot in four years — pushing my own boundaries and using my voice ever more boldly.

With all this growth and change, today’s reference points are a far cry from those of four years ago.

And while I’ve tried to make each and every one of these articles stand up to the test of time, I know that some simply cannot.

For what they refer to is dated. And their relevance has faded.

This bothers me.

I don’t want to my words to become mothballed relics. To be as irrelevant as Rand McNally atlases in the age of connected cars.

No, I want my words to remain resonant. I want my messages to help and inspire others.

That is why I’ve committed to sharing a fresh article each and every week for four straight years. And that why I plan on sharing articles for years to come.

Misplaced references represent missed opportunities for me to achieve these objectives. And while missed opportunities are inevitable in life, it doesn’t make them any more welcome.

And so, against my better judgment, I rue lost opportunities.

But should I?

There’s not a day goes by I don’t feel regret. Not because I’m in here, because you think I should. I look back on the way I was then: a young, stupid kid who committed that terrible crime. I want to talk to him. I want to try to talk some sense to him, tell him the way things are. But I can’t. That kid’s long gone, and this old man is all that’s left.

This soliloquy comes from the 1994 movie The Shawshank Redemption. And even though that movie is eight years older than the song Hey Ya, this passage stands a better chance of passing the test of time.

Why is that?

It’s not because we inherently relate to the character who uttered it — Red Redding. After all, it’s unlikely that any of us have found ourselves in a parole hearing after spending 40 years in prison for murder.

No, we relate to this passage because of its mention of shifting reference points.

Red is candid about how time alone has changed him. He steadfastly admits that the man he is after four decades behind bars is not the one he was when he committed a heinous crime. But he also acknowledges there is no real link between those two moments he can traverse.

There is no silver lining. Just the cold, hard truth.

This moment resonates with me. For I see my own plight just as clearly as Red saw his.

With each day, new opportunity dawns. But old references fade further into irrelevance.

Past words lack meaning. Faded memories lack context. And old messages become as obsolete as the payphone or the Polaroid.

There is nothing I can do to stem the tide of change. I can only keep charging ahead, knowing that tomorrow will bring the promise of a bright, new reality.

Reference points are merely guideposts reminding me of where I’ve been. Reminding me of how far I’ve come.

Perhaps, in this light, the faded references from Hey Ya won’t seem so sinister. And the obsolescence of yesterday’s lessons won’t seem so stark.

Our future is bright. But our past doesn’t need to be forgotten.

So, let us not lose our reference points. They’re more useful than we might think.

The Danger of Premature Celebration

There’s an indelible image that’s lodged in my mind.

It comes from a Monday Night Football game between the Dallas Cowboys and the Philadelphia Eagles that took place several years ago.

In the second quarter of the game, the Eagles quarterback drops back and unleashes a majestic throw. The ball spirals sharply through the warm Texas night, landing in the arms of receiver DeSean Jackson as he’s running at full-stride 60 yards downfield near the goal line.

Jackson raises his arms in jubilation as he prepares for his touchdown celebration dance. He then points mockingly toward the Dallas fans and starts dancing in the end zone, just beyond the silver paint that reads COWBOYS.

It was a moment of sweet jubilation for Jackson — making a highlight-reel play on national television.

There was one problem. He didn’t have the ball.

When Jackson raised his arms, he was still two yards from the goal line. The ball popped backward out of his hand and bounded away behind him.

There was no touchdown. Just a fumble.

With all that dancing and gesturing, DeSean Jackson was only making a mockery of himself — on national television.

I’m captivated by this image. For it is the ultimate cautionary tale for our most obnoxious character flaw.

Premature celebration.

Our culture is built upon celebration.

As a capitalist society, we continually indoctrinate ourselves in the ethos of Taking what’s ours.

This ethos has had several iterations over the years.

First, pioneers and frontiersmen pushed their way west from the Atlantic to the Pacific, clearing swaths of forests and decimating native tribes to lay claim to the land.

Journalists of that era named the process Manifest Destiny — a term that whitewashed the true ugliness of what was going on. Out west, frontier life was punctuated by brutal acts of celebration.

Murderous bandits roamed the prairie, claiming ever bigger scores of gold and glory. Native tribesmen collected scalps off of their captives. And public hangings drew crowds of hundreds, even in one-horse towns.

In each case, someone was taking what was theirs, but at another’s expense. And they weren’t shy in letting the world know about it.

As the lawlessness of the west died down, a new revolution started back east. Stock and bond trading went from a side industry to the mainstream, turning Wall Street from a city street to a cultural icon.

Those who got rich in the early years of this movement weren’t afraid to flaunt their wealth. They dressed to the nines and threw extravagant parties. The era became known as The Roaring Twenties, and the roar was resonant — until the 1929 stock market crash brought an abrupt end to the party.

As America emerged from the Great Depression and the ensuing World War, the art of celebration went national for the first time. Radio and television programs made it from coast to coast, and Hollywood had more cultural influence than ever before. As new generation became infatuated with entertainment, our culture of celebration truly took root.

Now, what was once a campfire has erupted into a full-on inferno. Today, we focus less on what we accomplish and more on how we celebrate those accomplishments.

For that is how we’ll be judged. That is how we’ll be remembered.

And that, I assure you, that is what was running through the mind of DeSean Jackson when he foolishly dropped the ball two yards from glory.

Swim through the wall.

These four words sound like terrible advice — if you take them at face value.

After all, the water has plenty of give. It parts itself as we cut through it, as if beckoned by Moses’ staff.

The wall has no give. It stands as firm as the Himalayas, demanding deference.

But from a different perspective, what seems like folly is pure gold.

Yes, metaphorically, Swim through the wall means Don’t let up.

Or, more specifically: Achieve now. Celebrate later.

It’s simple advice. But that simplicity doesn’t make it any less effective.

DeSean Jackson could have used that advice on that warm Texas night all those years ago. But truth be told, we all could use that advice.

For the act of claiming victory is more foolish now than ever.

There is always more work to be done. In an era when information and collaboration travel digitally, the next challenge beckons around the corner.

Changing tastes make what’s acceptable today unacceptable tomorrow. Relentless innovation accelerates the demise of those who refuse to adapt. And the existential threat of violent extremism persists, no matter how relentlessly we beat it back.

Yet, it seems we can’t help ourselves. We can’t stop raising our arms in triumph and beating our chests, even as the goalposts for these issues drift ever further away.

Don’t believe me? Consider this.

There was a time when entertainers like R. Kelly, Bill Cosby, Michael Jackson and Kevin Spacey were the toast of the town. We talked about their brilliance and their talent — and turned the other way as they abused the power of their celebrity.

There was a time when quarterly earnings from Sears and Kodak drew news coverage. We made the Sears catalog a staple of our holiday shopping lists and planned around Kodak Moments — dismissing the notion that such references would ever be obsolete.

And there was a time we spoke of the end of segregation, the end of toxic radicalism, and the end of hate — conveniently forgetting that such troublesome ideas are like a Hydra, and don’t just die with the body they’re housed in.

Over and over we’ve declared victory too early. And in each case, the collateral damage was massive.

We should know better than this. We should recognize that life can rarely be placed into neat little boxes, each topped with a bow.

No, life is a messy, unpredictable journey. A constant parade of experiences and challenges to claw our way through. An abundant set of opportunities for us to pick ourselves up and reach for something greater.

We’re better off embracing that climb, and the inevitable change that comes with it. We’re better off preparing for what’s ahead than celebrating what’s imminent.

So, let’s not make a mockery of ourselves. Let’s not get egg on our face.

Timing is everything. Best to get it right.

On Mortality

I ain’t here for a long time. I’m here for a good time.

Those words are from a song recorded by King of Country himself — George Strait.

Strait’s up-tempo, Western swing tune, taps into the cliché Live like there’s no tomorrow. That cliché, of course, is more well-worn than the country star’s signature Stetson.

We’re all in on being in the moment. On living life to the fullest.

But what about the other side of that phrase? What if there really were no tomorrow?

This is a more troubling proposition for us. So much so that we try not to consider it.

Yet, we’re doing ourselves no favors by acting in this manner.

I’ve thought plenty about life over the years. And I’ve shared a lot of those thoughts right here.

But I’ve also thought a great deal about death.

I was less than 10 miles away from the World Trade Center on September 11^th, 2001. The horrors of that day served as a stark reminder that nothing can be taken for granted.

I have tried to make the most out of my life ever since that fateful day. To broaden my impact and not leave my cards on the table.

Still, no matter my approach, I recognize that everything could be over in an instant. One wrong step and I could be gone. One Act of God could be the end of me.

It’s admittedly a bit strange going through life fully transparent on Boogeyman lurking over my shoulder. But I don’t want to delude myself into a false sense of security.

For there is no such thing as total security. As I get older — and my body starts to betray me — I get ever more convinced of that fact.

Yes, safety is a fairy tale. It’s the story we tell ourselves so we can sleep soundly at night.

The sooner we recognize that, the better.

Not too long ago, a tragic incident in Dallas made national news.

An off-duty police officer returned her apartment building. She opened the door to what she thought was her apartment and found a man inside. She fired her service weapon at that man, thinking he was an intruder.

It turns out that the officer had parked on the wrong floor of the building’s embedded garage. She was not, in fact, in her apartment when she pulled her weapon. The man she shot was her upstairs neighbor. And that gunshot killed him in his own apartment.

There are no silver linings in the story. An innocent man is dead, and the erstwhile public servant who shot him has been convicted of murder and sentenced to 10 years in prison.

Stories like these are why I got out of the broadcast news industry years ago. I felt sick covering the most tragic acts of humanity.

Still as a fellow Dallas-area citizen, I do feel the need to reflect on this particular tragedy.

The now ex-police officer who fired the fatal shot is my age. She made the worst kind of mistake — one that cost an innocent man his life.

And the young man whose life she ended? He was an accountant with PwC, a devoted member of his church and an aspiring leader in the Dallas community. He was a better man than I. A better person than most.

His life was cut short because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But in this case, the wrong place was his own apartment.

I can only imagine how confused and terrified he must have been in his final moments. One minute, he’s sitting on the couch, eating ice cream and watching TV. The next, a stranger is in his apartment, firing a gun at him.

We can try and imagine how we might have reacted in that position. But the end result likely wouldn’t have been any different for us than it was for him.

A few years ago, I was standing in my kitchen slicing a bell pepper when I saw a man scaling my balcony railing and climbing onto my patio.

He was a maintenance worker who was giving the inside of the railing a fresh coat of paint. I had gotten an email alerting me to his presence, and I noticed ladders and workers all around the building when I came home from work an hour or so earlier. So, I should have been prepared for him.

Yet, even with that prior knowledge in hand, I was terrified for a moment when I first saw him.

As he pulled out his paint brush and waved at me, my fear subsided. I went back to slicing the bell pepper.

Still, my mind was racing.

What if that had been an intruder? What would I have done?

I probably would have attacked with the kitchen knife, I concluded. But how well would that strategy have worked?

I’m not trained in hand-to-hand combat, or on using a kitchen knife for any other purpose than slicing food. If an intruder had any skills in these areas, I’d likely be bleeding out on the carpet within seconds.

Yes, even if I mentally prepared for the worst-case scenario — by brandishing my kitchen knife like Crocodile Dundee and obsessively scanning the doors and windows for burglars — there’s no guarantee I would survive a home invasion.

And if I was caught off-guard in that situation? Heaven help me.

What do I mean by all this? Well, that young accountant who was sitting on his couch after a long day at work? He never had a chance.

He had done everything right in life. But from the minute his door opened and an armed person walked in, he was doomed.

Safety is an illusion.

What does all this mean, in the grand scheme of things?

Everything. And nothing.

There are no patterns we can use to fully protect us from death. There’s nothing we can do to guarantee we will wake up tomorrow.

The timeline of our future is largely out of our control.

It is this vast abyss of the unknown that makes death so scary.

After all, death will be the terminal destination for all of our journeys. Yet, we are in no way equipped to reach that destination.

Every fiber of our being seeks to resist the inevitability of death. Our brains process pain signals from other parts of the body to shield us from lethal hazards. Our hearts pump blood throughout our bodies, keeping us lucid. Our lungs bring in fresh oxygen to fuel these functions.

Death runs counter to all of these processes. It’s fundamentally against our nature.

This is why the will to live is so strong. It’s why we fight, struggle and hang on for dear life when we feel imperiled.

Yet eventually, death will claim us all.

And the sooner we accept this fundamental fact, the better.

I don’t want to think that tomorrow could be my last day. Or the next day. Or the day after that.

But I know that it’s a possibility.

Coming to terms with all of this is oddly freeing.

It provides me a point of reference, as far as worst case scenarios go. And that allows me to shake off those instances when things don’t go as planned.

When my sense of security — emotional, financial or physical — gets knocked down a peg, I don’t despair. For I know, in the grand scheme of things, even my roughest days aren’t so bad.

The worst case scenario hasn’t hit me yet.

It’s not my place to preach as gospel the best way to approach the subject of death.

Fate doesn’t deal all of us the same hand. We are unique, each with our own set of fears and circumstances to navigate.

Yet, I do think there is a benefit to recognizing the presence of our mortality. And to make our decisions accordingly.

If we cease the search for non-existent guarantees — if we stop letting fear of the unknown paralyze us — our uncertain future suddenly becomes much brighter. Our impact on our community becomes that much greater. And the weight on our shoulders becomes that much lighter.

A life well-lived is one not wasted.

The destination might be ambiguous. But that should not keep us from enjoying the ride.

On Process

Brick by brick.

Those three words carry the weight of a metric ton.

We use them to describe the methodical nature of creating something big. To convey the importance of building on a solid foundation.

Most of all, we use them to talk about process.

Process is not the sexiest of words. It doesn’t have the sizzle or pizzazz to turn heads.

But process is not a word to be taken lightly. For it keeps the world turning.

When I was 6 years old, I went with my family to see the latest blockbuster Disney movie.

Its name: The Lion King.

The movie had everything a Disney production is renowned for.

I remember being captivated by the illustrations of the African savannahs, ensconced by the musical score and captivated by the storytelling.

But most of all, I remember one concept from the film: The Circle of Life.

That concept, of course, was immortalized by an Elton John song. But it was also part of the movie’s dialogue.

Early in the film, the great lion Mufasa warns his young son Simba — the movie’s hero — to understand the balance of the world around him and respect all creatures. Mufasa reminds Simba that even though lions feast on antelope in life, they themselves will eventually die and become part of the grass the antelope eat.

This cyclical pattern is not without precedent. Shakespeare featured it in many of his plays. And it manifested itself in history with the rise and fall of the Roman Empire.

Still, it was The Lion King that really drove the concept home for me.

I have been process-oriented ever since I left the theater that day. In fact, process has become part of my life’s mantra: Accept the challenge. Embrace the process.

Process has taught me the value of patience. It’s shown me the power of persistence. And it’s unveiled for me the majesty of the bigger picture.

Life-changing takeaways from a Disney movie, indeed.

I firmly believe the Lion King was the seminal movie of my generation.

Proof abounds to support this assertion.

The Lion King was the highest grossing Disney animated movie of the 1990s. Many of my peers have named their pets Simba, Nala, Mufasa and Sarabi. And friends and acquaintances have lifted up small animals or infants skyward with both hands, as Rafiki does to the newborn Simba at the start of the film.

Yes, the movie is a cultural staple — more than a quarter century after its release.

But I’m not sure if the Circle of Life metaphor carries that same level of gravitas.

Things move faster these days. And with that increased speed comes an acceleration of instant gratification.

Instant gratification would have been as far-fetched a term in the 1990s as smartphone. More of a pipe dream than imminent reality.

The world simply didn’t work that way back then.

When The Lion King was first released, people traveled to movie theaters to see it. Families waited in long lines at the box office and strode across floors sticky with spilled soda in order to claim the best seats.

After the theatrical release was complete, the film would disappear for a few months. Then, it would appear on store shelves as a VHS tape. You know — the physical cassettes you had to rewind once the credits stopped rolling.

Those videotapes would sell like hotcakes. For consumers knew that once the VHS release period was over, Disney would put the film into the mystical Disney vault — thereby blocking direct access to it for years.

Looking back, this was an incredibly inconvenient process. Still, there were few alternatives. The Internet was nascent and Disney had full control over distribution.

Families had to clear these hurdles to ensure they had on-demand access to the film.

Today, the barriers are largely gone. Disney still has distribution rights to The Lion King, but the entertainment giant has re-released it as a live action movie and a Broadway musical. And the company is on the verge of launching a streaming service that is sure to bring The Lion King to household TV screens worldwide at the click of a button.

The sticky movie theater floors? The rewinding of the videotape? Both are relics of the past.

For a nominal price, instant gratification can save the day.

My generation has soaked up this phenomenon outside of the Disneyverse as well. My peers have become obsessed with push-button solutions to their every beck and call.

Technology providers are more than happy to fill this void with streaming entertainment and smartphone apps for everything from food delivery to online dating.

Yet, even with the world at our fingertips, process doesn’t disappear.

The Earth still turns at the same speed, and our lives still follow the same familiar cycle.

It’s simply our patience for the big picture that has waned.

The instant gratification revolution has made our lives better in many ways.

It’s made shopping less of a drag and enabled our entertainment channels to travel with us. It’s allowed us to stay informed at every turn, and it’s freed up more time for us to be productive.

Yet, instant gratification is not a panacea.

There are plenty of areas where the slow hands of progress reign supreme — by design.

These include fitness and our relationships. But they also include the workplace.

I’ve heard of plenty of young adults these days entering the workforce with outsized demands. They want the keys to the castle from Day One, with all the bells and whistles.

Amazingly, in a historically tight labor market, many of these aspiring career launchers get much of what they ask for off the bat. But after a few months, the shine wears off.

These young employees get frustrated or bored and jump ship for another opportunity. The company fills the position with a new twentysomething, and the cycle perpetuates.

I don’t fault the young adults or the employers for this pattern. Both parties are adapting with the times in a society where the market climate dictates the terms of play.

However, I do take issue with the lack of regard for process in our working lives.

When I graduated college, I moved halfway across the country to take a challenging job as a TV news producer. My salary was less than those of the cashiers at the local Walmart, and my work schedule had me on-duty until 11 PM each night.

Yet, despite these obstacles, I came to work energized and determined each day.

I knew that I was young and inexperienced in the working world. And I understood that improvement would take time and consistent effort.

So, I focused on being better at my job each day than I was the day before. I embraced the process.

By the time I left television, I was far better as a producer than I was the day I started.

I’ve replicated this pattern in my digital marketing career, in my business school studies and in my volunteer leadership work. Even in environments focused heavily on the here and now, I’ve taken the long view in my approach. I’ve committed myself to the process.

This approach hasn’t always given me instant gratification. My increases in position and salary have been sporadic and modest.

But what it has given me is opportunity. An opportunity to look myself in the mirror each day with full knowledge that I’m building toward something greater.

This is what being process-oriented is all about. And, in my humble opinion, this is what careers should be all about as well.

So, in these fast-moving, on-demand times, don’t forget to consider the greater picture.

Take a step back to recognize the subtle beauty of process.

For if our lives are what we make of them, we can do better than endlessly pursuing hacks and short cuts. We’re better off building our future.

Gradually. Methodically.