Month: September 2020

Generous Indulgence

We pulled up to the bakery in a 1985 Toyota Corolla. A boxy, tan sedan with a stick shift transmission and seat belts that only went over the passengers’ laps.

It was the ultimate nondescript 1980s car. But this was the early 1990s, so it was even more obscure.

We all got out of the car — my grandmother, my younger sister and I. And as we walked to the bakery door, my grandmother gave us a friendly warning.

Now remember, kids, she said. Don’t let grandma get a Danish, cause they make grandma fat.

Instructions in hand, we walked inside. My sister chose a rainbow cookie from the display case, while I selected a black and white cookie.

For the uninitiated, a black and white cookie is basically heaven in a baked good. It’s made of cake filling and topped with hardened chocolate and vanilla icing. And as a child, I was obsessed with them.

I was salivating, imagining the taste of that sugary goodness, when I heard my grandmother’s voice calling out to the bakery associate.

And one Danish, please.

My sister and I turned to my grandmother, horrified.

Grandma, no! we called out in unison. You told us not to let you get a Danish!

My grandmother smiled back at us. I know, but they’re so good! I can’t resist.

Over the years, this pattern would play out over and over on our trips to the bakery. In fact, it soon became a running joke between my sister and I. Grandma’s going to tell us not to let her get the Danish, but still order it anyway.

This scene was my grandmother in a nutshell. Determined, yet indulgent.

 

My grandmother always had a sweet tooth. My sister and I would stay at her house about one weekend a month, sleeping on in our mother’s childhood room.

When we woke up in the morning, our grandmother would serve us Entenmann’s donuts — chocolate iced goodies stuffed with cake filling. She stored them in the refrigerator, which made them delightfully crisp as we took our first bite.

It was a decidedly unhealthy way to start the day. But my grandmother didn’t care. The smiles on our faces made it all worthwhile.

For dessert, we’d all have ice cream — even if the sugar kept us up past an acceptable bedtime. My grandmother loved ice cream. So it only seemed sensible to her that we’d be allowed to have it too.

These were only a few of the ways she spoiled us. She would also get us gifts and let us watch our favorite movies on VHS tapes over and over again. Her reward for all this generosity was the sheer joy in our faces.

And yet, these seemingly small gestures were far from empty for her. They represented fulfilled dreams.

I’ve written a lot before about my grandfather. My mother’s father was a World War II veteran, a renowned storyteller, and one of my heroes. Black and white photos of him in his Navy uniform adorn my home, and I continually feel his presence in my life.

But my grandmother has shaped my life as profoundly as my grandfather did. And in a roundabout way, I’ve helped define her legacy as well.

My grandmother was raised in Brooklyn during the Great Depression. The youngest of three children in an impoverished family, she didn’t have much growing up. But she did have grand aspirations for herself.

My grandmother did well in school and went on to get both undergraduate and graduate degrees. She worked for some time as a phone operator, connecting lines for phone calls in the days before automatic dialing. But she ultimately spent decades as a speech therapist in the New York City Public School system.

Even as I share this fact, I can’t help but chuckle. For my grandmother had a thick New York accent, and a knack for mispronouncing things. On trips to the zoo, my father would make fun of how she pronounced the name for a certain type of buffalo. 

It’s bison, he would say. Not Bye-sawn.

Nevertheless, my grandmother did well in the role over the years.

Still, my grandmother’s greatest passion was not her work. It was her family. My mother, my sister and I represented her direct legacy — particularly when it came to education. She knew of the doors that education provided her, and wanted us to realize similar opportunities.

We never lost sight of that fact. We couldn’t.

When my mother earned her doctorate, she treated the achievement as if it was my grandmother’s as much as her own. And when my sister and I earned our undergraduate degrees, my grandmother traveled all the way to Miami and Chicago, respectively, to cheer us across the finish line.

After all those indulgences we received, it felt great to indulge her. To see the sheer joy on her face.

Several years ago, my parents and my grandmother took a trip Dallas. My grandfather had recently passed away. And while his loss was still raw, it gave my grandmother a chance to visit me in Texas — which she had hoped to do for years.

As we walked down a sun splashed sidewalk next to the Dallas Museum of Art, my grandmother implored me to continue my education.

I had toyed with the idea of going to graduate school for years. But I didn’t want to quit my job to do so. And the prospect of joining a professional program — working by day and taking classes in the evening — seemed too daunting. So, I kept delaying, and delaying, and delaying.

Now, my grandmother was calling my bluff.

A business degree would do a lot for you, she mentioned. I won’t be around forever. I’d like to see you get started.

Her words resonated. This wasn’t the playful Don’t let me get a Danish routine. This was serious.

So, at long last, I started the process. I scoped out several local business schools. I took the GMAT. I applied to schools, and I earned acceptance letters.

And a little over a year after our conversation, I started my grad school journey. My grandmother was excited, and that elation kept me going — even as I struggled to return to my old educational routines.

Then, on the first day of my second semester, I learned that my grandmother had died of a heart attack. Suddenly, my mission changed. Getting an MBA was no longer about elevating my career or making my grandmother proud. It was about honoring her legacy.

The next 18 months were as grueling as they were enlightening. But I powered through, a man possessed. And ultimately, I earned my Masters in Business Administration — with high grades to boot.

At the reception following graduation, my parents shared a word with me.

We’re so proud of you, they said. But your grandmother would be so proud of you as well.

I let the words sink in. And as I did, I thought of all I had been given that got me to this moment.

I reminisced about the sweets — the black and white cookies, the Entenmann’s donuts, the ice cream. I remembered all the gifts I’d received — the toys, books and puzzles.

All that generosity had taught me the value of sharing and of giving. And throughout business school, I had tried to pay it forward to my classmates by helping them prepare for tests and assignments.

But most of all, I considered all the time I had with my grandmother. That was the greatest gift of all. And by fulfilling her dreams, I hoped I had made the most of it.

Not long ago, my sister sent me an audio file. It was of all of us — my sister, my parents, my grandmother and myself — sitting around the dining room table, telling stories about my grandfather.

The stories were entertaining, and many of them made my chuckle. But what stood out most was hearing my grandmother’s voice again.

I miss my grandmother.

I miss her kindness. I miss her smile. I even miss her occasional naivete.

All that is gone now. Or is it?

For everywhere I look, my grandmother’s memory abounds. Whenever I pass a bakery window, come across a word she mispronounced or see my diplomas on the wall, it’s as if she’s still here.

Most of all, the principles that my grandmother espoused continue to endure. The value of opportunity. The love of learning. And the indulgence of generosity.

It’s my responsibility to continue spreading those principles. And I plan on doing so for as long as I am able.

Object Permanence

I waded into the ocean, the saltwater reaching up to my waist.

Every half-minute or so, a wave would come hurtling my direction, threatening to douse me with chilly seawater. I didn’t like the feel of that. So I would jump as the wave approached.

Each leap kept my face from getting drenched by the surf. But it also gave me a moment to see what lay beyond it.

As I reached elevation, I could see the ocean rolling out majestically before me. The crests of waves extended for what seemed like miles. Somewhere off in the distance, a sailboat plodded across the water.

And beyond all this, there was a line. A line where the dark blue of the water and the light blue of the sky combined.

I was flummoxed by this mysterious line in the distance. So, I asked my father — who was wading in the water beside me — what it was.

That’s the horizon, he replied. It’s the furthest point we can see.

My father then explained to me that there’s plenty of life — and, in this case, ocean — beyond the horizon. But we would have to travel out there if we wanted to say what lay beyond. And if we did that, we’d see a new horizon. One located even further from the shoreline.

This was all a bit much for my 5-year-old mind to unpack. As far as I was concerned, what lay beyond that line was beyond comprehension.

If I couldn’t see it, it didn’t really exist.

 

There’s an old proverb you’ve probably heard of. It reads If a tree falls in the forest, did it really make a sound?

We nod intuitively at this phrase, as if it is common knowledge. And yet, many of us have not wandered through the forest at all. And even if we have, there’s a good chance we didn’t hear a tree falling.

We’ve had no connection to the scene that’s being set. And yet, when presented with the idea of its absence, we nod, smile and hope that no one will call our bluff.

Lately though, something has changed. That abstract concept has started to come into focus, in terrifying detail/

As I write these words, the world remains mired in a deadly pandemic. A virus continues to run rampant, causing suffering in hundreds of countries.

As the virus first made its way across the globe, the world largely shut down. With no known cure, a high level of contagion and overwhelming caseloads, many countries were in a tough spot. So, government leaders ordered local or national lockdowns to slow the spread of the disease.

This tactic had been used in previous pandemics. But there was a new wrinkle this time. For even as millions were confined to their homes, technology was there to help them stay connected.

Life under lockdown would still be unpleasant. But the experience would be far less isolating than it would have been in the past.

After all, it was still possible to connect with family and friends through a smartphone. And many workers bring their jobs into their homes, with nothing more than a home computer and an Internet connection.

Even after the lockdowns were lifted, the world continued to adapt. A new normal has taken hold — one where people connect in-person far less than they traditionally did.

We’ve largely been able to rise to this strange occasion. Yet, it still feels as if something substantial is being lost.

For there is only so much reality that we can virtualize. There is only so much that videoconferencing and email can cover.

When we look at our computer screens or smartphones, we get a window into the world that lies beyond our reach. But surrounding that window lies the sobering reality. Us, driven apart from each other and the traditions we are familiar with. Us, staring at the same familiar scenery day after day. Us, contending with the world getting smaller and smaller.

It’s hard to hide from these sobering facts. It’s hard to feel attached to the world around us. It’s hard to even remember that world still exists.

For once we hang up the phone or shut off the computer, it’s game over. We have no sense of what others outside our bubble might be thinking, feeling or doing. We have no channel to build ongoing trust or provide them reassurance. We have no inertia to keep the conversation going.

When that virtual portal closes, it does so with a resounding thud.

Sure, we can try and fill in the gaps. We can guess what’s going on beyond our walls. But the bounds our imagination is all we have.

Object permanence is winning the day.

Querite et invenitis.

For years, these three Latin words have followed my name on every personal email I’ve sent. They translate — roughly — to Seek and ye shall find.

This phrase has long served as a rallying cry for me. For only when I have made the effort to venture beyond that horizon have I yielded the rewards.

This principle has held true throughout my life. Going to a university nine states away from where I was raised helped me grow up — and fast. Studying abroad in South America took my Spanish comprehension to another level. Taking a job, sight unseen, on the dusty plains of West Texas taught me to make peace with the unexpected.

Travel isn’t about glamour for me. It’s not about taking iconic photos or sharing epic stories — even as those sometimes come with the experience.

No, it’s about the exploration. About learning more about the world, and my potential in it.

Of course, the pandemic has put that on hold. Mass movement has gone from an essential to a danger. And like many, I’ve mostly hunkered down in the same zip code for months.

Sure, I’ve gotten outside for some exercise, for work and to run some errands. But I haven’t roamed as freely as I used to.

I didn’t fully recognize the toll of all this at first. In those hectic initial weeks of this reality, my focus was on adjusting to meet the moment.

But now, all I notice is all that I’ve lost connection with. All I can remember is all I’ve forgotten.

Object permanence has set in. And I don’t like it one bit.

This too shall pass.

There will be a day when this strange era is behind us. When the trepidation and restrictions no longer dominate conversation. When conversation can happen in-person more regularly.

But just because it can doesn’t necessarily mean that it will.

For object permanence doesn’t just disappear. It’s a fog that doesn’t just lift under the heat of the midday sun.

All this time we’ve spent away from each other has come with a cost. We’ve said goodbye to spontaneous interaction. We’ve forgotten the art of the follow-up. We’ve lost track of the rules for nonverbal communication.

These are not just critical tools for connecting with our community. They’re also essential social skills.

And the longer they’re removed from our lives, the less likely they are to return.

It’s on us to keep this from happening. It’s on us to keep our gaze on the horizon. It’s on us to remember in a world that has us primed to forget.

It’s not an easy proposition. But it’s an essential one.

What we can’t see still does exist. It’s time for us to find it again.

Tip Of The Spear

I was ready for action.

I was in first grade, preparing for a soccer game in gym class.

One of our teachers — a man from Kenya — was serving as our coach. But there weren’t enough students to field full sides, so he and another teacher joined in the game.

I had never played soccer before, so I was slotted on defense. My job was to stay on one side of the goal — an open space marked by two construction cones — and get in the way of any attacks by the opposing players. There were no goalies, so the two defenders were the last line of protection.

As he gave me my assignment, the coach looked me directly in the eye.

One more thing, he said. Use only your feet. Do not use your hands.

I headed to my position, growing ever more nervous by the step. I wasn’t accustomed to doing everything with my feet. What if instinct set in, and I used my hands? What kind of trouble would I be in then?

Those fears quickly subsided as the game got underway. Ahead of me, the midfielders and forwards abandoned their positions, converging in a pack around the ball. The coach and the other teacher were in the fray too, with eager 7-year-olds flanking them on all sides in the midfield.

Back by the orange construction cones, I stood at my position, bored to tears. Instead of playing soccer, I seemed to be watching it.

That scrum of activity 20 feet ahead of me seemed to be where the action was. I wanted to be a part of it.

So I ran forward, intent on getting to the ball. But just as I got there, someone on the other team found a lane toward our goal.

I ran back toward my position, but I was a good five steps behind this player. Unimpeded, they took their shot — only to be foiled by the other defender, who was still in position.

Hey, the defender told me. Stay here! This is why we’re supposed to stay back here.

I nodded sheepishly and stayed in my position for the rest of the game.

 

There is a phrase in the military called Tip of the Spear.

It refers to the first units to enter a war zone. To the professionals who are closest to the action.

There is a certain aura around this term.

The tip of the spear is the strongest and sharpest part of the weapon. It’s indispensable.

Much like the actual weapon edge, the soldiers, sailors and pilots worthy of this description are battle-tested. They have a perspective that is as unique as it is invaluable.

The term is so poignant that it’s made its way into the civilian world in which I operate.

Even beyond the military, those at the tip of the spear are lionized as innovators and world-changers. They’re action-oriented and decisive. They represent the objective we should aspire toward.

These trailblazers have influenced many of us over the years. Myself included.

As a child, I often heard the question What do you want to be when you grow up? Like many kids, I had no idea. So I would vary my answers.

A firefighter. An astronaut. A truck driver. A baseball player. A movie director.

Looking back, these answers look as disparate as they were desperate. Some of these careers would be hard to break into. Others wouldn’t pay all that well, or would include a demanding schedule.

But these varying career aspirations had one thing in common. They would all allow me to be at the tip of the spear. To be in the middle of the action.

By the time I was in college, I had set my sights on the broadcast television industry. I graduated with a degree in communications, and set off into my new career as a TV news producer.

Here was my chance to be in the middle of it all. To provide people the information they needed to navigate their community. To be at the tip of the spear, at long last.

It wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

I quickly discovered that I was producing the least-viewed newscast in the region, in a town full of roughnecks and ranch hands. I got more calls about the wrong episode of Jeopardy airing on our channel than I got news tips.

The hours were rough and I worked most holidays. And on many days, the news was light or inconsequential.

When there was action to cover, it was often sobering. Wildfires burning thousands of acres of prairie. Shootings. Robberies. And a collision between a train and a parade float that left four Purple Heart recipients dead.

It was that last incident that really got to me. I broke that story on the local news, and soon national news correspondents were covering it. I had reached peak tip of the spear status. And yet, I felt broken.

That night, I cried myself to sleep. And in the days and weeks afterward, I questioned everything. My contract was expiring, and I needed to reevaluate not only my career choice, but also the rationale behind it.

The results were drastic. I rebooted both my career and the sense of purpose underlying it. No longer would I be demand to be where the action was. Fading into the background would be just fine by me.

My decision to switch careers was the right one. But that didn’t make it any easier.

For one thing, I was abandoning the field that I’d gotten my education in. The role I’d trained for and toiled at for years was now fading into my rearview mirror.

It was a heck of a sunk cost to cast off.

But beyond that sobering truth lay another. I was turning my back on what society expected of me.

All those years pursuing the tip of the spear had not gotten me the satisfaction I was hoping for. And yet, going another direction made me feel like a pariah.

I’m not alone in this dilemma. Many of us are torn between what’s expected of us and what best suits us. Especially when the choice is between the glory of the action and the obscurity of the shadows.

But we should not let the trappings of tradition blind us to the truth. The tip of the spear is not for everyone. And there is no shame in taking a supporting role.

After all, the supporting shaft of the spear is what makes the weapon so lethal. It provides the inertia to send the spear hurtling toward the target.

So, no. Taking a step back from the fray isn’t cowardly. It’s anything but.

It’s time that we recognize that fact.

The Punishment Paradox

I’d finally had enough.

I was being tormented by an elementary school classmate. Like a mosquito, this classmate persistently annoyed me.

For months, I had wanted to be left alone. And for months, he had refused to relent.

In hindsight, this scenario was likely low-level bullying. But in those days, bullying wasn’t exactly the Code Red topic it is now.

Back then, the tormented had two choices — stand up to their tormentor or grow a thick skin.

I was skittish and socially awkward, so I took the second approach. But it didn’t alleviate the situation. If anything, it only made things worse.

Anger and frustration simmered throughout me. It was a matter of time before it would all boil over.

And on this day, at recess, it finally did.

I can’t remember what was said that set me off. But what I do remember is that everything around me — the trees, the grass the people — changed color. For the first time in my life, I was truly seeing red.

Rage kicked in. I charged at my classmate and tackled him to the ground.

My other classmates grew silent, stunned by what they had just seen. Had one of the skinniest kids in the class taken down a much stronger classmate?

Yes. Yes, I had.

I don’t recall much of what happened after that. I’m sure that some teachers or administrators spoke with me about what I had done. But I don’t have any memory of a suspension or other punishment.

Eventually, I ended up going elsewhere for middle school. When I reconnected with my elementary school classmates years later, I showed no ill will to my erstwhile tormentor, and he showed no ill will toward me. We had both moved on, and that was that.

Still, decades later, I think about that day at recess. And I consider the larger message it sends.

Humans have many redeeming qualities. But some parts of our nature are less than pleasant.

One of these is our obsession with punishment.

We are emotional beings. But we’re not well equipped to handle the less savory emotions — such as frustration or anger — all that well. We become unhinged when bearing the brunt of these feelings, and we focus on unloading all that pain elsewhere.

Punishment provides a convenient outlet for us in these moments. We can isolate the source of our misery, and then make that source feel that same burn we do. We can make them pay for their transgressions.

The desire to inflict punishment is our emotional nature at work. But that energy, that zeal — it’s all misguided.

For while accountability is essential in society, we often push punishment too far. And once we cross that line, the blowback can be devastating.

I know this all too well.

The classmate who tormented me for months, he was punishing me for being a pushover. But those efforts ultimately backfired on the day I pushed him over.

If schoolyard encounters were the extent of this pattern, it would only be a minor issue. But the consequences can be far worse.

One of the enduring legacies of America is the conflict between the south and the north.

The divide dates back to colonial times, when it reflected differing economies and demographics. The southern colonies — Virginia, the Carolinas and Georgia — were mostly rural and dotted with plantations. The northern colonies — such as Massachusetts and New York — were more urban, filled with textile mills and manufacturers. And the two areas did not see eye to eye.

The earliest days of the United States were filled with compromises between the north and south — including where to build a capital city and how to manage the new nation’s currency.

As the nation expanded westward, the compromises quickly turned to another matter. Which new states and territories would allow slave labor, and which would ban the practice?

It seemed inevitable that these uneasy alliances between the north and south would ignite. And they ultimately did when southern states seceded, spurring the American Civil War.

The north won that war, at great cost. And that victory formally ended the abhorrent practice of slavery across America.

Efforts then turned to rebuilding the nation — a period known as Reconstruction. Yet, many northerners in government saw this as an opportunity to further punish the South for costing them four years of bloodshed and military expenses.

This pile-on punishment left the south destitute and hopeless. And the blowback has lasted ever since.

There remains a chasm between the north and south — one that I’ve experienced from both sides. Many southerners think Yankees are elitist and rude. Many northerners think southerners are stupid and shortsighted.

Neither opinion is accurate, of course. There are many humble and polite northeners, and many brilliant southerners. But these caricatures have persisted nonetheless.

Then there are all the atrocities the south has heaped on Black people since Reconstruction. Segregation, sharecropping, criminalization and extrajudicial killings have marred the region over the years.

Yes, racism is responsible for this. But racism is a learned trait. And I believe that trait has festered in the south in defiance of the heavy-handed punishments of Reconstruction.

In their quest to get a pound of flesh, lawmakers the Reconstruction era have left a long shadow. Their actions ultimately planted the seeds for so much of the strife that exists in our nation today.

About 40 years after Reconstruction wound down, America found itself in another conflict.

Simmering tensions in Europe erupted, sparking the first World War. While the United States didn’t join the fight until its final year, it ultimately sent about 2 million troops to assist the Allied Powers in Europe.

The Allies emerged victorious. But the allies then clamped down on the vanquished Central Powers, dividing their territories and leaving them in financial ruin. One of these nations — Germany — found its currency worthless within years of the conflict. And even after it emerged from its hyperinflation crisis, the nation was beaten down and without much hope for the future.

Into this void stepped a boisterous figure, preaching of a grand nationalist vision for Germany. The German populace threw its support behind this figure, whose name was Adolf Hitler. And the rest, devastatingly, was history.

Less than 30 years after World War I ended, Germany was in ruins again. It had helped spark a second World War — a war it again had lost. And it had committed genocide, sending more than 6 million people to their deaths in concentration camps.

The Holocaust will forever be known as one of the worst atrocities in human history. Germany will forever bear the brunt of responsibility for the attempted extermination of Jewish people across Europe.

Yet, the punishment the Allied Powers heaped on Germany in the aftermath of World War I likely played a role as well. By kicking the nation when it was already down, the allies created the environment for a devastating blowback.

Fortunately, the Allies didn’t make the same mistake after World War II. The nation was still bisected, thanks to the Soviets. But western powers put resources into rebuilding West Germany — with the most notable efforts coming from the United States under the Marshall Plan.

In the aftermath of World War II, high ranking Nazis were hunted down, tried for war crimes and executed. (Some infamously claimed at trial that they were “Just following orders.”)

But the rest of the German people didn’t face death sentences for their tacit support of the Holocaust. Their cities had been firebombed. Their government had collapsed. And their nation’s atrocities were condemned by the world. That was punishment enough.

As a result, Germany is a much more progressive place these days. It is candid about its past atrocities and committed to preventing future ones.

It’s a case study we can all learn from.

As I am writing this, America is once again facing an inflection point.

National elections are always fraught. But this time, the angst seems particularly palpable.

Our nation seems as polarized as it ever has been. And there is a looming referendum on that polarization.

But it’s not the election event I’m most worried about. It’s the aftermath.

For regardless who comes out on top, there will surely be an urge to punish the other side. To kick the vanquished when they’re already down.

These days, such an urge extends past the political figures themselves. It stretches to their supporters. People on each side of the political divide have already committed murders in recent weeks. A sustained vengeance campaign might accelerate the violence — which is not an acceptable outcome.

We must learn the lessons of Reconstruction and of post-World War I Germany. Tightening the screws on vanquished opponents only sets the stage for further horrors. For once they reach their breaking point, they will rise up and take us down — much in the way I took down my classmate at recess all those years ago.

It’s up to us to ensure this doesn’t happen. It’s up to us to ensure the Goldilocks principle applies to punishment — not too much, not too little. This requires us to get off our high horse, to assess the situation and to make the right decision.

This is a lot to ask of us in the heat of the moment, as emotions are running high and vengeance is top of mind. That’s why I call the path forward The Punishment Paradox.

But we must adhere to this plan. It’s essential that we get this right. Our future depends on it.

So, let’s do what it takes to conquer the Punishment Paradox. There is simply no other option.

Our Toughest Critic

Are you a hammer or a nail?

It’s a cliched question, to be sure. But it still gets asked, time and again.

The implication is relatively straightforward. Are you someone who initiates change? Or are you someone who effects it?

If you’re initiating change, you’re likely the hammer. You’re flying through the air in rhythmic motion, driving a nail toward a specified destination.

If you effect change, you’re the nail. You’re a piece of metal with a sharp edge, ready to pierce the wall.

The inherent premise of this question, of course, is that you must choose one option over the other.

You’re either the coach or the player. The firebrand or the workhorse. The hammer or the nail.

And yet, I find that I can’t choose just one option. Both choices apply.

I am a morning person.

On both weekdays and weekends, there’s a good chance my eyes are open before dawn’s first light peeks through the blinds. Heck, I might have even finished a workout by then.

While starting early has become commonplace for me, this routine doesn’t come naturally. Even after years of this pattern, I don’t find myself automatically springing out of bed at 4 AM.

Instead, I rely on my alarm clock to jolt me from my slumber, and coffee to keep me from returning to it. I also try and go to bed at an early hour, so that I facilitate an earlier wake up.

Doing all this, day in and day out, takes mental fortitude. And yet, I keep going.

For I am driven. I am determined to get the most out of every day. And committing to timely start is essential to achieving that goal.

Now, I recognize word driven is overused. Most of us describe ourselves that way, since that’s a trait that society expects of us.

And with that in mind, it’s hard to separate the wheat from the chaff. It’s hard to know who is just chirping about their motivation and who’s leaning in to it.

Yet, I truly feel my drive for success is a differentiator. And I put actions behind that belief, both by getting up early and by subjecting myself to intense self-critique.

This second trait is not for the faint of heart. Each day, I reflect upon all that I’ve done. But instead of patting myself on the back, I consider how I could have done everything better.

I am ruthless and exacting in my criticism during this process. That way I can properly course correct in the days ahead. Which then means those around me can see the benefits.

My daily self-critique might not be a pleasant experience. But provides the guidance to both initiate and effect the change I seek in myself.

And because of it, I can say I am both hammer and nail.

Withering self-criticism is not without danger. For we are not built to withstand such conflagrations.

If we serve as both hammer and nail, we risk driving ourselves into the ground. And our intentions become muddied.

For there is a fine line between masochism and self-pity. Both are considered gauche, but the second is far pithier than the first.

It is more acceptable to break ourselves down in order to build ourselves back up. Much like a home renovation project, the destruction is tolerated if it’s insulated from the wider environment and directed toward an improved end result.

Breaking oneself down in the hopes that others will feel sorry for us, by contrast, is largely unacceptable. It’s counterproductive, akin to smashing bottles in the grocery store aisle and waiting for someone to come clean up the mess.

I am conscious of all this, even as I continue my self-improvement crusade. I don’t want to push myself past the breaking point. And I don’t want my tactics to become someone else’s problem.

So, I toe that line between self-flagellation and self-pity, taking care to stay on the right side of it.

Or, at least I think I do.

There is an old tale of an emperor who walked the streets of his city, wearing nothing at all. Filled with self-righteousness, the emperor convinced himself that he was sporting a fancy garment. Yet, his subjects saw something far different — a naked man walking the streets.

This story is titled The Emperor’s New Clothes — one of many enduring masterpieces from Danish writer Hans Christian Andersen. And it remains a powerful parable about our dual reality.

For our lives are dominated by two perspectives — the way we see ourselves and the way others see us. And these two vantage points often contradict each other, sometimes drastically so.

The defining challenge of our existence is how to navigate this conflict.

We can try to get the best of both worlds — to live in a way that we approve of and others around us appreciate. Or, we can refuse to compromise, and choose one perspective over the other.

The emperor chose the latter route when he strolled out into the sunlight naked. Divas who rely on opinions of others for self-validation also follow this path — although they veer to the other extreme of it.

In a broad sense, these fringe cases sound ridiculous. Most of us are not this tone-deaf.

But when it comes to self-improvement, we might as well be.

For the process of changing our ways is sure to look different to us than it will to others. And even as we hone in on our own perspective, on fixing ourselves, the vantage point of others matters.

If we act as our toughest critic, we might consider the experience nothing more than a baptism by fire. But others? They might view this behavior as a cry for help, and act accordingly.

I don’t believe this to have been the case with my own crusade. It’s led to some raised eyebrows over the years, but nothing further than that.

But I can’t entirely be sure exactly how others view my actions. There is a diaspora of people who care about me, and I’m never quite sure how these habits affect them.

This weighs on me, particularly in a moment when isolation and vulnerability are so profound. I feel responsible to everyone invested in me. I don’t want to let them down — intentionally or not.

And yet, I have a responsibility to myself as well. To continually get the best out of myself, and to use the tactics that will further that aim.

When choosing between these responsibilities, I’ve generally sided with self-accountability. And so, I’ve continued to play that dual role of hammer and nail.

But lately, I’ve done so without blinders on. I’ve remained vigilant to how my efforts are received more broadly, and I’ve made the effort to explain myself when needed.

It’s only one step. But one step in the right direction nonetheless.

Is my experience universal? Of course not.

We each have our own priorities, tendencies and neuroses. And we each have our own circle of influence, who might react to our behavior in all kinds of unique ways.

Yet through all the endless permutations, one thing is clear: We are not in this alone.

It’s alright to be our toughest critic. Just as it’s perfectly acceptable to rely on our network of support.

But the other end of the equation still matters. Ignore it at your peril.