Survival Mode

“No problem of human making is too great to be overcome by human ingenuity, human energy, and the untiring hope of the human spirit.” -George H.W. Bush

The 41st United States President dispensed this wisdom decades ago. And it has continued to prove prophetic.

In the years since, we’ve developed systems to improve retail logistics and reduce man-made health risks. We’ve closed the information gap through the growth of the Internet. We’ve enhanced diplomacy tactics to tamp down brewing global crises.

But what happens when the problem is not of human making? What happens when it’s a force of nature?

There too, human ingenuity can shine through. There too, human energy and the human spirit can lead us to rise to the occasion.

But the process is far messier.

For we must figure out what hit us before we can respond. And the possibilities are nearly infinite.

Life must go on, of course, while we pursue this damage assessment. So, how do we steer through a period of such uncertainty?

We go into survival mode.


If you listen to just about any motivational speech, you’ll hear about the power of resilience.

This is no accident. Emotions drive our choices. And few things pull at our heartstrings more than a good comeback story.

Yet, we are terrible at assessing our own resilience. We overestimate instances where we encountered a bump in the road and adjusted to it. We treat these small victories as something far larger. Namely, as proof of our invincibility.

Such misjudgments have come into clear focus in recent months, as we’ve been forced to reckon with true crises.

The rapid spread of a lethal virus has put the entire world on pause. Wildfires have destroyed homes in Australia and the western United States. Major hurricanes have pounded the upper Gulf Coast with relentless fury. And a potent winter storm has left millions in Texas in the dark in bone-chilling temperatures.

Some of the regions victimized by these forces of nature were prepared — or at least as prepared as they could be. California has faced wildfire dangers for years. And Louisiana is no stranger to hurricanes.

But in many other instances, we were off-guard.

Despite Bill Gates’ warnings, the world was not prepared for a pandemic. And the breakdowns of Texas’ power grid and water supply systems showed how unprepared the Lone Star State was for an Arctic blast.

In the wake of such disasters, governments have ping-ponged between passing blame and scrambling for contingency plans. Meanwhile, the masses have been left to deal with the fallout.

In a heap of desperation, we’ve been forced to dig deeper in the well of ingenuity than ever before. We’ve become immersed in the survival mode doctrine.


Survival of the fittest.

Anyone familiar with Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution knows those four words.

Darwin believed that certain species adapt to the conditions of their environment better than others. The most well-adjusted species are the ones who persevere.

Humans clearly belong in the well-adapted column. We’ve gone from being stalked by prehistoric predators to controlling much of the world.

Survival mode is encoded in our DNA. And yet, such a feature seems foreign to us.

Why is that?

The answer largely comes from our reliance on two constructs: Infrastructure and social patterns.

These elements have turbocharged our evolution. For instance, lighting, climate control, and indoor plumbing systems have allowed many to shelter in safety and comfort. And sociocultural norms have helped us find belonging and fulfillment.

Put together, these elements provide for much of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. They are so essential that they’ve become ubiquitous throughout the developed world. Even in the developing world, some aspects of these constructs exist.

Humanity doesn’t agree on much. But these do seem to be causes we can rally around.

Mother Nature is the only fly in the ointment. It’s the only force powerful enough to unleash a microscopic virus on us, fill our skies with smoke, inundate our lowlands with seawater, or send polar air to the subtropics.

Such wild forces can overwhelm our infrastructure systems. They can disrupt our social norms. And they can leave us without a roadmap to safety.

It is within this torrent of disruption that we must unearth those Darwinian survival skills. While everything is crumbling around us, we are asked to rise above.

No wonder we struggle to persevere. And no wonder we feel traumatized long after we do.


At the edge of my neighborhood, there is a pasture. A sea of intermittent brush cascading down a hillside.

On some days, I can spot cattle at the edge of the pasture, grazing near the barbed wire fence. The bovines chew at the grass and thrash their tails. And they do all this in herd formation.

Animals have herded together for millennia. Banding together has helped them fend off myriad dangers. It’s helped them evolve and thrive.

Humans are the same way. We have long found strength in numbers, building societies, and enhancing our possibilities together. It would only be natural for us to come together in times of strife as well.

But survival mode runs counter to all that. It asks us to act instinctively against grave danger. And it forces us to do so in isolation.

The systems and traditions we rely on are all built upon a backbone of community. And when they fail, we are thrust into the darkness — forced to combine an untested toolset with an unfamiliar mindset.

This is why the greatest challenge of survival mode sits between the ears. Indeed, managing the mental and emotional exhaustion can be a Herculean task.

It’s just not in our nature to be this way. And yet, for a time, it has to be.


There’s no way to fully obliterate disaster.

Diseases will continue to threaten our bodies. Fires will continue to scorch our landscape. Hurricanes and tornadoes will continue to turn some of our homes into rubble.

We can’t avoid these unsavory possibilities. The best we can do is to prepare for them.

We can tend to our hygiene. We can maintain emergency supplies. We can have an evacuation plan.

And we can prepare for survival mode.

We can recognize what it asks of us. And we can come to terms with what it takes out of us.

Such preparation won’t transform our experience into a pleasant one. But hopefully, it can make our endeavors less jarring.

And when the times are toughest, that can make all the difference.

Getting What You Pay For

The scene of the crime was a Motel 6 in El Paso.

The motel was a stone’s throw from the interstate. Across the highway lay rose a vast desert landscape and a mountain range.

This Motel 6 seemed straight out of central casting for a modern Western movie. Perhaps it would be a place where bandits rested their heads between small-town bank robberies. Or where hired guns staged an ambush to recover a stolen briefcase of drug money.

But the crime in question wasn’t anything that illicit. The crime was simply that I was staying there.


I had chosen this Motel 6 for two reasons. The brand name and the price.

I was heading to El Paso to see my alma mater play a football game. The team rarely played within driving distance of me, and I was excited to go to the game. But I was also making less than $20,000 a year in salary. So, I would need to budget for this trip.

Knowing I would be spending three nights in El Paso, I looked up hotel rates for several bargain chains. This Motel 6 was the cheapest by a good clip, at about $39 per night before taxes. I jumped at the opportunity and booked a room.

It wasn’t until I’d arrived — after a 5-hour drive across the West Texas desert — that I realized what I’d done.

For the bed was a rock, as firm as the carpeted floor in my apartment back home. I turned side to side, trying to find a comfortable sleeping position. But there was none to be found.

And the shower was a house of horrors. There were only two temperature options — ice cold and scalding. I was forced to alternate between them as I frantically tried to wash up each morning.

As the days went on, my frustration grew. There might not have been bed bugs or dirty sheets, but this was clearly the worst hotel I’d stayed in.

The lack of a good night’s sleep or a consistently hot shower left me exhausted. It helped doom my El Paso trip to infamy.

I was frustrated at Motel 6. But mostly, I was mad at myself.

Because I had neglected a cardinal rule: You get what you pay for.


Growing up, I didn’t have to think much about compromise.

My parents prioritized quality over everything else. When it came to the food we ate and the clothes we wore, price was not the first concern.

Don’t get me wrong. We had plenty of nights finishing off leftovers for dinner. And my mother took advantage of those seasonal clothing sales at The Gap. But these occurrences were more the results of our choices than the cause of them.

It was a different story whenever we visited my grandparents, though.

My mother’s parents had grown up in the Great Depression, and they still had emotional scars from those years. So, they had one condition for choosing the food to put in their pantry — rock bottom prices.

If my grandfather made pancakes, we’d top it with the cheapest syrup the grocery store had to offer. Oven-fried chicken would be coated with the lowest-cost bread crumbs. Burgers and meatballs were prepared with the most affordable meat.

I didn’t think much of these spartan food options at the time. I was just a boy, and I was excited to spend time with my grandparents. Plus, they spoiled me rotten everywhere else.

But by high school, I started to recognize the effects.

I was spending a lot of time away from my parents, and starting to make financial decisions on my own. And even though I was a novice, I often gravitated toward the bargain bin.

This seemed prudent at the time. Why would I spend extra on anything, when I could stretch my dollar? Especially at a time where I was relatively low on dollars.

I never gave much thought to what I was giving up in the exchange. At least until those sleepless nights in El Paso.


Our society is obsessed with a good deal.

Sure, we like to splurge every now and then, just to feel special. And some of us immerse ourselves in luxury as a marker of status.

But by and large, we’d prefer to buy something at less than its sticker price.

Bargain shopping makes us feel powerful. It makes us feel as if we’re in control of the buying process. And our attraction to it is profound.

Our love of the deal has helped make Black Friday and Cyber Monday into de-facto holidays. It’s coaxed grocery stores into displaying perennial markdowns. It’s led dozens of retailers to bombard our email inboxes, promising 20% off a purchase with a coupon code.

But beneath our obsession with bargains lies a fallacy. We are attracted to a good deal because we imagine that by paying less, we get more value.

This is simply not true.

For the world of business is built upon simple premises. Revenues must be greater than costs and supply chains must be resilient.

Restaurants can’t provide a steak entrée at the price of a McDonald’s happy meal. Absorbing that cost would run them out of business.

The same goes for just about any other type of company.

Less price means less value. All those sales and deals are simply window dressing.

That value loss might come in the form of cheaper material, a less wholesome cut of meat or an overly firm hotel mattress. Regardless, we can see the signs if we look close enough.

There is no value hidden in the couch cushions. You get what you pay for.


It took me years to recognize the value trap. But that miserable trip to El Paso shattered any illusions.

Now, I purchase with my eyes wide open. I look up the cost of what I want and think about what I can reasonably pay for it. If the two prices don’t line up, I consider what I’m giving up by paying less for a bargain-bin alternative.

Sometimes, I proceed anyway. Other times, I hold off until I can meet the asking price of the more quality item.

None of these tactics are earth-shattering. And yet, there are still many who fail to follow them.

These wayward souls perpetuate the value trap. They go through life blissfully unaware that we get what we pay for. And they open themselves up to the letdown of unrealized expectations.

It’s time for those masses to wake from their idyllic slumber. To see the world for how it really is. And to adjust their habits accordingly.

So, let my experience serve as a cautionary tale. And stop seeking more than you’re willing to give in return.

You get what you pay for. Ante up.

Of The People

We the people.

So begins the United States Constitution, with those three words.

It’s fitting and unusual at the same time.

After all, we are not a collectivist society. We are as individualistic as it gets. Spurred by capitalism and boundless ambition, we forge ahead in search of our own destiny.

And yet, when it comes to protecting our gains, we rely on collective action. We elect politicians to be our proxies. And we abide by the laws they put into action.

We each have our own journey, our own perspective, our own dreams.

But the essence of our nation? That’s of the people.


For years, I’ve had a simple belief.

I was certain that if one could win the support of the people, they could not go wrong in life.

Basic logic brought me to this conclusion. If such a quality allowed our democracy to endure countless moments of strife, it would certainly work on a narrower scale.

But now, I’m questioning that belief.

For the voice of the collective — the people — it doesn’t always support an equitable society. How could it, when each member of that collective is in it for themselves?

No, courting such an audience is not the panacea it’s made out to be. If anything, it represents selling out — trading our own values for others’ self-serving desires.

And yet, we cannot repel ourselves from the voice of the people. For if we stand too far apart, we find ourselves isolated, ostracized, and supremely vulnerable.

It’s a sticky situation. A high-stakes Catch-22.

So, what is our best path forward?


Back in grade school, my teachers assigned me several books to read.

One of my favorites was Inherit The Wind.

This script covered the events of the Scopes Trial from 1925. In the trial, a teacher in small-town Tennessee was accused of introducing the theory of evolution to his class.

Such an action was unheard of in the South at the time. So unheard of that it was against the law. That’s how the trial came to be.

The Scopes Trial was notorious for the caliber of its attorneys. Clarence Darrow represented the defense, while William Jennings Bryan represented the prosecution.

Bryan was a famed populist — a man of the people. A skilled orator with the ability to reach the everyman, he had run for the U.S. Presidency three times, but never won election.

Now, Bryan was representing the everyman again. But this time, it was in order to protect Creationism. To be of the people, Bryan was trying to keep the theory of evolution from ever seeing the light of day in Tennessee schools.

This all seemed arcane to me. After all, when I read Inherit The Wind, I myself was a student. A student who had learned both the theories of evolution and creationism in class.

More than that, I lived in a region where a museum had a simulated model of the Big Bang. All while the church down the street preached the virtues of creationism.

In other words, I had access to information. My viewpoint on how we got here would come not by educational mandate, but by my own free will.

And yet, a century earlier, I would not have had such liberties. And that irked me.

How could our nation have been so closed-minded? What gave religious zealots the right to dictate the truth? And why did Bryan get such acclaim when he was clearly sporting an autocratic agenda?

At least he lost the presidency, I told myself. And maybe the South just didn’t get it back then.


Fast forward several years.

My school years were done, and adulthood loomed. I had just moved to West Texas and taken a job as a TV news producer.

Within weeks, I was covering yet another science-vs-religion quarrel — this one about sex education.

The county I was in had banned sex education for high school students in favor of abstinence counseling. But such messaging had little sway on the adolescent crowd. Teen pregnancy rates in the county were among the highest in the state.

I thought the whole matter was dumb. I had sat through sex education classes in high school. It was uncomfortable, but it also prevented me from making a life-altering mistake.

I wondered if the single-mindedness of the local educators was failing the community. After all, no amount of preaching wholesome values can prepare a family for the moment when their teenage daughter finds pink lines on a pregnancy test.

But I was heartened by the way families handled this situation. They did not punish their children for violating the abstinence mandate. They supported them.

This was not the land of The Scarlet Letter. The region was not full of destitute teenage mothers. It was stable because the community had set up a system to protect its belief system against all opportunities.

It was at that moment that I came to terms with the thinking of 1920s Tennessee. It was at that moment that I grasped the allure of William Jennings Bryan.

I might not have agreed with it. But I understood it.

And such an understanding allowed me to better fit into my new community.


Being of the people has had its flaws over the years. But the risks were not all that dire.

Perhaps it meant that a group of students wouldn’t get to learn about evolution. Or that high schoolers would become parents. But such setbacks were unlikely to permanently ruin lives.

Recently, though, a dangerous brand of populism has emerged.

The structure of this movement has remained the same — charismatic figures seeking the tribal embrace of the people. But the foundation has shifted.

The collective is filled with mistrust and divisiveness. Partisanship and misinformation have us pointing fingers rather than rallying around a common cause. And we seem determined to push others down in order to raise ourselves up.

Yes, being of the people today means absolving personal responsibility. It means stiffing our neighbors. It means making our society less equitable, not more.

This is the path that we’ve chosen. But it’s not too late to change course.


It’s no secret that times have been tough recently. Illness, isolation, and financial hardship continue to abound.

Fighting through this strife has been no picnic. It’s not pleasant watching those around us suffer.

But perhaps such an experience can help us get back on track.

As we plow forward, we have a great opportunity. An opportunity to keep such suffering from becoming endemic.

If we reframe our mission toward helping our neighbors — and not just ourselves — we stand to gain. We can improve equity, forge unity and build community.

Of the people will realize its promise. And we will regain ours.

Such a future is within our reach. So what’s stopping us?

The cards are in our hands. It’s time to go all-in.

But Then What?

As I got walked across the parking lot, I saw noticed a strange sight.

It was dusk in West Texas, and my eyes could only make out so much. But off in the distance, there was a wall of storm clouds in the distance.

That’s odd, I thought. There’s no chance of rain tonight.

I would know.

For this parking lot was outside the TV station where I had just produced the 5:00 newscast. And during the weather segment, there was nary a mention of stormy weather. Not today, and not anytime soon.

Such was life on the West Texas plains, a desolate landscape that barely averaged a foot of rain a year.

So, I shrugged off what was on the horizon. It was probably just a random cloud deck that would be gone by morning, I figured. Nothing to worry about.

I got in my car and headed to town to pick up dinner. But once I hit the highway, everything changed.

The wind started howling, jostling the vehicle around. The road ahead of me — flat and straight as an arrow — faded from view. And my windshield got plastered with dirt.

I was driving into a dust storm.

I’d never encountered a dust storm before. And somehow, I knew what to do. I slowed down, turned on my hazards, and let my memory guide me forward.

I had driven this road dozens of times before, heading to and from work. I had a sixth sense as to where the traffic lights should be, and where the danger spots lay .

I would have to rely on this knowledge to get me through since I couldn’t see much beyond the 6 inches in front of my face. And I would have to hope that I wouldn’t rear-end a slower driver ahead of me.

By the time I made it to Sonic, my adrenaline was pumping. As I rolled down the window to place my order, a plume of dust settled on the bill of my Texas Rangers baseball cap.

I didn’t mind. I had made it.


Many of us have never driven through a dust storm.

They’re common in the desert or on the high plains. But those parts of America are sparsely populated.

Yet, even if we haven’t encountered sand-colored skies, we know how to handle such a circumstance. For we’ve been doing it just about every day.

We live by the doctrine of first-order effects. Of being in the moment. Of actions and reactions.

Many of our decisions help us respond to something thrown at us. Others are meant to force a response from someone else.

Our short game is masterful. We can rise to meet the occasion. We can harness the power of the moment to promote change.

But the long game? That’s woefully lacking.


I’m writing this article in the shadow of a monumental event. An investing gold rush that’s brought Wall Street hedge funds to their knees like never before.

Spurred by social media threads and enabled by smartphone apps, scores of people have bought shares in struggling companies. This has caused the value of these companies to rise. And it has damaged hedge funds betting on those stocks to fall.

These developments haven’t hurt anyone outside of Wall Street. Individual investors have seen the value of their “meme stocks” skyrocket. They’ve given themselves a new tool to pay off debt or stay afloat in a tough economy. And they’ve found a way to stick it to a system that has long kept inequality in place.

Still, the second-order effects of this development percolate. And they are troubling.

Taxes are one such concern. The amateur investors leading the charge are often young and new at playing the market. They might not realize that a portion of their gains go back to the government through taxes. And that means they might not budget properly for their investment — particularly if they borrowed money to buy shares.

Then there’s the bubble effect. After a scorching start, the market has already shown signs of cooling off. If these “meme stocks” lose value, will these investors have the know-how to sell in time?

Both these concerns impact investors alone. But the most ominous second-order effect of this frenzy impacts all of us.

Hedge funds were betting against the “meme stocks” for a reason. Those stocks represented companies with outdated business models, poor financial performance, or a flagging consumer base. They were pieces of companies set up to fail.

But because of the recent gold rush, these companies have a new lease on life. Their value now outpaces their viability.

This sets a dangerous precedent for the greater business community.

Money is the oxygen of the corporate world, and the North Star of business strategy is maximizing a company’s value. Generally, such a quest focuses on viability — producing something consumers crave, marketing it properly, and yielding sustainable revenue. Both the company and the consumer sector stand to benefit.

But in an environment where flailing businesses are overvalued, the quest for value no longer includes viability. Companies stop worrying about how to best serve consumers, as such endeavors no longer impact the stock price.

If the “meme stock” movement goes on to bankroll other flailing companies, this might be the future we see. A world full of overvalued companies making products that don’t meet our needs.

I doubt the investors seeking to dethrone the hedge funds thought of this when they started their escapade. But they should have.


In the movie The Godfather, there is a man who often sits near Don Corleone.

His hair is reddish-brown. His skin is pale. And his name is not Sicilian at all.

Tom Hagen might seem out of place at first. But he plays a critical role in the family business.

Hagen is a lawyer who serves as the Don’s advisor, or consigliere. Like a chess Grandmaster, his role is to think many steps ahead. His charge is to consider the second-order effects. His mission is to ask But then what?

As consigliere, Hagen maintains a quiet presence. Yet, his coolheaded advice keeps the Corleone family from countless pitfalls throughout the film.

In a sense, Tom Hagen is the silent hero for much of The Godfather.

The role of consigliere is profound. But it needn’t be limited to the silver screen.

I believe it’s critical that we find our inner consigliere. That we consider the second-order effects of the ventures we undertake in our own lives. That we remember to ask But then what? in advance of all we do.

Doing this won’t stop the turbulence of the times. But it just might cut down on the collateral damage. It might spare us from the disasters we were too shortsighted to anticipate.

Preventing such calamity doesn’t require much.

A cool head. Critical thinking. And the courage to ask a simple question.

But then what?