Month: March 2021

Rebooting the Ecosystem

It was a warm summer night.

The windows were cracked, filling my bedroom with a warm breeze. Outside, cars drove by the house intermittently, while the glow of the moon illuminated the roadway.

I was keenly aware of all this because I couldn’t sleep a wink.

My insomnia was understandable. Hours earlier, I’d returned from a trip to the other side of the globe. My internal clock told me it was 1 PM, not 1 AM. This was no time for sleep.

But there was more than jet lag keeping me awake.

For I was 10 years old, and I had just traveled abroad for the first time. In particular, I’d spent three weeks in China with my family.

Vacationing in a place so radically different from the environs I’d known was jarring. By the end of the trip, the disparity was playing tricks on my mind.

I had begun to think that the existence I had before boarding that flight across the Pacific was an illusion. That the life I’d remembered in America wasn’t real.

But once I got off that return flight, everything was still there. The city lights. My grandparents. Our house. Our dog.

It was all a bit much for me to process. So, I went to my bedroom and cried. Then, I tried in vain to fall asleep.

I hadn’t thought much of this particular night until recently. But now, it’s top of mind.

For after a lost year where our world was upended by a microscopic virus, change is again in the air. Our path out of the pandemic is clearly illuminated. And a return to the familiar awaits on the other side.

No, things won’t ever really be the same. Many have lost loved ones. Businesses have gone under. And there’s plenty that we’ll still do virtually after the health emergency recedes.

But there is plenty from the “before times” that will be returning. In-person events. Family barbecues. Nights out with friends.

And as we wade back into these experiences, there’s a good chance we’ll end up overwhelmed. Just like I did the night I returned from China.

Why is re-entry so clunky? Why is it so hard to reembrace the familiar?

A lot has to do with the underlying system.

What we call the familiar is actually an elaborate social and physical ecosystem. It’s the sights, sounds, and smells around us. But it’s also the paths we traverse, the people we associate with, and the norms that we follow.

When things are going well, we take much of this for granted. There’s no need to fuss about it, or even to notice it.

But if this ecosystem is taken away from us, we suddenly realize how fragile our assumptions were. And we need to work to get our sense of stability back.

Take domestic travel as an example. For many, crisscrossing United States has long felt ubiquitous. It was easy to hop a flight from Phoenix to Pittsburgh or to road trip from Charlotte to Chicago without missing a beat. The airports looked similar, the highway signs were uniform and there were ample hotel and restaurant brands along the route that we were comfortable with.

Much of this familiarity can be tied to two pieces of legislation.

One — the National Interstate and Defense Highways Act of 1956 — built a national highway network. The other — the Airline Deregulation Act of 1978 — effectively allowed airlines to do the same in the skies.

Providing a uniform way to get from Point A to Point B changed the way we think about mobility. Assuming we had the money and the time, we could head anywhere. And we wouldn’t need to worry about poor road conditions, inadequate lodging, or having to stop at a zillion airports along the way.

For years, nothing truly threatened that sense of travel freedom. The 9/11 attacks required us to beef up airport security, and surging gas prices have at times made road trips untenable. But despite those hurdles, we had ample opportunities to continue our journey unimpeded.

It took the pandemic to shatter that stability.

Now, to be clear, the interstates never shut down during the health crisis. Neither did airports. But traveling became much more burdensome.

Several states enacted quarantine requirements for travelers. Restaurants and hotels reduced services to follow health guidelines. And stay-at-home orders strongly discouraged travel for a time.

With so little peace of mind, many of us stopped traveling. It was too risky and too burdensome. For the first time in my life, I didn’t leave my own state for a year. In fact, I only left town once during that time.

But now, with vaccinations ramping up, many are looking to hit the road again. Many others are hoping to take to the skies.

These aspiring travelers are looking for a release. They’re seeking an escape from the horrors of the recent trip around the sun. They’re requesting a return to what they once knew.

But such desires might prove elusive. At least for now.

For while the highways and airports look similar to how they once did, the communities they connect do not. Our nation is still on the path back to the familiar, and the map is dotted with communities facing that same uneasiness.

A change of scenery won’t change that fact or speed up the timeline. We need something more to get there.

As I lay awake in my bedroom that warm summer night, I tried to will myself back to normalcy.

It would take me a week to get there. A week of groggily reacclimating with the environs I’d previously known so well.

I think the same perseverance is needed now, as we seek to reclaim what was once familiar.

For ecosystems can’t re-emerge in an instant. They take time to reboot.

And the ecosystem powering our way of life is extra fragile. It’s built on trust and human connection — both of which have been under siege lately.

The responsibility to get this project off the ground falls on our shoulders.

It’s on us to be deliberate and empathetic, as we work our way out of this forced hibernation. It’s our responsibility to resist the delusions of a quick fix. And it’s our charge to roll up our sleeves and rebuild connections.

This work won’t be glamorous, and it won’t seem particularly fun. But it will make our ecosystem stronger, and it will make us more resilient.

With patience, faith, and determination, we can do more than reclaim what we once had. We can build something even better.

So, let’s get to it.

The Consistency Paradox

The chains of habit are too light to be felt until they are too heavy to be broken. –Warren Buffet

As is often the case, the Oracle of Omaha knows of what he speaks.

Yes, we are creatures of habit. We’re drawn to consistency, like moths to a flame.

In a world that’s all too often unpredictable, routines give us a sense of calm. Habits help us attend to our needs while diffusing the stress that comes from surprises.

This isn’t always for the best. Some habits — alcoholism, compulsive gambling, or drug addiction, for instance — can destroy lives.

Then again, healthy routines can lead to substantial improvements. Exercising can help us stay fit. Cooking can stimulate our curiosity. Getting enough sleep can keep us energized throughout the day.

But these routines only work if we keep them consistent.

The end goal is tantalizing. So, we go all-in.

We watch TED Talks about habits. We read self-help books about healthy routines. We turn ourselves into models of consistency, in hopes of reaping the benefits.

But at what cost?

I am familiar with the seduction of routines. They’ve long been a prominent part of my life.

I’ve gone for a run at least once a week for the last 8 years, for instance. And every week for the last 5 years, I’ve put together a fresh article here on Words of the West.

Much has changed during that time — my job responsibilities, my home address, my orbit of friends and acquaintances. But through this evolution, my routines have kept me grounded. They’ve provided a clear path from then to now.

Yet, the recent global pandemic threw me for a loop. The world dramatically changed at its onset. And like many, I struggled to adapt.

While there was a temptation to retreat in the early days, I dug in. If anything, the stress and uncertainty spurred me to double down on my existing routines.

For example, I ramped up my exercise regimen to four days a week — all while moving my workouts outdoors. I set up a meal prep rotation, with new staples such as Slow Cooker Sundays. And instead of solely writing an article here each week, I also kept a daily account of my life in quarantine.

There was a method to my madness. Accelerating my habits would give me a semblance of control over the uncertainties of pandemic life. Staying consistent with my routines would help me bridge the pre and post-pandemic worlds.

At least that’s what I told myself.

But the pandemic far outlasted my quarantine. And with the world in an extended state of flux, my consistency began to turn into a crutch.

As friends and family tried to connect with me, I turned them down in order to prepare another homecooked meal. I cut back on my sleep time to make room for my writing habits. And I even tried to run on four inches of snow, just to keep from going a week without a workout.

Consistency had gotten me through a major disruption in my life. But it also blinded me to the situation at hand. And it prevented me from moving forward.

The best ability is availability.

This adage has practically become gospel in any industry that relies heavily on teamwork.

The premise is simple. Someone with raw potential alone can amaze. But if they’re only able to showcase those talents here and there, their long-term impact will be muted.

Reliability is at a premium in our society, whether we’re playing ball or bringing our lunch pail to the construction site. From our earliest days, we’re taught the virtues of consistency. We’re urged to do things the right way, over and over again.

There are some virtues to this doctrine. It’s helped us rebound from significant setbacks. And it’s allowed us to set a standard that can endure across generations.

But the reliability mandate also pins us under a substantial weight. It leaves us to wilt under the strain of legacy.

As our society innovates and grows, the old patterns we once espoused lose much of their muster. Yet, we recognize that those very patterns — our habits and routines — are what got us to such an inflection point. We are fond of those memories, and we’re hesitant to cast those patterns off.

This is The Consistency Paradox. It’s the recognition that the same rigor that helped make us great can keep us from becoming even greater.

The Consistency Paradox is what’s made But that’s the way we’ve always done it such a powerful retort. The Consistency Paradox is why pledges for changes in behavior patterns so frequently fall short.

And as the pandemic dragged on, I found myself running headlong into The Consistency Paradox.

I was opening myself up to a gauntlet of my own creation. But in doing so, I was closing the door to new opportunities.

When is the right time to change course?

This is the question that we must grapple with when it comes to routine.

In my case, establishing consistent habits was critical early in the pandemic. It allowed me to fill the void that emerged when the world shut down.

But those same advantages soon became liabilities. As the familiar faded out of sight, so did the significance behind my routines. I became nothing more than a misguided soul standing defiantly against the wind.

I had believed that dogged consistency would spare me the worst outcomes of the pandemic — serious illness, economic hardship, and a sense of disillusionment. But even with my supercharged exercise, cooking, and writing habits, I found myself reckoning with crippling anxiety, strained social ties, and divergence from rational thought.

I eventually changed my ways. I dialed back on my routines and allowed a measure of randomness to return to my life. Even with the lingering shadow of the pandemic, I’ve been happier since making that shift.

But I wish I could have seen the light earlier. If I had spent less time chained to pointless routines, how much better off would I be now?

I’m sure I’m not alone in wondering this. The Consistency Paradox is a subtle anchor, dragging us down without making us aware of our dire circumstances.

It takes some extreme introspection to free us of The Consistency Paradox’s smothering embrace. And introspection is not something we’re all that great at.

Even so, the time for excuses has long passed. We can do better. We must do better.

So let’s treat routine or habit the way we do caffeine or sugar — as something that’s most useful in moderation. Let’s maintain some spontaneity in our lives. And let’s approach the uncertain future with the same zeal with which we recount the sepia-toned past.

Consistency can lift us up. Let’s not allow it to drag us down.

Wants and Needs

From the back seat of my car, I heard the request.

Turn the air up!

It was an early June afternoon, and several people were piled in my car for a short drive.

But apparently, some parts of my sedan were unbearable. And those sitting behind me were growing restless.

I tried to alleviate the situation.

I’ve got the air up to full-blast, I told them.

Well, we can’t feel a thing, they replied.

I realized then that I had a major problem. It seemed my car’s air conditioning system was fried, just in time for a sweltering Texas summer.

A few days later, as I tried to price out repair costs in my head, I called my father for advice. He recommended that I buy a new car.

No way, I replied. I don’t have $20,000 sitting around.

My father chuckled and replied that I could finance the car by making monthly payments for several years. Somehow, I had made it through early adulthood without figuring this out.

I soon traded in my sedan for a brand new SUV. In doing so, I upgraded my ride without fundamentally disrupting my lifestyle. The only change was that a little more money came out of my monthly wages to go toward car payments.

Best of all, I wouldn’t hear the sharp critiques from backseat passengers anymore. The SUV was spacious, comfortable, and air-conditioned for all.

I adored my new vehicle from the moment I drove it off the lot.

And yet, as the monthly payments came due, a disconcerting question crossed my mind. Was this purchase a want or a need?

A need is something we rely on. We can’t function without it.

A want is what provides our sense of identity. We feel as if we can’t function without it.

The difference might seem subtle. It’s anything but.

Needs are at the center of humanity. They’re the bedrock that our well-being requires.

Wants, on the other hand, are less universal. They’re highly variable,

The psychologist Abraham Maslow is perhaps most responsible for demonstrating the discrepancy between wants and needs. He created a pyramid heuristic to separate what’s essential for many from what’s important to a few.

Maslow’s Hierarchy Of Needs starts with basic needs, such as nourishment and shelter, and moves on up to self-fulfillment. Each level gets more intricate, but one can only reach it by first attaining the levels beneath.

I’m not sure where Maslow would put air-conditioned vehicles on the pyramid. Air conditioning was still a new technology when his theory was published in 1943. Cars and trucks were also less ubiquitous than they are now.

But I would say a functional vehicle counts as a basic need. Or at least it is in Texas, where the distances are vast, sidewalks are sporadic, and alternative transportation options are often nonexistent. (No, most of us do not ride our horses to work.)

That said, my shiny new SUV might have been more of a want than a need. My old sedan was still drivable, air conditioning be darned. And I could have paid less to fix it up than I ultimately spent to get a whole new vehicle.

This distinction is important because the monthly payments made me even more reliant on my income. Not only would I need to maintain my job to pay my rent and cover my bills, but I would also need my salary to stay on time with my car payments.

These expenses were now a fact of my life. But when I peeled back the curtain, I found that only some of these were covering necessities. The others were covering luxuries.

I’ve been peeling back the curtain a lot recently. We all have.

This past year of life in a pandemic has had all of us assessing what’s truly important. It has us looking hard at what’s a want and what’s a need.

Some false necessities were badly exposed. Business travel, gym memberships, and out-of-home entertainment, for instance. Other perceived necessities, such as new car expenses, were suddenly viewed in a new light.

Beyond reconsidering the items we once thought essential, we rethought the way we budget for items. And sometimes, we’ve even pondered whether we needed to at all.

This too, was brought on by the situation at hand. After all, those who lost their jobs during the pandemic didn’t have the means to cover extra expenses. And with so many activities restricted by health and safety protocols, those fortunate enough to keep their jobs parked more money in savings accounts.

Such shifts have led us to take a fresh look at livable wage standards. As millions of people reduced their spending, many have learned that the salary they need to survive is less than what they’d once imagined.

I will admit that this latest revelation has shaken me.

For I still have hopes and dreams. I still have goals that this pandemic has not quashed. I still have plans to build on what I’ve attained and to open myself to more opportunities.

All of this is what I want. But now, I wonder how of it is what I need.

Give an inch, and they’ll take a mile.

This advice serves as a warning shot for a tough negotiation. And it’s relatively commonplace in America.

After all, we are a capitalist society. We are a culture that encourages constituents to claim what’s theirs. And then to take, and take, and take some more.

Yes, our nation has a legacy of excess. We have a long history of spoiling ourselves with riches while simultaneously depleting the spaces we share with others.

There has been a growing backlash against this pattern in recent years. But old habits die hard.

It took a drastic event — this pandemic — for many of us to break the chain. To start to think of our objectives in a more wholesome way.

But now comes the challenge of moving beyond. Of separating our needs from our wants. And of seeing where to draw the line.

Reconciling what we desire with what we should rightfully seek is no easy task. For in our minds, everything is important. From our perspective, we’ve already sacrificed so much. Why should we be asked to sacrifice even more?

But if we are to grow beyond this strange and scarring moment, we must carry its lessons forward. We must cut down on the excess before it is cut down for us. We must prioritize our needs over our wants.

I plan on doing just that.

My SUV is paid off now, and I’m holding off on trading it in for a new one. The air conditioning works, and the vehicle still drives well. No need to put more weight on my income just to get a shinier ride.

Unlike that June day from years ago, I have what I need. The wants can wait.

The Limits of Liability

As I made my way around the curve, I was caught off guard.

There were brake lights in front of me. Directly in front of me.

The lane I was driving in was closed up ahead. Orange construction cones sat in the lane about 100 yards from my windshield.

Apparently, a driver ahead of me had lost sight of this until it was nearly too late. So, they had brought their vehicle to a complete stop on the left lane of a busy highway.

Now, the drivers behind this vehicle were faced with a double-whammy. There was both the lane closure and the stopped vehicle in their path.

I was driving the third car in this sequence, which means I had only a split-second to react. To my left was a concrete wall, and to my right, a stream of speeding vehicles. My only option was to hit my brakes as hard as I could.

I did, but it wasn’t good enough. Cars need space to decelerate from 70 miles an hour to a standstill. And I didn’t have enough of it.

I was probably going 25 miles an hour when I hit the back of the vehicle in front of me, driving it into the stopped car. The momentum pushed all three vehicles past the cones until we mercifully came to a stop.

The airbags in my car deployed, jolting me once again. And then], the horrifying incident was over.

I checked on my friend, who was sitting in the passenger seat. A half-hour earlier, she and I had been line dancing at a honky-tonk. Now, we had just absorbed a car crash. At that moment, I could have cared less if I was OK. I just hoped — prayed — that my friend wasn’t hurt.

Thankfully, she was alright. We were both shaken, suffering from shock and whiplash. But we had somehow avoided major injuries.

The car, on the other hand, was totaled. The front end was crushed in. Its obituary was written right there on the road.

The police came on the scene to take everyone’s statements. A wrecker came to take my car away. And we got a ride home.

Later, I learned that I was deemed at fault for the accident. Since I was driving the vehicle at the back of the pileup, the liability lay with me.

I didn’t face any charges, but I had a black mark on my insurance record for several years. Because of that, I struggled to get a good rate on my coverage.

I’m well past all that now. And both my friend and I have no ill effects from the crash, aside from the traumatic memories.

But sometimes, I do wonder about that ruling. The one pinning the full weight of liability for the accident on me.

I am accountable to a fault, and I’ve accepted the judgment that was rendered. But I also wonder what else I could have done.

I was left in a no-win position. I did the best that I could, but I ended up paying the price for it. Meanwhile, the driver at the front of the line made a poor decision — only to be left with an unscathed insurance record.

Did that driver really not have any liability? How did that rationale make any sense?

I’ve been thinking about this more lately. With a global pandemic in full swing and a mix of political and social unrest overtaking America, the question of liability is top of mind for just about everyone.

Does the decision to leave our homes make us liable for someone’s illness, injury, or death? Do our words leave us liable for property damage, looting, and mayhem?

In some cases, the answer is clearly yes. If we get behind the wheel of a car while intoxicated and run over a pedestrian, we’ll face manslaughter charges. If we falsely yell Fire in a crowded space, we could be held to account for the ensuing stampede.

But in other instances, the situation is murky. If leaving home leads someone to unknowingly pass a virus to a passerby, who then passes it along to their grandparent, would that first person be liable for an elderly stranger’s illness? If one’s words inspire someone to drive halfway across the country and spark a riot, where does the blame fall?

As with my car crash, the answers aren’t clear-cut. But unlike that incident, there’s no clear protocol to sort out the mess.

I am a Texan.

My home state features vast landscapes, a diversified economy, and a philosophy that can be summed up in two words: Personal responsibility.

It’s not quite a free-for-all in the Lone Star State — anyone caught speeding on Interstate 35 is well aware of that fact. But the limits of liability are profound.

Such a philosophy speaks to the legacy of Texas. There have always been boundless opportunities on these prairies. But with them have come outsized risks.

In the early days, settlers were susceptible to sweeping Comanche raids or attacks by wild animals. Nearly two centuries later, the dangers of tornadoes, wildfires, and hurricanes remain omnipresent for many Texans.

These events have brought plenty of devastation. And yet, assigning blame for them is as futile as roping the wind.

So, the prevailing approach to liability around these parts is hands-off. Texans are expected to exercise good judgment. And, for the most part, they’re only held to account if their actions directly impact someone else.

I have not always been a fan of this limited liability philosophy. The lack of recourse when things go wrong has always seemed disconcerting.

But I still think it’s better than the alternative.

For if we blindly accept a world of broad liability judgments, we shrink our horizons. We limit our opportunities. We shackle ourselves.

After all, if we know the third car in the crash gets saddled with the bill, we’ll do all we can to avoid being that third car. We’ll box ourselves in to avoid misfortune. And, in doing so, we’ll forfeit the opportunities that would otherwise sit in our path.

By playing not to lose, we’ll still end up in last place.

We deserve a better fate.

So, let’s stop squabbling about liability. Let’s stop grandstanding about who’s to blame for each downstream effect. Let’s get back to living under the principles that have long shepherded our society — liberty and responsibility.

We’ll be better for it.

Short and Long Games

Chess and checkers.

They’re the original table games. They’re tests of skill and strategy. And they take place on the same board, filled with squares of alternating colors.

Yet, that is where the similarities end.

Chess caters to the sophisticated. There are several types of pieces for the players to use — each of which has its own movement patterns. That means there are plenty of permutations to consider.

Success in chess means seeing five moves ahead better than your opponent can. It’s all about the long game.

Checkers, by contrast, is less complex. The pieces look identical, and their movement patterns are relatively straightforward.

Success in checkers means reacting appropriately in the moment. It’s all about the short game.

These table games each have ardent fans. Yet, that support doesn’t tend to overlap across contests.

Perhaps it should.

The discrepancy between chess and checkers seems like an amusing bit of annoyance. It feels similar to the debate about whether to put ketchup or mustard on a hot dog. (The answer is clearly mustard, by the way.)

But look deeper, and this dispute marks an important cultural schism.

For we like to divide our society into different groups. Rich and poor. Liberal and conservative. Old and young.

And yet, one of the most tantalizing divisions involves time horizon. It separates the short-term thinkers from the long-term ones.

Long-term thinkers are seen as visionaries. They can help our society prepare for the future or endure an uncertain present. But they don’t necessarily thrive in the day-to-day.

Steve Jobs, for instance, was a legendary long-term thinker. He ushered in an era of consumer-friendly computing and he helped spark the shift to smartphones. But he famously wore the same outfit to work most days, and he didn’t have a great rapport with his workforce.

Meanwhile, short-term thinkers are seen as practical. They can provide consistency, helping to keep things running in the day-to-day. But when there’s a paradigm shift, they might not be equipped to react.

John Antioco, for example, mastered short-term thinking — leading Blockbuster Video into the new millennium as the king of video rentals. But Antioco infamously turned down an offer to purchase Netflix around that same time, helping lead to the company’s decline.

There’s a longstanding debate about which school of thinking is more beneficial. But truth be told, they both are.

It’s important to maintain a vision for the future, and to have a sense of direction. But it’s also critical that we remain available to meet the needs of the moment.

And so, our society is split into two types of roles. Those in strategic positions help chart the road ahead. Those in operational positions keep the gears turning.

This split has paid dividends on a wide scale. But if you look deeper, it’s clear that this divide is failing us.

In my younger days, I would have considered myself a short-gamer.

I preferred checkers to chess, and I took plenty of stock in the needs of the moment.

This had nothing to do with spontaneity. Indeed, I have always been a planner.

But my plans were both practical and immediate. I didn’t have the energy to worry about what would happen five years down the road. Surviving the day was much more important.

This approach helped me excel in school, and it allowed me to navigate some lean financial times in early adulthood. But it also made my choices rigid.

For instance, if I stepped on the scale and didn’t like what I saw, I’d work out until my legs felt numb. If my bills were too high, I’d run the air conditioner less often. And if the scene at work got hectic, I’d stay late to get everything taken care of.

Days tended to compound on each other. So, this extreme approach did help me build long-term habits. For instance, I’ve built up an exercise regimen and eliminated both alcohol and sugary drinks from my diet in recent years. All those changes originating from a short game approach.

That said, devoting myself to such a pattern left me blind to the bigger picture. I had no idea where I was headed, or what I could do if my arbitrary choices failed.

This became apparent when I switched careers and moved to a new city. Making such drastic changes was in my best interest. But taking a chance on me wasn’t high on the list of priorities of prospective employers. And so, I languished, stuck in neutral.

I eventually gained a foothold in a new industry. But this only happened after I’d lived in an extended-stay hotel for three months and after I’d maxed out my credit card to cover food and gasoline.

In the aftermath of this experience, I started thinking about the long game. I considered where I wanted to end up, and how far I was from that objective. As I progressed through my new career and enrolled in business school, such concerns fueled me.

But switching approaches would prove to be no easy feat. Short-term thinking was all I knew. Now, I was asking myself to toss it aside and start anew.

I struggled to let go.

Then, a global pandemic put everything on pause. And in that moment of quiet self-reflection, I finally saw the light.

What you do today determines who you will be tomorrow.

Chances are, you’ve heard words like this. Maybe from a parent, a sports coach, or a professional development guru.

This advice is meant to bridge the gaps between the short game and the long game. It’s designed to make us intentional of our actions and aware of their consequences.

This all sounds great in theory. But it rarely works in practice.

For we do not have full control over the future. Unlike the chessboard, the world is volatile. Good short game fundamentals might position us for success, but they won’t necessarily get us across the threshold.

My past misadventures all but prove this point.

To see success, we must turn that advice on its head. We should rephrase it as follows:

Think of where you want to be tomorrow. Then consider what you can do today to help get there.

Such advice gives us a clear North Star. And it puts all our actions in service of that North Star.

No longer must we be wedded to rigid habits and routines. If the path to our objective becomes untenable, we have the liberty to try another approach. This flexibility can improve our chances of reaching our goal.

And yet, we remain accountable to the here and now. For our actions serve as building blocks, bringing us closer to our North Star. Without them, our path to success is gone.

The short game and the long game can work in tandem. But only if the long game leads.

This epiphany has led me to rethink everything. It’s made my decisions less rigid and my strategic vision more resilient. Best of all, it’s made me less apprehensive of the future and the uncertainty it brings.

So yes, it’s time to put the chess and checkers debate to bed. The short game, the long game — they’re just pieces of the same puzzle.

It’s up to us to put those pieces together.