Month: August 2021

Scope of the Problem

On April 15, 1912, the Titanic sank.

In the dead of the North Atlantic night, the luxury liner hit an iceberg. Less than three hours later, she went under, taking about 1,500 people with her.

The sinking of the Titanic — on her maiden voyage, no less — is one of the most iconic disasters in maritime history. It’s led us to re-evaluate transportation safety protocols. It’s forced us to consider our own mortality. And it’s captivated modern generations, thanks to a blockbuster Hollywood portrayal.

Yet, none of those outcomes are what drew my interest.

My fascination with the Titanic saga comes from what it represents. Namely, the disaster that ensues when we don’t understand the scope of the problem.

Long before the Titanic took sail, icebergs were a source of maritime terror.
Hulking masses of ice could suddenly appear in the seas ahead without warning. Ships — built of wood and powered by the wind — would collide with these ice masses and capsize.

The Titanic did not have this issue. Its crew had the tools to spot water hazards by day and by night, and the ship had the engine power to steer clear of them.

Indeed, the Titanic’s first officer reportedly gave orders to evade the iceberg while the ship was some distance away.

But it was too late. The ship was doomed.

The frozen mass sticking out of the water was only one portion of the iceberg. Much more of the ice lay below the surface water and was undetectable to the naked eye.

That submerged edge of the iceberg was much closer to the ship than anyone realized. Within moments, the ship’s hull smacked into it, causing catastrophic damage.

This unfortunate incident was compounded by further missteps. The crew started an evacuation, but there were not enough lifeboats for all the passengers. Furthermore, the crew had not been briefed on proper evacuation procedures, leading them to launch several half-full lifeboats. And other ships did not respond to the Titanic’s distress signals until after it had already sunk.

At every turn, the crew of the Titanic had failed to grasp the scope of the problem. And these failures cost lives.

It’s been more than a century since the Titanic went down. And yet, we seem to run into more icebergs than ever before.

A modern world, powered by technology, has provided us access to troves of information. Yet, we fail to account for the complexity layered in.

We believe that everything is simple and that the answers to any issue are as clear as day. Our confidence is through the roof, and our brashness is on full display.

Still, much lies beyond our view, just like the submerged portion of an iceberg. And if we don’t know to look for these protruding angles, we risk our own catastrophe.

Understanding the scope of the problem is as critical as ever.

In the fall of 2001, the United States Military set its sights on a faraway land called Afghanistan.

It was a nation I’d first heard of only weeks prior, in the aftermath of the September 11th attacks. A terrorist network had plotted the attack from that land. And now, it seemed like the root of all evil.

The purpose of the military operation seemed clear. Kill or capture the terrorists who attacked our land. And wipe out the Taliban government that supported them.

It didn’t take long to achieve most of this objective. The mastermind of the attacks — Osama bin Laden — escaped to neighboring Pakistan, where he’d evade U.S. intelligence for nearly 10 years. But the Taliban were removed from power, the terrorist cells were scattered, and the days of Afghanistan threatening the United States seemed over.

Into this vacuum came a new mission. The American military would now be tasked with building a western-style society in the far reaches of the Middle East. Troops helped support a democratic government, building roads and infrastructure while standing up a massive Afghan security force.

This work lasted for two decades, with a price tag rising into the billions. Thousands of United States soldiers lost their lives over the course of the operation. Many others were seriously injured.

Eventually, the United States military pulled out of Afghanistan. But before the withdrawal was even complete, the nation had fallen to resurgent Taliban forces, spawning a humanitarian crisis.

The disastrous withdrawal was reminiscent of many of the United States’ exit from the Vietnam War. Suddenly, millions of Americans were sharing their hot takes on the fiasco.

Some said the U.S. had wasted the sacrifices of so many by ceding its post in the region. Others said two decades of conflict were proof enough that those sacrifices had been made in vain.

Both sides made a compelling case. But neither took the full picture into account.

The issue was not solely how long the U.S. stayed in Afghanistan. It was the assumption that Afghans would welcome a shift to Western society.

The U.S. hadn’t accounted for the cultural nuance of the region, much as it hadn’t understood the cultural nuance of Vietnam decades earlier. Our nation had failed to understand the scope of the problem. And because of that, the efforts to solve it came undone.

Wise men say only fools rush in.

Elvis Presley once crooned these words, before abandoning this advice with the song’s next line.

I am not Elvis Presley. I’m not famous. I’m not musically talented.

But I am staying the course.

I’ve made solving problems a core tenet of my life. And yet, I refuse to rush into this endeavor.

Indeed, each time I come across an issue, I try and determine the scope of the problem first. What angles am I missing? Which perspectives can I learn from?

Such determinations take rigor. They run counter to expectations of instant solutions.

But this sacrifice is essential.

We can only hope to find real answers if we can see the whole picture. Anything less and we’re just guessing.

I’m committed to removing this guesswork from my process. I’m determined to reduce my chances of accidentally sparking a catastrophe.

Are you?

The Half Glass of Adversity

I couldn’t sleep.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Excitement wasn’t blocking The Sandman’s advance. Neither was anxiety.

No, what was keeping me awake was a buildup of acid on my throat. It surged up my esophagus into the back of my mouth, leaving a burning sensation in its path. Every time I tried to doze off, nausea would jolt me awake.

Antacids didn’t help. Neither did raising my pillow. There was no relief to be found.

So, after a sleepless night, I threw in the towel.

I booked a doctor’s appointment, walking out of the office with a prescription that would help keep the acid at bay. But even with relief in my clutches, the adventure was far from over.

Over the next two months, I’d undergo a litany of tests — an ultrasound, an MRI, two endoscopies. I’d spend hours away from my job and incur tens of thousands of dollars in insurance claims. And at the end of this gauntlet, I’d find myself frustratingly devoid of answers.

There was no silver bullet for what ailed me. The risk of another flare-up would always be around the corner.

I had to get used to that.

I know, dear reader, that tales of runaway stomach acid are not the most pleasant. They might even seem taboo to share in a forum like this one.

But these ordeals are my reality. And the tactics I use to avert them are my reality too. 

Living with digestive issues saddles me with rules. Rules about when to eat. Rules about what to eat. And rules about how to react if I break protocol.

It all can be overwhelming at times. And it all can be socially isolating at others.

Insisting that companions commit to an earlier dinnertime is never pleasant. Triple-checking with restaurant staff about the ingredients in a dish makes me feel like a pariah.

I wish I didn’t have to go through this dance. I wish that I could live unencumbered and carefree.

But I don’t have that option. So, I do what I need to get by.

And yet, merely calling all this survival is missing the point.

Nearly two decades ago, my life was inexorably changed.

Terrorists toppled skyscrapers mere miles from my middle school classroom. A crystal-clear September morning devolved into a day I wasn’t sure I’d survive.

For years, I was filled with anger, grief, and confusion on account of this atrocity. To a large degree, I still feel this way today.

And yet, I made it past the 9/11 attacks. I didn’t let them break me.

Many years later, I moved across Texas without a job lined up. Over the course of three months, I burned through my savings as I sought steady employment.

All of this was also traumatic. I was filled with shame and doubt for not landing on my feet quickly.

And yet, I made it past that experience as well. In the subsequent years, I’ve built a career and generally thrived.

This resurgence took a hit when a global pandemic brought the world to a halt. So much of the life I’d built succumbed to the virus’ long shadow. So many initiatives that I’d set suddenly had to be scrapped.

The darkest months of the pandemic — filled with social isolation and the tension of uncertainty — felt like misery in slow-motion. They were nothing short of excruciating.

And yet, I’ve made it past those difficult days. In a relatively short timeframe, I’ve gotten myself back on track.

Yes, resilience has been a hallmark of my life. Time after time, I’ve faced significant roadblocks. And in each instance, I’ve risen to the challenge.

I’ve chronicled many of these crises here on Words of the West. But in general, I’m loath to dwell on them.

For the memories remain bitter. The scars persist.

I don’t want adversity to define me. And yet, its imprint is unmistakable.

The trouble started with a milkshake.

I drank the beverage at a diner back when I was a teenager. I immediately regretted it.

It turned out I was lactose intolerant. Many of the dishes I’d enjoyed to that point did not appreciate me in kind.

This revelation changed things.

Eating would no longer be a thoughtless activity. It would now be a minefield to traverse.

So, I did what had to be done. I established a diet. I cooked at home more often. And I stocked my medicine cabinet with digestive aids.

Such measures were largely successful. But not universally so.

Indeed, the night I lay awake with acid churning in my throat came years after that fateful milkshake. I had done so much right, and yet it had all turned out so wrong.

In the wake of such an ordeal, it would be so easy to fall back on old habits. It would be all too tempting to call that experience — and the litany of medical tests that followed — something to survive. It would be all too natural to bury the painful memories and move on.

But I refused to do any of that.

This time, I thought of all the changes I’d made to meet my digestive challenges. And I considered the benefits those adaptations brought.

Continual meal planning, for instance, honed my anticipation skills. Instead of just penciling in the next meal on the docket, I started thinking of what plans and obligations lay ahead in my day. I started considering how I could prepare for them.

Similarly, a necessary aversion to late-night snacking made me consider my sleep patterns. If digesting a burger at 1 AM was a bad idea, then maybe staying up until 1 AM was also a poor decision.

Considerations like these might seem trivial. But they provide a significant silver lining.

These details help us see adversity as a glass half-full. They give us something to build off.

These silver linings don’t validate the strife we went through. But they show how the byproduct of that struggle can be a lasting force for good.

That’s how it’s worked out in my life, at least. But I have a feeling I’m not alone when it comes to this sentiment.

So, let’s take a fresh look at adversity. Let’s reconsider how we define it and how we quantify it.

Something vibrant can emerge from our most challenging moments. We just need to know where to look.

The Competitive Edge

As the game ended, my team got into a single-file line. We approached our opponents, who were also in a single-file line.

Good game, we exclaimed to each opposing player as we gave them a fist bump. Good game, each opposing player replied.

The handshake line has always seemed like another order of business to many athletes. It was just another part of the game experience to get through.

But to me, the handshake line seemed like an opportunity. It was a chance to honor the achievements of others — even if those achievements might have come at my expense.

We go at each other tooth and nail on the field. But at the end of the day, we can show each other mutual respect.

I’m writing this in the wake of another Olympic games. And while the memories of these Olympics will likely stay with us for some time, there’s one moment that will remain front and center for me.

This moment came after the final round of the high-jump competition. An official approached two of the competitors — a Qatari and an Italian — and let them know they were tied for the top spot on the podium. The two men would need to jump once more to decide who would get the gold medal.

Upon hearing this, the Qatari turned to the official and asked Can we have two golds? When the official replied it was possible, the erstwhile competitors embraced, setting off an emotional celebration.

It turned out the two men knew each other well. They’d trained together before and were close off the track. One had even attended the other’s wedding.

Still, that doesn’t make the decision to share the gold medal any less remarkable.

In the heat of the moment, two men from opposite parts of the world seeking acclaim decided to share that glory. And we all won for witnessing it.

The story of the high jumpers stands out to me, in great part because it’s so different from my understanding of competition.

I grew up watching Michael Jordan, an uber-talented basketball player who told himself his opponents were slighting him at every turn — even when they weren’t. Jordan played these tricks on himself so that he could maintain a Dominate and destroy mindset.

That’s what competition was supposed to be, I was told. It was about getting the upper hand. And that meant vanquishing any obstacle in our path.

Such an approach had its benefits. Edgy competition raised the quality of the games Jordan played in, providing premium entertainment value.

But there were some costs as well. Jordan’s Chicago Bulls found themselves in nasty rivalries with the Detroit Pistons and New York Knicks over the years. And two of Jordan’s most iconic moments included him celebrating over defeated opponents.

This was not the best look, and it did not provide the best example for the next generation.

No, what that generation — my generation — needed was precisely what those Olympic high jumpers displayed.

I have a strong competitive spirit.

I loathe the participation trophy trend that’s pervaded our society. I believe accolades should be earned, not mass distributed. And I do my best to prove my worth each day.

And yet sometimes, my best is not enough. Sometimes, there’s someone out there who’s faster, stronger, or better.

Am I supposed to resent their success? Should I treat their achievements as a personal slight?

I shouldn’t. And I don’t.

I know to tip my cap when I know I’m outclassed. I understand the importance of giving others their due.

Of course, it’s easier to do this when the stakes are low. Losing a recreational sports event is not the end of the world. Getting beat out for a job that would cover my rent? That’s a tougher pill to swallow.

Nevertheless, I make a point of not villainizing my competition for wanting what I want. I don’t blame them for executing their game plan more masterfully than I.

If there’s something I could have done better, I focus on how I can improve going forward. But if I gave my best and it wasn’t enough, I show my respect and move on.

This approach has worked well for me over the years. But I wonder if those at the top of the pyramid would find similar success with it.

After all, competitors like Michael Jordan are in another stratosphere. They’ve reached the pinnacle by harnessing the edge that others couldn’t. They’ve refused to accept that their best wasn’t good enough.

I can’t find that gear. I know that as well as I know anything.

And yet, I’ve long questioned whether such an admission is a knock on my ambition.

Now, finally, I believe I have the answer.

Most mornings start the same way for me.

I get up, put on workout clothes, and lace up my Nikes. Then, I go for a run.

Running gives me great peace. In the still of the early morning, I can be alone with my thoughts. I’m carefree as my feet hit the pavement in rhythmic harmony.

Still, this solitude can get monotonous at times. So, I joined a running club to change things up.

My first workout with the club was a bit of a culture shock. I simply wasn’t used to running in a pack.

Every other time I’d encountered a group of runners on the sidewalk, I’d tried to breeze past them. This wasn’t so much for bragging rights as to satisfy my self-competitive spirit.

If an entire group was running at that speed, surely, I had it in me to surpass it. At least that’s what I told myself.

But now, I was supposed to stick with the group. I was meant to follow the pack, not lead it.

I struggled with this notion for a couple of miles. But then a revelation hit me like a thunderbolt.

Running with the group wasn’t weakening my running prowess. It was making me stronger.

Sure, everyone was going a bit slower than I liked. But their steadiness helped me build stamina, and their camaraderie helped me build confidence.

This activity wasn’t going to close the gap between me and the top finishers at 5K races. But it was making me a more well-rounded runner — one who could look on a fifth-place finish with acceptance rather than self-loathing.

This is the spirit that the Olympic high jumpers were tapping into. In a world that often divides us into winners and losers, they proved that giving our all can represent an even sweeter sense of victory.

So, let’s put away the yardsticks. Let’s turn off the scoreboards. Let’s ease off the comparisons.

We don’t need to stay one step ahead of everyone else to maintain our competitive edge. Our best is enough.

Principles and Results

I got set in the starting blocks, my heart pounding. To my left and right, 7 other runners did the same.

I was 11 years old, and this was my first track meet. There were people in the stands, coaches all around, and a slate of competitors who surely looked less green than I did.

All of this was intimidating. But at this moment, with the race impending, I was most terrified of one thing.

The starting gun.

I had issues with loud noises at this age. The flushing of industrial-strength toilets would terrify me. So would the honking of car horns and the firing of guns.

When I heard these sounds, my heart would skip a beat. I’d freeze, startled like a deer in the headlights.

Such a response would be devastating in this 100-meter race. I needed to get off the blocks quickly when called upon.

So, I tried to block out my fears. I reminded myself to be ready to run.

And when the gun went off, something unexpected happened. I reacted impeccably, rising into a sprinter’s position and taking off.

Now, I was flying down the track, outpacing the other kids by a few steps. Fear had evaporated into opportunity. I had a real chance to win this race.

Yet, as I thundered ahead, I worried that I was out of balance. My legs felt like they were leading the way, dragging my upper body along.

I knew that I needed to be in sync, so I leaned forward to compensate. But I leaned too far, and I took a tumble.

Now, the pack of competitors was far ahead of me, charging for the finish line. My legs were bloodied from the asphalt track. My hopes were dashed.

Even so, I wasn’t going to give up. I got back on my feet and charged forward with all that I had. And I crossed the finish line.

Just like that, my race was over. I was left to think about what might have been had my sprint not gone awry. That would be the narrative of this experience.

Or so I thought.

In school the next day, my teacher called me to the front of the class. She asked me to pull up my pant legs, so the class could see my scraped knees.

My teacher then explained that while I hadn’t won a medal in the 100-meter contest, I’d done something just as noteworthy. By getting back up and finishing the race, I’d shown courage, determination, and heart. And that was worthy of recognition.

Upon hearing this, my classmates applauded.

In hindsight, this seems like a special moment. A moment worth cherishing.

And indeed, I do hold this memory dear these days. But back then, I remember feeling supremely confused.

After all, I had fallen. I had failed.

There were no medals to show for my effort. No sterling race splits. There was just a row at the bottom of the results table with my name and unspectacular race time on it.

Why was I now being feted?

I didn’t know quite how to react.

There is no substitute for hard work.

So proclaimed one of America’s greatest innovators — Thomas Edison.

Edison’s inventions are widely known, but the winding journey toward such success are not. There were hundreds of challenges, setbacks, and outright failings along the way.

Many would-be innovators would have thrown in the towel in the face of such adversity. But Edison didn’t. He kept trying. And eventually, he turned those struggles into success.

Today, we laud those who have followed Edison’s lead. We single out those who try hard, and who stick with it through adversity.

Still, such positive attention ignores a key fact. Our effort doesn’t always correlate to our performance.

As I’ve explained before, effort and execution are two entirely different things.

In my 100-meter race, I had failed miserably at one of those tasks. And yet, everyone was acting as if I hadn’t done anything wrong at all.

It didn’t seem right.

There is a narrative out there claiming that America was built on hopes and dreams. But our society relies on results.

Results are how we evaluate performance in a free-market economy. It’s how businesses are valued. It’s how athletes are defined. It’s how musicians go Platinum and movies break the bank.

Even in a changing world, there is little appetite to change this model. We might squabble about providing a social safety net, but we still believe in singing for our supper.

Yes, if one was to brand an American mantra, it would likely be Deliver results.

And yet, that is not the recognition we espouse. We focus instead on principles.

Principles are how I ended up with that round of applause just for finishing a race. Principles are what drive us to recognize others for their work ethic, passion, or chivalry.

We celebrate these attributes because they’re culturally significant. We want to live in a world full of determined people who still have the presence of mind to care about their neighbors.

But if we focus too much on that side of the coin, we’re setting ourselves up for trouble.

In 1970, economist Milton Friedman wrote a New York Times Magazine article that changed the business world.

The Friedman Doctrine mandated that a public company’s only objective was to provide value to its shareholders. It tossed aside any grand sense of principle and zeroed in on the bottom line.

The Friedman Doctrine helped spur the rise of cutthroat capitalism. In the years that followed, businesses went to great lengths to drive results and increase their valuations.

Innovation soared and shareholder value exploded. But it wasn’t all rosy.

In the years following the Friedman Doctrine, corporate America abandoned its sense of humanity. Workers became more expendable than ever before, and the compensation gap soared. A focus on results for some did not provide benefits for all.

These days, there is a backlash to this pattern. Scholars and activists have demanded more from companies than an increase in stock prices. Employee empowerment and corporate social responsibility are among the items on their wish lists.

But progress in these areas has been staggered.

For while we feel strongly about principles, they don’t usurp results.

Companies must demonstrate success to stay in business. A runner must cross the finish line first to get the gold medal.

We put a lot of attention on how we can get there. But in the end, what matters is that we do get there.

So, let’s take a fresh perspective.

Let’s treat principles as table stakes, rather than exalted virtues. And let’s redirect our focus on the results they can bring.

The way we carry ourselves matters. But our achievements matter even more.