Month: December 2021

Rounding Error

On a cool fall evening, I put on my workout clothes, laced up my running shoes, and went for a run.

I didn’t venture far – only a mile through my neighborhood. But the fact that I was even on the trot at all on this day was notable.

For this was supposed to be a rest day – a day where I did no running at all. And yet, here I was, breaking my own rules.

Why? Because this was the last day of November. I’d run 129 miles in the month to date, and I was determined to up that to 130 before the new month set in.

The quest for a round number was mostly symbolic. It was a similar quest to the one I often endured at the gas station, as I’d top off the tank in my SUV to get to an exact dollar amount. Or to the energy I summoned watching late-season baseball games, hoping my favorite player would connect for his 30th home run.

Should it have really mattered if I ended my month with 129 miles run? Or if I left the gas station with a $29.99 gasoline bill. Or if I cheered for a player with 29 long balls on the season?

No. No, it should not have.

But did it matter? Yes, it absolutely did.

Why do we worry so much about numbers? Why do we obsess about milestones the way that I did?

I think a lot comes down to commonality. We speak different languages, belong to different cultures, and contend with different climate patterns across the globe. But numbers? Numbers transcend the gap.

Sure, there are some exceptions. Monetary values vary from country to country. Temperature measures can vary between Fahrenheit and Celsius.

But even with those exceptions, the rules of mathematics are among the few things we share. We can tell stories with the numbers we see on a screen or a piece of paper. And, if we’re deft enough, we can manipulate those stories to our benefit.

Statistics help us to spin this yarn. They provide us with a set of rules and models to contextualize our experience. They also help us gauge our response.

One common term in statistics is rounding error. This refers to a difference that’s so trivial that it’s hardly even worthy of paying attention to.

I’ve used this descriptor for a great many things. For instance, I infamously described the early spread of COVID as a rounding error — pointing out that case counts were relatively low when compared to the size of the population.

I was wrong in that assessment. But there are so many other opportunities out there for me to make the right call with rounding errors.

Why don’t I accept a number that ends in a 9? Why do I go the extra mile for posterity’s sake?

Come to think of it, why do we all?

As I write this, another year is coming to an end.

The world is awash with Best Of and Year in Review lists, along with the angsty, hopeful wishes for the year to come.

But when the clock strikes midnight on New Year’s Eve, will things really be all that different? Likely not. And even if so, not instantly.

As I’ve written before, the changing of a calendar is little more than a rounding error. It’s not as significant as we seem to make it.

Yet, we can’t help ourselves. We do all we can to play up the occasion, to demand more of it than it could ever possibly deliver.

And when the magic ceases to appear on cue, we pledge to try again next year. The habit becomes embedded, even as its futility comes more and more into focus.

It’s maddening, but it’s inevitable. A year, a month, a week — these are the patterns we know. Without their mileposts guiding our way, we’re lost.

And with them guiding our way, we might still be lost.

Where do rounding errors come from?

Are they the purview of sloppy mathematics? Are they functions of shortcuts and loopholes?

Not exactly.

You see, math is stunningly precise. One and three make four. Half of 100 is 50. These statements are true as day.

But math also works best when things are linear. When there are straight lines and edges.

When that environment disappears, things can get downright messy.

Measuring anything that’s circular often requires a long series of decimals. It’s a pain to calculate, a pain to memorize and a pain to write out for others to see.

So, we split the difference. We round up or round down those decimal strings to simpler numbers. And we trivialize everything that gets approximated, using the rounding error label.

This happens more often than we realize. For we live on a sphere that spins on its axis as it orbits the sun.

Circles are a constant in our lives. And so are our imprecise attempts to measure them.

That means a lot of rounding errors. Errors that — over time — can knock us off course.

Not long after I trivialized a burgeoning pandemic as a rounding error, something unusual occurred.

A date appeared on my calendar that hadn’t been there the year before. February 29th.

Yes, it was a leap year. I made the most of my extra day — volunteering in a community kitchen and going shopping.

Leap years are themselves functions of rounding errors. Earth’s orbit of the sun takes slightly more than 365 days to complete. To keep calendars from breaking, we take those fractions of a day and tack them onto the calendar every four years.

This leap day took place two months after the pageantry of New Year’s. The resolutions were already toast, the champagne and party hats were a distant memory. And the virus that would ultimately upend our lives had yet to overrun America.

Life was good at this moment. But by the time New Year’s Eve came back around, such good vibes were all but forgotten. Anything that happened before the virus, the lockdowns, and the misery was a rounding error. It was cast out of the equation.

It all made for a distorted picture — the leap year, the disregarded early months. It was as if we took a snapshot and didn’t let it fully develop.

We can do so much better than we did then. Not by eliminating the rounding errors, but by acknowledging them.

Yes, we can admit that these constructs we rely on are approximations. We can accept that time is murkier than we wish it to be. And we can embrace such imperfections, rather than attempting to rationalize them away.

If we do all this, we won’t just escape the hamster wheel of New Year’s expectations. We’ll find a better, more sustainable way to gauge our progress and tell our story.

We’ll round into form — without an error to be found. And that’s a quest worth pursuing.

Flow States

I’m in the zone.

It’s a common line. A cliched line. One that’s been parodied to great effect.

We use this statement because we’re deeply familiar with it. We know what it’s like to be keyed in. We recognize just how special that feeling can be.

When everything clicks, time slows down. Distractions fade away. And productivity soars.

Psychologists call this sensation a flow state. And the rhythm it brings can be addictive.

We want it. We need it.

So, we chase flow down doggedly. And once we capture it, we try to hold onto it for as long as we can.

But all too often, this process is more fraught than roping the wind.

For more than six years, I’ve had a familiar routine.

Each week, I’ll draft and publish an article here on Words of the West. This has happened without fail.

There are plenty of other activities I’ve taken part in regularly during that time. Cooking. Running. Going to work.

But I’ve taken a weeklong vacation from work before. I’ve gone a week where I exclusively eaten out. I’ve even spent a week without hitting the pavement in my running shoes.

In a world where routines are so often broken, writing for this forum has been my only constant.

Maintaining this pattern of weekly articles has come with challenges. Finding topics hasn’t always been easy. The right words to share have often proved elusive.

But the biggest challenge has been harnessing a flow state when I write.

Sometimes, I’ll catch lightning in a bottle and draft an article in a single sitting. But generally, my writing process is a multi-day slog.

This article itself is a great example of this struggle. I’d planned on writing about flow states months ago. But despite my best efforts, I found myself lacking any sense of rhythm each week. So, I kept pushing the article back.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. Here I was trying to write about flow. And yet, flow was nowhere to be found.

This bothered me.

After all, how would anyone take me seriously if I couldn’t practice what I preached? I felt like a charlatan, an imposter.

But maybe, I was looking at this situation all wrong.

Each day, we battle against two opposing forces.

One demands excellence out of us. And the other demands consistency from us.

We can attain either one of these feats. But generally, we can’t manage both.

For we are not machines or robots. We are humans with flaws and imperfections. And so, our performance is bound to vary.

The question then, is which demand to prioritize — the standard or the schedule. Do we wait for inspiration to find us, and save our working moments for when we’re in a flow state? Or do we show up day after day, knowing that what we contribute might not always be up to par?

The choice is often made for us. We have bills to pay and mouths to feed. And our capitalist society frowns on absenteeism. Add it all up, and we’re obliged to keep showing up, for better or for worse.

But strangely, this setup also feeds our obsession with flow. For the idea of a flow state seems to bridge the gap between these forces. It seems to offer us high performance, and deliver it daily.

If only it were that easy.

In the early 2000s, a young golf phenom grabbed headlines around the world.

The phenom was named Tiger Woods. And his achievements were truly noteworthy.

Woods won 10 major golf championships before his 30th birthday, often in dominant fashion. Nothing seemed to faze him. He made an immensely challenging sport look easy.

Prognosticators kept trying to find the key to Woods’ dominance. Was it his ability on tee shots? Was it his iron game? His putting? Maybe it was his weightlifting regimen or his diet.

Ultimately, pundits did find the secret ingredient — Woods’ focus. In a sport where even the best athletes get rattled, Woods never seemed to. He was able to tune out the distractions and zero in on the task at hand, tournament after tournament.

Yes, Woods was a master at finding a flow state and harnessing it for the long haul. It seemed nothing would stop him.

Then, his father tragically passed away.

Woods took some time away from the PGA Tour to grieve. But when he returned for the U.S. Open, he didn’t look right. His flow state was broken, his focus was shoddy, and his golf shots were wayward. He didn’t qualify for the last two rounds of the tournament.

This wasn’t the end of the line for Woods. He went on to win five more major championships and scores of PGA Tour events. But the spell had been broken, and the utter dominance of his early career was gone.

It turns out that Woods was human after all. But those flaws and imperfections only made him more endearing to fans. And his willingness to keep showing up — even when he wasn’t on top of his game — became a cornerstone of his legacy.

Flow states? They were hardly the entire story.

I am not like Tiger Woods.

I’m not a groundbreaking athlete with awards and trophies to my name. I’m simply a modest writer who’s looking to connect with his audience.

And yet, I often find myself mimicking early-career Tiger when I write. I catch myself attempting to summon flow states at will and to tune out everything that makes me human. This ploy invariably fails, leaving me bitter and frustrated. And my writing suffers as well.

Maybe it’s time that I emulate late-career Tiger. Maybe it’s time that I value the ability to keep showing up, even when I’m not at my best. Maybe it’s time that I give grit a fair shake.

Such a shift in focus won’t take the shine off any moments of excellence I might still encounter. But they could help me appreciate those moments more.

And that balance of perseverance and commitment — that’s the only zone we need to be in.

Soft Power

On June 12, 1987, the world changed with six words.

Those words came from Ronald Reagan, who was the United States President at the time. And they took place in front of the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin.

The image of the American president speaking in the shadow of Germany’s most famous landmark should have been glorious and awe-inspiring. It was anything but.

For the Cold War was in full swing. Tensions were high. And a hideous concrete barrier stood between Reagan and the iconic gate.

That barrier, of course, was the Berlin Wall. A heavily fortified edifice that split the city in half and had come to symbolize the divide between the Soviet Union and the West.

Reagan surely knew why the Berlin Wall was there. But he also recognized that it didn’t need to be there. What was built up could always be removed.

And so, he called on his Soviet counterpart – General Secretary Mikhail Gorbachev – to do just that.

Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall, he exclaimed. The crowd in front of him cheered voraciously.

The Soviet premier didn’t come down to the Brandenburg Gate with a sledgehammer on that day, or any other. But he surely heard Reagan’s words. The whole world did.

And less than 30 months after Reagan’s speech, the Berlin Wall did indeed fall.

The Soviet Union collapsed. The Cold War ended. And Berlin was at last reunified.

It was a turning point in history — an exuberant, peaceful moment. And it might not have happened that way without Reagan’s words.

Reagan’s tactics that June day in Berlin were a classic example of what’s known as Soft Power.

This term – coined by political scientist Joseph Nye — refers to a nation’s ability to persuade others to do what it wants without force or direct coercion.

Instead of relying on military offensives, economic sanctions, or trade embargoes to influence change, Soft Power practitioners use indirect methods to get what they want.

They might spout off a few well-timed words to turn the tide of public perception. They might lean on the titans of industry within their borders to transform economic markets a continent away. They might rely on entertainment conglomerates at home to model cultural behaviors abroad.

Soft Power has existed for centuries. But few have mastered it as the United States has. Our prowess in this area is so pronounced that it’s practically taken for granted.

Invade Cuba with Starbucks and Coca-Cola, goes one old joke. The Communist regime will fall within a day.

It was going to take more than Coca-Cola to topple the Soviet Union though. So, Reagan —a man who was dubbed The Great Communicator — used his voice instead. He pounced on Gorbachev’s prior platitudes of openness, calling the premier’s bluff by demanding action.

Reagan knew full well that Gorbachev couldn’t take down the Berlin Wall. What lay behind it was simply too ghastly to display.

But now, thanks to Reagan’s words, everyone was wondering what lay behind the curtain. Was the Soviet Bloc truly as fearsome as its nuclear arsenal? Or was it just a house of cards?

It turned out to be the latter. And because of that, a 30-year military stalemate ended without a single shot fired.

Decades have now passed since the Soviet Union fell. And in that time, the world has soured on Soft Power.

What was once an invaluable diplomatic tool is now a mark of exploitation. A symbol of imperialist meddling. A usurping of a sovereign nation’s destiny.

Such views are not without merit. Soft Power has surely been abused plenty over the years.

But leaving well enough alone isn’t exactly a panacea either.

You see, as humans, we have a propensity to emulate behavior. This tendency is why parents have such an impact on young children. It’s why education so frequently takes place in group settings. And it’s why traditions remain resonant through the generations.

Dismantling Soft Power leaves societies without influencers to emulate. And in that vacuum malfeasance can grow.

It’s no wonder that the most isolated nations tend to be the most corrupt, the most dangerous, and the most volatile. It’s hard to thrive in the shadows. Just look at the Soviet Union.

Yes, Soft Power itself is not a cancer. In fact, it can be a force for good.

But only if we use it responsibly.

I don’t work for the government. I didn’t study political science in school. And I’m hardly versed in international affairs.

Yet, I consider myself a practitioner of Soft Power.

For I work in a sizable organization. One with hundreds of employees, scattered across multiple states.

If I want to influence how we go about our business, brute force isn’t an option. I can’t pull rank, and I don’t have a bullhorn large enough to carry across time zones.

Soft Power is my only option for leaving my mark on my organization’s processes. I must rely on influence, rather than edict.

Some may bristle at this scenario. But I love it.

I like impacting change through influence. I like modeling behavior. I like building a coalition to get everyone pulling in the same direction.

And most of all, I love what Soft Power requires of me.

It requires me to be nuanced and well-rounded. It requires me to truly listen to others and to understand their perspectives. And it requires me to work within those parameters to find an agreeable solution.

This is a much better method of resolution than going into a scenario with guns blazing. I’m far more likely to drive enduring change through Soft Power. And I’m far more likely to remain agreeable through the process.

But I needn’t be the only one to reap these benefits.

In on the Action

As I walked through the grocery store, something caught me off-guard.

The usual brands were front and center in the hard seltzer aisle as I passed it by — Budweiser and Truly and White Claw. But so was Sonic. And there were boxes of Topo Chico Hard Seltzer all over the place.

Now, I’m not a drinker, but I know enough to be perplexed. After all, Sonic is a family-friendly drive-in chain — not a distiller. And Topo Chico? That’s my favorite brand of mineral water — more of a North American Perrier than an Anheuser Busch.

What were these brands all doing masquerading as purveyors of hard seltzer? Heck, what was so special about hard seltzer in the first place?

I found few answers. But as it turned out, I might not have been asking the right questions.

I’m not the oldest book on the shelf. But when I see the younger generation, I feel ancient.

These days, toddlers spend long car trips playing games on digital tablets. Children upload and share videos on their phones. And teenagers use strange slang — like Bae, Turnt and On Fleek.

When I was young, none of this was possible. We’d spend car rides listening to CDs or even cassette tapes. The Internet was slow, laggy, and only available on computers. And the most exotic slang we used was the word Dope.

Yes, much has changed over the years. And as our habits have evolved, so have the products we’ve used and the businesses we’ve frequented.

For example, oil and gas companies had the highest valuations on Wall Street when I was a kid. Their power was solidified through an empire of drilling wells, refineries, and gas stations. And even those of us who were too young to drive recognized their influence, thanks to the branded toy trucks we got as gifts around the holidays each year.

Now, it’s tech companies topping the Fortune 500. Tech companies that either weren’t around in my youth or that were struggling for survival back then. And as they soar, those once-powerful oil and gas companies fade, suffocating under their own antiquity.

The common thread? Money talks and people walk. In a capitalist society, dominance can ultimately be fleeting. Getting in on the action with the next big thing is critical.

That mantra is what led Sonic and Topo Chico into the hard seltzer aisle at my grocery store. But were these moves necessary?

Football can be a chaotic sport.

Gigantic athletes outfitted in shoulder pads and helmets collide with each other dozens of times per game. Quarterbacks make ridiculous throws to their receivers while running for their lives. And on kickoffs and punts, the two teams charge at each other with full heads of steam.

But no action on the gridiron is more chaotic than the fumble.

When a player loses the ball, it falls to the ground with a thud. Suddenly a massive dogpile emerges on top of the ball, with players pushing and shoving to recover it. These scrums are not particularly enjoyable to look at, but they’re ultimately consequential in the game.

Whenever a new trend, technology, or product emerges in society, businesses treat it like it’s a fumble recovery. There’s a mad scramble for position, with little planning or organization behind it.

Eventually the dust settles, and a winner emerges from the pile. And the rest of the pack? They emerge bloodied, bruised, and emptyhanded.

The costs of this failure can be especially profound. Football players can bank on the opportunity the next play will bring. But businesses who come up short after betting it all? They’re toast.

This outcome might seem tragic, but it’s exactly how the powerhouse of American business came to be. There were dozens of soda purveyors in the 19th century. Only Coca-Cola, Pepsi, and Dr Pepper ultimately stood the test of time. The same pattern played out for automakers, entertainment studios, and smartphone providers. Where some have survived, many others have failed.

To some degree, this survival of the fittest is now taking shape in the hard seltzer world. As the spiked beverage gains acclaim, plenty of companies are vying for those consumer dollars.

But this time, it’s not just brewers and distillers getting in on the action. Players from outside the sector have entered the game. Players like Sonic or Topo Chico.

Because of all this, it’s pure chaos in the hard seltzer aisle these days. But eventually, the dust will settle, and someone will emerge with the football. Everyone else will fade away.

If Sonic and Topo Chico end up in the everyone else category, the financial implications will be bearable. Families will still frequent Sonic for drive-in dinners. Teetotalers and designated drivers will still drink their weight in Topo Chico sparkling mineral water. Business will go on as it did before.

But their brands will be tarnished in the process. They will be ridiculed for veering too far out of their lane. They will be mocked for rushing to get in on the action — even when it made no sense to do so.

And this criticism? It will be justified.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with reinvention.

Reinvention is what took Apple from a computer company to the multifaceted tech provider we now know it as today. Reinvention is what transformed Scott Harrison from a nightclub promoter into the founder of a groundbreaking charity. Reinvention is what allowed me to leave a budding journalism career and find a foothold in the marketing world.

Reinvention can be a beautiful thing. It can help us shine brighter.

But only if we approach it with purpose.

Apple had an existential purpose behind its reinvention. So did Scott Harrison. And so did I, even though it took me years to uncover it.

But Sonic and Topo Chico? They have no existential purpose behind their reinventions. They’re just jumping on the dogpile and blindly hoping they come away with the football.

Don’t follow their lead. Don’t transform yourself into something else just to be in on the action. All you will find on that path is delusion.

In business and in life, it’s best to be true. True to yourself. True to your values. True to your purpose.

As we head into a time of renewal and transformation, take heed of that. Focus not on the scrum on the periphery. Let your heart and your head be your North Star.

That’s the action you must get in on to thrive.

Retooling the Engine

I ain’t going back.

It’s a refrain uttered all too often.

We’re trained to keep our eyes forward, to focus solely on progress. Returning is a waste of time and effort.

Time only moves in one direction. And so do we, as we grow and age.

It seems pointless to fight that inertia. It seems futile to head back to a place our momentum is carrying us away from.

Yet, in some cases, it could be exactly what’s needed.

At first, there was despair.

As a deadly virus rampaged across continents and the world shut down, we were filled with dread. We feared the virus and its ghastly effects. But we also seemed leery of the interruptions to life as we knew it.

What was work going to look like without an office to go to? What would school look like without the classrooms? What would social interactions be like when we were reduced to squares on a computer screen?

It was all so abrupt. So new, strange, and unwelcome.

But as we settled into our newly remote world, something strange happened. Many of us started to like it.

Our pause was morphing into a full reset. And now, our predicament had turned on its head.

Instead of yearning for the recently departed past, many of us sought to kill it with fire. Many used the pandemic pause to reinvent themselves and to cast off old patterns.

This manifested itself in all kinds of ways.

People quit their jobs in favor of more flexible roles or entrepreneurship. The hospitality industry reeled as more people enjoyed dinner and a movie within the comfort of their own homes. High fashion found itself supplanted by loungewear. And a surge in online shopping tested the limits of both the supply chain and the monetary system.

These changes have been dizzying. And yet, many of us have been more invigorated than nauseated by them.

For these shifts optimize our lives. They remove the inconvenience and unpleasantness, leaving us with a more satisfying existence.

In short, they represent a pipe dream. But with that smoke comes mirrors.

In those early days of the COVID pandemic, my experience wasn’t all that different from everyone else’s.

Namely, I spent most of my time at home.

I handled tasks for my job from a laptop computer on my dining room table. I prepared meals in my kitchen. I read, wrote, and occasionally watched television.

I only left my home for exercise — as I went for an outdoor run or walk each day. Even then, I kept to myself.

After about a month, I’d gotten used to the remote lifestyle. But as others were leaning into it, I was seeking its expiration date.

You see, by most measures, home confinement had suited me well. I was healthy. I was safe. I was still drawing a paycheck.

But home confinement hadn’t suited me. This was not the way I wanted to live in perpetuity.

I had rather enjoyed much of what I’d given up. I liked socializing with friends. I liked going to sports arenas and movie theaters. I even liked my daily commute to the office.

Plus, I knew there was a cost to my bubbled existence. While I sheltered in safety, others risked their wellbeing to provide me that luxury. Trash collectors, grocery store clerks, and utility technicians kept showing up to work in person to support my stay-at-home tendencies. And many of my favorite hospitality venues were on the brink of collapse, suffocating from a lack of the cash flow customers like me normally provided.

I was worn down by the sacrifices I had made in the name of public health. And I was appalled by the inequities such decisions exacerbated in my own community.

And so, I changed things up.

I decided to return to old patterns but in a new way. I decided to retool the engine.

I returned to working in the office. But I stayed a safe distance away from the few co-workers who joined me there.

I started ordering from restaurants again, making a habit of getting dinner elsewhere on Tuesdays. But I mostly relied on takeout and curbside pickup.

And I began to socialize with friends again. But I was far more intentional about the activities I’d take part in with them.

These might seem like small adaptations. Yet, they made a world of difference for me.

Embracing the familiar lifted a weight off my shoulders. Doing so in a new way reduced the risk that the familiar still posed.

Yes, in the darkness of those days, I seem to have stumbled upon something significant. I’d found a torch to carry forward.

These days, things are quite different.

The virus is still here, but there are tools to fight it. More of the familiar is emerging from the woodwork. And I’m back to gathering in large groups, attending live events, and traveling domestically.

Even so, I continue to retool the engine. I remain vigilant about which group activities or live events I attend. And I’m far more efficient when it comes to traveling.

Yes, I’ve gone through a reset of sorts. But instead of rewriting my story entirely, I’m iterating on the chapters that have already been written. I’m taking the best of my pre-pandemic existence and leaving the rest.

I believe this approach is sustainable, scalable, and resilient. It allows room for growth without incurring undue turbulence. And it doesn’t require us to pick sides.

We live in a polarized society.

The fault lines that divide us are too numerous to count. But many involve the subject of change.

At any inflection point, there are those who lean wholeheartedly into change and those who resist it tooth and nail. The ground between them cracks and splinters. And soon a chasm emerges.

Our pandemic-induced reset follows this pattern. Yes, many reinvented themselves during this time, swearing off old behaviors and activities. But others demanded the unequivocal return of those same behaviors and activities. The chasm between the two groups grew and tension built.

This outcome could have been avoided if we had sought the middle ground.

If more of us had committed to retooling the engine, perhaps the future of work wouldn’t be such a hot-button issue. Perhaps the hospitality industry wouldn’t be hanging by a thread. Perhaps travel would be more convenient.

Our choices, our impulses — they’ve made this mess. But there’s still time to clean things up.

We can still improve the patterns we once espoused — rather than making them as take it or leave it propositions. We can still commit to incremental improvements, instead of just disruptive change.

Such choices might not grab a ton of attention. But they could benefit us all.

Let’s at least take the time to consider them.