Shades of Similarity

The plane turned onto the runway. And in an instant, we were off.

The outer boroughs of New York City appeared out the airplane window, followed by the towns of northern New Jersey.

Looking out at the expanse of suburbia before me, I was struck by its ubiquity.

There were houses with lush, green yards. There were residential roads winding through neighborhoods. There were shopping centers.

And there were schools. Plenty of schools.

The school buildings were mostly nondescript from 10,000 feet in the air. But they were still easy to spot. For abutting them were football fields encircled by running tracks.

A few hours later, the plane descended upon the Dallas area. I stared out the window, relishing the rare opportunity to view my home from the sky.

Yet, what I saw was strikingly similar. Homes with large yards. Residential roads winding through neighborhoods. Shopping centers.

And plenty of schools, abutted by football fields and running tracks.

Now, the scene wasn’t entirely identical. Stifling summer heat had turned the grass from green to a yellowish brown. And those football fields were surrounded by large grandstands — a testament to the Texan passion for Friday Night Lights.

Still, on the whole of it, the scene in suburban Texas wasn’t all that different from the one in suburban New Jersey.

And that similarity — it resonated.


It’s no secret that we live in a polarized society.

We seem inclined to disagreement. And the bickering we take part in can quickly spiral out of control.

As part of this behavior pattern, we tend to divvy up territory. We take the old trope of Red States and Blue States to the max, treating the places that house those with conflicting viewpoints as dens of heathens.

I am no stranger to this principle. Growing up an ardent sports fan, I despised the Boston Red Sox in pro baseball and the Florida State Seminoles in college football. I particularly loathed the fans of these teams, often arguing with them vociferously in person and online.

As the vitriol intensified, I started to shun the cities these teams played in — Boston and Tallahassee. The way I saw it, these locales were saturated with these despicable fans — so they were inherently inferior to my own stomping grounds.

Fortunately, such closed-mindedness didn’t last all that long. Late in my high school days, I visited a cousin who had moved to Boston. To my surprise, I discovered a charming, vibrant city on the bank of the Charles River — a far cry from the hellhole I’d expected.

Then in college, I traveled to Tallahassee to see my favorite team take on the Seminoles in their stadium. Florida’s capital was less charming than Massachusetts’ was, but it still seemed like a pleasant enough southern town.

Surprisingly, I even hit it off with some Florida State fans while tailgating. We shared brews and snacks, if not allegiances.

The experience was enlightening, and it dampened my zeal to judge territory outside my own backyard. Yet, the principle of us versus them never quite went away.

After moving to Texas, I found myself othering the area I’d come from. While I wasn’t a native Texan, I was fully committed to my new home. As such, I felt obligated to prove that I wasn’t a carpetbagger.

Family and friends back north howled at this development. Yet, many of them had questioned my decision to move to Texas in the first place. They had viewed it as a tacit approval for the Lone Star State’s most extreme stereotypes. And this had left a chip on my shoulder.

Over time, I softened my stance. But the environment around me went in the other direction.

Polarization intensified, spurred on by the isolating effects of a global pandemic. Botched responses to extreme weather turned a critical eye on Texas’ infrastructure. And the state’s conservative leaning political decision turned downright radical.

With all these developments, it was hard not to see other corners of the country as different. Sure, I could get food from the same chain restaurants in the Northeast or Midwest that I could in Texas. And people spoke the same language in Denver as they did in Dallas. But how much else was really in common?

It took that airplane flight, and the revelation about high school football fields, for me to realize just how similar we all still are.

It’s a realization that could use a broader audience.


North of the border, the drivers travel at NASCAR speeds. Distances between cities are longer, people are shorter, and temperatures that make shiver leave the locals sweltering.

None of this is true, of course. At least not as written.

You see, Canada uses the Metric system, while that United States does not. And that leads to some novel forms of measurement.

Kilometers take the place of miles. Meters take the place of feet. And Celsius takes the place of Fahrenheit.

People aren’t really shorter, or driving faster, or wilting around in frigid conditions in Canada. It just seems that way if we take Metric measurements at American standards.

We must do some math to reconcile these discrepancies. And yet, millions of Americans have visited our neighbors up north over the years. And relatively few of them have gotten completely waylaid due to the Metric system.

If we can fare so well in a land where the distance markers — and much more — vary from our norms, why can’t we find the shades of similarity in our own nation?

Instead of pitting Texas against New Jersey, for instance, we can note that high schoolers in both states play football on the same sized gridiron.

This shift in focus won’t wipe away our differences. They’re still out there, and they’re too prominent to paint over.

But it can help us avert the toxic spiral of divisiveness. It can keep hyper-partisanship in check. It can take the teeth out of othering.

These are outcomes we should yearn for. More than that, they’re outcomes our society needs.

So, let’s tamp down the rhetoric. Let’s respect our differences. And let’s shift the spotlight to shades of similarity.

It starts with us.

The Legend of Fortune

The card deck.

On the surface, it seems basic and ubiquitous. A set of 52 cards adorned with numbers, letters, and symbols.

The card deck is easy to use. It’s simple to transport. And it’s an easy party favor.

And yet, few who use such an item would define it as trivial.

Indeed, we tend to view card decks as vessels. As purveyors of fortune. As tickets to destiny.

This vision leaves us mesmerized by magic tricks. And it draws us into many card games – particularly ones where money is on the line.

We’re hooked by the notion of riding a hot streak and reaping the rewards. And we focus attention on yielding favorable outcomes, time and again. Even as a basic probability primer can illustrate how foolish this thinking is.

Yes, are all-in on a legend. One that says fortune is in our hands. But is that legend anything more than an illusion?


If card decks are vessels for fortune, luck is the construct that ties it all together.

While we find great value in hard work and grit, we also aspire to be lucky. We subscribe to superstitions and other tricks to improve our fortunes. We gravitate toward those for whom everything seems to go right, hoping that their good luck will rub off on us. And we turn away from those we deem to be unlucky.

This obsession with luck – it’s a powerful force in our society. One that’s devoid of even a shred of reality.

There is no such thing as a lucky card or a cursed one. Those are simply labels that we put on the ecosystem around us.

Our own experience drives these perceptions. So do the views of our community. And these twin forces converge to make the labels stick.

But no matter how much we invest in this house of cards, it still sits on a nonexistent foundation. A gust of wind is all that it takes to send everything crashing down.


As I write this, I’m amid what many would consider a roller coaster year.

The start was promising. I thrived in my job, acting on the vision I’d set for my nascent role. I traveled around the country – for work and for pleasure – garnering several first-class flight upgrades in the process. And I took on my first three half-marathons, posting better finishing times than I could have ever imagined in each.

Things were clicking for me. And when I won entry to the New York City Marathon – through a lottery system with a roughly 10% acceptance rate — it started to feel like a dream.

Others noticed my preponderance of good news. They started commenting about how lucky I was.

I didn’t buy into the hype, though. The way I saw it, I was bound for a regression.

Sure enough, that regression arrived fast and furious. I returned from a work conference slowed by a virus. Weeks later, I had a vacation upended by flight cancellations. Then, I suffered a running injury. That injury lingered for months, ultimately forcing my withdrawal from the New York City Marathon.

In the wake of these outcomes, the conversation around me started to change. My luck had turned, others around me pointed out. Some even stated that it just wasn’t my year.

I refused to buy into this narrative.

Yes, I’ve experienced a lot in the months before writing this column. Some of those experiences might have seemed more enjoyable than others. But ultimately, they weren’t good or bad. They were just…experiences.

The labels have no teeth. Fortune hasn’t smiled on me or turned away from my presence. I’m neither lucky nor unlucky for having run the gauntlet I did.

At the end of the day, things are as they were before. I continue to exist.

This description of my recent adventures might not win any popularity contests. After all, we’re looking to grow and excel, rather than merely exist.

But this assessment both accurate and insulating.

Stripping undue meaning from life’s adventures removes semblances of entitlement or worthlessness. It keeps us grounded, leaving wild emotional swings at bay. And it forces us to focus on what we can control, rather than what we can’t.

This is a challenging shift to make. But it’s a necessary one.

So, I’m leaning in.

Rather than wallowing in self-pity or waiting for the winds to change, I’m clinging to all that’s firmly in my grasp. Namely, my effort and my attitude.

Mastery of these attributes doesn’t guarantee me much in terms of outcomes. But that’s precisely the point.


Why share these adventures with you, dear reader?

For like it or not, we’re all swimming in the same ocean.

Remember that virus that I said I was afflicted with? It’s already wreaked havoc on all of us, whether we’ve caught it or not. It caused our whole world to shut down for a time, and it destroyed any assumptions of what we though we knew.

Yes, we’ve gone through an unprecedented period — one where normalcy was shifted on its head and many of our comforts and traditions were snatched from our grasp.

Many have called this period the worst of our lifetimes. Others have claimed that their fortunes turned in the eye of the storm.

But such descriptors are foolhardy.

No, we haven’t been unlucky. And we’re not necessarily on the brink of a change in fortune. We’ve simply lived through an experience that we hadn’t before.

It’s time that we reckon with that fact. Fully and completely.

That means ceding claims to ownership over affairs beyond our influence. It means doubling down on what we can control. And it means backing away from the allure of fortune.

Indeed, the more we remove these labels from our narrative, the less we’ll be whiplashed by the corresponding emotions. And the more steadfast and resilient we’ll be at navigating the uncertainty of life.

This shift might not be appealing, but it’s for our own good.

Cards are just laminated paper. Events are just dots on a timeline. And fortune is a legend, devoid of reality.

Act accordingly.

The Productivity Paradox

For 17 seasons, he was a Major League Baseball starting pitcher. He won a world championship and was a two-time All-Star. All after escaping his home nation to get a shot at the big leagues.

The story, the accolades — they’re all impressive. But unless you’re a hardcore baseball fan, you probably won’t recognize Livan Hernandez’s name.

You might be forgiven for this omission. Hernandez was a competent pitcher who could field his position well and even hold his own in the batter’s box. But he didn’t have the dominant pitching makeup that some of the leading hurlers of his era did.

No, Hernandez’s greatest ability was his availability. Every fifth day for a generation, he took the ball for his team. He put his cleats on the pitching rubber, wound up, and fired that ball to home plate. Then he did it again, and again, and again – only yielding his perch in the late stages of the game.

Hernandez was what was known as a workhorse. A pitcher who could be counted on to last deep into ballgames, time and again. For three years in a row, Hernandez led the National League in innings pitched. In two of those years, he led all big-league pitchers in the category.

He gave his all. But he got a raw deal for those efforts.

Indeed, as some pitchers with lower inning counts got notoriety, awards, and Hall of Fame inductions, Hernandez is now relegated to obscurity.

It hardly seems right.


A hard day’s work.

It’s a hallmark of our society. A source of pride. A badge of honor.

We honor perspiration. We laud effort. We believe in determination.

Such values have inspired generation after generation to follow the script. So, we tend not to cut corners. We put in a consistent effort, time and again. We lift ourselves up by our bootstraps.

And yet, the rewards don’t always follow. Much like Livan Hernandez, we often find ourselves overlooked in the wake of productivity. And sometimes, the outcome of our exertion is even bleaker.

Overuse injuries are all too common in the world of athletics. Pitchers can blow out their arms by throwing the ball too many times. Runners can break down by taking on too many miles too quickly.

Manual labor carries similar risks. The miner, the mechanic, the factory machinist – they can all suffer crippling injuries as a byproduct of the work they put in.

Even in less physically taxing endeavors, we can suffer maladies. Our reward for performing at a high level in the business world is all too often burnout and stress. And there are countless other areas where getting after it carries a heavy toll.

It’s a cruel irony, this Productivity Paradox. The attribute that should be driving our success is instead dragging us down.

It’s hard not to feel as if we’re somehow being chastised for desirable habits. That irrational punishment stalls our momentum. And it makes the journey forward that much more treacherous.

A hard day’s work? It’s way more than we bargained for.


You should take a break.

I’ve gotten this advice often.

Those who know me well will often laud my work ethic. But they worry that the flame that fuels me will also consume me.

And so, they encourage me to shut it down. To take a weeklong trip to a beach somewhere and to recharge.

To them, such a solution seems like paradise. To me, it sounds like a death sentence.

For I am an active person. Active mind. Active body. Active spirit. I thrive when the wheels are turning.

Yet, I am also an introvert. And so, much of the activity that I crave comes in the form of routines.

Imploring me to give all this up — the activity, the routines — it spikes my anxiety. Even if I know such advice is coming from a good place.

And so, I attack the Productivity Paradox head-on. I charge full speed ahead, consequences be damned.

I’ve generally had good fortune in these endeavors. I’ve sustained only moderate cases of burnout at work. I’ve rarely lost motivation to write for this column. And until recently, I’ve been able to run competitively, free of significant injuries.

Still, the setbacks I’ve faced from my approach have been difficult to unwrap. I still struggle with the notion that good habits lead to adverse outcomes. And the lack of clear takeaways from these experiences still baffles me.

I’m in no man’s land. A purgatory of my own creation. And it’s a special type of torture.


I was just starting out in a new role when a co-worker gave provided three words of advice.

Embrace the gray.

I knew what this implied. Much of what I was to encounter would be ambiguous, foggy, murky. I would need to use discretion to succeed in my role.

In that moment, I felt chills creeping up my spine. Because discretion wasn’t something I did well.

I had traditionally thrived on consistency. I had depended upon clarity. I had relied on learning the ground rules acting accordingly.

This choose-your-own-adventure idea — it frightened me.

Yet, over time, I got more proficient at it. Instead of relying on external expectations, I let my internal compass be my guide. And I found myself thriving.

Perhaps I can carry forward the lessons from that experience. Perhaps we all can.

After all, the road to prosperity is not always a straight line. We will face setbacks from time to time, even if we follow a winning script.

Such is the way of the world. Machines can break down after frequent use. And so can we.

When faced with this reality, we can bury our heads in the sand. We can let ourselves languish. Or we can stay the course, adjusting for feel.

We owe it to ourselves to take that last approach. To see the Productivity Paradox for what it is — a random flaw — instead of overstating its importance.

The circumstances we contend with might not always make sense. But we can still act sensibly.

Let’s make sure we do.

Everything’s Changed

They put up a plant where we used to park. That old drive-in’s a new Walmart.

So go a few lines from Everything’s Changed by Lonestar. A 90’s country song about how love endures, even as a town transforms.

For years, this song seemed ubiquitous to many others from that genre and era. Catchy, comfortable, and shallow.

But such descriptors are hardly adequate these days.

After all the disruptions of recent years, it’s hard not to relate Everything’s Changed to the world we live in. With so much transformation around us, we strain to find the reference markers that haven’t changed.

Those through lines are key to our identity. They prove that while we might evolve, our core remains consistent.

Such a rationale might seem sensible. But is it wise?


An ancient Greek parable — the Ship of Theseus — dives to the heart of this dilemma.

In the parable, Theseus’ ship sets off to sea with an original set of parts and a crew. Upon its return to port, none of the vessel’s parts are the same. The crew has meticulously rebuilt the ship, piece by piece, while at sea.

The question posed from this scenario: Has Theseus returned on the same ship he embarked on?

It’s an open debate. One that has enraptured philosophers for centuries.

But if you asked a bunch of people on the street, most would likely say Theseus was not on the same ship.

Our behavior dictates this response. Time and again, we long for connections to the past. We scratch and claw for any through lines that can persevere through the winds of change.

Such adherence to consistency has some benefits, driving an air of nostalgia and boosting our reliability. But they can also make us stubbornly rigid, ill-equipped for the encroaching tsunami of change.

I know this feeling as much as anyone. As a control enthusiast, routine and familiarity are my friends. I’ve historically struggled to lean into change. And even when I did make a shift, I struggled to reconcile it with my sense of identity.

I couldn’t be Theseus’ ship. A wholesale swap would not — could not — jibe with my narrative.

But now, everything’s changed.


Several years ago, I met my father at a baggage claim carousel in the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport.

We were meeting in the Twin Cities to embark on a road trip across the Upper Midwest. Along the way, we’d go to two Major League Baseball games — one in Minneapolis and another in Milwaukee.

We would meet up for trips like these occasionally, as I worked toward my now-completed goal of watching a baseball game in all 30 Major League stadiums. It was a great way to see the country and spend some time with my father, who lived halfway across the country.

Minnesota was in a heatwave when we arrived, and the steamy weather cut our sightseeing time short. But I was intrigued by the Twin Cities and vowed to return.

I was less impressed with Milwaukee. The city seemed sleepy and oddly arranged. The baseball stadium felt dull and cavernous. And even the lakefront seemed to pale in comparison with Chicago’s, 90 miles down shore.

We were in Milwaukee for less than 24 hours on that trip. But I was excited to get out of there and figured I wouldn’t come back.

Boy was I wrong.

As fate would have it, my best friend from high school got engaged to a Wisconsin native a few years later. The wedding took place at the Milwaukee Art Museum, and I found myself back in town. Wandering down the Milwaukee River Walk, through the Third Ward and across Walker’s Point in my spare time, I noticed the charm of the Cream City.

I realized that my initial snap judgment of Milwaukee was off base, and I regretted my error. Still, as I boarded my flight back to Texas, I once again thought it was a one-way trip.

My life and my job were in the Dallas area. And as far as I saw it, they would continue to be for years to come.

But then, the ground under my feet shifted.

The COVID-19 pandemic hit a couple years later, redefining the boundaries around me.

As my world shrank to the contours of a computer screen, it ironically expanded my horizons well beyond North Texas. The contours of physical presence evaporated as the virtual world went mainstream.

Several months into this new scenario, I was hit with another bombshell. My employer was acquired by a larger company — one that was based in Milwaukee. I landed a job on the parent company’s marketing team — a role that would represent a step up in my career trajectory.

And yet, as I prepared to begin my new role, I was whallopped with an identity crisis. I had built my professional existence as a Texan, working alongside members of my community. Now, I would be working with colleagues hundreds of miles away — many of whom lived in a region I was lukewarm toward.

I had two choices. I could withdraw, diving fully into my work and hiding behind my computer screen. Or I could lean in.

I chose the second approach, making a concerted effort to learn more about my colleagues and nuances of Wisconsin culture. And whenever I had an opportunity to make the trek north to Milwaukee for an onsite, I jumped at it.

Through the process, I made friends and earned the respect of my team. And I also grew fonder of the city so many of them called home.

I’ve fully accepted this shift for what it is. An unabashed about-face.

For regardless of the twists and turns along the way, I’m here now. Just like Theseus, I’ve made it back to shore. And unlike that Lonestar song, I’m not looking backward.

I’m fulfilled. I’m happy. And I could give a darn if such blessings align with my prior narratives.


We can all be a bit more like Theseus.

Instead of holding on to rotten boards for posterity’s sake, we can tinker. We can replace, renew, and refresh.

We can dive into change where prudent, without holding back for self-permission. We can be bold, and we can be brave — all while retaining our sensibility.

This potential remains within arm’s length. But it’s our responsibility to reach out and grab it. To stop tethering ourselves to the past and to instead embrace our potential.

The choice is ours. What move will we make?

Going Uphill

I headed into Monday with an air of determination. For there was plenty on my plate.

There were the usual work tasks, of course. The litany of meetings and assignments to keep me on my toes.

And there were the weekly out of work responsibilities. The errands to attend to, the meals to cook.

But this week, there was even more on my plate. All of which would require my health insurance card.

There was an allergy appointment and a dentist visit on my calendar. And I also needed to schedule an MRI and find a chiropractor.

As I started down this gauntlet of to-dos, I immediately hit several snags. The allergist called to cancel my appointment at the last minute. The doctor refused to order an MRI without an office visit. The chiropractor I booked an appointment with was out of my insurer’s network.

I had to change up my schedule on the fly — moving around work meetings for the rest of the week, calling doctor’s offices and filling out paperwork.

By the end of the day, I was thoroughly exhausted. My calendar had swapped out about twenty times. And I still hadn’t gotten my MRI scheduled.

Getting medical care shouldn’t have been so hard. And yet, it was.


About a month before my medical ordeal, I took a short vacation to visit my family halfway across the country. I packed my suitcase, put my Out of Office message on my work email and prepared to leave home behind for a few days.

But just as I was about to head off to the airport, I got the most unwelcome of messages.

Your flight has been canceled.

I scrambled to find a new travel option, only to find that the airline had already booked a new one for me. It seemed convenient – until I saw the words Overnight Connection in small print.

Yes, my new flight itinerary would require me to spend the night in the Kansas City airport before continuing my journey the next day.

I much preferred sleeping in my own bad to spreading out on a dingy airport carpet. But I couldn’t change the itinerary online, since the airline had finalized it.

So, I spent two hours on the phone trying to reach a reservations agent. By the time I finally did, my only option was to fly out the next morning.

I cut my losses and accepted reality. Nearly 18 hours after I was originally supposed to leave town, my plane finally took off.

As the trip neared its nadir, my return flight was canceled. Once again, I had to rebook for a flight the following day — this time cancelling work meetings in the process.

Fortunately, my trip itself was successful and enjoyable. But getting there and back was an abject disaster.

Traveling shouldn’t have been so hard. And yet, it was.


My medical and travel ordeals were distressing. But sadly, they weren’t all that out of the ordinary.

Indeed, it seems like things are harder than ever these days.

Of course, complaints about how difficult life is are as old as time itself. According the old cliché, our ancestors had to trudge uphill both ways in the snow to get to school.

But there is something more to this particular version of the complaint.

Everything from financing a car to buying furniture has gotten more challenging in recent years. There are many reasons for this — such as a volatile economy and strained supply chains. But the primary culprit is our on-demand world itself.

These days, we seemingly have every option we would ever want at our fingertips. And yet, those options remain just beyond our grasp – leaving us suffer in solitude.

In today’s world, I can request a same-day medical exam or board a nonstop flight to anywhere in the country. I can order custom shoes and a new sofa without setting foot out of my front door.

These are all capabilities my ancestors could only dream of.

But seeing those requests fulfilled — that’s a different story. A tale that’s as maddening as it is sad.

For there are complex mechanisms powering the wonder that is our infinite choice world. And when those mechanisms break down, so does the entire system.

There is no master maintenance log for systems that are supposed to “just work.” So, we are forced to fill the gap.

We expend far too much energy troubleshooting these issues. And as we do, our exasperation crescendos.

Add it all up, and we find ourselves on a road to nowhere. One that we can’t divert from.

Or can we?


Restaurant chains.

They’re an American staple. Many families and friend groups celebrate special occasions at these establishments. And many adults get their start in the professional world there.

Working at a chain restaurant has an air of ubiquity to it. This couldn’t be further from the truth.

A server at the Cheesecake Factory has a much more challenging job than one at Chipotle, for instance.

The Cheesecake Factory server must memorize a 15-page menu and ace a test on it as part of training. Once they’re trained, they must spend hours taking orders from entire tables and bringing the finished products back to the dining area.

By contrast, the Chipotle server stands behind a pane of glass under a menu board with only four items on it. They take one order at a time and build it into a basic dish, before handing the finished product across the counter to the customer.

The Cheesecake Factory model offers more variety. But the Chipotle model offers better reliability.

And in a world where Murphy’s Law lurks around every corner, reliability is something we could use more of.

So, let’s do what we can to make the processes in our lives more Chipotle and less Cheesecake Factory. Let’s opt for simplicity where possible, even if it forces us to settle for second best.

This won’t smooth over every process we encounter. (There’s no simple way to buy a home these days, for instance.) But it can certainly reduce the bruising we take from the gauntlet we run.

Life is an uphill climb. Let’s do what we can to make it a little less steep.