Month: February 2023

On Toughness

I dug into the batter’s box and stared out toward the infield.

Each of the three bases had a teammate of mine standing on it. With one mighty swing, I could bring them all home.

It was the scenario every baseball player dreams about. But it was up to me to write that storybook ending.

So, I set my stance. I readied my bat. I stared intently at the pitcher as he wound up and released the ball.

The pitch veered my way. It wasn’t going to be hittable, so I tried to let it pass.

But the baseball kept riding closer and closer to my hands — until it clanged of the base of my right thumb.

The home plate umpire immediately shouted Hit Batter and pointed toward first base. I jogged in that direction, as my teammate on third base jogged toward home plate.

By the time I got to first base, my hand was beginning to throb. I looked over at my coach — who was standing nearby — and grimaced.

Hurts so good, don’t it? he asked. Shake it off. You drove in a run.

I took those words as gospel. And I paid the pain in my right thumb no further mind.

That pitch clanged off my thumb more than half my life ago.

And yet, I still remember the incident like it was yesterday.

For it was the first foray into toughness. The first time where my taking it on the chin — or the hand, as it were — brought anything other than unbridled agony.

This time, such an act brought applause and praise. And I was enthralled by the adulation.

So, I made toughness part of my persona. I stopped bemoaining my aches and pains. And I started treating them as badges of honor instead.

My rationale was straightforward. If John Wayne didn’t complain about bumps and bruises, neither should I. If Chuck Norris could dust himself off after taking a blow, so could I.

That meant bouncing back to my feet each time I fell. It meant postponing a trip to the doctor or urgent care if something was nagging me. It meant keeping that upper lip stiff and complaints to a minimum.

I thought that my grit and resilience proofed my tough I was. But it turns out I knew far less about toughness than I thought.

I sat on the floor and carefully unstrapped my protective walking boot. As I stared out at my right leg, I flexed my foot upwards and downwards.

With each movement, I felt the tendons around my ankle tighten in resistance. The pain made me grimace.

It had been like this for days, ever since my surgery.

My refurbished ankle was wrapped in bandages like a burrito. And most of the day, those bandages were shielded by my bulky walking boot. My entire lower leg had become an enigma to me.

Those few moments where I shed the boot to change clothes were precious. The flexing exercises were my only opportunities to get a sense of my recovery.

And I didn’t like what I felt.

The blunt ankle discomfort I’d experienced before the operation was gone. But now this intense tendon tightness had taken its place.

My range of motion was in shambles. And so was my confidence.

There would be no quick return to form. I would need weeks of Physical Therapy and plenty of patience to get my ankle functional again.

And even with all this work ahead of me, there was a chance that the tightness and pain would linger. There was a chance I’d never be as I once was.

I had brought all this on myself. For I had elected for this surgery, without a hint of hesitation.

The choice seemed as natural as could be. I had been hobbled by a couple of ankle injuries and viewed the process of going under the knife as a Second Level Risk. I yearned for improved mobility and accepted the potential downsides of my decision.

But I hadn’t understood the depth of those consequences until this moment. It was only when that tendon tightness started to take hold that I truly felt the full gravity of what I’d done.

As I stared into the abyss of uncertainty, I realized I had two options. I could throw in the towel and accept my compromised state. Or I could devote myself to a lengthy rehabilitation without any guaranteed returns.

I chose the latter.

It’s been quite some time since I made that choice to face the darkness. That decision hasn’t affected my physical recovery all that much.

Even so, this experience has changed the way I see the world. And it’s shifted the way I see myself.

Several years ago, here on Words of the West, I shared the saga of Jim Stockdale.

Stockdale, a U.S. Naval pilot, spent seven years as a prisoner of war in North Vietnam. He emerged from the ordeal with a Medal of Honor. And he was later elevated to the rank of Vice Admiral.

Surviving seven years of wartime captivity required plenty of physical resilience. Stockdale absorbed the blinding pain of torture, encountering starvation and sleep deprivation along the way.

But it was Stockdale’s mental fortitude that proved most critical to his survival. Other prisoners gave into despair or fell prey to delusions of an imminent rescue. But not Stockdale.

Stockdale stared right into the abyss, determined yet realistic. He would later define his mental model with clarity and eloquence.

You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the end — which you can never afford to lose — with the discipline to confront the most brutal facts of your current reality, whatever they might be.

These words have come to be known as The Stockdale Paradox. And they’ve become an ethos for everything from psychological resistance training to business strategy.

Yet, they can also serve as the definition of toughness. They can, and perhaps they should.

You see, toughness is not about ignoring the alarm bells of your central nervous system. It’s not about popping back up off the mat when you’ve been knocked down.

No, toughness is about assessing our impairments and vulnerabilities, accepting their continued presence, and finding the courage to carry on.

Toughness requires us to rewire our brains. It demands that we take a sledgehammer to the concept of psychological safety. It forces us to lean into uncertainty at a seemingly unbearable level.

These are not small asks. But they are attainable.

My recovery from ankle surgery serves as a small example of this. My tribulations appear as a drop of water next to Stockdale’s ocean. But the experience has proven my mettle in a way that no baseball to the thumb ever could.

I now know what true toughness is. And that knowledge will serve me well for the rest of my life.

Many of us will never experience true toughness.

We will never come face to face with our own mortality in a faraway Prisoner of War camp. We will never need to ask ourselves if we’ll be able to walk normally again.

Our lives will remain unencumbered. And for that, we don’t owe anyone any apologies.

But there is one thing we can still do. One change that we simply should make.

We can stop conflating grit and resilience with toughness.

We can. We should. We must.

Shaking off bruises is commendable. Getting back on our feet is notable. But it doesn’t make us tough.

No, dear reader, that moniker demands a higher pedestal. So, let’s take it off the ground and lift it back up to where it belongs.

Second Level Risk

Are you sure you want to do this?

The words filled me with dread. But before I could reply, the technician continued.

Because if this repair doesn’t take, we’ll be out of options. Your device is considered vintage.

I took a moment to try and unpack these words.

I struggled to comprehend how my laptop computer could be a relic. This wasn’t a dusty Remington typewriter from the 1970s. I’d gotten it — new — less than 10 years earlier.

The transaction had cost a small fortune. And I had a hard time believing the computer was now vintage.

But technology moves fast. New editions of the laptop had hit the market since I got mine. Versions with new processors, updated displays, and a completely redesigned keyboard.

This would prove to be a problem, as I desperately needed to fix some busted keys.

I could either take a leap of faith with the technician, hoping he could get the misaligned keycaps back in place. Or I could decline the repair and make do with a compromised keyboard.

It wasn’t much of a decision.

I’d like you to try to fix It, I replied. It’s not working well for me right now, so leaving it as is doesn’t seem like an option.

The technician nodded and took the laptop to a back room. After a few minutes, he returned triumphant. The keyboard was fully intact once again.

When I entrusted the technician with my computer, I was taking a risk.

This was an opportunity to make something broken whole again. But it was also a final roll of the dice.

There were no guarantees that the repair would work. And there was the possibility of inflicting further, irreversible harm to my keyboard.

Such an outcome wouldn’t be beneficial to anyone.

I would be left with a mangled computer. The technician’s reputation would be tarnished. And the manufacturer would face the potential of legal action — if I were so inclined to pursue it.

And so, the technician seemed hesitant — unwilling, even — to proceed. The risk seemed too big to ignore. And the status quo seemed more enticing.

I was decidedly not on board with this thinking.

You see, the computer technician put all risks in the same grouping. But I don’t.

Indeed, I consider the history behind the status quo when making these calls.

If everything is going well, a repair would indeed appear risky. Sure, tinkering might provide new capabilities or unlock new features. But it could also screw up something that was working just fine.

I call this type of scenario a First Level Risk. And I rarely consider it worthwhile.

But if something is already damaged or off-kilter, the risks of a repair seem less stark. Sure, another layer of damage would cause further headaches. But living with a compromised status quo is hardly palatable.

I call this scenario a Second Level Risk. And I’m more willing to take it on.

So yes, I commanded the technician to repair my computer with little hesitation. I made a similar choice regarding surgery for an injured ankle. And yet another to get some rodent-damaged wiring replaced in my vehicle.

I couldn’t imagine making do with what I had. I couldn’t imagine jumping through hoops to maneuver around the damage. (Or not jumping at all, when it came to my ankle.)

Fixing the damage seemed like the only salve. Even if that fix was far from a sure thing.

Second Level Risks were worthwhile.

When I was growing up, I would often go shopping for furniture with my parents.

The store had an As Is showroom. And we would always scour it for discounted furniture.

The As Is items changed out frequently. But they tended to have one thing in common — defects.

Many found these defects acceptable — or at least acceptable in exchange for a lower purchase price.

But to the best of my recollection, my family did not.

I was too young to have an informed opinion back then. But now, decades later, I find myself continuing my family’s legacy.

I don’t want anything of mine to be As Is. I don’t want to be hindered or compromised.

And so, I do what I can to avoid that fate. I entrust others with the task of making me whole.

Until recently, it hadn’t occurred to me how unusual such a decision is.

Indeed, many in our society will gladly take a First Level Risk. But they’ll avoid a Second Level one.

Take my late grandfather as an example.

This was a man who enlisted in the United States Navy at age 17, during the waning months of World War II. He could have stayed in high school until the summer of 1945, likely avoiding the risk of ever being drafted into the conflict. But instead, he decided to put his life on the line for his country.

Shipping off to the Navy during a global war was perhaps the most commendable of First Level Risks. But it was a substantial risk, nonetheless.

My grandfather was placing all kinds of trust in his commanding officers to make it through the ordeal. And that faith ultimately paid off.

You would think such unwavering trust would flow into other risky decisions my grandfather faced. But it didn’t.

All too often, my grandfather would try to fix household appliances himself, or leave them in a compromised state. Good enough was sufficient for him— even if neglected or MacGuyvered repairs put parts of his house in structural danger. Entrusting trained professionals with a solution was just too risky.

In hindsight, my grandfather’s allergy to Second Level Risks seems comical. But in practice, it’s all too understandable.

For America is built upon the pattern my grandfather espoused. We’re implored to take big risks to seize bigger opportunities. But we’re also indoctrinated on the value of self-sufficiency.

Embracing only Second Level risks is an affront to all of this. If we play it safe when things are going well, we’ll leave countless opportunities on the table. And if we turn to others when things are broken, we lose autonomy.

As such, many have followed my grandfather’s pattern. They’ve taken chances when it wasn’t strictly necessary. And they’ve avoided taking chances when the situation could have called for it.

While I understand the sentiment, I also find it a bit baffling.

Are we really that comfortable with spinning the wheel on those First Level Risks, with their massive opportunity costs? And if we are, shouldn’t the Second Level Risks seem doubly enticing?

The answers tend to be Yes and No, respectively. But it’s time we flip them around.

It’s time to listen to reason. It’s time to follow common sense. It’s time to manage our risk tolerance.

We have less to lose with Second Level Risks than we do with First Level ones.

So, let’s stop throwing away a good thing in pursuit of more. And let’s take the calculated risks we need to fix something that’s gone rotten.

This is the sensible way to make decisions. It’s about time we adhered to it.

Into The Fire

On the evening of April 23, 2005, a young man in a suit and tie strode across the stage at a convention hall in New York City.

The man stood next to the commissioner of the National Football League and posed for the cameras. His dream of becoming a pro football player had just become reality.

For many, this might seem like a triumphant moment. But throughout the experience, the man in the suit did not smile.

He had an axe to grind.

The man on the stage that night was named Aaron Rodgers. A standout college quarterback for the California Golden Bears, he had gone into the NFL Draft with high hopes.

Rodgers expected the San Francisco 49ers to call his name with the draft’s first overall pick. He would then move across the San Francisco Bay from his college campus, sign a lucrative contract, and take the reins as the storied franchise’s next quarterback.

But the 49ers chose another quarterback instead. And the teams that followed San Francisco selected players who starred at different positions than quarterback. As the hours passed, Rodgers appeared visibly despondent.

Finally, a team called Rodgers’ name, with the draft’s 24th pick. But it was probably the last one he wanted to hear from.

The Green Bay Packers were everything the San Francisco 49ers weren’t. Based in the NFL’s smallest host city, they played outdoors in the frigid Wisconsin winters. They had won only one championship in the past 35 seasons. And they had a future Hall of Famer — Brett Favre — as their quarterback.

Rodgers would need to bide his time to get his opportunity. And so, he did.

Rodgers played sparingly in 2005, 2006, and 2007. But then, the Packers and Favre parted ways. And suddenly Rodgers was at the helm of Green Bay’s offense.

The Packers had a lackluster season in 2008. But Rodgers showed poise, preparedness, and promise.

He built on that foundation in 2009, leading Green Bay back to the playoffs. Then, in 2010, Rodgers led the Packers to a Super Bowl championship.

Over the subsequent 12 seasons, Aaron Rodgers won four league Most Valuable Player awards. And he led the Packers to the playoffs nine times.

Rodgers might not have had the evening he wanted at the 2005 NFL Draft. But things have turned out well anyway.

Aaron Rodgers’ story is well known, in part because it’s so uncommon.

Franchise quarterbacks just don’t tend to have the journey that Rodgers did. They don’t fall to the 24th pick. They don’t wait as the heir apparent for three full seasons.

Instead, they follow the path of Peyton Manning.

Manning, a college standout for the Tennessee Volunteers, was the first overall pick in the 1998 NFL Draft. Named the starter from Day One, Manning struggled through his debut season with the Indianapolis Colts. But he was downright dominant thereafter.

Manning led the Colts to the playoffs in his second season. The team then returned to the postseason in 10 of the 11 seasons that followed, winning one Super Bowl championship, and losing in another Super Bowl. Along the way, Manning won 5 MVP awards and established himself as one of football’s premier quarterbacks.

NFL teams have tried to follow the Manning blueprint for years. They’ve chosen talented college quarterbacks at the top of the draft and thrown them into the fire. If these young signal callers don’t make it through the inferno with aplomb, team executives will cut their losses and move on.

This whole process is counterintuitive.

You see, the National Football League is perhaps the least appropriate place for snap evaluations. For any new entrant to its ranks faces a steep learning curve.

The dimensions of NFL fields might be no different than those found at the amateur levels. But the players are faster. The play diagrams are more complex. And the competition for each roster spot is fierce.

A player with top-notch skills and a championship pedigree at the amateur levels can still find himself humbled in the pros. It’s that tough to level up.

The burden is that much tougher for rookie quarterbacks. They must orchestrate an entire offensive attack against the best defenses they’ve ever faced. And if these quarterbacks were high draft picks, they likely took over a struggling team — one without a culture of making key plays. (The teams who lost the most games in the prior season pick first in the draft.)

Add it all up, and it’s ridiculous to expect mastery from the start. Yet increasingly, that’s what teams demand.

Consider the case of Tua Tagovailoa.

The quarterback entered the pros with a sterling resume. He came off the bench to lead the Alabama Crimson Tide to a championship in his first collegiate season, then dominated college football over his next two. Considered a sure thing, Tagovailoa was selected by the Miami Dolphins with the 5th pick of the 2020 NFL Draft.

Tagovailoa started his rookie year on the sidelines, but he quickly found his way into the starting lineup. He proceeded to win 6 of his 9 starts and lead the moribund Dolphins to the brink of the playoffs. He followed that up with another solid campaign — and winning record — in his second year.

Tagovailoa played about as well as could be expected. He mastered the NFL learning curve, winning games consistently. He got a previously putrid Miami offense across the goal line frequently. He didn’t turn the ball over often.

And yet, many pundits have called Tagovailoa a bust. Even with all his accomplishments, Tagovailoa hadn’t proved his worth as an NFL franchise quarterback.

This is the nonsense that Aaron Rodgers avoided when he slid to the 24th pick in the draft. He wasn’t saddled with an underperforming team and asked to work instant magic.

Rodgers got to learn the ropes out of the spotlight. And once he finally got his shot, it was with a team poised to succeed.

The fire still burned hot. But Rodgers was iron clad.

I’ve never played a down of professional football.

And yet, I’ve been both Aaron Rodgers and Tua Tagovailoa.

My Tua Tagovailoa turn came first. Two months and a day after my college graduation, I took the helm of an evening newscast in Midland, Texas.

I’d never produced a newscast on a local TV station before. But my resume looked good enough — dotted with some solid internships and time volunteering for my university’s TV channel.

So, I was offered a producer job. And once I accepted, I was thrown into the fire.

The results were solid, but not spectacular. I made a few early mistakes and was generally slow in reacting to breaking news. Even after fixing those early hiccups, I was never able to get my newscasts above third place in the local rankings.

I ultimately left the news business long before it would have left me. But, in hindsight, I was never Peyton Manning material in that industry.

My second career has ultimately proven more successful. But its arc has been Aaron Rodgers-esque.

You see, when I left the news media, I figured I’d land a role in corporate communications. My skills, pedigree, and track record seemingly lined up well for those positions.

But hiring managers didn’t see it that way. And so, I spent three months unemployed – growing more despondent by the day.

Ultimately, I did land a marketing role. But I knew next to nothing about the discipline.

So, I spent several years learning the ropes. I leaned on supervisors and tenured colleagues to check my work and highlight my blind spots.

This process started with that first marketing job. But it continued as I moved to a new role with a different company. It even carried through when I enrolled in business school.

Eventually, I felt confident enough to take command. I became more strategic and innovative. I took on initiatives I once considered too risky. And I racked up a raft of career accomplishments.

That voice of doubt still lives rent-free in my head. But my track record tells a far different story.

I am an accomplished marketer. But I don’t think I’d have become one if I were thrown into the fire and left to burn.

The journey I’ve taken is mine alone. But my story is hardly unique.

Most of us will find the Aaron Rodgers path more fruitful than the Tua Tagovailoa one.

This shouldn’t come as a surprise.

For we rarely enter a new venture as a finished product. There remains much for us to learn. There are still many ways in which we can grow.

Our participation can be viewed as a long-term investment — for employers and for ourselves. It’s something that will inevitably start slow and uncertain. But it’s also something that provides a valuable return over time.

Many professional roles are set up in this way. But many others are not.

So, whether we’re an NFL quarterback or a TV news producer, we find ourselves up against it. We’re expected to show our full value from the moment we walk in the door. And all too often, we disappoint.

It doesn’t have to be this way. Indeed, it shouldn’t be.

It’s abundantly clear that the into the fire method does more harm than good. It inhibits growth. It makes late bloomers irrelevant. And it causes employers to short-circuit non-immediate returns by pulling the plug too early.

No one wins. So, let’s abandon this losing game.

Let’s do away with the snap judgments. Let’s give each other some grace. And let’s see what good a little more runway gives us.

Life’s as much about opportunities as it is about moments. Let’s not set them ablaze.

On Transportation

On a chilly, muggy morning, I stood on the edge of a street in Downtown Dallas.

In my outstretched hand was a paper cup filled with water. To my left were dozens of runners, making their way down Main Street. Above me was a noisy highway viaduct.

I was grateful for the viaduct on this morning. For there was a chance of rain, and its cover would keep me dry.

The runners would also likely be grateful for a brief respite from the elements during their race.

But on most other days, what lay above us was a hot-button topic.

The viaduct, you see, connects two highways. One of them meanders through Dallas’ vast northern suburbs and continues for about 80 miles until it crosses into Oklahoma. The other connects Dallas to Houston, roughly 250 miles to the southeast.

When the structure went up in 1973, it was likely met with little more than a shrug. Development hadn’t reached this part of downtown, and the neighborhood that abutted it — Deep Ellum — was a slum. Stitching the highways together made perfect sense.

But now, plenty of activists want it demolished.

They see the viaduct as a divider, separating a reborn Deep Ellum from Dallas’ Downtown. And they think removing the highway will solve the problem.

Spoiler alert: It won’t.

The discussion over removing an elevated highway from Dallas is a local issue. It could impact city neighborhoods, as well as drivers traversing through town.

The story should begin and end there. But it doesn’t.

You see, this topic has gotten the ear of an activist posse based miles and miles from Dallas, Texas. A posse that seeks to replace urban interstates with parks, boulevards with bikeways, and side streets with pedestrian promenades.

This posse has zeroed in on several American cities as targets.

St. Paul, Minnesota. Kansas City, Missouri. New Orleans, Louisiana. Atlanta, Georgia. And yes, Dallas, Texas.

All these cities are far from this posse’s base. And yet, the posse sees itself as a savior meant to right the wrongs these municipalities endured.

The leaders of this activist posse point to an acknowledged fact. Highways have, in fact, torn apart city neighborhoods. But the proposed “cure” of effectively banishing all motorized transportation in cities is several bridges too far.

Hashing a universal urban future in the image of a Brooklyn hipster enclave is not righteous. It’s not idyllic.

If anything, it’s shortsighted and delusional. It’s opening Pandora’s Box to a parade of unsavory side effects.

Let’s look at why that is.

If you were pressed to choose one word that defines America, what would it be?

Freedom? Democracy? Fireworks?

All are good choices. Yet, I wouldn’t pick any of them.

My one-word definition of America is Movement.

It’s been at our core from the start.

Movement was behind Daniel Boone’s Wilderness Road. Movement was behind Manifest Destiny and the Oregon Trail. Movement was behind the Transcontinental Railway, the jumbo jet, and — yes — the Interstate Highway network.

Our willingness to uproot ourselves in search of better opportunities, better resources, and a better life is well-known. And the innovations spawned by this commitment transformed America from a fledgling nation into a superpower.

Transportation was part and parcel with this narrative. Indeed, many cities an America’s interior grew and blossomed with the advent of steamships and train tracks.

Cities like St. Paul, Minnesota. Cities like Kansas City, Missouri. Cities like New Orleans, Louisiana. Cities like Atlanta, Georgia. Cities like Dallas, Texas.

The advent of the automobile helped these cities grow ever further. No longer did homes and businesses need to be within a stone’s throw of the port or depot. The footprint could expand exponentially.

The incursion of high-speed highways eventually cut into this growth, of course. It divided some neighborhoods and left visible scars on the city grids.

But I would argue such disruption amounted to a setback, rather than a crisis, in these cities.

After all, these metropolises were forged by transportation. And now, the encroaching ribbons of blacktop provided its residents new opportunity.

Opportunity to get fresh goods from other corners of the country, quickly and efficiently. Opportunity to build a new house on a generous plot of land without sacrificing that steady job downtown. Opportunity to get away to that city, mountain village, or beach town without spending half the day on a crowded, slow-moving train.

You see, transportation is part of the culture in broad swaths of America. But it runs so much deeper than that.

Indeed, so many aspects of cities that the activist posse members loathe turn out to be more feature than bug in the wild. Urban sprawl, supermarkets, parking lots outside malls and sports arenas — these have value for the people using them.

Sure, such constructs create massive hurdles for those without sufficient transportation access in these regions. But those hurdles were, sadly, not caused by the advent of transportation. And as such, its removal will do little to level the playing field.

Why does all this matter? Well, let’s consider what happens when we remove modes of transportation from cities built upon them.

Let’s say we tore out a highway — such as that one in Dallas — and replaced it with nothing. Some of those scars on the cityscape might heal. But they’d be replaced by a fresh nuisance — gridlock traffic.

People are not going to suddenly uproot their lifestyle just because a highway is gone. If they’re used to traveling to — or through — the city center, they’ll keep doing it.

But with less room for all those vehicles, remaining roadways would get clogged up quickly as a result. And this would be a nightmare for everyone.

Travel times would increase. Emergency services would have trouble getting through. Trucks would face delays ferrying goods to stores.

It would look a lot like that view across the river from the Brooklyn hipster’s neighborhood. An endless parade of headlights and taillights. A cacophony of car horns.

Perhaps this is why some in the activist posse want motorized transportation banned. Shifting cities back to the good old days would seemingly make neighborhoods vibrant, while exiling the ills of transportation culture.

But there were no good old days for cities built on transportation. So, rewriting history will only serve to punish countless residents. It will force substantial sacrifices with only fleeting rewards in return.

It will backfire. Badly.

There’s a 5-mile path in Dallas’ Uptown neighborhood that I’ve moseyed down from time to time.

It’s called the Katy Trail, and it was built on an old rail line. It’s elevated over street level, providing a nice respite from the hustle and bustle of the city below.

The Katy Trail is just one example of an urban trail oasis. The BeltLine in Atlanta, Georgia is another. So is the River Line in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

I am thankful these trails exist. But I’m also glad the rest of the space in these cities doesn’t look like them.

There is a need for recreational activities in cities. And there is a need for vibrant neighborhoods.

But there is also a need for transportation. A need to get around town, and out of it. A need for people to get essential goods and services in a timely fashion.

Is it worth giving all that up so that some faraway hipster activist can live out their own idyllic urban fantasy? I don’t think so.

So, yes. I was grateful for that highway viaduct in Dallas once. I still am.

But more than that, I’m fearful of what might happen if it were gone.