Month: March 2023

Risk Reduction

I sat on the snowy ground and tried to regain my bearings.

I had just fallen for the umpteenth time while trying to grab onto a T-Bar ski lift. Frustration was mounting, and I needed a minute.

So, I sat there, staring out at what lay ahead.

It was late June. Back home, it was beach weather. But here on the border of Chile and Argentina, snowy peaks surrounded an alpine lake — their wintery reflection reflected immaculately in the frigid water.

This view, this place — it was any American skier’s dream. But not mine.

You see, I had never skied before. And I hadn’t harbored a strong desire to, either.

But I’d ventured to South America for a study abroad program. And my classmates — all avid skiers — had begged me to join them on a weekend excursion to the Andes.

So, here I was, giving this new experience a go. And struggling mightily.

Getting on the lift was just one issue. Making it down the bunny slope was another. And stopping my momentum before plunging into the lake was a third.

For much of the day, I was miserable. Not only was I flustered, but I was also terrified of injuring myself.

Finally, I started to make some progress. I stayed on my skis all the way down the slope, feeling the wind rush by my face. My form was still a work in progress, but the misery was gone.

Sadly, so was my energy — and daylight.

I made my way back to the lodge to turn in my rental skis. But I pledged to give it another go when I was back in the United States.

For a while, I made good on my promise. I’d hit the slopes about once a year. Despite some misadventures, I did get better at skiing. And I found the experience of gliding down a snowy slope uniquely exhilarating.

But eventually, I stopped trekking up to the mountains.

My demurral from skiing wasn’t driven by its costs or the travel distances to the slopes — although both were significant.

The cause? Risk reduction.

My family tree is marked by community influence.

Both my parents are educators. So too were my maternal grandparents.

My paternal grandfather is a doctor. My uncle is a renowned surgeon.

If there’s one commonality among my relatives, it’s a devotion to helping others be better, safer, and healthier. And that means reducing risks.

When I was growing up, my parents would encourage me not to make the same mistake twice. And my grandfather would often share the most basic doctorly advice in the book.

If it hurts to move your leg like that, don’t move your leg like that.

I was primed to steer clear of recklessness from the start. And I’ve followed that North Star into adulthood.

These days, I make a living in the insurance technology industry. So those risk reduction edicts have only further solidified.

Now, this hasn’t turned me into a frightened recluse. I don’t spend my days assuming everything will go wrong.

But I do imagine what could go sideways. And I try to avoid that outcome as much as possible.

This ethos has underpinned many of the choices I’ve made over the years. It spurred my decision to stop eating dairy and fast food. It led me to quit drinking alcohol.

And it led me to stop skiing.

You see, I was never fully in control on skis. I took turns too wide and still struggled to stop on a dime when I got into trouble. I feared that my shaky form would lead me directly into a tree — and a broken leg.

I’d also taken up running during this time — first for exercise and eventually as a competitive endeavor. As my devotion to running deepened, the costs of a ski run gone awry started to seem as steep as a Black Diamond slope. It just wasn’t worth trying.

Now, this decision was not exactly a prevalent one in the athletic community. I know of several runners who have won distance races weeks after a ski vacation.

But for me, the potential costs were too high. Getting to the starting line healthy was paramount. Nothing that could jeopardize that mission was worth engaging in.

This line of thought constitutes Risk Reduction 101. And it’s worked as expected for me.

Or has it?

As I write this, it’s been a decade since I went skiing. And it’s been four months since I went for a run.

A high-speed crash on a snowy slope hasn’t paused my running career. But I’ve come across some significant injuries, nonetheless.

There hasn’t been a single cause for these setbacks. Some were due to overtraining. Some were due to chronic physiological issues. Some were simply due to bad luck.

But regardless, I’ve paid the price.

I’ve lost four months of an activity I love. I’ve dropped out of five races, forfeiting hundreds of dollars in the process. I’ve gone through surgery and an arduous rehab process.

If I had a skiing mishap, I’d likely have missed about the same amount of time while healing. My rehab process would likely have been somewhat similar.

Taking all this into account, my decision to cut out skiing doesn’t look all that stellar. After all, those risks I was trying to avoid found me anyway.

I might as well have lived with reckless abandon. I might as well have let the chips fall where they may.

This is a tantalizing argument. Yet, I don’t buy it for a second.

Sure, I’ve encountered a bit of a rough patch lately. I’d even call it the nadir of my running career.

But such an outcome can’t be viewed in a vacuum.

The odds of what happened to me without skiing are lower than they would have been if I kept hitting the slopes.

No, I might not have avoided fate. But I didn’t actively invite it either.

This is an important distinction.

All too often, we view risk as binary. We either aim for total avoidance or throw caution to the wind.

Neither approach truly steels us for a bad outcome.

In one case, we’re forced to reckon with our recklessness in the most brutal of fashions. In another, we’re left wondering why we threw away the chance at adventure — only to encounter its bitter toll.

The best way around this is to take the middle path. To accept small risks and shun outsized ones.

This requires judgment without clear guardrails. It requires a feel for the odds. And it requires us to embrace the gray.

Put it all together, and we’re left with an incredibly high bar to clear.

But with some discipline and devotion, we can clear it. I am proof positive of that.

So, let’s take this journey together.

Let’s resolve to feel the rush of the wind without getting in over our skis. Let’s be mindful of risk, but not paralyzed by it.

We might not always win this way. But we’ll surely lose less.

On Fragility

The stakes were low.

I was playing a pickup game of indoor soccer at the college rec center with some friends.

There were no trophies to be hoisted. There was no money to be won.

All that was on the line was bragging rights.

Still, as I lined up in a defensive position, I prepared to go full throttle. I didn’t get to play soccer all that often, and I was going to make the most of this opportunity.

I got as close as I could to the opposing forwards. If they tried to advance, I’d poke the ball past their heels and race around them to pass it to a teammate. If they tried to pass or shoot, I’d get my body in the way.

This style of play was more suitable for hockey than soccer. And I soon found out why.

A sizzling shot from an opponent hit me square in the jaw. The entire left side of my face went numb for a moment. It proceeded to tingle, and then throb.

My teammates asked if I was alright to continue. I gave them a nod and carried on.

Moments later, another shot hit me in the groin. I doubled over from the blow. But after taking a moment to gather myself, I fought through.

Finally, I went to block a shot, and an opponent’s foot clipped my left shin. I tried to continue after this setback too but quickly found that to be impractical.

The blow to my shin had sapped all the power from my left leg — which is my dominant one. Crisp passes quickly devolved into feeble dribblers across the hardwood.

I subbed myself out of the game. Then I sat on the bench, catching my breath.

Once the game had finished, I headed back to my dorm, showered, and changed clothes.

That was it.

There was no ice pack. No ibuprofen. No imminent trip to the health center to get checked out.

I simply went about my business. And the next day, I was no worse for wear.

I was young and I was durable. Bouncing back from an injury was as easy as pie.

Fast forward nearly half my life. It’s a weekend morning and I’m heading to the gym. But on the way there, I slip on a slick spot on the concrete. I fall partway down a flight of stairs and land on my lower back.

I lie on the steps for a few moments, feeling every bit of the blunt-force trauma I’ve endured. But after a quick check, I determine I haven’t broken any bones. So, I cautiously get back to my feet and continue my trek.

This time, though, I realize something is amiss.

My bruised back causes me problems for the rest of the day, the entire next day, and the ensuing week. I go to the doctor, get a prescription for anti-inflammatories, and put a heating pad on the bruise.

Nothing seems to work. And I start to get flustered.

Sure, I fell, I tell myself. But young children fall all the time. And they get right back up as if nothing happened.

The same went for my teenage self. My actions following that pickup soccer game are proof positive of that.

What’s different this time? I have no good explanation.

Then, lying in bed one night, it hits me.

I’m older now. And an increase in age means a spike in fragility.

I should be reassured by this straightforward fact. But I am not.

Several years ago, the Dallas Cowboys took the field for a critical late-season football game.

After shoving an opposing ballcarrier out of bounds, Cowboys defensive back Byron Jones noticed his knee was askew. Sitting on the turf, he calmly popped the knee back into place, got back up, and played the rest of the game.

Jones credited his flexibility for the quick adjustment. But he likely could have credited his age as well.

You see, Jones was in his first year of professional football. Only 23 years old, Jones was primed for athletic feats. He could leap to deflect passes, run with the fastest offensive players, or even put his knee back into position when necessary.

These days, Jones can do none of those things. While he hasn’t officially retired from football, Jones has noted that he can no longer run or jump — two skills needed to play his position.

As I write this, Jones is still in his early 30s. If his vocation were that of a foreman, a financial accountant, or a firefighter, he’d be decades away from retirement. But as a football player, he’s used goods.

This is by design.

Football has no tolerance for fragility. It’s a violent sport. One that frontloads the value of its combatants and then discards them as they depreciate.

Those over-the-hill players are quickly forgotten — their battered and brittle bodies withering away beyond the glow of the limelight.

If not for the harrowing headlines regarding CTE, we wouldn’t know anything about their plight.

This is unfortunate, as such knowledge could be mutually beneficial.

Seeing how the titans of sports deal with their accelerating fragility can give us a roadmap for dealing with our own brittleness. And it can help us support these gladiators as they transition into the next stage of their lives.

Such knowledge can also help us overcome our own demons. Indeed, this is a sentiment I understand all too well.

Traditionally, I’ve never been one to succumb to any age-related meltdowns. I’ve been as steadfast and determined in my 30s as I was in my 20s.

But this sudden reminder of my fragility has shaken me a bit.

So much of my identity is harnessed to my resilience. On my ability to shake off a soccer ball to the face, a shot to the groin, a kick in the shin.

If a fall sets me back this much, what does that mean? Has my identity corroded? Will my response to setbacks — physical or otherwise — remain compromised?

I’ve been thinking about all of this, searching for a definitive answer.

And the closest I’ve gotten to one came from the words of Byron Jones.

We were all more flexible and resilient way back when. But now, it’s okay to need a moment.

It’s one thing to note our fragility. It’s another to accept it.

But then what?

This is not like the 12-step program, where we might be building toward something. No, frailty is more in the other direction. A steady crumbling of the tower that we’ve built.

There is no clear path back to where we once were. There is only a choice.

Will we continue to take calculated risks, knowing that the downsides are steeper than ever? Or will live in fear of an all too real unknown?

I’ve chosen the first path.

I realize now that danger lurks at every turn. I understand that recovery is more of a process than a breeze.

But I also realize that life is too precious to waste for fear of a bad outcome. Even as those outcomes are more challenging than ever to bounce back from.

This is my choice. But it’s not the only one.

Indeed, plenty of others have faded away under the weight of time. They’ve seen their shadows and retreated into their shells.

Neither decision is inherently right nor wrong.

But make no mistake. Each of us has decided.

Fragility, dear readers, is a fact of life. The effects of time are inevitable.

It’s how we handle such an unwelcome reality that defines us. Not just in this moment, but possibly in many others to come.

So, let’s be brave. Let’s be thoughtful. But most of all, let’s be true to ourselves.

It’s not too much to ask.

On Autopilot

As I made my way down the highway, my frustration mounted.

It was rush hour, and the road was packed with vehicles. Stop-and-go traffic made things unpredictable. You never quite knew when you’d be able to speed up or would need to slow down.

I’m no rookie when it comes to the rush hour slog. So, I followed protocols, intently watching the brake lights of the car in front of me.

But that vehicle – a Tesla – proved erratic. Its brake lights would come on suddenly and intensely. And I would need to slam on the brakes to avoid a collision.

Teslas are notoriously tall cars, and I struggled to see beyond it. But as traffic in the other lanes started outpacing ours, I figured out what was going on.

There was plenty of blacktop in front of the Tesla. But the vehicle was not filling that gap. Instead, the driver was braking early and often, leaving me in a bind for no good reason.

After a few agonizing miles, I seized an opportunity to move into an adjoining lane and pass the Tesla. As I did, I peeked over – and immediately discovered what had caused me so much agony.

The driver had one hand on the wheel, and the other on a smartphone. Much of her attention was on that device, rather than the road.

It was a reckless decision. And I, the driver behind her, had borne the brunt of it.

My blood boiled. But my rage extended far beyond the woman sitting inside that metal box.

When I was a new driver, I despised Lexus vehicles.

The sedans and SUVs with that stylized chrome L on their hoods were fine enough. But the people who owned them were not.

I loathed the entitled jerks who tailgated me at high speeds or cut me off on the road. Most of the time, these drivers were piloting a Lexus. And as I connected the dots, my disdain for the luxury car label grew.

I began to see the brand as an enabler, allowing drivers to violate the rules of the road without consequences. It seemed like the outrageously high price tags for Lexus vehicles came with a superiority complex – one that drivers asserted at every turn. And poor chumps like me were left to clean up the mess.

As I’ve grown older, my vitriol for Lexus has turned to indifference. But that’s mostly because there’s a new clubhouse leader in despised car brands.

Tesla.

Now, to be clear, I have a healthy respect for the automaker with the stylized T on its hood. Disrupting the entrenched United States market as an outsider is daunting enough. Yet, Tesla has managed to break through while changing the way the industry develops cars.

When I bought my Ford SUV, most models were gas-powered. By the time I buy my next one, Ford might also have several electric options for me to consider. Tesla has everything to do with that shift.

But Tesla has also taken The Lexus Problem to new heights. The company is helmed by the bombastic Elon Musk, who once infamously expressed his desire for human driving to be outlawed.

Tesla has moved toward this goal by developing autonomous modes in its vehicles. But the self-driving features have been imperfect, and even deadly at times.

The company has tried to fix these mishaps with software updates. And it’s taken steps to remind drivers to stay alert when the car is on autopilot, in the event they need to take over.

But that message only goes so far.

Indeed, Musk’s bold claims have caused something of a halo effect. Many Tesla customers believe the car can drive itself and slack off on the fundamentals.

Whether they have autonomous mode engaged or not, Tesla drivers can act like the one I was stuck behind on the highway — checking their phones more intently than the road. In their minds, the high-tech car itself absolves them of responsibility.

So now, instead of battling aggressive Lexus drivers, I’m forced to reckon with passive Tesla drivers. The behavior might be different, but the entitlement complex is the same.

These drivers claim superiority on the road. And the rest of us are forced to reckon with them.

I’ll never forget the first time I tried cruise control as a driver.

I was on a road trip with my father, and he encouraged me to engage the feature for the miles ahead.

I set my speed, using the controls next to the steering wheel. I took my foot off the gas pedal and gripped the steering wheel.

The car zipped along as seamlessly as before. I was amazed.

Soon, I saw a slower vehicle ahead of me. I checked my mirrors, engaged my blinker, and turned the steering wheel slightly, gliding into the passing lane. Once I cleared the slower vehicle, I glided back into my original lane.

I was taking to cruise control quickly. But I wasn’t comfortable.

And so, I tapped the brake and pressed my foot back onto the gas pedal. This disengaged all the cruise control settings, putting me fully in charge.

My father looked over at me incredulously, an implied question in his silent stare. I replied assertively.

I just don’t like being on autopilot.

And that was that.

Now, cruise control was a far cry from today’s autonomous modes. You still had to pay attention to the road, even without a foot on the gas.

Even so, I didn’t enjoy the partial lack of control. Too much could go wrong, and I didn’t trust myself to snap back into it before it did.

Such perspectives are basically unheard of these days. People seem to enjoy going on autopilot — both in the car and outside it. With cutting-edge technology at our fingertips, it’s easier than ever to fill the gaps in our day-to-day. And we’re all too eager to do so.

This by itself is not a concern. Efficiency is a desirable attribute. Boredom is not.

Still, going on autopilot does come with some strings attached. We must pay attention to our surroundings. And we must be ready to spring into action if need be.

All too often, we willfully ignore these requirements. Or we deprecate their importance.

In doing so, we end up like that Tesla driver on the highway. We prefer what’s on our smartphones to the task at hand.

Sure, that driver wasn’t using Tesla’s autonomous mode. (Don’t worry. I looked.) But that’s beside the point.

You see, the autopilot mentality is pervasive. We use it to abdicate responsibility at every turn — whether we have the system engaged or not.

And this mindset can be disastrously corrosive.

Without accountability, standards degrade. Without accountability, people get hurt. Without accountability, justice goes unserved.

How can avert major mistakes if we’re not engaged? How can we learn from the mishaps that we encounter if we’re not involved? And how can we make the world a safer place if we’re checked out?

We can’t.

Autopilot is a tool. Going on autopilot is a poison pill.

It’s time for us to stop taking it.

Loading It Up

All I wanted was an iced coffee.

Coffee and ice cubes in a plastic cup. No more. No less.

I walked up to the counter and gave my order to the barista — only to be startled by her reply.

So, you don’t want any Classic Syrup in it?

No, I most certainly did not. I stated as much to the barista — and I got my syrup-less iced coffee a few minutes later.

It looked fine. It tasted fine. And it was what I’d ordered. Crisis averted.

Still, I was bewildered.

How had something so simple become so complicated? And was I always going to need to exert this much effort just to get an iced coffee?

I am not alone in my bewilderment.

All over America, people wander into coffee shops looking for a basic cup of joe. And all too often, their quest gets waylaid.

Dark, caffeinated liquid no longer flows freely into cups at these establishments. Instead, it is mixed with milk, syrup, and whipped cream until it’s unrecognizable.

Such is the mandate — both from consumers and café management. Consumers hope to get a morning jolt without even a hint of coffee’s natural bitterness. Proprietors are looking to upcharge for the fillers and sweeteners that help bury such hints.

These are the rules of engagement for procuring a modern-day brew. These are the terms for taking the field.

And because of this, black coffee drinkers find themselves sidelined.

Baristas will often delay fulfillment of their orders, opting to prepare more customized concoctions first. Or worse, those baristas will mistakenly add milk, syrup, or sugar to the cups — simply by force of habit.

As a capitalist and a marketer, I understand where coffee shop proprietors are coming from. The restaurant industry has teetered on razor-thin profit margins for generations. Any opportunity to get more cash from consumers must be taken.

But I must confess, I’m perplexed by modern-day coffee consumers. This obsession with customizations and over-the-top flavors seems like a classic case of having it both ways.

People want the benefits of coffee without any tradeoffs. Loading it up might seem to them like a great way to get there.

It’s not.

Several years ago, I quit drinking alcohol.

Shortly thereafter, a new category of booze skyrocketed in popularity. It was a fizzy concoction known as Hard Seltzer.

I know nothing about how hard seltzer tastes. But I would imagine it’s the successor to Smirnoff Ice. That’s the flavored vodka drink that I used to get for girls when we ventured to the beach in college.

Hard Seltzer, Smirnoff Ice, and crude cocktails — such as Frozen Margaritas — offer the same promise. Those who consume them can get drunk without ever encountering alcohol’s signature burn.

These drinks are the boozy equivalents of modern coffee. All the benefits, but with none of the drawbacks.

Or so it seems.

It turns out there are drawbacks to these concoctions. Most are loaded with sugar and artificial flavorings. Many don’t sit well in digestive tracts. And all of them can lead to overindulgence.

Add it all up, and these drinks can cause plenty of issues to those who consume them.

Yes, alcohol’s repulsive natural flavor is an advantage. It’s a visceral check against the binge mentality.

It forces us to reckon with what we’re doing as we drink. Even as our memory blurs and our inhibitions float away, we retain a sense of what we’re doing. And our case for deniability evaporates.

We likely won’t hold ourselves accountable for our actions if everything we drink tastes like fruit punch. But if those drinks have an aftertaste resembling lighter fluid? Well, that unpleasant memory is primed to linger. And so might our sense of guilt over what we’ve wrought.

The stakes for coffee are decidedly lower than alcohol. We’re less likely to crash our car or heave on someone’s carpet after downing some wake-up juice.

And yet, loading it up still comes with a personal cost.

The excess sugar and cream fill us with empty calories to burn off. And it likely wipes out many of the coffee’s purported health benefits.

Compound this over time and our fitness might lag. Our tooth enamel might decay. And our digestive system might crash.

Our bodies are not primed to take in dessert for breakfast each day. But that’s essentially what we’ve turned modern-day coffee into.

If having it both ways seems too good to be true, it’s because it is.

I am an avid runner.

For me, there’s nothing like getting outside and feeling my shoes hit the pavement. The wind whizzes by my ears, the fresh air fills my lungs, and I feel alive.

I love running. But to be honest, it’s not always pleasant.

I’ve gotten a side stitch on the run before. I’ve felt my legs turn to jelly. I’ve gotten flush in the face and sweated profusely.

These experiences have been miserable. But they haven’t weakened my resolve to keep getting out there.

This point has baffled the non-runners I’ve encountered. Many of them have avoided the hobby because it can be unpleasant. And yet, I persevere in spite of that unpleasantness.

For I understand the broader picture. I recognize that I can’t have it both ways.

If I want to experience the benefits of running — the peak fitness, the graceful strides, the breezy race splits — I also must reckon with the misery that this sport carries with it.

So, there is no loading it up for me. I take my running the way I take my coffee — straight-up and uncompromised.

Fortunately, I’m not alone in this endeavor. The running community is full of people of a similar mentality to my own.

This is logical. After all, you can’t really thrive in an endurance sport without, well, enduring.

Still, I’d say the same is true of coffee, of alcohol, and of all the other things we systematically exploit.

If we understood them in their truest form, we’d gain some needed context. And if we stopped loading them up by default, we’d be better off.

Yes, this would lead to some visceral unpleasantness. And yes, this would require some behavior change on our end. It’s a big ask, and not one we’re likely to take on with enthusiasm.

Still, it’s a change we should make. For the status quo is doing us no favors.

It’s time to stop loading it up. And it’s time to face reality.

Let’s get to it.

On The Fly

It started as a murmur.

On the police scanner, there was some chatter about an incident on the far side of town.

Seconds later, the newsroom phone rang. I picked it up, recognizing our resident tipster’s voice instantly.

Hey. There’s something going on across town. Might be worth checking out.

I assured the tipster I was on it. But that wasn’t entirely true.

You see, I’d danced this waltz plenty in my nine weeks on the job. Each day, as I compiled my newscasts, the police radio would buzz about some incident. The tipster would hear the chatter on his scanner. Then he’d call me — the evening producer — and ask me to look into it.

Initially, I did. I’d send a news photographer all over the area, following up on the cryptic words of a dispatch officer.

But those photographers rarely found anything of note at the scene. So lately, I’d stopped calling them each time the scanner buzzed.

Such was the case on this afternoon. Instead of redirecting a news photographer, called a police spokesperson. That spokesman had little to update me on, so I carried on with my work.

It only took a half hour to discover I’d made the wrong choice.

A rival station cut into daytime TV coverage, announcing that there was a standoff on the edge of town. Shots had been fired, law enforcement was involved, and that station’s news crews were on scene.

In an instant, our News Director appeared at my desk.

You see that? We need to be out there.

I sensed the intensity in his eyes, and I panicked. I nervously told him I’d call the news photographer.

The News Director was not having it.

No, no! We need to send a reporter there now. And we need to find a way to go live.

Oh yes, I’d forgotten that detail. Our station’s live truck had been out of service for weeks. It hadn’t been an issue before. But now our competitor was reporting from the scene of a standoff, and we couldn’t do the same.

I was up a creek without a paddle. I just didn’t know how far.

I ultimately did get a reporter to the scene. And we got a live report on our evening newscast via telephone.

But it was too little, too late.

It was the first breaking news event of my career. And I’d blown it.

For weeks after this blunder, I found it hard to sleep.

I’d lie in bed and stare at the ceiling for hours. I’d replay everything I did and didn’t do. And I’d grapple for answers.

I had to be better at breaking news if I wanted a career as a news producer. I knew that.

But I also tended to freeze each time I was caught off-guard. That trait was paralyzing my breaking news response. And it would continue to sabotage my goals if I let it.

How could I turn hesitancy into action? How could I become selectively impulsive?

I’d think. I’d pine. I’d strategize. But it all got me nowhere.

Then, one night, I remembered I’d faced this paradox before. I encountered it as I was learning to drive.

Most teenagers couldn’t wait to get their license and tool around town on their own accord. But not me.

I was so terrified of the unpredictable open road that I resisted getting a learner’s permit or signing up for Driver’s Education classes.

You see, I’d ridden in enough vehicles to know that sticky situations could arise suddenly on the road. Other drivers could stop short with no warning. Pedestrians and bikers might dart in front of moving traffic.

Most drivers reacted quickly to this mayhem. But I figured I’d freeze up and crash into another car. Or worse, I might run someone over.

Eventually, I did get that permit and those driving lessons. Still leery of the unknown, I tried to prepare for every road hazard ahead of time. Yet, despite my best efforts, a couple of those hazards did sneak up on me.

As I faced these situations, I could feel myself starting to freeze up. But I never actually did.

Instead, my foot hit the brake. Or my hands turned the wheel to avoid danger.

These were reflexive responses. My instincts were guiding my reactions more than my brain was.

I realized that if I harnessed those instincts while anticipating road hazards, I’d turn into a proficient driver.

I’d worked hard at that over the years. And as I lay in bed on this sleepless night, I recognized that I’d become that proficient driver.

Maybe I try the same thing for breaking news situations.

I could plot out my thought process ahead of time. And I could coax my instincts to come alive on the fly when needed.

This revelation changed everything.

I reported to work the next day with a new mindset. Instead of praying for normalcy, I embraced chaos.

There was still no inkling of when the next breaking news event might hit. But whenever it did, I’d be prepared to react.

Over the ensuing years, my plan did come to fruition. Breaking news events occasionally popped up, and they still caught me off-guard. But I got better and better at responding to them. And I gained more and more confidence throughout.

Eventually, I broke a story that gained national attention. A freight train collided with a parade float downtown, killing four people and injuring 16 more.

As soon as the scanner buzzed with word of a Possible train accident, I leaped into action. I was making calls, coordinating coverage, and updating text on the station’s website even before I’d personally processed the gravity of the event. I was acting on the fly.

This was all critical in getting the story out first. And it helped my station share new developments in real time.

I’d come a long way. The days of dropping the ball were over.

As I write this, I’ve been out of the news business for nearly a decade.

Those frantic breaking news events are distant memories to me now. But the protocols for handling such chaos are not.

It turns out those skills are as useful outside the walls of a TV station as they are within them.

Indeed, there have been plenty of times in my second career when I was caught off guard. The same goes for my personal life.

My employer might shift priorities for my segment, put the kibosh on a major project I was working on, or even lay me off. All have happened to me in my time in the business world.

And outside of work, I might get a concerning medical diagnosis, hear something worrisome from a friend, or learn of the death of a loved one.

Each of these scenarios is a jolt to the system. And we tend to respond to them in one of two ways — stunned silence or a wave of emotion.

But that’s not quite true for me anymore.

Now, I spring into action.

I ask follow-up questions. I coordinate logistics. I think on the fly.

I’ve already done the legwork to respond in this way. I’ve taken little for granted in my life. And I’ve imagined what it would look like if what I cherish was taken from me.

I haven’t done all this to soften the blow. I’ve done it to sharpen my instincts and to hasten my response.

It might sound calculated or cold. But it’s effective.

Not just for me. But for all of us.

Yes, it’s important for all of us to consider this approach.

For there is a time to process the information that knocks us to our knees. To pause. To grieve. To absorb the emotional blow.

But there is also a time to respond. To take the tactical steps needed to move forward.

If we insist on acting in sequence — in processing everything before taking our next steps — we’ll be left behind. We’ll remain a shell of ourselves as we attempt to pick up the pieces. We might not recover at all.

It’s imperative that we not let shock preclude us from action. That we prime our instincts to work, even when our mind is overrun. That we maintain our ability to respond on the fly.

It’s not a desired assignment. But it’s a needed one.

Let’s heed the call.