What’s in a Name?

Personalized party favors.

They were all the rage when I was a kid.

Go to a birthday party and you’d get some inexpensive cup or trinket with your name painted on it.

Or something like it.

You see, my name is Dylan. But according to dozens of party favors, it was Dillon.

An honest mistake? Perhaps. But try telling 4-year-old Dylan that.

It was bad enough to hear people mispronouncing my name. (It’s not Die-lahn, people. It’s Dill-in.)

But to misspell it too? That was one indignity too far.

All those party favors that read Dillon? I threw them in the trash.


Naming can be a thorny subject.

What might seem like a parent’s expression of affection can quickly turn into a burden.

Odd names might lead to teasing on the playground, or flustered looks from teachers. They might even make you a punchline if you end up on the news for, say, leaking intelligence reports.

This burden weighed heavily on me throughout my childhood. There weren’t many other kids named Dylan back then. And a big part of me wished I wasn’t either.

I remember thumbing through those souvenir racks at gift shops, looking for a mini license plate with my name on it. I would always come up empty.

It was exhausting and demoralizing. I felt like I was fighting my way uphill just to be seen — in a way that a Dustin or Justin or Kevin didn’t have to.

Those days are behind me now. I’ve come to embrace my name, and it’s become immensely popular. Not only can I find that personalized mini license plate at the gift shop, but I can hear my full name on ESPN’s SportsCenter.

(Of course, I’m hearing it because the other Dillon Brooks — the lanky, smug Canadian — is punching the world’s best basketball player in the groin during a game. But that’s beside the point. That Dillon Brooks spells his name wrong anyways.)

Yes, it’s much easier to be Dylan as an adult than it was as a kid. But when someone mistakenly calls me Dustin or Justin or Kevin, I still hesitate for a moment before correcting them.

Names carry weight. And old habits die hard.


For 400 consecutive weeks, I shared a fresh article on a website called Words of the West.

Writing something new each week was — and still is — a passion of mine. But the name of the publication I shared it to? That was anything but.

Truth be told, Words of the West was not my first choice of a name for this venture. I’d thought of the name I really wanted some weeks before. But I’d forgotten to write it down, and it slipped out of my memory banks like a bandit in the night.

So, I found myself brainstorming name ideas, and Words of the West was what stuck.

At first, it was no big deal. But as the articles accumulated, the name felt like an albatross.

I wasn’t sharing Cowboy Poetry or recounting trips up a rugged mountain. I was sharing my thoughts. Thoughts that transcended geographical boundaries. Thoughts meant to apply to all.

Plus, Words of the West was too lengthy of a title. It was clunky, hard to remember, and grammatically complex. I knew better than to roll with a name like that.

I had failed as a publisher, as a marketer, as a wordsmith. I needed to do better.

Now, I have.


This is the first article under this publication’s new name — Ember Trace.

It’s not quite the start of a new era. It’s the evolution of a longstanding one.

The name and the website domain are all that have changed. They’ve evolved to reflect the ethos of this venture I began years ago.

So, why Ember Trace? What spurred that title?

Well, it’s shorter. Snappier. Catchier.

But it also has its own origin tale.

You see, the writings shared on these pages tell a story. And storytelling itself is an art.

Long before there were books and silver screens, our distant ancestors would gather to share in words of wisdom.

These gatherings would often take place around the glow of a fire. And even after the fire burned out, memories of what was shared would linger.

Those tales were what remained from the fireside gathering. The traces of its dying embers that could carry over to the next get-together, and the one after that.

This is the spirit with which I write. This is the impact I hope to have here.

I hope that the words I share light a spark. I hope they move, inspire, or lead to introspection. And once the embers have died out, I hope the trace of the experience lives on.

That is what storytelling is about. That is what I am about. And that is what Ember Trace is about.


Back in 1975, a fledgling company debuted with a unique name.

Microsoft was simply announcing what it provided — namely micro-computer software. But the single-word abbreviation stood apart from such corporate titans as General Electric and U.S. Steel.

Around this time, another new venture in the Pacific Northwest adopted a short name. Blue Ribbon Sports became Nike, featuring a swoosh logo on its signature shoes.

These companies would grow into behemoths, rising from obscurity to prosperity. And as they did, they changed the game.

If you look at the Top 50 list of the 2020 Forbes Most Valuable Brand list, you’ll find a total of six companies with multi-word names. Only five more feature punctuation, such as hyphens or apostrophes. And only about half have more than two syllables.

Corporate naming has gone from a legal requirement to a brand asset. Companies have shed the technicalese for monikers that consumers can embrace. Heck, even General Electric has rebranded as GE.

At the same time, human names have gotten more unique. That playground teasing mentioned earlier has gone by the wayside as common names become less prevalent.

Which shift is the right one? The one toward uniqueness or the one toward conciseness?

It’s hard to come up with an objective answer. Maybe because we’re asking the wrong question.

Perhaps we should be considering what the purpose of a name is. What it does. What it symbolizes.

Yes, a name is but an appetizer. A vessel to connect us with the uninitiated.

It needs to draw attention. But it needn’t be the event.

Striking that balance is challenging. But it’s a challenge worth pursuing.

I hope to strike that balance with the Ember Trace moniker. Thanks for coming along for the ride.

400

Today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.

Lou Gehrig uttered those words into a microphone on July 4, 1939.

The New York Yankees captain wasn’t reveling in his title. He’d last played an inning of baseball more than two months prior.

Nor was he expressing his patriotism. Gehrig was an embodiment of the American dream,

but that’s not what this day was about.

Gehrig, you see, was retiring. Forced out of the game by a debilitating disease, he was saying goodbye to an adoring Yankee Stadium crowd.

Such a ceremony was unheard of in those days. But so was Gehrig.

Yes, before his disease chased him from baseball, Gehrig had played in 2,130 consecutive games. For the better part of 14 years, he took the field every single day — earning himself the nickname of The Iron Horse.

That might not sound like much at first. But think about how many times you’ve called in sick or taken a vacation day. Gehrig never did, until his deteriorating body forced his hand.

It was a remarkable achievement. One that has only been surpassed by one baseball player — Cal Ripken, Jr. – in the near-century since. And one that might never be surpassed again.

They just don’t make ‘em like The Iron Horse anymore.

Consistency is hard to do.


What are the consistent traits of your life?

Eating? Sleeping? Walking around?

These seem like natural answers. But I know there are days and nights when I haven’t done one or more of these things.

This is not meant to glorify the all-nighter or the all-day fast. It’s more to highlight that doing anything consistently is hard.

This context makes Gehrig and Ripken’s feats even more notable. They fought through the inevitable speed bumps to get the improbable done.

Doing what so many cannot helped to make these baseball stars incomparable. Both Gehrig and Ripken are enshrined in the Baseball Hall of Fame.

But consistency did not bestow superhuman powers upon them. Ripken’s performance on the field declined somewhat in the late years of his streak. The disease that forced Gehrig out of the lineup ultimately claimed his life.

Yes, consistency is firmly within the grasp of humanity. We all have the ability to do the improbable.

And you’re reading one such example.


This is article 400 of Words of the West.

For 400 consecutive weeks, I’ve shared a fresh thought, opinion, or reflection with you, dear reader. That’s every week, without fail, for almost eight years.

Some of these articles were deep and personal. Some were more banal. Some were a tad preachy.

But no matter the tenor of the content, one new article has appeared here each week for 400 consecutive weeks.

Now, at first glance, this shouldn’t be noteworthy. After all, the first rule of any publication is Find a schedule and stick to it.

I heeded this edict, committing to sharing weekly musings before I ever hit Publish. But if we’re being honest, I never thought I’d be able to keep the streak alive this long.

How could I?

Think of other markers of longevity.

American football teams play between 10 and 17 weekly games as part of their regular slates. International football — or soccer — teams play 34 to 38 matches each year. Television series generally contain 22 new episodes a season.

And all of them have off weeks built into the schedule.

Yes, when exercising our abilities — of mind, body, and soul — there is a limit to our continued exertion. We need a break from our routine now and then. So much so, that it’s often mandated.

Even Gehrig and Ripken had a respite from the grind. While both donned a uniform and took the field every day throughout the summer heat, they had the winters off to recharge.

Year-round consistency is within the realm of human possibility. But it’s harder to find.

And year-over-year consistency? Rarer still.

Indeed, there are relatively few examples of people taking on feats like this without interruption or assistance. Marketing guru Seth Godin has famously added a new blog post each day for more than a decade. Some runners have taken to the streets each day for years.

But those are the exceptions to the rule. And in a way, what I’m doing here is an exception too.

You see, just about everything in my life has changed since I first hit Publish on Words of the West.

Where I live. What I do. How I interact with others. How I critique myself.

Both through circumstance and through choice, I’ve had to break with so many routines throughout this time. I’ve had to sacrifice sacred cows, lean into the unknown, and embrace novelty.

Yet through it all, the weekly articles here have remained a constant. The one steady rock amidst shifting seas.

It’s kept me grounded. It’s kept me honest.

And I thank God for that.


Ripken and Gehrig ended their streaks on their own accord.

Each man walked into the manager’s office and asked for a day off.

Circumstances were different. Eras were different. But the final act was the same.

What will be the final act of this streak? When will the stream of articles cease?

I don’t profess to know. And I don’t want to find out anytime soon.

When looking ahead, the only constant is uncertainty.

Years ago, when I started this publication, I would never have dreamed that my life would be as it now is. I would never have imagined that my writing would become what it has.

The void ahead of me was vast. And I knew better than to peer into its infinite depth.

I feel the same way today.

Yes, I have hopes and dreams for the future. But I harbor no illusions of manifesting them into reality. Much remains beyond my control.

What I can do is keep plugging away. Keep writing and publishing. One article at a time.

And that’s what I will continue to do. Until I can’t — or won’t.

So, let’s not focus on the destination. Let’s cherish the journey.

Thanks for coming along for the ride.

Discouragement vs. Doubt

Don’t take it too fast.

This was the advice I got from some friends as I headed to the starting line of a fun run.

These words were sensible.

I had just returned to running from an injury. And there were no medals to be won in this event.

Plus, it was my second run of the day. And I’d felt some soreness in my ankle and knee in my first go-around that morning.

So, I heeded the advice — for a bit.

I jogged nice and easy for the first mile. But then I felt the itch to let it fly. And I scratched that itch.

I breezed my way through the second mile, and the third. I ultimately crossed the finish line with a head of steam.

I felt great — for a moment. Then I didn’t.

My knee and ankle were suddenly angry again. Walking became difficult. And the pain persisted for days.

I would soon be shut down from running once again. And I would eventually require surgery, keeping me from my passion for much longer.

I had mistaken discouragement for doubt. And I’d end up paying the price.


Let’s prove them all wrong.

It’s the rallying cry found in just about every underdog sports movie.

Sure, it’s cliché. But these words draw on a fundamental truth.

Doubt, you see, can be a powerful motivator. When others don’t show belief in us, it can put a chip on our shoulder. It can motivate us to take our performance to another level.

We’re hard-wired to say no to doubt. We’re inclined to reject the doubter’s narrative — unless that doubter is us.

But discouragement — that’s something wholly different.

Discouragement is meant to both advise and protect. While doubt wagers that we can’t do something, discouragement tells us to not even try.

This might make discouragement seem like the harshest of rebukes. But such a perception is merely a mirage.

Why? Well, consider who’s delivering the message.

Those who discourage us are often looking out for our best interests. Those who doubt us aren’t looking out for us at all.

These are two extremely different sentiments. Yet, they’re two sentiments that can easily get conflated.

When we consider discouragement as nothing but doubt, we’re tempted to run the stop sign. We feel obligated to do the thing we’ve been warned against. And we are doomed to travel a path to sabotage.

It’s all too easy to fall into this trap. But avoiding the danger can be tricky.


I deliberated for an entire weekend.

I had been accepted to two business school programs. And now, I had to decide which one I’d attend.

So, I thought about it. I prayed about it. And after a couple sleepless nights, I came to a decision.

I felt confident in my choice. But then I informed my parents.

They were none too thrilled. Instead of celebrating my decision, they implored me to go with the other program.

I was annoyed by this development. All that work I’d done had been categorically dismissed.

Was I not an adult capable of making my own decisions?

But I thought about where my parents were coming from. They wanted the best for me, and their rationale for reversing my choice was sound. It would be worthwhile to take another look.

So, I did just that.

I reconsidered the points I’d laid out in favor of the program I’d decided on. And I weighed those against the points my parents had made in favor of the other one.

In the end, I stuck with my choice — rebuffing my parents. And ultimately, this decision paid off in spades.

I made new friends and business connections. I got a top-notch education. And I was able to take my career to the next level.

Yes, it turns out the discouragement from my parents was unfounded. Passing it up did me well, but it also set a dangerous precedent.

Indeed, this precedent might have spurred me to take off during that infamous fun run. Sure, others might have claimed to know what was best for me. But hadn’t I proven I could figure that out for myself?

No. I most certainly had not.


Act with discretion.

This advice seems simple, but it’s deceptively complex.

When there’s no line drawn in the sand, we can struggle to find our way. Each decision we make is a high stakes bet. One that could make our future — or destroy it.

Discouragement is but one path to the discretion quagmire. But it’s a particularly treacherous one. And it leaves us uniquely vulnerable.

You see, discouragement flies in the face of everything we’ve been taught. It disrupts everything we believe.

Yes, from our earliest days, we’re conditioned to power through adversity. More than two centuries of American stick-to-it-iveness have shown the value of mettle.

Achievement is unlocked through doing. So, when someone we trust tells us not to do something, they better be right. Otherwise, they’ve just led us astray.

This is the issue at the heart of discouragement. The messenger views it as a clear-cut edict. The recipient isn’t quite so sure the message is credible.

It all amounts to a high-stakes staredown.

Maybe it’s time to continue the conversation. Instead of instantly reacting to words of skepticism, maybe we should ask why.

Why are we facing discouragement? What’s the rationale for it? What’s the evidence behind it?

This context — or lack thereof — can help us navigate uncertain waters. It can help us determine whether to heed the edicts of discouragement, or to defy them.

Now, this strategy is not foolproof. The future is inherently uncertain, after all.

There will be times when discouragement causes us to be too conservative. And there will be times when defiance proves foolhardy. Freer discourse won’t eradicate either error.

But by asking more questions, we can come closer to clarity. We can cut down on the guesswork and gain confidence in our decisions.

And we can stop conflating discouragement with doubt.

Let’s get to it.

On Clothes

I logged into work and found myself in the middle of a firestorm.

It was the early days of the COVID pandemic. Terms like social distancing and quarantine were in vogue. And instead of commuting to an office, my colleagues and I were logging into our laptops from home.

We still saw each other daily, thanks to the magic of videoconferencing. But the camera cut us off at the shoulders. Whatever we wore below that point would not be seen.

Now, a debate was brewing over that just that details.

Many of my co-workers happily shared how they’d stopped wearing pants to work. They noted how they replaced those clothes with pajama bottoms, sweatpants, or workout attire.

I was not doing any of this. I still sported jeans and a collared shirt to my post at the laptop each morning.

My co-workers were incredulous when I revealed this information. They saw little value in putting such effort into something that no one else would see.

I explained to them that professional dress made me feel professional — and thereby act professional. I referenced the importance of time and place, alluding to Leggingsgate while making my point.

My colleagues heard me out. And then, we all agreed to disagree.

I logged off work that day feeling vindicated. But now, I wonder if I dropped the ball.


I recently addended a storytelling showcase in Dallas.

The showcase took place in a large performance hall downtown. One by one, raconteurs took the stage there to tell their tales.

I took note of what each storyteller was wearing as they performed. But during the intermission, I also took note of what the other audience members were wearing.

I had outfitted myself in a polo and jeans. But now, looking around the venue, I felt underdressed.

Surely, there were some explanations for the fancy attire. It was a weeknight, and many people had come straight from work.

But many others had not. They’d donned their finest clothing simply to watch others speak.

And as I looked at them, I found myself asking such pretense was necessary.

Clothes, you see, are mostly a construct. They protect our bodies from the elements and allow us to appear decent when out in public. But any nuance beyond that is entirely of our own making.

The finely dressed men and women in the audience were trying to make a statement. A statement of their style, their class, and their sophistication. But on an evening where they’d be sitting mostly in darkness, it seemed to be a needlessly risky endeavor.

I would know.

Some time ago, I went to a conference in New Orleans for work. One morning, I craved some beignets and coffee from Café du Monde. So, I made the mile-long trek to the venerable restaurant in my nice slacks and button-up shirt.

Once at Café du Monde, I took great care to avoid getting powdered sugar or coffee on my clothes. But there was no escaping the stifling humidity of a Louisiana morning. I came back to the conference center glistening, my shirt and slacks dampened by perspiration.

Risk had certainly outpaced reward for me that day. My quest to both look presentable and enjoy a New Orleans staple had backfired.

Back at the performance hall, none of the audience members appeared quite as ragged as I had in New Orleans. But it was a similarly sultry evening in Dallas that night, and anyone who had parked even a couple blocks away was taking a risk wearing nice clothes. A risk of seeing the muggy air muck up their wardrobe, and lay waste to their efforts.

I did not have that problem. My understated attire was durable enough to handle conditions outside the performance hall and in it.

I sat back in my seat and took a deep breath. I might have been outclassed, but wearing a polo and jeans was the right move.


What changed between that work chat during the pandemic and the storytelling performance? How did my views about clothing shift so drastically?

To put it simply, I started running.

Now, I had run plenty before the pandemic. I’d often hit the streets or the treadmills in old basketball shorts and some cheap cross-trainers.

But during the COVID lockdowns, I started running more. And as I ramped up intensity, I found that any old athletic clothes wouldn’t cut it.

So, I bought some new attire. And my running performance subsequently surged.

Now, I won’t chalk up the improvements solely to what I was wearing. But the attire certainly didn’t hurt matters.

Shorts made of lightweight material didn’t drag me down. Shirts with patterned polyester wicked sweat away from me without sticking to my skin. Specialty socks protected my feet against blisters. And supportive running shoes took the punishment of the pavement without disintegrating.

I was experiencing a real-time lesson in the power of function. And it led me to shuffle my priorities when it came to clothes.

Style still had a role to play. But it took a backseat to function.

If what I wore kept me protected and comfortable, that would be all I’d need.

This epiphany has changed the way I view wardrobe decisions. I still have a collection of fancy attire. But I only break it out when it’s necessary. Say, for a wedding, a holiday gathering, or an important work function.

Aside from that, I will remain understated. I will fit my attire to the needs of my active lifestyle in a Southern climate. Not the other way around.


Many have come to a similar conclusion as I about clothes. We’ve determined what it should be, and which aspects should matter most.

But when we try and live this credo, we find ourselves thwarted. For the headwind we’re turning into is at gale-force strength.

There’s a $1.5 trillion industry that designs the fibers we place on our bodies. One that is financially incentivized to hawk glamour to us.

There are generations of cultural traditions equating wardrobe sophistication with status. One that actively encourages us to dress up at every opportunity.

And, thanks to an globalized world, there are few contingencies given to climate. Formal dress is formal dress, no matter where it’s worn.

Add it all up, and we’re stuck choosing style over function, time and again. We’re left mapping our lifestyle to our clothes, and not the other way around.

It’s high time for us to think differently. To consider the true meaning of attire, and to build around that.

Some fashion purveyors are already toying with this. They’re offering up stylish options that prioritize functionality.

It’s a start. But it’s on us to take the next step.

It’s on us to define our priorities. It’s on us to make fashion choices consistent with those priorities. It’s on us to make attire work for us, and not the other way around.

Clothes are just a collection of fibers and threads. It’s what we do with them that truly matters.