I’m in over my head.
The thought flashed through my mind, over and over, as I stood nervously on the edge of a ski run.
To the left of me was the gentle meandering trail that had gotten me here. On my map, this trail was marked green, which meant it was for beginner skiers.
Straight ahead of me was a steeper trail I had not taken. That trail was marked blue on the map, for intermediate skiers.
And to the right of me was the remainder of the run, an unrelenting slope down to the lodge, some 50 feet below. It was marked blue on the map, but the skiers on the green trail would have to take it to make it back to base.
I was not ready for what was to come. This was only my second time skiing, and I’d never taken a lesson. Plus, the sun had gone down and much of the trail had turned from powdery snow into an icy slush.
I knew that if I wasn’t careful, I could get badly injured. Yet, it would be nearly impossible to be careful while streaking down a slick slope under the black skies of a winter night.
So I stood off to the side with my skis perpendicular to the incline and my ski poles anchored into the snow. Then, I waited. And waited. And waited.
Eventually, I mustered up the courage to continue. I turned my skis to the right and began the harrowing journey down the slope.
At first, the task seemed manageable. I was zigging and zagging across the hill with precision. But as I picked up speed, my turns got wider and wider. And control quickly became an illusion.
I somehow managed to stay upright the entire way down the hill. But once I reached the bottom, I realized I had a new problem — I couldn’t stop.
I tried every technique I could to pull up. Nothing seemed to work.
I bounded around the traffic in front of me, nearly taking out a family waiting in line for a chair lift. I was quickly running out of real estate, and gripped with helplessness.
Finally, just before I reached the parking lot, I was able to slow to a stop.
My skis were at a standstill once again. But my heart was beating furiously.
I had survived.
Often times, my thoughts on this forum have a predictable pattern. One that goes something like this:
- Point out a behavior
- State why it’s a problem
- Encourage everyone to stop doing it
- Ask everyone to try something different instead
It’s a familiar formula. One used by philosophers, authors, teachers and behavioral scientists for centuries to evoke change.
Yet, this narrative pattern glosses over a significant factor. It fails to account for inertia.
Inertia is a critical component of change. One we must contend with when speeding up, slowing down or shifting course.
This force that causes friction in the face of change. It makes it hard to alter our speed or direction on a dime. We need space and resistance to counteract its force. And we need resistance to chart ourselves a different path.
I saw the power of inertia firsthand on my ski misadventure. And I’ve notice it every time a plane I’m flying on touches down on the runway. Those few moments before we reach full-stop are the most harrowing of the entire journey.
Why do we fail to factor such a critical component into our thinking and behavior? Why do we perpetuate the myth of the quick change.
Are we willful? Brash? Petulant?
Well, yes. But that’s only part of the story.
I want off this ride.
Just about all of us have had this thought from time to time.
For whether we’re a daredevil or a scaredy cat, we’ve likely had that moment where our stomach tied in knots and the room started to spin.
That feeling has seemed particularly pronounced in recent years. As society has become splintered by divisiveness, a tidal wave of angst has consumed a great many of us.
We don’t want the status quo to continue. We want a kinder, gentler reality.
So, we propose ever more radical solutions for the issues we see. We get ever more ambitious with the scope of these demands.
Our emotions are driving the show. After all, we are pained by our current quandary. And we feel compelled to find the fastest source of relief.
But while our hearts seek a quick shift, our minds should know better.
We should know that it takes some time to grind our present actions to a halt, and that it takes time to chart a course for our future ones. We should know that old habits die hard, and that new ones are hard to break in.
And because of this, we should know that change is often incremental, not disruptive.
We should know all this. But we’d rather act as if we don’t know any of it.
For that narrative is too drawn out. It’s too slow and plodding for our fast-twitch, instant gratification world.
We want off this ride now. Consequences be damned.
It would seem that our yearning for radical change is a problem. A problem that needs to be stopped in its tracks.
But by framing the issue this way, we risk falling into a trap.
For ultimately, we can’t stop anything in its tracks. That’s not how we resist inertia.
We must work toward the change we seek. Gradually, methodically and persistently.
Then, and only then, can we shift course the way the laws of nature intended. Then, and only then, can we reach our desired destination in a manner that minimizes damage.
This is a long-term gain that’s worth the short-term pain.
Indeed, in essence, that pain is just part of the process.
So, let us not stop those unsavory behaviors or actions we seek to purge. And let us not immediately enact their replacements.
Instead, let us continue.
Let us continue moving from the problems we encounter now toward the solutions that we see ahead. Let us continue challenging the status quo in hopes of a more idealized reality. And let us continue working to build a brighter future, brick by brick and day by day.
Inertia is ever powerful, and ever present. It’s best if we use it to our advantage.