Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

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.

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 24^th 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 24^th 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 5^th 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 24^th 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.

Inputs and Outputs

I worked two jobs in college.

Chances are, we’ve heard this phrase before.

We might have even lived it.

I can claim that as true. Sort of.

You see, I did work two jobs to help me with such month-to-month expenses as food and gasoline. But not at the same time.

The first job was with my university’s admissions department. But it was from a heady position.

My role was to digitize prospective students’ college application documents. That meant splaying the packets of materials out on my desk, removing the staples, running each page through a scanner, and then stapling the packets back together.

It was boring work, yet somehow still tedious.

I was terrified of getting a paper cut, stapling my fingers, or accidentally mixing up documents from the applicants. And so, I came back to the dorms mentally exhausted each evening — just in time to start on my homework.

I can’t remember if I lasted a few days or a few weeks in that job. But at some point, I quit.

By the time the next school year came around, I had a new job. This time, I was an administrative assistant for a tutoring program for underprivileged youth.

The program took place at the university, so its offices were on-campus. My job was to check program attendance, file papers, gather the mail, and do a host of other menial tasks.

My tenure there lasted three years, severed only by my graduation from the university.

So yes, I worked two jobs in college. But the mileage varied.

What was behind the differing outcomes in my collegiate job history?

After all, both jobs were of similar administrative ilk. They both paid about the same and required the same hours.

Yet, I ran for the hills from one and stuck around for another. Why was that?

I believe the answer comes from three words: Inputs and Outputs.

You see, most jobs involve these. But some apply them more dynamically than others.

In the college admissions support role, the inputs were a set of paper documents. The outputs were the digitized files, plus the paper backups.

My job was to transform those inputs into outputs. But it relied wholeheartedly on both aspects.

If the inputs weren’t there, I had nothing to work on. That would leave me without any outputs — and without pay.

And so, I yearned for that stack of unprocessed papers on my desk to be as tall as possible. All while dreading the repetitive task of going through it.

With the admin assistant job, the inputs varied. There was always something to help with, but it wasn’t always the same thing.

I was able to practice creativity, to a degree. Efficiency wasn’t just about doing one task faster and more accurately. It was about providing as many outputs to my employer as possible.

And even for a fresh-faced college student like me, that was enlightening.

Over the past two centuries, there have been two dominant paradigms for work in the western world.

One is the Assembly Line Model. The other is the Innovator Model.

The Assembly Line Model was made famous by Henry Ford. His factory workers would each focus on one specialized task, repeating it as quickly and accurately as possible. When these tasks were performed in parallel, they’d yield a finished product in record time.

The Innovator Model is almost entirely the opposite. Tasks would vary widely, all in the context of a challenging end goal.

It’s easy to put each role into buckets. To relegate the Assembly Line Model to manufacturing and the Innovator Model to high-tech software.

But that would be a grave mistake.

Industries and salaries don’t determine which bucket each of our job functions falls into. Only one question does.

Is there a predetermined input?

In the case of my administrative assistant roles in college, the answer to that question was clear. Only the admissions job had such an input. The other role was far more varied.

But oftentimes, the situation is much murkier. We might have some base inputs. But we’re not solely wedded to them.

In these scenarios, our choices tend to diverge along three paths.

Some of us will stick to the inputs we’re given, sacrificing opportunity for reliability.

Others will shun the inputs, going rouge to make their own way to success.

And still others will split the difference, iterating off inputs in hopes of maximizing outputs.

I have taken this third path in my professional life after graduation.

As a TV news producer, I relied on the stories my assignment editors and reporters uncovered. But I also scrounged for material to round out the newscasts. Material that helped balance the needs to inform, inspire, and entertain my station’s viewer base.

As a marketer, I’ve relied on several things — technology, revenue targets, and product development, to name a few. But I’ve proactively viewed my work from a consumer perspective, identifying and filling the gaps I identified.

Through it all, I’ve strived to be transparent, compassionate, and collaborative. I’ve sought to provide unique value to my employers, but in a manner where my contributions could be replicated by others. I tried to be invaluable, yet not entirely irreplaceable.

It’s a blueprint that’s worked wonders for me. But I needn’t be the alone in reaping the benefits.

Business news these days is bleak.

Week after week, tales of stock market downturns, interest rate increases, and stubbornly high costs seem to take center stage. And this has led to a spate of layoffs.

Tech companies are reducing staff at levels not seen in two decades. Other employers are cutting their workforces at rates not seen since the Great Recession.

This has all led to a lot of heartache. Tens of thousands of workers have suddenly found themselves without a livelihood, searching for new roles in an unsteady economy.

It’s a sobering moment, to be sure. But this inflection point also provides a unique opportunity.

We now have the chance to reinvent the way we approach work. To be more than a connector between inputs and outputs. To be scrappy and fill the gaps that existing systems and processes yield. To propel our role, our employer, our industry forward.

Such attributes will not guarantee security or success. But they’ll put us in a far better position to get where we want to be.

Yet, even in this moment, many of us are still yearning for reliable inputs. Whether we’re hanging onto our roles or looking to land a new one, we have little appetite for being transformational. It just seems too risky.

I understand the sentiment. But it’s sorely misplaced.

The more we settle for turning the same tired inputs into outputs, the more we make ourselves forgettable. The more we depend on others, without providing unique value in return. The more we put ourselves in jeopardy of becoming redundant.

Hiding in plain sight isn’t the safe play. Not in a game that awards extra points to the bold and the determined.

So, let’s switch tactics. Let’s put our stamp on the work we do.

Let’s take agency. Let’s be transformational. Let’s dare to make vision reality.

Inputs needn’t define our destiny. That responsibility can, should, must fall on us.

It’s time to grab the reins.

Author: Dylan Brooks