Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

On Anticipation

The doctor made small talk as he procured his rubber hammer.

The chattiness was part of his bedside manner. A way to get through all the awkward tests that were part of a physical exam. All while keeping the patient relaxed and at ease.

I was playing along, to a degree. But I was also on guard.

So, as the doctor flashed the hammer in my direction, I jolted my right knee backward. The hammer hit nothing but air.

Impressive reflexes, the doctor remarked. But much like his hammer, he hadn’t quite hit the mark.

This wasn’t about reflexes. Not by a long shot.

It’s long been known that humans have five senses.

Sight, smell, sound, taste, and touch are each critical. They shape how we perceive the world. And they serve as guardians of our survival.

However, I believe there’s a sixth sense out there. Not in an M. Night Shyamalan movie sort of way. Rather, something more tangible and impactful.

I’m talking about anticipation.

Anticipation is more than a gift or an attribute. It’s an acute sense — with a twist.

You see, anticipation takes our traditional five senses to a new level. It mixes their recorded inputs with situational awareness. All in a manner that can prime prediction.

Anticipation puts us on the front foot. It allows us to think a step ahead, and to act accordingly.

This is more than a nice-to-have. In a world full of lethality, the signals of danger often arrive too late for us to avert them. We need to see the flames, smell the smoke, and feel the burn before first spark ignites. That way, our fight-or-flight response can activate in time to save our skin.

We need anticipation, plain and simple.

And like a fine wine, anticipation gets better with time. With more data in our brains, and more experience in our bones, our power proliferates. We’re less likely to be caught off-guard, and more likely to jump into the fray in a flash.

This was the case when my knee jolted at the doctor’s office. After all, I’d been through a physical or two before.

I understood what that rubber hammer meant. I knew how it would feel when it slammed against my kneecap. And I wasn’t inclined to sit around and let it happen again.

It was a display of anticipation. One by design.

He’s playing 4D chess.

We’ve heard a phrase like this plenty before. Often when a master tactician, such as a military leader or a football coach, takes strategic execution to another level.

The implication is that these masterminds have unique ability. They’re able to think several steps ahead and process dozens of hypotheticals in real time.

In other words, they have uncanny senses of anticipation.

How did this come about? Were these hallowed leaders born this way?

No. In their earliest days, these feted geniuses were just as feeble as the rest of us.

But as they grew up, their paths began to diverge from ours.

They put their minds to the test, time and again. They paid meticulous attention to detail. And they set themselves up to seize opportunities before they happened.

Make no mistake. Anticipatory dominance is built, not bequeathed. It’s forged with tools available to all of us.

I don’t believe enough of us realize this fact. I sure didn’t.

For years, I drifted through the roaring rapids of reality. I was never quite prepared for the jagged rocks, the dips and drops in my path. I would react to life after it happened.

This pattern continued into early adulthood — a time when I could least afford it.

I had just started my career as a TV news producer. It was a position built on elite anticipation and quick decisions. But I had neither in my arsenal.

The results were predictable. News broke across town late one night, and I was slow to react. My station’s coverage was subpar. The competition wiped the floor with us.

This colossal meltdown wasn’t all my fault. But it wasn’t a good look. And I took this failing hard.

I knew I couldn’t let my colleagues and my viewers down like that again. I needed to be ready for the next big story — which could break at any time.

This was the inflection point. It’s what spurred me to hone my focus, to stretch the limits of my senses, to sharpen my resolve.

It’s what taught me how to anticipate.

These days, anticipation is my most treasured attribute. I relish the opportunity to initiate the action. To remain prepared and to put myself in position for success.

It took a while to get to this point. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Several years ago, I attended a boxing match.

A headline bout hogged the marquee. But several undercard brawls led up to it.

On one of those undercards, a fighter connected on a vicious cross — his oversized glove battering the top of his opponent’s head. He followed up that blow with a hook to the jaw.

The one-two punch was too much for the other fighter to absorb. He dropped like a rock. The fight was over.

The crowd gasped in horror, stunned by the flash of brutality they’d just witnessed. But I was less stunned than perplexed.

How was the stricken fighter so unprepared for what felled him? Why did he not have his hand up to protect his face?

This was a basic tenet of self-defense that even I knew about. Yet, it had gone begging.

The lack of anticipation carried a brutal toll for this brawler. But the cost is steep for us as well.

Make no mistake. Anticipation is not a nice to have. It’s a need to have.

We cannot expect to get ahead in life by waiting for the action to reach our doorstep. Heck, we can’t even get by that way.

We need to steel ourselves for what lies ahead. To synthesize our past and predict our future. To make moves before the picture comes fully into focus.

This is hard work. It’s uncomfortable work. But it’s necessary work.

Sustainable success is within our range. Let’s prepare ourselves to grasp it.

The Poison Hook

On a summer night in 2008, a left-handed batter won over the crowd at Yankee Stadium.

With mighty swing after mighty swing, the slugger sent baseballs flying deep into the bleachers. Some threatened to leave the stadium altogether. It was a sight to behold.

This man wasn’t wearing the pinstriped uniform of the hometown New York Yankees. And the bold AMERICAN across his chest did little to hide his status as the budding star of a league rival — the Texas Rangers.

But that mattered little to the New York masses.

As Josh Hamilton shattered the record for first-round tallies in the Home Run Derby, a chant cascaded from the stands.

HAM-IL-TON! HAM-IL-TON!

Hamilton didn’t win the derby on that summer evening. But he certainly won the night.

Not just because of his power prowess. But because of his story.

Hamilton, you see, had been a top baseball prospect a decade earlier. As a teenager, he’d appeared on magazine covers and was touted as the future of the game.

But after sustaining injuries in a car crash, Hamilton turned to alcohol and cocaine. And he soon became addicted to both.

The substance abuse sent his career spiraling. And he quickly found himself booted out of baseball.

Hamilton ultimately made his way back from this nadir, getting clean and returning to the sport. The journey eventually took him big leagues for the first time. Then found his way into the hearts of the New York faithful on that magical night at Yankee Stadium.

Hamilton followed that up by winning a batting title and a Most Valuable Player award. He powered the Rangers to their first two World Series appearances.

That mighty potential had been realized. Hamilton’s redemption seemed complete.

It wasn’t.

Hamilton relapsed, and everything fell apart. He started struggling at the plate and in the field. He took potshots at the Texas fans while departing for a division rival. And his marriage disintegrated.

It was a sad ending to a promising story.

The poison hook had the last word.

I was once a fan of Josh Hamilton.

I was in the stands that night he won over New York. And I proudly sported a Texas Rangers t-shirt with his name and number on the back for years.

But when things went south, I soured on him.

I was deeply hurt by Hamilton calling out fans like me. And I was frustrated with his inability to kick addiction.

So, I cut bait. I gave those T-shirts to Goodwill. And when Hamilton returned to Texas to close out his career, I refused to cheer for him.

This all might seem heartless. But given all I’d been through at that time, it made perfect sense.

Not long before Hamilton’s second fall from grace, I had tried to help some alcoholic friends. I’d bent over backward to keep them from hurting themselves or others. But when their demons returned, I was left holding the bag.

I ultimately cut ties with these friends, recognizing that my abandonment could lead to dire circumstances. It hurt my soul knowing that my choice increased the odds of a drunk driving crash or some other tragedy. But I had to protect myself.

This ordeal led me to form a dim view of addiction. I saw it as a lack of mental fortitude, rather than a powerful disease.

I hadn’t been in my erstwhile friends’ shoes, let alone Josh Hamilton’s. Yet, I felt that I had.

You see, I had picked up my own bad habits over the years. Nothing as illicit as drug abuse or alcoholism. But still nothing that would be considered healthy.

Month after month, year after year, I let these bad habits fester. Instead of doing what was sensible, I settled for what was comfortable.

At some point, I saw the light. I realized that better habits would yield better outcomes. And I sprang into action.

One by one, I kicked my bad habits. I learned to treat old tendencies as the enemy. And I fought like hell to keep from falling back into them.

I succeeded, over and over. And my life improved as a result.

This accomplishment was noteworthy. But it made me overly judgmental.

I believed that if I could overcome my vices through sheer will, others could just as easily conquer their demons.

How wrong I was.

When I returned to competitive running after a long hiatus, other runners would often ask me the same question.

What brought you back? Was it the runner’s high?

I had heard about the runner’s high before. But I wasn’t lacing up my shoes to capture any endorphin-fueled euphoria.

So, I replied truthfully. Running was a task, not a calling for me. It helped me stay in shape and I’d shown some prowess at it. There was nothing more drawing me in.

Yet, as the months passed, my relationship with running began to change. I was hitting the streets more often, and for longer mileage. Not by grudging obligation, but by willful compulsion.

I knew I was taking on more than my body could handle. But I found it impossible to stop.

What happened next was utterly predictable. An injury forced a full shutdown, and a marathon withdrawal. I was devastated and lost, unsure of how to start my day without pounding the pavement.

I poured my despair into injury rehab, determined to come back with a vengeance. But once I was cleared to run again, I did too much, too fast. I got hurt again, with this newest injury requiring surgery. I was on the sidelines for months.

As I worked my way back from the brink, I remained dedicated. But one day, during a grueling physical therapy session, I paused to ask myself a simple question.

Why?

Why was I putting myself through hell for a sport that had broken my heart, and my body, twice?

What kept drawing me back to running, against every ounce of common sense?

As the answer dawned on me, I turned pale as a ghost.

It was addiction.

I was addicted to running. Its poison hook had an impermeable grip on my soul.

I wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. The act of running – as frequently as possible and as long as I could – was an involuntary compulsion

I’d keep thrusting myself into the fire, no matter how badly it burned.

This revelation shook me to my core. I realized that I was no better than those I’d cast off. Despite all my false bravado, I never really knew them at all.

Shame on me.

I still haven’t forgiven Josh Hamilton.

The man who lost his baseball career to addiction — twice — would later plead guilty for savagely beating his daughter. And that’s something I can’t abide by, demons or not.

Still, I wish I’d shown him a bit more grace back when he was playing ball and trying desperately to stay clean. I wish I’d done the same with those friends I turned my back on.

Their compulsions were certainly more unsavory than my running habit. But they deserved better than harsh judgment as they grappled with it.

The poison hook of addiction is insidious. It’s a powerful riptide we have little chance of swimming away from. The best we can do is try and keep our heads above water.

I recognize that now. And I’m committed to be better. To give those afflicted with addiction a second look. To provide more support, without prejudice.

May we all.

Keeping Receipts

What am I going to do with this?

Those were the first words out of my mouth when my father handed me an accordion folio.

It looked like one of those cabinet drawers at the local mechanic’s office, where the office manager stored invoices. Only, this one was laid out on my kitchen table.

My father explained that heretofore, I’d be keeping all my paper receipts in the folio.

This process would help me keep track of my spending. And it would provide a paper trail for tax filing.

I stashed the folio in my coat closet. It was bulky and unsightly, after all.

But each week, I’d retrieve it from its dark hiding place. And I’d proceed to fill it with that week’s paperwork.

So it went, week after week. Until eventually, more of my bills and receipts went paperless. And the folio in the closet started collecting dust.

The folio beneath my skull, though? That was another story.

An elephant never forgets.

This age-old adage is based in fact. The bulky, lumbering animal relies on its massive memory banks for survival. It’s a competitive advantage in a world filled with nimbler predators.

Humans don’t need to rely on memory for such existential reasons. But we still hold this attribute in high regard.

I know this as well as anyone.

When I was young, adults would marvel at my knowledge of car models or state capitals. It was trivial information, but the fact that I retained it was somehow considered notable.

Such is the allure of memory. It causes us to tilt at windmills, to fawn after window dressing.

Of course, there is some tangible value in memory. It helps us ace exams in school, thrive at work, and stay connected to our social circle.

But so many other applications are less than essential. Such as keeping receipts.

This is not the practice of filling up a folio with paperwork. It’s the tendency to fill our minds with all the slights volleyed in our direction.

Receipt keeping is an extrinsic motivator. It provides us a bit of edginess. It puts a chip on our shoulder.

It’s the reason why football coaches openly share negative mentions of their team with the players themselves. It’s the reason why scholars continue to seek out their next academic paper. It’s the reason why innovators turn It can’t be done into Watch me do it.

Without that virtual ledger, the spark would dim. Complacency would threaten to degrade the task at hand.

So, we endeavor to remember each slight. To file it away, and to get to work on changing the narrative.

It sure is satisfying to cash in those receipts. To prove the doubters wrong. To gain a level of redemption.

But such actions are not core to our survival. They might even prove detrimental.

I have a folder in my email platform, which I’ll often notice when checking my messages.

This folder is tied Rejections. And it has 151 items in it.

The Rejections folder had humble beginnings. I had just cannonballed into the job market after switching careers, applying to dozens of jobs each day. I needed a system to keep track of my applications.

Filing job rejection emails in a single folder uncluttered my inbox. And it allowed me to take those closed opportunities off the board.

But as the folder filled up, its purpose changed. Being told No 151 times – particularly for something that would help me put food on the table – was deeply agitating. And I started to take the rejections personally.

I was determined to prove all the doubters wrong. And even after I finally landed a job, I kept glancing at the Rejections folder.

Those who sent me the Thanks but no thanks messages knew nothing of this, of course. But I pretended that they had – and that the error of their slight had given them pause.

This all kept me deeply motivated. And I thrived in my new career as a result.

On the surface, keeping receipts had served me well. But all was not as it seemed.

The practice had made me more cantankerous, and those around me noticed the shift. Friends remarked that I’d hold grudges for months on end. Family would remind me that I had nothing left to prove.

I tried to take this feedback to heart. I yearned to change my ways and settle into my rebuilt life. But it proved difficult.

The scars of my recent job search were still there. The months of applications and interviews. The drawdown of my savings. The 151 rejections.

How could I just let that go? How could I let anything go?

There was no water to be found under the bridge. Not at that time.

Eventually, though, I did loosen up. I perused that Rejections folder less frequently — and eventually not at all. I let grudges go and leaned into forgiveness. I stopped keeping receipts.

And in doing so, I found a semblance of inner peace.

My experience with the job rejection folder is not uncommon.

Not everyone gets turned down for employment 151 times. And even if they do, they likely don’t keep those rejection emails in a folder.

But plenty of us have kept receipts in some form, only to see the exercise consume us whole.

We become chippy and vindictive. Settling scores obscures our joie de vivre.

This is not a desirable outcome. The costs outweigh the benefits.

And it’s not all that sustainable. If the outside noise quiets, the receipts dry up. And our motivation wanes.

So, it might be worthwhile to rethink our approach. To stop using those receipts as fuel. And to turn to intrinsic motivation instead.

Yes, everything we need to succeed lies between the ears. We can tap into confidence just as effectively as we can counter doubt. And the results can prove far more harmonious.

Let’s tap into that.

It may be tempting to prove others wrong. But it’s so much more rewarding to prove ourselves right.

Dereliction of Duty

The initial message from my supervisor was direct.

A co-worker had not reported to work in a few days. I was going to need to pick up the consults with his clients.

I quickly agreed to the mission. But it turns out my supervisor had more to share.

I know this isn’t ideal, she stated. I know it’s a new circumstance, and it puts you in a tough spot. But rest assured that I’m going to get to the bottom of this.

I read between the lines instantly.

You see, my colleague had pulled this stunt at the most inopportune time. Our team had gone remote due to a global pandemic. And this made it easy to slack off on the job without detection.

Timecard reporting and vacation requests were on the honor system. There was no foolproof way to see if any of us were at our desks.

My supervisor had only caught on to my colleague’s ruse when clients complained to her. Messages to him went unrequited. A forensic analysis revealed extensive work undone.

It was increasingly clear that my colleague had abandoned his post. He’d deserted his responsibilities. He’d committed dereliction of duty.

And now we were left to clean up the mess.

Dereliction of duty.

It’s a fancy term. But it often carries severe consequences.

We bristle at violations of the Ten Commandments — murder, theft, dishonesty, and so on. But of the offenses not etched in those ancient tablets, dereliction of duty might draw our strongest ire.

You see, despite our boasts of individuality, we rely on others a great deal. There is no i in team, and it takes a village to accomplish anything of note.

The biggest threat to group work is attrition. When team members don’t pull their weight, it forces others to fill the gaps. Balance evaporates, progress slows, and strain proliferates.

This is a significant problem. And when team members walk away from the mission, the problem grows exponentially.

Deserters do more than put pressure on those they left behind. They threaten to use that team’s operational secrets against it. And they cast doubt on the group’s legitimacy.

This is an existential threat. One that leads us to sound the alarm for dereliction of duty.

Indeed, soldiers who’ve walked away from their battlefield posts have been rounded up and executed. Athletes who’ve walked out on their team have been banned from their league. And those who’ve walked off the job have often been sued for breach of contract.

I don’t believe my employer sued my deserting colleague for breach of contract. But I’m sure he was dismissed with cause for what he’d done.

Such a fate would have been deserved.

But plenty of others in differing circumstances have received similar punishments. And those condemned masses likely got a raw deal.

The medical bill caught me off guard.

Eight months after forking over some money to get an MRI, I was being charged for the remainder of the cost.

That remainder was not cheap. And it complicated my attempts to pay off my credit card balance.

As I stared at the bill, I fumed.

Surely, there a statute of limitations for this. A reasonable period in which such residual costs could be collected. And eight months seemed beyond the pale of that statute.

I felt like I was being extorted. I felt used. I felt blatantly disrespected.

And I wanted a pound of flesh from the medical billing employees.

If I was this terrible at my job, I wouldn’t have one, I muttered.

It wasn’t the first time I’d uttered this phrase. But deep down inside, I knew it was all talk.

I wasn’t looking to peel people from their livelihoods on the account of incompetence. I’ve been laid off before, and I know how damaging job loss can be.

I was simply blowing off steam.

That said, many in positions of power have been less merciful. They’ve been quick to hit the Eject button on underperforming employees. And all too often, Dereliction of Duty has been listed as the cause.

If this seems like a misnomer, it’s because it is.

After all, these employees are not abandoning their posts. They’re just degrading the effectiveness of their positions.

The specialist tasked with my MRI statement likely reported to work each day, even as my bill lay in limbo for months. The corporate associate who missed their monthly targets still showed up to give it their best shot.

And yet, if they were to be shown the door, it would come with the stain of abandonment. Of desertion. Of dereliction of duty.

Do the power brokers casting these stones know what dereliction of duty means? Do they care?

They should.

Four times in my career, I’ve joined a new company.

Each time, the fresh start came with plenty of emotions — and lots of paperwork.

Most of the paperwork was standard — federal tax reporting forms, computer usage policies and the like. But twice, I also had to sign a non-compete agreement.

These agreements were defensive maneuvers. The industries I was preparing to work in were highly competitive, and company-hopping employees were a clear threat. By demanding that new hires sign a non-compete, businesses were minimizing the danger of job abandonment.

I’ve long associated these overt agreements with a tacit one. By signing them and abiding by them, I was proected against professional character assassination. If I showed up each day, stayed above board, and maintained a strong effort, I wouldn’t be accused of dereliction of due.

So far, that has come to pass. But that’s more by chance than by decree.

More and more companies assess employee performance by outcome these days, rather than output. Hitting the objectives of a role matters, but only if it leads to positive outcomes for the company. This could be revenue growth, increased market share, or a host of other corporate markers.

If employees deliver the goods and the company prospers, they stay on. If they only manage the first part, they could be dismissed. And on the way out the door, they’ll be slapped with the label of Dereliction of Duty.

This is similar to the mandate for football coaches. A coach can improve the readiness and performance of all the players on the squad. But if that positive momentum doesn’t lead the squad to win football games, that coach will get kicked to the curb.

But lay employees are not football coaches. There are no weekly scrimmages. There’s no central entity keeping score or handing out trophies at the end.

It’s apples and oranges. And it’s high time we start recognizing that.

So, let’s reserve Dereliction of Duty for those who truly deserve the label. Those like my ex-colleague, who pulled a Houdini and vanished into thin air.

And let’s stop smearing those who keep showing up and giving their best, just because the organization fell a bit short.

Team goals are shared responsibilities. Those who pursue them with strong effort and good intentions are derelict of nothing.

Soothing or Scathing?

The kids in the swimming pool were giddy.

They took turns jumping into the water, thrashing around like sharks, and splashing each other.

I sat in a lounger on the deck, cringing.

All the activity didn’t bother me. Kids will be kids after all.

But the gleeful shrieks they were emitting? That was something different.

The shrill noise hit my eardrums like a heat-seeking missile. It caused my heart to take off like a jet engine. And it put my nerves on red alert.

I had hoped to spend my afternoon relaxing poolside, but the shrieking left me in fight-or-flight mode. It was threatening to ruin my day.

I knew there was no easy antidote for my situation. The kids weren’t trying to trigger my body’s distress signals. They simply hadn’t learned how to control their voices yet.

I would need to wait out the soundstorm.

Eventually, the kids got out of the swimming pool.

Their parents wrapped them in towels, and the whole family headed on their way.

The area was quiet, once again.

Well, mostly quiet.

One end of the pool was flanked by a waterfall feature. The sound of fresh water cascading down offered a subtle soundtrack. And it had quite the effect on me.

My heart rate slowed down. My nerves went nearly catatonic. And I was tempted to doze off.

This is the vibe I’d come here for, I thought. The waterfall noises. Not the high-pitched shrieks.

But the more I thought about it, the more absurd that statement seemed.

Back when I was learning to drive, one phrase from my instructor stuck with me.

Driving is a non-contact sport.

The idea was to promote safe habits behind the wheel. Avoiding hitting objects — from stray animals to street signs to other vehicles — was paramount.

I was in high school at the time. And while I had opted out of studying physics, I still knew enough to find this advice darkly ironic.

The everyday world, you see, is full of contact. High-speed contact, to be specific.

All around us, particles are colliding with each other. Solids, liquids, and gases are pinballing off each other with great force. And as we drive, air is continually colliding with our vehicle.

The key is to not to avoid all collisions. That would be impossible.

Rather, our mandate is to avoid the big ones — with potentially deadly projectiles, with pedestrians, and with other hunks of sheet metal on the roads. The ones whose impact is accompanied by noise.

Yes, sound is an indicator of what we’re looking to avoid while driving. It’s a marker of the contact we don’t want to incur.

And so, we react forcefully when we hear a thud or a smash. We associate those sounds with a problem and seek to remedy the situation immediately.

Meanwhile, some other sounds hardly evoke a shrug. We’re apoplectic to the roar of the engine, the rush of the air conditioning or the pinging of raindrops off the windshield.

Mastering this dichotomy is key to becoming an effective driver. But the advantage wanes when we get out of the vehicle.

And that’s a problem.

I stared over at the pool waterfall.

The cascade of water sure sounded peaceful. Yet, the sight in front of me was anything but.

Gravity was causing this rushing water to collide with the water in the pool. The impact displaced the pool water, causing a series of bubbles and mild splashes in all directions. And those violent collisions were what caused that soothing rushing sound.

The mechanics of this auditory operation were quite complex. Far more involved than those that caused a shriek to leave a child’s mouth.

That too included a violent collision, between air and vocal chords. But the invisibility of that process made it seem innocuous to even the most trained of eyes.

The disconnect between my eyes and my ears was apparent. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

If sound is a universal marker of impact, how have we come to categorize it so differently? To recoil from some auditory cues and embrace others?

Some of this was likely learned. But much was innate, and likely without logic.

The rush of water might sound relaxing, but there is plenty of danger at the bottom of remote waterfalls.

High-pitched shrieking might trigger alarm, but it could just be a sign of glee.

Indeed, what we find scathing and soothing is mostly arbitrary.

It’s time to stop taking it for granted.

As I lay in bed, I could hear the commotion.

Outside my window, it was pitch black. But I still could hear loud booms and bangs from nearby.

Fireworks, I thought. It was almost Independence Day, and this seemed like a logical explanation.

I paid the noise no more mind, and soon dozed off to sleep.

But should I have been so sure? Gunfire does sound a lot like fireworks, after all. And the protocol for responding to it is far different.

If there was a shootout going on outside, would I be able to identify the auditory danger? Would my fight-or-flight responses activate in time? Would I get myself out of harm’s way?

I’m not sure. And that uncertainty is distressing.

Of course, I’m far from the only person to have this concern. But while many seek to root out the cause of such a dire situation, I’m focused on better identifying the symptoms.

No longer will I allow my brain to code sounds without reproach. Innate senses are not immaculate. What scathes and what soothes might turn out to be a red herring.

Yes, I am capable of sorting through the audible markers of impact. I can identify which ones truly present a threat and which do not.

This will require some intense focus, and some challenged assumptions. It might require me to stop shrugging off the booms and bangs of fireworks, for instance. And to start ignoring the shrieking of children.

It won’t be easy. But I’m here for it.

Sound is more than a sense. It’s a tool.

I intend to use it properly.

The Breakdown Industrial Complex

It was a beautiful day.

I was in an upbeat mood as I got into my SUV and turned the ignition.

But the radio put a damper on my spirit.

Station after station featured songs with heavy lyrics. Heartbreaks. Cheating. Despair.

These sordid tunes ran the genre gamut. Country, rock, pop. They were everywhere.

Good Lord, I wondered aloud. Is everyone going through it right now?

The answer to that was no, of course. There were plenty of people out there who were having as sunny a day as I was.

But us brightsiders had something else in common. All of us had experienced a time without smiles on our faces. Times when we sat with our heads in our hands.

We had once been broken. And the radio was not going to let us forget it.

Rites of passage.

They abound throughout our society.

We remember when we got our driver’s license, went to prom, or moved out of our family home.

And we’ll never forget our first heartbreak.

That deep, bitter despair is a unique kind of pain. The sting of the loss is counteracted by a deep sense of longing.

We want to walk right back into the fire to get back what we had — somehow without getting scorched. And the sheer impossibility of this desire only amplifies the throbbing we feel from head to toe.

Heartbreak, in other words, is a Howitzer. It lays waste to our sensibilities, rendering us a mess. It’s far from our favorite sensation.

So, why is it memorialized time and again in songs, novels, and movies? Why are our most vulnerable moments packaged up and thrown back in our faces?

Artistic license has something to do with it. The most visceral of emotions drive the richest of narratives. And entertainers are master storytellers at heart.

But that explanation only goes so far. Those songs wouldn’t make the radio if we refused to hear them. Those movies wouldn’t be greenlighted if we refused to see them. Those novels wouldn’t get published if we refused to read them.

Yes, we’re willing participants in this endeavor. We offer our attention and our hard-earned dollars to the stories of our worst moments.

This is nonsensical behavior. Or is it?

Why do we fall? So, we can get back up again.

A young Bruce Wayne hears this advice from his father at the start of the movie Batman Begins.

The advice is literal in origin, as Bruce has just fallen down a bat-infested well. But it’s also meant to be symbolic — namely as a tagline for resilience.

The message lands well with most audiences. But it failed to do so with me, when I first saw the film.

Why go through all that trouble? I thought. Wouldn’t it be better not to fall in the first place?

This pompous reaction was a telltale sign of my adolescence. I was in high school when Batman Begins was released. I figured I knew what was best.

In truth, I had no idea.

I hadn’t yet experienced those core rites of passage. I hadn’t had my heart broken, or seen my dreams dashed. I hadn’t lifted myself out of the void.

Those developments did eventually come to pass. And once they did, I started viewing Batman Begins far differently.

It turns out I was better for suffering the fall. Surviving the worst allowed me to pursue my best, uninhibited. Plus, it left a chip on my shoulder I had no designs on relinquishing.

These advantages are not mine alone. Indeed, many who have gotten knocked off their feet have found redemption in the ordeal.

The catch is that we need to be shattered to be able to pick up the pieces. We must first suffer if we hope to find salvation.

This is what’s behind The Breakdown Industrial Complex. It’s why we can’t escape heartache, no matter where we turn. And it’s why finding an upbeat tune on the radio is so hard.

Offer up your best defense. But this is the end. This is the end of the innocence.

No, an old Don Henley song wasn’t featured within the heartbreak medley as I drove down the road. But perhaps it should have been.

There’s something haunting about that tune. The soothing mix of piano, bass, and melody belies the dark and cynical lyrics.

Whenever I hear that song, I think of 9/11. It was a harrowing day that impacted so many lives. And it left an indelible mark on mine.

I’ve often said that 9/11 was the end of my innocence. How could it not be?

I was adjacent to so many of the horrors of that day, and the days that followed. I was barely an adolescent at that time, but I could feel the devastation and heartbreak.

Still, there’s a reason why there are precious few songs, movies, or novels about that awful day. The rupture was too widespread and eternal for us to take anything positive from the experience. There are no silver linings for a mass tragedy.

Indeed, the first rule of The Breakdown Industrial Complex is that the disruption must be overwhelmingly personal. We must face tribulations that shatter our own status quo, so that we can build something greater out of the shards.

All that heartbreak-themed entertainment? It’s just a communal outlet for our individual suffering and redemption.

This all proved a bit awkward for me. There was a sizable gap between the global event that shattered my innocence and the acute occurrences that shattered my hopes and dreams.

But having now experienced both ordeals, I will admit I’m better it. Less naïve. More resilient.

And somehow wishing it could all have been arranged a bit differently.

When I was growing up, my father would occasionally make pizza for dinner.

His scratch-made pies were always a treat, and he’d let me partake by punching the pizza dough after the yeast had risen.

The punch was mostly an honorary step — a way to stage the dough for its imminent placement in the pan. But it still gave me pause.

Did I really have to hurt the dough with my knuckles? Wasn’t there a less violent way to get to the destination?

The answer, of course, was no. And despite my hesitation, I would eventually let fly with my right fist.

Even so, all these years later, I find myself asking similar questions.

It’s clear that we can accomplish great things after suffering setbacks. We can find love after heartbreak. We can find passion after dreams are dashed. We can find resilience from the depths of despair.

But wouldn’t it be better if we could reap these rewards without suffering so much pain? If we didn’t have to break into pieces to make ourselves whole?

That’s not the way it works, of course. The Breakdown Industrial Complex is there for a reason.

But I can still dare to imagine. To scheme for a day where gains don’t come at such a steep cost. Where the radio might actually play an upbeat song or two. Where levity is more than a fleeting notion.

Perhaps we don’t have to fall apart to put ourselves back together. Perhaps a less heart-wrenching future awaits us.

Let us hope that day comes.

Open-Ended

Who Shot J.R.?

The question reverberated across America in the summer of 1980.

This was the heyday of network television. There was no tangle of cable and streaming platforms to compete for entertainment attention. There was no Internet or social media for instant virality.

If there was a prime-time program on ABC, CBS, or NBC, a good portion of the country’s households were tuning into it. And in early 1980, the TV show Dallas was captivating the nation’s attention.

The show about the oil-rich Ewing family was certainly dramatic. Episodes featured everything from backstabbing business deals to brazen infidelity to caricatures of Texan glamour. But the intrigue rose to a new level during the show’s third season, when an unknown assailant shot the show’s antagonist J.R. Ewing.

The season ended immediately after the shooting. The setup gave the audience half a year to wonder if J.R. would survive — and who pulled the trigger.

It was the ultimate cliffhanger. One that helped Dallas soar into the cultural stratosphere.

Yet, Who Shot J.R.? was far from a harmless plot twist. It was a master class in exploiting a key emotional weakness. One that we’re still struggling to counter, decades later.

Back when I worked in the media, I would write short news scripts for the anchors to read.

On any given newscast, there would be 12 to 20 of these scripts, featuring subjects that we hadn’t sent a reporter to cover in depth. And many of them followed The Formula.

The Formula was the protocol for reporting on developing news. In rapid succession, the script would mention what our crews knew about the event, what we didn’t know, and what we were working to get more information on.

I viewed The Formula as a necessary evil. A public progress report was never ideal, but it was still better than withholding the story entirely.

The occurrences we reported on impacted our viewers, and we competed with two other stations to share them. We’d lose the trust of the local community — and our raison d’etre — if we want radio silent until we had the full picture.

Yet, we couldn’t speculate or embellish while filling in the blanks. If we did, we’d get in legal trouble.

The Formula treaded an uneasy middle ground between these outcomes. And so, I begrudgingly threaded that needle — knowing full well that it would irritate our viewers.

You see, humans crave closure. We don’t want things to be open-ended. We want all the information as soon as possible.

Not knowing who shot J.R. — or what will happen to him — eats at us. So does ambiguity surrounding a shooting, car crash, or brush fire in our local area.

Certainty provides the best closure. But it’s often made unavailable to us.

Sometimes, this is by necessity. Police and firefighters are scrambling to make it to the scene. The ambulance is still en route to the hospital. This is what I was contending with in my news media role, and it’s why I had to leave things open-ended.

But other times, certainty is willfully withdrawn. A situation is intentionally kept open-ended, with the understanding that the ambiguity will force us into action.

Mentally, we cannot leave loose ends untied. We’re just not wired for it. So, we do what we can to fill the gap — making a move that benefits those who fed us the partial information.

This might be watching the next episode of a TV show or buying a product in a panic. In any case, the closure hawker reaps the rewards of our Pavolvian response.

Such practices can be lucrative for these proprietors. But they’re fundamentally unjust.

And it’s time to stop turning a blind eye to that point.

I sat in the exam room, waiting for the gastroenterologist.

My appointment had been set for 2 PM. But now, it was pushing 4, and I was getting antsy.

The appointment was supposed to be nothing major. A basic follow-up for an endoscopy.

But with each passing moment, doubt gripped tighter and tighter like a boa constrictor.

Was the doctor just exceptionally bad at time management? Or was there something in my results that required another look? And what would that mean for me?

Finally, the gastroenterologist entered the room. He pulled up my file on his computer, read the report quickly, and informed me I had nothing to worry about. Everything was fine and I didn’t need a follow-up appointment.

This should have been music to my ears. But on the drive back to the office, I was irate.

What nerve did this man have holding me hostage for two hours — in the middle of a workday, no less — to tell me…nothing? And if I was fine, what explained the occasional flare-ups that had me stumbling to the kitchen at 2 AM to chug Alka Seltzer? Some of those had happened between the endoscopy and this farce of an appointment. Would I ever be able to connect the dots?

To that end, what of the original problem I came in for some years back? That also spurred an endoscopy, which did not come back clean. Back then, the gastroenterologist stated that he found something in my stomach and removed it. But what was it? Had I been close to dying without that intervention? And what were the odds of it coming back?

This experience illustrates the quandary of medical care.

To treat our maladies, doctor’s must diagnose them. And that often means reconciling what they see with what we feel.

The tests — the labs, imaging, scopes, and biopsies — tell all. They indicate what, if anything, needs to be remedied — leaving doctors to chart the course to cure. The tests provide closure to our open-ended health dilemmas – one way or another.

At least that’s the intent.

But reality is quite different. Our bodies are volatile, and our issues be elusive — disappearing at the time of a blood draw or scan, only to re-emerge when a doctor is not looking.

Indeed, certainty is a much rarer commodity than doctors would have us believe. That’s why my family didn’t post a Mission Accomplished banner when my grandmother’s cancer went into remission. Instead, we crossed our fingers every day for the next 16 years, hoping the disease wouldn’t come back. Frankly, it’s a miracle that didn’t.

So, I’ve paid little heed to the gastroenterologist’s reassurance about my endoscopy. I wait each day for the other shoe to drop, in the form of another flare-up. This outcome would not be pleasant, but perhaps it would provide some actual closure.

I’ve started taking this approach with all my medical adventures now. If I get an MRI or an X-Ray, I hope that it does find something — no matter how devastating the consequences. When I meet with various specialists, I do more than state which part of my body is hurting. I make a full case for an ailment diagnosis, leaving it to them to disprove it.

This is all irrational behavior. Kooky, really. And the fact that I continue to pursue it shows just how distressing ambiguity is. To me. To all of us.

So, why do we let others gleefully hold it over our heads? Why do we let them manipulate us like marionettes? Why do we let them exploit our emotions for their own gain?

We must do better.

It’s time that we, as a society, put the clamps on open-endedness. That we stop using it as a weapon for gain, and instead treat it as a tool of last resort.

This means changes to the way we write, the way we market, and the way we engage with each other.

It will be a jarring shift, sure. But we’ll be better for it.

There was a time when the question Who Shot J.R.? mattered. May there be a time when the question Why Weren’t We Told Promptly? matters more.

Convective

What goes up must come down.

These words caught me off guard.

Sure, I’d heard them before. They were a favorite saying of my father on family road trips.

But I wasn’t in the car this time. I was in my college meteorology class. And my professor was the one conveying these words.

The professor was introducing the concept of convective weather. An abstraction that he sought to make reality in our minds.

About 10 miles to the west of the classroom, the professor explained, moisture would rise from the swamps of the Florida Everglades. Those vapors would cool as they rose, turning into thick clouds as they collided with the stratosphere.

Those clouds would drift out toward the coast until they got too heavy. Then they’d dump down rain — usually right onto the university campus during the mid-afternoon.

What went up had indeed come down. And this scientific illustration left an indelible impression.

I thought about all the times I showed up to class drenched to the bone. I thought of all those times when black clouds suddenly sent me scurrying from the beach.

Convection might have been a force of nature. But I was not a fan of it.

Career pathing.

It’s a concept that’s gained steam in the corporate world of late.

Gone are the days of keeping workers in stable, specialized roles for decades. These days, companies focus on elevating employees through the ranks.

At first glance, there would seem to be much to like about this. Employees can attain loftier titles, more responsibilities, and bigger paychecks. Companies can retain highly motivated workers, who might prove more efficient in managerial roles than outside hires.

But make no mistake. Career pathing is no panacea.

There is only so much room at the top, and providing an escalator to that rarefied air does nothing to relieve the pressure.

There are only two ways to make space — add layers to the organizational chart or cut ties with existing managers. One method exacerbates the core issue at hand. The other punctuates it.

We might enjoy the promise of time in the sun, boosted by career pathing and a culture of upward mobility. But the fall will eventually come for us, just as it did those we displaced during our rise. And when that drop arrives, it will be precipitous.

These are the laws of a convective system. What goes up must come down.

My roots are American.

This is the answer I always give when people ask me about my background.

Others may rally around strains of lineage. Irish, Italian, Mexican, and so on. But not me.

I was born here, and I was raised here. So were my parents and three of my grandparents. Shouldn’t that be enough?

Maybe not.

None of us are really from America. Our ancestors all emigrated from somewhere. And whether they crossed the Bering Strait 10,000 years ago, crossed the Atlantic Ocean by boat 100 years ago, or crossed the Rio Grande a decade back — well, those ancestors were likely not all that well off when they arrived.

My lineage reflects this well. Most of it spreads across the hilly terrain of Eastern Europe. Yet, it converges here in America. Not by luxury, but by necessity.

Consider the ancestral string that carries my surname.

My ancestors from that strand came to America four generations ago. I don’t know much about what brought them here. But I do know that in the 1910s, my great grandfather was growing up in a single parent household. His mother would sell goods along the beach, skirting permitting laws to make ends meet.

My great grandfather eventually found a more stable income by operating his own corner grocery store. My grandfather improved his stature even further, becoming a family doctor.

These days, my father is a teacher at a prestigious private school. And my uncle is a renowned surgeon who heads a department at a major American hospital.

My family has certainly followed the convective pattern, rising in prominence with each generation. This feat is laudable, if not entirely noteworthy.

Indeed, plenty of families have risen through the ranks the way mine did. The convective route to acclaim is so commonplace that it’s become a staple of American culture.

That is one reason why I’m unapologetic about claiming my roots as American.

But this gravy train must end sometime. At some point, a generation of my family will hit the stratosphere. Upward mobility will be quashed. And things will start going in the other direction.

What goes up must come down. But when?

Will this reckoning happen to my generation? The next one? The one after that?

I have no idea.

What I do know is I’ve got a clean slate. My parents allowed me to pursue a career of my choosing, free of prejudice. And I’ve been successful in that pursuit.

Still, my exploits have brought me precious little inner peace.

I often ask myself if I should be going after more in my profession. I often ask myself if I’m in the right profession.

I wonder if I’m adequately contributing to the convective process that’s brought my family to the fore. I wonder if I’m doing enough to sustain the rise and stave off the downfall.

But I could be chasing after the wrong questions.

What’s next?

I asked myself this openly, as I prepared to vacate a volunteer leadership role.

I had been president of my alma mater’s local alumni chapter for four years. And I had served as vice president for two years before that.

Now, my time at the helm had come to an end. And I was readying myself for the next challenge.

I thought through my options for my next step. Other volunteer organizations to devote my time to. Other rungs of involvement within alumni leadership. Other activities to get acquainted with.

These were the ways I could keep rising, keep contributing, keep demonstrating prominence. The convective system of influence demanded I choose one.

But I didn’t want to.

I was tired. Tired of sacrificing my time and energy at volunteer leadership pursuits. Tired of leaning deeper into that sacrifice with each passing year.

I didn’t want to keep rocketing up to the Teflon ceiling of the stratosphere. I was just fine floating along in the mid-levels. Not getting stepped on, but not getting knocked down either.

I wanted to break the cycle. So, I did.

I replaced my volunteer leadership role with…nothing. And in the process, I found a semblance of inner peace.

My decision in this area is far from noteworthy. But it is illustrative.

It shows that the convective system — the escalator to the top — is not the prerequisite to success.

Those who want to keep defying gravity have full license to do so. Our societal systems make that abundantly clear.

But not everyone wants that.

Indeed, a great many likely prefer a less turbulent journey. They yearn to get to a comfortable cruising altitude and level off the plane. But they don’t recognize that such a path is possible.

Let’s change that.

It’s high time we evangelize that gentler path. That we normalize an alternative to the never-ending climb. That we blaze a trail to a more sustainable future.

What goes up doesn’t have to come down. Let’s make it so.

Finishing the Job

On July 20, 1969, a nation watched with awe as three astronauts planted an American flag on the surface of the moon.

A month later, residents of the North Side of Chicago probably still felt like they were on the moon.

The temperate Midwest summer was still in full swing. The ivy on the brick outfield walls of Wrigley Field was lush and green. And the team playing in that venerable ballpark was having its best season in decades.

The Chicago Cubs had already won 75 games by mid-August, and the team held a 9-game lead in the division standings. The Cubs hadn’t played in the postseason in 24 years, and the team hadn’t won a World Series championship in 61 seasons. But it sure looked like the days of ineptitude were over.

They weren’t.

As August turned to September, the Chicago Cubs hit the skids. The team was suddenly losing games at an alarming rate, while the second-place New York Mets were stringing together wins.

When the two squads faced off in New York, a stray black cat ominously ran in front of the Chicago dugout. The Cubs would lose both games to the Mets and cede the top spot in the division soon after that.

The Mets would go on to win the division by 8 games, before rolling through the postseason and claiming a World Series championship. The Cubs would become a punchline.

1969 was well before my time. Still, I remain captivated by that season. My mother — a lifelong Mets fan — has said that year is what sparked her love of baseball. And the black cat incident remains an iconic moment in the sport decades later.

Still, I wonder if the 1969 Chicago Cubs deserved better than ridicule. Even with the late-season swoon, Chicago finished with a 92-70 record — by far the franchise’s best in what would ultimately become a 38-year postseason drought.

In subsequent years, 11 teams have gone on to claim World Series championships with fewer regular season wins than the 1969 Cubs. 6 more with identical records to that team have claimed titles.

But ultimately, that matters little. The Cubs failed to finish the job. And that’s how they’ll continue to be remembered.

Mama didn’t raise no quitter.

I’ve told myself this line time and again when I’ve found myself at a crossroads.

It’s not factually accurate. My mother might not have quit rooting for the New York Mets, but she’s stepped away from several ventures in her life. She also encouraged my father to leave a dead-end career for a better opportunity. And she was fully supportive of me during my youth when I stopped playing the violin or walked away from the cross-country team.

Still, the adage has resonated with me in adulthood. I’ve seen how our society treats those who don’t see a job through. And I don’t want to become one of those cautionary footnotes.

So, I’ve rarely quit at anything. And when I have, it’s come with a giant asterisk.

When I considered leaving the news media, I waited until my employment contract expired to do so. Since I was switching careers, I wasn’t beholden to that contract end date. But it provided the cleanest way to make a break.

When I gave up alcohol some years back, I didn’t consider sobriety to be quitting. Instead, I’ve treated abstinence as its own mission — one I must not ever stray from.

And even when I’ve dropped out of marathons due to injuries, it was on doctor’s orders. It took outside intervention to keep me from running through the pain.

Yes, I’ve remained steadfast in my commitment to finish the job. To be the 1969 New York Mets, and not the 1969 Chicago Cubs.

Yet, I’ve failed to consider the cost of this edict I’ve foisted upon myself.

You see, I’ve generally attributed finishing the job to consistency. If I show up day after day and give my all, I will achieve what I set out to achieve.

This is not a novel concept. It’s practically gospel in the worlds of sport and project management.

But this idea is fatally flawed.

Indeed, not much is consistent in the world around us. And the longer the timeline of an initiative, the more likely it is that we’ll face a curveball on our quest. A curveball that can’t simply be swatted away with the tenet of consistency.

This leaves us with a choice. Do we stay true to our approach, despite diminishing returns? Or do we become who we need to be to get the job done?

The answer is not as straightforward as it seems.

The Godfather is an American classic.

Both Mario Puzo’s novel and Francis Ford Coppola’s film adaptation represent storytelling at its finest.

Many consider The Godfather to be a Mafia tale. But I see something else.

In my view, The Godfather is an allegory for the challenges of finishing the job.

Consider the story structure.

Don Vito Corleone prepares his youngest son Michael for a future in the U.S. Congress, as his Mafia outfit seeks to go legitimate. But Michael leaves college to join the military in World War II. And upon his return, he draws a line between the Corleone family and himself.

The family is tough-minded, principled, and often violent. By contrast, Michael shows himself to be sophisticated, calculated, and thoughtful.

But a series of events eventually weaken the Corleone family. And Michael doubles down on Vito’s original vision of making the outfit legitimate.

This requires Michael to become ruthless and domineering while finishing the job. The metamorphosis of his character carries a heavy toll.

Time and again, Michael’s temper comes to the fore. Paranoia over potential mutinies leads Michael to cut himself off from lower-level associates. And his demeanor causes his marriage to crumble.

Yes, Michael Corleone chose both paths of the Finishing the Job Conundrum in succession. First, he walked away from the Corleone outfit so he could serve his country. Then he re-entered the fold and committed himself to finishing the job he’d previously abandoned.

That second path brought Michael Corleone the trappings of success. But he was undoubtedly happier following the first one.

I’ve been thinking about this more often, as I consider finishing the job on complex initiatives. Is following the principle worth the personal price? Perhaps not.

Mama didn’t raise no quitter. But maybe I should take a step back anyway.

When I was in high school, my family took a trip to Spain.

One of our many stops was the Sagrada Familia Basilica in Barcelona.

My parents and sister were awestruck by the ornate structure with its architectural flair. But I was preoccupied with something else.

Namely, the cranes and scaffolding hovering over the site.

The Sagrada Familia, you see, was still under construction. The groundbreaking had taken place more than a century prior, and the completion was nowhere in sight.

I wondered out loud why we were giving a construction site the time of day. My father bristled, explaining that I was looking at the site all wrong.

Sure, the Sagrada Familia was still a work in progress. But the work that had been done — all the finished accents illuminated by the Catalan sunshine — was still worth noting. It earned architect Antoni Gaudi acclaim in his lifetime. And it continued to add to his legend in the many decades since his passing.

Someday, my father explained, the Basilica would be completed. The world would marvel then at the realization of Gaudi’s vision.

But even now, there was much to celebrate. What had been done was far from nothing.

There was a profound lesson in my father’s words. One I could do a better job of heeding. One we all can.

Perhaps we shouldn’t put as much stock into finishing the job. In bringing the initiatives we’re involved in across the finish line at all costs.

For those costs could accelerate throughout the journey. And much like Michael Corleone, we could lose ourselves in a quest for what is ultimately an abstract principle.

Perhaps it’s better to take a step back sometimes and pass the torch.

We might not get feted for our early-stage accomplishments, as Gaudi has been. But we’ll still know the value of our contribution. And we won’t compromise our sense of self.

That means something. But only if we let it.

So, let’s draw a line in the sand. Let’s demonstrate that something matters more than finishing the job.

That something is us.

Courageous Discipline

It was a living Mount Rushmore.

On my TV screen, Alex Rodriguez, David Ortiz, Derek Jeter, and Mookie Betts sat behind a desk, engaging in a panel discussion.

It was almost surreal. Two Baseball Hall of Fame members, a future Hall of Famer, and a would-be Hall of Famer talking about the game I love so much. This was a rare treat.

At one point in the discussion, Jeter turned to Betts.

Mookie, you’ve achieved everything in this game. You’ve won a batting title and a Most Valuable Player award. You’ve been an All-Star and a two-time world champion. What are you chasing now?

I stared intently as Betts pondered the question.

Discipline, he replied. I’m trying to stay disciplined as I keep after it. Motivation will come and go. But if I can maintain my discipline, I feel I can continue to achieve at a high level for quite some time.

I was floored.

Here was a man with immense talent and accolades. Someone who would have no qualms about setting a lofty goal on national TV, and then going out and achieving it.

But instead, he stayed within himself. He remained focused of the path, rather than the destination.

Perhaps there’s something to maintaining discipline, I thought. Perhaps it’s the key to achievement.

Not exactly. But it can certainly get the journey off to the right start.

When I was a freshman in high school, I was a two-sport athlete. I ran cross country in the fall and then played baseball in the spring.

The crossover between those sports was minimal at best. If I smacked an extra-base hit, I’d fly around the bases. But it wasn’t quite the same as bounding on gavel trails through hilly terrain for a few miles.

Even so, my approach to both sports was nearly identical. I would have healthy fare – such as a sandwich and a Gatorade – for lunch. Then, I would spend a good 10 minutes stretching my muscles before a practice or a competition.

None of this had come naturally to me. As a bratty adolescent, I yearned to get right out there and compete. All these preparation routines seemed like a waste of energy.

Yet, my coaches instilled the value of discipline in me. Not just in the batter’s box or at the starting line. But well before those points, as well.

And I bought in. Completely.

Much about my life has changed in the decades since high school. But my commitment to discipline has remained.

I still stretch before I work out. And I still try to eat relatively healthy. But I’ve expanded the scope of my rigor.

I remain fiscally responsible. I keep my calendar meticulously organized. And, I’ve committed to adding a new article here on Ember Trace each week for nearly eight years.

It’s not easy to maintain this approach. Much like Mookie Betts, I’ve seen my motivation wane at times. And when it has, the temptation to loosen my grip on the reins has been powerful.

Still, I remain steadfast in my commitment.

Yes, discipline has been resonant for me for much of my life. And it could resonate with all of us.

Discipline is not inherited. It’s learned.

Those high school coaches that instilled discipline in me once had their own introduction to the principle. And there was a time when their mentors learned the ropes as well.

Yes, discipline is a construct. It’s something humanity has innovated, evangelized, and abided by through the generations.

This point is more than a footnote. It’s a reminder that the concept of restraint is itself constrained.

Adherence to discipline, by itself, doesn’t take us to the promised land. But it does raise the floor. It sets solid confines for us to explore our potential while minimizing the risk of bad outcomes along the way.

Taking that next step is on us. Unlocking new possibilities requires guts. We must be courageous while staying within the bounds of discipline.

This truth has held for generations. And I have no doubt that it will continue to do so.

Recently, I had a discussion with a co-worker in a different department of my company.

The colleague was interested in the impact of Artificial Intelligence – or AI – in marketing. And as a marketer, I had some thoughts.

I had heard the gloomy narrative from outsiders about AI replacing my discipline wholesale. I’d seen the sunny disposition of those within my team, all too happy to let the machines take over the most monotonous of responsibilities.

Further afield, I’d caught wind of some amazing things AI had already done. I’d also read about the technology helping students cheat academically, or prodding journalists to end their marriages.

These fragments of information were disparate enough to be disorienting. It was hard for me to connect the dots, and to determine the scope of this sea change.

But instead of panicking about the implications of an unwritten future, I zoomed out.

For all its might, AI is still a human innovation. It’s a quantum leap forward for technology that we’ve created. And while it might already act independently of our explicit commands, we can still set the terms of play.

Indeed, we still have the chance to instill some discipline.

This is precisely what I told my colleague. Sure, AI could be a boon for marketing, for business, for life. But those advantages would fade away quickly if we gave it the reckless abandon of a toddler hopped up on candy.

We need to hold onto some discipline. To use our judgment to set strategic frameworks for AI to work under.

But we also need to have the courage to let AI operate boldly within those frameworks. We must swallow our pride and accept the paths blazed by the machines, even if they break with precedents we’ve set.

This careful balance of courageous discipline will allow us to get the most out of the next chapter. It will provide us the tools to embrace AI as a friend, rather than a foe. And even when the discussion moves beyond AI, this framework will help us thrive personally.

When rigor meets heart, it’s a powerful thing.

Let’s harness that power.

Author: Dylan Brooks