Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

Act 2

The house lights went down, and the crowd got quiet.

Then, with a flourish of light and of a crescendo of sound, the stage came to life.

The hour that followed was filled with plot twists, musical interludes, and intrigue. Once it was over, the entire cast of actors lined up on the stage and took a bow.

I was too stunned to applaud.

I had just witnessed the second act of a Broadway musical. One that featured far more action than what had preceded intermission. And I had struggled mightily to keep up with it all.

On the way out of the theater, my sister asked me what I thought of the performance. She had been an assistant director on the production some months prior, and she’d accompanied me to the show on this night.

The second act seemed rushed, I coarsely replied.

Well, that’s Shakespeare, my sister responded.

I stood there, puzzled. Yes, this musical was an adaptation of William Shakespeare’s work. But his plays had five acts to disperse the action. Couldn’t these writers have spread things out more evenly?

I pondered this for a moment. Then we headed out into the night.

Act 2 is an important concept in our society.

It’s the portion of our journey that leads directly to the finish line. It’s where the spotlight is brightest, and where the rewards are most tangible.

We’re primed to give our best in the second act. And we’re conditioned to do the most.

The first act simply sets the table. It’s a construct to acclimate us for the sprint to the finish.

Sports teams don’t get accolades for a hot start if they tail off down the stretch. Neither do companies who frontload revenue growth. The stain of missed potential lingers in these situations, dulling the shine of those early milestones.

Yes, Act 2 is all that truly matters. And if we want to make the most of our opportunity, we better hit the stretch run with reckless abandon.

This is the current upon which entertainment travels. It’s the reason why that Broadway musical was so backloaded.

But does this standard represent reality?

I don’t believe so.

When I was four years old, my mother gave my father an ultimatum.

Change your life or change your wife.

At that point, my father had been an advertising account executive for the better part of a decade. His passion for the job had since faded, and the long hours weighed on him.

Yet, my father was fearful of exiting the industry. The pay was comfortable enough to support a young family. And career shifts were still largely taboo in those days.

So, my father went through his work weeks with a dour disposition. As each month passed, he became more and more of a ghost. That is, until my mother’s ultimatum snapped him back to life.

My father made the wise choice. He changed his life, leaving advertising behind and becoming a teacher.

His Act 2 has lasted for decades. My father has found far more success and fulfillment in his second career than he did in his first. And he’s blazed quite the path for me to follow.

You see, I too have found far more success, fulfillment, and longevity in Act 2 than I have in Act 1. This has proven true with my profession, my hobbies, and even my efforts to build a social circle.

At a high level, this is not all that different from the societal ideal. My first act still sets the table for my second act to feast upon.

But at ground level, the differences are stark. Act 1 is setting the scene for what I should avoid, while Act 2 is establishing the alternative to move toward. And that movement should, by nature, take far longer to play out than the bungled missteps that preceded it.

My career trajectory illustrates this perfectly.

I got my start in broadcast journalism, in the high-octane world of TV news media. I lasted about three years in that industry before making a change. But those three action-packed years still feel like six to me. The strain and stress carried that much weight.

As I write this, I’ve spent a decade in my second career as a marketer. My journey from wide-eyed newbie to seasoned professional in this field has been anything but swift. And yet, I am far from dissatisfied.

The long tail of my Act 2 represents the stability I’ve long craved. It’s provided me with the satisfaction I’ve long yearned for. And it’s offered me the opportunity to grow in my discipline at a sustainable pace.

Sure, it might seem boring to outside observers. But that isn’t necessarily a bad thin

I’m currently on the cusp of another Act 2. One that I find just as significant.

After years of achievement as a competitive distance runner, my body has broken down. The medals, personal record times, and pictures standing atop race podiums have faded into an array of doctor’s visits, protective braces, and canceled race entries.

I still love running, and I love competing. But my body has given me an ultimatum. I can only choose one.

I’ve chosen the former. I’d rather run for fun than compete in something I’m less passionate about. It’s a bittersweet choice, but one I’ve made without a hint of hesitation.

Still, this decision doesn’t have to be a tradeoff. Indeed, I consider it an opportunity. An opportunity to start the second act of my running life.

I’m not quite sure what I should expect.

I’m not sure if my body will accept a steady running mileage base better than it handled the peaks and valleys of training. I’m not if my mind will stay motivated without races dotting the calendar. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to attain the same level of fitness as I did before.

My hope is that all of this does come to pass. That I stay healthy, successful, and fulfilled for years to come — even without the measuring stick of racing.

But I know that this won’t happen overnight. I might be past intermission, but there are miles and miles to go on this stretch run.

Act 2 of my running career will be a protracted journey, hopefully with more ups than downs along the way.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Death of a Dream

This is not the way I envisioned my dream dying.

I thought this while staring up at blue skies and puffy clouds, the sounds of country music pulsating through my head.

Of course, not all was what it seemed. Those blue skies were an elaborate decoration covering the florescent light banks on the ceiling. The country music tunes were heading into my ears through headphones while the MRI machine took a reading of my left knee.

It all seemed so cheerful, so relaxing, so peaceful. All masking the solemn facts.

If this scan showed a stress fracture in my left knee, my competitive running career was over.

Within 25 minutes, the scan was done. This trip into the MRI tube was much shorter than I’d anticipated. But the expedience gave me no solace.

It still ached to take a step when it hadn’t two weeks before. I knew that I wasn’t alright. And I fully expected the radiologist’s report to confirm it.

All I could do now was wait.

The room was sterile and uninviting.

Fake wood tiles and three beige walls. The fourth was pea green with a beige stripe accent.

One wall was decorated with anatomies of the knee and lower leg. Another had an oil painting of a man swinging a golf club.

There wasn’t a window in sight, and little airflow to keep the room cool on a scorching summer morning.

I sat in a chair on one side of the room. My hands rested on my jeans while I stared at the patient table directly across the room.

It was quiet within these four walls. But I could hear the muffled conversations from adjacent rooms. Why don’t doctors’ offices invest in soundproofing, I wondered.

Within a few moments, I heard a slight knock on the door. Then it opened and the orthopedist walked in.

Good news, he said. Yes, it is a stress fracture, but you caught it early. So, the recovery time will be shorter. No running for 8 weeks. But then let’s get you back out there.

This update was mercifully short and to the point. But the doctor’s words manifested the death of a dream.

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.

I’ve heard this adage many times before. And I’ve done my best to avoid succumbing to it.

But this quest has proved challenging, for a couple reasons.

For one thing, this gospel implores us to shake things up. To sacrifice the sacred cows that might be holding us back. As a change-averse person, I’ve found this difficult.

That’s a me problem.

But the other challenge impacts us all.

Maintaining fitness, you see, requires a great many things. But one of them is repetition.

If you want to get stronger, you might turn to a weightlifting routine. But it’s only by repeating that routine that you’ll eventually unlock new levels of strength.

The same goes with dietary choices and other habits. Following them once does us no favors. But doing them over and over can improve our outcomes.

Yes, fitness literally refutes the premise of insanity. It forces us to stand up to that pretentious adage. It’s a stake in the ground for the value of continuity.

Taking all this into account, it’s no wonder why I’ve been so infatuated with staying in shape over the years. It’s helped me get stronger, build resilience, and unlock new possibilities.

My fitness venture started on a dubious note. I showed promise as Cross Country runner during my high school days. But unlike that Corrs song, I didn’t yearn to be left breathless after every practice. So, I walked away from the team after my freshman year.

Soon, I stopped running entirely. And I said goodbye to the balanced diet the team coach had implored me to follow.

These were the dark days. That portion of adolescence and early adulthood where I thought my youth would wipe away my unhealthy behaviors.

But then, things began to shift.

I moved to a new city, embarked on a new career, and determined that staying in shape could no longer be an afterthought.

So, I started taking bi-weekly trips to the gym to lift and to run on the treadmill. I started eating better and stopped drinking soda. Eventually, I gave up alcohol too.

Over time, I noticed the difference these changes brought. I looked better. I felt better. I was better.

And it was only the beginning.

There are many advantages to working out in a gym.

There’s tons of fitness equipment. There’s climate control. There are TV screens to keep you entertained.

But when you take that away, the experience is decidedly less enjoyable.

One day, I arrived at the gym to find all the treadmills non-operational. So, I headed outside to run, for the first time in years.

The rest was history.

I soon exclusively became an outdoor runner. Eventually, I entered 5K races. Then, I joined some local running groups.

It wasn’t long before I was racing at longer distances — surprising myself with my performance at every turn. I had more speed and natural talent than I’d ever imagined. And I had a whole group of newfound friends encouraging me to make the most of my ability.

The unthinkable had happened. I’d shed the shadow of my bratty teenage self and become a bona fide runner.

Soon, I set my sights on a long-dormant dream: The New York City Marathon.

I knew plenty about the race already. Growing up in the area, I would follow the coverage year after year. And I’d gasp in awe at the Kenyan superstars who would break the tape in Central Park.

I yearned to run that race someday. But the thought of running 26.2 miles was so daunting to me that I’d convinced myself I never would.

Now, I was rethinking that stance. I was imagining running the streets of the Big Apple, with friends and family cheering me on. I was picturing myself with that finisher’s medal.

But the road ahead was less than assured. The New York Marathon is both the world’s biggest and one of the 5 toughest to enter — particularly for a distance running neophyte in Texas. My best shot would be to enter a random draw with a roughly 10% acceptance rate.

I put my name in the virtual hat. And it was drawn.

The impossible dream was headed toward reality. Or so I thought.

It started with an ache.

I was out running with a friend one morning when I felt the dull pain in my left leg.

Shin splints, I thought. When we stopped at a water fountain, I stretched my leg vigorously. It didn’t help.

I tried running through the discomfort for a time. I saw a chiropractor and a physical therapist. I bought some new resistance bands and massage balls.

I hoped I’d wake up one day and just feel right. I never did.

A visit to the doctor eventually confirmed what I’d feared. That pain in my leg was from a stress fracture. I’d need to take a couple months off and drop out of that year’s New York City Marathon.

My dream had gone from improbable to likely to life support. But it was still alive.

I had an option to defer my race entry to the next year, and I took it. That would give me more than a year to prepare for my second and final shot at the race.

But the road back would prove rocky.

Within a couple weeks of resuming running, I ran into issues with my right leg. I was hit with a double whammy – a new stress fracture below my right knee and a damaged ankle tendon that would require arthroscopic surgery.

I had made it through all that — the second shutdown, the surgery, the grueling rehab — and was ready for my second go at marathon training when my left knee started hurting. And then, it was all over.

My dream was dead.

It’s hard to take stock of what’s happened to me. It’s been such a strange odyssey, one that bubbles up a mess of emotions.

I am saddened that I failed in the pursuit of my dream. I am angered that my body betrayed me time and again. I am exhausted from navigating all the highs and lows of this journey. I am frustrated that I put in so much work with absolutely nothing to show for it. And I am resigned to the fact that this is how life goes sometimes.

But most of all, I am determined. Determined to move forward from this melancholy chapter.

Dreams can be fleeting. And sometimes our pursuit of them can lead to that token definition insanity — to trying the same thing and expecting a different result.

I’ve lived that experience now. And while I loathe the outcome, I do respect it.

So, running will look a little different for me moving forward. Life will look a little different.

But I am here for it.

The Best Days

When you look back, you’re gonna find that these were the best days of your life.

It seemed like this line was in half the movies I watched as a teenager.

And I watched a lot of them.

This was the era just before smartphones and streaming. It was easy to gather information on any movie ever released, but difficult to watch anything not currently in theaters.

So, I made a list of films to catch up on, and I methodically worked my way through it. First, courtesy of rental DVDs from the video store down the street. Then through DVDs sent by mail from a fledgling company called Netflix.

This was how I caught up on the classics, the contemporary classics — and all the high school movies.

The Breakfast Club? Dazed and Confused? American Pie? I saw them all — and others. And for the most part, I liked what I watched.

Still, this line about high school being the best years of one’s life irked me. It didn’t quite compute.

You see, I was in high school at that time. But it wasn’t exactly Ridgemont High. Instead, it was fancy private school with a hefty tuition.

I was not exceedingly well off. But my parents taught in the institution’s middle school. So, starting in 9^th grade, I got the opportunity to enroll. And my parents benefitted a hefty tuition discount.

When it came to academics, I certainly belonged. I was a bright kid, able to meet the challenge of rigorous classes. But socially, I was a fish out of water.

I was a suburban kid, surrounded by the scions of the city. I had nothing in common with them, and they had little use for me. Plus, I was shy, and none of the girls I liked would give me the time of day.

I did have a best friend — who remains my closest friend to this day. And we got into all kinds of misadventures together. But aside from that, nothing seemed to match all those Hollywood scripts.

The best days of my life? I thought out loud one night, while studying for a Pre-Calculus exam. God, I hope not.

Going to college felt like lifting a weight from my shoulders.

I was in a new city, surrounded by new people, embracing newfound freedom. And I made the most of it.

Surrounded by friends, and with new experiences at my fingertips, I felt like a new person. I remember viscerally declaring that the movies were wrong. These were the best days of my life.

Yet, when I look back, some of that shine starts to fade.

I was the odd man out when my freshman dorm hall neighbors chose their suitemates for sophomore year. That meant I had to essentially start over as a second-year student.

While I did build a new social group, I had a falling out with many of them during my senior year. As my collegiate days dwindled, I found myself alone once again.

I also totaled my car on a busy freeway. And I once had to pack up and quickly move to a new off-campus home when my landlord got a foreclosure notice.

So yes, these were the days. But the best ones? Those were yet to come.

Job requires 3 to 5 years of applicable experience.

I read this line over and over as I browsed online job postings from my extended stay hotel room.

I didn’t have the applicable experience. But I applied anyway.

I had to.

You see, I’d spent the past two years and nine months in another city and another industry. I had taken a job that I loved but had come to loathe it.

So, I left for a fresh start. A new career. A new city. A new chance to find those best years of my life that I’d been chasing for the better part of a decade.

But the job experience disclaimer foretold a grim reality. There was no quick exit from purgatory.

By the time I did land a position, I’d accepted reality. I would need to spend five more years proving myself — professionally and personally — before better things came my way. I’d be pushing 30 years old by then. But better late than never.

So, I got to it.

I quickly learned my new trade and set out to master it. I changed my lifestyle to improve my health. And I enrolled in business school while working full-time.

I did hit a few bumps in the road — including a layoff — but I kept moving forward. And after those five years, I felt my investment paying off.

I was confident, self-sufficient, and self-assured. I’d learned to lean into my introversion. And I’d built enough life experience to bring contexts to the ups and downs of my day to day.

There was the potential for even more — once I earned my MBA and took my career to the next level. But at long last, the best days of my life were finally here.

For various reasons, that breakthrough never fully arrived. There have been a series of ups and downs in my life since then. But I still consider these to be the best days of my life.

Well, mostly.

Do I have the flu, or am I just old?

I ask myself this question each morning, as I achingly sit up in bed.

It might sound like a joke. But it’s the honest truth.

The days of me hitting the ground running are gone for good. My body is perpetually sore from resting, and it takes a moment to get going.

My sense of resilience is similarly elusive. As a boy, I once bounced back up and finished a race after falling on an asphalt track. Now, when I wipe out on black ice, I need a few minutes to compose myself before getting to my feet.

Yes, the best days of my life are long gone from a physical standpoint. I peaked athletically years ago and am now on a steady decline.

Of course, I didn’t make the most of those days. For they lined up with my early-adulthood malaise — when I lacked the discipline and maturity to make the most of my physical gifts.

I have to live with that now.

Staying healthy is a costly venture in every sense for me. Yet, the cost of unhealthy habits is even steeper.

It’s a brutal catch-22. One that my peers and I are all mired in.

I wish that the two peaks aligned. That physical mastery overlapped with mental and emotional maturity.

But that’s never been the case.

As humans, we’ve been trained for millennia to harness our skills in succession. First, we’d exhaust our physical gifts through menial work and procreation. Then, when our bodies started to give out, we’d share the gift of seasoned wisdom with the tribe.

Such are the ways of nature. And it would be preposterous for me to question them.

So, maybe it’s time for me to let go of the Hollywood fantasy. Maybe it’s time to acknowledge that there is no singular set of best days of my life to strive for.

What I was chasing, what I thought I attained — it may well have been a white whale.

It’s time to admit my error. To make peace with the concept that I’ve been at my best physically, mentally, and spiritually in different eras. And to simply be grateful for the gifts I’ve been given, instead of clamoring for what might still lie ahead.

I am making this shift. So should we all.

The Myth of the American Dream

Everyone talks about the American Dream. Of envisioning it. Of striving for it. Of living it.

The American Dream is the gold standard upon which our lives are calibrated. But I’m not on board with this mythology.

Dreams, you see, are illusions. Half-formed fantasies that remain out of grasp. Idealistic tropes that never had the structure and substance to be tangible in the first place.

So, no. I’m not living the American Dream. My journey is that of the American Reality.

I’ve had far more struggles than triumphs, but I have experienced both extremes. I’ve worked harder to maintain what I’ve got than I had to attain it in the first place – par for the course in a world where someone always has a hand in your pocket. I’ve exhausted myself — physically, mentally, and emotionally — more times than I can count, without ever getting that expended energy back. I’ve shed blood, sweat, and tears in my endeavors. And ultimately, I’ve had precious little to show for any of it.

I’ve fought uphill time and again. And I will persist in this venture until my heart stops beating.

These are the realities of my American life. Unsatisfying, unpleasant, but oh so true.

Through it all, I’ve been told that I should be grateful. That my problems are first-world problems. That there are others abroad struggling for food, shelter, or safety whose strife is more noteworthy.

I recognize the motivation behind this perspective, but I also believe that these two worlds are not compatible. The challenge I face – that so many of us face – as Americans are less existential than those found abroad. But they still carry a toll. And they deserve more credence than we dare to provide.

Freedom is a real concept. There’s no doubt about that. But it’s not absolute.

Freedom comes with strings attached. Strings that are more like weighted belts. Wishing away those strings – or worse, hiding our ongoing tussle with them from others – does more than set an unreasonable bar of false hope to reach for. It degrades the validity of what life in America is for so many of us.

So, let’s stop waxing poetic about the American Dream. Let’s stop grasping for a golden illusion at the expense of the reality in our midst.

We deserve better than to degrade our lived experience. We deserve the truth.

What’s in a Name?

Personalized party favors.

They were all the rage when I was a kid.

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

Or something like it.

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

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

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

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

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

Naming can be a thorny subject.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Names carry weight. And old habits die hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, I have.

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

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

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

So, why Ember Trace? What spurred that title?

Well, it’s shorter. Snappier. Catchier.

But it also has its own origin tale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

400

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

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

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

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

but that’s not what this day was about.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Consistency is hard to do.

What are the consistent traits of your life?

Eating? Sleeping? Walking around?

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you’re reading one such example.

This is article 400 of Words of the West.

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

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

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

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

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

How could I?

Think of other markers of longevity.

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

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

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

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

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

And year-over-year consistency? Rarer still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I thank God for that.

Ripken and Gehrig ended their streaks on their own accord.

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

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

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

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

When looking ahead, the only constant is uncertainty.

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

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

I feel the same way today.

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

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

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

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

Thanks for coming along for the ride.

Discouragement vs. Doubt

Don’t take it too fast.

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

These words were sensible.

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

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

So, I heeded the advice — for a bit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s prove them all wrong.

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

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

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

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

But discouragement — that’s something wholly different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I deliberated for an entire weekend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, I did just that.

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

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

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

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

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

No. I most certainly had not.

Act with discretion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It all amounts to a high-stakes staredown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And we can stop conflating discouragement with doubt.

Let’s get to it.

On Clothes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I recently addended a storytelling showcase in Dallas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I would know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To put it simply, I started running.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What’s Customary

She was strikingly tall, stunningly beautiful, and outfitted in an elaborate Deel.

There was much to be mesmerized by when this woman set foot in my family’s tent. But I was particularly curious about the large bowl in her hands.

I would soon get answers.

After a few moments, the woman turned to my father. Through a translator, she explained that the bowl was a gift for the honored guests who had traveled long distances to arrive in this place. Since this place was the Mongolian grasslands — half the world away from our family home — we were the honored guests.

It was now my father’s duty to drink from the bowl. He obliged without delay.

Hours later, I stepped out of the tent to relieve myself. As I did, I noticed my father stumbling around in the moonlight, slurring his words.

I was 10 years old, and I had never seen my father drunk before. Now I had, and it was jarring.

It turned out that bowl my father consumed was filled with Baijiu. That’s a 120 proof Barley liquor.

It was more grain alcohol than anyone could handle. A bout of drunkenness and a killer hangover were inevitable.

A few days later, I asked my father why he had willingly gone off the deep end. Couldn’t he have spared himself some pain by just saying no?

My father mentioned the importance of showing respect to our hosts and their customs. Declining the invitation was not an option for him.

I nodded in understanding. But I hoped I wouldn’t find myself in a similar position.

I made the team!

The shouts in the hallway woke me up early on a Saturday morning.

One of my floormates in my college dorm had tried out for the vaunted Miami Hurricanes football team. And he had made the cut.

His role would be far from glamorous. As a walk-on, my floormate would be on the scout team. He’d do all his work in practice, emulating opposing receivers and taking massive hits from defensive backs.

Still, my floormate wasn’t immune to the initiation traditions of the squad. So, when the team leaders demanded that he shave his wavy blonde hair, my neighbors helped him oblige.

This opened the door to more issues. My floormate got a sunburn on his scalp while practicing in the bright Florida sun. Some of the football players compared him to a cancer patient.

But this act also helped forge an intractable bond between my floormate and his teammates. He did ultimately appear in a game. When it concluded, the entire Miami Hurricanes football team carried him off the field on their shoulders. Then, they gave him the game ball.

I’m sure none of this would happen these days. There are copious safeguards in place against initiation rituals. The dignity of the individual supersedes the sanctity of customary team traditions.

Culture is no longer defined through majority rule.

While I’ve never played football at any level, I’ve seen the benefits of this shift.

I do not drink alcohol, and I have a dairy sensitivity. In prior eras, I might have found myself compelled to break with both restrictions to fit in.

But now, I can buck with precedent. I can turn down a round of shots at the bar. I can politely decline a home cooked dish if it’s laden with dairy.

There is a built-in support system for my choices and requirements.

I’m grateful for that. But I’m also aware of what I’m leaving on the table.

As I child, I viewed my father’s conundrum on the Mongolian grasslands as a cruel one.

What culture would treat poisoning its guests as a customary practice?

But in hindsight, I realize that I was looking at this scenario all wrong.

The bowl of Baijiu wasn’t the focus of the evening. It was what tied everything together.

Yes, my father was made to drink more than would seem ethical. But that was just part of a massive celebration speckled with dancing and traditional garb. A celebration in honor of him — the visitor from far away.

By downing the bowl of barley liquor, my father was sharing in the celebration. He was forging a connection with his hosts that could transcend distance and language barriers.

It was worth the ensuing drunkenness and hangover.

This is the notion behind so many customary traditions. Weddings are particularly grand because they encourage two families to connect. French wine and charcuterie boards allow for bonding through cuisine. Holi provides an opportunity to find common ground through color —even if it means ruining our clothes in the process.

Even if we’re unfamiliar with these traditions, we benefit by leaning into them. By taking ourselves out of our comfort zone, we create lasting memories that can transcend cultures.

This is what’s missing in our shift toward individuality.

We might not be forced by our teammates to shave our heads. We might not be prodded by family members to eat something that we can’t digest. We might not be egged on to drink something that makes us incoherent.

Those are net benefits, for sure. But they come with costs. Costs that can’t be brushed away.

The excursion to the grasslands was part of my first trip abroad. A three-week odyssey across China.

In the subsequent decade, I’d get my passport stamped several more times.

But then, the journeys through customs ceased.

As I write these words, it’s been nearly 15 years since I left the United States. I haven’t even ventured to Canada or Mexico.

There are many reasons why I’ve stayed home. But one of them has to do with customary traditions.

I don’t want to put myself in a situation where I get myself sick — either from consuming dairy or alcohol. And I know from my prior travels that I might well be entrapped in these scenarios.

For years, I treated this credo as a validation. Now, I’m not as convinced.

I’ve spared myself a lot of potential misfortune by playing it safe. But I’ve also missed out on numerous chances for cultural connection.

And that does give me pause.

Perhaps the customary traditions of others aren’t a threat to our sensibilities. Perhaps they’re a test of our courageousness.

My father and my floormate in my college dorm each passed this test. I have yet to face it.

And that is a problem.

Moving forward, I resolve to be more open-minded. I will still hold true to my values and lifestyle choices. But I will view the customary traditions that fly in the face of them as something other than an unvarnished threat.

I will view them opportunities. Opportunities I might not take, but at least should consider.

May we all find the gumption to do the same.

Imperfect Information

The graph lit up the projector in the front of the classroom.

A left triangle was the star attraction. A dizzying array of shading, dotted lines and math formulas balkanized its interior.

This diagram was supposed to illustrate pricing power. But to me, it resembled an eye chart.

My economics professor worked his way through the triangle. The top left corner represented the most that a company could feasibly charge for its services. But it was a price that they’d never actually set.

They couldn’t.

The professor explained that companies are saddled with imperfect information. They don’t know every move their competitors will make. They don’t understand which price is at the top of each consumer’s budget. And they have no concrete idea how financial markets will react.

Given that gumbo of uncertainty, companies needed to figure out the next best thing. They need to determine which price would maximize upside and minimize risk.

That’s what the various formulas and lines on this graph were for. And that’s what I’d need to master on the upcoming exam.

I did ultimately master the concept. Then I promptly forgot it.

But the term imperfect information? That was unforgettable.

I’ve found it odd that ambiguity is an indelible part of economic models.

But perhaps I shouldn’t.

What do you do with your free time?

It’s a question I hear bandied about now and then.

Friends and acquaintances tend to have the common responses. Binging TV shows. Gardening. Baking bread.

My answer is a little less traditional. I’ll go down a Wikipedia rabbit hole.

You see, I have a thirst for information. There is always more to be gleaned. And when I get started, it’s hard to stop.

I don’t embark on this quest to win game shows or stand out at parties. I do it out of genuine interest.

I lament all that I don’t know. And I wish to bridge that gap.

Others also seek to scratch this itch. It’s why so many people take continuing education courses online. And it’s why companies have robust research departments.

Still, this appetite for learning is not infinite. Many of us readily accept that a knowledge gap will persist.

But what if we didn’t?

What if more of us went down Wikipedia rabbit holes? What if we left no stone unturned in our quest for knowledge?

At first pass, this sounds idyllic. With a full tank of information, we’d never make an error of ignorance again. We’d be able to put our best foot forward every time.

If only it were that simple.

In finance, there is a concept called arbitrage.

This represents the gap between an asset’s true value and its sticker price. The bigger the gap, the more the seller can make on the margin — and the more the buyer is a sucker.

I’ve long despised arbitrage for this exact reason. Any practice that involves exploiting others seems immoral to me.

But arbitrage does have its advantages.

In a capitalist market, it offers incentives for both sellers and buyers. The sellers are motivated to offer up goods when there’s an opportunity for profit. And the buyers are motivated to uncover options with the least hefty gap.

This motivation drives action, keeping the economic engine turning. It spurs innovation, dangling a hefty reward for displacing quo. And it inspires branding, redefining the notion of value.

These developments have made us better as a society. Even if the individuals who make up our society have gotten fleeced along the way.

Perhaps that Gordon Gekko line from Wall Street wasn’t an indictment on our collective nature. Perhaps greed actually is good.

Arbitrage is, by nature, an invention of imperfect information. If both parties in a deal had the same intel, there would be no invisible tension. The buyer and seller would exchange money and goods, and that would be that.

But such exchanges would happen far less often.

With so little incentive to leverage an advantage, buyers and sellers would only make a deal at the time of highest need. And with such little marketplace activity, there would be little room for our culture to evolve and grow.

We would effectively become Amish. All while hoarding a war chest of facts in our heads.

Information without a practical purpose.

No, arbitrage isn’t perfect. But it’s hardly the opposite of the ideal.

In ancient times, much of the world’s information could be found in one location.

That location was a massive library on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea.

The library of Alexandria was a marvel. The first great repository of the written word, it offered its visitors a unique opportunity. The chance to accumulate more knowledge than their ancestors ever could.

Then, all that information went up in flames.

So much of this event remains an enigma. There’s no way to know for sure why the library burned, or what its demise meant to those who lived in its shadow.

But the modern-day response to the burning of Alexandria’s library is nearly unilateral. We treat the conflagration as a wrong that must be righted. And a great many of us — from scholars to wealthy connoisseurs to the founders of Google — have sought to recreate what once towered over the sea.

Selfishly, I admire this ethos. After all, it provides me endless fodder for my Wikipedia rabbit holes.

But I often wonder if we got the story of Alexandria all wrong.

Maybe the fire wasn’t an unvarnished tragedy. Maybe it was a warning of the dangers of our hubris.

One not unlike the tale of Icarus.

Our quest to collect perfect information is as misguided as our quest to fly close to the sun. Just as gravity keeps us grounded, imperfect information keeps us yearning for more.

This is a blessing, not a curse. And we should start acting like it.

That is what I’m beginning to do.

I no longer yearn to know everything. I’m content with learning a little bit more, each day.

I hope others follow my lead.

Imperfect information might not seem ideal. But it provides us what we need to thrive.

Author: Dylan Brooks