Author: Dylan Brooks

My life is guided by three attributes: Humility, Grace and Passion. I’m continually driven to help make the world a better place, but I also know the importance of putting others first; the success and happiness of those around me gives me fulfillment.

Inputs and Outputs

I worked two jobs in college.

Chances are, we’ve heard this phrase before.

We might have even lived it.

I can claim that as true. Sort of.

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

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

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

It was boring work, yet somehow still tedious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that would be a grave mistake.

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

Is there a predetermined input?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Business news these days is bleak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s time to grab the reins.

The Price of Integrity

I pulled into the parking lot, certain I’d arrived at the wrong address.

I was in a suit and tie. And I had driven across town at rush hour to get here. But here looked nothing like I’d expected.

You see, the reason for all of this — the fancy clothes, the slog through traffic — was a job interview with a marketing firm. I knew little about the firm, but I expected it to be located within some massive office building.

Instead, I found myself face-to-face with a nondescript, industrial office park. Single-story buildings abounded, devoid of signage. Plumbing and home contracting work trucks sat on the far end of the parking lot.

I couldn’t be in the right place, could I?

Fighting through my apprehension, I made my way to the front door and opened it. In the small lobby sat a few other job candidates, dressed like me. I gave my name to the receptionist and took a seat alongside them.

One by one, we were called into a manager’s office. When it was my turn, the manager only asked me a few basic questions. Then he asked me to return to the lobby with the others.

A few minutes later, we were told we’d be going out in the field. We were paired off with existing employees, all wearing suits like we were. And we followed them outside of the building.

The employee I’d been paired with directed me to his car, and asked me to get in. Soon, we were found ourselves at a different industrial office park. We got out of the car, walked right past the No Soliciting signs, and entered an office.

The employee introduced himself and launched into a pitch about some kitchen knives. The startled office workers stated they didn’t need cutlery, but this man would not be so easily denied. He endeavored to change their minds, unveiling a prototype he had brought with him in a carrying case.

When the office workers softened their stance to We’ll think about it, the man handed over a business card. Then, we were on our way to the next office.

At this point, I was starting to realize that I’d been duped. This marketing role I’d applied to was actually a sales job. A door-to-door sales job. And I was now trapped.

After a couple more office visits, the employee and I returned to his car. Sensing my apprehension, he tried to sell me on the job.

The man spoke of how much money he was able to earn in commissions each month, and all the nice things he was able to get his girlfriend. He gushed about the opportunity to earn even more soon.

I was still unconvinced, so I peppered the employee with questions.

When I asked about the No Soliciting signs, he implied those were just suggestions. When I asked about the man’s tactics, he talked about the importance of turning a No into a Yes. When I asked if he could truly vouch for the product, he mentioned that he could vouch for making money, and that was what mattered.

Then he turned the questioning back on me.

Is this something you feel you can do? If so, we can keep going. If not, I can bring you back to the main office now. But consider about the opportunity this job brings before you answer.

I did consider it for a moment. But ultimately, I told the truth.

I could not see myself doing this, and I wanted a ride back to my car. Immediately.

Every now and then, I think back to the “job interview” experience I had that day.

It was unpredictable, manipulative, even deceptive.

But was it worthy of my icy response? Probably not.

The salesperson I was paired with was certainly shallow. But ultimately, he only cost some office workers a few minutes of their time. People have done far worse.

So, why was I so anatomically opposed to his work? Why was I so revolted that I bailed on the only job prospect I had at the time?

The roots of that answer lie in an unfortunate event from my childhood.

I was about 5 years old, tagging along with my parents as they shopped for a new car. After looking at a Toyota Camry, my parents told the salesperson they didn’t want to buy it. But the seller wouldn’t take No for an option and pushed my parents to make a down payment on the spot.

Offended, my father asked to speak with a manager. But instead of hearing us out, the manager locked all of us in his office and showed us a Camry promotional video.

When the video was over, he tried — forcefully — to coerce my parents to sign a check for the down payment. And once they again refused, he lit into them for making his salesperson look bad. It was only when my father threatened to call the police that the manager finally unlocked his office door and let us leave the dealership.

Witnessing traumatic events like this at a formative age can be scarring. And this particular experience continued to cast its long shadow over me when it comes to the art of selling.

You see, going into that cursed interaction, intents were aligned. My parents had an interest in buying a car. The sales staff at the Toyota dealership had an interest in selling one.

But once my parents changed course, that alignment broke down. They didn’t want to buy a Camry, but the sales staff still wanted them to make the purchase. They tried every dirty trick in the book to turn a No into a Yes.

Now, all these years later, I found myself in a similar dynamic. I was tagging along while someone doggedly attempted to turn a No into a Yes.

Only this time, intents weren’t aligned. This time, the salesperson was showing up out of the blue hawking a random product. A product his audience didn’t want. And one they could likely purchase elsewhere if they changed their minds.

In both cases, the resistance of the prospective buyers was real. It wasn’t a bluff or negotiating tactic. It was the truth.

But that truth got in the way of the seller’s objectives and compensation. So, they tossed integrity aside. They waged war on their audience’s stated intentions to put another closed deal on their ledger.

They might have been able to sleep soundly at night after acting this way. But I wouldn’t.

As I write this, I’m nearing a decade of work as a professional marketer.

My roles, functions, and knowledge have changed over those years. But one thing has remained constant.

No matter what my job title has been, or the core industry I’ve supported, my employer has always featured a direct sales staff.

The sellers I’ve worked with have generally been fantastic. And people are often eager to buy the solution they’re hawking. So, as a marketer, I’ve had no qualms about supporting their efforts.

But that support comes with strings attached.

You see, I carry one lesson forward from that door-to-door sales experience. In my case, the price of integrity is infinite.

I refuse to sell myself out for a quick buck. And I refuse to sell anyone else out by walking all over their resistance.

This means two things for me.

First, I will not work in sales roles. The chances of a moral crisis are too high, particularly when my financial solvency is on the line. Much respect to all the above-board sellers out there, but the discipline is not for me.

Second, I will not directly support efforts that sacrifice integrity. I don’t create marketing materials that run afoul of the truth. And if a salesperson does feel like doing some arm-twisting, I make sure to stay clear of it.

This is my mission. It’s the path I walk alone.

But it doesn’t have to remain that way. Indeed, it shouldn’t.

We can all raise the price of integrity. We can all agree to respect our intentions and to act with decency — without exception.

Such a shift might change the way we buy and sell. And it might mean that we’re talked into fewer experiences outside our comfort zone.

But such tradeoffs are worthwhile.

Indeed, if we can treat each other — and ourselves — with respect and dignity, it will truly make the world a healthier place.

And that outcome would be invaluable.

Survive and Advance

They were a juggernaut.

The 2014-2015 Kentucky Wildcats men’s basketball team had top-end talent up and down the roster. Led by a legendary coach, the team had elite-level prowess, talent, and competitive drive. And this made them a nightmare to compete against.

The Wildcats could beat you with offensive skill. They could smother you defensively. And they could outlast you with superior depth.

The college basketball season is a grind, and even the best teams end up with a few blemishes along the way. But not Kentucky.

The Wildcats finished off the regular slate with a 31-0 record. Only 7 of those games were decided by less than 10 points.

As they entered postseason play, a sense of inevitability reigned.

All Kentucky had to do was win 9 more games. That would make them the first men’s team to go 40-0 in a season.

The Wildcats rolled through their conference tournament and the early rounds of the national tournament. But once they reached the Final Four (the national semifinals), something strange happened.

Kentucky’s opponent — the Wisconsin Badgers — matched the Wildcats blow for blow, before pulling away in the final minute.

The Badgers won by 7 points. And just like that, Kentucky’s season was over.

There would be no national championship. No coronation as the best team ever. Kentucky’s ballyhooed players would watch the title game along with the rest of us.

The Wildcats had played 1,574 minutes of masterful basketball that season. But the 1,575th minute cost them everything.

College basketball is full of peculiarities.

Pro basketball has evolved into a spectacle, with elite players competing in modern arenas blaring hip-hop beats.

But college ball remains rugged and antiquated. Games take place in old-school fieldhouses, with cheerleaders and pep bands providing the soundtrack. Jump ball confrontations are replaced by an alternating possession arrow. And, in certain circumstances, players must make one free throw to get a chance at a second. (The dreaded 1 and 1.)

These oddities are widely forgiven, though. For the college basketball season ends with perhaps the most iconic tournament in sports.

The NCAA Tournament — widely known as March Madness — pits the top 68 teams in the country against each other. Teams face off against each other, with the winners moving on and the losers going home. This continues until there is one team left standing.

In theory, March Madness is not all that different than other postseason tournaments. Both the college and professional versions of American football have a single-elimination tournament at the end of their seasons. Part of the World Cup in soccer uses the same format.

But none of these tournaments have the size or scope of the NCAA Tournament. And none are as inherently cruel to elite teams as March Madness.

You see, to win it all, college basketball teams must win 6 games in a row. Those 6 wins must come against other great teams, under the brightest of lights.

This requires a mindset shift. It requires teams to embrace three simple words.

Survive and advance.

Indeed, it’s the most scrappy and desperate teams that have the edge in March. This has led to all manner of surprises over the years — with “Cinderella” teams knocking out more highly-regarded opponents.

Kentucky was able to avoid such an upset in the early rounds of the 2015 tournament. But the sand ran out in the Final Four.

Wisconsin proved to be scrappier than the Wildcats with the game on the line.

The Badgers survived. They advanced.

I often think about the 2014-2015 Kentucky Wildcats. The team that had it all yet walked away with nothing.

It’s tough to know what to make of them.

Generations of evidence show that The Two T’s — talent and teamwork — provide a winning combination. Darwin’s theory of evolution states that the stronger species survives, adapting to adversity more deftly than its foes.

Yet, the loss to Wisconsin defies both trends. The Badgers were no slouch that season, but they weren’t at Kentucky’s level. If both teams were firing on all cylinders, Wisconsin would seemingly be toast.

But they weren’t. The Badgers took the Wildcats’ best shot and prevailed.

In the wake of this outcome, what should we do?

Should we cast off Darwin and The Two T’s, declaring them false prophets? Absolutely not. That would be as foolish as denying the existence of gravity because a party balloon floated toward the ceiling.

Should we shrug our shoulders and chalk this all up to an anomaly? Perhaps. But it doesn’t help us make heads or tails of what happened.

No, the best course of action is to consider what the Kentucky Wildcats could have done better. And then to avoid those same pitfalls in our own life.

The answer to that is clear.

For whatever reason, the Kentucky Wildcats failed to take stock. They failed to consider what they had, and what would be needed to protect it.

This led them to get outscrapped at the worst possible time.

We must not follow suit.

As I write this, another college basketball season is in full swing.

Some teams have risen to the top. Others have stumbled but have some time to right themselves.

Indeed, March Madness is months away for college basketball. But for the rest of us, Selection Sunday is upon us.

We’re heading into a new year rife with uncertainty. Persistent inflation and accelerating layoffs are all over the headlines. The long tail of a pandemic and societal divisiveness each linger beneath the surface.

For quite a while now, we’ve relied on our attributes to thrive. The parallel rise of the tech and venture funding industries has provided ample growth opportunities. When it came to our lives, our careers, and our financial futures, we had leverage.

But now, the tables are turning.

Those around us are battening down the hatches. Growth is turning to maintenance. Excess opportunities are drying up.

In the wake of all this, we need to do what the Kentucky Wildcats didn’t. We need to adapt.

Instead of deciding which options best maximize our talents, we should consider how we can hang on to what we have.

We must be scrappy. We must be gritty.

We must survive and advance.

I’m ready to rise to the moment. Are you?

The Time Shift Fallacy

As I entered the arena, I was in for a surprise.

I knew that I was there for a pro hockey game. And I knew that my favorite team would be wearing modified throwback jerseys.

But what I didn’t know was that nearly the entire game experience would be retrofitted.

The sound system blared 1990s music. The scoreboard showed TV commercials for such bygone brands as Kay Bee Toys and Circuit City. The Zamboni drivers wore Zumba pants.

For a moment, I was transfixed. My mind had traveled back to the days when Wayne Gretzky and Mario Lemieux were on the ice. My body seemed to follow suit.

But then, reality snapped me back.

That star player who scored a hat trick (three goals) that night, leading to a cascade of hats from the stands? He was a baby in the late 1990s.

Those high-powered smartphones we were using to check the game stats? They were years from being invented back in that decade.

And the arena I was sitting in? Well, the team didn’t even start playing there until the early 2000s.

Yes, I was in an alternate reality. One that capitalized on nostalgia without sacrificing the comforts of modernity.

For a night, it worked. But when the clock struck 12, the experience turned into a pumpkin.

And an uncomfortable reality lingered.

Retro night at the hockey game isn’t the only time we’ve thrown it back.

Indeed, remnants of the past are all over our present.

Fashion from the 1990s has been back in style recently. And several cultural figures from that era have had a renaissance.

This should come as no surprise. Generational revitalizations are like clockwork in our society.

Styles from the 1980s re-emerged in the 2010s. And figures from the 1970s found new life in the 2000s.

Still, this is the first time I’ve experienced both the original and the remix. And the nostalgia has brought both glee and alarm.

At first glance, there’s not much to airbrush from the 1990s. The Cold War had ended. The American economy was humming. Aside from the O.J. Simpson trial and the Monica Lewinsky affair, there was not much to wring our hands about.

But dig a bit deeper, and the story is less tidy.

You see, the 1990s introduced the world to a film called Forrest Gump. The movie follows the title character on an accidental journey through many key moments in 20th century America.

In one such scene, Gump is trying to go to class at the University of Alabama when he finds a crowd gathered outside a building on campus. It turns out the commotion is over the racial integration of the university. Several Black students are heading to class, protected by the National Guard. And the crowd, while calm, is hostile to their cause.

During the commotion — including grandstanding by the segregationist governor George Wallace — Gump can be seen on his tiptoes, staring in on what’s going on. He later picks up a book that one of the students inadvertently dropped and hands it back to her.

In the moment, the scene seemed quaint. A relic from a moment in American history.

But recently, real-life imagery of another pivotal moment has seen some new light. The moment was the integration of North Little Rock High School in Arkansas. The era was the 1950s. And the peering onlooker was Jerry Jones.

Jones was an awkward teenager back then. But today, he’s the billionaire owner of the Dallas Cowboys — one of the world’s most famous sports teams. That makes him plenty visible.

As such, the response has not been kind. Instead of viewing the image as quaint, many have directed ire at Jones. Why was he there? And why didn’t he do more to help the bullied Black students?

The answers matter. But the questions are even more significant.

History is written by the victors.

So goes an adage that’s attributed – often controversially – to Winston Churchill.

For decades, we took such commentary at face value. But these days, we’re adding a new twist.

You see, there are now two dominant positions when it comes to historical artifacts. There are those who seek to amplify the flaws of those who came before us. And there are those who seek to wipe those blemishes away.

Thanks to this, turning points in our history — such as desegregation — are no longer taken at face value. They’ve become flashpoints.

Never mind the foolishness of viewing 20th century actions with a 21st century lens. The outcome is set in stone.

Those in the photos, recordings, and writings of yesteryear are sure to be canceled one way or another. They are certain to be construed as villains or heroes, even if they went through those eras as bystanders.

This principle is evident when it comes to Jerry Jones and that photo from Little Rock. But what about that scene from Forrest Gump?

If the movie was being made today, would that plot point have been altered? Might it have been cut?

The answer would most likely Yes.

Indeed, plenty of comedy routines from the 1990s are now considered “over the line.” A prominent 1980s song spoke of asking a doctor for a woman’s gynecological photos. A classic 1970s movie featured an Italian American saying the N-word.

None of that would fly today.

This is the reason the cultural staples of the present are so carefully varnished. And it’s the reason why we curate our trips down memory lane, through such experiences as retro night at a hockey game.

It seems sensible. It seems safe.

But it’s not working.

Back at the arena, I took in the sights and sounds of retro night with wonder.

But down the row from me, a young girl was perplexed.

The girl didn’t understand all the 1990s references. And her mother was struggling to describe them to her.

I couldn’t blame either of them.

The girl was born years after 90s mania had subsided. Like a Soviet defector encountering McDonalds for the first time, she had no ability to generate the warm fuzzies others did.

And her mother experienced that mania in real time. She was processing the Disney World version of the 1990s at the same time she was trying to explain it. That proved too tall a task to master.

This one example explains the time shift fallacy.

All our varnishing, cleansing, and massaging of the past can’t substitute for the real thing. Those of us who lived through it know better than to be bamboozled. And those who didn’t are in no position to understand, appreciate, or judge.

It’s fair to question the faults of the past using the glare of a modern lens. Such enlightenment is necessary. And efforts to avoid such inquiries are corrosively reckless.

Yet, it’s not fair to categorically dismiss all those who committed such faults. Dictators and madmen deserve our scorn for their atrocities, to be sure. But teenage onlookers captured in photos from yesteryear might not.

We might find movies reprehensible for racist dialogue. We might find songs offensive for sexist content. And indeed, we might think twice before sharing these bygone staples in contemporary settings.

But it must end there.

We mustn’t have the gall to think we can time shift, even for a moment. We mustn’t have the hubris to think we can sanitize the past. And we mustn’t categorically mistake the sins of ignorance for malice.

Yesterday is gone. The window for changing it has closed.

Let’s make today great instead.

How Little We Know

I stood in the shadow of the Hotel Sam Houston, trying not to shiver.

Corral A of the Aramco Houston Half Marathon was packed. Half marathoners brimmed with anticipation.

And then, there was me.

I had never run a half marathon before. I had no idea what I should have been doing or thinking. I hadn’t even brought throwaway clothes to protect me against the 33-degree temperatures.

Fortunately, I didn’t have too long to dwell on these details. The clock reached the top of the hour, and suddenly I was off.

It took about a few blocks for me to recognize that I was actually doing it. I was running a half marathon.

And it took a few miles for me to realize that I was running it a lot faster than anticipated.

I thought about dialing back and saving my energy. But I felt good running in the crisp morning air and decided to keep at it.

I passed a pace group and dozens of other runners, and I didn’t even start to fade until the last mile. I rallied to cross the finish line just over 90 minutes after I started running. My time was a full 10 minutes ahead of my goal.

As I caught my breath and headed over to claim my finisher medal, I was still in disbelief. I had never run that distance in that time before. It must have been a fluke.

But it was no fluke.

I bested my time at another half marathon in Fort Worth six weeks later. And then I went to Oregon two months after that and set yet another personal best.

It turned out I had a knack for distance running. But I had no idea this power lay within me as I waited in the frigid corral that morning in Houston.

How little we know.

That memory from Corral A in Houston seems distant — a sepia-toned postcard from another era.

In truth, it occurred less than a year before I put these words to paper.

Yes, a year ago, I had no idea I’d become an accomplished distance runner. I was just hoping I’d cross the finish line without running out of gas.

These days, I’m hoping for the same thing.

A rash of injuries has put my running adventures on pause. And after a series of interventions to help those maladies heal, I’m hoping I can return to form someday.

Many in my circle are bullish about my chances. They’ve seen what I’ve accomplished and have no doubt I can do it again.

But I’m far less confident.

This sport can bring you to new heights, but it can also break your heart. I’ve experienced both outcomes in less than twelve months’ time. And what comes next is anyone’s guess.

I hope my will remains strong and my body gets stronger. I hope to make it through the grueling rehab cycle without major setbacks. I hope to fly again, my strides gliding over the pavement with a burst of speed.

But I expect none of that.

How little we know.

As I write this, the world is preparing for one of my least favorite rituals.

The calendar is set to turn over again. And we’re set to stay up until midnight, watch fireworks, and pour champagne. Again.

New Year’s Eve is always quite the party. But it’s also something of a last hurrah.

We might speak broad platitudes about the year to come. We might erroneously muse about how we’ll be different when the clock strikes 12. (Seriously, stop that nonsense!) We might put on a brave face, sharing tidings and cheer.

But deep down inside, we’re terrified.

There’s no clue what’s to come in the next chapter. There’s no proof to validate our gut instincts.

The road ahead is shrouded with fog, and there’s nothing to clear it away.

We hope for favorable outcomes. But we cannot count on them. Millenia of history prove as much.

How little we know.

This New Year’s seems more fraught than many.

Spiking interest rates, rising prices, and a spate of high-profile layoffs have many Americans concerned. Violence and divisiveness continue to hound our society. And a spate of health crises remains ever present.

It certainly feels like we’re up against it. The pessimistic responses to various opinion surveys certainly bears that out.

But there are others who remain cheery and optimistic. Even amidst the spate of dark clouds, they see brighter days ahead — and soon.

It’s a classic conundrum — glass half-empty vs. glass half-full. But both sides are wrong.

For the mindset we bring into the upcoming year won’t impact our fortunes. The future writes itself the same way, whether we approach it with a smile or a frown.

We might think we have a peek around the bend. But these thoughts are nothing more than false prophecies.

How little we know.

I was obviously ill-prepared for the Aramco Houston Half Marathon. But it wasn’t for a lack of information.

All week, I’d checked the weather forecast. I’d looked at the hour-by-hour conditions, and I’d brought a variety of athletic clothes with me to Houston.

Yet, in the moment of truth, such prognostication meant little. As I dressed for the race, I had little confidence that the forecast would hold. And even if it did, I had no idea what those temperatures, wind speeds, and humidity measures would feel like as I ran.

So, I scrapped any plans to predict what came next. I committed to embracing the gray.

And while that left me underdressed at the starting line, it didn’t cost me at the finish.

Perhaps I can repeat this feat as I stare down the future. Perhaps we all can.

It might not make the events that lie ahead of us any rosier. It might not make the outcome any clearer. And it surely won’t leave us any readier to hit the ground running when they occur.

But it will save us the disappointment of dashed predictions. It will spare those around us the toxic effects of pessimism. And it will shield all of us from the futile temptation to write tomorrow today.

We gain acuity through our experience, not our musings. And the best way to gain that experience is with an open mind, a full heart, and a courageous spirit.

How little we know today. How much we are yet to know.

Let’s make it happen.

The Extension Trap

The images were horrifying.

In the heart of Chicago, railroad tracks were on fire.

This seemed to be disastrous for America’s third-largest city. Track fires would jam up rail traffic, disrupting commuters and putting a halt to freight deliveries. And the flames could easily threaten nearby structures — a possibility that had literally burned Chicago before.

But appearances can be deceiving.

Indeed, the flames were no accident. Maintenance crews had intentionally set the tracks ablaze to preserve them.

An arctic blast had hit Illinois, sending temperatures well below 0. And in those conditions, exposed metal can shrink.

Narrower tracks cannot properly hold train wheels. They make derailments likely.

Setting the tracks on fire caused the metal to expand, canceling out the damage from the biting cold. The trains kept running, and life kept churning.

Those blazing railroad tracks kept everything in equilibrium.

Several years later, another picture of fiery metal made the rounds.

This time, a metal dumpster was on fire. And the image of it was all over the Internet.

Now, an inferno of a trash receptacle doesn’t mean much on its own. Burning trash is still trash.

But what those bins represented? That certainly struck a chord.

The dumpster fire images were referencing WeWork, a once ballyhooed company that had hit a rough patch.

WeWork had started as an office co-working company — one of the first of its kind. It was a darling of the start-up world and a tempting target for venture funding.

The ingredients for success were there. And the company began to scale.

But once WeWork announced plans to incorporate as a publicly traded company, the wheels fell off.

Investors started diffing into WeWork’s finances, and they didn’t like what they saw.

The company appeared to be spending far more money than it brought in, and there seemed to be no end in sight for this pattern.

WeWork’s CEO and co-founder dismissed these concerns, stating that the company was doing far more than running a business. It was sparking a movement — a physical social network that replaced Me with We.

To this end, WeWork had already created a co-living brand called WeLive and an education concept called WeGrow. There were plans for banks, shipping, and airlines as well.

Venture investors had long looked beyond these red flags of excess. But public investors were less easily mesmerized. They wanted a return on their investment, and they saw right through the house of cards.

The fallout was brutal. WeWork saw its valuation plummet, canceled its Initial Public Offering, and laid off thousands of its workers. WeLive and WeGrow were put on ice. And the CEO was forced to resign.

There are plenty of reasons for WeWork’s collapse. Case studies and TV dramas will likely cover them for years to come. But I’d like to focus on just one.

WeWork’s failed, in part, because the burgeoning company fell into The Extension Trap.

WeWork expanded too fast, without a plan for sustaining such growth. Worse still, it pitched itself as a lifestyle movement before ensuring its core business was viable.

There was only one way out of this trap. WeWork was forced to shrink like those Chicago rail tracks, simply to get to where it should have been at all along.

The company does still exists today, and it’s now publicly traded. But that damage from its foray into The Extension Trap? It’s likely to linger for years.

The WeWork dumpster fire and the Chicago track fire have each been on my mind recently.

For as I write this, winter is setting in. And as the temperatures plummet, the world around us gets visibly smaller.

Indeed, signs of withering are everywhere. The economy is teetering, with high interest rates and higher inflation spooking off investors. And several companies have started to lay off many of their workers.

As the cold, hard reality of these cuts sinks in, the rationale remains consistent. We expanded too fast, and now the winds have changed.

On its face, such an explanation makes sense. This is the way modern markets work; investors and businesses are simply operating within those parameters.

But, come on.

Is this really the way we want to live? Are these really the values we want to espouse?

I would say not.

When it comes to eating, a cycle of binging and purging is labeled a disorder. It’s a problem — one not to be practiced or written off as trivial.

So why do we give a free pass for this behavior more broadly? Why do we keep taking the bait when we clearly know better?

Its maddening. But it doesn’t have to be inevitable.

The start of winter, with its shorter days and location at the tail end of the calendar, can seem like the lean times.

Paradoxically, it’s also the season of excess.

This is the time of the year where we overextend ourselves. Where we fill our calendars with gatherings. Where we indulge ourselves with sweets. Where we empty the coffers while shopping for gifts.

For several weeks, we lure ourselves into The Extension Trap, in the name of holiday spirit.

Of course, we can’t sustain this behavior. So once the holiday lights dim and the ornaments go back into storage, we adjust back to our regular patterns. And we do our best to ignore the pain this readjustment causes us.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

We can resolve to stop this madness. To say No more often. To choose not to overextend ourselves.

It’s a singular action, a drop in the bucket in the grand scheme of things. But as more and more of us head that direction, that ripple can become a wave. And perhaps, these expectations of overextension will go away.

And it doesn’t have to stop there.

Investors are people. So are members of the C-Suite. They too have lives outside of the office. They too have families and social circles.

If our movement crosses the tipping point, it can influence their decisions. And it can shift the contours in which we operate.

That would truly be a paradigm shift. But it can’t happen unless we make the first move.

So, let’s be bold. Let’s be brave. Let’s be smart.

Let’s practice moderation and steer clear of The Extension Trap.

It’s our best path forward.

Playing it Back

As I picked up the cup, I felt it slide.

My grip seemed strong, and my focus was top-notch. Yet, gravity was inclined to foil my efforts.

My reflexes took over, clutching the cup tighter. My hands trembled momentarily, but I was able to steady myself.

Crisis averted, I thought. Or maybe not.

I looked down at my custom football jersey, now splashed with beer. When my hands had trembled, some of the liquid had left the cup — and ended up on one of my most expensive pieces of clothing.

It was the cruelest of ironies. I don’t drink; I was bringing the beer to my mother, sitting at a table nearby. And yet, I’d paid the price for chivalry.

Back at the table, with the beer now handed off, my mind began racing. I was counting the seconds until I could get home and carefully place the jersey in the wash. And I was reliving my quasi-disaster, playing it back over and over to see where things went wrong.

I was stuck on a road to nowhere.

If I could turn back time.

This is more than a famous Cher song. It’s a common lament. A wish with no chance of being granted.

For time moves in but one direction — forward. Attempting to re-litigate the past is foolhardy.

And yet, we continue to try.

There’s a reason why time travel movies are so popular. There’s a reason fashion trends cycle every few decades. There’s a reason why songs about regret — including that Cher tune — persist.

We are obsessed with playing it back. We are consumed by the thought of one tweak yielding a different outcome.

We’d rather not look at the spilled beer on our cherished jersey. We’d rather not sweep up the shattered glass from the kitchen floor. We’d rather not face the conundrum we find ourselves in.

Far better to picture an entirely different reality.

Even if conjuring such illusions amounts to little more than wasted energy.

I sat in the classroom, staring at the whiteboard.

My business school professor was introducing the concept of decision trees, and I was mesmerized.

Not by the myriad probabilities and the complicated math. All of that was over my head.

No, the concept itself had me enthralled.

You see, I had long dreamed of seeing all the possibilities in front of me and choosing the optimal one. For I had obsessed over the moments that caused bad outcomes, imagining how they could have gone better.

I tended to do this more with the little things in my life than the big ones. I rarely played back my decision to move to a new state or to jump to a new vocation.

But that trek down a muddy path that got my shoes dirty? That money I wasted because I forgot to use a discount code? I’d chew on those missteps for months.

Now, I had a visual aid for this fixation. I could draw the branches and vividly explore the alternatives.

I could make the imperfect art of playing it back a bit smoother.

And so, my games of what if intensified. What was once an arcane exercise turned into a data driven endeavor. One whose futility was masked by ferocity.

Nothing could deter me from this sorry crusade. At least not until the day I spilled some beer on my cherished football jersey.

For my mother caught me in this sad spiral. And she would have none of it.

Stop reliving it, she scolded me. We’ll get the jersey clean and move on.

It wasn’t exactly earth-shattering advice. But it changed my approach entirely.

For my mother’s words exposed an underlying truth. This obsession with playing it back, with decision trees, with alternatives — it wasn’t about hiding in the past for me. No, I kept going to the tape as a means of control.

If I could find the root cause of bad outcomes, I could avoid them in the future. At least that was the thought.

But things happen, regardless of my attempts to avoid them. It would be far better for me to focus on my response than to keep digging for the root cause.

With that ethos in tow, I find myself playing it less often.

In September 2008, the Miami Dolphins and the New England Patriots met for a football game in Massachusetts.

The game was billed as a massive mismatch. New England had won 21 straight games in the regular season, had dominated the division both teams played in, and had played in the most recent Super Bowl. While the Patriots were missing their injured star quarterback, they still had Bill Belichick — the best head coach in the National Football League.

In the days leading up to the game, Belichick prepared meticulously. He watched hours of game film, noting the Dolphins’ patterns and tendencies. And he formed a game plan to exploit those tendencies.

But once the game started, it was Belichick who was exploited.

The Dolphins rolled out a new offensive formation. The running back would line up where the quarterback normally did, taking the snap directly. He would then rush to the outside behind a convoy of blockers. Or he might zip it to a nearby wide receiver if the defense left that receiver open.

Miami hadn’t used this formation — the Wildcat — in any of its prior games. Belichick hadn’t prepared for it, and neither had the New England defense.

The Dolphins ran roughshod over the Patriots, earning the victory on the way to a division title. New England ended up missing the playoffs.

This game showed how playing it back has its limits.

Video footage has revolutionized football, taking coaching, scouting, and player safety to the next level. But it can’t tell all.

There’s always a surprise looming that the tape can’t find. A Wildcat formation, if you will.

How teams react to that sudden adversity makes all the difference. The players, coaches and staff who can steady themselves through the fog tend to be the ones who claim victory. Those attached to the past find themselves weighed down by it.

The same dichotomy awaits us. Memory is a potent tool. But it’s not all-powerful.

Past doesn’t always make prologue. And dwelling on what’s written can lower the horizons of what we’ve yet to write.

So, let’s move away from playing it back. Let’s get off the what if carousel. Let’s swap out the rehash for the response.

We’ll be better for it.

Against The Grain

Just say no.

If you turned on your television back in the 1980s, you likely heard those three words.

They came from First Lady Nancy Reagan. And they were part of the War on Drugs campaign.

The United States was in plenty of shadow conflicts at the time. The Cold War was ever present. The War on Poverty appeared to be a lost cause. The War on Inflation had yielded a brutal recession.

But the War on Drugs was getting plenty of outsize attention. Because the future of our kids was at stake.

Now, the future of our kids was at stake plenty of times before. Teenagers tend to be rebellious, after all. And those signs of rebellion – rock and roll music, dancing, roller blading — those have traditionally come under fire by buttoned-up older generations.

But this was different. This time, the offender was a public health hazard. One that we’d turned a blind eye to for far too long.

So, our nation took dead aim. Arrests for possession accelerated. Sentence lengths for dealing skyrocketed. And the crisis abated.

Or at least that was what we told ourselves.

For we were already onto the next frontier — big tobacco. Over the course of the 1990s, the sight of teenagers smoking went from normal to noteworthy.

Advertising for cigarettes declined — per government degree — and buying a pack became much more tedious. As a result, fewer young people gave it a try.

This seemed like a massive success. But there was no time to celebrate. For once again, it was on to the next challenge.

The new enemy arose around the time I reached my teenage years. This one wasn’t a pill, a powder, or a cigarette. It was online poker — a game my peers were flocking to, despite not having the money to back their bids.

Legislators had long dealt with this problem by restricting access to gambling venues, through licensing and age minimums. But the Internet opened a gateway for teens to walk through. And walk through, they did.

So, the authorities cracked down. They started going after the owners of poker websites, while putting out Public Service Announcements about the dangers of gambling.

It didn’t work out as intended.

For it turned out that the online poker fiasco was just the tip of the iceberg. Technology was opening a Pandora’s Box of issues for adolescents — including new ways to access drugs and inhale nicotine.

Fending off those myriad issues turned into a giant game of whack-a-mole. Those leading the charges were a step behind.

Just say no wasn’t quote as straightforward as it seemed.

Why did Nancy Reagan’s initiative go so awry?

Was it the messaging? The tactics? The inability to anticipate the whims of youth?

All these issues likely played a role. But I believe the biggest fault lies at the root.

Just say no trivialized the concept of abstinence. It made quitting seem as trivial as flipping a light switch — a simple task with instant results.

But it’s never quite that simple.

It turns out that abstinence campaigns are asking a lot of us. They’re demanding that we break with habit and go against the grain. All while ignoring the related challenges that are sure to arise along the way.

And those challenges are doubly prominent with adolescents. After all, teenagers are naturally primed to go against the grain. That’s the impetus behind the rule bending and troublemaking that gives older generations such distress.

Asking teenagers to rebel against their rebelliousness on a dime can be straight up delusional. Yet, this is precisely what we tried with Just say no.

No wonder it flopped.

How can I help?

These four words were meant to be my compass.

So said the internship coordinator at CBS News on my first day there.

I was meant to be continually useful, searching for projects to assist with whenever I had a free moment. Saying no was not an option.

I was barely beyond my own adolescence at this point. Fresh off rebellious years that proved to be anything but, I was keen to answer the call.

So, I set up green screen backdrops. I reordered archive tapes. I watched arcane news clips until I knew them by memory.

It wasn’t a glamorous role, but it fulfilled the mission. It proved I was helpful, useful, and perhaps worthy of a future job opportunity.

Still, I finished those eight weeks unsettled. For it seemed to me that finding a footing in TV news — or any other industry — meant never saying no to anything.

It didn’t matter if the pay was too low, the risk was too great, or life was getting in the way. Declining an opportunity might slam the door on your career before it could even get established.

This mentality is now pervasive in our society. Openness and flexibility are cornerstones of our culture.

That’s often a good thing. But not always.

You see, agreeableness requires sacrifice. We put aside our own needs to cater to the demands of others.

The benefits of this trade — acceptance, opportunity, prosperity — make it palatable. But we can only truly flourish if we look out for ourselves as voraciously as we do for others. And sometimes that means going against the grain.

It means just saying no.

Several years back, I got an invite to a fancy gala.

It had all the fixings. Black tie. Hors d’oeuvres. And a guest list that featured several friends.

I had every reason to go. I would get to dress up and live it up with people I cared about.

There was only one problem: I didn’t want to go. At all.

So, I went against the grain. I declined the invite, without providing an alibi. And I didn’t regret it.

That gala was the first time in a while that I remember actively saying no to something. But it wouldn’t be the last.

Indeed, I’ve declined all manner of invites and requests in subsequent years. I’m selective when I do this — I don’t want to jeopardize my career or my friendships. But the days of me being an automatic Yes have long passed.

And I have flourished as a result.

Perhaps this is the Just say no that we can get behind. One where our own compass guides the way, rather than one foisted upon us from others.

This method won’t be perfect. But it holds the promise of being better than the status quo.

Going against the grain is never easy. But sometimes it’s needed.

When it is, let’s do it right.

A Winning Hand

You gotta know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em.

Kenny Rogers’ The Gambler is famously hokey. It amounts to three and a half minutes of non-advice about how to find a winning hand — both in card games and in life.

The song was well past its peak when I was a teenager. You’d hear it now and then out in public, but not frequently enough.

Truth be told, we could have used a bit more Kenny Rogers back then. For plenty of us were in big trouble.

You see, poker was gaining popularity nationally. And online poker was becoming prevalent. Many of my teenage peers were caught up in the craze, mesmerized by the allure of massive payouts.

Yet, most of these teens had little experience managing money. And when the winning hands dwindled — when the bluffing and bravado went up in smoke — some ended up deep in the hole to entities determined to collect.

It was a real problem. One that threatened to haunt my generation for years to come.

I didn’t get swept up by the online poker craze as a teenager. And I didn’t end up with a mountain of debt.

There were two factors guarding me from such a fate. I was extremely risk averse. And I was bad at poker.

I played the game now and then — mostly at family game nights or gatherings with friends. I knew what a Royal Flush and a Full House were. And I could usually identify a winning hand.

But when I didn’t have that hand, I was toast.

Yes, I was proficient at playing the cards I was dealt. But when it came to reading the table, I was a novice.

I never bluffed. And wouldn’t dare call out others for doing so.

I didn’t win much this way. But I didn’t lose big either.

All this was extremely on brand for my life at the time.

I tried to shy away from false pretense as a teenager. Sure, my fashion sense and musical taste were less than authentic. But when it came to items of substance, I focused on the tasks directly in front of me. This ethos made me a solid student and a reliable friend.

Yet, as I grew older, I began to stray from this path. I started dreaming big, making grand plans, and racking up assumptions.

And just like those amateur teenage poker players, I got burned.

2.0 in 2020.

That was the name of my now-infamous plan to take my life to the next level.

It had already been quite the ride for me in early adulthood. I’d moved to faraway West Texas to work in TV news, only to ultimately leave that industry and move east to Dallas.

I’d landed on my feet and built a stable career in digital marketing. But I feared that I’d plateaued, and I saw few advancement opportunities out there.

Rather than play the cards I was dealt, I yearned to build myself a winning hand.

So, I bet big. I enrolled in business school, while still working full time. And as I neared the finish line of my Masters of Business Administration studies, I set objectives for myself.

Getting a new job was paramount. But not just any job. I needed an “MBA job” in marketing at a major company in the area. And it had to happen not long after graduation, while my degree was still “fresh.”

By my estimations, this metamorphosis needed to be in full swing by the time 2020 rolled around. Hence, the 2.0 in 2020 moniker.

At first, things looked promising. I made it all the way to a final round of interviews with a prominent global brand. I had some other promising prospects as well.

But then, things dried up. The interview requests dwindled, and I got snubbed for an internal promotion.

As my self-imposed deadline of 2020 approached, I felt as if I was holding anything but a winning hand.

Then, a global pandemic arrived.

With the world shutting down, I felt compelled to hang on to what I had. My home, my friends, and my job.

This feeling only intensified when my employer was acquired. The future of my position was shaky, and I prayed that my income would continue to come in.

2.0 in 2020 had gone up in flames spectacularly. I had retreated into my shell in response, waiting in vain for the firestorm to abate.v

But I grew bored after a time. And I got bold.

I landed a role on my new employer’s marketing team — finally getting that MBA job I’d yearned for. I joined some local running groups and started medaling in races. I trekked around the country more than I had in years.

Like a phoenix, I’d risen from the ashes. I was making my own luck, and I was thriving.

But a big part of me wondered how much of all this was real. And I feared that I’d become Icarus, flying too close to the sun.

My fears were soon realized.

I got sick on a work trip and then hit a few bumpy patches at work. I got injured, putting an abrupt pause to my running exploits. I faded away from friends and family, losing confidence in myself throughout the ordeal.

I was frustrated. I was dispirited. I was lost.

The ghost of 2.0 in 2020 had burned me once again.

What is a winning hand?

I asked this rhetorically one night, as I stared aimlessly at the living room wall.

Through all the ups and downs, my North Star had remained constant. But it was evident that I had no idea what that star was.

It seemed best to get back to basics. To stop waffling between honest play and the bluff. To stop looking at the cards altogether.

The planning hadn’t led to the payoff. The house got the last laugh every time.

It would be far better for me to take things one day at a time. To look at what’s in right front of me and to react accordingly.

I’ve started taking this approach a bit more. And thus far, I’m happy with the results.

There’s a poignant lesson in here for all of us.

While we might desire to upgrade our hand through bluster and bravado to find success, we might have all we need already. It’s likely been there the whole time. We just hadn’t bothered to look for it before.

Success can be found in stillness. In simplicity. In the six inches in front of our face.

It’s our job — our obligation — to open our eyes to it. Let’s do so.

The Downshift

I hit the homestretch with a head of steam.

I was carving a path through the icy ski slope, out of control, and trying to avoid a wipeout at 20 miles per hour.

Deft skiers would manage this task with ease. But I was a beginner.

So, I took wide turns. I weaved around other skiers. I widened my skis into that pizza shape they teach 4-year-olds to make. Then I widened them more.

Nothing seemed to slow me down enough.

The slope mercifully ended. But now, I was flying through the straightaway like a car with malfunctioning brakes. I crossed the snowy apron like a bowling ball, chugging toward the parking lot.

The laws of physics dictated that I would either run out of velocity or I would crash into a parked car. I prayed for the first option, and I got it — narrowly.

I was alive. I was intact. And no humans, ski equipment, or vehicles were damaged.

But as I made my way back to the apron, two cold truths hit me like an avalanche.

I needed ski lessons, desperately. And momentum is hard to stop.

A few years after my ski fiasco, I once again tangled with the power of momentum.

I was working as a news producer in Midland, Texas. A week before Thanksgiving, the police scanner on my desk buzzed, warning of a “possible train accident” in town.

It turns out that a freight train had collided with a parade float full of Purple Hearts. Men who had courageously served in Iraq and Afghanistan ended up perishing at an event in their honor.

I broke the story on our newscast, and it quickly got picked up nationally. It was a career-making moment, but I was in no mood to celebrate.

For one thing, I was devastated by what had happened. I wished that this tragedy hadn’t hit my home city.

But I was also busy. For the National Transportation Safety Board had converged upon West Texas to investigate the incident. And each day, I would air highlights from the myriad press conferences the NTSB held.

Those press conferences now blur together, but there is one moment I remember clearly. An NTSB representative was discussing whether railroad signals two miles from the accident were working properly on that fateful day. Suddenly, he paused for emphasis.

“This is all important,” he stated. “Because it takes a mile to stop a train.”

It takes a mile to stop a train.

I had never considered that point before. Neither had many viewers of my newscast, who wondered openly why the train engineer couldn’t have just slammed the brakes a bit harder.

But upon reflection, it made perfect sense.

The power of a freight train can be a great asset for the transportation industry. It can help ferry goods across our nation with great speed.

But all that momentum can’t just be halted on a dime. The train needs to downshift first. And it needs plenty of track to gradually slow to a halt.

As it turns out, my career was on a similar trajectory to that train. My big break had broken me, and I now saw no path forward. I sought to switch tracks to a new career — immediately.

This proved impossible.

For my entire resume read TV news, and employers outside of the media were wary of giving me a chance. I would need to fully downshift out of my old vocation before I could pick up a new venture.

It took more than half a year for me to fully make a career transition. And I had to move to a new city and spend several months unemployed along the way.

Momentum is a powerful thing. But sometimes, it can be a crutch.

If you had one word to describe the world as it exists these days, what would you use?

Unpredictable? Unsettling? Divisive?

It’s no secret the past several years have upset the apple cart.

A global pandemic, widening polarization, and economic strife have all shaken the foundations of what we thought we once knew. They’ve forced us to adapt in real time.

Some of these adaptations will likely have staying power. We’ve gone from remote work novices to aficionados in short order, for instance.

Others probably won’t last. Say goodbye to wide-scale remote learning.

I have my thoughts on these specific adaptations, as we all do. But I’m more fascinated with the wider picture.

For there is a narrative behind these changes. There is a not-so-silent expectation of us.

This narrative, this expectation — it demands that we stop on a dime and reverse field. It insists that we throw away everything we’re accustomed to so that we can meet the moment.

Such thinking might seem prudent when staring down an acute emergency, such as a blossoming pandemic. It might seem excessive when the risk is opaque, as is the case with climate change.

But either way, it’s primed for blowback.

For much like a freight train or a novice skier, we are not built for a quick pause. We need to downshift, to lose steam, to exhaust that mile of runway before we can rightfully blaze that new trail.

Expecting anything more of us is unrealistic. And yet, we continue to raise that bar.

Many of us called other people killers when they dared to go out in public early in the pandemic. What was so recently run-of-the-mill behavior was now considered accessory to murder.

And many people who eat meat or shun electric cars have been branded planet destroyers. The endless hurdles of sustainability are ignored in favor of shaming the status quo.

These demands carry a chilling effect, driving a wedge between the judgmental and the judged. They often provoke a nasty response, stoking the flames of polarizing vitriol.

But worse than that, they close doors to opportunities.

For many of those we shame for not being committed to the cause are actually on their way there. They just need that mile of track to downshift before changing course.

Ostracizing these people in such a fragile moment is foolhardy. It causes many of them to abort the mission, and to double down on old habits. For if they’re going to get yelled at either way, it’s better for them to stick with the familiar. At least that’s the common refrain.

Ignoring the physics of momentum does us no good. No good at all.

So, let’s try something new.

Let’s favor grace over judgment. Let’s give others the time to adapt to the realities of an ever-changing world. And let’s give ourselves that gift too.

The downshift requires planning, anticipation, and a mile worth of track. But there is no substitute for this if we want to avoid catastrophe.

And that’s certainly a goal worth striving for.