Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

Pulling the Plug

As I walked to the starting line, I felt tentative.

Pre-race jitters played a part in that, sure. But they didn’t tell the whole story.

My left leg was aching a bit. It had for weeks. And I wasn’t sure it would hold up.

I had taken all the normal precautions. I’d stopped running for a week. I’d gotten x-rays, which had come back negative.

All was supposedly well. But it didn’t exactly seem that way, even after my warmup jog.

Still, when the horn sounded, my legs got moving. Adrenaline took over, and all discomfort faded away. I raced, and I raced hard.

I crossed the finish line with a personal best for the 10K distance, placing me in a Top 15 position. I was elated with the result, and just as thrilled to find that my leg wasn’t aching anymore.

I was fine. Or so it seemed.

A week later, the discomfort returned, and it intensified rapidly. An MRI proved what I’d already feared – I had a significant injury.

I had to take two months off from running. As a result, I pulled out of a marathon I had been training for.

Going all out in that race had proved quite costly.

Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.

Those words are now the legacy of Jim Valvano.

Valvano was a championship-caliber college basketball coach. But few remember him for his accolades on the court.

Instead, they recall an iconic speech he gave at the 1993 ESPY Awards. A speech that included those seven words.

Valvano was battling cancer at the time — a battle that would tragically end weeks later. But during his time at the podium, Valvano made an impassioned plea for cancer research resources. Resources that were shockingly scant at that time.

After noting that these efforts would more likely save his children’s lives than his own, Valvano announced the launch of The V Foundation for Cancer Research. The foundation’s motto would be those seven words: Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.

That speech, and that motto, resonated with many. If this man remained so committed, even on death’s doorstep, how could we even think of quitting?

I found myself influenced by seduced by this same message. In fact, I can count on one hand the times I’ve pulled the plug on something.

This applies to everything – my career, my hobbies, even the shows I stream. When I’m in, I’m all in.

Such a mentality can have its virtues, of course. Stick-to-it-iveness is an American hallmark.

But the downsides can be significant. Wasted time. Misaligned energy. And even the potential for shattered dreams.

It’s far better to add some nuance. To know when to stay in the fight, and when to pull the plug.

You’ll know when it’s time.

Just about every former athlete has shared this wisdom when discussing the best time to hang it up.

Many pro athletes have stuck the landing when it came time to pull the plug. Peyton Manning walked away from football with a Super Bowl victory. Ray Borque lifted the Stanley Cup and hung up his skates. The late, great Kobe Bryant dropped 60 points in his final pro basketball game.

But then there are those who hung on too long. Wayne Gretzky’s unparalleled hockey career ended with three modest seasons where he sported New York Rangers sweater. Michael Jordan unretired from basketball (a second time) to slog through two mediocre years with the Washington Wizards. Tom Brady reneged on retirement, losing football games and his marriage in the process.

Michael Jordan, Tom Brady, and Wayne Gretzky are widely considered the best to ever lace ‘em up in their respective sports. Kobe Bryant, Peyton Manning, and Ray Borque — for all their greatness — are a rung below.

But when it comes to a graceful landing, those three left the all-timers in the dust. They had the mental fortitude to pull the plug at a moment of jubilation. To resist the urge to just get one more. To repel the temptation to defy Father Time yet again.

That’s not an easy choice for a pro athlete to make. Especially when those athletes have spent decades following the advice of Jim Valvano.

I may never attain the athleticism of Michael Jordan, the poise of Tom Brady, or the grace of Wayne Gretzky. But as I walked to the starting line of my fateful 10K race, I felt the same competitive spirit they did.

Instead of embracing the process of recovery, I was visualizing my comeback.

I was playing with fire. And I got burned.

You gotta know when to hold em. And know when to fold em…

Many of us know the words to Kenny Rogers’ hit The Gambler by heart. But few of us have followed them with precision.

One exception? Champion Poker players.

You see, walking away is a key strategy in Poker. For there are times when you just don’t have the cards.

In those moments, doubling down on a bluff can prove costly. Better to cut your losses and live to fight another day.

Annie Duke understands this. As one of the greatest professional poker players of all time, Duke has long been renowned for making the right choice at the table. And sometimes the right choice was to walk away.

Duke has compiled that knowledge in several acclaimed books on decision making. One of those is called Quit: The Power in Knowing When to Walk Away.

As I write this, I still haven’t gotten my hands on the book. But I probably could have used its counsel recently.

I had returned from my injury and set my eyes on competing once again. But my will was ahead of my legs, and I kept suffering setbacks.

I had two significant races coming up — a half-marathon and a full one. Both required several weeks of dedicated training. And now, I had to decide whether to proceed.

The competitor in me was daring to soldier on. I had already missed so much time for something more significant. Surely, I wouldn’t be felled by this.

But the pragmatist in me was screaming to pull the plug. It remembered what happened when I ran that ill-advised race. And when I continued to train on that bad leg.

For days, I agonized over what to do.

For there was no smoking gun this time. No MRI report to peruse. No doctor’s orders keeping me out of the race.

The decision would be mine, and mine alone.

Ultimately, I did withdraw from both races. It was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make. But I’m confident it was the right one — and one that will pay dividends long term.

So no, the story hasn’t ended happily for me. At least not this chapter.

But perhaps there’s something we can all learn from my saga, and from all the examples that somehow influenced it.

Pulling the plug is not an automatic marker of weakness. In the right context, it can be a powerful weapon.

Let that context be your compass, and my loss be your lesson. And you may yet find the seas of life to be a bit less treacherous.

Godspeed.

Ingrata Terra

Way up on the overpass, you can see the marks. Silt-laden smudges leaving a permanent tattoo on the concrete.

They’re the marks you might expect to see on the bottom of a Mississippi River barge. Or perhaps on a bayfront causeway.

But this overpass was neither of those things. Instead, it was part of a highway intersection in Houston, Texas.

Now, Houston isn’t exactly the desert. There are plenty of bayous, streams, and lakes around town.

But this intersection wasn’t near any of those. And that made the silt markings even more jarring.

Indeed, those rust-colored imprints are a reminder. A reminder of a time when the water flowed into places normally high and dry.

I’m talking, of course, about Hurricane Harvey — the thousand-year storm that inundated Southeast Texas in 2017.

Houston had dealt with flooding events before, and it had been decked by the occasional hurricane. But it had never seen anything to this magnitude.

Days of heavy rain saturated the area. Roads turned to rivers, and inundated homeowners awaited rescue as the rising waters destroyed their possessions. Power and supplies dwindled as desperation soared.

By the time it was over, Hurricane Harvey had killed more than 100 people and caused $125 billion in damage. As Americans looked on in horror, a question started percolating.

Why would anyone want to live in a place like Houston?

The irony was palpable.

For the Houston metro area — the nation’s fifth largest — had once been lauded for its livability.

There were ample jobs in multiple industries, bountiful entertainment options, and plenty of large homes to choose from. Most of the country was a three-hour flight away. And there was no state income tax.

Sure, the summers could be swampy, and the traffic could be miserable. But idea of setting down roots in Southeast Texas was considered more boon than burden.

Harvey changed that. And now — long after the floodwaters have receded — Houston is viewed by many as Ingrata Terra, or unwelcome land.

To outsiders, those silt marks on the concrete are more than scars of a past trauma. They’re indicators of a cursed destiny.

Dropping anchor in the shadow of such symbols would be foolhardy. Better to choose somewhere safer.

The Ingrata Terra argument is gaining steam these days. And not just in Texas.

A spate of wildfires in California has sparked a backlash against development in the WUI — or Wildland Urban Interface. That’s the spot where human development intrudes upon nature.

In Florida, a deadly condo collapse has left many reconsidering the prospect of living on the beach. Between erosion and storm concerns, the risk certainly seems to outweigh the reward.

And in the Rust Belt, the decline of once-dominant industries has led many to claim some once-prominent cities dead. The supposed demise of Detroit, Cleveland, and Buffalo is a well-known tale these days — even if it’s being penned by those living several states away.

Yes, the glass house effect is in full force. We throw stones at locations that have weathered these storms, propping up our unblemished locales in comparison.

Such actions are foolish, for multiple reasons.

First, nowhere is truly safe from calamity. Disasters are getting more unpredictable by the year. Places that have been unscathed by them thus far are likely sitting ducks.

Second, Ingrata Terra assumes that cities can’t rebound. It posits that a metro area can’t better prepare itself for the next catastrophe. It presumes that the region’s eulogy is part and parcel with the initial crisis.

This thinking is simply not true. And there’s ample proof as to why.

Back when I was in middle school, I visited New Orleans with my family.

It was February, and the Crescent City was in the Mardi Gras spirit. I was amazed by the atmosphere, I was mesmerized by the food, and I couldn’t get enough of the warm weather. I couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t want to live down the Bayou.

Some years later, New Orleans got pummeled by Hurricane Katrina. The levees failed, the city got flooded, and many residents lost everything.

In the wake of this disaster, a new debate arose. Was the Crescent City worth rebuilding?

Many argued that it wasn’t. After all, New Orleans sat at sea level, surrounded by swamps, lakes, and rivers. With its Gulf Coast location, it would likely be in the path of many other hurricanes. And counting on the levees for salvation seemed like a fool’s errand, given what had just occurred.

Still, the city did rebuild, revitalizing the levee system in the process. The criticism was fast and furious, but New Orleans tuned out the noise and churned ahead.

Many years later, Hurricane Ida took fresh aim at the Louisiana Bayou. Once again, prognosticators called for catastrophe as the storm bore down on the Crescent City.

But the levee system did its job. New Orleans didn’t fill like a bathtub this time. It survived the worst of Ida mostly intact.

More than 1,000 miles away in New York, people weren’t quite as fortunate.

After churning its way through the Deep South and Appalachia, Ida’s remnants buzzed right across the Big Apple. Nearly a foot of rain fell in less than an hour, inundated many streets and homes. Several residents drowned in flooded basements.

The sense of irony was tragic.

Many calls for the abandonment of New Orleans post-Katrina had come from the New York area. The land of a million pundits was supposedly a more stable location for development than the lower Mississippi Delta.

But now, it was New York reeling in the wake of a storm. A storm that had decked Louisiana with all its fury but could not bring the Bayou to its knees.

Ingrata Terra? It’s pure folly.

Some years back, archeologists found the remains of an English king.

Such a discovery normally would not raise eyebrows. This is what archeologists do, after all.

Nevertheless, the discovery led to international news coverage. Mostly on account of where the remains were found.

You see, the dig site wasn’t some remote stretch of land, or the fringes of an old church. No, King Richard III was found beneath a parking lot.

This saga demonstrates a great many traits about humanity — including our knack for adaptability.

At the time of King Richard III’s burial, no commoner would dared have left his horse above his regal remains. But over the centuries, society adapted. Memories faded, areas were rezoned, and a parking lot cropped up on hallowed ground.

Indeed, the world is what we make of it. We’ve built cities in the desert, carved our likenesses into the mountains, and harnessed the energy of the wind and the sun.

Nature might strike back from time to time, but it’s hardly enough to slow our roll.

Ingrata terra might have applied centuries ago. But these days, it’s hardly a factor.

So maybe it’s time to look at those Houston overpasses in a new light. Those rusty marks are not harbingers of doom. They’re a reminder of all that we’ve overcome.

Ingrata terra can’t be found here.

On Neediness

Meow! Meow! Meow!

The sound reverberated through the house, piercing the serenity of Christmas morning.

My friends and I all made our way to the living room, looking like Zombies. The cat stared at us and meowed some more.

We all desired something at that moment. The cat yearned for food, the humans for sleep.

Only one of the species would get what we wanted. The one with paws, fur, and an enviable sense of dexterity.

Indeed, moments later, the cat was working his way through a newly filled bowl. The meowing had ceased.

Meanwhile, we were all still awake and groggy as heck.

It was to be a joyous day ahead. Perhaps the most joyous one on the calendar. But at this moment, that spirit was sorely lacking.

Anything I say before coffee cannot be used against me.

On its face, this adage is straightforward. We’re often not at our best in the early morning light. That little pick-me-up works wonders.

But it also speaks wonders about our neediness.

We need coffee to feel sufficiently energized. And we need to feel “with it” as early in the day as possible.

These needs have defined cultural norms. They’ve also helped fuel an $85 billion industry in the United States.

I can’t say I was thinking about all this on that Christmas morning, as I fired up my friends’ Keurig machine for a cup of liquid inspiration. But as I stared over at the cat, now contented, it dawned on me just how needy we all are.

Not just the young or old or disabled.

All of us.

In September 1992, a hunter in the Alaskan bush came upon the remains of Chris McCandless.

McCandless had made his way into the wilderness of The Last Frontier hoping to live off the land, free of wants. But that land had devoured him whole.

The McCandless tragedy has been turned into a book and feature film, both called Into the Wild. For years, many of those who encountered the tale have found themselves debating his actions and motivations.

But to me, such arguments are beside the point. For Chris McCandless is just the tip of the iceberg.

You see, there have been plenty of others who undertook a similar quest, with similar reasoning, and suffered a similar fate. Only in their case, there was no hunter to come upon their remains while they were still recognizable.

Yes, the headline of this sad saga should have nothing to do with adventure or determinism. Instead, it should pinpoint a simple fact.

There is nowhere we can go to escape neediness.

This is an uncomfortable thought. A taboo one even in our society, where a central tenet is self-sufficiency.

But all that baggage can’t block out the truth.

We all need a lot — whether we’re off the grid or on it.

When I was growing up, my family went on several road trips.

On the highway, my parents had only one rule.

If we came across a rest stop, we would all need to at least try to use the restroom.

For the open road represented a significant challenge. As we crossed miles upon miles of blacktop, there were few opportunities for us to satisfy some of our most basic biological needs. Forcing the issue at a highway rest stop was our best bet.

On its face, I realize how ridiculous this whole charade was. As a runner, I will confess to stopping at far less glamorous locales than highway rest stops to relieve myself. It comes with the territory when putting in the miles.

But just because it’s possible to take care of business anywhere doesn’t make it acceptable. Anyone who’s ever read a travel horror story thread knows that cleanliness is paramount while traveling.

Whether we’re 5 or 55, we need a climate-controlled location with indoor plumbing, toilet paper and liquid soap for our pit stops. Nothing less will do.

Of course, those can’t be found at every mile marker or exit. So, we need to take seize the rest stop opportunities we do come across. That’s the only way we can meet both our needs and society’s demands of us.

Looking back now, my parents weren’t setting the rules by pulling off the highway at every rest stop. They were abiding by them.

And these days, I find myself doing the same.

Not long ago, I headed into the office to get some work done.

This statement would hardly have been worth writing a few years back. But in an era of hybrid and remote work, it’s almost an oddity.

Indeed, only one other person was in the massive office suite that day. All around me, rows of cubicles sat vacant. The silence was deafening.

It was clear that this space — my company’s regional headquarters — wasn’t needed anymore in its current form. Indeed, the company has plans to decommission it.

But I need something like it.

You see, my home is many things. But an office is not one of them.

There is no built-in space for a desk and external monitors. So, I end up working from a laptop on my dining room table when I’m not in the office.

It’s a woefully inadequate setup. And my work from it is subpar as well.

So, even in an office-less future for my region, I will need office space.

In my quest for such a space, I’ve tried to keep things simple.

A private room with an internet connection and a stand for my webcam and external monitors would suffice. After all, that’s what’s technically required for me to deliver my work on time and hold virtual meetings with discretion.

But I soon realized that wouldn’t be enough.

I needed a large enough desk to eat my lunch at. I needed access to a clean and well-maintained restroom. I needed climate control and somewhere to park my car.

Oh, and coffee. I needed plenty of coffee.

These requirements would seem like novelties to construction workers, oilfield roughnecks and ranchers. And yet, like many so-called knowledge workers, I couldn’t imagine doing my best work without them readily available.

Am I that needy? Are we all?

It certainly appears so. But there’s nothing wrong with that.

Why did the cat dampen Christmas spirits? Why did Chris McCandless wander off into the wild? Why did I roll my eyes at those forced road trip pit stops and then nearly forget to add a restroom — a restroom — to the list of my office essentials?

It’s because of the stigma around having needs.

Yes, we treat neediness as a sign of weakness. It’s a black mark. A strain on others. A crutch.

With this in mind, we do our best to suppress our needs. We put ourselves through strife to avoid appearing vulnerable.

But no one wins at the end of this process. In fact, we all lose.

It’s time to do away with that misguided machismo. It’s time to say sayonara to the mirage of wanting for nothing.

We all need plenty for ourselves and from each other. The steps we take and the structures we build to satisfy those needs — those are the lifeblood of our society.

So, let’s give ourselves a break, and give neediness its due.

We wouldn’t be here today without it, and we won’t realize the promise of tomorrow unless we accept it.

On the Chin

Keep your right hand up.

So directed my grandfather as he taught my sister and I some boxing moves.

He wasn’t grooming us to be prizefighters. But he wanted us to have the skills to defend ourselves. And the first order of business was getting that right hand in position to protect our faces.

I was incredulous at first. Wasn’t fighting about aggression? Wouldn’t the objective be to throw some powerful left hooks? And if it was, wouldn’t it be harder to land them with my right hand blocking my view?

My grandfather drove the point home as clearly as he knew how.

If you don’t keep your right hand up, you’ll end up like me.

He pointed to his nose, permanently broken after a sparring incident in his youth. And the message landed with gusto.

Failing to protect myself would mean a blow to the nose, or maybe taking one on the chin. Neither outcome was desirable, and it was my duty to avoid them.

I stopped protesting and put my right hand in front of my face.

Some years later, I attended a boxing match.

The action was frenetic at times, boring at others. But only one moment really stuck with me.

It occurred during the undercard – the fight before the main event.

One of the boxers threw a punch that missed wildly and — crucially — failed to get his right hand anywhere near his face. His opponent then landed two punches in quick succession.

One smashed into the boxer’s forehead. The other bashed his chin.

The battered boxer dropped like a rock, while the crowd gasped in horror.

Moments later, medical staff carried him away from the ring. The silence was deafening.

I don’t know if that boxer’s career ended with those blows, or even if he survived the night. I don’t know his name, and I don’t care to know it.

What I do know is what taking it on the chin looks like. And given the choice, I want no part of it.

Prediction? Pain.

So utters boxer Clubber Lang in the movie Rocky III, when a reporter asks him about his prediction for an upcoming fight.

It’s a basic line, almost commonly so. But it leaves a mark.

With all our glorifying of conflict, from the schoolyard to the battlefield to the silver screen, we seem to forget what it feels like to bear the brunt of aggression.

The force of a big hit hurts in unproductive ways. Pain in this context is not weakness leaving the body; it’s the body telling us something is dangerously wrong. And crowd support for the assailant is like an aftershock rattling our psyche.

Are we supposed to override the alarm bells of our body, and simply endure this damage? Are we not worthy of protection, concern, or grace?

In Wild West duels, no one paid all that much attention to the gunslinger that took the bullet. The lifeless body simply lay in the street until someone saw fit to drag it away. And all these years later, the same principle reigns supreme.

I think about this while watching football or similar activities with physical contact. But I also consider it in other contexts.

For Taking it on the chin has long been associated with situations where no punches were thrown, and no bullets were fired. It resonates for those who have been deliberately denied opportunities or left footing hefty economic bills.

This second example is particularly resonant these days.

As I write this, the world is in a precarious position. The global economy is out of whack, inflation is far too high, and a financial recession seems imminent.

How all this unfold and how this adversity can be mitigated are each up for debate. But if past is precedent, one thing is certain. Many everyday people — in America and elsewhere — are about to take it on the chin.

This could be in the form of layoffs and unemployment. It could be in the form of paying crippling prices for food, clothing, and shelter. It could be in the form of disappearing retirement savings. It could even be all these things in tandem.

There is no alternative.

You see, economies are but constructs, filled with entities that serve people. Businesses, government agencies, financial institutions — they’re all instruments that facilitate commerce. They can’t take on water to cushion the blow. They can only succeed or fail.

At the end of the day, it’s ordinary people who take it on the chin when things go haywire. It’s ordinary people who experience significant pain — often for no fault of their own.

And yet, this struggle is shrugged off, ignored, forgotten. Much like that prone boxer who was carried out of the ring, our strife becomes out of sight, out of mind.

It’s nauseating.

Several years ago, I saw Man of Steel in a movie theater.

My friends raved about the storyline, the acting, and the special effects. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the collateral damage.

Many of the battles between Superman and Zod’s army level entire city blocks. Instead of protecting his environment, the Man of Steel cuts through it like a buzzsaw on his way to take out the bad guys.

I found myself asking follow-up questions. Were those buildings cleared of people before they were toppled? And even if they were, wouldn’t the tenants now be destitute?

No one seemed to care about the answers. For those victims who took it on the chin had little impact on the plot. They were out of sight, out of mind.

And that’s precisely the problem.

We must cease this cruel business of trivializing suffering. We must stop ignoring, justifying, and glorifying the pain of others.

Strife in the service of the greater good is still a detriment. There is no gain great enough to wipe away what was lost entirely.

The more we normalize taking it on the chin, the more the fissures in our society build. Divisiveness simmers until it boils over, leading to even deeper ruptures.

It’s on us to rein in the high-level rhetoric. It’s on us to let our humanity show instead.

Indeed, we should kind and compassionate to those suffering. And we should resolve to help them out where we can.

This work might not keep some of us from taking it on the chin from time to time. But it can soften the blow.

That’s a step in the right direction. And one that we should not hesitate to take.

Let us begin.

Adaptability and Availability

This was a dumb idea.

That was the first thought to cross my mind as I lay prone on the sidewalk, my outerwear and shoes covered in a coating of ice.

I had decided to go for a midday run in a cold rain, before the temperatures dropped further and the roads froze over. But I’d failed to consider that the sidewalks were already dotted with patches of black ice. And I ended up wiping out on one of those patches.

I landed on my side, with my quad making first impact with the ground. I was fortunate to not have been badly injured. But at that moment, I was too bewildered to recognize how lucky I was.

I looked up to see a pickup truck stopped nearby. The driver rolled down the window and hollered, You OK?

I’m fine, I replied. I’m just an idiot.

The driver nodded and drove away. I got back on my feet and gingerly started the trek back home.

On that 1.5-mile journey, I realized I still had some of my workout left to complete. So, after a pit stop at home, I trudged over to the gym to knock out a few miles on the treadmill.

As I ran in place for a while, free of the elements, I wondered why I hadn’t just headed to the treadmill in the first place. Why had I risked the treachery of wet roads and icy sidewalks.

Of course, I knew the answer to that. My stubbornness and machismo had gotten in the way of sensibility.

I had believed that a consistent routine of outdoor running held the key to my success. If I was to achieve my goals for races and fitness, nothing else would do.

But this mindset had almost cost me bigtime. I would need to be adaptable moving forward.

We’ve all grappled with the dueling forces of adaptability and availability in recent years.

Much of this reckoning was driven by a global pandemic. The health crisis disrupted all the familiar patterns we relied on.

Work, school, and other community locations went from being safe spaces to unavailable ones in an instant. And we were forced to adapt.

Our quick pivot to survival mode drew praise. But once the initial shock wore off, we lost patience.

We had no appetite for adaptability. We yearned for the reliability of all we had ever known before the plague came to our door.

I was well-aware of this sentiment. For I was living it myself.

At the start of 2020, I made myself a promise. I swore that I would run or walk at least a mile outside every day.

The burgeoning pandemic soon threatened to upend all that. I went from commuting to a busy office every weekday to spending 90 straight days away from anyone I knew. I barely shopped, barely drove, and never traveled more than five miles from home during that time.

Still, I held firm to my promise. Even amidst the scare tactics and misguided stories of those days — no, you didn’t need to wipe down your groceries to stay alive — I made sure to step outside and tackle a mile of movement each day. At a time when nothing seemed worth the risk, my availability certainly was.

As the months went on, this commitment only intensified. I started running more often, and for longer miles. Then I joined running groups and took up racing.

My commitment to running had quickly become an obsession. No matter how I felt, or what the weather was, I was going to let my feet hit the pavement.

Availability was a rallying cry. Adaptability was an afterthought.

I had chosen poorly. But not in the way you might expect.

Disrupt yourself before someone disrupts you.

This is a proven maxim in the world of modern business. And we see proof of it everywhere.

General Motors is going all in on electric vehicles. Sonic Drive-In is selling hard seltzer at convenience stores. And Time Magazine is offering vintage editions of its publication as Non-Fungible Tokens, or NFTs.

These businesses are trying to avoid the fate of Blockbuster Video and Kodak. Both of those companies failed to anticipate the ripples of disruption around them until it was too late.

But by undertaking such drastic pivots, these legacy companies are making a point. Adaptability does more than unlock new revenue streams or keep competitors at bay. It also keeps the prospect of availability on the table.

Yes, the world is consistently inconsistent. Weather strikes and recedes, dynasties rise and fall, fads emerge and are cast aside.

Those who treat this delicate two-step as a straight-line sprint finds themselves on a path to nowhere. It’s only by embracing adaptability that one can maintain availability.

This principle has proven itself with Words of the West, which is now seven years old. For 365 straight weeks, a fresh piece of material has been available on the website.

Adding a new article each week is quite a feat. But it’s also a testament to the power of adaptability.

Indeed, some of those articles were written from the road. Others only saw the light of day after some technical issues were resolved.

I needed to be adaptable to achieve the mission. Much like those legacy businesses, I needed to adapt to stay available.

The decision between one factor and the other is nonexistent. The only option is both.

As I write this, I’m working my way back from a running injury.

This injury wasn’t related to my fall on that icy sidewalk. But it did leave me sidelined for eight weeks.

While working my way back, I’ve resolved to be smarter. I’ve stopped tacking on extra mileage for posterity’s sake. I’ve taken rest days when my body yearned for them. And I’ve even moved some of my workouts to the treadmill.

In short, I’ve been adaptable, so that I can continue to be available.

We all can follow this path when it comes to adaptability. In fact, I believe we must follow it.

It’s our only way to keep pace with a changing world. It’s our only recourse for relevance. It’s our only true means of survival.

The days of relying on what got us here are over. We must adapt to move forward.

Let’s get to it.

The Safety Net Vice

I was starving.

All around me, options abounded to quell my hunger. Just about any cuisine I would possibly desire — all available within my hotel complex.

I started perusing menus and checking wait times. But I quickly realized there was a significant problem.

For I was in Las Vegas — the land of $50 steaks and $25 burgers. And those options wouldn’t fit within the contours of my Per Diem.

For those uninitiated with business travel, the Per Diem is a daily flat rate for meals. It’s set by the United States government but paid out by companies to their employees.

The Per Diem is meant to level the playing field. It aims to set a benchmark for how much companies should expect to reimburse.

Normally, the Per Diem is a relatively fair proxy for meal costs. Maybe not a one-to-one match. But at least in the ballpark.

Yet, this was not the case in Las Vegas.

And so, I was left to determine the value of my starvation. Was it worth paying a bunch of my own money for the privilege of my nourishment? Or should I go without, in hopes of being made whole financially?

I chose the second option.

There’s no such thing as a free lunch.

This advice is practically gospel. For it’s the truth.

I experienced this truth firsthand during my misadventures in the desert. Unsatiated hunger has a strange way of driving home hard lessons.

But the no free lunch principle goes much deeper than my own foibles. It strikes at the heart of the Per Diem system itself.

Yes, it’s hard to find anyone who’s truly a fan of the Per Diem as it exists today. Many feel that it should be increased, or that companies should cover expenses on top of the set limits.

Such sentiments are understandable. Who wouldn’t want to avoid the mental gymnastics I went through in Las Vegas?

But this desire for a kinder Per Diem system misinterprets its purpose.

After all, the Per Diem is not a government handout. And even if it were, we would pay into that handout in the form of hefty taxes.

By contrast, the Per Diem is motivational tool. It’s something that incentivizes us to take our work on the road — and incur related costs — by recouping some of that spending.

The Per Diem isn’t designed to help us live high on the hog. It’s meant to help us work with what we’ve got.

But in doing so, it opens a whole other can of worms.

Many Texans know the legend of Judge Roy Bean.

The 19^th century saloon keeper also served as the Justice of the Peace in Val Verde County. He branded himself as The Only Law West of the Pecos [River], often adjudicating from his saloon.

Val Verde County was part of the Texas frontier back then. And the law in that part of the world was open to some degree of interpretation. Judge Roy Bean espoused his flavor of it, and his work became Wild West legend.

Judge Roy Bean is long gone. And so is the world he lived in.

Indeed, modern-day Texas is governed by a series of uniform laws. Legislative codes that look the same in Mentone (population 22) as they do in Houston (population 2.3 million).

And perhaps the most notorious of these laws are the state’s liquor regulations.

For those uninitiated, Texans can only buy packaged hard liquor — such as bourbon or rum — from liquor stores. Those liquor stores must remain closed on Sundays. And on all other days, they cannot open earlier than 10 AM or close after 9 PM.

Liquor stores could keep even shorter hours, of course. But in all my years traversing the Lone Star State, I’ve yet to find one that wasn’t open from 10 to 9, Monday to Saturday.

There are some valid reasons for this conformity.

You see, operating a liquor store is challenging in Texas. Many counties are dry, banning packaged alcohol outright. Even in wet counties, some cities will ban liquor sales, but allow stores to sell beer and wine.

After navigating this labyrinth just to open their doors, liquor store proprietors generally yearn to keep them open as much as possible. And if they don’t, they’re wary of competitors. Competitors who could take a bite from their customer share if they opened late or closed early.

In essence, Texas’ liquor sales laws have put proprietors in a bind. They don’t directly mandate a 10 AM to 9 PM schedule, six days a week. But they make it nearly impossible to operate any other way.

This principle can be found in countless other corners of our society.

Sales tax rates tend to stay in a basic range from town to town and state to state. Banks generally refuse to guarantee anything above the $250,000 limit covered by the Federal Deposit Insurance Commission. And of course, companies tend to stay within the guidelines of the Per Diem.

By setting an artificial floor in our capitalistic system, the U.S. government has also lowered the ceiling. Any chance at variety is crushed, leaving us all with immobile, undesirable options.

It’s a phenomenon I call The Safety Net Vice.

The Safety Net Vice might seem like a force of nature. But we’re not powerless against it.

How can this be? Well, let’s consider the factors.

On one side, there is legislative action of some kind. Tax codes, deposit guarantees, and Per Diem guidelines are all influenced by government entities.

We have few means to influence this factor. While we do vote our representatives into office, we have little impact on what they will do once they’re in place.

Indeed, it’s the other side of the equation that is key. The demands of the free market impact our behavior, all too often giving that legislation its vice grip.

This is the area where we can drive change. By tweaking the ways we spend our money, we can flip economic patterns on their heads. The status quo will no longer be tenable, and institutions will have an impetus to offer guarantees above safety net levels.

The road to this outcome is sure to be long and arduous. But the longer we delay the journey, the more treacherous it gets.

So, let’s break free of the Safety Net Vice. Let’s stop starving ourselves in the desert. And let’s seek out a path that works better for everyone.

The time is now.

Excess on Parade

The lagoon was massive.

The body of water filled a space the size of six football fields.

Around its edges, tourists milled about. Street performers did their thing. And fancy hotel structures towered over the water.

At first glance, this man-made structure seemed like a mistake. A waste of valuable space and real estate.

But then the music would start. The tourists would take note. And the hustle and bustle would fade away.

For a few majestic moments, the lagoon would transform into a majestic fountain, with water shooting up to 400 feet in the air. The experience would leave everyone watching in a trance.

Yes, the Fountains at Bellagio are about as unnecessary an attraction as there is. Gallons upon gallons of water housed in the Nevada desert, whose only function is pure spectacle.

And yet, they’re as intractable a part of Las Vegas as slot machines, neon lights and showgirls. The essential of all essentials. Something so iconic that even the strait-laced, reclusive business traveler — that would be me — makes a point to seek it out.

It’s excess on parade. And we can’t get enough.

About 800 miles east of Las Vegas, a billboard rises menacingly over the open plains of the Texas Panhandle.

It tempts drivers passing through Amarillo on Interstate 40 to stop at the Big Texan Ranch and try the 72-ounce steak.

Such a cut of beef carries a hefty price, even out in the heartland. But those who polish it off in one sitting – along with a few preordained sides — can have their check comped. It turns out there is such a thing as a free meal.

I love Texas as much as anything, and a good steak as much as anyone. I would seem to be the right clientele to take this challenge on.

But as I drove by this billboard, I was nauseated.

I thought back to my teenage years, when McDonalds would goad me into Super Sizing my fries for additional sweepstakes entries. I’d feel worse and worse with each bite, as excess calories filled my stomach and excess regret consumed my mind.

The Big Texan Steak challenge wasn’t worth it. I wasn’t about to take it on.

But clearly, some do.

There’s a reason that highway billboard is there. Just like there’s a reason why there are fountains in the desert.

Excess on parade is a powerful magnet.

Excess has always been in our DNA.

This nation’s beginnings were essentially an agrarian revolt. A group of mostly rural colonists objected against taxes levied by a faraway monarch. They decided to go it alone instead.

Yet, the Founding Fathers sold a vision far grander. The reframed our fledgling nation as a beacon for liberty and democracy. It was quite the overstatement for the actions of settlers who were tired of paying the crown.

This expression of excess morphed into a rallying cry in the decades that followed.

We decided that expanding westward was God’s will, displacing native tribes and Mexican settlers in the process. We lionized the titans of the Industrial Revolution, even as the front-line workers at their companies toiled away in squalid conditions. And we focused our gaze on the biggest, the brightest, and the most extraordinary. Nothing less would do.

All of that led us to the present moment. Where we’re expected to step into boots two sizes too big and fill them with ease.

This is not the world we live in. It’s the world we’ve created for ourselves.

Excess on parade is part of the fabric. Consequences be damned.

From my couch, I watched with a mix of horror and amazement.

On my television screen was the United States men’s soccer team. The finest of the Stars and Stripes were taking on a Belgian side at the World Cup in Brazil.

Well, more like chasing the Belgians.

Indeed, the Belgian strikers and forwards had a couple of steps on the closest American defenders for most of the game. They would waltz unimpeded toward the goal, only to be stymied by goaltender Tim Howard.

Howard made a remarkable 16 saves in that game — a record for any World Cup match.

But it wasn’t enough. The Americans lost the knockout-round game 2-1 in extra time. Their World Cup quest was over once again.

I was baffled.

America had dominated the world stage at every turn throughout my lifetime — and for a generation before it. Our nation had outsize influence on both the global economy and geopolitics. It had driven pop culture trends. And it brought home the most medals in nearly every Olympic games.

Yet, the United States was an afterthought when it came to World Cup soccer. Our nation had never won the tournament — or even played in the championship match. And now, a country whose population was 96 percent smaller had outclassed the best soccer stars America had to offer.

The United States invested plenty in avoiding this outcome. The U.S. Soccer Federation had invested plenty into training and player development.

But it didn’t matter. Howard’s brilliance was the only protection against total obliteration on the soccer pitch.

As I stared on in silence, I started questioning the principle of Excess on Parade. How valuable was it anyway?

Consider one of Belgium’s culinary delicacies – Frites. The same dish that we like to Super-Size actually originated across the pond.

Over the years, Belgians have perfected the art of the Frite. But instead of serving up piles of it at a time, they put a sensible amount into a paper cone, and serve it with dipping sauces.

The Belgians favor quality over quantity. They don’t participate in Excess on Parade.

These same principles have made their way to the Belgian soccer pitch. Instead of going all-in, sparing no expense to build a title contender, the Belgians focus on perfecting their craft. On doing just enough for the moment, and doing it well.

It might not be flashy. But it gets the job done.

And more often than not, we don’t.

It’s time.

It’s time to shed the illusions of grandeur. It’s time to do away with spectacle for spectacle’s sake.

It’s time to say goodbye to Excess on Parade.

For this pattern wastes much and achieves little.

It does us no favors. And we needn’t kowtow to it.

So, let’s chart a new course. Let’s write a new chapter. One free of high-volume, yet full of substance.

This new path might feel strange and unnerving at first. But it will fit just right.

And shouldn’t that be enough?

Consistency of Excellence

Pepsi Center. Denver, Colorado. March 2015.

The lights went down, and the audience buzzed with anticipation.

Spotlights aimed their beams at the haze, just as Garth Brooks emerged from it. The crowd roared.

From high in the upper level of the arena, I felt the energy pulsate through the Rocky Mountain air. Garth went through his many hits with clinical precision, and the audience ate it up.

It felt electric throughout the two hours Garth was on stage. And yet, it didn’t seem all that personal.

Sure, the crowd roared when he crooned I gotta ride in Denver tomorrow night. But that wasn’t a nod to his surroundings. It was a standard lyric that just so happened to coincide with where we all were. Garth would have sung it the same way in Detroit or Des Moines.

After the last song — and the encore — I marveled at how this performer could make something so boilerplate seem so special.

That’s when my friend reminded me that Garth had another show coming up at 10:30 that evening. He would be going through this whole routine again — with only an hour or so to recharge.

I wondered what that late show would be like. Would the audience get the same experience?

I didn’t have to muse about this for long. Other friends went to Garth’s 10:30 PM show in Dallas a few months later, and they told me he went through his set with the same energy I’d experienced at the early show in Denver.

Hearing this, I was in awe. How did Garth Brooks maintain this consistency of excellence, time after time?

Was he even human?

I try and be like Garth Brooks.

No, I don’t don a cowboy hat and sing my heart out to adoring fans night after night. But I do attempt to maintain my own consistency of excellence.

For me, this means precision regarding when I wake up, and what I do with those waking hours. It means intentionality regarding the food I put into my mouth and the language that comes out of it. It means upholding the highest standards of professionalism, whether I’m at work or off the clock.

And yet, despite my best efforts, this doesn’t always happen.

There are some days when I’m not feeling it. There are some times when I don’t have the energy or precision to act according to my standards. There are some moments when I fall short.

I wish I could say this happens rarely. But it occurs far more often than that. Once or twice a month, at minimum.

When it does, I’m ashamed of myself. I feel obligated to apologize to everyone around me. And I loathe the expression of my own humanity.

I marvel ever more at Cousin Garth, as he proves that our surname is our only commonality. (No, we are not actually related.)

I simply cannot match his consistency of excellence.

But perhaps, in these cycles of self-loathing, I should have been turning my reverence toward someone even more regal.

Not long before I sat down to write this article, the world lost a monumental figure.

Queen Elizabeth II of England passed away at the age of 96.

The Queen held dominion over the United Kingdom for 70 years — a national record. And while she didn’t control the government or the military, Her Majesty had plenty of responsibilities over those seven decades.

These responsibilities included a litany of public appearances around the globe, all governed by longstanding rules of regal decorum.

There was no respite for this activity. There was no off-season.

And with the 24/7 news cycle gaining steam during the queen’s reign, there was increasingly nowhere to hide. A series of scandals that enveloped the Royal Family made that abundantly clear.

Yet, Queen Elizabeth II was able to stay above the fray. By all accounts, she performed her duties with the utmost professionalism.

The only hint of a blemish on the queen’s record was her handling of the aftermath of the untimely death of Princess Diana, her former daughter-in-law.

The queen followed the playbook of decorum, at a time when a grieving kingdom yearned to see her humanity. Ultimately, she acquiesced, delivering a poignant address.

Queen Elizabeth II’s commitment to continual professionalism is even more striking when you realize that her role was preordained.

Garth Brooks might have chosen the life of a performer. And in doing so, he accepted the consistency of excellence that such a role demands.

Queen Elizabeth II never had such a choice. And she rose to the occasion anyway.

Indeed, two days before her passing, the queen performed one of her most important duties. She met with the premier appointee for the UK’s parliament, officially appointing her as Prime Minister.

Although she was not at full strength, Queen Elizabeth posed for a couple of photos, smiling radiantly in both.

To the end, the queen maintained a consistency of excellence.

Her aptitude should serve as a beacon.

Principles are critical in life.

They keep us centered, steadying us through the rough seas of our day-to-day adventures.

We have the freedom to choose our own principles. And mine are distinct.

Be present. Be informed. Be better.

The first two are clearly defined, forged through concrete actions and commitments. But the third one can seem ambiguous.

How does one go about bettering themselves? And what does better even mean?

Adhering to this principle can feel like a hopeless task. It can seem like boiling the ocean or corralling the wind.

Yet, being better is certainly attainable. Garth Brooks and Queen Elizabeth II prove this point clearly.

It won’t be easy. It will take all our focus. And it will require us to remain poised, even when we’re not at our best.

But it’s a quest we can strive for. One that we should strive for.

So, let’s cast away the excuses. Let’s double down on the fundamentals. And let’s seek a consistency of excellence at every turn.

Those watching our moves will be better for it. And so will we.

Closing the Chapter

Don’t miss the exit.

That was the last bit of advice I got as I headed off to visit my great-grandmother.

I had spent plenty of time with her over the years. But this was the first time I was visiting her on my own.

The warning was prudent.

My great-grandmother’s assisted living facility was not far from the highway. But the exit that led to it was tucked in the back of a highway rest stop.

I had to drive past the service center and the gas pumps to find it, but fortunately, I did so without incident. Moments later, I had parked and made it to my great-grandmother’s room.

My great-grandmother was 96 years old. Macular degeneration had rendered her nearly blind, and dementia had clouded her mind.

I resolved to be patient and not to get flustered if I got called by my father’s name. Mostly, I reminded myself not to expect too much.

Yet, to my surprise, my great-grandmother was in great spirits. We dove into a lively discussion. And for a few moments, it seemed like the old days.

But then, the conversation hit a brief respite. And after that pause, my great-grandmother seemed lost.

She started to rehash what we had already discussed. For she had already forgotten that we’d even talked about it.

I pivoted, trying to keep the discussion free of pauses to avoid repeating myself. But this was exhausting work, and my energy eventually dwindled.

At that point, I knew it was time to leave. I gave my great-grandmother a hug and headed for the door.

More than a year later, she passed away. I had just started a new job halfway across the country, and I couldn’t make the funeral.

I felt a bit guilty. But I wasn’t overwhelmed by that sensation.

For I knew I’d closed the chapter with my great-grandmother gracefully. And that mattered as much to me as anything.

Humanity is full of vices. Some are oft-discussed, while others fly under the radar.

The recency effect generally falls into that second category.

This concept states that we’re more likely to remember the most recent item in a series than the ones before it.

That late addition to the grocery list is the first one that comes to mind as we walk in the store doors. That lesson from last week is likely to be the one we nail on the upcoming midterm.

And that last bit of time we spend with a loved one is what sticks with us for years.

This makes sense. The everlasting emptiness of death is without comparison. So is the enduring power of memory. When the two converge, we want to engineer the encounter to meet our needs.

Yet, such an approach is far from sensible.

So much surrounding departures is beyond our control. But we try and put our stamp on the proceedings anyway.

I am no different. I had an inkling that my visit with my great-grandmother would likely be my last. This realization impacted my approach to the entire experience.

That experience went as well as could be expected. While I miss my great-grandmother, I’m at peace with the way our time together on this earth ended. The recency effect hasn’t left me saddled with regret.

That is not always the case.

Not long after my great-grandmother passed, my thoughts turned to another beloved relative — one of my grandfathers.

I’ve written about this grandfather before on Words of the West, reflecting on his impact on my life. While he wasn’t related to my great-grandmother — they were on different sides of the family tree — he was also getting up there in years, and I worried about what might come next.

My grandfather had survived two heart attacks and a triple bypass in his life. He had served in the United States Navy in World War II and lived to tell the tale. Growing up, I started to believe that he was invincible.

But now, his mortality seemed evident.

So, I took nothing for granted. Whenever I called my grandfather to check in, I would try and coax him to tell an extra story or two from his past. And I made sure not to assume that we’d speak again.

This proved prescient — but not in the way I expected.

For my grandfather eventually suffered a stroke. And while that malady didn’t kill him, it robbed him of much of his memory and communication abilities.

At first, I struggled to process this development. It hurt me to see my grandfather as a shell of his former self. And it threw a giant wrinkle in my plan to close the chapter with him cleanly.

But as the years went by, I gradually made my peace with what had transpired. I resisted the siren song of the recency effect. I instead tried to remember what had come before.

Ultimately, my grandfather did pass away. But as I adjusted to his absence, my refreshed approach proved to be a benefit.

Instead of zeroing in on those trying final years of my grandfather’s life, I remembered him at full strength. The stories he told. The way he was. The example he set.

I’ve tried to honor that memory as much as anything.

Perhaps we can all take a page from this revised playbook.

Instead of obsessing about missing our exit, we can glance at the highway that got us there. We can consider items deeper in our pile of memories.

For these memories are the bulk of our lived experience. They’re the ones that set the tone for the integral relationships in our lives.

We tend to consider these memories as mere guideposts on the grander journey. But they should be the narrative itself.

They should become our focus.

So, let’s cast off the tiring task of closing the chapter. Let’s stop obsessing over-engineering a clean ending and instead focus on something that truly matters.

We’ll be happier and more fulfilled. And that’s the point of all this anyway.

The Reality of Hope

As I sat in the hot tub on a steamy Florida night, I pondered my future.

Hours earlier, I’d walked across the stage at my college graduation. My family then celebrated the occasion with dinner at one of the ritziest restaurants in town.

But now, the ceremonies were over. We had retreated to my family’s hotel near the airport.

And now, submerged in warm waters flanked by the not-so-distant roar of jet engines, we commiserated.

The conversation quickly turned to what was next. And as it did, my triumph faded into a sense of failing.

For I didn’t have a job lined up. I didn’t even have any interviews pending.

In the throes of a brutal recession, I would need to move back in with my parents until I could launch my career.

My family assured me this was no big deal. I’d earned myself a break, they said.

But had I?

To me, college was not a four-year party. It was a proving ground for professional life.

And without the first step in my career imminent, I felt I had failed. I had wasted my time and countless dollars of tuition.

Fortunately, this despondence didn’t last long. I soon landed some job interviews, followed by a job offer. Two months and a day after my college graduation, I reported to my new role as a news producer in West Texas.

And while I’ve long ago left that position — and that career — behind, I’ve remained self-sufficient throughout adulthood.

My story had a satisfying conclusion. My quest for a career launch was simply deferred, rather than denied.

Some of that had to do with the industry I was seeking to join. Some had to do with the economic realities of the moment I was in. Much of it had to do with sheer luck.

I never gave up hope throughout this process. Even in those dour moments on the evening of my college graduation, I retained faith that things would work out.

But attributing the outcome to me sense of hope is a fool’s errand.

Many of my peers faced the same circumstances as I did as they walked the stage at commencements across America that spring. Despite some despondence over their lack of immediate job prospects, they remained hopeful.

And yet, despite sterling credentials and supreme self-belief, that faith was not rewarded.

Many of my peers ended up waiting tables for months on end, just to be able to pay the bills. Some were forced to give up their career hopes entirely after years of rejection.

It was cruel and unfair. But it was reality.

A reality that was out of touch with a prevailing narrative.

You see, we tend to view hope as a self-fulfilling prophecy. This principle is central in Hollywood scripts and other narrative arcs.

Cinderella is in a desperate condition when the Fairy Godmother first encounters her. Yet, even in her darkest hours, she retains a semblance of hope — one that pays off in spades once it’s time to try on the glass slipper.

Similarly, the Rebel Alliance retains hope against long odds at the start of Star Wars. The Galactic Empire has a decided advantage. And the Jedi equipped to counter the Empire’s brutal reign are seemingly nowhere to be found.

That hope that sustains the Rebel Alliance from the first scene becomes the fabric of the franchise, interspersed into dialogue, story arcs, and even film names. (Once sequels hit the big screen, that original Star Wars film was rebranded Star Wars Episode IV – A New Hope.)

Given these prominent examples, it’s all too easy to believe that a little faith and determination are all guaranteed to provide a favorable outcome.

And so, we go all in on hope. We treat the fairy tale ending as manifest destiny. And we suppress the narratives where satisfaction doesn’t arrive.

This does us no favors.

As I write this, we’ve had a rough go of it.

In recent years, we’ve dealt with a global pandemic, a teetering economy, and societal polarization.

Through it all, we’ve followed a familiar playbook. We’ve tried to stay the course, clinging to the prospect of better days ahead.

We’ve clung to the promise of hope.

This might seem sensible at first. Looking across the long arc of history, things tend to even out. And Star Wars and Cinderella show that a little faith can pay big dividends. So why not bask in the glory of tomorrow?

But I’m not so sure that a bright future is imminent. There’s no guarantee that things will get better just because we hit a rough patch. And if the past is precedent, they might continue to get worse.

It’s easy to overlook how spoiled we’ve been spoiled in recent decades. Sure, things weren’t always ideal. But we’ve recovered rather swiftly from the adverse events we did face — be they the 9/11 attacks or the 2008 Financial Crisis.

This near-instant resilience was a blessing. For in prior generations, the route back was far more treacherous.

The Great Depression lasted a full decade, and it was followed almost immediately by World War II. One catastrophic event followed another, with devastation touching all corners of our nation.

America did emerge from the Allied victory in World War II with a robust economy and improved global standing. But people weren’t entirely jubilant. Instead, they were hiding under desks during air raid drills, terrified about the prospect of Soviet missiles bringing nuclear winter.

It’s only in the past few decades — with the Cold War over and the tech boom bringing unprecedented innovation — that we’ve seen hope blossom into true prosperity. And that prosperity has deluded us from the truth.

Indeed, the reality of hope is messy. It carries no promise of returns, let alone instant ones.

There are costs to shunning hope, as complete despair can leave us without the will to seize opportunities. But its benefits are minimal, at best.

This isn’t the message we want to hear. It’s not the tidy narrative that leaves us feeling fulfilled. It’s not the bright carrot that motivates us to keep moving forward.

But it is the message we need to hear. It’s the one we should heed.

Yes, hope is beautiful. It’s inspiring. It’s uplifting.

But it is not a crystal ball.

We cannot count on it to provide us opportunities. We can’t expect it to help us seize them.

Much of that power belongs to circumstance. The rest belongs to us.

Act accordingly.

Author: Dylan Brooks