Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

Out of the Shadows

It was a beautiful afternoon.

Outside my window, sunlight radiated through blue skies. The branches of the trees barely budged in the light breeze.

It was one of those mid-winter days in Texas that just begged everyone to get outside. To enjoy the temperate conditions before they gave way to the muggy slog of spring and the searing heat of summer.

But on this day, I was not heeding the call. On this day, I remained indoors.

I was recuperating from a recent ankle surgery. And I had been ordered to wear a protective boot whenever I was away from home.

Getting that boot on my foot was quite a challenge. Walking in that boot was another. And cleaning that boot was no picnic, either.

It seemed prudent to avoid all of this when possible. So, I tended to stay indoors — even on beautiful days like these.

Although I craved the light, I remained in the shadows.

That protective boot now sits in my closet, collecting dust.

But my memory doesn’t.

I might have recovered from my injury. But all around me, I see plenty of others amid their own tribulations.

At the ballgame, the grocery store, and the airport, I see the marks of recuperation. People are sporting slings, crutches, and protective boots. And I feel for them.

This is not a Baader-Meinhof situation. That happened when I purchased my SUV, and then suddenly noticed dozens of others like it.

No, I had noticed people with disabilities before. But where I’d once gotten out of the way of them, I now did what I could to help.

I would hold a door open for them or give up my seat to them. All with a knowing nod.

I understood their plight. And I wanted to lessen the burden.

In late 1989, the Berlin Wall came down.

For a generation, the treacherous concrete barrier had defined the divide between East and West, between communism and democracy. But now, it was gone. And the USSR would soon follow.

The Cold War was over.

I was playing with Matchbox cars and watching Sesame Street when this occurred. I understood little of what was going on.

But now, as an adult, I frame my life story around this event. I was born during the Cold War but grew up after it.

This narrative is factual. But it omits another seismic event from that time.

In mid 1990, the United States Congress passed the Americans with Disabilities Act. The legislation afforded protections to anyone facing an impairment.

In one fell swoop, it brought those with disabilities out of the shadows and into the light.

Remnants of this legislation were everywhere during my youth. Public facilities were being retrofitted to comply with the law. Public announcements were educating the masses on the accommodations.

And yet, I couldn’t quite relate. I was able-bodied and had no reason to believe I wouldn’t be. This wasn’t my fight.

So, I continued to ignore the narrative around me. I would pay no mind to the revolution at home, and instead wax poetic about events that occurred far afield.

It would take three decades for me to change my tune.

When the COVID pandemic hit in 2020, we got a glimpse of the shadows. Confined by lockdowns, business closures, and mask mandates, we all got to see how the 26 percent of Americans with disabilities live.

Like many, I loathed this experience. I did my best to get some distance from it as the pandemic receded.

But I could never fully escape.

About two years after the COVID shutdowns, I was to meet my family in Houston for a vacation. A few days before the trip, my mother informed me that she would be showing up in the Bayou City in a wheelchair.

I knew my mother had been dealing with some knee issues. But I was still caught off-guard by this announcement.

As a longtime Texan, I knew my state wasn’t the easiest to navigate by wheelchair. And I spent hours ticking through contingency plans.

What if we needed to change up our seating at the rodeo? What if the Johnson Space Center had exhibits that were only accessible by stairs?

Everything ended up working out just fine. But I remained hyper-aware of the challenges facing those with disabilities.

Then I went under the knife and experienced those challenges firsthand.

As I navigated that time in the shadows, post-procedure, I was introspective. I was ashamed of how badly I’d overlooked those with disabilities for so much of my life. And I was determined to do better.

I’ve lived by that creed ever since.

I’m determined to show compassion to those with disabilities, helping them emerge from the shadows. And I’m hoping my actions inspire others to do the same.

This might seem like a noble quest. But it has its challenges. And perhaps not the ones you might think.

The Washington Post has employed a slew of high-profile journalists over the years. Perhaps the most recent of these is Taylor Lorenz.

Before joining the Post, Lorenz made her name writing about internet culture for the New York Times. As the online world has evolved in hyper speed, Lorenz has covered every bit of it — garnering both acclaim and outrage along the way.

If you follow Lorenz on social media though, you’ll find something else. Namely, a long-running critique of loosened COVID pandemic restrictions.

In much of American society, this point is a non-starter. The worst of the pandemic has passed, medical interventions are now available, and a yearning for normalcy percolate.

But Lorenz is either immunocompromised or carrying the flag of those who are. She will not stop criticizing the world for “moving on.”

I can see where Lorenz is coming from, to a degree. There are some similarities between being injured and immunocompromised — particularly when it comes to societal isolation.

It was frustrating when I found myself alone in the shadows. Still, I never once expected others to stay inside during my recuperation, just because I was deprived the outdoors. That would have been an unreasonable request.

It’s no more feasible for the immunocompromised to demand that the world remain perpetually locked down. It’s several bridges too far.

So yes, Lorenz’s advocacy should remain off the table here. But so should the status quo.

It’s time for us to embrace the spirit of the Americans with Disabilities Act. It’s time to provide reasonable accommodation to those we’ve banished to the shadows.

That means awareness. It means compassion.

It means giving a hand up, but not necessarily a handout.

Making this compromise might seem daunting. But those with disabilities are making compromises of their own too.

We owe it to them to meet them halfway.

Manufactured Rebellion

Silicon Valley.

The string of suburbs nestled toward the bottom of the San Francisco Bay is where the titans of computing, the Internet, and social media are based. It’s where a glut of venture capital and private equity firms have set up shop.

It might seem this sun-speckled stretch of California paradise has always been the epicenter of technology. But back in the early 1980s, the seat of power was 3,000 miles east.

You see, back then, Steve Jobs wasn’t a household name. Elon Musk was a secondary school student in South Africa. Mark Zuckerberg wasn’t even born yet.

Business computing was king. And there was but one behemoth in business computing — IBM.

The sleepy suburban enclave of Armonk — some 35 miles north of New York City — was the heart of IBM’s corporate functions. It’s where the accountants maintained their balance sheets. It’s where the financial analysts did their modeling. It’s where executives maintained their cushy offices.

But not all of IBM’s operations were based there. Some 1,300 miles south in Boca Raton, another unit was hard at work.

These employees paid little attention to the details of what was going on up in Armonk. And the bigwigs at headquarters had precious little line of sight into what was happening down in Florida.

This was all by design.

The Boca unit was IBM’s skunkworks. It was the space where IBM-ers could innovate, free of the constraints of the IBM brand banner. It was where IBM could attempt to disrupt its own business.

IBM wasn’t the first company to try its hand at skunkworks.

Lockheed Martin introduced the concept as it developed weapons in secrecy during World War II. Over the years, other companies followed its lead.

However, IBM had a novel use for its skunkworks setup — Manufactured Rebellion.

Yes, the team in Boca was made up of IBM employees aiming to disrupt IBM’s business.

The company knew that its stronghold was far from assured over time. Technology changes. Consumption patterns shift.

If IBM were to wait before reacting to these changes, it would be too late. The only shot at longevity would be to stay on the cutting edge. To diversify the company portfolio to include the innovations of tomorrow and the strategic strengths of today.

That’s what Manufactured Rebellion was all about. And it yielded the Personal Computer for IBM.

We might overlook that point these days, with Apple and Microsoft dominating the PC market. But the skunkworks likely helped IBM stay relevant for far longer than the company otherwise would have been.

And thanks to a Harvard Business Review writeup, the IBM skunkworks continues to cast a long shadow.

Indeed, Manufactured Rebellion is all the rage in the technology world. Companies left and right are trying to disrupt themselves, even as they reach the pinnacle of success.

This is how Apple ended up making smartphones. It’s what got Netflix into streaming. It’s why Google’s parent company has a division called “other bets,” fueled by an incubator called X.

It’s also the reason companies in other industries — automaking, hospitality, and finance — are rebranding themselves as tech companies.

Manufactured Rebellion is all around us. And to some degree, within us.

You see, these companies have an outsize influence on our behavior. Consider it the halo effect.

Starbucks once convinced us to pay $4 for a cup of coffee. Disney persuaded us that happily ever after was inevitable. And Apple, Google, and Netflix have directed us to shake up today in favor of tomorrow.

So, we seek to disrupt ourselves.

We cast off old routines. We reinvent our style. We shake up our professional identity.

We do all this for the same reason as IBM. To stay ahead of the curve.

But are we getting more than we bargained for?

Early in the film Catch Me If You Can, FBI agent Carl Hanratty enters a French prison, seeking to take custody of a prisoner there.

The prisoner — Frank Abagnale, Jr. — had pulled off a string of confidence crimes. Hanratty’s mission was to bring him back to the United States to face charges.

Abagnale had been a confident and quick-witted man throughout his crime spree. But in the dark confines of a jail cell, he appeared young and frightened.

After making a feeble attempt at an escape, he made a frail request to Hanratty.

Take me home, Carl.

Abagnale had brought all kinds of Manufactured Rebellion into his life. He had posed as a lawyer and an airline pilot. He had forged millions of dollars worth of checks. And he had stayed one step ahead of the law throughout most of these escapades.

But now, he had been stripped of all that. Reacquainted with his real identity, all he wanted to do was go home.

Most of us are not confidence artists like Abagnale. Our journey probably won’t include a stop in a French jail.

But we can relate to him a bit too viscerally.

You see, our penchant for self-disruption has its benefits.

Switching jobs yields increased earning power. Moving homes yields enhanced surroundings. Changing diets yields improved health.

But Manufactured Rebellion also has its costs.

If we keep changing for change’s sake, we start chasing ghosts. We’re always in pursuit. Never comfortable. Never satisfied.

We lose sight of who we are on the quest to find out who we could be.

This is a basic fact. And yet, it always seems to catch us off guard — just as it did Abagnale.

It shouldn’t.

For despite its bravado, Manufactured Rebellion often fails to deliver. For every Netflix stream or iPhone, there are dozens of failed corporate pivots. Heck, even the flagship PC from IBM’s skunkworks ultimately fell short.

We can’t expect our success rate to be any better. For we are human.

Unlike billion-dollar corporations, we bear the brunt of disruption. We feel every bit of the ups and downs.

And while brand irrelevance is disastrous for any company, the loss of our identity can be downright tragic.

So, let’s turn this ship around. Let’s stop needlessly putting ourselves in jeopardy. And let’s be more thoughtful about when and where we change things up.

This might not give us the sugar rush of Manufactured Rebellion. But it spares us the inevitable crash that follows.

And that’s not nothing.

Risk Reduction

I sat on the snowy ground and tried to regain my bearings.

I had just fallen for the umpteenth time while trying to grab onto a T-Bar ski lift. Frustration was mounting, and I needed a minute.

So, I sat there, staring out at what lay ahead.

It was late June. Back home, it was beach weather. But here on the border of Chile and Argentina, snowy peaks surrounded an alpine lake — their wintery reflection reflected immaculately in the frigid water.

This view, this place — it was any American skier’s dream. But not mine.

You see, I had never skied before. And I hadn’t harbored a strong desire to, either.

But I’d ventured to South America for a study abroad program. And my classmates — all avid skiers — had begged me to join them on a weekend excursion to the Andes.

So, here I was, giving this new experience a go. And struggling mightily.

Getting on the lift was just one issue. Making it down the bunny slope was another. And stopping my momentum before plunging into the lake was a third.

For much of the day, I was miserable. Not only was I flustered, but I was also terrified of injuring myself.

Finally, I started to make some progress. I stayed on my skis all the way down the slope, feeling the wind rush by my face. My form was still a work in progress, but the misery was gone.

Sadly, so was my energy — and daylight.

I made my way back to the lodge to turn in my rental skis. But I pledged to give it another go when I was back in the United States.

For a while, I made good on my promise. I’d hit the slopes about once a year. Despite some misadventures, I did get better at skiing. And I found the experience of gliding down a snowy slope uniquely exhilarating.

But eventually, I stopped trekking up to the mountains.

My demurral from skiing wasn’t driven by its costs or the travel distances to the slopes — although both were significant.

The cause? Risk reduction.

My family tree is marked by community influence.

Both my parents are educators. So too were my maternal grandparents.

My paternal grandfather is a doctor. My uncle is a renowned surgeon.

If there’s one commonality among my relatives, it’s a devotion to helping others be better, safer, and healthier. And that means reducing risks.

When I was growing up, my parents would encourage me not to make the same mistake twice. And my grandfather would often share the most basic doctorly advice in the book.

If it hurts to move your leg like that, don’t move your leg like that.

I was primed to steer clear of recklessness from the start. And I’ve followed that North Star into adulthood.

These days, I make a living in the insurance technology industry. So those risk reduction edicts have only further solidified.

Now, this hasn’t turned me into a frightened recluse. I don’t spend my days assuming everything will go wrong.

But I do imagine what could go sideways. And I try to avoid that outcome as much as possible.

This ethos has underpinned many of the choices I’ve made over the years. It spurred my decision to stop eating dairy and fast food. It led me to quit drinking alcohol.

And it led me to stop skiing.

You see, I was never fully in control on skis. I took turns too wide and still struggled to stop on a dime when I got into trouble. I feared that my shaky form would lead me directly into a tree — and a broken leg.

I’d also taken up running during this time — first for exercise and eventually as a competitive endeavor. As my devotion to running deepened, the costs of a ski run gone awry started to seem as steep as a Black Diamond slope. It just wasn’t worth trying.

Now, this decision was not exactly a prevalent one in the athletic community. I know of several runners who have won distance races weeks after a ski vacation.

But for me, the potential costs were too high. Getting to the starting line healthy was paramount. Nothing that could jeopardize that mission was worth engaging in.

This line of thought constitutes Risk Reduction 101. And it’s worked as expected for me.

Or has it?

As I write this, it’s been a decade since I went skiing. And it’s been four months since I went for a run.

A high-speed crash on a snowy slope hasn’t paused my running career. But I’ve come across some significant injuries, nonetheless.

There hasn’t been a single cause for these setbacks. Some were due to overtraining. Some were due to chronic physiological issues. Some were simply due to bad luck.

But regardless, I’ve paid the price.

I’ve lost four months of an activity I love. I’ve dropped out of five races, forfeiting hundreds of dollars in the process. I’ve gone through surgery and an arduous rehab process.

If I had a skiing mishap, I’d likely have missed about the same amount of time while healing. My rehab process would likely have been somewhat similar.

Taking all this into account, my decision to cut out skiing doesn’t look all that stellar. After all, those risks I was trying to avoid found me anyway.

I might as well have lived with reckless abandon. I might as well have let the chips fall where they may.

This is a tantalizing argument. Yet, I don’t buy it for a second.

Sure, I’ve encountered a bit of a rough patch lately. I’d even call it the nadir of my running career.

But such an outcome can’t be viewed in a vacuum.

The odds of what happened to me without skiing are lower than they would have been if I kept hitting the slopes.

No, I might not have avoided fate. But I didn’t actively invite it either.

This is an important distinction.

All too often, we view risk as binary. We either aim for total avoidance or throw caution to the wind.

Neither approach truly steels us for a bad outcome.

In one case, we’re forced to reckon with our recklessness in the most brutal of fashions. In another, we’re left wondering why we threw away the chance at adventure — only to encounter its bitter toll.

The best way around this is to take the middle path. To accept small risks and shun outsized ones.

This requires judgment without clear guardrails. It requires a feel for the odds. And it requires us to embrace the gray.

Put it all together, and we’re left with an incredibly high bar to clear.

But with some discipline and devotion, we can clear it. I am proof positive of that.

So, let’s take this journey together.

Let’s resolve to feel the rush of the wind without getting in over our skis. Let’s be mindful of risk, but not paralyzed by it.

We might not always win this way. But we’ll surely lose less.

On Fragility

The stakes were low.

I was playing a pickup game of indoor soccer at the college rec center with some friends.

There were no trophies to be hoisted. There was no money to be won.

All that was on the line was bragging rights.

Still, as I lined up in a defensive position, I prepared to go full throttle. I didn’t get to play soccer all that often, and I was going to make the most of this opportunity.

I got as close as I could to the opposing forwards. If they tried to advance, I’d poke the ball past their heels and race around them to pass it to a teammate. If they tried to pass or shoot, I’d get my body in the way.

This style of play was more suitable for hockey than soccer. And I soon found out why.

A sizzling shot from an opponent hit me square in the jaw. The entire left side of my face went numb for a moment. It proceeded to tingle, and then throb.

My teammates asked if I was alright to continue. I gave them a nod and carried on.

Moments later, another shot hit me in the groin. I doubled over from the blow. But after taking a moment to gather myself, I fought through.

Finally, I went to block a shot, and an opponent’s foot clipped my left shin. I tried to continue after this setback too but quickly found that to be impractical.

The blow to my shin had sapped all the power from my left leg — which is my dominant one. Crisp passes quickly devolved into feeble dribblers across the hardwood.

I subbed myself out of the game. Then I sat on the bench, catching my breath.

Once the game had finished, I headed back to my dorm, showered, and changed clothes.

That was it.

There was no ice pack. No ibuprofen. No imminent trip to the health center to get checked out.

I simply went about my business. And the next day, I was no worse for wear.

I was young and I was durable. Bouncing back from an injury was as easy as pie.

Fast forward nearly half my life. It’s a weekend morning and I’m heading to the gym. But on the way there, I slip on a slick spot on the concrete. I fall partway down a flight of stairs and land on my lower back.

I lie on the steps for a few moments, feeling every bit of the blunt-force trauma I’ve endured. But after a quick check, I determine I haven’t broken any bones. So, I cautiously get back to my feet and continue my trek.

This time, though, I realize something is amiss.

My bruised back causes me problems for the rest of the day, the entire next day, and the ensuing week. I go to the doctor, get a prescription for anti-inflammatories, and put a heating pad on the bruise.

Nothing seems to work. And I start to get flustered.

Sure, I fell, I tell myself. But young children fall all the time. And they get right back up as if nothing happened.

The same went for my teenage self. My actions following that pickup soccer game are proof positive of that.

What’s different this time? I have no good explanation.

Then, lying in bed one night, it hits me.

I’m older now. And an increase in age means a spike in fragility.

I should be reassured by this straightforward fact. But I am not.

Several years ago, the Dallas Cowboys took the field for a critical late-season football game.

After shoving an opposing ballcarrier out of bounds, Cowboys defensive back Byron Jones noticed his knee was askew. Sitting on the turf, he calmly popped the knee back into place, got back up, and played the rest of the game.

Jones credited his flexibility for the quick adjustment. But he likely could have credited his age as well.

You see, Jones was in his first year of professional football. Only 23 years old, Jones was primed for athletic feats. He could leap to deflect passes, run with the fastest offensive players, or even put his knee back into position when necessary.

These days, Jones can do none of those things. While he hasn’t officially retired from football, Jones has noted that he can no longer run or jump — two skills needed to play his position.

As I write this, Jones is still in his early 30s. If his vocation were that of a foreman, a financial accountant, or a firefighter, he’d be decades away from retirement. But as a football player, he’s used goods.

This is by design.

Football has no tolerance for fragility. It’s a violent sport. One that frontloads the value of its combatants and then discards them as they depreciate.

Those over-the-hill players are quickly forgotten — their battered and brittle bodies withering away beyond the glow of the limelight.

If not for the harrowing headlines regarding CTE, we wouldn’t know anything about their plight.

This is unfortunate, as such knowledge could be mutually beneficial.

Seeing how the titans of sports deal with their accelerating fragility can give us a roadmap for dealing with our own brittleness. And it can help us support these gladiators as they transition into the next stage of their lives.

Such knowledge can also help us overcome our own demons. Indeed, this is a sentiment I understand all too well.

Traditionally, I’ve never been one to succumb to any age-related meltdowns. I’ve been as steadfast and determined in my 30s as I was in my 20s.

But this sudden reminder of my fragility has shaken me a bit.

So much of my identity is harnessed to my resilience. On my ability to shake off a soccer ball to the face, a shot to the groin, a kick in the shin.

If a fall sets me back this much, what does that mean? Has my identity corroded? Will my response to setbacks — physical or otherwise — remain compromised?

I’ve been thinking about all of this, searching for a definitive answer.

And the closest I’ve gotten to one came from the words of Byron Jones.

We were all more flexible and resilient way back when. But now, it’s okay to need a moment.

It’s one thing to note our fragility. It’s another to accept it.

But then what?

This is not like the 12-step program, where we might be building toward something. No, frailty is more in the other direction. A steady crumbling of the tower that we’ve built.

There is no clear path back to where we once were. There is only a choice.

Will we continue to take calculated risks, knowing that the downsides are steeper than ever? Or will live in fear of an all too real unknown?

I’ve chosen the first path.

I realize now that danger lurks at every turn. I understand that recovery is more of a process than a breeze.

But I also realize that life is too precious to waste for fear of a bad outcome. Even as those outcomes are more challenging than ever to bounce back from.

This is my choice. But it’s not the only one.

Indeed, plenty of others have faded away under the weight of time. They’ve seen their shadows and retreated into their shells.

Neither decision is inherently right nor wrong.

But make no mistake. Each of us has decided.

Fragility, dear readers, is a fact of life. The effects of time are inevitable.

It’s how we handle such an unwelcome reality that defines us. Not just in this moment, but possibly in many others to come.

So, let’s be brave. Let’s be thoughtful. But most of all, let’s be true to ourselves.

It’s not too much to ask.

On Autopilot

As I made my way down the highway, my frustration mounted.

It was rush hour, and the road was packed with vehicles. Stop-and-go traffic made things unpredictable. You never quite knew when you’d be able to speed up or would need to slow down.

I’m no rookie when it comes to the rush hour slog. So, I followed protocols, intently watching the brake lights of the car in front of me.

But that vehicle – a Tesla – proved erratic. Its brake lights would come on suddenly and intensely. And I would need to slam on the brakes to avoid a collision.

Teslas are notoriously tall cars, and I struggled to see beyond it. But as traffic in the other lanes started outpacing ours, I figured out what was going on.

There was plenty of blacktop in front of the Tesla. But the vehicle was not filling that gap. Instead, the driver was braking early and often, leaving me in a bind for no good reason.

After a few agonizing miles, I seized an opportunity to move into an adjoining lane and pass the Tesla. As I did, I peeked over – and immediately discovered what had caused me so much agony.

The driver had one hand on the wheel, and the other on a smartphone. Much of her attention was on that device, rather than the road.

It was a reckless decision. And I, the driver behind her, had borne the brunt of it.

My blood boiled. But my rage extended far beyond the woman sitting inside that metal box.

When I was a new driver, I despised Lexus vehicles.

The sedans and SUVs with that stylized chrome L on their hoods were fine enough. But the people who owned them were not.

I loathed the entitled jerks who tailgated me at high speeds or cut me off on the road. Most of the time, these drivers were piloting a Lexus. And as I connected the dots, my disdain for the luxury car label grew.

I began to see the brand as an enabler, allowing drivers to violate the rules of the road without consequences. It seemed like the outrageously high price tags for Lexus vehicles came with a superiority complex – one that drivers asserted at every turn. And poor chumps like me were left to clean up the mess.

As I’ve grown older, my vitriol for Lexus has turned to indifference. But that’s mostly because there’s a new clubhouse leader in despised car brands.

Tesla.

Now, to be clear, I have a healthy respect for the automaker with the stylized T on its hood. Disrupting the entrenched United States market as an outsider is daunting enough. Yet, Tesla has managed to break through while changing the way the industry develops cars.

When I bought my Ford SUV, most models were gas-powered. By the time I buy my next one, Ford might also have several electric options for me to consider. Tesla has everything to do with that shift.

But Tesla has also taken The Lexus Problem to new heights. The company is helmed by the bombastic Elon Musk, who once infamously expressed his desire for human driving to be outlawed.

Tesla has moved toward this goal by developing autonomous modes in its vehicles. But the self-driving features have been imperfect, and even deadly at times.

The company has tried to fix these mishaps with software updates. And it’s taken steps to remind drivers to stay alert when the car is on autopilot, in the event they need to take over.

But that message only goes so far.

Indeed, Musk’s bold claims have caused something of a halo effect. Many Tesla customers believe the car can drive itself and slack off on the fundamentals.

Whether they have autonomous mode engaged or not, Tesla drivers can act like the one I was stuck behind on the highway — checking their phones more intently than the road. In their minds, the high-tech car itself absolves them of responsibility.

So now, instead of battling aggressive Lexus drivers, I’m forced to reckon with passive Tesla drivers. The behavior might be different, but the entitlement complex is the same.

These drivers claim superiority on the road. And the rest of us are forced to reckon with them.

I’ll never forget the first time I tried cruise control as a driver.

I was on a road trip with my father, and he encouraged me to engage the feature for the miles ahead.

I set my speed, using the controls next to the steering wheel. I took my foot off the gas pedal and gripped the steering wheel.

The car zipped along as seamlessly as before. I was amazed.

Soon, I saw a slower vehicle ahead of me. I checked my mirrors, engaged my blinker, and turned the steering wheel slightly, gliding into the passing lane. Once I cleared the slower vehicle, I glided back into my original lane.

I was taking to cruise control quickly. But I wasn’t comfortable.

And so, I tapped the brake and pressed my foot back onto the gas pedal. This disengaged all the cruise control settings, putting me fully in charge.

My father looked over at me incredulously, an implied question in his silent stare. I replied assertively.

I just don’t like being on autopilot.

And that was that.

Now, cruise control was a far cry from today’s autonomous modes. You still had to pay attention to the road, even without a foot on the gas.

Even so, I didn’t enjoy the partial lack of control. Too much could go wrong, and I didn’t trust myself to snap back into it before it did.

Such perspectives are basically unheard of these days. People seem to enjoy going on autopilot — both in the car and outside it. With cutting-edge technology at our fingertips, it’s easier than ever to fill the gaps in our day-to-day. And we’re all too eager to do so.

This by itself is not a concern. Efficiency is a desirable attribute. Boredom is not.

Still, going on autopilot does come with some strings attached. We must pay attention to our surroundings. And we must be ready to spring into action if need be.

All too often, we willfully ignore these requirements. Or we deprecate their importance.

In doing so, we end up like that Tesla driver on the highway. We prefer what’s on our smartphones to the task at hand.

Sure, that driver wasn’t using Tesla’s autonomous mode. (Don’t worry. I looked.) But that’s beside the point.

You see, the autopilot mentality is pervasive. We use it to abdicate responsibility at every turn — whether we have the system engaged or not.

And this mindset can be disastrously corrosive.

Without accountability, standards degrade. Without accountability, people get hurt. Without accountability, justice goes unserved.

How can avert major mistakes if we’re not engaged? How can we learn from the mishaps that we encounter if we’re not involved? And how can we make the world a safer place if we’re checked out?

We can’t.

Autopilot is a tool. Going on autopilot is a poison pill.

It’s time for us to stop taking it.

Loading It Up

All I wanted was an iced coffee.

Coffee and ice cubes in a plastic cup. No more. No less.

I walked up to the counter and gave my order to the barista — only to be startled by her reply.

So, you don’t want any Classic Syrup in it?

No, I most certainly did not. I stated as much to the barista — and I got my syrup-less iced coffee a few minutes later.

It looked fine. It tasted fine. And it was what I’d ordered. Crisis averted.

Still, I was bewildered.

How had something so simple become so complicated? And was I always going to need to exert this much effort just to get an iced coffee?

I am not alone in my bewilderment.

All over America, people wander into coffee shops looking for a basic cup of joe. And all too often, their quest gets waylaid.

Dark, caffeinated liquid no longer flows freely into cups at these establishments. Instead, it is mixed with milk, syrup, and whipped cream until it’s unrecognizable.

Such is the mandate — both from consumers and café management. Consumers hope to get a morning jolt without even a hint of coffee’s natural bitterness. Proprietors are looking to upcharge for the fillers and sweeteners that help bury such hints.

These are the rules of engagement for procuring a modern-day brew. These are the terms for taking the field.

And because of this, black coffee drinkers find themselves sidelined.

Baristas will often delay fulfillment of their orders, opting to prepare more customized concoctions first. Or worse, those baristas will mistakenly add milk, syrup, or sugar to the cups — simply by force of habit.

As a capitalist and a marketer, I understand where coffee shop proprietors are coming from. The restaurant industry has teetered on razor-thin profit margins for generations. Any opportunity to get more cash from consumers must be taken.

But I must confess, I’m perplexed by modern-day coffee consumers. This obsession with customizations and over-the-top flavors seems like a classic case of having it both ways.

People want the benefits of coffee without any tradeoffs. Loading it up might seem to them like a great way to get there.

It’s not.

Several years ago, I quit drinking alcohol.

Shortly thereafter, a new category of booze skyrocketed in popularity. It was a fizzy concoction known as Hard Seltzer.

I know nothing about how hard seltzer tastes. But I would imagine it’s the successor to Smirnoff Ice. That’s the flavored vodka drink that I used to get for girls when we ventured to the beach in college.

Hard Seltzer, Smirnoff Ice, and crude cocktails — such as Frozen Margaritas — offer the same promise. Those who consume them can get drunk without ever encountering alcohol’s signature burn.

These drinks are the boozy equivalents of modern coffee. All the benefits, but with none of the drawbacks.

Or so it seems.

It turns out there are drawbacks to these concoctions. Most are loaded with sugar and artificial flavorings. Many don’t sit well in digestive tracts. And all of them can lead to overindulgence.

Add it all up, and these drinks can cause plenty of issues to those who consume them.

Yes, alcohol’s repulsive natural flavor is an advantage. It’s a visceral check against the binge mentality.

It forces us to reckon with what we’re doing as we drink. Even as our memory blurs and our inhibitions float away, we retain a sense of what we’re doing. And our case for deniability evaporates.

We likely won’t hold ourselves accountable for our actions if everything we drink tastes like fruit punch. But if those drinks have an aftertaste resembling lighter fluid? Well, that unpleasant memory is primed to linger. And so might our sense of guilt over what we’ve wrought.

The stakes for coffee are decidedly lower than alcohol. We’re less likely to crash our car or heave on someone’s carpet after downing some wake-up juice.

And yet, loading it up still comes with a personal cost.

The excess sugar and cream fill us with empty calories to burn off. And it likely wipes out many of the coffee’s purported health benefits.

Compound this over time and our fitness might lag. Our tooth enamel might decay. And our digestive system might crash.

Our bodies are not primed to take in dessert for breakfast each day. But that’s essentially what we’ve turned modern-day coffee into.

If having it both ways seems too good to be true, it’s because it is.

I am an avid runner.

For me, there’s nothing like getting outside and feeling my shoes hit the pavement. The wind whizzes by my ears, the fresh air fills my lungs, and I feel alive.

I love running. But to be honest, it’s not always pleasant.

I’ve gotten a side stitch on the run before. I’ve felt my legs turn to jelly. I’ve gotten flush in the face and sweated profusely.

These experiences have been miserable. But they haven’t weakened my resolve to keep getting out there.

This point has baffled the non-runners I’ve encountered. Many of them have avoided the hobby because it can be unpleasant. And yet, I persevere in spite of that unpleasantness.

For I understand the broader picture. I recognize that I can’t have it both ways.

If I want to experience the benefits of running — the peak fitness, the graceful strides, the breezy race splits — I also must reckon with the misery that this sport carries with it.

So, there is no loading it up for me. I take my running the way I take my coffee — straight-up and uncompromised.

Fortunately, I’m not alone in this endeavor. The running community is full of people of a similar mentality to my own.

This is logical. After all, you can’t really thrive in an endurance sport without, well, enduring.

Still, I’d say the same is true of coffee, of alcohol, and of all the other things we systematically exploit.

If we understood them in their truest form, we’d gain some needed context. And if we stopped loading them up by default, we’d be better off.

Yes, this would lead to some visceral unpleasantness. And yes, this would require some behavior change on our end. It’s a big ask, and not one we’re likely to take on with enthusiasm.

Still, it’s a change we should make. For the status quo is doing us no favors.

It’s time to stop loading it up. And it’s time to face reality.

Let’s get to it.

On The Fly

It started as a murmur.

On the police scanner, there was some chatter about an incident on the far side of town.

Seconds later, the newsroom phone rang. I picked it up, recognizing our resident tipster’s voice instantly.

Hey. There’s something going on across town. Might be worth checking out.

I assured the tipster I was on it. But that wasn’t entirely true.

You see, I’d danced this waltz plenty in my nine weeks on the job. Each day, as I compiled my newscasts, the police radio would buzz about some incident. The tipster would hear the chatter on his scanner. Then he’d call me — the evening producer — and ask me to look into it.

Initially, I did. I’d send a news photographer all over the area, following up on the cryptic words of a dispatch officer.

But those photographers rarely found anything of note at the scene. So lately, I’d stopped calling them each time the scanner buzzed.

Such was the case on this afternoon. Instead of redirecting a news photographer, called a police spokesperson. That spokesman had little to update me on, so I carried on with my work.

It only took a half hour to discover I’d made the wrong choice.

A rival station cut into daytime TV coverage, announcing that there was a standoff on the edge of town. Shots had been fired, law enforcement was involved, and that station’s news crews were on scene.

In an instant, our News Director appeared at my desk.

You see that? We need to be out there.

I sensed the intensity in his eyes, and I panicked. I nervously told him I’d call the news photographer.

The News Director was not having it.

No, no! We need to send a reporter there now. And we need to find a way to go live.

Oh yes, I’d forgotten that detail. Our station’s live truck had been out of service for weeks. It hadn’t been an issue before. But now our competitor was reporting from the scene of a standoff, and we couldn’t do the same.

I was up a creek without a paddle. I just didn’t know how far.

I ultimately did get a reporter to the scene. And we got a live report on our evening newscast via telephone.

But it was too little, too late.

It was the first breaking news event of my career. And I’d blown it.

For weeks after this blunder, I found it hard to sleep.

I’d lie in bed and stare at the ceiling for hours. I’d replay everything I did and didn’t do. And I’d grapple for answers.

I had to be better at breaking news if I wanted a career as a news producer. I knew that.

But I also tended to freeze each time I was caught off-guard. That trait was paralyzing my breaking news response. And it would continue to sabotage my goals if I let it.

How could I turn hesitancy into action? How could I become selectively impulsive?

I’d think. I’d pine. I’d strategize. But it all got me nowhere.

Then, one night, I remembered I’d faced this paradox before. I encountered it as I was learning to drive.

Most teenagers couldn’t wait to get their license and tool around town on their own accord. But not me.

I was so terrified of the unpredictable open road that I resisted getting a learner’s permit or signing up for Driver’s Education classes.

You see, I’d ridden in enough vehicles to know that sticky situations could arise suddenly on the road. Other drivers could stop short with no warning. Pedestrians and bikers might dart in front of moving traffic.

Most drivers reacted quickly to this mayhem. But I figured I’d freeze up and crash into another car. Or worse, I might run someone over.

Eventually, I did get that permit and those driving lessons. Still leery of the unknown, I tried to prepare for every road hazard ahead of time. Yet, despite my best efforts, a couple of those hazards did sneak up on me.

As I faced these situations, I could feel myself starting to freeze up. But I never actually did.

Instead, my foot hit the brake. Or my hands turned the wheel to avoid danger.

These were reflexive responses. My instincts were guiding my reactions more than my brain was.

I realized that if I harnessed those instincts while anticipating road hazards, I’d turn into a proficient driver.

I’d worked hard at that over the years. And as I lay in bed on this sleepless night, I recognized that I’d become that proficient driver.

Maybe I try the same thing for breaking news situations.

I could plot out my thought process ahead of time. And I could coax my instincts to come alive on the fly when needed.

This revelation changed everything.

I reported to work the next day with a new mindset. Instead of praying for normalcy, I embraced chaos.

There was still no inkling of when the next breaking news event might hit. But whenever it did, I’d be prepared to react.

Over the ensuing years, my plan did come to fruition. Breaking news events occasionally popped up, and they still caught me off-guard. But I got better and better at responding to them. And I gained more and more confidence throughout.

Eventually, I broke a story that gained national attention. A freight train collided with a parade float downtown, killing four people and injuring 16 more.

As soon as the scanner buzzed with word of a Possible train accident, I leaped into action. I was making calls, coordinating coverage, and updating text on the station’s website even before I’d personally processed the gravity of the event. I was acting on the fly.

This was all critical in getting the story out first. And it helped my station share new developments in real time.

I’d come a long way. The days of dropping the ball were over.

As I write this, I’ve been out of the news business for nearly a decade.

Those frantic breaking news events are distant memories to me now. But the protocols for handling such chaos are not.

It turns out those skills are as useful outside the walls of a TV station as they are within them.

Indeed, there have been plenty of times in my second career when I was caught off guard. The same goes for my personal life.

My employer might shift priorities for my segment, put the kibosh on a major project I was working on, or even lay me off. All have happened to me in my time in the business world.

And outside of work, I might get a concerning medical diagnosis, hear something worrisome from a friend, or learn of the death of a loved one.

Each of these scenarios is a jolt to the system. And we tend to respond to them in one of two ways — stunned silence or a wave of emotion.

But that’s not quite true for me anymore.

Now, I spring into action.

I ask follow-up questions. I coordinate logistics. I think on the fly.

I’ve already done the legwork to respond in this way. I’ve taken little for granted in my life. And I’ve imagined what it would look like if what I cherish was taken from me.

I haven’t done all this to soften the blow. I’ve done it to sharpen my instincts and to hasten my response.

It might sound calculated or cold. But it’s effective.

Not just for me. But for all of us.

Yes, it’s important for all of us to consider this approach.

For there is a time to process the information that knocks us to our knees. To pause. To grieve. To absorb the emotional blow.

But there is also a time to respond. To take the tactical steps needed to move forward.

If we insist on acting in sequence — in processing everything before taking our next steps — we’ll be left behind. We’ll remain a shell of ourselves as we attempt to pick up the pieces. We might not recover at all.

It’s imperative that we not let shock preclude us from action. That we prime our instincts to work, even when our mind is overrun. That we maintain our ability to respond on the fly.

It’s not a desired assignment. But it’s a needed one.

Let’s heed the call.

On Toughness

I dug into the batter’s box and stared out toward the infield.

Each of the three bases had a teammate of mine standing on it. With one mighty swing, I could bring them all home.

It was the scenario every baseball player dreams about. But it was up to me to write that storybook ending.

So, I set my stance. I readied my bat. I stared intently at the pitcher as he wound up and released the ball.

The pitch veered my way. It wasn’t going to be hittable, so I tried to let it pass.

But the baseball kept riding closer and closer to my hands — until it clanged of the base of my right thumb.

The home plate umpire immediately shouted Hit Batter and pointed toward first base. I jogged in that direction, as my teammate on third base jogged toward home plate.

By the time I got to first base, my hand was beginning to throb. I looked over at my coach — who was standing nearby — and grimaced.

Hurts so good, don’t it? he asked. Shake it off. You drove in a run.

I took those words as gospel. And I paid the pain in my right thumb no further mind.

That pitch clanged off my thumb more than half my life ago.

And yet, I still remember the incident like it was yesterday.

For it was the first foray into toughness. The first time where my taking it on the chin — or the hand, as it were — brought anything other than unbridled agony.

This time, such an act brought applause and praise. And I was enthralled by the adulation.

So, I made toughness part of my persona. I stopped bemoaining my aches and pains. And I started treating them as badges of honor instead.

My rationale was straightforward. If John Wayne didn’t complain about bumps and bruises, neither should I. If Chuck Norris could dust himself off after taking a blow, so could I.

That meant bouncing back to my feet each time I fell. It meant postponing a trip to the doctor or urgent care if something was nagging me. It meant keeping that upper lip stiff and complaints to a minimum.

I thought that my grit and resilience proofed my tough I was. But it turns out I knew far less about toughness than I thought.

I sat on the floor and carefully unstrapped my protective walking boot. As I stared out at my right leg, I flexed my foot upwards and downwards.

With each movement, I felt the tendons around my ankle tighten in resistance. The pain made me grimace.

It had been like this for days, ever since my surgery.

My refurbished ankle was wrapped in bandages like a burrito. And most of the day, those bandages were shielded by my bulky walking boot. My entire lower leg had become an enigma to me.

Those few moments where I shed the boot to change clothes were precious. The flexing exercises were my only opportunities to get a sense of my recovery.

And I didn’t like what I felt.

The blunt ankle discomfort I’d experienced before the operation was gone. But now this intense tendon tightness had taken its place.

My range of motion was in shambles. And so was my confidence.

There would be no quick return to form. I would need weeks of Physical Therapy and plenty of patience to get my ankle functional again.

And even with all this work ahead of me, there was a chance that the tightness and pain would linger. There was a chance I’d never be as I once was.

I had brought all this on myself. For I had elected for this surgery, without a hint of hesitation.

The choice seemed as natural as could be. I had been hobbled by a couple of ankle injuries and viewed the process of going under the knife as a Second Level Risk. I yearned for improved mobility and accepted the potential downsides of my decision.

But I hadn’t understood the depth of those consequences until this moment. It was only when that tendon tightness started to take hold that I truly felt the full gravity of what I’d done.

As I stared into the abyss of uncertainty, I realized I had two options. I could throw in the towel and accept my compromised state. Or I could devote myself to a lengthy rehabilitation without any guaranteed returns.

I chose the latter.

It’s been quite some time since I made that choice to face the darkness. That decision hasn’t affected my physical recovery all that much.

Even so, this experience has changed the way I see the world. And it’s shifted the way I see myself.

Several years ago, here on Words of the West, I shared the saga of Jim Stockdale.

Stockdale, a U.S. Naval pilot, spent seven years as a prisoner of war in North Vietnam. He emerged from the ordeal with a Medal of Honor. And he was later elevated to the rank of Vice Admiral.

Surviving seven years of wartime captivity required plenty of physical resilience. Stockdale absorbed the blinding pain of torture, encountering starvation and sleep deprivation along the way.

But it was Stockdale’s mental fortitude that proved most critical to his survival. Other prisoners gave into despair or fell prey to delusions of an imminent rescue. But not Stockdale.

Stockdale stared right into the abyss, determined yet realistic. He would later define his mental model with clarity and eloquence.

You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the end — which you can never afford to lose — with the discipline to confront the most brutal facts of your current reality, whatever they might be.

These words have come to be known as The Stockdale Paradox. And they’ve become an ethos for everything from psychological resistance training to business strategy.

Yet, they can also serve as the definition of toughness. They can, and perhaps they should.

You see, toughness is not about ignoring the alarm bells of your central nervous system. It’s not about popping back up off the mat when you’ve been knocked down.

No, toughness is about assessing our impairments and vulnerabilities, accepting their continued presence, and finding the courage to carry on.

Toughness requires us to rewire our brains. It demands that we take a sledgehammer to the concept of psychological safety. It forces us to lean into uncertainty at a seemingly unbearable level.

These are not small asks. But they are attainable.

My recovery from ankle surgery serves as a small example of this. My tribulations appear as a drop of water next to Stockdale’s ocean. But the experience has proven my mettle in a way that no baseball to the thumb ever could.

I now know what true toughness is. And that knowledge will serve me well for the rest of my life.

Many of us will never experience true toughness.

We will never come face to face with our own mortality in a faraway Prisoner of War camp. We will never need to ask ourselves if we’ll be able to walk normally again.

Our lives will remain unencumbered. And for that, we don’t owe anyone any apologies.

But there is one thing we can still do. One change that we simply should make.

We can stop conflating grit and resilience with toughness.

We can. We should. We must.

Shaking off bruises is commendable. Getting back on our feet is notable. But it doesn’t make us tough.

No, dear reader, that moniker demands a higher pedestal. So, let’s take it off the ground and lift it back up to where it belongs.

Second Level Risk

Are you sure you want to do this?

The words filled me with dread. But before I could reply, the technician continued.

Because if this repair doesn’t take, we’ll be out of options. Your device is considered vintage.

I took a moment to try and unpack these words.

I struggled to comprehend how my laptop computer could be a relic. This wasn’t a dusty Remington typewriter from the 1970s. I’d gotten it — new — less than 10 years earlier.

The transaction had cost a small fortune. And I had a hard time believing the computer was now vintage.

But technology moves fast. New editions of the laptop had hit the market since I got mine. Versions with new processors, updated displays, and a completely redesigned keyboard.

This would prove to be a problem, as I desperately needed to fix some busted keys.

I could either take a leap of faith with the technician, hoping he could get the misaligned keycaps back in place. Or I could decline the repair and make do with a compromised keyboard.

It wasn’t much of a decision.

I’d like you to try to fix It, I replied. It’s not working well for me right now, so leaving it as is doesn’t seem like an option.

The technician nodded and took the laptop to a back room. After a few minutes, he returned triumphant. The keyboard was fully intact once again.

When I entrusted the technician with my computer, I was taking a risk.

This was an opportunity to make something broken whole again. But it was also a final roll of the dice.

There were no guarantees that the repair would work. And there was the possibility of inflicting further, irreversible harm to my keyboard.

Such an outcome wouldn’t be beneficial to anyone.

I would be left with a mangled computer. The technician’s reputation would be tarnished. And the manufacturer would face the potential of legal action — if I were so inclined to pursue it.

And so, the technician seemed hesitant — unwilling, even — to proceed. The risk seemed too big to ignore. And the status quo seemed more enticing.

I was decidedly not on board with this thinking.

You see, the computer technician put all risks in the same grouping. But I don’t.

Indeed, I consider the history behind the status quo when making these calls.

If everything is going well, a repair would indeed appear risky. Sure, tinkering might provide new capabilities or unlock new features. But it could also screw up something that was working just fine.

I call this type of scenario a First Level Risk. And I rarely consider it worthwhile.

But if something is already damaged or off-kilter, the risks of a repair seem less stark. Sure, another layer of damage would cause further headaches. But living with a compromised status quo is hardly palatable.

I call this scenario a Second Level Risk. And I’m more willing to take it on.

So yes, I commanded the technician to repair my computer with little hesitation. I made a similar choice regarding surgery for an injured ankle. And yet another to get some rodent-damaged wiring replaced in my vehicle.

I couldn’t imagine making do with what I had. I couldn’t imagine jumping through hoops to maneuver around the damage. (Or not jumping at all, when it came to my ankle.)

Fixing the damage seemed like the only salve. Even if that fix was far from a sure thing.

Second Level Risks were worthwhile.

When I was growing up, I would often go shopping for furniture with my parents.

The store had an As Is showroom. And we would always scour it for discounted furniture.

The As Is items changed out frequently. But they tended to have one thing in common — defects.

Many found these defects acceptable — or at least acceptable in exchange for a lower purchase price.

But to the best of my recollection, my family did not.

I was too young to have an informed opinion back then. But now, decades later, I find myself continuing my family’s legacy.

I don’t want anything of mine to be As Is. I don’t want to be hindered or compromised.

And so, I do what I can to avoid that fate. I entrust others with the task of making me whole.

Until recently, it hadn’t occurred to me how unusual such a decision is.

Indeed, many in our society will gladly take a First Level Risk. But they’ll avoid a Second Level one.

Take my late grandfather as an example.

This was a man who enlisted in the United States Navy at age 17, during the waning months of World War II. He could have stayed in high school until the summer of 1945, likely avoiding the risk of ever being drafted into the conflict. But instead, he decided to put his life on the line for his country.

Shipping off to the Navy during a global war was perhaps the most commendable of First Level Risks. But it was a substantial risk, nonetheless.

My grandfather was placing all kinds of trust in his commanding officers to make it through the ordeal. And that faith ultimately paid off.

You would think such unwavering trust would flow into other risky decisions my grandfather faced. But it didn’t.

All too often, my grandfather would try to fix household appliances himself, or leave them in a compromised state. Good enough was sufficient for him— even if neglected or MacGuyvered repairs put parts of his house in structural danger. Entrusting trained professionals with a solution was just too risky.

In hindsight, my grandfather’s allergy to Second Level Risks seems comical. But in practice, it’s all too understandable.

For America is built upon the pattern my grandfather espoused. We’re implored to take big risks to seize bigger opportunities. But we’re also indoctrinated on the value of self-sufficiency.

Embracing only Second Level risks is an affront to all of this. If we play it safe when things are going well, we’ll leave countless opportunities on the table. And if we turn to others when things are broken, we lose autonomy.

As such, many have followed my grandfather’s pattern. They’ve taken chances when it wasn’t strictly necessary. And they’ve avoided taking chances when the situation could have called for it.

While I understand the sentiment, I also find it a bit baffling.

Are we really that comfortable with spinning the wheel on those First Level Risks, with their massive opportunity costs? And if we are, shouldn’t the Second Level Risks seem doubly enticing?

The answers tend to be Yes and No, respectively. But it’s time we flip them around.

It’s time to listen to reason. It’s time to follow common sense. It’s time to manage our risk tolerance.

We have less to lose with Second Level Risks than we do with First Level ones.

So, let’s stop throwing away a good thing in pursuit of more. And let’s take the calculated risks we need to fix something that’s gone rotten.

This is the sensible way to make decisions. It’s about time we adhered to it.

Into The Fire

On the evening of April 23, 2005, a young man in a suit and tie strode across the stage at a convention hall in New York City.

The man stood next to the commissioner of the National Football League and posed for the cameras. His dream of becoming a pro football player had just become reality.

For many, this might seem like a triumphant moment. But throughout the experience, the man in the suit did not smile.

He had an axe to grind.

The man on the stage that night was named Aaron Rodgers. A standout college quarterback for the California Golden Bears, he had gone into the NFL Draft with high hopes.

Rodgers expected the San Francisco 49ers to call his name with the draft’s first overall pick. He would then move across the San Francisco Bay from his college campus, sign a lucrative contract, and take the reins as the storied franchise’s next quarterback.

But the 49ers chose another quarterback instead. And the teams that followed San Francisco selected players who starred at different positions than quarterback. As the hours passed, Rodgers appeared visibly despondent.

Finally, a team called Rodgers’ name, with the draft’s 24^th pick. But it was probably the last one he wanted to hear from.

The Green Bay Packers were everything the San Francisco 49ers weren’t. Based in the NFL’s smallest host city, they played outdoors in the frigid Wisconsin winters. They had won only one championship in the past 35 seasons. And they had a future Hall of Famer — Brett Favre — as their quarterback.

Rodgers would need to bide his time to get his opportunity. And so, he did.

Rodgers played sparingly in 2005, 2006, and 2007. But then, the Packers and Favre parted ways. And suddenly Rodgers was at the helm of Green Bay’s offense.

The Packers had a lackluster season in 2008. But Rodgers showed poise, preparedness, and promise.

He built on that foundation in 2009, leading Green Bay back to the playoffs. Then, in 2010, Rodgers led the Packers to a Super Bowl championship.

Over the subsequent 12 seasons, Aaron Rodgers won four league Most Valuable Player awards. And he led the Packers to the playoffs nine times.

Rodgers might not have had the evening he wanted at the 2005 NFL Draft. But things have turned out well anyway.

Aaron Rodgers’ story is well known, in part because it’s so uncommon.

Franchise quarterbacks just don’t tend to have the journey that Rodgers did. They don’t fall to the 24^th pick. They don’t wait as the heir apparent for three full seasons.

Instead, they follow the path of Peyton Manning.

Manning, a college standout for the Tennessee Volunteers, was the first overall pick in the 1998 NFL Draft. Named the starter from Day One, Manning struggled through his debut season with the Indianapolis Colts. But he was downright dominant thereafter.

Manning led the Colts to the playoffs in his second season. The team then returned to the postseason in 10 of the 11 seasons that followed, winning one Super Bowl championship, and losing in another Super Bowl. Along the way, Manning won 5 MVP awards and established himself as one of football’s premier quarterbacks.

NFL teams have tried to follow the Manning blueprint for years. They’ve chosen talented college quarterbacks at the top of the draft and thrown them into the fire. If these young signal callers don’t make it through the inferno with aplomb, team executives will cut their losses and move on.

This whole process is counterintuitive.

You see, the National Football League is perhaps the least appropriate place for snap evaluations. For any new entrant to its ranks faces a steep learning curve.

The dimensions of NFL fields might be no different than those found at the amateur levels. But the players are faster. The play diagrams are more complex. And the competition for each roster spot is fierce.

A player with top-notch skills and a championship pedigree at the amateur levels can still find himself humbled in the pros. It’s that tough to level up.

The burden is that much tougher for rookie quarterbacks. They must orchestrate an entire offensive attack against the best defenses they’ve ever faced. And if these quarterbacks were high draft picks, they likely took over a struggling team — one without a culture of making key plays. (The teams who lost the most games in the prior season pick first in the draft.)

Add it all up, and it’s ridiculous to expect mastery from the start. Yet increasingly, that’s what teams demand.

Consider the case of Tua Tagovailoa.

The quarterback entered the pros with a sterling resume. He came off the bench to lead the Alabama Crimson Tide to a championship in his first collegiate season, then dominated college football over his next two. Considered a sure thing, Tagovailoa was selected by the Miami Dolphins with the 5^th pick of the 2020 NFL Draft.

Tagovailoa started his rookie year on the sidelines, but he quickly found his way into the starting lineup. He proceeded to win 6 of his 9 starts and lead the moribund Dolphins to the brink of the playoffs. He followed that up with another solid campaign — and winning record — in his second year.

Tagovailoa played about as well as could be expected. He mastered the NFL learning curve, winning games consistently. He got a previously putrid Miami offense across the goal line frequently. He didn’t turn the ball over often.

And yet, many pundits have called Tagovailoa a bust. Even with all his accomplishments, Tagovailoa hadn’t proved his worth as an NFL franchise quarterback.

This is the nonsense that Aaron Rodgers avoided when he slid to the 24^th pick in the draft. He wasn’t saddled with an underperforming team and asked to work instant magic.

Rodgers got to learn the ropes out of the spotlight. And once he finally got his shot, it was with a team poised to succeed.

The fire still burned hot. But Rodgers was iron clad.

I’ve never played a down of professional football.

And yet, I’ve been both Aaron Rodgers and Tua Tagovailoa.

My Tua Tagovailoa turn came first. Two months and a day after my college graduation, I took the helm of an evening newscast in Midland, Texas.

I’d never produced a newscast on a local TV station before. But my resume looked good enough — dotted with some solid internships and time volunteering for my university’s TV channel.

So, I was offered a producer job. And once I accepted, I was thrown into the fire.

The results were solid, but not spectacular. I made a few early mistakes and was generally slow in reacting to breaking news. Even after fixing those early hiccups, I was never able to get my newscasts above third place in the local rankings.

I ultimately left the news business long before it would have left me. But, in hindsight, I was never Peyton Manning material in that industry.

My second career has ultimately proven more successful. But its arc has been Aaron Rodgers-esque.

You see, when I left the news media, I figured I’d land a role in corporate communications. My skills, pedigree, and track record seemingly lined up well for those positions.

But hiring managers didn’t see it that way. And so, I spent three months unemployed – growing more despondent by the day.

Ultimately, I did land a marketing role. But I knew next to nothing about the discipline.

So, I spent several years learning the ropes. I leaned on supervisors and tenured colleagues to check my work and highlight my blind spots.

This process started with that first marketing job. But it continued as I moved to a new role with a different company. It even carried through when I enrolled in business school.

Eventually, I felt confident enough to take command. I became more strategic and innovative. I took on initiatives I once considered too risky. And I racked up a raft of career accomplishments.

That voice of doubt still lives rent-free in my head. But my track record tells a far different story.

I am an accomplished marketer. But I don’t think I’d have become one if I were thrown into the fire and left to burn.

The journey I’ve taken is mine alone. But my story is hardly unique.

Most of us will find the Aaron Rodgers path more fruitful than the Tua Tagovailoa one.

This shouldn’t come as a surprise.

For we rarely enter a new venture as a finished product. There remains much for us to learn. There are still many ways in which we can grow.

Our participation can be viewed as a long-term investment — for employers and for ourselves. It’s something that will inevitably start slow and uncertain. But it’s also something that provides a valuable return over time.

Many professional roles are set up in this way. But many others are not.

So, whether we’re an NFL quarterback or a TV news producer, we find ourselves up against it. We’re expected to show our full value from the moment we walk in the door. And all too often, we disappoint.

It doesn’t have to be this way. Indeed, it shouldn’t be.

It’s abundantly clear that the into the fire method does more harm than good. It inhibits growth. It makes late bloomers irrelevant. And it causes employers to short-circuit non-immediate returns by pulling the plug too early.

No one wins. So, let’s abandon this losing game.

Let’s do away with the snap judgments. Let’s give each other some grace. And let’s see what good a little more runway gives us.

Life’s as much about opportunities as it is about moments. Let’s not set them ablaze.

Author: Dylan Brooks