Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

The Craft

I opened a fresh document on my computer as I prepared to start writing an article. This article.

But instead of seeing the usual blank page on my Microsoft Word interface, I saw a light gray icon and text near the top.

The text encouraged me to select the icon or tap a few keys to draft with Copilot.

Copilot is Microsoft’s Artificial Intelligence engine. When enabled, it writes from scratch on the user’s behalf – a process known as Generative AI.

This whole idea of computers writing for humans is somewhat novel. But it’s already made scores of Microsoft users more productive – saving them time while increasing their output.

It would have been useful for me too. It had been a busy few days, and the thought of typing out some fresh thoughts seemed daunting.

But I wasn’t ceding the pen that easily.

I typed my first words onto the page. And I watched the gray icon and text disappear.

10,000 hours.

That’s the amount of practice time it takes to master a craft.

Psychologist K. Anders Ericsson published this finding in a research paper in 1993, referring to it as Deliberate Practice. Acclaimed author Malcolm Gladwell later highlighted Ericsson’s work in a bestselling book, leading many readers to consciously adopt Deliberate Practice.

A 10,000 hour commitment is no picnic. If someone were to spend 4 hours of their day – every single day – practicing a task, it would take them nearly 7 years to attain “world class mastery” of it. Factor in the days skipped for holidays, illnesses, and other commitments, and that timeline is likely to stretch beyond a decade.

And yet, many of those who have accepted the challenge have seen its rewards. James Earl Jones went from being a man with a stutter to a versatile actor with a booming voice. Mike Piazza went from being a 62^nd round draft pick to a Hall of Fame baseball catcher.

Commitment can change our destiny, transforming the impossible into the probable. Persistence pays off.

But only if we let it.

On February 6, 2005, the New England Patriots took on the Philadelphia Eagles in the Super Bowl.

Just a few years earlier, such a matchup in the championship game of American football would have been improbable. The Patriots and Eagles spent most of the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s as also-rans.

But fortunes had shifted with the turn of the millennium. Philadelphia had a creative head coach and an up-and-coming quarterback. And New England had Bill Belichick and Tom Brady.

Belichick was a football lifer – a champion assistant coach who had fumbled in a prior head coaching stint in Cleveland. But his fortunes had changed in Massachusetts. He took his spot on the sidelines seeking a third championship in a four-season span.

Brady was Belichick’s quarterback through that entire run of success – but an unlikely one in that. New England had selected him in the 6^th round of the draft some years back, hoping he would serve as a backup signal caller. But an injury to the starter had vaulted Brady to the top spot early on, and he never relinquished the role.

Both Belichick and Brady appeared to be Deliberate Practice success stories. And yet, they somehow made the business of winning high-profile football games look easy.

Perhaps that’s why a certain commercial – shown to millions of viewers during a break in the action – seemed to fit like a glove.

The commercial was for Staples, then a dominant office supplies store. It showed a student, a rancher, a young parent, and a surgeon – all facing challenging situations. Each of them pressed a red button that read Easy on it, presumably offering a resolution.

The message was straightforward. Life could be challenging, but procuring office supplies didn’t have to be. Staples made it look as easy as New England Patriots did while winning championships.

In the months after the Super Bowl, Staples started making replicas of the Easy button. Americans put them next to their computer keyboards, leaning into the mantra.

The Easy button craze was upon us.

Two decades have passed since that iconic Super Bowl ad. But the more I hear about Generative AI – and the more I see people flocking to it – the more I’m brought back to the Easy button craze it yielded.

Having someone else tackle the difficult and the monotonous is a shared dream. It reduces friction and leaves more room for joy.

Still, there are clear dangers to this approach.

For one thing, the resource we hand off to might not prove trustworthy. This has proven true at times with Generative AI, which has committed some notable blunders.

But beyond that, ceding tasks to the machines jeopardizes deliberate practice.

Generative AI, you see, can unlock enhanced performance in a fraction of the 10,000 hours it takes us. But in doing so, it robs us of opportunities to work through problems, prove our resilience, and hone our craft.

And that’s hardly insignificant.

You’re a good writer.

My mother told me this repeatedly back in 2005.

I was in high school back then, trying to figure out my future. Getting accepted to college was the immediate goal, but then what? I had no idea what I wanted to study there, let alone what I would want to do for a vocation afterward.

My mother left those decisions to me. But she kept dropping hints about my writing prowess.

I didn’t understand the praise. Writing always felt arduous to me. And my grades on essay assignments were never exemplary.

Still, I ended up focusing on writing in college – initially as a film major and later as a journalism student. That led to three years in the news media and several more in the realm of content marketing.

As the years passed by, it was getting harder to dismiss my writing abilities. After all, that skill was now putting a roof over my head and food on my table.

Yet, I still felt the urge to perfect my craft. To practice, iterate, and grow on my own terms.

That’s what led me to launch what is now Ember Trace nearly a decade ago. It gave me a forum to share my thoughts and reflections. But it also allowed me to practice my craft, week in and week out.

This process hasn’t always been peachy. But I’m a better writer and a stronger person for it.

And that’s why I didn’t even consider clicking on that gray button in Microsoft Word and letting Copilot do the work.

Not this time. Not any time.

There’s value in honing our craft. In sticking to it and doing the dirty work.

I’m committed to that pursuit. Let’s hope that I’m not alone.

Testing the Limits

The sign appeared in the distance. A rush of bright colors emerged from the darkness.

As my SUV got closer, the red and yellow hues came into focus. I saw a large circle with a cartoon beaver head inside it.

I was approaching Buc-ee’s.

Buc-ee’s, for the uninitiated, is part of the Texas Trinity of iconic brands. Buc-ee’s, Whataburger, and H-E-B grocery stores are the three chains most Texans can’t get enough of.

But even in that crowd, Buc-ee’s stands alone. For it reinvented an American tradition – the road trip pit stop.

Such rites of passage had long been unceremonious. You’d pull into a travel center along the highway, use a dingy restroom, fill up your vehicle’s gas tank, and maybe scarf down some greasy fast food. Then you’d be back on your way.

But Buc-ee’s has turned all of this on its head. Its travel centers – often located by the interstate in rural Texas towns – are the size of Walmart supercenters. Dozens and dozens of gas pumps bracket the large edifices, with low fuel prices luring drivers to fuel up.

Inside the travel center is a little bit of everything. Home décor. Buc-ee’s branded apparel. Snacks and drinks. Freshly prepared food. And the world’s cleanest travel center restrooms.

It’s a Disneyfied, Texas-sized travel center experience. And many a traveler just can’t get enough – including me.

Well, most of the time at least.

The illuminated beaver sign got bigger and bigger.

I was nearing the exit now. And I had a decision to make.

Normally, you see, I would stop at this travel center. I had done so two days prior when I was heading in the other direction.

But it was already past 8 in the evening. And I needed to get home as quickly as possible.

After all, I was embarking on a work trip the next morning.

I still needed to unpack the remnants of this trip from my suitcase. Then I needed to repack the bag with fresh clothes — all in time to make it to the airport for my flight.

It was a lot to do. And there was no time to waste.

So, I let the exit pass me by. I watched the beaver sign fade into the rearview.

Hopefully, I don’t regret this, I told myself.

The lines of the interstate are the definition of monotony.

Solid white and yellow strips mark the edges of the roadway. And white dotted lines differentiate the lanes in between.

It’s mesmerizing. Hypnotizing. And potentially dangerous.

I figured this out the hard way a few miles past the Buc-ee’s sign. That’s when the lines on the highway started to fade.

The dotted lines became faded white streaks. The darkness of the Texas night took over the cabin of my SUV. I felt my head leaning forward into the steering wheel.

I was drifting off.

It had been a long time since I’d felt this sensation from the driver’s seat. Maybe a decade or more.

And that prior time was after 12 hours of driving. I just had to make it to the hotel down the road then. No big deal.

This time was different. I hadn’t even been on the road for two hours. And I had more than two hours left to go.

I thought for a moment about doubling back. Of turning around at the next exit and beelining it back to the Buc-ee’s.

But how much would that extend my drive? And how late would I ultimately get back home if I did that?

It was too much for my drowsy brain to process.

So, I kept driving.

In the midst of the faded lines and the all-enveloping darkness, I spotted a sign along the side of the road.

I squinted my weary eyes, reading the words Picnic Area, 1 mile.

Salvation was nigh — if I could reach it.

I struggled my way down the highway, straining to find the exit ramp. Finally, it mercifully appeared.

I followed it off the highway, and I parked in the darkness behind another vehicle. I cut off the engine and turned off my headlights. I made sure to lock the doors, wary of suffering the same fate as Michael Jordan’s father.

Then I fell into a deep slumber. For a while, at least.

You see, the night was cold. And with my car engine turned off, there was nothing to keep that chill from slowly permeating the cabin.

So, after a bit, I felt my legs shaking. Then my arms did the same, followed by my torso.

A jolt of energy rushed through me. I was fully awake now.

I turned my key in the ignition, reading the digital clock on the dashboard.

Twenty minutes had passed. I could still make it home at a decent hour.

I hit the gas pedal and headed to the exit of the picnic area. As I merged onto the interstate, I took stock of my surroundings.

The dotted lines were distinct now. The road signs were clear.

I was going to be fine.

Years have passed since that road trip. And I’ve been up and down that interstate quite a few times since then.

Sometimes, I’ll stop at the Buc-ee’s to grab a bite or use the facilities. Other times I glide by that giant beaver sign at 80 miles an hour.

But no matter which option I choose, I always feel a shiver down my spine about 10 miles later. That Picnic Area, 1 Mile sign always brings it back.

If it hadn’t been there, I might not be here today. For I’d tested the limits of my ability. And I’d nearly lost it all as a result.

I consider all this for a moment or two. I remain in silent repose as the prairie and the cottonwoods pass me by.

Then I move on to the next thought rattling around in my head.

There are still hours to go, after all.

I’m grateful I get to experience them.

Re-Prioritization

It all started with a question in a job interview.

Where do you see yourself in five years?

I froze in my chair at the conference room table, unsure how to respond.

I didn’t have the luxury of thinking five years down the road. I’d recently gotten laid off, less than a year into my marketing career. I was still new in town and devoid of a support network.

I needed this job, now. I needed the income to pay the bills. And I needed the legitimacy of a stable assignment to prove my professional worth.

So, I came up with a boilerplate answer. And I ultimately landed the job.

I was set, but far from settled.

For even as I sat in my cubicle – with a full list of clients to support and a steady salary – I thought about the question from the interview.

I was still in my mid-twenties, but I’d bounced around a bit already. And I’d seen the costs of such transience.

I needed a five-year plan badly.

So, I gave my future some thought. I put a plan together. And I strove to make it a reality.

My journey to better started quietly.

I was doing well enough in my job, but I knew more mastery was on the horizon. So, I earned some Digital Marketing certifications, proudly displaying the badges in my cubicle and on my social media profiles.

Still, I knew that a certification badge could only get me so far. I resolved to think bigger.

So, I took the GMAT and applied to business schools. Then I enrolled in a Masters’ of Business Administration (MBA) program that held classes in the evenings. This allowed me to obtain full marketing training in the classroom and earn a prestigious degree – all without requiring me to quit my job.

I earned my MBA roughly five years after I had hashed out my five-year plan. Now, there was just one more step to fully attain it.

I started looking at other jobs, hoping to land a prestigious role with a prominent company. My post-MBA job, as it were.

I set a hard deadline for myself. By the time the new year arrived, I’d be in a new place professionally. Since the upcoming year was 2020, I dubbed this plan 2.0 in 2020.

But despite my best efforts, I didn’t land that job by the dawn of the new decade. And a few months after New Year’s Day, a global pandemic turned the world upside down.

My five-year plan was now in limbo. I hung on to my existing job for dear life. And my grip tightened further after my employer was acquired by a larger company – leading to job redundancy fears.

Everything I had hoped for was hopelessly off-course.

What on earth was I going to do?

Plans be damned. Seize opportunities.

That’s what I told myself as 2020 faded into the rearview.

The most restrictive portion of the pandemic had passed. My job had not been made redundant. And the holding pattern hanging over my life had started to lift.

So, I jumped on an opportunity to move over to my new employer’s corporate marketing team. I dove headfirst into the new role – making connections, drafting materials, and traveling coast to coast to evangelize the business segment I was now supporting.

Off the clock, I seized the opportunity to exercise more frequently. I joined running clubs, entered in races of longer and longer distances, and started taking home hardware from them.

None of this had been in my prior plans. All of it seemed like a happy accident.

But I wasn’t complaining about the result. I was just hoping the good times would continue.

They didn’t.

Economic headwinds led my employer to reorganize itself several times, with the shifts changing the nature of my role. Meanwhile, a series of injuries stopped my running exploits in their tracks.

Once again, I was trapped. The five-year plan had already stalled out. And now, the Carpe Diem approach had also run aground.

What on earth was I going to do?

What are you chasing?

This question was at the heart of the inquiry into my five-year plan, whether the job interviewer knew it or not.

And even after drafting that plan, I struggled to adequately address the core premise.

I found myself oscillating between prestige and stability over the intervening years, striving for one and falling back on the other when the rug inevitably got yanked from below my feet.

This process left some scars. But as those scars accumulated, my determination only deepened.

I would get this right. I would uncover the answer.

But recently, something has changed. I’ve started to wonder whether I’ve been asking the right question.

You see, I’ve been blessed with a great support network throughout. Family, friends, and peers have been there for me on every step of my winding odyssey through life.

But I’m not so sure the inverse has been true.

Sure, I’ve supported my supporters through the years. But only to a point.

For as I worked on my five-year plan – and the carpe diem era that replaced it – I mostly lost track of what was going on with my friends and family. Sometimes, I lost touch with them entirely for months on end.

It was easy to overlook this development. After all, with every twist and turn in my journey, I grew my social circle.

There were new people to connect with and new sources of support to rely on. So, I missed the obvious signs that things had gone awry with the others in my orbit.

But my eyes are wide open now.

I realize how much what I missed matters, and how little what I was chasing really meant.

Sure, it’s nice to have objectives, and the trappings of a profession can help maintain a lifestyle.

But the connections with our community are the ties that bind. Being there for those who support us — in the good times and the tough ones — is nothing short of essential. It can sustain us — enriching our experience on this rock and enhancing our legacy after we leave it.

So, consider this my re-prioritization.

I might continue to demand more of myself professionally and recreationally. But I will no longer act as this venture is Item 1A, or even 1B.

Where I’ll be in five years is hardly the point. Who will be in my orbit means far more.

What We’re Fighting For

How bad do you want it?

The twangy tones of Tim McGraw were living rent-free in my head as I sat on the training table, staring at my compromised ankle.

A surgeon’s scope had methodically made its way through that ankle’s interior about a month prior, while I was sedated with anesthesia.

Now the stitches were out, and the swelling had mostly receded. I could walk in a straight line without any noticeable limp. And if not for my bulky walking boot, most passersby wouldn’t even know I was at less than 100%.

But I knew.

I realized how limited my ankle rotation had become. How tough it was to take the stairs or get into the shower. How tentative I was when getting out of bed in the morning.

If I ever wanted to run again, I needed to fix this.

It was all up to me.

Running is what had got me to this spot on the training table. The thread tying this lightweight Greek tragedy together.

It had become a hobby of mine in adulthood. First on the treadmill, then out on the streets and sidewalks.

I never went all that far, and I never expected all that much of it. Much like Forrest Gump, I was just…running.

But eventually I got bored of this routine, and I signed up for some local races. That led me to local running groups, who talked me into training more and entering longer races.

Suddenly, everything started to click. I was putting up faster times than I ever imagined I could and collecting a ton of hardware along the way.

I set loftier goals and began to picture attaining them.

But then I got hurt.

A stress fracture in my left leg brought running to an abrupt halt. I was forced to withdraw from the marathon I was training for, deferring my entry to the following year. As my leg healed, I clung to the silver lining. With a full year to prepare for this race, the sky was the limit.

But once I got clearance to run again, I realized how tall a task this would be.

My stamina was poor, and I got winded easily. But beyond that, my right ankle was starting to bother me.

Whenever I made a left turn on the street or the track, it felt like someone was whacking my ankle bone with a wooden mallet. Sometimes, this dull pain would slow me down. Other times, it would cause me to shift my running gait.

Eventually, I found my way to an orthopedist, who recommended surgery. And after some thought, I agreed.

So now, here I was on the training table. My deferred marathon entry was still waiting for me 10 months in the future. But I had to get there.

It was all up to me.

The physical therapist started with some light exercises. I turned my ankle in a circle a few times. Then I flexed it back and forth while a resistance band applied tension.

It wasn’t much, but I attacked it all with vigor.

As the weeks went on, the exercises got more challenging. But my determination never waned. If anything, it got stronger.

I would power through my reps, re-doing any that seemed off. Rather than dawdling between assignments, I’d add in old exercises the physical therapist had dropped from my routine.

There was a fire in my eyes through it all. This was more than a doctor’s prescription or an insurance requirement to me. It was my Normandy, my Gettysburg, my Saratoga.

If my future as a runner was what I was fighting for, this was the battle I had to win.

How bad did I want it?

Day by day, session by session, I was providing the answer to Tim McGraw’s question.

It was all up to me. And I was up to the challenge.

After four months of physical therapy, I found a semblance of victory.

My ankle had regained its strength. My range of motion had returned. And I was even doing some light jogging as my physical therapist looked on.

I was elated when I got the clearance to graduate from the biweekly physical therapy sessions. I started running again. And I reacquainted myself with the local running groups.

The tide was turning. My goal seemed attainable.

But a couple months later, I sustained yet another bone injury. And follow-up testing uncovered a degenerative condition.

My racing days were done — for good. Even recreational running seemed dicey.

I was devastated.

I felt waylaid by the diagnosis, and I was furious at my own body for betraying me. I withdrew from everyone and everything for a time, finding sanctuary in solitude and silence. As the holidays approached, I glumly referred to that year as the worst of my life.

It was all up to me. And I’d failed.

Quite a bit of time has passed since those dark days. And I’m picking up what I’d missed back then.

Namely, my four-month crusade to get my ankle right again.

It might not have led me to the starting line of my marathon. But it still amounted to something.

I’d set my sights on a goal. And I’d fought like heck to attain it.

That was a noble undertaking. And looking back now, I am proud of what I did.

But it needn’t be a one-off.

While I have no designs on reprising my post-surgery rehab, there are still things in life that I can prioritize. There’s still plenty I can fight for.

Much of that has come into focus for me in recent months. And as we embark on a new year, I’m eager to thrust myself into the battle.

Perhaps this is a better way to approach the calendar change. Rather than rewriting our core narrative or checking off items on a self-improvement list, we can reacquaint ourselves with what we’re fighting for.

In doing so, we can give ourselves the spark to go after it. Not for the calendar’s sake. But rather for us.

How bad do you want it?

It’s more than a Tim McGraw song. It’s an invitation.

Take it.

The Familiar

The air was cold, and the wind was whipping. I shivered a bit as I stared at a row of pine trees.

I must have been 4 years old, maybe 5. And I was tagging along with my godmother and godfather as they shopped for a Christmas tree.

My godparents didn’t have kids of their own yet, so they were extra keen on involving me in the process.

Which tree do you think is best for us to bring home? my godmother asked.

My reply was filled with fear and panic.

I…I don’t know. They just look like trees. And I’m cold.

My godfather must have been cold as well. Or else he’d seen enough.

He and my godmother quickly conferred, before summoning over the attendant.

They pointed to their top choice. And the attendant prepared it for the long car journey to come.

We had taken two vehicles to this Christmas Tree Farm out in rural Connecticut.

My parents, my sister, and I were in one. My godparents and the tree in the other.

And on the long drive back to the big city, I peppered my parents with questions.

We didn’t have a Christmas tree at home, you see. All I knew was that we’d go to my godparents’ house late in December, and there would be an elaborately decorated tree in the living room. Then, the next time we visited, the tree would be gone.

I was too young to connect the dots. After all, I had no frame of reference.

So, my father spelled it out for me. He explained that Christmas trees were generally grown out in the country – preferably somewhere dry and hilly.

As fall set in, many got cut down and shipped to the big city. That way, the trees would be easier for urbanites to buy, set up, and decorate.

But not all trees got an early axe. Sometimes, as the air got chilly, people would come straight to the farm to select their tree and haul it back home. The experience was more authentic that way. And the tree would likely stay fresh throughout the holiday season.

Wait, so there are people who just grow Christmas trees? I asked.

Yes, my father replied. They prepare all year for one day. But that day is so big that they do quite well for themselves.

This was a lot for me to take in. So, I changed the subject. And never thought of it again.

Until now.

Where does America grow its Christmas trees?

It’s not really a question that’s top of mind. Even though hundreds of millions of people from coast to coast add a tree to their home each December, the where from hardly seems relevant to many.

But not to me. I looked it up.

It seems that thousands of small farms like that one in Connecticut still do grow Christmas trees these days. But the bulk of America’s holiday décor comes from two locations – the forests of Oregon and the mountains of North Carolina.

In a normal year, each region produces about 2 million Christmas trees.

But this is not a normal year.

I’m writing this column roughly three months after a hurricane trudged through the Smoky Mountains. The unprecedented weather event flooded Western North Carolina, leading to widespread death and destruction.

And that hurricane also disrupted the Christmas tree supply chain.

Fortunately, the short-term impacts of this particular development haven’t been too severe. There haven’t been widespread reports of Christmas trees being sold out or broadly unavailable. Oregon and the other growing locations have picked up the slack.

But this is only one year. It’s hard to forecast what the long-term implications of this devastating storm.

Will the Christmas tree farmers of Western North Carolina be able to rebuild and regrow? Will children in the Southeast still trek to the mountains with their parents and help pick out the perfect tree? Will another hurricane roll in and wipe the slate clean again?

It’s all up in the air.

The Christmas tree is not the end-all-be-all of the holiday season. The gifts under the tree and the people around it matter more.

Still, it’s far from insignificant.

In fact, I’d argue that the Christmas tree is one of the three most prominent symbols of the season, along with Santa hats and multicolored lights.

The tree is universally familiar. And that familiarity brings us a sense of inner peace.

That’s why so many people go through the motions of hauling a tree into their living rooms each winter. That’s why they decorate those trees with lights and ornaments. And that’s why public trees – such as the gigantic one in New York’s Rockefeller Center – become tourist attractions as the season’s chill sets in.

There are many staples we’ve let go of over the years. We no longer send faxes or travel by horse and buggy.

But the Christmas tree tradition? I can’t envision a shift away from that. Not now, not ever.

It needs to work. But how far will we go to ensure it does?

There was a time once when a large swath of us lived off the land.

Farming, hunting, ranching, coal mining — those were a means of sustenance. Both in terms of goods sold and consumed.

A bad year meant more than a light piggy bank back then. It meant going hungry through the fall or shivering through the winter.

Christmas trees were a staple back then too. But rural settlers were far more likely to cut down the nearest fresh pine themselves. And as such, they understood what it took to bring the joy of the holiday through their front doors.

Society has shifted since those days. Most of us are city dwellers or suburbanites now. We’re more likely to buy our supplies from a store or an Internet browser. And we rarely give a second thought as to how those goods arrived on our doorstep.

Oftentimes, this approach is sensible. We already have plenty to concern ourselves with. The intricacies of supply chains needn’t be added to the list.

But in this case, at this moment, it might be wise to reconsider.

The profound joy that we experience this time of year – it doesn’t just emerge out of thin air. There are plenty of people working hard to provide it to us.

We owe it to them – and to ourselves – to take a closer look. To drive out to a tree farm to pick our prize. To support a farmer waylaid by Mother Nature. Or to otherwise honor the regions of our great nation that help make our holidays merry and bright.

The familiar matters this time of year. Let’s show how much it does.

The Web

It started with Beanie Babies.

A friend of mine was obsessed with them. And he showed me his nascent collection when I visited.

You have to get some, he exclaimed.

Soon enough, I had a miniature plush dog named Bones. My sister had a red plush dog named Rover.

But naturally, we wanted to be as cool as our friends. We wanted more Beanie Babies.

Our parents got us the Beanie Baby guide – a book covering all the stuffed animals in circulation, and all the limited-edition options we’d missed.

At the start of the book was a disclaimer.

The collection continues to change. Go to the Ty website for a more detailed list.

And thus began my first cannonball into the waters of the Internet.

There were no smartphones back in those days. There were no Google Chrome browsers. There wasn’t even a broadband connection.

To get online, I needed to log into the America Online app on our home computer. This process would tie up our landline, blocking phone calls to the house. And it would cause a bunch of odd sounds to come from the modem next to the computer.

Once connected, I’d need to navigate to the web browser — and then enter the Ty website. The page would load over the course of several minutes, with images loading line by line for several more minutes after that.

A click to a deeper webpage – in this case, the complete Beanie Baby collection list – would start the process over. All told, I was on the web for a half hour or so before I found what I was looking for.

But eventually I got there. And I once I did, I spent several minutes – and ink cartridges —printing out the entire list of Beanie Babies. That way, I could pore through it on my own time.

The Internet was just a digital guidebook to me back then. No more, no less.

As I grew up, my relationship with the web shifted a bit.

We got broadband in our family home, and I got my own computer in my bedroom.

After I finished my homework each evening, I’d spend hours at my desk browsing.

I’d read sports columns on ESPN’s website. I’d set my fantasy baseball or football lineup. I’d chat with my friends on AOL’s Instant Messenger (better known as AIM).

But as I moved off to college, my reliance on the web dwindled.

I still hopped on to keep up with sports news, and to update my social media profile. But I now had text messaging on my flip phone, allowing me to communicate with friends on the go. And with my life centered on a college campus, I valued in-person connections over endless online browsing anyway.

The web was back to being a convenient novelty. But that was all about to change.

I sat in the lobby of the CBS Miami news station, dressed in my finest suit.

My palms were sweating as the bright Florida sunshine filtered into the room. I needed this interview to go well.

You see, I’d decided what I wanted to do with my life after my college graduation. I wanted to make a living as a TV news producer.

I’d taken most of the requisite classes. I’d volunteered on the campus TV station’s sports and news broadcasts.

But I didn’t have any true local news experience on my resume.

This internship – in the last semester of my last year of school – would be my final chance at filling that gap. I’d do whatever was needed to get brought on board.

Soon enough, I was in a conference room with Dave Game. He was older, a bit heavy-set, and came off as a bit blunt.

How much do you know about Internet news, he asked.

I replied that I’d looked at the CNN and Fox News websites before, as well that of ESPN. But that I tended to watch local news on television. This was why I wanted to be a producer after all.

I watched intently as Game nodded.

That’s all well and good, he said. But trust me. Most of the viewers of our station are not like you. They’re doing something else while the news is on. Or they’re busy and miss the broadcast entirely.

They still want to get caught up on the news, but on their own time. My department brings that to them.

He went on to explain how the web department achieved that mission. They revised news scripts for easier reading on the web. They took the associated clips from the newscast and added them to the on-demand video feed. And sometimes, they added pertinent local stories that didn’t make the local broadcast.

If you take this internship, you’ll get a hand in all that, Game told me. It might not seem relevant to you. But trust me. News stations are hiring for these skills. You’ll stand out.

His words proved prophetic.

I took the internship, gaining a mastery on Internet news reporting. When I landed a job as a news producer at a TV station in West Texas, I brought those protocols to my new station.

I’d often be in the newsroom until midnight ensuring that all articles and video clips from the day’s newscast made the website. I told myself that the viewers that missed the 10 PM newscast needed me. And I powered through exhaustion to get the web content uploaded.

The Internet was now my passion. And it would soon become my livelihood.

I sat in a modest office in a suburb of Dallas, wearing the same suit I’d once sported in Miami.

Across the table from me, the man I hoped would become my boss perused my resume.

I see you have some experience writing for the web, he stated. How much do you know about blogging?

I stated that I didn’t have much experience with that forum. But I added that I was a quick study.

That’s good, the man stated. This role is for digital marketing, which is not news production. But content marketing is the way of the future, and I think you might have the online writing experience we need.

I landed the job, and my second career was off and running.

That first marketing role revolved around websites. Specifically, the half-dozen websites of the home remodeling companies my employer took on as clients.

A web designer built those sites. But I did everything else – filling in the product pages, posting blog articles, and helping ensure the sites ranked on Google.

After a layoff, I landed with a different company that provided websites to insurance agents at scale. I started that role with 20 agency websites under my purview. Eventually, that number ballooned to 120.

The Internet had gone from something I accessed for Beanie Baby lists to the technology that paid my salary. I was bullish on its potential.

Still, I could see the buzzards circling.

The smartphone had been around for more than a half-decade by the time I started optimizing websites. And the mobile experience was improving by leaps and bounds.

Content marketing and search optimization relied on consumers perusing Google results and clicking through to websites. With mobile apps entering the fray, there was now a new way to find information.

Soon, social media channels would turn into commercial marketplaces. And artificial intelligence would enter the fray.

The web was still powerful, and my job still drove revenue. But the returns were dwindling. It was time to pivot.

So, after earning a Master’s degree in Business Administration and weathering a global pandemic, I took a new role in product marketing. And I left my website-heavy focus in the rearview.

I still browse the web to catch up on the news now and then. But less often than I used to.

There are many reasons for this shift. For one thing, I have less free time than I once did. For another, the events of the world have grown increasingly contentious.

But the biggest reason is the paywall.

Indeed, many websites now charge money for access to their information. And given my other concerns, I have no desire to open my wallet for this unlimited access.

This shift to paywalls was inevitable. Prompts to get website readers to buy related items have fallen flat as new channels have emerged for purchases. Advertising follows audiences, so those dollars have also shifted elsewhere.

Websites simply aren’t as revolutionary as they once were. They still matter, but they hardly command the lion’s share of attention.

I’ve even seen this in my own company. My product marketing position oversees the website and digital marketing products I worked on for years. I promote them, but not as vigorously as the other products under my purview.

The product pricing is too paltry for me to evangelize those solutions. And I know the insurance agents I market to care more about my company’s higher-dollar offerings.

Add it all up, and those who still rely on the web for a living are left with few options. Charge loyal viewers for access or be left withering on the vine.

It breaks my heart to see this. I grew up on the web. I built my career on the web. I still use the web to share this column with you each week, dear reader. (With no paywall, I might add.)

Still, I understand it all. The web had a good run at the top of the mountain. And it will remain in the picture for the foreseeable future.

But the next big thing is already here. And so is the thing after that.

It would be foolish not to chase after them.

The Anchor

The culprit was a rogue sidewalk crack.

I didn’t spot it in time while heading to our family car. And suddenly I was off my feet.

The magnetic pull of gravity sent me hurtling to the ground, skinning my knee in the process.

I yelped, and my parents rushed me back into the house.

As they cleaned, treated, and bandaged the gash on my knee, I cursed gravity.

If not for that magnetic force, my knee would still be unblemished. Stinging pain wouldn’t emanate from my leg. All would be fine.

Not long after this, I learned about space travel in school.

As I stared at pictures of astronauts floating around spaceships, I was filled with jealousy.

Why couldn’t we all be free to glide? Wouldn’t it be better this way?

I imagined life without the scab on my knee or its associated itchiness. I daydreamed about soaring near the ceiling without fear.

What I failed to consider was how I’d take a drink of water or use the restroom without causing a mess.

Yes, it seems gravity had its benefits too. Wishing it away might be more than I bargained for.

I couldn’t just throw out the bad and leave the good. I needed to consider the consequences.

My childhood adventures instilled an important lesson.

Some forces are too big to be controlled. They must simply be managed.

Gravity is one of those forces.

Surely, Sir Isaac Newton didn’t desire to get bopped on the head by an apple to experience its pull. But once he did, he understood that gravity needed to be studied further.

This recognition led Newton to derive mathematical theories that solidified the immutability of gravitational pull. And we’ve worked off that premise ever since.

No longer do we attempt to be Icarus, brazenly flying close to the sun with wax wings. We factor gravity into everything we do — whether we’re working with its leverage or counteracting it.

Yes, gravity-induced tragedies do still occur. But we’re better positioned to avoid them than we were in Newton’s day, thanks to increased measures of anticipation and prevention.

I see the value in this now, and I’ve come full circle.

Gravity might prove to be a pain now and then. Still, adapting my life around it is better than trying to navigate its absence.

Gravity might be an immutable anchor in life. But it’s not the only one.

Indeed, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve recognized the importance of three factors – where I live, what I do, and who I spend time with.

None of these are as absolute as gravity. But collectively, they keep me anchored.

Where I am defines what I can do. What I do defines the way I can live. And both help define who I spend my time with.

I’ve tinkered with these factors multiple times over the years. But I’ve rarely done a wholesale rip-and-replace operation.

Only twice, in fact.

My first defiance of gravity came right after my college graduation. I moved halfway across the country for a new job in a town where I didn’t know a soul.

I remember feeling wholly discombobulated.

I liked my new home, but I knew there was nothing tying me to it. Sure, my new furniture was arrayed throughout the place, but my only other connection to the space was a monthly rent check. If I ever couldn’t pay it, I’d be without a home address.

I felt confident with my new job, but I knew I wasn’t on solid ground there either. I was green and prone to making mistakes. And I knew a bad mistake could cost me my livelihood.

And I quickly discovered how challenging it was to meet new people. Unlike college, I wasn’t in an environment full of adolescents seeking to make connections. Many of my neighbors were older or more established. Several had families. And nearly all of them worked a different schedule than I did.

It was clear that I was beyond my depth. I’d gotten more than I’d bargained for. But I had no choice but to soldier on.

It was only after I collapsed in the Texas heat — ending up in the Emergency Room in the process — when things started to change. Alarmed by my ordeal, several co-workers urged me to add their phone numbers to my address book. A few of them invited me to socialize with them off the clock as well. I started doing just that, and my social circle started to grow.

Suddenly, my new home and job started feeling a bit less temporary. For the first time in a while, I felt the tug of the anchor beneath me.

But it wouldn’t last.

A few years after my arrival in this once-foreign town, I loaded my belongings into a moving truck.

My contract at work had expired and my lease was up. So, I headed 300 miles east to another city I barely knew. One that offered a bevy of job opportunities and housing options.

For three months, my belongings sat in a storage unit. Meanwhile, I sat in an extended-stay hotel two miles down the highway, trying to earn a job offer in a new field.

Once I signed an acceptance letter, I knew things would fall into place. I’d be able to find a new home, establish myself, and rebuild my social circle.

But in the interim, I was running out of options. There was nothing to anchor me aside from my desire and what was left of my savings. And both were getting critically low.

Ultimately, I did earn that opportunity. And everything did fall into place as anticipated.

I found a place to live. I established myself in my career. I built a larger social circle than I’d ever had before.

I located the anchor, and I set it deep in the soil.

But I never forgot all that proceeded this triumph. The fear. The uncertainty. The doubt.

And I pledged never to return to those sensations again.

I’m writing this at the tail end of a rocky half-decade.

Our society has been turned upside down by a pandemic, economic turmoil, and partisan vitriol. Much of what was taken for granted has gone up in smoke.

I’m trying my best to stay the course. To keep where I am, what I do, and who I spend time with intact.

But this is proving immensely difficult.

For one thing, the financial system has provided little assistance. The cost of living has skyrocketed in recent years, making it harder to stay where I am. The viability of what I do has been threatened by layoffs, offshoring, and corporate mergers. And these stressors have impacted my ability to maintain social connections.

On top of that, the nature of opportunities has shifted irrevocably. The most lucrative of doors have always opened to substantial risk, but Door #2, and Door #3 seem to open to profound change as well these days. Such is the reality in a world where offices have been replaced by remote work, the stock market has been usurped by cryptocurrency, and human capital has been supplanted by artificial intelligence.

With all this in mind, I might need to raise the anchor to get back to solid ground. Getting ahead might mean taking yet another quantum leap into the unknown.

But this time, I don’t know if I’m willing. It’s too unsettling. And the scars of my past travails run too deep.

And so, I will continue to resist wholesale change. To adapt one thing at a time instead — all while remaining anchored to what I know.

This will be a difficult approach to maintain. And I’m sure to suffer some more setbacks along the way.

But ultimately, I know in my heart that this journey will prove worthwhile.

I understand the cost of giving up the anchor. Of defying the rules of gravity.

And I have no designs on paying that price again.

Reckoning with the Wreckage

It was a great morning for a run.

The air was crisp. The stars in the sky were bright. The humidity was low.

And as I took my first few strides, my worries faded away.

I was in my element. I felt strong. I felt free.

But I knew it wouldn’t last.

I sensed the change around the two-mile mark. I ignored the beeping of my watch, telling me how far I’d come. But I couldn’t avoid the tightness in my calf muscles, telling me I didn’t have much more left to go.

It was the same tightness I’d felt at this point – or earlier – on every run I’d been on for the past eight months. If I didn’t stop and stretch soon, my stride would start to falter. My legs would lock up, leading my feet to feel like anvils. The discomfort would prove excruciating – and potentially damage-inducing.

I managed to make it another mile this time, stopping as my watch beeped its Mile 3 warning. As I stretched, I felt the chilly air hit my body. I was shivering and sweating at the same time.

I’d never contended with this dueling sensation before. Because in autumns past, I would never have broken stride this early. On crisp mornings like this, I’d have gone six or seven miles before I even considered stopping. And by then, even the coolest air would have felt balmy.

But those days were long gone. This was my reality now.

And it wasn’t likely to change.

A friend of mine once spoke of the significance of the age of 26.

There’s nothing given to us at that age. By the time we hit 26, we can already do everything from buying a lottery ticket to renting a car.

But 26, my friend posited, is when life starts to take for the first time.

Young adults might be able to party as voraciously as they did in college without consequence. But 26 hits different. Newly minted 26-year-olds need a minute, an hour, even a whole day to recover.

I can’t speak to this all that well. By the time I’d hit my mid-twenties, my wildest days were behind me. I was hitting the gym more. I was going to bed earlier. And I had given up fast food.

But now, more than a decade later, I feel the weight of my friend’s words.

For despite my best efforts, time has caught up with me. The force of its impact has sent me hurtling to the ground. And it’s taking me longer and longer to get back up.

I’m consistently exhausted now, often irritable, and immensely perplexed. How is everything that was once so easy now so difficult?

There are no easy answers. Only more unsettling questions.

As I stood there stretching my calves, I took a moment to consider what had been.

On those autumn mornings of yesteryear, the miles flew by because I was chasing something greater.

I was a competitive runner back then. I entered in several distance races a year. And I brought back hardware in most of them.

I had the talent and the willpower to deliver excellence. But I had no idea how quickly the sand would run out of the hourglass.

When my first injury hit, I moped about it for a week. But then I thrust myself into the rehab process, determined to come back stronger than before.

My zeal backfired. I picked up two new injuries in short order, one of which required surgery. Two months in a walking boot ensured, followed by four months of physical therapy.

By now, my fiery defiance had been doused. Just getting back to running regularly would be a victory, considering how far I’d fallen.

Amazingly, I achieved that victory, and even began a race training block. But I sustained two more injuries in the ensuing months, forcing me to shelve my plans once again.

I was now in the valley of that prolonged disaster. I was a shell of my former self. And I was growing more and more certain that I’d remain in that state.

But instead of wallowing in self-pity for my present, I was full of indignation for my past.

Sure, my exploits back then had put plenty of silverware on the wall. Medals for podium finishes and age group wins. A plaque for breaking the tape in a backwoods 5K.

But those mementos represented only a fraction of my potential.

I could have done better, I told myself. I could have dreamed bigger, tried harder, achieved more.

If I had gone all-in during those peak years, maybe I wouldn’t feel so hollow. There would be no unfinished business festering as Father Time stripped my speed and stamina away.

But I hadn’t.

And now, I was out in the cold. Literally.

I was left reckoning with the wreckage of it all.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

The words of The Serenity Prayer are omnipresent in my mind. I’ve leaned on their wisdom countless times throughout the years.

Much is made of the middle and the end of the prayer. After all, courage and wisdom are desirable traits in our society.

But it all starts with acceptance. Which – according to the Kubler-Ross Model – is where the grieving process ends.

I don’t think this is a coincidence.

Grief is the one of the most powerful emotions we experience in life. It’s visceral, multifaceted, and inevitable. It washes over us, regardless of whether we’re ready for the force of its mighty wave.

It’s only when the tide has gone back out that we can see what’s left behind. And that we can use those odds and ends to build back up anew.

This is the evident when we lose loved ones. While we miss them dearly, we must find some way to propel ourselves forward.

Yet, it’s just as applicable when the loss is less existential — such as our youth, our ability, or our potential.

I am finding that out firsthand.

I was once a great runner. Just as I was once an emerging marketer. Just as I was once a young man.

I am none of those things anymore. Time and its companions have taken much of the shine off me.

I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. I’ve grieved it.

But now is the time to get off the mat.

Now is the time for me to accept it all. What I was. What I am. What I can still become.

And now is the time to follow that revised path.

Reckoning with the wreckage might be a solemn obligation. But it’s an obligation, nonetheless.

Mile by mile, I’m honored to take the mantle of its responsibility.

The Boolean Trap

I got into my SUV and turned the ignition.

But before I threw it into reverse, I tapped a button on my smartphone.

The phone was sitting in the one of the cupholders beside me. But thanks to the magic of Bluetooth technology, it could stream music or podcasts straight through the car speakers.

I could be my own DJ. And I often was.

But not today.

The Bluetooth, you see, was not connecting properly. Sure, the little screen on the center console of my vehicle said it was connected, but no audio was streaming.

I set my sights on fixing the issue.

I toggled the Bluetooth switch on my phone’s settings off and on. I turned off the SUV and refired the ignition. I rebooted my phone.

By now, I’d wasted enough time troubleshooting that I was late for work. So, I put the vehicle in reverse and made the drive in silence.

That evening, I picked the thread up anew.

Sitting at my dining room table, I fired up my laptop, headed to the automaker’s support website and searched for help documentation.

It took a few minutes of dogged searching even to find my entertainment system on the site. The automaker had moved to a different system in newer vehicles, and most articles were for that system.

And the few support documents for my system were useless. They encouraged me to try what I’d already attempted. Plus, they site provided no way of reporting any issues that hadn’t been covered.

It felt as if the automaker was thumbing its nose at me. All the possible issues with this entertainment system are on this page. And if you find something else, you’re the issue.

I felt offended. I was enraged. I screamed into the void.

I had now wasted countless hours on this issue. I’d searched and toggled and stressed myself into oblivion — all to find a resolution to something that was working just a day earlier.

And yet, there was one thing I hadn’t attempted — resetting my car’s entertainment system.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. I’d gone through the settings menu on the console extensively. I’d combed those support documents until I had them memorized. No master reset option seemed to exist.

So, the next morning, I called the closest dealership and made a service appointment.

When I brought my SUV in, I explained the issue in full. The service tech listened intently. But he furrowed his brow when I mentioned the words console reset.

There’s not really a simple way to do that, he explained. I could unplug the battery for 10 to 15 seconds, and then reconnect it. That’s a hard reset. But I can’t guarantee it will fix the issue.

It was worth a shot. I gave the tech the go-ahead to try. He took my keys and drove the vehicle over to a service bay.

A short time later, I got the SUV back. Sitting in the dealership parking lot, I tried to connect my phone via Bluetooth. The connection went through.

My nightmare was over.

As children, we learn about prominent innovative thinkers. People whose innovations and discoveries have direct impacts on our lives.

Albert Einstein is synonymous with defining the mass-energy equivalence. Sir Isaac Newton is acclaimed for conveying the laws of gravity. Thomas Edison is renowned for inventing the light bulb. And Henry Ford is feted for revolutionizing the automobile.

George Boole doesn’t sit on this Mount Rushmore. But perhaps he should.

Boole was a 19^th century English mathematician who didn’t even get to celebrate his 50^th birthday. But in his short lifespan, he unfurled something that has come to underpin all corners of western society — Boolean logic.

Boolean logic is an algebraic system that contains two variables – true and false. It judges mathematical expressions by their attributes and classifies them accordingly.

If the expression contains a desired element, it gets coded as a 1. If it doesn’t, it gets coded as a 0.

That series of 1’s and 0’s can blaze a trail through complicated equations, getting to a final answer step-by-step.

If you think 1’s and 0’s sound like computer source code, you’re onto something. Computer systems have been built on Boolean logic since the 1930s, and the associated if-then logic is now synonymous with that technology.

Perhaps that’s why we don’t give George Boole his due. Or perhaps the century between his discovery and the computer age caused us to lose the thread.

Regardless, we are fully immersed in the Boolean world today. We’re accustomed to navigating true-false strings and if-then statements to troubleshoot just about anything, from our health to the strange noise coming from the refrigerator.

This works well. Until it doesn’t.

In the early 2000s, a technology journalist named Chris Anderson introduced a new theory to the world

Anderson saw how the computer age and the growth of the Internet had democratized the decisions consumers could make. In the Golden Era of network television, Americans had three options of what to watch on a given evening. But now, people around the globe could enter any search query they wanted into Google.

These searches tended to fall into a normal distribution, or a Bell Curve pattern. A small number of search terms got most of the volume.

But those low frequency searches at the ends of the curve, they mattered too. Search engines still returned results for them. And savvy businesses had ample opportunities to serve these audiences as well.

Anderson’s theory came to be known as The Long Tail. He wrote a WIRED article and a book about it. And many business professionals came to treat it with reverence.

Including me.

Early in my marketing career, I used long tail theories to create content for my clients’ websites. I was working at a startup agency at the time, supporting several small home remodeling firms.

A few years earlier, those businesses would have relied on the Yellow Pages and word of mouth referrals to stay viable. But thanks to The Long Tail and digital marketing, they now had a sustainable path to growth.

Long tail theory succeeded in filling the gaps of Boolean logic. It acknowledged that the world is messier than if-then statements can count for. And it resolved to clean up the mess.

But as technology has evolved and the economy has fluctuated, long tail theory has faded into the background. Innovators have favored tightening the Boolean engine over sweeping up the bits it misses.

This is what led to my odyssey to get my vehicle’s entertainment system fixed. There was no roadmap for me to follow because if-then logic didn’t account for the issue.

Out of sight, out of mind. Until it wasn’t.

You can’t fit a square peg into a round hole.

This proverbial wisdom has held for generations. And despite the attempts of innovators, streamliners, and futurists, it’s sure to endure for many more.

You see, ceding all infrastructure to Boolean theory is not a viable solution. It’s a trap.

Long tail concerns will not evaporate when swept under the rug. They will fester, agitate, and afflict. They will drive us to frustration, trust loss — or worse.

This corrosion has gone on far too long already. And it’s imperative that we keep the rot from settling in further.

It’s time that we give an audience to the edge cases once again. It’s time to inject independent judgement into the fringes of the logic machine. It’s time to account for all the outcomes we can imagine and consider solutions for the ones we can’t.

This process will be clunky and inefficient. It won’t provide the two true outcomes we’ve grown so accustomed to seeing in our systems.

But it will remove the daylight between our lived experience and the systems we rely on. It will allow us to optimize our outcomes at every turn.

And shouldn’t that be what matters?

Boolean logic is a great thing. But it needn’t be the only thing.

Let’s go for better.

Learning Experiences

It was a simple dish.

Eggs, sliced potatoes, and onions – all bonded together and cooked in a skillet. Kind of like a quiche without the cheese.

The delicacy was known as Tortilla Española. I’d sampled it at restaurants across Madrid as a teenager. Now, as an adult, I wanted to prepare it in my own kitchen.

I recalled my father making the dish from scratch a few times after my return from Spain. So, I asked him for the recipe. Then I gathered the requisite and ingredients.

I peeled the potatoes and cut them proportionally. I diced the onions. I scrambled some eggs in a bowl.

I added olive oil to a cast iron skillet and fired up the stove. I poured the ingredients into the skillet and let them settle.

I took another glance at my father’s recipe. The next task was to flip the tortilla over, so that it could cook evenly.

But how?

I had a glass lid on the skillet, but it wasn’t stable enough to stand on its own while inverted. And I didn’t have a similar-sized pan to flip the tortilla.

The sizzling sound from the skillet reminded me that there was no time to run to the store for supplies. I was going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.

I took the silicone spatula and dug into the bottom of the tortilla. I lifted it up, rotated my wrist…and caused a mess all over the stovetop.

Perhaps the tortilla wasn’t quite set enough. Perhaps my wrist flick wasn’t all that precise.

Regardless, the solid disk had disintegrated into an incongruous pile of egg and potato bits, with some onions mixed in. Most of it was still in the skillet, but some had landed around it.

My dish was ruined.

I did my best to salvage what was left – letting the eggs cook through and then consuming some of it. The rest went into Pyrex containers stashed in the refrigerator.

I’d be having my failure for dinner for nights to come.

Not long after, I told my father what happened.

Did you consider flipping the tortilla onto a plate? he asked.

I hadn’t.

I’d made a multi-meal mess and wasted hours of prep work. All because I didn’t pull a plate out from the cabinet during the moment of truth.

I was filled with regret at first. But then I remembered another of my father’s axioms.

You can make a mistake. Just don’t make the same one twice.

This was not a failure. It was a learning experience.

It was on me to grow from the experience. To do better next time around.

As it turns out, next time looked a bit different. I never did make Tortilla Española in my kitchen again. But my cooking habits for similarly complex dishes were vastly improved

No longer was I blinded by the mouth-watering outcomes of my craft. I instead devoted extra effort to preparation.

That way, I wouldn’t panic when the burners were on. And I’d be better able to adapt.

I don’t believe I would have been able to lean into that approach if everything hadn’t happened the way it did.

The botched flip. The meals upon meals of messed up results. My father’s introduction of a ready alternative. All helped me to internalize the lesson and rise from the ashes of disaster.

The story still has its scars. I cringed a bit while writing it just now.

But I have no regrets.

What is school for?

Marketing guru asked this question at the onset of a TEDx talk some years back.

Godin went on to explain how the modern iteration of American education came about.

Public school districts and standardized tests were not the natural evolutions of one-room classrooms and reclusive boarding academies. They were the vehicles of industrialist ambition, meant to confer obedience and consistency across the youth population.

The modern system of schooling seemed sensible in the early 20^th century, when scores of pupils parlayed their diplomas into factory jobs. It also served its purpose in the middle of that century, when vigilance in the face of nuclear war was paramount.

But obedience and consistency seem antiquated these days, in an era where college dropouts can create trillion-dollar companies and financial strategists tend to think outside the box.

Yet, the top-down, cookie-cutter educational experience continues to proliferate. Children are expected to maintain excellence from as early as Kindergarten. There is no other option.

It’s all a bit difficult for me to comprehend.

You see, my own youth is merely decades in the rearview. But it might as well have been in the Stone Age compared to the present reality.

My teachers gave me a fair amount of free reign in the classroom and the recess yard through elementary school. I was supervised, sure – even graded on homework I turned in. But I wasn’t restrained.

The goal was to let me stumble upon knowledge organically, and therefore absorb it fully. This meant literal stumbles were accepted, not shunned.

So, I made mistakes. Lots of mistakes. Both in the classroom and out of it.

But by feeling the consequences of these missteps, I was able to move beyond them. I was able to learn, grow, and adapt. And I was able to keep the sting of regret holding me back.

It’s a throughline that carried directly to adulthood. It drove my response to the Great Tortilla Española Disaster in my kitchen, and countless other setbacks.

And it’s becoming a novelty.

What happens when the leash is too short?

We don’t need to imagine the answer. Examples are all around us.

Many of my peers now have children of their own. And in talking with them, I get a distinct sense that they’re under a microscope.

They’re expected to provide the best experience for their kids at all times – or else risk the branding of bad parent. And they’re expected to short circuit any signs of failure in their offspring.

Failure, you see, represents divergence. It puts daylight between a child and their peers. It forges a gap between expected marks and mandated ones when it comes to reading, arithmetic, and reasoning. It’s the first skid down a slippery slope.

Modern parents don’t intuitively believe this, of course. None of them hold their infants and muse They better not screw anything up in 65 months from now, or they’re toast.

No, this edict is foisted upon parents by their children’s schools, which are chock full of militant rigor and ongoing assessment.

Add in the societal pressure to bring these values home, and parents find themselves in an impossible position. It’s as if they’re meant to choreograph their children’s lives, rather than provide sturdy guardrails for growth.

This might all seem mundane. But the long-term effects could be catastrophic.

Indeed, what happens if an entire generation is shielded from the consequences of failure? How will they develop resilience?

I shudder to think about how the next generation might handle a kitchen mishap down the road – let alone anything more substantial.

Adversity is a great teacher. It’s the only real instructor for moments like these. Moments that we will inevitably encounter in our lifetimes.

And yet, adversity is being kept out of reach. Left on the top shelf of the cabinet until it’s too late for us to locate it.

Let’s change that.

Let’s stop being so allergic to failure and shackled by regret. Let’s start reframing our missteps as learning experiences instead. And let’s teach future generations to do the same.

Sometimes wrong is the first step to right. Commit to the journey.

Author: Dylan Brooks