Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

The Energy Budget

It’s now or never.

That’s what I told myself as I prepared for my first all-nighter.

I was 17 years old, and I’d just spent a month in a college prep summer program on the west coast. I’d connected with new friends, made new memories, and just generally had a time of it.

But now, it was the last night of the adventure. When the sun rose again, everyone would return to their homes in different corners of the globe. We would never all be in the same place again.

Mindful of this, the leaders of the program lifted the nightly curfew. And we took full advantage of that freedom.

Reminiscing at 11 PM. Karaoke at 2 AM. Delirious laughter at 5 AM. It all happened.

We cursed the dawn when it arrived. And we started saying our solemn goodbyes.

As my shuttle headed away from the college campus, I was stone faced and composed. But once I arrived and the airport, reality set in. Surrounded by strangers, my eyes started to well with tears.

I reminded myself that an airport was no place for a breakdown. So, I pulled myself together — making it through the security line, through the concourse, and onto the plane.

As it took off, and I watched the West Coast disappear out of the tiny double-paned window.

And then I fell into a deep slumber.

When I woke up, the plane was over Detroit. Day had turned to night, and we were an hour from landing on the East Coast.

I knew that my parents would be waiting at the airport once I arrived. I knew they’d be excited to see me after a month away. And I knew that I needed to match that excitement.

So, I spent the remainder of my flight preparing myself for that moment. And I did indeed manage to stay upbeat at the moment of reunification.

But once my parents started asking me to share details from the program, I lost it. Sobbing uncontrollably, I felt the urge to apologize for my behavior.

My parents deflected my pleas.

How much have you slept recently? they asked.

I confessed that I’d been awake for 34 of the prior 38 hours. And my parents told me to head up to bed.

The stories of the prior month could wait. I needed to recharge.

As dawn’s light entered my childhood bedroom, I found myself cheerier — and wiser.

For the first time, I recognized that the energy at my disposal was not infinite. And I resolved to be more judicious with how I used it.

Well, sort of.

As I moved on to my senior year of high school — and then college — I generally steered clear of all-nighters. But I did tend to stay up late and wake up somewhat early, relying on caffeine to pull me through.

I had one speed, and I gave myself full license to use it. As long as my energy reserves didn’t go into the red, I’d be alright. At least that’s what I told myself.

But as I got older, I could feel things start to shift.

My body was requiring more sleep. And continuously going all out no longer seemed possible.

So, I made some changes. I got rid of those late nights. And I moderated my effort levels throughout the day.

Those adaptations proved prescient for many years. But recently, their shine has started to fade.

These days, it’s not just how much energy I spend that matters. It’s what I spend it on.

Early in adulthood, I ran into some financial challenges.

I’d lived paycheck to paycheck in my first career. And when I switched careers, I found myself unemployed for three months. As I powered through job applications and showed up for fruitless interviews, what little savings I had to my name disappeared.

Eventually, I did land a job with a steady income. I got a new apartment and moved my furnishings out of storage.

But ridding myself of the credit card debt I’d accumulated in prior months proved trickier. So, I met with a financial advisor to strategize.

The advisor reacquainted me with some advanced budgeting techniques, which I followed to a T. And soon enough, my house was back in order.

The lessons from that experience remain ingrained. Every now and then, I might incur a charge or two beyond my means. But when I do, I moderate my spending until I can balance the books. It’s just the way my brain works now.

And in the past few years, such budgeting habits have started to extend beyond dollars and cents. Now, I’m mindful of which daily activities I should devote energy to and which ones I should defer to other forces.

For instance, where I was once militant about reducing my thermostat usage, I now tend to keep the heat or air conditioning running continuously. I recognize that the mental calculus of toggling the on-off switch was taking too much of my daily attention. And I understand that preserving mental energy is more precious to me than saving a few dollars on an electric bill.

So, it goes for other aspects of my life as well. I divvy my focus wisely, no longer striving to control the most granular details of anything in my midst. Adherence to routines, healthy habits, and technological assists tend to make this shift easier.

But every now and then, the system breaks down. Something that should just work no longer does, and I find myself diving into troubleshooting.

Perhaps my SUV ends up in the shop for a few days longer than anticipated, forcing me to get creative with transportation and meal planning. Maybe one of the appliances in my home malfunctions, forcing me to alter my dishwashing or laundry routine. Or one of the many computerized systems I use has an outage, forcing me to handle processes manually.

Such occurrences are more than annoyances for me. They carry collateral damage.

Indeed, the energy I need to divert toward workarounds is diverted from other portions of my daily life. I’m left with reduced capacity to think deeply, to function professionally, and to stay connected socially. And what little energy I have left over for these critical endeavors is depleted far earlier in the day than usual.

There’s little I can do to fix these situations. I can’t just generate more energy to power through, the way I once did. And I can’t abandon my daily responsibilities.

With that in mind, I do my best to minimize the blow. I prepare myself as best I can for adverse outcomes before they strike. I put intention into my pivoting strategy, so that I don’t lose steam while changing course. And I treat my energy budget as a central force underpinning it all.

It’s far from a perfect solution. But it works.

It works for me. And it will likely work for anyone else in a similar conundrum.

So, if you find yourself flustered and exhausted by the frustration, consider the energy budget approach. Accept limitations. Shift habits. Build resilience.

It might not be a perfect salve. But you’ll be better positioned to reap the benefits.

When It Goes Right

As I strode up to home plate, memories flooded my mind.

Memories of the last time I’d dug into a batter’s box.

It was a couple games ago, on a baseball field 25 miles away. I had been summoned off the bench as a pinch hitter. And everything seemed to be moving at a million miles a minute.

I took a couple of pitches, with the umpire calling one a strike. Then I slashed a ball into foul territory.

I was down to my last strike. And I was terrified of looking like a fool in front of my teammates.

So, as the next pitch came in, I left the bat on my shoulder. It spun toward the outermost edge of home plate, landing with a dull thud in the catcher’s mitt.

Strike three, the umpire shouted. I made the short walk back to the dugout, all semblance of self-confidence extinguished.

So, as I dug into the batter’s box for this delayed second chance, I had just one objective.

Don’t strike out looking.

The pitcher wound up and hurled the baseball. It bounced in the dirt several feet to the outside of home plate.

I smirked. No one was going to swing at that. Not even me.

Still, now was no time to get cocky. With a pitch that bad, who knew where the next one was going?

So, I zoned in. I stared intently at the pitcher as he prepared his next offering.

It sailed toward the upper part of the strike zone. A bit away from my body, but still reachable.

I took a swing and felt my bat connect with the ball. Then I watched the ball head straight toward the second baseman.

He leaped, and my heart sank. Another at bat was about to go to waste.

But a funny thing happened on the way to despair. The ball kept rising over the second baseman’s outstretched glove, before dropping to the ground in the outfield grass behind him.

I’d gotten a hit — the first of my high school baseball career.

As I stood on first base, my coach gave me a fist bump.

Good job. Now, stay focused.

I nodded. But this would prove to be an impossible task.

You see, I was still flabbergasted. I’d shown myself capable of close to nothing up in that one prior at bat. But somehow, I’d just peppered a humpback line drive into right field. What was happening?

The disbelief continued into the next game. Summoned off the bench yet again, I rolled a ground ball past an infielder’s lunging dive. I had another hit.

Now, I was 2 for 3 on the season. And technically I — the last guy on the depth chart — had the team’s highest batting average.

Where had this surge of success come from? And what was I to do with it?

I’ve spent more than half my life trying to figure that out.

Those three at bats were my final ones of organized baseball.

I tried out for the team again the next spring. But this time, I didn’t make it.

I none too surprised. There was a reason I was the last guy on the depth chart the season prior, after all.

Still, getting cut from the team exposed me to the rawness of reality. If baseball wasn’t going to be my future, I needed to figure out what would be.

That quest took several years. And even when I thought I had it figured, life had a few curveballs for me.

A recession. A career change. A layoff. Several drawn out job searches. And more than my fair share of work projects that didn’t yield the expected results.

After more than a decade of these occurrence, I’ve come to expect the worst. I might stride to the plate with the best of intentions, but I know that Strike Three call is coming.

So, when it doesn’t, I’m dumbfounded. I find myself frozen in my good fortune, unsure what to do next.

It might seem like a good problem to have. But it’s still a problem.

There’s a scene in the movie Talladega Nights that’s etched in my mind.

Main character Ricky Bobby is out to dinner with his sons and his parents at Applebee’s. It’s the first time in his life when the family is enjoying a restaurant meal together.

Suddenly, Ricky’s father — Reese — causes a commotion. He quickly gets kicked out of the restaurant.

When Ricky chases after his father, Reese explains that things were going too well for his liking. He caused a scene to find an escape.

I’m nowhere near as ornery as Reese Bobby. I’m not inclined to sabotage my success.

Still, I understand his perspective.

For a favorable outcome means little in the grand scheme of things. In a world that’s often cold and random, a glimmer of light is just a flash in the pan. It’s foolish to make anything more of it.

Yet, our world relies on us making more of it. On getting base hit after base hit. On going on a winning streak.

Life favors those who can handle success. The optimists. The dreamers. The charismatic.

The rest get left behind. And if I’m not careful, I will too.

Own your wins.

I share these words with my co-workers whenever they deflect the praise I send their way.

Modesty is considered a proper approach in professional settings. But it condemns far too many of my talented teammates to the shadows. So I break through its defenses, time and agein.

But when it’s time for me to step into the limelight, I tend to resist. Why bask in the glory of something that I can’t explain or knowingly replicate? Why search for meaning in the meaningless?

After all, the struggles I’ve endured – the challenges, the failings – they matter far more. That’s what I’ve told myself for years.

Lately though, I’ve started to change my tune.

I’ve come to recognize that the narrative of a realist is anything but a best seller. The community around us will only be regaled in the woe of dead ends if there’s some hope on the horizon.

My wins – spurious as they may seem – provide that hope. They make my story palatable to others. Others who might, in turn, open the door to more opportunities.

So, I’m taking my own advice. I’m accepting my successes for the mysteries they are. I’m owning my wins.

I don’t know if my new approach will yield me more favorable outcomes. But one can hope.

And for the first time in a long time, I am.

Means to an End

As I made my way into the starting corral, I started to shiver.

It was a frigid morning, reinforced by a fierce north wind. And I was hardly dressed for it.

As I leaned down to stretch, I noticed the contradiction. I was wearing shorts and an athletic t-shirt, while everyone else around me was decked out in sweatpants and jackets.

Most of these outerwear items appeared ragged and mismatched. But that was beside the point. Those sporting them seemed warm, while I was burning precious energy trying to keep from freezing.

As I pondered my predicament, I heard an announcement over the loudspeakers.

5 minutes until the starting gun.

Almost in unison, I saw the fellow runners around me shed their outer layers and tossed them aside. Piles of sweatpants accumulated on the edges of the corral. Scores of jackets cascaded over the perimeter fencing.

The finish line for this race was located several blocks away from here. We wouldn’t be coming back, and there would be no opportunity to retrieve these items. The other runners were effectively throwing them away.

But no one seemed worried about that. After all, there was a race to run.

A few weeks after I crossed the finish line, I stepped onto a running track near my home before sunrise.

It was Track Tuesday, and I had a workout planned on the circuit. But first I needed to warm up.

So, I joined a group of fellow runners who were jogging a few laps on the track.

I knew these runners well enough to expect a conversation topic to dominate our warmup. But this morning’s topic caught me off guard.

Throwaway clothes.

This was the accepted term for the sweatpants and jackets I’d seen littering the corral at my recent race. It represented warmup gear that was intentionally abandoned.

My fellow runners explained that throwaway clothes were best purchased on the cheap at thrift stores or Walmart. The look and fit didn’t matter, because you wouldn’t have those items on you for long anyway.

Essentially, throwaway clothes were a means to an end. Much like the carbohydrate gel packs runners kept in the pockets of their shorts, or the water cups at the aid stations on the racecourse, they were meant to be used once and quickly disposed of.

No looking back. No remorse. No regret. The clothes did their job so that we could do ours.

I struggled to accept this concept. For it clashed heavily with my ethos.

I had become accustomed to looking stylish while exercising. I was convinced that mismatched shorts and shirts were for hobby joggers. As a competitive distance runner, I aimed to appear professional.

On top of that, I was beholden my late grandfather’s golden rule. Never throw anything away if you can get more use from it.

Now, I was being advised to violate both principles. All in the service of a greater goal.

Fortunately, I had time to adjust. Winter was nearing its end as we bantered on the track, and warmup gear was already becoming a moot point.

I would soon be showing up at the starting lines my usual garb. And so would everyone else. No sweatpants or jackets to be found in the corral.

Still, I knew I needed a plan for the cooler mornings ahead. If I was to race well in the fall, I needed to avoid freezing in the corral again.

So, I began to get my throwaway gear plan in order. But fate kept me from rolling it out.

I sustained an injury while training in the summer. I recovered, only to retain another series of injuries and undergo ankle surgery.

I never did make to the starting line of another race. And I never did end up purchasing throwaway clothes.

The end I was working towards had evaporated. And so had the means to get there.

I am proud of what I achieved in my racing career, abbreviated as it was.

The race times I posted still astonish me. The hardware I collected adorns a wall in my home. The talented people I trained with remain dear friends.

Still, it’s hard not to wince when reminiscing on it all. For even without throwaway clothes, the means to an end perspective percolates through my competitive running odyssey.

Each training block I tackled was designed to get me through the next race. Each race time I posted was the bar to clear for the next one.

I was on a long-distance journey, but each milestone was disposable.

Perhaps I should have paid more attention to where I was, instead of where I was going. Perhaps I should have soaked up the moment a bit more.

But it’s hard to blame myself. After all, I’m hardly the only one to make this type of error – both in the running community and outside of it.

Indeed, means to an end describes a great portion of our society. So much of what we do, what we consume, and what we expose ourselves to is devoid of cultural relevance.

It’s what those actions, those goods, and those experiences can lead us to that’s deemed important. The rest is simply the price of admission.

Yet, we struggle to accept that reality.

For we are wired to find meaning in utility, to seek purpose in the journey. The narrative arc is not just the domain of Disney movies; it’s the cornerstone of our lives.

Furthermore, we are appalled by the notion that we might be means to an end. That we could be viewed as interchangeable, non-essential, or otherwise lacking in unique value.

So, we fight the good fight. We strive to prove how essential each stone along our path is. And we take each rebuke as an affront to our self-worth.

In essence, we set ourselves up for misery – day in, day out. And we suffer accordingly.

How do we get out of this rut?

How do we accept the transactional, the interchangeable – all without losing our soul in the process?

It starts between the ears.

Fighting against society’s gravitational pull is like shouting at a brick wall. It’s a lot of effort that yields few results.

It’s far better to work on our own narrative. To take stock of what we feel is essential and what we deem disposable. And to separate those sentiments from the prevailing winds.

Such defined dissonance requires discipline. It requires focus. It requires grit.

It’s a hard bargain. But for the sake of our sanity, it’s worthwhile.

So, let’s get after it.

The Culture Flub

I got the text in the middle of the night.

Bro, I thought this was a joke.

The “joke” my friend was referring to was encapsulated in another alert on my phone. The Dallas Mavericks had traded away their superstar point guard Luka Doncic.

I sat up in bed and reread the alert. There had been no indication this was coming. But then again, there was no reason it couldn’t happen.

Yes, Doncic was one of the best basketball players in the world, in the prime of his career. But even those elite players had a price – usually another superstar and a boatload of draft picks.

But glancing over the alert a third time, I found no indication of such a return. Yes, there was another superstar coming back to Dallas – an older one with a lower ceiling. But the rest of the return was a role player and a solitary draft pick.

The value exchange seemed nowhere near even. For all intents and purposes, the Mavericks had given away a generational player.

Roughly 12 hours later, Mavericks General Manager Nico Harrison sat in front of reporters, attempting to explain the move he’d just made.

Harrison spoke about the team’s desire to win a championship, after having fallen short several months earlier. And he emphasized the importance of bringing in players who could add to the team’s culture.

It was quite the theory. But it was already clear that most Mavericks fans weren’t buying it.

Many had already spewed vitriol online. Others had staged a mock funeral for Doncic’s Dallas tenure – complete with a casket – on the plaza outside the team’s arena. A memorial shrine to the superstar had blossomed nearby.

One of the reporters highlighted this to Harrison, who replied that the fans would come around once the team won a championship.

And if they didn’t win one in the next few years?

Well, they’ll bury me then, Harrison replied.

He was wrong. They already had.

I’ve lived in the Dallas area for many years. And I still find myself amazed by the misconceptions the region contends with.

There are still the lingering stereotypes of Big Hair and Trophy Wives from the 1980s. There are still the Land of Steakhouses and Strip Clubs claims. And there are the reductive barbs about the region being filled with a sea of snobs in their Mercedes.

But the one that gets me riled up the most is the claim that Dallas is a winner’s town.

Now, this reductive claim holds true across most large southern cities. While all of America is captivated by success, there seems to be a more ruthless demand for it in the Sunbelt – particularly when it comes to professional sports. If a team struggles to win in Atlanta, Tampa, Miami, Houston, Phoenix, or Charlotte, there’s a good chance fans will stop packing the stands.

On the face of it, this can appear true in Dallas too. When the Texas Rangers and the Dallas Stars struggled in baseball and hockey, respectively, it wasn’t hard to spot empty seats around the ballpark or the arena.

But that hasn’t proved true at all for the Dallas Mavericks. For a generation, fans have packed the stands for each game. And they’ve proudly worn their replica basketball jerseys around town.

Some of this can be attributed to sustained success on the court. The Mavericks made the postseason in 20 of the first 25 seasons of this millennium, winning a championship in one of those seasons.

But the city’s lovefest with the Mavericks has more to do with two names – Dirk Nowitzki and Luka Doncic.

Each arrived in Texas from Europe to play basketball for the club — 20 years apart. And as each developed into a superstar on the court, they came of age off it — in the same community that filled the stands at the arena.

Nowitzki and Doncic only shared the court for one season. But that year felt like a passing of a torch.

Doncic saw how Dallas embraced Nowitzki wholeheartedly — how the city viewed him as a key strand of their fabric, rather than just a great basketball star. And he took strides to follow in those footsteps.

Indeed, Luka Doncic was core to the culture of Dallas. He was in rap songs and on billboards. He enthusiastically gave his time and energy to community service around town. He willingly mingled at local establishments with the masses who picked the stands at his games.

He was a man of the city. He was the city.

Until Harrison shipped him away in the dead of the night.

In the business world, there’s plenty of discussion about culture.

Maintaining a strong corporate culture is paramount. So is understanding the culture of consumers.

If either process is broken, a company will leak oil. Progress will be halted, and viability will become a concern.

Nico Harrison knows this well. He previously was an executive at Nike — a company lauded for harnessing both sides of the equation.

And yet, he somehow failed to follow those principles in Dallas.

Perhaps, yes, the Dallas Mavericks internal culture could be improved by a personnel shakeup. For all his greatness, Doncic did have deficiencies on defense. And he complained to the referees far too often.

But by ignoring the effects such a move would have on the associated consumer culture, Harrison failed. He failed himself, he failed the Mavericks, and he failed the city of Dallas.

And when Harrison inferred that local fans embrace championship rings more than the players who earn them, he made himself an eternal pariah.

All of this has far-reaching consequences.

There’s no doubt that the Mavericks’ brand has been degraded by this culture flub, and its connection to the city is in tatters. Harrison himself has unfortunately faced death threats, and the coffee shop where he started the clandestine trade talks has become terra non grata.

There are still chapters to be written, of course. Maybe the new players connect with the Dallas community and become part of its culture – all while delivering a title to the city. Maybe a new hope rises – Star Wars style – and becomes the next Nowitzki or Doncic.

But regardless of what transpires, a cloud will remain over the Mavericks organization.

The franchise got the city of Dallas wrong. They got the rules of culture wrong.

And that won’t ever be forgotten.

A Capital Gamble

It was a weekday afternoon in June.

The sun was blazing. The air was heavy. And the mercury had eclipsed 100 degrees.

Yet, as I made my way into the air-conditioned comfort of a chain restaurant, I found it nearly empty.

Apparently, this wasn’t dining-out weather for others. But it was for me.

So, I ambled over to the bar and asked for a food menu.

The bartender glanced at the suit I had on and smiled.

You look real fancy for the bar at a Razzoo’s.

I explained that I’d just come from a job interview up the road. One that I thought had gone well.

That’s great, the bartender replied. I’m sure you’ll land the role.

A few moments later, a basket of fried crawfish and shrimp appeared in front of me. And as I dug in, I started to daydream.

What if the bartender was right? What possibilities would that unlock?

Plenty.

I’d finally get to move out of the extended stay hotel I’d been in for months. I’d pay down the credit card debt I’d accrued. Maybe I’d go out on the town and meet people.

This job was the key to unlocking my life. I just needed the opportunity.

A few days later, my phone rang. It was the Marketing Director I’d interviewed with, calling to offer me the job.

I happily accepted.

Over the next several months, I transformed myself from a business novice into a reliable marketing professional. My employer took on clients, and I helped drive results for them. The Marketing Director added two more marketers to work alongside me.

But then, one client decided our services weren’t good enough. They forced their way out of their contract, leaving my employer short on revenue. Tension started to build.

I pressed my nose further into the grindstone. I told myself that my hard work would cure all – preserving the company and my spot in it.

Besides, it wasn’t like I had any other option. I was still low on cash and high on debt. And now, I had an apartment rent to cover.

It didn’t matter.

I soon got the dreaded Hey do you have a moment to talk? Prompt from the Marketing Director. Despite my best efforts, I was being let go.

By the time I made it home and unloaded my belongings from the car, reality had sunk in.

Despite my best efforts, I had failed. Failed at keeping my job and earning a steady income.

I realized how dire my situation was. Before that lunch at Razzoo’s, I’d spent three months in career limbo. I watched helplessly as job application after job application went awry.

Now, I was in a similar spot — with only marginally more experience on my resume.

If I wanted to keep my apartment and the possessions in it, I needed someone to offer me another job. And this needed to happen before my severance dried up.

Fortunately, my luck was better this time. Within days, I was in discussions for three digital marketing positions. I got two offers from those conversations, and I was able to take my pick of employer.

I had gone from losing to winning in a flash. But I remained on edge.

For what had just happened to me could easily reoccur down the line. And if it did, I might not find the same good fortune.

Capitalism is one of America’s great legacies.

It’s no coincidence that the country that declared itself independent in 1776 adopted the economic theories of Adam Smith – theories first were published that same year.

The invisible hand of the free market has helped propel America from a fledgling nation to a global powerhouse. It’s built prosperity and fostered influence.

But those outcomes are far from guaranteed.

You see, capitalism is built on the premise of equal access. Of supply and demand having free reign in a marketplace.

When the two meet, opportunities can proliferate. And when those opportunities are seized, magic can happen.

But even if the conditions are ripe, such opportunities don’t appear on their own. They must be offered up by people. And people are notoriously unpredictable.

As such, the game of capitalism is lathered with risk. If an opportunity falls through, there’s no guarantee that the next one will be as juicy. In fact, there’s no guarantee that there will be another opportunity at all.

I think about this when looking back on my early career journey, and all the bumps in the road I endured. Sure, well-wishers were quick to tell that everything would work out. But was that actually true?

Not in the least.

The truth was that I was taking a capital gamble each time I readied myself for work in the morning. A gamble that my opportunity would still be there at the end of the day. And that another would follow if this one fell through.

This game wasn’t for the faint of heart. I understood that.

But I swallowed my anxiety and played along. Just as I do today.

More than a decade has passed since I was last unemployed. And these days, I’m far more prepared for that adverse outcome.

I’ve built up an emergency fund to cover expenses. I’ve gathered years of marketing experience. I’ve earned a master’s degree in business administration and built a professional network.

But even with that elaborate buffer, I’m hardly at ease. Far from it.

For I know that despite my successes, I’m only three steps removed from desperation. And I recognize that each opportunity that eludes my grasp might be the last one I get.

It’s a sobering reality. But it’s one I readily accept.

You see, I now recognize that life is inherently unfair. Even at its elemental level, outcomes can vary arbitrarily.

A full safety net, a clean slate — it might artificially raise our floor. But it also lowers our ceiling. All while merely distracting us from the world’s sobering realities.

It’s better to face the darkness. To take a bit of risk in pursuit of the golden glow of opportunity.

That’s why I keep riding the roller coaster into parts unknown. That’s why I keep embracing the challenge and accepting the process.

A capital gamble is nothing to sneeze at. But it’s nothing to run away from either.

Moral Hazard

I had only been on the highway for a minute when I saw the flashing lights behind me.

I looked down at my speedometer. It read 80 miles per hour.

My hands started to tremble.

I was still in high school and had only been driving for a couple months. Yet, I’d already gotten myself into trouble.

I slowed down and pulled to the side of the road. As I waited for the officer to get out of his vehicle, I stared at my reflection in the rearview mirror.

I was in formal attire and my hair was neatly trimmed. Was I presentable enough to escape with a warning?

I saw the officer approaching. I was about to get my answer.

License and registration please.

I handed the documents over to the officer. His expression did not change.

I clocked you going 82 miles per hour back there under that bridge. You do realize that this is a work zone, don’t you? The speed limit is 45.

I had not realized that. Sure, there were orange cones sitting in the grassy median beside my vehicle. But I hadn’t seen any in the road. And I hadn’t seen a single construction vehicle either.

Still, it didn’t matter. I was getting written up.

The officer went back to his car to print out the citation. With the excessive speed violation and the work zone violation, I was on the hook for more than $1,000.

As I let the numbers on the ticket sink in, the officer gave two parting words of advice.

Slow down.

I drove home in a daze. I had no idea how I was going to pay the citation.

I broke the unhappy news to my parents as soon as I walked in the front door. They were justifiably furious.

Still, after a few moments, cooler heads prevailed. My father offered to cover the fine if I attended defensive driving classes.

I’d essentially be getting a clean slate.

I quickly accepted the terms. A couple of weeks later, I spent a morning in a hotel conference room watching presentations about how to check blind spots and safely pass vehicles. And soon after that, I was back on the road.

It was as if nothing had changed. And that was a problem.

Moral hazard.

This term is a hallmark of risk management circles.

It explains the behavior of those who act with impunity. Free of consequences for their actions, these individuals throw caution to the wind. And everyone else is saddled with the ensuing mess.

This was my experience after my father covered my hefty speeding ticket. I drove nearly as unburdened as I had before, leaving other drivers with little peace of mind.

On its face, Moral Hazard seems both reprehensible and avoidable. But the truth is far more complicated.

You see, institutional forces are out there to buffer us from risk’s implications. Not everyone has a father who will cover a $1,000 speeding ticket. But most drivers have insurance policies to cover the liability they might cause to other vehicles – and the people inside them – while behind the wheel.

The same principle has long held true for houses across our nation. Home insurance would offer financial protection against a variety of maladies. And until recently, this encouraged people to put down roots wherever they fancied.

And the business world? It’s littered with Moral Hazard too. Remember when the United States government bailed out major banks in 2008, and regional bank depositors in 2023? Those actions hardly deterred the risky behavior that preceded them.

The carte blanche – the blank slate – it’s meant to help us boldly plod ahead without being crippled by a one-off event.

But if it leaves us too bold for our own good, what’s the point?

Several months after my speeding ticket, I graduated from high school.

As I prepared to head off to college, I left the car behind. My father stated that I’d need to earn the right to drive around campus. The best way to achieve that right, he said, was with a few semesters of stellar grades.

About 18 months later, it was evident that I’d earned those stellar marks. So, at the end of winter break, my father accompanied me on the 1,300-mile journey to school.

Throughout that two-day trek, my father raved about how much I’d matured in college. He stated that I was ready for the responsibility of having a car.

But behind the wheel, I’d experienced little of that growth. The shadow of my speeding ticket had faded away, aided by the check my father had written. Bad habits were everywhere.

Moral Hazard had become entrenched. I was living on borrowed time.

And eventually, my luck ran out.

During my senior year of college, I totaled my car in a wreck on the highway. It was a humbling experience – and it left me without the means to get from my rental home to campus each day.

A few weeks later, my father surprised me once again. He’d be bringing one of the family sedans down to school that coming weekend and handing me the keys.

My graduation gift was arriving early. There was only one condition.

If I totaled this car, I’d be on my own.

I thought about how hard the past few weeks had been. I’d spend hours walking around campus with heavy textbooks turning my backpack into a boulder. And at the end of the day, I practically needed to beg friends for a ride home.

I thought about my time at the assessor’s lot a couple of days after the wreck. An insurance claims representative took one look at my mangled car and wrote me a paltry check. One that could never make me whole.

I thought about the accident itself. Of seeing the airbags deploy. Of that terrifying moment when I wasn’t sure if my friend in the passenger seat was alright.

I had seen the consequences of my actions. And I never wanted to experience them again.

So, I pledged to become a safer driver. And I’ve held true to that promise ever since.

Moral Hazard has no quarter here anymore.

Back in the 1980s, Nancy Reagan launched a crusade against drugs.

The First Lady sat in front of a camera in the White House and addressed the nation’s youth. She encouraged them to Just say no when illicit substances were bandied their way.

It’s tempting to view Moral Hazard in this way. If we reject it out of hand, we’ll act more responsibly.

But such temptations are nothing more than delusions. Moral Hazard is too embedded in our subconscious to be rooted out that easily.

It takes something more.

Ridding ourselves of this scourge requires a thought experiment. It demands that we actively consider the contours of the safety net around us – who builds it and who funds it. Then, it implores us to consider what would happen if that safety net wasn’t around – and to act accordingly.

These considerations consume plenty of mental bandwidth. They’re unpleasant. But they’re also necessary.

So, let’s take the initiative to open our eyes. To go the extra mile to banish our bad tendencies. And to lean into the responsibility that comes with risk.

We’ll all be better for it.

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.