Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

The Advantage

The house always wins.

If you’ve ever been to Las Vegas – or anywhere else with a casino — you’ve probably heard this mantra.

It’s a word of warning. A shot across the bow to anyone who thinks they can tip the scales in their favor when they gamble.

Sure, some lucky people here or there might hit the jackpot on the slot machines or win at the table games. And those big winners might score loads of money.

But ultimately, whoever owns the place comes out on top.

For the laws of probability prove that for every jackpot winner, there are plenty of others who put their money down and get nothing in return. And anyone who tries to take a shortcut to success — by counting cards in Blackjack, for example — is booted from the venue.

Yes, the moment we walk into a casino, the house has the drop on us. It has to so that the owners can cover those giant payouts — and make profits. If we fail to recognize this, we’re the suckers.

This is why I don’t gamble. It’s why you won’t see me feasting on $40 steaks, ambling up to the card tables, or hitting the slots.

I know which way the deck is tilted. And I ain’t playing.

There are plenty of jargony phrases in the business world.

Terms like EBITDA and revenue can delineate failure and success. Acronyms like IRR and EPS demonstrate how much money can be made on investments.

These words mean everything inside corporate boardrooms. But outside of the office, they’re little more than gibberish.

This is the way it should be. There are far more important things in life than discounted cash flows. Things like our health, our families, and our sense of belonging.

Even so, there is another concept that has use far beyond the business world. That concept is Arbitrage.

Arbitrage represents the advantage businesses try to seek. It’s the difference between what they pay for an item and the value they get out of it.

In order to make money and sustain success, businesses need to seize arbitrage wherever they can.

This is why casinos stack the deck against us. This is why companies devote entire departments to innovation. And this is why the titans of industry keep acquiring fledgling companies.

For years, I couldn’t stand this concept. I thought that working in the business world meant screwing over someone else. And I didn’t want to live that life.

I never saw the movie Wall Street as a kid. But I definitely would have taken issue with the character Gordon Gekko, who infamously proclaimed that Greed Is Good.

In fact, when I was asked to draw my fears at age 11, I didn’t sketch a Great White Shark or the Loch Ness Monster. I drew a man in a suit on a train platform, holding a briefcase and looking forlorn.

I had no idea how so many could willingly sacrifice their conscience for a taste of success. How could they sleep at night knowing that their gains were built on the misfortunes of others?

To me, arbitrage was nothing more than a mark of shame. But gradually, my thoughts on the matter have shifted.

Western Europe has many things going for it. Picturesque cities, renowned cuisine and timeless works of art — just to name a few.

But freedom of vocation is not on that list.

In many European countries, students must decide on their preferred profession as teenagers. Then they must pass entrance exams, which will let them pursue secondary education in that field. Beyond that, their professional future awaits.

There is little room for second-guessing or changing one’s mind. One adolescent decision carries the burden of destiny.

I’m thankful I wasn’t raised in such a system. Because truth be told, I had no idea what profession I would want to work in when I was 18 years old.

I entered college with aspirations of becoming a Hollywood screenwriter, only to find that I lacked passion for it. I shifted my focus to broadcast journalism, and I managed to work in the news media for three years. But then I pivoted again, ending up in the business world I’d once abhorred.

Such a winding path is quintessentially American. This is a nation where college dropouts can create trillion-dollar tech companies. It’s a culture where the words serial entrepreneur are celebrated, not reviled.

There is always an opportunity to try something new. To pick ourselves up by our bootstraps and try a new path.

But lost in such possibilities is any semblance of meritocracy. We can’t rely on the system to buoy us. We must seize whatever advantage we can.

We must embrace arbitrage.

Leveraging our advantage might mean doing something small, like focusing on our uniqueness during a job interview. Or it might mean something big, like dropping everything to seize an unprecedented opportunity.

These actions can help us. But by proxy, they can deny others.

And yet, we must accept this subtle cruelty. Because our selfishness ensures our survival.

There has to be another way.

Elon Musk is a polarizing figure.

The multibillionaire is brash, bold, and highly controversial. Plenty of people are repelled by his ego, his antics, and his wild commentary.

Yet, Musk has his admirers as well. For the companies he’s created — Tesla and SpaceX, among others — seek to solve problems that could benefit all of us. Efficient vehicles and ubiquitous space travel can broaden our horizons and redefine our future.

Musk is a torchbearer for a new type of arbitrage. One where an entire society benefits from the advantage.

And while few of us could be Elon Musk — and many wouldn’t even want to — we can follow his lead.

We can use our talents to improve more than our own situation. We can seek out the advantages that benefit our community. And we can leverage arbitrage to bring a positive change to the world.

The pursuit of this type of advantage can steady us. It can provide us the sustenance we need to thrive, without compromising our conscience.

It’s still a zero-sum game. But it’s got far more room in the winner’s circle.

So, let’s be smart about the advantages we seek. And let’s do our best to spread those benefits far and wide.

The Habit Trap

As I prepared to back out of my parking spot, I was on edge.

Our nation was two months into a blossoming pandemic. Due to virus concerns and stay-at-home orders, I hadn’t been out of my neighborhood much. But on this afternoon, I’d headed to FedEx to ship off some damaged headphones for repairs.

As I returned to my vehicle from that errand, I wasn’t in the best state of mind. But I still needed to get home, so I focused on the task at hand.

I put my SUV in reverse and took my foot on the brake. Then I peered over my left shoulder as the vehicle slowly moved backward. I wanted to make sure there wasn’t any cross traffic.

The coast was clear to my left. But before I could look to my right, I felt a dull thud.

I knew immediately what that meant. I’d collided with another vehicle.

I inched my SUV forward and put it in Park. Then I stepped outside to survey the damage.

It turned out that another driver was backing her SUV out of a nearby spot at the same time as I was. Neither one of us could see the other vehicle until it was too late.

The collision happened at a low speed, but there was still damage. My fender was dented in one spot, and it would need to be replaced. Her fender also had a few marks on it.

I checked to see if the other driver was alright. She did the same.

But then, the realities of pandemic life overtook us. We quickly exchanged insurance information and went our separate ways.

On my ride home, I kept replaying the incident in my mind. What could I have done differently to avoid this small calamity?

One answer kept coming to mind. I could have checked my backup camera more closely.

I’d owned my SUV for five years at this point. And yet, I hadn’t quite mastered the art of using the backup camera when I was in reverse.

None of the previous vehicles I’d driven had such technology on board. And that meant I was woefully prepared to use it.

Way back when I was learning to drive, I had been instructed to check my rearview mirror when backing out of a parking spot. I was also taught to check over each shoulder to make sure no cross traffic was in my way.

I had mastered these lessons. And over the years, they became fossilized habits.

Now, there was a backup camera in my vehicle that promised to replace all these arcane practices. The future was here. But I still didn’t fully trust it.

So, I fell back on old habits. I would check the camera for a moment, but then glance over each shoulder to ensure the coast was clear.

I got away with this sequence for years. But now, it had finally caught up with me.

And now, with a damaged fender in tow, my objective was clear. It was time to break with my old driving habits, for once and for all.

Back in 1925, a baseball player named Wally Pipp woke up with a headache.

Instead of manning first base for the New York Yankees, Pipp sat out the game. A young ballplayer named Lou Gehrig manned his position instead.

Pipp never regained his old role. Gehrig went on to play the next 2,130 games at first base for the Yankees, earning the nickname The Iron Horse. The streak only ended when Gehrig retired 14 years later, crippled by a strange ailment that would later bear his name — and claim his life.

The demise of Wally Pipp will forever remain a cautionary tale. But an ill-timed headache wasn’t the only reason Pipp lost his spot for good.

Gehrig had immense talent. His Hall of Fame accolades make that clear.

But Gehrig also had great habits. He prepared himself to play each and every day. He perfected his craft as a hitter and a fielder. And he made no excuses when he faced adversity.

For many years, Gehrig was overshadowed in baseball lore by Babe Ruth, Mickey Mantle, and Hank Aaron. But when I was young, his name came back into the spotlight.

A shortstop on the Baltimore Orioles was set to surpass The Iron Horse’s consecutive games streak. Cal Ripken, Jr. ultimately shattered the record, finishing with 2,632 consecutive games played. And in the process, he displayed the same stellar habits that Gehrig had six decades earlier.

I did not grow up as an Orioles fan, but I had plenty of respect for Ripken. I tried to follow in his and Gehrig’s footsteps, finding productive habits and latching on to them. Such commitments have kept me productive into adulthood.

But adhering to fundamentals is not a panacea. Preparation and discipline are timeless virtues, but the protocols for backing a car out of a parking spot are not.

Indeed, for all we complain about technology, it does drive progress.

The automobile goes faster than any tandem of horses ever could. Computers have transformed businesses in ways our legal pad-wielding predecessors could only dream of. The Internet has provided the world an unprecedented opportunity to connect in real-time.

Adopting these innovations has meant casting off old habits. And yet, as new protocols emerge, I still find myself struggling to adapt to them.

Grappling with novelty makes me feel vulnerable and powerless. So, I fall back on the familiar — even when such actions are fraught with danger.

I call this conundrum The Habit Trap. And all too often, it’s swallowed me whole.

There’s no experience quite like catching the sunrise.

A splash of light emerges from a dark sky. And with it comes a realm of new possibilities.

I’ve considered myself averse to novelty. And yet, I’ve found myself awestruck by the rising sun again and again.

It provides a sense of calm in the wake of uncertainty. It melds the familiarity of habit with the opportunity for improvement. It provides us balance and leaves us feeling whole.

Perhaps I can learn from the example of the sunrise.

For there are ways to wean ourselves off outdated routines. Instead of making a clean break, we can mix the uncomfortable with the familiar.

In my case, this has meant going through my peek-over-the-shoulder routine while my car is still in Park. I’m not going to catch much cross traffic this way — my view is blocked — but I won’t find myself colliding with other vehicles either.

For others stuck in The Habit Trap, the way out might look different. But the details are not what matters here. What’s important is that there is a way out.

We simply need to be strategic, intentional, and open-minded. We need to be willing to move toward a new normal, even if it takes us a little longer to leave the past behind.

If we do this, we can make The Habit Trap history. And we’ll be better for it.

So, let us begin.

Going Dry

It was a work of art.

A perfect glass of whiskey on the rocks.

The distiller’s name has evaded my memory. But the smooth taste of the libation has not.

I finished one glass, and then another. Then, I paid my bar tab and went back to my hotel room.

I haven’t touched alcohol since.

As I write this, it’s been more than three years since I tasted that whiskey. Technically, I could say I’ve been three years sober. But I struggle to use that word — sober — to describe myself.

For the way I parted with drinking doesn’t match the sobriety stigma. There was no killer hangover, no devastating hospital diagnosis, no trail of collateral damage to force my hand. I was able to coordinate my own exit.

In this case, it meant saying farewell to alcohol at The Happiest Place On Earth — Disney World. I’d traveled to Orlando for professional training right after New Year’s Day. And with lodging and transport taken care of, I decided to make Disney World my last drinking hurrah.

So, I spent an evening sampling a drink from each of the country pavilions at Epcot — beer in Germany, baijiu in China, a margarita in Mexico. A couple of nights later, I had those two glasses of whiskey at the hotel bar. Then, that was it.

One month without alcohol became two, then three. While I had said my break from alcohol would be temporary, I began to reconsider that stance.

I was having nightmares about returning to drinking. And the anxiety about falling off the wagon overshadowed any lingering desire for whiskey or beer. So, I made my split with alcohol official.

I wasn’t going back. But moving forward would prove tricky.

America and alcohol go hand in hand.

Our obsession with drinking dates to our nation’s origins. Many colonial settlers came from England and Scotland — two regions with a legacy of brewing and distilling. And while these settlers dumped tea into the Boston Harbor in protest of a tax, we’ve long paid surcharges for booze without much complaint.

Our relationship with alcohol has not always been healthy. There are tales of liquored-up outlaws going on rampages in the Old West. And the rise of the automobile has led to an epidemic of drunk-driving deaths.

But our only national temperance effort backfired spectacularly. While Prohibition was the law of the land in the early 1900s, bootlegged liquor operations and speakeasy bars flourished. Organized crime outfits benefitted from this boom, and the collective love of libations only deepened.

Humiliated, the government repealed Prohibition in 1933. It had become clear that alcohol, for all its problems, would remain entrenched in our society. Indeed, many of our cultural norms — from dating to celebrating the new year — continue to involve sharing a drink.

When I decided to abandon this legacy, I found myself on treacherous footing.

Social life became surprisingly complex. I would often end up in alcohol-laden settings, turning down drinks left and right. And as I did, I faced incredulous questions from those around me.

How could I just swear off drinking? And why was I doing this if there I was not facing a crisis?

I knew why these inquiries were headed my way. My actions were unconventional.

Family, friends, and acquaintances were all trying to be respectful of my decisions — all while saving face.

Even so, the questions upset me.

I was feeling better than I ever had. And yet, time and again, I found myself on the defensive for the choices I had made.

I started withdrawing from social life to give myself a break. And when I did find myself in mixed company, I started announcing my aversion to drinking upfront.

It was draining. Demoralizing even. Then, a global pandemic hit.

Suddenly, social gatherings weren’t happening. And neither were the uncomfortable questions.

This was a relief at first. Even as my anxiety was soaring, this was one area where I could find a bit of solace.

Yet, as the months dragged on, I started to yearn for social life again. And now, as we emerge from the pandemic tunnel, I’m ready to reengage.

I just wish I could do so without being put on trial for going dry.

Behind every lifestyle choice we make is a mission.

My mission for going dry was to be mentally present for each moment of my life.

I didn’t get obliterated all that often in my younger days. But those times that I did still gnaw at me.

Losing control of my thoughts and actions was distressing. And the potential implications were terrifying.

By purging alcohol from my life, I wouldn’t have to worry about ever driving drunk. I wouldn’t need to concern myself with the harmful words I’d later forget ever having said. I wouldn’t be filled with humiliation after making a fool of myself.

These are all positive outcomes — both for myself and those around me. And yet, all too often, I feel like a pariah for choosing this path.

It shouldn’t be this way.

After all, plenty of people don’t drink alcohol. Some avoid imbibing because of their faith or their demons. Others make an active choice to abstain.

No matter the cause of our decision, we deserve better than to be cast into the shadows. We desire a kinder fate than the stain of scorn. We demand the benefit of the doubt in its place.

Social acceptance need not hinge on filling our bodies with poison. Irresponsible behavior need not be boundlessly lionized. And the implications of inebriation need not be ignored.

Yes, drinking will continue to be an important part of our society, our economy, and our culture for generations to come. But there can — and should — be room at the table for temperance too.

I yearn for that possibility.

I long for the day when sobriety is not a loaded term. I pine for the moment when the intricacies of social life are no longer dominated by what’s in our glass.

We are not there — not yet. But with a little more empathy and open-mindedness, we can be someday.

So, the next time you hear someone calling themself sober, don’t assume they have problems. It could just be that they have solutions.

Running On Empty

I’m just not feeling it today.

How many times have you said something like this? Plenty, I’m sure.

We’re not on our A-game all the time. There are instances where we’re out of sync. There are moments where we don’t feel up to the task.

This has been true since the dawn of humanity. And it will continue to be true for generations to come.

And yet, the ways in which we handle such instances have changed in recent years.

I’m just not feeling it has morphed into a code word. It’s become an invitation to abandon the task if we’re not at our peak.

Such a strategy has become widely accepted. It’s even celebrated.

But should it be?

The greatest ability is availability.

Football coaches live by this quote. But applies far beyond the gridiron.

Just as the most legendary athletes have a penchant for staying in the game, the most accomplished among us tend to remain in the action.

That means showing up, even when we’re not at our best. It means giving our all, even when we know we don’t have much left to give.

It means running on empty.

Such a concept often gets a bad rap. It conjures images of bluffing our way through a task. It amplifies the concerns of burnout.

These unsavory outcomes can occur when we run on empty. But they’re only one part of the tapestry.

Many people can run effectively on empty, without the side effects. A mix of preparation and passion can help them sail through, even when they’re not at 100%.

A famous example of this comes from Michael Jordan. The legendary basketball player was already a four-time world champion in June 1997, when his Chicago Bulls battled the Utah Jazz in the National Basketball Association Finals.

The teams had split the first four games of the series, setting up a pivotal Game 5. But on that morning in Utah, Jordan woke up severely ill. Instead of joining the team for the morning practice, Jordan stayed in his hotel room for much of the day. He only arrived at the arena an hour before the game. And he looked incredibly frail.

No one would have faulted Jordan for sitting out the game. But he suited up anyway — and he ended up putting on a performance for the ages. Jordan poured in 38 points, including the game-clinching basket. The Bulls went on to win another championship two nights later.

The “Flu Game” has become an indelible part of Jordan’s legacy. It proved that even when Jordan’s speed, strength, and stamina were stripped away, he could still get the job done. This was a testament to his athletic fundamentals, his competitive spirit, and his love of the game of basketball.

While we might not be Michael Jordan, we also have the ability to make an impact when the odds are stacked against us.

Not long ago, business people routinely battled jet lag to give important presentations halfway around the world. For generations, blue-collar workers have been able to put in long hours, even as their bodies ached. And for millennia, parents facing the roughest of days have managed to remain superheroes for their children.

Of course, these people would much rather be at the top of their game. But when they’ve found themselves far below that level, they’ve adjusted. They’ve been able to run on empty.

A few months before Michael Jordan’s “Flu Game,” I woke up with the stomach flu. After I made a mess in the bathroom, my mother held me out of school.

It took me a couple of days to recover, and I was miserable the whole time. I loathed the fatigue and nausea, of course. But I despised the feeling of helplessness as the world droned on without me.

When I made it back to school, I set a new goal for myself. Perfect attendance moving forward.

And by and large, I managed to achieve that. Over the next decade or so, I only missed a handful of school days. And hardly any were due to illness.

I wasn’t always at my best. But I showed up anyway. And I feel I was better for it.

These days, such a sentiment rings hollow.

Wellness has become a buzzword. And technology has allowed us to filter our persona to our heart’s desire.

Showing up on both the good and bad days no longer has cachet. If anything, it’s viewed as a waste of effort.

Now, not everyone is on board with this airbrushed reality. Some have rebelled against it, rallying behind the phrase If you don’t love me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best.

But even this saying is off-kilter. It implies that we should treat mediocrity as an ideal. And that just isn’t true.

Michael Jordan persevered in that “Flu Game” in Utah. But I’m sure he would have much preferred to be at full strength.

The same goes for any of us when we run on empty. We’d prefer a full tank, but we make do with what we’ve got.

It doesn’t take special talent to pull this off. All it takes is a bit of pride in our craft. And a commitment to stick with it through thick and thin.

Our tanks are all empty now.

After a year of illness, job loss, and isolation, we are a shell of what we once were.

It can be tempting to wave the white flag at a time like this. To hibernate until a brighter day emerges.

But such desires are foolish.

There is no escape from what we’ve experienced. The trauma is shared, and it permeates all corners of our existence.

We will only find the light if we do it collectively.

We must stop clinging to the ideal. And we must engage with what’s real instead.

We must run on empty.

Sure, this might feel awkward. But that discomfort is a hurdle we must clear to reach our destination. There is no other way.

So let’s stop bowing out when we’re not our best. Let’s stop looking for the emergency exit at every opportunity.

Running on empty is a feature, not a bug. It’s time we use it to its potential.

The Opinion Trap

Who cares what others think?

How often have we heard someone ask a question like this? Plenty of times, probably.

This question is rhetorical. The implied answer is that we shouldn’t take too much stock in what others have to say.

At first glance, this seems like well-intentioned advice.

After all, there are plenty of people out there, each with their own opinions. If we pander to the crowd, we lose a sense of ourselves. Or worse, we become co-opted by the views of others.

Better for us to promote our individuality. Better for us to wave off the background noise. Better for us to have faith in our own abilities.

And indeed, in a vacuum, such single-minded confidence might work.

But we don’t live in a vacuum. We live in the real world.

High school is an uncomfortable time. And yet, it can be an illuminating one.

Our bodies are transforming. Our minds are going through turbulence. And our social status is still being sorted out.

High school is the first time we’re faced with a real decision. Do we roll with the cool kids or linger among the outcasts?

It’s a cruel dilemma to be thrust upon an adolescent mind. For each decision has steep costs.

If we strive to be cool, we abandon our sense of individuality. We become an embodiment of the views and values of others.

But if we embrace our individuality, we find ourselves banished to the shadows. We miss out on many interactions with our peers. We risk the sting of loneliness at a time when we are ill-equipped to weather it.

My own high school days were marked by the tension between these fates.

I had already switched schools three times by the time I was 14, and I was aware of how difficult it could be to make new friends. Becoming a cool kid would appear to be my best path forward.

But many of my classmates were from a different background than I was. Plus they were much more outgoing than I was able to be.

So, I tried to split the difference. I joined the baseball team, and I sat near the popular kids as they held court at lunch. But otherwise, I retreated to my own world.

This approach did little to ease my angst. And although I met one my closest friends during high school, I don’t tend to look fondly on those days.

But perhaps I shouldn’t be so harsh. Maybe I shouldn’t consider the adolescent social status gauntlet as crude.

As it turns out, it’s a great primer for what comes next.

There are many definitions of adulthood. But the one I find most telling is The point at which one is self-sufficient, independent of their parents or guardians.

Yes, adulthood depends on self-sufficiency. And in a capitalist society, that means taking advantage of opportunities to financially sustain ourselves. Landing a steady job, selling enough of a product, or raising sufficient capital are three common ways to get there.

But where do those opportunities come from? They come from other humans.

Whether they’re representing a company or they’re simply consumers, other people are the linchpin to our success. Self-sufficiency is nothing more than a misnomer.

The fate of our future relies on the opinions of others. On their willingness to give us a chance, to provide us financing, to stick with us through thick and thin. This much is unavoidable.

But what of our credo of self-belief? What of our pledge to tune out what others think? How do we reconcile this contradiction?

I call this dilemma The Opinion Trap.

There are two main ways to confront The Opinion Trap. We can lean into it or we can attempt to escape it.

Those who lean in tend to follow the well-worn path. They actively seek the favorable opinions of others — particularly those who will provide them the opportunities they require. This might mean attaining certain educational milestones to stand out to hiring managers or working extra hours to impress their supervisors.

Such work can pay dividends. But it also diminishes the value of these individuals’ beliefs and opinions.

By contrast, some people have sought to escape The Opinion Trap. They’ve broken out from the corporate cycle and set off as entrepreneurs. These nonconformists are steeled by an intense belief in themselves. They’re determined not to let the views of others impact their fate.

And yet, on their way out of Dodge, many budding entrepreneurs are horrified to find The Opinion Trap lurking in their luggage.

Indeed, for their venture to take root, they need funding and a consumer base. And attaining both of those depends on the favorable opinions of others.

The Opinion Trap is insidious. And it is unavoidable.

If I were to pinpoint the moment I became an adult, I’d say it was the day I left my childhood home at age 18. But it wasn’t until I was 25 years old that I was financially self-sufficient.

My parents helped support me in college. And when my first job didn’t pay enough to cover my rent, my parents generously helped with the difference.

I was grateful to my parents for supporting me as I sought my footing in the world. But I also had aspirations of being self-sufficient.

So, when I exited the news media and moved across Texas, I was elated. Finally, I’d be able to sustain myself.

Then, I ran into the rough side of The Opinion Trap.

What I thought would be a two-week job search ended up lasting three months. With media experience all over my resume, I applied for a bevy of media relations and corporate communications positions. I figured this would be the most logical step forward.

But the opinions of the hiring managers filling those roles were unanimous. I was not qualified.

I will admit that these rebukes took me to a dark place. I had always believed in myself, but now I was questioning that faith. Was I really worthless all along, and was this just now coming to light?

Fortunately, I was able to get off this escalator before it hit rock bottom. Someone took a chance and offered me a digital marketing position. I didn’t know a thing about marketing at the time, but I got myself up to speed quickly. I’ve been in that industry ever since.

But even with the success I’ve seen, I’ve never fully recovered from that job search. My bouts with Imposter Syndrome — already prominent during my news media days — have only intensified. And I am continually worried that I will fall out of favor with the key decision-makers in my career.

With all this in mind, I’ve leaned hard into The Opinion Trap. I’ve taken on new responsibilities to stay in the good graces of my superiors. I’ve improved my customer service techniques to earn the trust of my clients. And I’ve gone back to business school to fill any perceived gaps in my marketing training.

These choices have paid dividends. But they leave the fate of my career — and my livelihood — squarely in the hands of others. If I run afoul of them in any way, I could end up out in the cold.

I have to live with that.

One way I do this is by escaping The Opinion Trap in all other aspects of my life. When it comes to my hairstyle, my exercise regimen, or the way I spend my free time, I rely solely on my own opinions. Even Words of the West is a venture where I follow my own nose. (Although the trust you put in me, dear reader, does loom large.)

For me, such a divide is necessary. It allows me to control the way I live my life, even if the way I sustain such a lifestyle relies on the good graces of others. That’s a compromise I can live with.

It’s on all of us to find a version of the middle ground that best suits us. To reconcile the importance of both outside perceptions and our own style. And to reconcile both in a healthy manner.

There is no clear roadmap for this objective. We’ll each need to find our own way forward through trial and error.

It’s daunting. But it’s the only way to keep The Opinion Trap from eating us alive.

So, let’s step to it.

The Failure of the Fourth Estate

I entered the newsroom on a mission.

It was my first job after graduating from college. My first time interacting with the big, bad world of adulthood. And I was as idealistic as I was young.

I viewed my new role as an evening TV news producer in West Texas with purpose and responsibility.

I would be providing information to improve the lives of my station’s viewers. What could be more important than that?

Sure, I had heard the doubters and the naysayers. The ones who stated that news was nothing but garbage. I was determined to prove them all wrong.

The path to this objective turned out to be a jagged one. I had my fair share of bumps in the road.

There was the time I bungled some breaking news. There was the election night coverage felled by a graphics mishap. And there was the time my boss chided me for featuring too many crime stories.

But I learned from my mistakes. I iterated. I improved.

By the time I left that job, I’d figured out how to handle breaking news. I’d successfully produced an election night newscast — during a presidential election year, no less. And I’d diversified my news coverage beyond a parade of mugshots.

Ultimately, my desire to stay in the media dwindled, and I left the industry behind.

Yet, I never blamed the media for my decision to leave it.

I never questioned the devotion of the reporters, anchors, and producers who poured their hearts into their work. I never questioned the integrity of journalists who often brought home smaller paychecks than Walmart associates. I never believed the claims of bias and corruption from the naysayers.

For years, I would continue to defend the media against all comers. But those days have come to an end.

The Fourth Estate.

It’s an old term for the role of the media. So old, in fact, that many have not heard of it.

The term comes from eighteenth-century England. In those years, there were three estates of British society: the clergy, the nobility, and the commoners. The press — the Fourth Estate — disseminated information between all three.

Of course, the colonists in North America didn’t think much of this system. They broke away from England, forming a nation that separated church and state. They also removed the formal distinction between nobility and commoners in favor of representative democracy.

And yet, the fledgling nation left the Fourth Estate intact.

The role of the media has been cherished ever since America’s earliest days. Journalists have been given the liberty to disseminate information and hold power to account. And they’ve been largely protected from censorship.

Journalism has chronicled the growth of this nation. It has helped expose corruption. And it has even restored our dignity at times.

But it also has an insidious side. And that element has never been more apparent.

March 2020 was a surreal month.

A deadly virus spawned a global pandemic. And in America, life as we knew it abruptly stopped.

As Americans sequestered themselves, many turned to the news for assistance. With so much fear and uncertainty percolating, the Fourth Estate would be our truth-teller.

But the truth we were provided came with an angle. A dark, insidious angle.

As the lockdowns set in, there were endless reports of overrun hospitals. There were harrowing tales of medical professionals reusing contaminated protective gear. And there were the chilling images of refrigerated trucks acting as makeshift morgues.

The sights and sounds of the first wave were jarring enough. But as we sought further guidance, the media provided us with little reassurance.

The point of the lockdowns had been to limit interpersonal contact. Public health officials believed this would keep the virus from spreading and hospitals from getting further overrun.

Journalists seemed to latch onto this message. And, as we sought guidance for everything from getting exercise to grabbing groceries, the media pounced.

There was the example of the young woman who defeated the virus, only to drop dead after a run. There were all the tutorials about the safest way to scrub down groceries. There were all the other anecdotes of someone doing something menial and ending up on a ventilator — or worse.

The underlying message was supposed to be clear. Stop trying to play the angles. Follow the public health guidance. Stay home. Stay safe.

But the grizzly examples used to drive this point home were outliers. And they painted an alarmist picture, causing undue dread. Even I, the media veteran, had a panic attack after scrubbing down groceries.

There was no denying it. The Fourth Estate had failed us.

Back in 1906, the media changed forever.

That was the year muckraking journalist Upton Sinclair published The Jungle — an insider account of conditions inside meatpacking plants.

The revelations in that book were horrifying. So horrifying, in fact, that they led to a spate of new regulations on both factory labor and food processing.

By showing how the sausage gets made, Sinclair had reformed major swaths of society. He had proved that the media could do more than bear witness. It could affect positive change.

That revelation proved true, time and again. It was the media that exposed the Watergate Break-In. It was the media who showed police brutally beating civil rights demonstrators in Alabama. It was the media who held the government accountable for its bungled response to Hurricane Katrina.

Each of those bombshells had us looking on in horror. But the collective outrage forced our country to move forward.

And yet, I don’t view Sinclair’s work as a net positive. At best, it was a mixed success.

For while The Jungle might have ushered in a new age of investigative journalism, it introduced a new element to the mix.

Sensationalism.

No longer was reporting the facts satisfactory. To be sensationalist, the story had to spark emotion.

After all, that’s what the reader — or listener or viewer — wanted. That’s what would grab their attention and keep them coming back for more.

There is no doubt that the media became more sensationalist in the 20^th and 21^st centuries. If it bleeds, it leads has been a well-known adage for years. And when I was cutting my teeth in the news industry, I was constantly told to find stories with a good hook.

But now, in the wake of a global pandemic, it feels like media sensationalism has hit reached a tipping point. The overpromotion of cautionary tales and the incessant parade of gloomy headlines has crushed the psyche of millions. It hass heightened anxiety, sowed distrust, and even led to despair.

In fact, I believe our society will emerge from this pandemic worse off than we could have been, thanks to the work of the media.

I’m not the only one with these views. A scholarly article from the National Bureau of Economic Research identified a negativity bias amongst journalists. And even The New York Times took note of its findings.

I found some of the explanations for this phenomenon to be lacking. No, people don’t want incessant negativity in the stories they encounter. If they did, Disney films would never have become a commercial success.

But the main point of the research still rings true. The media has failed us with a barrage of sensationalism. They’ve exploited our emotions too many times. And they’ve left a trail of psychological concerns in their wake.

The Fourth Estate has failed us.

It’s time for the media to change its tune.

It’s time for journalists to treat readers, listeners, and viewers with the dignity they deserve. It’s time for the industry to recognize the damage caused by playing to emotions. And it’s time for the media to handle that power responsibly.

The Fourth Estate can be great again. For our sake, it must.

Rebooting the Ecosystem

It was a warm summer night.

The windows were cracked, filling my bedroom with a warm breeze. Outside, cars drove by the house intermittently, while the glow of the moon illuminated the roadway.

I was keenly aware of all this because I couldn’t sleep a wink.

My insomnia was understandable. Hours earlier, I’d returned from a trip to the other side of the globe. My internal clock told me it was 1 PM, not 1 AM. This was no time for sleep.

But there was more than jet lag keeping me awake.

For I was 10 years old, and I had just traveled abroad for the first time. In particular, I’d spent three weeks in China with my family.

Vacationing in a place so radically different from the environs I’d known was jarring. By the end of the trip, the disparity was playing tricks on my mind.

I had begun to think that the existence I had before boarding that flight across the Pacific was an illusion. That the life I’d remembered in America wasn’t real.

But once I got off that return flight, everything was still there. The city lights. My grandparents. Our house. Our dog.

It was all a bit much for me to process. So, I went to my bedroom and cried. Then, I tried in vain to fall asleep.

I hadn’t thought much of this particular night until recently. But now, it’s top of mind.

For after a lost year where our world was upended by a microscopic virus, change is again in the air. Our path out of the pandemic is clearly illuminated. And a return to the familiar awaits on the other side.

No, things won’t ever really be the same. Many have lost loved ones. Businesses have gone under. And there’s plenty that we’ll still do virtually after the health emergency recedes.

But there is plenty from the “before times” that will be returning. In-person events. Family barbecues. Nights out with friends.

And as we wade back into these experiences, there’s a good chance we’ll end up overwhelmed. Just like I did the night I returned from China.

Why is re-entry so clunky? Why is it so hard to reembrace the familiar?

A lot has to do with the underlying system.

What we call the familiar is actually an elaborate social and physical ecosystem. It’s the sights, sounds, and smells around us. But it’s also the paths we traverse, the people we associate with, and the norms that we follow.

When things are going well, we take much of this for granted. There’s no need to fuss about it, or even to notice it.

But if this ecosystem is taken away from us, we suddenly realize how fragile our assumptions were. And we need to work to get our sense of stability back.

Take domestic travel as an example. For many, crisscrossing United States has long felt ubiquitous. It was easy to hop a flight from Phoenix to Pittsburgh or to road trip from Charlotte to Chicago without missing a beat. The airports looked similar, the highway signs were uniform and there were ample hotel and restaurant brands along the route that we were comfortable with.

Much of this familiarity can be tied to two pieces of legislation.

One — the National Interstate and Defense Highways Act of 1956 — built a national highway network. The other — the Airline Deregulation Act of 1978 — effectively allowed airlines to do the same in the skies.

Providing a uniform way to get from Point A to Point B changed the way we think about mobility. Assuming we had the money and the time, we could head anywhere. And we wouldn’t need to worry about poor road conditions, inadequate lodging, or having to stop at a zillion airports along the way.

For years, nothing truly threatened that sense of travel freedom. The 9/11 attacks required us to beef up airport security, and surging gas prices have at times made road trips untenable. But despite those hurdles, we had ample opportunities to continue our journey unimpeded.

It took the pandemic to shatter that stability.

Now, to be clear, the interstates never shut down during the health crisis. Neither did airports. But traveling became much more burdensome.

Several states enacted quarantine requirements for travelers. Restaurants and hotels reduced services to follow health guidelines. And stay-at-home orders strongly discouraged travel for a time.

With so little peace of mind, many of us stopped traveling. It was too risky and too burdensome. For the first time in my life, I didn’t leave my own state for a year. In fact, I only left town once during that time.

But now, with vaccinations ramping up, many are looking to hit the road again. Many others are hoping to take to the skies.

These aspiring travelers are looking for a release. They’re seeking an escape from the horrors of the recent trip around the sun. They’re requesting a return to what they once knew.

But such desires might prove elusive. At least for now.

For while the highways and airports look similar to how they once did, the communities they connect do not. Our nation is still on the path back to the familiar, and the map is dotted with communities facing that same uneasiness.

A change of scenery won’t change that fact or speed up the timeline. We need something more to get there.

As I lay awake in my bedroom that warm summer night, I tried to will myself back to normalcy.

It would take me a week to get there. A week of groggily reacclimating with the environs I’d previously known so well.

I think the same perseverance is needed now, as we seek to reclaim what was once familiar.

For ecosystems can’t re-emerge in an instant. They take time to reboot.

And the ecosystem powering our way of life is extra fragile. It’s built on trust and human connection — both of which have been under siege lately.

The responsibility to get this project off the ground falls on our shoulders.

It’s on us to be deliberate and empathetic, as we work our way out of this forced hibernation. It’s our responsibility to resist the delusions of a quick fix. And it’s our charge to roll up our sleeves and rebuild connections.

This work won’t be glamorous, and it won’t seem particularly fun. But it will make our ecosystem stronger, and it will make us more resilient.

With patience, faith, and determination, we can do more than reclaim what we once had. We can build something even better.

So, let’s get to it.

The Consistency Paradox

The chains of habit are too light to be felt until they are too heavy to be broken. –Warren Buffet

As is often the case, the Oracle of Omaha knows of what he speaks.

Yes, we are creatures of habit. We’re drawn to consistency, like moths to a flame.

In a world that’s all too often unpredictable, routines give us a sense of calm. Habits help us attend to our needs while diffusing the stress that comes from surprises.

This isn’t always for the best. Some habits — alcoholism, compulsive gambling, or drug addiction, for instance — can destroy lives.

Then again, healthy routines can lead to substantial improvements. Exercising can help us stay fit. Cooking can stimulate our curiosity. Getting enough sleep can keep us energized throughout the day.

But these routines only work if we keep them consistent.

The end goal is tantalizing. So, we go all-in.

We watch TED Talks about habits. We read self-help books about healthy routines. We turn ourselves into models of consistency, in hopes of reaping the benefits.

But at what cost?

I am familiar with the seduction of routines. They’ve long been a prominent part of my life.

I’ve gone for a run at least once a week for the last 8 years, for instance. And every week for the last 5 years, I’ve put together a fresh article here on Words of the West.

Much has changed during that time — my job responsibilities, my home address, my orbit of friends and acquaintances. But through this evolution, my routines have kept me grounded. They’ve provided a clear path from then to now.

Yet, the recent global pandemic threw me for a loop. The world dramatically changed at its onset. And like many, I struggled to adapt.

While there was a temptation to retreat in the early days, I dug in. If anything, the stress and uncertainty spurred me to double down on my existing routines.

For example, I ramped up my exercise regimen to four days a week — all while moving my workouts outdoors. I set up a meal prep rotation, with new staples such as Slow Cooker Sundays. And instead of solely writing an article here each week, I also kept a daily account of my life in quarantine.

There was a method to my madness. Accelerating my habits would give me a semblance of control over the uncertainties of pandemic life. Staying consistent with my routines would help me bridge the pre and post-pandemic worlds.

At least that’s what I told myself.

But the pandemic far outlasted my quarantine. And with the world in an extended state of flux, my consistency began to turn into a crutch.

As friends and family tried to connect with me, I turned them down in order to prepare another homecooked meal. I cut back on my sleep time to make room for my writing habits. And I even tried to run on four inches of snow, just to keep from going a week without a workout.

Consistency had gotten me through a major disruption in my life. But it also blinded me to the situation at hand. And it prevented me from moving forward.

The best ability is availability.

This adage has practically become gospel in any industry that relies heavily on teamwork.

The premise is simple. Someone with raw potential alone can amaze. But if they’re only able to showcase those talents here and there, their long-term impact will be muted.

Reliability is at a premium in our society, whether we’re playing ball or bringing our lunch pail to the construction site. From our earliest days, we’re taught the virtues of consistency. We’re urged to do things the right way, over and over again.

There are some virtues to this doctrine. It’s helped us rebound from significant setbacks. And it’s allowed us to set a standard that can endure across generations.

But the reliability mandate also pins us under a substantial weight. It leaves us to wilt under the strain of legacy.

As our society innovates and grows, the old patterns we once espoused lose much of their muster. Yet, we recognize that those very patterns — our habits and routines — are what got us to such an inflection point. We are fond of those memories, and we’re hesitant to cast those patterns off.

This is The Consistency Paradox. It’s the recognition that the same rigor that helped make us great can keep us from becoming even greater.

The Consistency Paradox is what’s made But that’s the way we’ve always done it such a powerful retort. The Consistency Paradox is why pledges for changes in behavior patterns so frequently fall short.

And as the pandemic dragged on, I found myself running headlong into The Consistency Paradox.

I was opening myself up to a gauntlet of my own creation. But in doing so, I was closing the door to new opportunities.

When is the right time to change course?

This is the question that we must grapple with when it comes to routine.

In my case, establishing consistent habits was critical early in the pandemic. It allowed me to fill the void that emerged when the world shut down.

But those same advantages soon became liabilities. As the familiar faded out of sight, so did the significance behind my routines. I became nothing more than a misguided soul standing defiantly against the wind.

I had believed that dogged consistency would spare me the worst outcomes of the pandemic — serious illness, economic hardship, and a sense of disillusionment. But even with my supercharged exercise, cooking, and writing habits, I found myself reckoning with crippling anxiety, strained social ties, and divergence from rational thought.

I eventually changed my ways. I dialed back on my routines and allowed a measure of randomness to return to my life. Even with the lingering shadow of the pandemic, I’ve been happier since making that shift.

But I wish I could have seen the light earlier. If I had spent less time chained to pointless routines, how much better off would I be now?

I’m sure I’m not alone in wondering this. The Consistency Paradox is a subtle anchor, dragging us down without making us aware of our dire circumstances.

It takes some extreme introspection to free us of The Consistency Paradox’s smothering embrace. And introspection is not something we’re all that great at.

Even so, the time for excuses has long passed. We can do better. We must do better.

So let’s treat routine or habit the way we do caffeine or sugar — as something that’s most useful in moderation. Let’s maintain some spontaneity in our lives. And let’s approach the uncertain future with the same zeal with which we recount the sepia-toned past.

Consistency can lift us up. Let’s not allow it to drag us down.

Wants and Needs

From the back seat of my car, I heard the request.

Turn the air up!

It was an early June afternoon, and several people were piled in my car for a short drive.

But apparently, some parts of my sedan were unbearable. And those sitting behind me were growing restless.

I tried to alleviate the situation.

I’ve got the air up to full-blast, I told them.

Well, we can’t feel a thing, they replied.

I realized then that I had a major problem. It seemed my car’s air conditioning system was fried, just in time for a sweltering Texas summer.

A few days later, as I tried to price out repair costs in my head, I called my father for advice. He recommended that I buy a new car.

No way, I replied. I don’t have $20,000 sitting around.

My father chuckled and replied that I could finance the car by making monthly payments for several years. Somehow, I had made it through early adulthood without figuring this out.

I soon traded in my sedan for a brand new SUV. In doing so, I upgraded my ride without fundamentally disrupting my lifestyle. The only change was that a little more money came out of my monthly wages to go toward car payments.

Best of all, I wouldn’t hear the sharp critiques from backseat passengers anymore. The SUV was spacious, comfortable, and air-conditioned for all.

I adored my new vehicle from the moment I drove it off the lot.

And yet, as the monthly payments came due, a disconcerting question crossed my mind. Was this purchase a want or a need?

A need is something we rely on. We can’t function without it.

A want is what provides our sense of identity. We feel as if we can’t function without it.

The difference might seem subtle. It’s anything but.

Needs are at the center of humanity. They’re the bedrock that our well-being requires.

Wants, on the other hand, are less universal. They’re highly variable,

The psychologist Abraham Maslow is perhaps most responsible for demonstrating the discrepancy between wants and needs. He created a pyramid heuristic to separate what’s essential for many from what’s important to a few.

Maslow’s Hierarchy Of Needs starts with basic needs, such as nourishment and shelter, and moves on up to self-fulfillment. Each level gets more intricate, but one can only reach it by first attaining the levels beneath.

I’m not sure where Maslow would put air-conditioned vehicles on the pyramid. Air conditioning was still a new technology when his theory was published in 1943. Cars and trucks were also less ubiquitous than they are now.

But I would say a functional vehicle counts as a basic need. Or at least it is in Texas, where the distances are vast, sidewalks are sporadic, and alternative transportation options are often nonexistent. (No, most of us do not ride our horses to work.)

That said, my shiny new SUV might have been more of a want than a need. My old sedan was still drivable, air conditioning be darned. And I could have paid less to fix it up than I ultimately spent to get a whole new vehicle.

This distinction is important because the monthly payments made me even more reliant on my income. Not only would I need to maintain my job to pay my rent and cover my bills, but I would also need my salary to stay on time with my car payments.

These expenses were now a fact of my life. But when I peeled back the curtain, I found that only some of these were covering necessities. The others were covering luxuries.

I’ve been peeling back the curtain a lot recently. We all have.

This past year of life in a pandemic has had all of us assessing what’s truly important. It has us looking hard at what’s a want and what’s a need.

Some false necessities were badly exposed. Business travel, gym memberships, and out-of-home entertainment, for instance. Other perceived necessities, such as new car expenses, were suddenly viewed in a new light.

Beyond reconsidering the items we once thought essential, we rethought the way we budget for items. And sometimes, we’ve even pondered whether we needed to at all.

This too, was brought on by the situation at hand. After all, those who lost their jobs during the pandemic didn’t have the means to cover extra expenses. And with so many activities restricted by health and safety protocols, those fortunate enough to keep their jobs parked more money in savings accounts.

Such shifts have led us to take a fresh look at livable wage standards. As millions of people reduced their spending, many have learned that the salary they need to survive is less than what they’d once imagined.

I will admit that this latest revelation has shaken me.

For I still have hopes and dreams. I still have goals that this pandemic has not quashed. I still have plans to build on what I’ve attained and to open myself to more opportunities.

All of this is what I want. But now, I wonder how of it is what I need.

Give an inch, and they’ll take a mile.

This advice serves as a warning shot for a tough negotiation. And it’s relatively commonplace in America.

After all, we are a capitalist society. We are a culture that encourages constituents to claim what’s theirs. And then to take, and take, and take some more.

Yes, our nation has a legacy of excess. We have a long history of spoiling ourselves with riches while simultaneously depleting the spaces we share with others.

There has been a growing backlash against this pattern in recent years. But old habits die hard.

It took a drastic event — this pandemic — for many of us to break the chain. To start to think of our objectives in a more wholesome way.

But now comes the challenge of moving beyond. Of separating our needs from our wants. And of seeing where to draw the line.

Reconciling what we desire with what we should rightfully seek is no easy task. For in our minds, everything is important. From our perspective, we’ve already sacrificed so much. Why should we be asked to sacrifice even more?

But if we are to grow beyond this strange and scarring moment, we must carry its lessons forward. We must cut down on the excess before it is cut down for us. We must prioritize our needs over our wants.

I plan on doing just that.

My SUV is paid off now, and I’m holding off on trading it in for a new one. The air conditioning works, and the vehicle still drives well. No need to put more weight on my income just to get a shinier ride.

Unlike that June day from years ago, I have what I need. The wants can wait.

The Limits of Liability

As I made my way around the curve, I was caught off guard.

There were brake lights in front of me. Directly in front of me.

The lane I was driving in was closed up ahead. Orange construction cones sat in the lane about 100 yards from my windshield.

Apparently, a driver ahead of me had lost sight of this until it was nearly too late. So, they had brought their vehicle to a complete stop on the left lane of a busy highway.

Now, the drivers behind this vehicle were faced with a double-whammy. There was both the lane closure and the stopped vehicle in their path.

I was driving the third car in this sequence, which means I had only a split-second to react. To my left was a concrete wall, and to my right, a stream of speeding vehicles. My only option was to hit my brakes as hard as I could.

I did, but it wasn’t good enough. Cars need space to decelerate from 70 miles an hour to a standstill. And I didn’t have enough of it.

I was probably going 25 miles an hour when I hit the back of the vehicle in front of me, driving it into the stopped car. The momentum pushed all three vehicles past the cones until we mercifully came to a stop.

The airbags in my car deployed, jolting me once again. And then], the horrifying incident was over.

I checked on my friend, who was sitting in the passenger seat. A half-hour earlier, she and I had been line dancing at a honky-tonk. Now, we had just absorbed a car crash. At that moment, I could have cared less if I was OK. I just hoped — prayed — that my friend wasn’t hurt.

Thankfully, she was alright. We were both shaken, suffering from shock and whiplash. But we had somehow avoided major injuries.

The car, on the other hand, was totaled. The front end was crushed in. Its obituary was written right there on the road.

The police came on the scene to take everyone’s statements. A wrecker came to take my car away. And we got a ride home.

Later, I learned that I was deemed at fault for the accident. Since I was driving the vehicle at the back of the pileup, the liability lay with me.

I didn’t face any charges, but I had a black mark on my insurance record for several years. Because of that, I struggled to get a good rate on my coverage.

I’m well past all that now. And both my friend and I have no ill effects from the crash, aside from the traumatic memories.

But sometimes, I do wonder about that ruling. The one pinning the full weight of liability for the accident on me.

I am accountable to a fault, and I’ve accepted the judgment that was rendered. But I also wonder what else I could have done.

I was left in a no-win position. I did the best that I could, but I ended up paying the price for it. Meanwhile, the driver at the front of the line made a poor decision — only to be left with an unscathed insurance record.

Did that driver really not have any liability? How did that rationale make any sense?

I’ve been thinking about this more lately. With a global pandemic in full swing and a mix of political and social unrest overtaking America, the question of liability is top of mind for just about everyone.

Does the decision to leave our homes make us liable for someone’s illness, injury, or death? Do our words leave us liable for property damage, looting, and mayhem?

In some cases, the answer is clearly yes. If we get behind the wheel of a car while intoxicated and run over a pedestrian, we’ll face manslaughter charges. If we falsely yell Fire in a crowded space, we could be held to account for the ensuing stampede.

But in other instances, the situation is murky. If leaving home leads someone to unknowingly pass a virus to a passerby, who then passes it along to their grandparent, would that first person be liable for an elderly stranger’s illness? If one’s words inspire someone to drive halfway across the country and spark a riot, where does the blame fall?

As with my car crash, the answers aren’t clear-cut. But unlike that incident, there’s no clear protocol to sort out the mess.

I am a Texan.

My home state features vast landscapes, a diversified economy, and a philosophy that can be summed up in two words: Personal responsibility.

It’s not quite a free-for-all in the Lone Star State — anyone caught speeding on Interstate 35 is well aware of that fact. But the limits of liability are profound.

Such a philosophy speaks to the legacy of Texas. There have always been boundless opportunities on these prairies. But with them have come outsized risks.

In the early days, settlers were susceptible to sweeping Comanche raids or attacks by wild animals. Nearly two centuries later, the dangers of tornadoes, wildfires, and hurricanes remain omnipresent for many Texans.

These events have brought plenty of devastation. And yet, assigning blame for them is as futile as roping the wind.

So, the prevailing approach to liability around these parts is hands-off. Texans are expected to exercise good judgment. And, for the most part, they’re only held to account if their actions directly impact someone else.

I have not always been a fan of this limited liability philosophy. The lack of recourse when things go wrong has always seemed disconcerting.

But I still think it’s better than the alternative.

For if we blindly accept a world of broad liability judgments, we shrink our horizons. We limit our opportunities. We shackle ourselves.

After all, if we know the third car in the crash gets saddled with the bill, we’ll do all we can to avoid being that third car. We’ll box ourselves in to avoid misfortune. And, in doing so, we’ll forfeit the opportunities that would otherwise sit in our path.

By playing not to lose, we’ll still end up in last place.

We deserve a better fate.

So, let’s stop squabbling about liability. Let’s stop grandstanding about who’s to blame for each downstream effect. Let’s get back to living under the principles that have long shepherded our society — liberty and responsibility.

We’ll be better for it.

Author: Dylan Brooks