Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

Short and Long Games

Chess and checkers.

They’re the original table games. They’re tests of skill and strategy. And they take place on the same board, filled with squares of alternating colors.

Yet, that is where the similarities end.

Chess caters to the sophisticated. There are several types of pieces for the players to use — each of which has its own movement patterns. That means there are plenty of permutations to consider.

Success in chess means seeing five moves ahead better than your opponent can. It’s all about the long game.

Checkers, by contrast, is less complex. The pieces look identical, and their movement patterns are relatively straightforward.

Success in checkers means reacting appropriately in the moment. It’s all about the short game.

These table games each have ardent fans. Yet, that support doesn’t tend to overlap across contests.

Perhaps it should.

The discrepancy between chess and checkers seems like an amusing bit of annoyance. It feels similar to the debate about whether to put ketchup or mustard on a hot dog. (The answer is clearly mustard, by the way.)

But look deeper, and this dispute marks an important cultural schism.

For we like to divide our society into different groups. Rich and poor. Liberal and conservative. Old and young.

And yet, one of the most tantalizing divisions involves time horizon. It separates the short-term thinkers from the long-term ones.

Long-term thinkers are seen as visionaries. They can help our society prepare for the future or endure an uncertain present. But they don’t necessarily thrive in the day-to-day.

Steve Jobs, for instance, was a legendary long-term thinker. He ushered in an era of consumer-friendly computing and he helped spark the shift to smartphones. But he famously wore the same outfit to work most days, and he didn’t have a great rapport with his workforce.

Meanwhile, short-term thinkers are seen as practical. They can provide consistency, helping to keep things running in the day-to-day. But when there’s a paradigm shift, they might not be equipped to react.

John Antioco, for example, mastered short-term thinking — leading Blockbuster Video into the new millennium as the king of video rentals. But Antioco infamously turned down an offer to purchase Netflix around that same time, helping lead to the company’s decline.

There’s a longstanding debate about which school of thinking is more beneficial. But truth be told, they both are.

It’s important to maintain a vision for the future, and to have a sense of direction. But it’s also critical that we remain available to meet the needs of the moment.

And so, our society is split into two types of roles. Those in strategic positions help chart the road ahead. Those in operational positions keep the gears turning.

This split has paid dividends on a wide scale. But if you look deeper, it’s clear that this divide is failing us.

In my younger days, I would have considered myself a short-gamer.

I preferred checkers to chess, and I took plenty of stock in the needs of the moment.

This had nothing to do with spontaneity. Indeed, I have always been a planner.

But my plans were both practical and immediate. I didn’t have the energy to worry about what would happen five years down the road. Surviving the day was much more important.

This approach helped me excel in school, and it allowed me to navigate some lean financial times in early adulthood. But it also made my choices rigid.

For instance, if I stepped on the scale and didn’t like what I saw, I’d work out until my legs felt numb. If my bills were too high, I’d run the air conditioner less often. And if the scene at work got hectic, I’d stay late to get everything taken care of.

Days tended to compound on each other. So, this extreme approach did help me build long-term habits. For instance, I’ve built up an exercise regimen and eliminated both alcohol and sugary drinks from my diet in recent years. All those changes originating from a short game approach.

That said, devoting myself to such a pattern left me blind to the bigger picture. I had no idea where I was headed, or what I could do if my arbitrary choices failed.

This became apparent when I switched careers and moved to a new city. Making such drastic changes was in my best interest. But taking a chance on me wasn’t high on the list of priorities of prospective employers. And so, I languished, stuck in neutral.

I eventually gained a foothold in a new industry. But this only happened after I’d lived in an extended-stay hotel for three months and after I’d maxed out my credit card to cover food and gasoline.

In the aftermath of this experience, I started thinking about the long game. I considered where I wanted to end up, and how far I was from that objective. As I progressed through my new career and enrolled in business school, such concerns fueled me.

But switching approaches would prove to be no easy feat. Short-term thinking was all I knew. Now, I was asking myself to toss it aside and start anew.

I struggled to let go.

Then, a global pandemic put everything on pause. And in that moment of quiet self-reflection, I finally saw the light.

What you do today determines who you will be tomorrow.

Chances are, you’ve heard words like this. Maybe from a parent, a sports coach, or a professional development guru.

This advice is meant to bridge the gaps between the short game and the long game. It’s designed to make us intentional of our actions and aware of their consequences.

This all sounds great in theory. But it rarely works in practice.

For we do not have full control over the future. Unlike the chessboard, the world is volatile. Good short game fundamentals might position us for success, but they won’t necessarily get us across the threshold.

My past misadventures all but prove this point.

To see success, we must turn that advice on its head. We should rephrase it as follows:

Think of where you want to be tomorrow. Then consider what you can do today to help get there.

Such advice gives us a clear North Star. And it puts all our actions in service of that North Star.

No longer must we be wedded to rigid habits and routines. If the path to our objective becomes untenable, we have the liberty to try another approach. This flexibility can improve our chances of reaching our goal.

And yet, we remain accountable to the here and now. For our actions serve as building blocks, bringing us closer to our North Star. Without them, our path to success is gone.

The short game and the long game can work in tandem. But only if the long game leads.

This epiphany has led me to rethink everything. It’s made my decisions less rigid and my strategic vision more resilient. Best of all, it’s made me less apprehensive of the future and the uncertainty it brings.

So yes, it’s time to put the chess and checkers debate to bed. The short game, the long game — they’re just pieces of the same puzzle.

It’s up to us to put those pieces together.

Survival Mode

“No problem of human making is too great to be overcome by human ingenuity, human energy, and the untiring hope of the human spirit.” -George H.W. Bush

The 41^st United States President dispensed this wisdom decades ago. And it has continued to prove prophetic.

In the years since, we’ve developed systems to improve retail logistics and reduce man-made health risks. We’ve closed the information gap through the growth of the Internet. We’ve enhanced diplomacy tactics to tamp down brewing global crises.

But what happens when the problem is not of human making? What happens when it’s a force of nature?

There too, human ingenuity can shine through. There too, human energy and the human spirit can lead us to rise to the occasion.

But the process is far messier.

For we must figure out what hit us before we can respond. And the possibilities are nearly infinite.

Life must go on, of course, while we pursue this damage assessment. So, how do we steer through a period of such uncertainty?

We go into survival mode.

If you listen to just about any motivational speech, you’ll hear about the power of resilience.

This is no accident. Emotions drive our choices. And few things pull at our heartstrings more than a good comeback story.

Yet, we are terrible at assessing our own resilience. We overestimate instances where we encountered a bump in the road and adjusted to it. We treat these small victories as something far larger. Namely, as proof of our invincibility.

Such misjudgments have come into clear focus in recent months, as we’ve been forced to reckon with true crises.

The rapid spread of a lethal virus has put the entire world on pause. Wildfires have destroyed homes in Australia and the western United States. Major hurricanes have pounded the upper Gulf Coast with relentless fury. And a potent winter storm has left millions in Texas in the dark in bone-chilling temperatures.

Some of the regions victimized by these forces of nature were prepared — or at least as prepared as they could be. California has faced wildfire dangers for years. And Louisiana is no stranger to hurricanes.

But in many other instances, we were off-guard.

Despite Bill Gates’ warnings, the world was not prepared for a pandemic. And the breakdowns of Texas’ power grid and water supply systems showed how unprepared the Lone Star State was for an Arctic blast.

In the wake of such disasters, governments have ping-ponged between passing blame and scrambling for contingency plans. Meanwhile, the masses have been left to deal with the fallout.

In a heap of desperation, we’ve been forced to dig deeper in the well of ingenuity than ever before. We’ve become immersed in the survival mode doctrine.

Survival of the fittest.

Anyone familiar with Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution knows those four words.

Darwin believed that certain species adapt to the conditions of their environment better than others. The most well-adjusted species are the ones who persevere.

Humans clearly belong in the well-adapted column. We’ve gone from being stalked by prehistoric predators to controlling much of the world.

Survival mode is encoded in our DNA. And yet, such a feature seems foreign to us.

Why is that?

The answer largely comes from our reliance on two constructs: Infrastructure and social patterns.

These elements have turbocharged our evolution. For instance, lighting, climate control, and indoor plumbing systems have allowed many to shelter in safety and comfort. And sociocultural norms have helped us find belonging and fulfillment.

Put together, these elements provide for much of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. They are so essential that they’ve become ubiquitous throughout the developed world. Even in the developing world, some aspects of these constructs exist.

Humanity doesn’t agree on much. But these do seem to be causes we can rally around.

Mother Nature is the only fly in the ointment. It’s the only force powerful enough to unleash a microscopic virus on us, fill our skies with smoke, inundate our lowlands with seawater, or send polar air to the subtropics.

Such wild forces can overwhelm our infrastructure systems. They can disrupt our social norms. And they can leave us without a roadmap to safety.

It is within this torrent of disruption that we must unearth those Darwinian survival skills. While everything is crumbling around us, we are asked to rise above.

No wonder we struggle to persevere. And no wonder we feel traumatized long after we do.

At the edge of my neighborhood, there is a pasture. A sea of intermittent brush cascading down a hillside.

On some days, I can spot cattle at the edge of the pasture, grazing near the barbed wire fence. The bovines chew at the grass and thrash their tails. And they do all this in herd formation.

Animals have herded together for millennia. Banding together has helped them fend off myriad dangers. It’s helped them evolve and thrive.

Humans are the same way. We have long found strength in numbers, building societies, and enhancing our possibilities together. It would only be natural for us to come together in times of strife as well.

But survival mode runs counter to all that. It asks us to act instinctively against grave danger. And it forces us to do so in isolation.

The systems and traditions we rely on are all built upon a backbone of community. And when they fail, we are thrust into the darkness — forced to combine an untested toolset with an unfamiliar mindset.

This is why the greatest challenge of survival mode sits between the ears. Indeed, managing the mental and emotional exhaustion can be a Herculean task.

It’s just not in our nature to be this way. And yet, for a time, it has to be.

There’s no way to fully obliterate disaster.

Diseases will continue to threaten our bodies. Fires will continue to scorch our landscape. Hurricanes and tornadoes will continue to turn some of our homes into rubble.

We can’t avoid these unsavory possibilities. The best we can do is to prepare for them.

We can tend to our hygiene. We can maintain emergency supplies. We can have an evacuation plan.

And we can prepare for survival mode.

We can recognize what it asks of us. And we can come to terms with what it takes out of us.

Such preparation won’t transform our experience into a pleasant one. But hopefully, it can make our endeavors less jarring.

And when the times are toughest, that can make all the difference.

Getting What You Pay For

The scene of the crime was a Motel 6 in El Paso.

The motel was a stone’s throw from the interstate. Across the highway lay rose a vast desert landscape and a mountain range.

This Motel 6 seemed straight out of central casting for a modern Western movie. Perhaps it would be a place where bandits rested their heads between small-town bank robberies. Or where hired guns staged an ambush to recover a stolen briefcase of drug money.

But the crime in question wasn’t anything that illicit. The crime was simply that I was staying there.

I had chosen this Motel 6 for two reasons. The brand name and the price.

I was heading to El Paso to see my alma mater play a football game. The team rarely played within driving distance of me, and I was excited to go to the game. But I was also making less than $20,000 a year in salary. So, I would need to budget for this trip.

Knowing I would be spending three nights in El Paso, I looked up hotel rates for several bargain chains. This Motel 6 was the cheapest by a good clip, at about $39 per night before taxes. I jumped at the opportunity and booked a room.

It wasn’t until I’d arrived — after a 5-hour drive across the West Texas desert — that I realized what I’d done.

For the bed was a rock, as firm as the carpeted floor in my apartment back home. I turned side to side, trying to find a comfortable sleeping position. But there was none to be found.

And the shower was a house of horrors. There were only two temperature options — ice cold and scalding. I was forced to alternate between them as I frantically tried to wash up each morning.

As the days went on, my frustration grew. There might not have been bed bugs or dirty sheets, but this was clearly the worst hotel I’d stayed in.

The lack of a good night’s sleep or a consistently hot shower left me exhausted. It helped doom my El Paso trip to infamy.

I was frustrated at Motel 6. But mostly, I was mad at myself.

Because I had neglected a cardinal rule: You get what you pay for.

Growing up, I didn’t have to think much about compromise.

My parents prioritized quality over everything else. When it came to the food we ate and the clothes we wore, price was not the first concern.

Don’t get me wrong. We had plenty of nights finishing off leftovers for dinner. And my mother took advantage of those seasonal clothing sales at The Gap. But these occurrences were more the results of our choices than the cause of them.

It was a different story whenever we visited my grandparents, though.

My mother’s parents had grown up in the Great Depression, and they still had emotional scars from those years. So, they had one condition for choosing the food to put in their pantry — rock bottom prices.

If my grandfather made pancakes, we’d top it with the cheapest syrup the grocery store had to offer. Oven-fried chicken would be coated with the lowest-cost bread crumbs. Burgers and meatballs were prepared with the most affordable meat.

I didn’t think much of these spartan food options at the time. I was just a boy, and I was excited to spend time with my grandparents. Plus, they spoiled me rotten everywhere else.

But by high school, I started to recognize the effects.

I was spending a lot of time away from my parents, and starting to make financial decisions on my own. And even though I was a novice, I often gravitated toward the bargain bin.

This seemed prudent at the time. Why would I spend extra on anything, when I could stretch my dollar? Especially at a time where I was relatively low on dollars.

I never gave much thought to what I was giving up in the exchange. At least until those sleepless nights in El Paso.

Our society is obsessed with a good deal.

Sure, we like to splurge every now and then, just to feel special. And some of us immerse ourselves in luxury as a marker of status.

But by and large, we’d prefer to buy something at less than its sticker price.

Bargain shopping makes us feel powerful. It makes us feel as if we’re in control of the buying process. And our attraction to it is profound.

Our love of the deal has helped make Black Friday and Cyber Monday into de-facto holidays. It’s coaxed grocery stores into displaying perennial markdowns. It’s led dozens of retailers to bombard our email inboxes, promising 20% off a purchase with a coupon code.

But beneath our obsession with bargains lies a fallacy. We are attracted to a good deal because we imagine that by paying less, we get more value.

This is simply not true.

For the world of business is built upon simple premises. Revenues must be greater than costs and supply chains must be resilient.

Restaurants can’t provide a steak entrée at the price of a McDonald’s happy meal. Absorbing that cost would run them out of business.

The same goes for just about any other type of company.

Less price means less value. All those sales and deals are simply window dressing.

That value loss might come in the form of cheaper material, a less wholesome cut of meat or an overly firm hotel mattress. Regardless, we can see the signs if we look close enough.

There is no value hidden in the couch cushions. You get what you pay for.

It took me years to recognize the value trap. But that miserable trip to El Paso shattered any illusions.

Now, I purchase with my eyes wide open. I look up the cost of what I want and think about what I can reasonably pay for it. If the two prices don’t line up, I consider what I’m giving up by paying less for a bargain-bin alternative.

Sometimes, I proceed anyway. Other times, I hold off until I can meet the asking price of the more quality item.

None of these tactics are earth-shattering. And yet, there are still many who fail to follow them.

These wayward souls perpetuate the value trap. They go through life blissfully unaware that we get what we pay for. And they open themselves up to the letdown of unrealized expectations.

It’s time for those masses to wake from their idyllic slumber. To see the world for how it really is. And to adjust their habits accordingly.

So, let my experience serve as a cautionary tale. And stop seeking more than you’re willing to give in return.

You get what you pay for. Ante up.

Of The People

We the people.

So begins the United States Constitution, with those three words.

It’s fitting and unusual at the same time.

After all, we are not a collectivist society. We are as individualistic as it gets. Spurred by capitalism and boundless ambition, we forge ahead in search of our own destiny.

And yet, when it comes to protecting our gains, we rely on collective action. We elect politicians to be our proxies. And we abide by the laws they put into action.

We each have our own journey, our own perspective, our own dreams.

But the essence of our nation? That’s of the people.

For years, I’ve had a simple belief.

I was certain that if one could win the support of the people, they could not go wrong in life.

Basic logic brought me to this conclusion. If such a quality allowed our democracy to endure countless moments of strife, it would certainly work on a narrower scale.

But now, I’m questioning that belief.

For the voice of the collective — the people — it doesn’t always support an equitable society. How could it, when each member of that collective is in it for themselves?

No, courting such an audience is not the panacea it’s made out to be. If anything, it represents selling out — trading our own values for others’ self-serving desires.

And yet, we cannot repel ourselves from the voice of the people. For if we stand too far apart, we find ourselves isolated, ostracized, and supremely vulnerable.

It’s a sticky situation. A high-stakes Catch-22.

So, what is our best path forward?

Back in grade school, my teachers assigned me several books to read.

One of my favorites was Inherit The Wind.

This script covered the events of the Scopes Trial from 1925. In the trial, a teacher in small-town Tennessee was accused of introducing the theory of evolution to his class.

Such an action was unheard of in the South at the time. So unheard of that it was against the law. That’s how the trial came to be.

The Scopes Trial was notorious for the caliber of its attorneys. Clarence Darrow represented the defense, while William Jennings Bryan represented the prosecution.

Bryan was a famed populist — a man of the people. A skilled orator with the ability to reach the everyman, he had run for the U.S. Presidency three times, but never won election.

Now, Bryan was representing the everyman again. But this time, it was in order to protect Creationism. To be of the people, Bryan was trying to keep the theory of evolution from ever seeing the light of day in Tennessee schools.

This all seemed arcane to me. After all, when I read Inherit The Wind, I myself was a student. A student who had learned both the theories of evolution and creationism in class.

More than that, I lived in a region where a museum had a simulated model of the Big Bang. All while the church down the street preached the virtues of creationism.

In other words, I had access to information. My viewpoint on how we got here would come not by educational mandate, but by my own free will.

And yet, a century earlier, I would not have had such liberties. And that irked me.

How could our nation have been so closed-minded? What gave religious zealots the right to dictate the truth? And why did Bryan get such acclaim when he was clearly sporting an autocratic agenda?

At least he lost the presidency, I told myself. And maybe the South just didn’t get it back then.

Fast forward several years.

My school years were done, and adulthood loomed. I had just moved to West Texas and taken a job as a TV news producer.

Within weeks, I was covering yet another science-vs-religion quarrel — this one about sex education.

The county I was in had banned sex education for high school students in favor of abstinence counseling. But such messaging had little sway on the adolescent crowd. Teen pregnancy rates in the county were among the highest in the state.

I thought the whole matter was dumb. I had sat through sex education classes in high school. It was uncomfortable, but it also prevented me from making a life-altering mistake.

I wondered if the single-mindedness of the local educators was failing the community. After all, no amount of preaching wholesome values can prepare a family for the moment when their teenage daughter finds pink lines on a pregnancy test.

But I was heartened by the way families handled this situation. They did not punish their children for violating the abstinence mandate. They supported them.

This was not the land of The Scarlet Letter. The region was not full of destitute teenage mothers. It was stable because the community had set up a system to protect its belief system against all opportunities.

It was at that moment that I came to terms with the thinking of 1920s Tennessee. It was at that moment that I grasped the allure of William Jennings Bryan.

I might not have agreed with it. But I understood it.

And such an understanding allowed me to better fit into my new community.

Being of the people has had its flaws over the years. But the risks were not all that dire.

Perhaps it meant that a group of students wouldn’t get to learn about evolution. Or that high schoolers would become parents. But such setbacks were unlikely to permanently ruin lives.

Recently, though, a dangerous brand of populism has emerged.

The structure of this movement has remained the same — charismatic figures seeking the tribal embrace of the people. But the foundation has shifted.

The collective is filled with mistrust and divisiveness. Partisanship and misinformation have us pointing fingers rather than rallying around a common cause. And we seem determined to push others down in order to raise ourselves up.

Yes, being of the people today means absolving personal responsibility. It means stiffing our neighbors. It means making our society less equitable, not more.

This is the path that we’ve chosen. But it’s not too late to change course.

It’s no secret that times have been tough recently. Illness, isolation, and financial hardship continue to abound.

Fighting through this strife has been no picnic. It’s not pleasant watching those around us suffer.

But perhaps such an experience can help us get back on track.

As we plow forward, we have a great opportunity. An opportunity to keep such suffering from becoming endemic.

If we reframe our mission toward helping our neighbors — and not just ourselves — we stand to gain. We can improve equity, forge unity and build community.

Of the people will realize its promise. And we will regain ours.

Such a future is within our reach. So what’s stopping us?

The cards are in our hands. It’s time to go all-in.

But Then What?

As I got walked across the parking lot, I saw noticed a strange sight.

It was dusk in West Texas, and my eyes could only make out so much. But off in the distance, there was a wall of storm clouds in the distance.

That’s odd, I thought. There’s no chance of rain tonight.

I would know.

For this parking lot was outside the TV station where I had just produced the 5:00 newscast. And during the weather segment, there was nary a mention of stormy weather. Not today, and not anytime soon.

Such was life on the West Texas plains, a desolate landscape that barely averaged a foot of rain a year.

So, I shrugged off what was on the horizon. It was probably just a random cloud deck that would be gone by morning, I figured. Nothing to worry about.

I got in my car and headed to town to pick up dinner. But once I hit the highway, everything changed.

The wind started howling, jostling the vehicle around. The road ahead of me — flat and straight as an arrow — faded from view. And my windshield got plastered with dirt.

I was driving into a dust storm.

I’d never encountered a dust storm before. And somehow, I knew what to do. I slowed down, turned on my hazards, and let my memory guide me forward.

I had driven this road dozens of times before, heading to and from work. I had a sixth sense as to where the traffic lights should be, and where the danger spots lay .

I would have to rely on this knowledge to get me through since I couldn’t see much beyond the 6 inches in front of my face. And I would have to hope that I wouldn’t rear-end a slower driver ahead of me.

By the time I made it to Sonic, my adrenaline was pumping. As I rolled down the window to place my order, a plume of dust settled on the bill of my Texas Rangers baseball cap.

I didn’t mind. I had made it.

Many of us have never driven through a dust storm.

They’re common in the desert or on the high plains. But those parts of America are sparsely populated.

Yet, even if we haven’t encountered sand-colored skies, we know how to handle such a circumstance. For we’ve been doing it just about every day.

We live by the doctrine of first-order effects. Of being in the moment. Of actions and reactions.

Many of our decisions help us respond to something thrown at us. Others are meant to force a response from someone else.

Our short game is masterful. We can rise to meet the occasion. We can harness the power of the moment to promote change.

But the long game? That’s woefully lacking.

I’m writing this article in the shadow of a monumental event. An investing gold rush that’s brought Wall Street hedge funds to their knees like never before.

Spurred by social media threads and enabled by smartphone apps, scores of people have bought shares in struggling companies. This has caused the value of these companies to rise. And it has damaged hedge funds betting on those stocks to fall.

These developments haven’t hurt anyone outside of Wall Street. Individual investors have seen the value of their “meme stocks” skyrocket. They’ve given themselves a new tool to pay off debt or stay afloat in a tough economy. And they’ve found a way to stick it to a system that has long kept inequality in place.

Still, the second-order effects of this development percolate. And they are troubling.

Taxes are one such concern. The amateur investors leading the charge are often young and new at playing the market. They might not realize that a portion of their gains go back to the government through taxes. And that means they might not budget properly for their investment — particularly if they borrowed money to buy shares.

Then there’s the bubble effect. After a scorching start, the market has already shown signs of cooling off. If these “meme stocks” lose value, will these investors have the know-how to sell in time?

Both these concerns impact investors alone. But the most ominous second-order effect of this frenzy impacts all of us.

Hedge funds were betting against the “meme stocks” for a reason. Those stocks represented companies with outdated business models, poor financial performance, or a flagging consumer base. They were pieces of companies set up to fail.

But because of the recent gold rush, these companies have a new lease on life. Their value now outpaces their viability.

This sets a dangerous precedent for the greater business community.

Money is the oxygen of the corporate world, and the North Star of business strategy is maximizing a company’s value. Generally, such a quest focuses on viability — producing something consumers crave, marketing it properly, and yielding sustainable revenue. Both the company and the consumer sector stand to benefit.

But in an environment where flailing businesses are overvalued, the quest for value no longer includes viability. Companies stop worrying about how to best serve consumers, as such endeavors no longer impact the stock price.

If the “meme stock” movement goes on to bankroll other flailing companies, this might be the future we see. A world full of overvalued companies making products that don’t meet our needs.

I doubt the investors seeking to dethrone the hedge funds thought of this when they started their escapade. But they should have.

In the movie The Godfather, there is a man who often sits near Don Corleone.

His hair is reddish-brown. His skin is pale. And his name is not Sicilian at all.

Tom Hagen might seem out of place at first. But he plays a critical role in the family business.

Hagen is a lawyer who serves as the Don’s advisor, or consigliere. Like a chess Grandmaster, his role is to think many steps ahead. His charge is to consider the second-order effects. His mission is to ask But then what?

As consigliere, Hagen maintains a quiet presence. Yet, his coolheaded advice keeps the Corleone family from countless pitfalls throughout the film.

In a sense, Tom Hagen is the silent hero for much of The Godfather.

The role of consigliere is profound. But it needn’t be limited to the silver screen.

I believe it’s critical that we find our inner consigliere. That we consider the second-order effects of the ventures we undertake in our own lives. That we remember to ask But then what? in advance of all we do.

Doing this won’t stop the turbulence of the times. But it just might cut down on the collateral damage. It might spare us from the disasters we were too shortsighted to anticipate.

Preventing such calamity doesn’t require much.

A cool head. Critical thinking. And the courage to ask a simple question.

But then what?

Getting Ahead And Getting By

I was a shell of myself.

My legs were tired. My lungs were straining for air. Every inch of my body was begging for a reprieve.

I could have listened. Broken it down. Called it a day.

But there was a quarter-mile left in the race. Now was not the time to give up.

And so, I accelerated. I hit that extra gear I was in no shape to handle. And I let my adrenaline do the rest.

I breezed past a couple of unsuspecting runners, hit the home stretch, and powered through the finish line.

Then I doubled over in a heap of exhaustion.

Accelerate through the wall.

This mantra describes one of my core philosophies.

As I near the finish line, I don’t slow down. Instead, I speed up.

This has been the case with just about any endeavor I’ve taken on.

In my last semester of business school, for instance, I had every reason to coast. I was beaten down from two years straight of strenuous coursework, and balancing my studies with a full-time job. Plus, it was the middle of the Texas summer, and my mind was ripe for wandering.

There wasn’t much left to go full-bore for. But I couldn’t stomach the notion of taking it down a gear. Not when there was still work to be done.

So, I gave my all to those summer classes, right up until the end. I even spent five hours pouring my heart into my last take-home exam. When I hit Submit, I was so drained that I started to shake uncontrollably.

I took a moment to get a hold of myself. Then it was on to the next challenge.

This all might sound strange. But for me, it was perfectly natural.
For I was consumed by the desire to get ahead. I was obsessed with most out of my abilities.

I’d long had grand visions for my life. I had aspirations for the growth I’d see and for the responsibilities I’d take on.

Fulfilling these visions demanded my complete attention, and it left me no room for half-measures. So, I pushed myself to the brink. Then I pushed myself some more.

It was an effective approach — until everything changed.

A global pandemic has brought scores of devastation in recent months.

Death. Joblessness. Isolation.

All have been seen and felt on a previously unfathomable scale.

Those impacts have grabbed the headlines. But the second level effects have also been significant.

One of these effects has been a persistent sense of listlessness.

As gatherings were downsized and events were canceled, the days started to blend together. The usual mile markers on our calendars had disappeared, turning life into an endless fog.

It was a challenge none of us had faced before. And we were all stuck in the quagmire together.

At first, I responded to the situation the way I always had. I kept up with any routines that weren’t neutered by lockdown orders. I steeled myself to get the most out of the dystopia I was living in. I continued to focus on getting ahead.

But it soon became clear that the pandemic was more than a sprint around the track. It was more like a 1000 mile race through the Himalayas.

Endurance would be the key attribute going forward. Survival was all that would matter.

It was difficult for me to face this truth at first. The state of the world had devoured my pathos. I would have to go against my own nature in order to meet the moment.

But I eventually eased into my new reality. A reality where I would dial it up to 8, and not to 11. A reality where I would counteract fire with ice. A reality where I would focus less on getting ahead, and more on getting by.

This shift has had quite the effect on me.

These days, I’m mellower than I used to be. I’m devoted to the here and now, and to surviving the challenges at hand. The future is so uncertain that I refuse to concern myself with it.

It’s strange for me to write these sentiments. But I’m at peace with them.

For far too long, I have sat in judgment of others.

Not because of their background or their beliefs. But because of their levels of motivation.

America has a hardscrabble heritage. A heritage that rewards a go-getter spirit. And I was fully on board with such a mandate.

I couldn’t understand those content with getting by. I couldn’t relate to those without a desire for improvement.

What a miserable existence it must be, going through life so monotonously, I thought.

But then, circumstances thrust me into that same existence. And now, I wonder if I had it wrong all along.

I used to have all kinds of assumptions about getting by. I thought it would make me lazy. I thought it would cause my skills to decline. I thought it would lead me to fail.

But it turns out, those were just my own demons. They were the fears that kept my motivational fire burning.

Those without my wild ambition maintained no connections to my demons. They weren’t slouches or afterthoughts.

If anything, they had what I didn’t. A semblance of balance. A sense of serenity.

I am ashamed I ever doubted them.

At some point, this strange era will end.

The crisis will pass. Better days will emerge. And we’ll find ourselves back in old patterns.

Those with the gumption for getting ahead will renew their quest. And those content with getting by will find themselves overlooked once again.

Our society has made it this way. It’s defined winners and losers and drawn the line between them.

But I’m not quite sure we’ve gotten it right.

For each group will see success in its own way. Those plowing ahead will get the most out of themselves. But those getting by will get the most out of life.

And here is no shame in any of that.

So, focus on getting ahead, if that strikes your fancy. Or focus on getting by, if you so desire.

Either way, you stand to see success.

On Transition

Here I go. Turn the page.

If only life were as simple as a Bob Seger song.

Yes, transitions are often-fraught times. Change is far messier than we’d like, and slogging through that quagmire can be emotionally draining.

And yet, change is inevitable. It’s a part of our calendars, our customs, and of life itself.

So, why are we not better at dealing with it? Why, after all this time, can’t we just turn the page?

The answer is both exceedingly simple and profoundly complicated.

I despise moving.

There are few things that give me more anxiety than changing my home address. I’ve only done it a handful of times in my life. Yet, each time, the experience nauseates me.

It isn’t the process of finding a new place that stresses me out. It isn’t the prospect of having a new rent or mortgage payment I must meet each month, no questions asked.

No, what upsets me most are those days right around the move itself. Those days when the home I’m vacating becomes a staging area — a labyrinth of boxes, tape, and bubble wrap.

This setup, temporary as it might be, goes against dwelling fundamentals. Homes are not meant to be storage areas for piles of boxes. They’re designed to be lived in. And the items we keep there are meant to be used, not stowed away.

Of course, it’s impossible for most of us to uproot ourselves with a snap of our fingers. Packing, lifting, unpacking — that all takes time and coordination. So, this awkward transition period is a force of circumstance.

But that doesn’t mean I like it. As I stumble through my soon-to-be-former home, looking amongst the boxes for a toothbrush and a change of clothes, I’m as miserable as a cat in a monsoon.

Perhaps someday, I won’t look on moving day with a sense of doom. Perhaps someday, I’ll even look forward to it.

But it will take a major shift to get me there.

I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul.

The closing lines of William Ernest Henley’s Invictusare iconic. And for me, they’re a rallying cry.

For I am a control enthusiast. I believe in things being just so. I demand them to be just so.

I do all I can to stay at the helm. To steer my actions and emotions in the most structured of ways.

And yet, I realize that all this preparation is futile. For we live on a perpetually spinning sphere. Things are always in a state of flux. Even in areas we consider to be steady.

Consider school. Teachers, blackboards, backpacks, desks — it all dominates much of our early existence. It seems so monotonous at first, a model of routine and consistency.

And yet, school is full of transition. With every summer comes another step up the ladder, and another set of adventures and challenges. The pattern repeats itself until our schooling is done.

Our adult adventures are also warped by the forces of time. As we progress through our careers, we pick up bushels of experience. We don’t exit the workforce the same person we were when we entered.

As our own goalposts move, so do the mile markers around us. Our favorite athletes retire. Cutting-edge fashion fades into obscurity. Music genres get the dreaded vintage label.

We deftly steer through all this chaos. So deftly, in fact, that we sometimes forget such chaos is even unfolding. With so much in motion, keeping our eyes on what’s ahead becomes the mission. And such tunnel vision gives us the illusion of control.

But then comes that moment that grabs our attention. That fork in the road that we see coming a mile ahead. That transition we can’t blissfully ignore.

It might be a graduation. Or a wedding. Or the dawn of parenthood.

Heck, it might even be a move to a new home.

When we see the inflection point — when the change becomes real — we fall apart.

What’s going on here?

Well, I think there are two elements at play.

For one thing, transitions are control voids. We don’t have agency over our environment. Instead, it has agency over us.

Furthermore, transitions expose our vulnerability. They show the world the soft spots in our armor. And they rudely remind us of where those gaps lie.

A tailspin into vulnerability is our greatest nightmare, playing out in real life. No wonder transitions cause so many of us so much distress.

As I write this, we are in the midst of a great transition.

A changing of the guard at the highest office in the land.

Such a shift happens every four or eight years. And it’s always an anxious time.

But this transition feels particularly tense.

Not because it comes during a deadly pandemic or a crushing recession. But because it comes in the shadow of an insurrection.

Yes, the new President of the United States has just been inaugurated at what is effectively a crime scene. He has taken oath to defend the Constitution in the spot where rioters attempted a coup of the government just two weeks earlier. A riot that emerged in support of the outgoing President.

Such occurrences seem plucked from the pages of a dystopian novel or the streets of a far-off republic. But they have happened right here in America.

And now, in their wake, the anxiety is off the charts. The sense of vulnerability has hardly ever been greater. Dread has the brightest stage imaginable.

Yes, it seems bleak. But what if we flipped the script?

What if we approached a moment like this with hope? What if we traded guardedness for optimism? What if we believed in the good ahead of us, instead of the horror behind us?

Such thinking might seem foolhardy — reckless even — given all that’s happened. But that foolhardiness just might be what we need to thrive in this moment.

So, let us put on a brave face. Let us stand up tall. And let us face the winds of change with conviction and resolve.

Turning the page is inevitable. How we handle it up to us.

Double Edge

I was furious.

On my parents’ TV screen, I was watching the Ohio State Buckeyes celebrate wildly. Meanwhile, the Miami Hurricanes looked on, stunned.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

In fact, moments earlier, the Miami players were mobbing the field in jubilation. Fireworks were going off above the stadium. The game appeared to be over, with the Hurricanes victorious.

But then, in the midst of the celebration, a referee threw one of his yellow flags onto the field. He then proceeded to call a dubious penalty on a Miami player.

The game would continue. And Ohio State would come from behind to win the game and a national college football championship.

The result was bad enough. But the way it all went down left me in a rage.

I was 15 years old when this game took place. About 3 and a half years after the final whistle, I would attend the University of Miami and become a Hurricane for life. But as I watched Ohio State players celebrating on TV, I had no affiliation to the school they’d just vanquished. I was simply a fan of the Miami football team.

I shouldn’t have gotten so worked up. But I couldn’t help myself.

For years, I held a vendetta against The Ohio State University. I rooted against their football team in every game. When their basketball team played a road game in Miami, I jawed with Buckeye fans in the arena concourse. And, when my family drove through Columbus, Ohio — home to the Ohio State campus — I urged them not to stop the car.

Eventually, the anger subsided. But it was quickly replaced by shame.

For it turns out that Ohioans are kind-hearted, salt-of-the-earth people. I’ve worked with several over the years, and I don’t have a bad thing to say about any of them.

I was wrong to paint them as villains for so long, just because of the results of a football game. It was foolish, shortsighted — and strangely predictable.

Competition. It’s an American hallmark.

A nation built on the promise of an elected government and a capitalist economy relies on competition. On straining for scarce resources. On gaining an edge.

We compete for employment, for housing, for influence. We even compete for acclaim as the best spouse or parent.

Ostensibly, this makes us better. It keeps us motivated to give our best at all times. It inspires us to produce more. And it allows society to reap the benefits.

But hyper-competition is not foolproof. The edge we require can cut both ways.

Going head-to-head with others is a zero-sum game. There are winners and losers. Rising up means another gets pushed down.

When we’re in the fray, it’s hard to ignore this dynamic. And it’s tempting to denigrate the competition in order to swing the odds in our favor.

Some of these efforts can be mostly harmless. For example, athletes often trash talk each other to gain a psychological advantage. While this can be obnoxious, the hostilities normally don’t extend any further than that.

But other times, denigrating the competition does cross the line. It can lead to us othering our competition. It can cause us to act in racist or misogynistic ways.

Scenarios like these can cause lasting destruction. They can tear our society further and further apart. They can leave countless victims in their wake.

Scenarios like these beg the question: Is competition more destructive than good?

There’s an image that I’ve long struggled to reckon with.

It’s a portrait of Adolf Hitler as an infant.

I despise Hitler. I have always viewed him as the epitome of pure evil. Even writing his name here makes me feel squeamish.

And yet, he doesn’t look like the devil incarnate in this photo. With curiosity written on his face, he simply looks like a child.

This image is important to consider. For it reminds us that society’s greatest ills are not innate. They’re cultivated through the structures we encounter.

Hatred is a learned behavior. One forged by our experiences and our misconceptions.

And the kiln that turns us from respectable to rotten? It’s fueled by competition.

The very idea of duking it out for a limited resource — be it property, influence or accolades — is fraught with danger. For while the rules of chivalry help keep things respectable, it’s on each of us to abide by them.

Generally, such guidance is sufficient. But if desperation takes hold, or our emotions get the best of us, we toss aside good judgment. We revert to jungle law — to winning at all costs.

The dark side of competition gave rise to so many dark chapters in our planet’s recent history — the rise of the Nazis in Europe, the spread of terrorism in the Middle East, the advent of brutal drug cartels in Latin America.

But those are just the grim headlines. The real story lies under the surface.

The images of an angry mob of insurrectionists rushing the United States Capitol will always be chilling. But one image is doubly haunting.

It’s of a rioter darting through the capitol rotunda with a Confederate flag in tow.

Such a flag once flew in parts of America, after the southern states seceded and plunged the nation into a bloody Civil War. But even during those trying times, it never flew in the seat of the United States government.

Much has been made of that flag over the last 150 years or so. There are varying opinions on what it stands for, and even what to name it.

(While many have dubbed it the Confederate flag, southerners have often called it the Rebel flag.)

In my opinion, the Confederate flag symbolizes competition gone wrong. Of an error compounded by calcification of time.

You see, the southern states didn’t try and leave the union on a whim. They did so because they felt left behind.

The earliest decades of our nation were defined by two economic models — a northern one, teeming with cities and industry, and a southern one, dotted with rural plantations.

The southern economy was built on slave labor — on the bondage of Black people. The northern one was not.

Slavery and the plantation model were not invented in the south. But they became ingrained there. So even as the world evolved, white southerners found themselves irrationally attached to a system where hierarchy was determined by skin tone.

As the United States expanded westward, adding new states to the union, the South saw its influence shrink. Threatened, it responded with a stinging act of defiance — secession.

But the Confederacy was not long-lived. Barely four years later, the Civil War ended in a southern surrender.

Even so, the scars of the conflict would linger.

For in the wake of the bloodshed, white southerners were forced to compete with freed slaves for land and prosperity. The stakes were high and the resources were strained.

In the wake of such challenges, the disgraced southerners demonized their new competitors. They formed posses to kill young Black men. They set up a system of sharecropping to keep black families in poverty. And they codified segregationist policies in every state they inhabited.

Such abhorrence — forged by competition — helped spawn an ugly legacy of racism that persists to this day.

And yet, the post-war South was not alone in this endeavor.

Indeed, as immigrants flooded to our shores and filled our cities, they were met with similar resentment. The newcomers — be they Irish, Italian, Chinese, Arab, or Mexican — faced resistance from the established, who abhorred the competition.

Xenophobia has a long shadow even in the most enlightened bastions of America. Add in the growth of the business sector and globalization in recent decades, and the issue has only intensified.

That is how we’ve gotten to where we are today. To a polarized America where millions of people support blatantly racist positions.

Building walls isn’t about making our nation more secure. Dissolving global trade isn’t about making our nation more prosperous. And typecasting people based on skin tone isn’t making our nation more equitable.

No, such actions are self-serving. They rig the competition so that those with a track record of prosperity remain victorious at all costs.

And in doing so, they threaten to eat America alive.

It’s time that we take a fresh look at competition.

It’s time that we more closely consider its limitations and moral dangers.

For while competition will continue to exist — Adam Smith’s invisible hand can’t exist without it — it doesn’t need to exist unfettered. It can’t exist unfettered.

Such introspection will not be easy. Rehashing our core principles never is.

But it’s a process that cannot wait.

For the next calamity lurks in the distance, and its underlying cause is already known.

It’s on us to do what needs to be done. It’s on us to put a sheath on the double edge of competition.

Let’s get to it.

Hidden Heroes

I was driving down Interstate 45, somewhere between Dallas and Houston. All around me, a vast Texas landscape unfolded — a cornucopia of rolling hills, thicketed trees, and pastures dotted with cattle.

But in the midst of all this scenery, something else appeared through my windshield — the back of an oil tanker.

The big rig was in my lane, and I was gaining on it quickly. I prepared to cut over to the left lane and whiz by the tanker. But, to my dismay, I noticed there was an 18-wheeler camped out in that lane. I would have to slow down and wait my turn.

I had been making good time on my journey, and I was none too happy about this temporary delay. The tanker seemed like nothing more than an inconvenience — a nuisance meant to foil those seeking to make the Dallas-Houston run in less than four hours.

As I waited for my opportunity to pass the tanker, my mind drifted.

Suddenly, I found myself a few years back in time. I was sitting in a 90-minute line at a North Texas gas station, waiting for the opportunity to refuel my SUV. It was hot out, and I was agitated.

In the midst of this misery, I saw an oil tanker pull into the fueling area. My mood shifted. My spirits soared.

I’d never taken much note of these vehicles before, even though I’d spent three years in West Texas oil country. Out in the patch, these vehicles were as pedestrian as they were unwieldy.

But now, this tanker represented the cavalry. It would save me from running out of gas. It would save all of us in this Godforsaken line.

The fact that there was a line at all was a sign of the times. Hurricane Harvey had recently devastated the Texas Coast, and its floodwaters had forced the refineries in Houston to shut down. Suddenly, something we all took for granted — an endless supply of gasoline — seemed anything but certain.

A full-on fuel panic ensued. People raced to the nearest fueling spots to top off their tanks. Gas station owners jacked up their prices. And some drivers even cut off their air conditioning in order to stretch their fuel range.

All of this was an overreaction. There were plenty of other refineries — in Louisiana and further inland — that were still up and running. There would be plenty of gasoline for everyone.

But the die had already been cast. Pandemonium had taken over, and gas stations were getting sucked dry.

In the midst of all this, the oil tankers crisscrossing the region got their star turn. The fuel in their tanks became our version of Manna from heaven. And the drivers of these rigs were our heroes.

How strange it must have been for those drivers. They surely didn’t take that role to save the world. They were just looking for a steady job with good pay. Anonymity came part and parcel with the role.

That anonymity had evaporated, thanks to a series of events outside these drivers’ control. Now, they were the center of attention.

But the moment would prove fleeting. Once things got back to normal, the tankers and their drivers would fade into the woodwork once again.

One would only have to look at me — trapped behind a tanker on the Interstate and muttering under my breath — to see how far the pendulum would swing in the other direction.

There are many things our nation struggles with. But honoring our heroes is not one of them.

We pay tribute to the brave men and women in our military at seemingly any opportunity. The days of veterans getting spat upon during their return home are long gone.

Now, military families are honored with parades and standing ovations at sporting events (in non-pandemic times). They’re rewarded with such perks as affordable housing and specialized insurance. They’re treated with the respect they deserve.

Other professions also get the hero’s welcome in times of crisis. Firefighters got critical acclaim in the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks. Airline pilots got applauded after Sully Sullenberger landed a compromised commercial jet on the Hudson River.

Still, such goodwill does not always stick. When the lights go down and normalcy returns, the hero arc comes to an end. These professions find themselves ignored, or even antagonized.

Just look at the New York Police Department. The NYPD has had its issues over the years, and the department has been vilified in some quarters. But as the World Trade Center lay in ruins, New Yorkers softened their tune.

Officers put it all on the line, running toward the crumbling towers to save those still inside. A total of 23 NYPD officers lost their lives in the attacks that day — a toll that wasn’t lost on anyone.

Yet, the hero turn didn’t last long. As New York rebuilt from its bleakest moment, it once again cast a critical glance at those in blue. Issues of racial profiling bubbled back to the surface.

And then, in July 2014, police choked Eric Garner to death while arresting him. At the moment anger over police brutality was spiking nationwide, the NYPD found itself on the wrong side of history. Barely a decade after its brightest moment, the department faced arguably its darkest one.

The NYPD’s saga is sobering, but it’s hardly unique.

As the saying goes: You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.

As a deadly pandemic continues to rage, we are finding new heroes to fete.

Healthcare workers. Teachers. Delivery drivers.

The men and women in these professions have done yeoman’s work, as the virus continues to turn our lives upside down. But they’d also done yeoman’s work long before the era of masks, sanitizer, and social distancing. We just never took the time to notice.

As the son of teachers, this chasm has long been apparent to me. And while I am glad to see these professions finally get their due, I worry about what comes next.

How soon will it be before we forget? How quickly will we overlook these industries and those devoting their lives to them? How long until we’re back muttering at that slow-moving oil tanker ahead of us on the highway?

Hopefully, a real long time.

Unlike our military, teachers aren’t called to put their lives on the line. Unlike our police, healthcare workers don’t have to reckon with use of force concerns. Unlike our airline pilots, delivery drivers are not confined to invisibility when times are good.

There is no reason why our applause should stop when the danger ends. There is no reason for our adulation to come with strings attached.

So now, in this moment of sustained crisis, let us make a pledge. Let us ensure that these men and women are hidden heroes never more. Let us continue to give them the due they deserve.

We owe them that.

The Clean Slate

I can be your lucky penny. You can be my four-leaf clover. Starting over.

There’s nothing more tantalizing than the prospect of a fresh start.

Whether its boots sinking into a fresh blanket of snow or the sight of a wide-open highway in front of us, the prospect of beginning again is all-powerful.

There might be nothing like the first time, but the second go is still pretty special. For we have both the memories of the first experience to guide us and the residual novelty to excite us.

The fresh start keeps us plowing forward. It revitalizes our sense of wonder. It unveils the potential for a brighter future.

We bask in its majesty. We revel in its opportunity. And each year, as the calendar turns over, we pay homage.

We dress up and stay up late. We eat fancy foods and drink high-class libations. We dream of the new people we’ll be when the clock strikes 12 and the year begins again.

I’ve long railed against this tradition. It all seems so arbitrary and fake to me.

I don’t feel any different on January 1^st than I did on December 31^st. I never have, and I likely never will.

Yes, we do grow over time. But this process happens gradually, not in an instant.

So, while everyone else is partying it up, I’m playing it down. I’m treating my evolution like a marathon, not a sprint.

This is how I’ve operated for years.

But it might be time to take a fresh look at that stance.

Constants.

These are critical elements in what is known as STEM fields — science, technology, engineering, and mathematics.

Those in the STEM industries solve some of our biggest problems. They’re responsible for many of the innovations that we take for granted these days — such as connected devices, reliable roads, and advanced pharmaceuticals.

Such features have made our world better, and we’ve greatly benefited from them. But they’re all built on a foundation of constants.

Essentially, the scientists and engineers who come up with these solutions base their work on a simple question: Keeping everything else the same, what happens if I make this one change?

By framing the question this way, STEM professionals are controlling the environment. They’re doing what they can to establish a clear cause-and-effect relationship.

That relationship will help turn their question into action. It will transform their experimentation into products, patents, and other tangible solutions.

This is a powerful, proven process. But it does have a catch.

By relying on constants — by only changing one item at a time — we only allow for incremental change. There is no room for flashy wholesale disruptions. There is only tinkering with the status quo.

Wholesale changes are just too volatile, too messy, too difficult to explain. And so, STEM professionals generally try to avoid them. The risk is not worth the reward.

Constants matter. This should be evident now more than ever.

What happens when the ground quakes? When the wave crests? When the world as we knew it ceases to be relevant?

We start grasping, clutching, straining for the familiar. We search in vain for something that is no longer there.

It’s disorienting. Confusing. Terrifying.

We all recognize that feeling now. Whether we live in California or Chattanooga, Florida, or Fargo. We know what it’s like to see our lives turned upside down.

Such is the nature of pandemics. They pack the sweeping force of a tsunami and the destructive aftershocks of an earthquake.

Pandemics force us to abruptly abandon our plans, our dreams, and our objectives. They force us to acknowledge that the goalposts have changed.

For in the eye of the storm, nothing is constant. Everything is fluid — meaning we must adjust in order to survive.

And so, we do what is necessary to make it through.

At first, we are filled with adrenaline. We are compelled to rise to the occasion. We are inspired to do our part to ensure normalcy.

But eventually, the rush wears off. The bleakness of our new reality persists, and hopelessness abounds.

As the familiar fades further into the rearview, we lose a sense of ourselves. We find it harder to recognize who we were before everything crumbled around us. We struggle to recall what we’d once hoped to achieve.

As the fog grows thicker, all we want is a way out. A clean slate. A fresh start.

And the longer the darkness persists, the more we are tempted to run into the fray. To sacrifice all the gains we’ve made.

Yes, survival is an unparalleled test of the will.

It pushes our limits. It drains our resolve. And it can poison our minds if we’re not careful.

This is why it’s important for us to prepare ourselves for crisis. And that training should take place between the ears.

In 1965, Jim Stockdale’s life changed forever.

Stockdale, a Naval fighter pilot, was captured in North Vietnam after his aircraft was shot down in battle. He would spend the next 7 years as a prisoner of war, subject to torture and brutal living conditions. After his release and return to the United States, Stockdale was awarded the Medal of Honor. He retired from the Navy with the rank of Vice-Admiral.

Stockdale’s story is one of perseverance and overcoming long odds. But what piqued my interest was the heuristic Stockdale used to survive more than 2,700 days in captivity.

Stockdale recognized quickly that there was a fine line between faith and false hope. That recognizing a dire situation wasn’t the same as accepting it.

In his book Good to Great, Jim Collins describes Stockdale’s philosophy like this:

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

Collins famously termed this heuristic The Stockdale Paradox. It’s a pattern that many leaders of business and public service offices follow today.

But why should such gains be limited to the bigwigs? I believe we can all take a cue from Stockdale.

For we are at a point of transition. A point where the calendar flips and we are gifted with a clean slate.

It’s easy to view this as a period of endless possibilities. As a time full of hope. As a moment unburdened by the weight of the past.

But that wouldn’t be quite right, would it?

No, the events that have so deeply challenged us — the pandemic and its effects — they won’t magically disappear when the clock strikes 12 on New Year’s. That baggage will remain.

It’s important for us to recognize this. To see the brutal facts of our reality for what they are, what they have been, and what they will continue to be.

And yet, it’s also crucial for us to accept the gift of our clean slate. To see the possibilities that lie ahead, and to have faith in our ability to attain them.

So, I’m giving this ritual of turning the calendar over another chance.

For the traditions and customs might be tacky and overblown. But there’s still a lot of good that can be gleaned from this moment.

And it is our obligation to soak it up.

Author: Dylan Brooks