Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

Sparking Joy

It’s the most wonderful time of the year.

How often have you heard these words? Probably quite a bit.

There’s a good reason for this. As the weather gets colder and the daylight gets shorter, a sense of wonder overcomes us.

It doesn’t matter which hardships we’ve faced, or what challenges still lie ahead. Almost by instinct, we are filled with bliss as the calendar reaches its nadir.

There are gifts to purchase, light displays to peruse, and loved ones to share the time with. Our hearts are full, and our gripes are forgotten.

At least that’s the way it’s traditionally been. But now, everything is different.

Or is it?

For many, the holiday season has long been the most miserable time of the year.

There can be a physiological explanation for this sense of misery. After all, the winter chill cuts to the bone, causing us to shiver in discomfort. And the lack of sunlight can drag down our mood — a condition known as Seasonal Affectiveness Disorder.

But there are other causes for the pall that many reckon with during this period.

One key cause is depression. This is a condition that has long been stigmatized in our society. And so, those afflicted with it feel compelled to suffer in silence.

Dealing with depression is challenging enough throughout the year. But in a time where marketers, media figures, neighbors, and our loved ones are all doubling down on happiness, those battling darker emotions often feel even more marginalized.

The choices are stark. Suffer silently in the shadows or put on a fake smile and join the revelry.

Neither is helpful for those facing an existential crisis.

So yes, it would seem that even the best of traditions — a time of the year when we spread kindness — has a dark side to it.

And these days, more of us are discovering this dark side. The worst health crisis of our lifetimes is like a slow-motion car wreck. The death tolls and economic hardship cast a long shadow that we can’t just turn away from once Frosty the Snowman starts showing up on TV.

Perhaps the most insidious part of this virus is the way it affects our social connections. Gathering together is a hallmark of our society. It’s how we find prosperity and fulfillment. It’s how we grow our influence and gain protection.

But with a lethal virus spreading like wildfire, such actions lead to outsize danger. And so, we avoid them at all costs.

Now, this is not to say all is lost. Technology has helped fill the gap, allowing us to socialize, seek entertainment, and shop in a virtual setting. But some societal aspects can’t be as seamlessly adjusted to a digital screen. And holiday traditions are prime among those.

Even as we reimagine those traditions for a world where the act of gathering in person is taboo, these measures ring hollow.

The most wonderful time of the year seems anything but.

Find what sparks joy.

It seems like a simple edict. But it can be mesmerizingly frustrating to pull off.

This is why Marie Kondo is such a popular figure in our society. Her ability to tap into the zeitgeist of sparking joy is not a trivial matter. Neither is her penchant for finding a productive outlet for this pursuit — decluttering our homes.

Marie Kondo helps give language to something we feel deeply but struggle to describe. She makes our lives better by making this treasured sensation relatable.

It’s an impressive feat. But not an unprecedented one.

For plenty of household names have cut their teeth at the root of joy.

Coca-Cola’s motto has long been Open Happiness. This branding is as effective as it is simple. (Think about it. Have you ever been miserable drinking a Coke?)

Meanwhile, Nike has helped people find a different kind of bliss. Matching style, athletic performance, and the tagline Just Do It, Nike has inspired millions to kindle the joy of achievement.

And then there is the master of all joy sparkers — Disney. What started with uplifting movies featuring fairy tales and a gregarious mouse has turned into a full-on dopamine factory. There’s merchandise galore to buy. There are TV channels and streaming services available day and night. And there’s a sprawling theme park dubbed The Happiest Place On Earth.

Scoff at all this if you’d like. But the talents of Disney, Nike, Coca-Cola, and Marie Kondo are undeniable. The truckloads of money we throw their way underscore this fact.

When it comes to sparking joy, we trust these brands and personalities more than we trust ourselves.

But it doesn’t have to be this way.

When I was a child, I was scared of the dark.

Terrified, really.

My parents were well aware of this. So, they plugged a night light into my bedroom wall socket. That night light would cast a faded glow on the four corners of the room, letting me know that everything was still there.

This solution quickly yielded new problems. I used to pitch a fit whenever we’d take an overnight trip since it meant I might sleep somewhere without a night light.

It was a valid concern. For while some hosts — like my grandparents — kept a night light in their guest rooms, others — like the Red Roof Inn off the highway — did not.

Fortunately, this phase did not last forever. It was an arduous process, but I eventually learned to accept the practice of sleeping in the dark.

I let go of my inhibitions. I embraced the silence of the abyss. I even found joy in it.

I see some similarities between my journey back then and the moment we face now. For, while the world might seem unfathomably dark, we are adaptable. With enough practice and persistence, we can reckon with the curveballs thrown our way. We might even find the slivers of joy within it.

For joy may seem like a grandiose emotion. But it starts in small places.

So, as we settle into new routines, let’s remain optimistic. Let’s search for signs of delight and wonder. And let’s use those to spark joy at a time when it’s so badly needed.

The power is in our hands. Let’s make this a wonderful time of the year once again.

Fair To Middlin’

It was a familiar routine.

Every week, as the sun hovered in the western sky, I would board a city bus. When the bus reached the other side of the park, I would disembark and step into the waiting room of a doctor’s office. About an hour later, I’d re-emerge and head home.

This is a normal scene for anyone seeking treatment in the big city, where parking and rush hour traffic are appointment-busting nightmares.

But I didn’t take the bus by choice. I did so by necessity.

I didn’t have a driver’s license, let alone a car. I couldn’t have either of those things.

For I was only 11 years old.

And that bus? It was ferrying me from my school to my therapist.

Looking back now, it all looks so strange. 11-year-olds are usually playing videogames with their friends. They’re enjoying the final days of youthful innocence, before the trials of adolescence kick in.

They generally are not traveling across town by themselves to sit in a plush chair and talk to a shrink.

But I was.

Depression had taken its toll on me, bringing black clouds to sunny days. I was in a funk, and nothing could cheer me up.

I remember thinking that I couldn’t fit into the world and that I was just wasting space by continuing to exist in it. I remember contemplating taking my own life.

And I remember my parents getting me help.

That’s how I ended up making this trek, week-in, and week-out.

But while I knew my mind wasn’t right, I also felt embarrassed about the whole situation. What would my classmates say if they found out? Wouldn’t that revelation just make things worse?

So, I kept the whole routine a secret. I snuck off to the bus stop when no one was looking. And I would duck below the bus windows until it entered the park.

With the city skyline behind me and a canopy of trees in my midst, I could exhale.

Only then would I feel safe.

The early days were touch and go.

Steering a conversation with any 11-year-old — let alone a depressed one — is like herding cats. So, my therapist mostly asked me to talk about my life.

I suppose the idea was to provide me a release. To let the steam escape from the pressure cooker of my mind.

But I was filled with shame. I was ashamed that I sitting in a therapist’s office, while my classmates were off living normal lives.

The shame permeated. It was all I could think about. And so, I made little progress.

At some point, the topic of medication came up. It seemed to be a way out of my quagmire, so I was cautiously optimistic.

My therapist was more guarded. He told me the drugs would make me feel funny, and I needed to be ready for that.

I wasn’t.

I declined the medication and resigned myself to my new pattern of school and therapy.

The sessions eventually became routine — a messed up version of Groundhog’s Day. While I still yearned to be normal, I started to take a measure of solace in the repetition.

But then, things started to change.

I began to realize that I would need to find my own solutions. That I would need to identify the dark clouds on the horizon before they swallowed me whole.

So, I started working at it. I tossed ideas around in my therapy sessions, and I put them into practice. I took control of my emotions, rather than letting them control me.

By the time I was 13, I felt better. I was out of therapy, and I had a better grip on my life.

I tore through middle school and most of high school with a newfound burst of confidence. I tried new things. I made new friends.

But by the time I was 17, I felt those black clouds on the horizon again.

I knew what to do. I sought help.

Things were different this time. For one thing, I had a car. So, I didn’t have to slink away on a city bus to make my therapy sessions.

But beyond that, I had an agenda. I would come to each session full of questions and ideas. I would seek counsel more than treatment. I would aim to cure myself.

It took patience and persistence. But by the time I hit the home stretch of high school, I was out of therapy once again.

I’ve battled bouts of depression on occasion in the years since. But these days, I have the tools to fight through them on my own.

I am patient. I am resilient. And I am willing to be vulnerable.

Such traits have likely saved my life, many times over.

Fair to middlin’.

This phrase has a long legacy in the heartland.

When we’re fair to middlin’, we’re getting by. The outlook might not be the rosiest. But we’re surviving, day by day.

As I’ve navigated the choppy waters of depression throughout the years, I’ve come to embrace this philosophy.

Life might not be a picture-perfect postcard. And I might not be normal. But getting by is fine enough by me.

I’m more at peace than I used to be. And yet, a part of me will always be restless.

For I’m still trying to play detective. I’m still aiming to uncover precisely what sent things south when I was young.

There’s lots of research on both the Autism spectrum and introversion these days — much more than existed when I first encountered depression. I don’t know if these factors led to my issues, but I have my theories.

Still, while the roots of my ailment remain a mystery, my mission is crystal clear.

No longer can I hide my tribulations. There is no shame in sharing my story; on the contrary, the biggest danger is in keeping it silent.

There are others out there who are struggling now, just as I once was. I need to be there for them.

Especially now.

There is a silent epidemic sweeping our nation.

Much like the pathogen that’s turned our lives upside down, this epidemic can’t be seen by the human eye. But it can certainly be felt.

Forced isolation and economic stagnation might slow the spread of a deadly virus. But they also carry a heavy toll.

These practices separate us from two core pillars of society — social connections and breadwinning. When we lose the ability to share with others or earn our keep, we find ourselves lost and without hope. The dark clouds roll in.

There’s been a lot of talk about mental health recently. These have been tough times, and many are looking to make the discomfort go away.

I don’t think everyone discussing mental health concerns is battling depression. But there certainly are many who are.

Yes, some of these people will seek assistance, as I once had. And some will find the strength to claw their way out of the pit of despair, as I once did.

But banking on those outcomes across the board is reckless. There are still many in the throes of depression, who need our help to get out of the rut.

It’s on us to be there for them. It’s on us to listen to them. It’s on us to provide a guiding light.

Now more than ever.

Our mission is clear. Let’s make it happen.

Wealth vs. Fame

Absolute power corrupts absolutely.

How often have we heard this phrase?

And yet, we seem to have misconceptions about what it truly means.

On its face, this message is an edict that success is double-edged. It states that making it big means selling our soul. It tells us that who we are and who we want to be are forever incompatible.

Because once we attain a position of influence, our vantage point shifts. We conveniently forget what life was like before the climb.

All we see is our position on the summit. And we are determined to hold on to that spot.

We are immensely powerful. And we are thoroughly corrupted.

The prophecy fulfills itself.

And yet, the prophecy is a myth.

Across America, there is an uneasy divide.

This divide is Red States versus Blue States. It’s farmers in overalls versus Wall Street bankers in fancy suits. It’s bright city lights versus one-horse towns.

We have many ways to explain what forms this chasm. Political ideologies. Education systems. Community surroundings.

But I think there’s a better explanation.

I believe the fault lines form between those who aspire for influence and those who repel its grip.

For we are all aware of the perils of power. And we are cognizant of the unsavory ways it can transform us.

We’ve read the slogans. We’ve heard the cautionary tales.

And yet, some of us find ourselves drawn to power’s radiant glow, much like moths to a flame. All while others avoid it like the plague.

This explanation might seem crude. Rudimentary even. But it incorporates the great American X-factor: Mobility. It explains the rush of people heading to the big city to make their fortune. And it defines the counter-rush of city-dwellers heading to the suburbs for simpler living.

Our relationship to power flows both ways.

This leads to another question: What exactly is power?

It seems like a simple query at first. And yet, answers are lacking.

For power is an abstract concept, devoid of visualization.

There is no universal symbol, such as a sunburst for light or a heart for love. There are just the cultural vessels we have defined — in particular, wealth and fame.

Each of these vessels seem to fit the mold at first. Those who accumulate vast sums of money have plenty of options on how to spend it. Those bestowed with fame can bend fawning followers to their will.

And yet, one of them has proven far more corrosive than the other.

Greed is good.

This is the most iconic line from the 1987 movie Wall Street.

The film — and its antihero, Gordon Gecko — serves as a stark portrait of the ills of capitalism, wealth and fortune.

The implication is straightforward. Those who accumulate money will seek to double their returns at all costs, transforming from full-fledged members of society into sociopaths.

Sometimes, this portrait comes to life in horrifying detail. But not always.

There are more than 600 billionaires in the United States. Some of these names you know. But a bunch of others you probably don’t.

Why is that?

Could it be that our brains can only process so much information at once? Maybe.

But I think there’s more to it than that.

You see, some brash billionaires do put their name out there, letting their wallet or their ambitions inflate their ego. But many others resist such temptation. They try and live as anonymously as those with fewer commas on their balance sheets.

Sure, their clothes might be fancier than ours. And they might never know the struggle of living paycheck to paycheck. But they are far from the embodiment of Gordon Gecko.

In their case, greed is not good. In fact, greed is not part of the equation.

Fortune might not change everyone it touches.

But fame? Fame most certainly will.

We can lurk in the shadows, even with loads of cash in the bank. But once everyone knows our name, our lives are destined to profoundly change.

For fame is elusive. It can overtake us in an instant. But it doesn’t last for long.

The easy in, easy out nature of notoriety comes from our fragile attention spans. Humans are stimulated by novelty, and we seek it at every turn. Something that captivated us yesterday thoroughly bores us today.

These forces are wonderful news for those seeking to have their name in lights. They can help accelerate the rise to notoriety.

But once those people reach the pinnacle of fame, they’ll find those same forces working against them. The tide is rolling in. And the next big thing is charging full speed at them, ready to bury them alive.

No one who’s achieved such glamour wants to feel the humility of irrelevance. No one in this spot wants to see their star burn out.

And so, the newly-gilded fame-erati do what they can to hang on to their notoriety. They become belligerent. They pander. They toss aside rules of decorum.

And in the process, they lose every sense of who they were before the bright lights found them. They find themselves corrupted to the core.

One can still find balance when bestowed with great wealth. But fame? There is no redemption for fame.

I don’t aspire for wealth or fame.

Having enough to get by is sufficient for me. The virtues I espouse and the company I keep matter far more than any power or influence I might attain.

Yet, I feel confident that if I were to come into wealth, I would handle it appropriately. I would remain true to myself and to my values. I wouldn’t let my new net worth change my outlook.

Wealth isn’t enough to corrode the life I’ve built. But fame most certainly is.

I don’t feel like I’m all that different from others in this sense. I feel that most of us could take the mantle of fortune without evolving into monsters.

So, it’s time to dismantle the myth tethering power and corruption.

Notoriety might be doomed to the status of poison pill. But prosperity needn’t suffer the same fate.

Furry Home Companions

Her name was Zephyr.

She had a disarmingly friendly face, and she was covered in thick grey fur. She loved wagging her tail and laying on the linoleum kitchen floor.

She had a home. Our home.

Zephyr was the family dog, half Bearded Collie and half Samoyed. She was the first pet I ever shared a house with.

OK, that wasn’t entirely true. There was a cat named Purrseus in our home as well. Zephyr thought Purrseus was her puppy. She would endearingly cover him with dog slime, leaving the poor cat looking miserable time and again.

But while Purrseus merely tolerated my presence, Zephyr enjoyed it. She remained calm, even as she found herself in the crosshairs of my youthful energy. She never snapped at me, even when I would yank on her fur as a small child.

Later on, when my sister was a toddler, she would ride on Zephyr’s back, like a horse. This wasn’t any dog’s idea of fun, but Zephyr was a good sport nonetheless.

As winter approached, Zephyr was in her element. As my sister and I would make snowmen in the backyard, the dog would gleefully bound through the snow around us.

It wasn’t all rosy. Zephyr would occasionally get herself into trouble, getting sprayed by a skunk or bitten by an unruly German Shepherd. When visitors came through the front door, she would nearly bowl them over with excitement.

But generally, my memories of Zephyr give me the warm fuzzies. Right up until the end.

The end was on a warm summer day. My grandfather was at the house, watching my sister and me while my parents were out and about. He could tell that something was wrong when Zephyr didn’t greet him with enthusiasm like she normally did.

We found her in a corner of the living room. Her nose was warm and she was breathing heavily.

We rushed Zephyr to the animal hospital, where the veterinarians diagnosed her with an enlarged heart. She never made it home.

I was 9 years old at the time, and it was the first time I’d experienced loss. Seeing the struggle my sister and I were going through, my parents held a funeral for Zephyr in our backyard. We scattered her ashes amongst the flowerbeds. My grandfather even wrote a eulogy for our beloved pet.

Zephyr was gone. But she was certainly not forgotten.

The next several months were surreal.

When we opened the front door, no one came to greet us. The leash and the food bowl were stowed away. And my grandparents didn’t stay at the house to dog sit when we went out of town.

It all seemed odd. And yet, I wasn’t quite ready to fill the void.

Getting another pet seemed out of the question to me. It would be a sign that our dearly departed Bearded Collie/Samoyed mix wasn’t so special after all.

But I was one of four people in my household. And the other three couldn’t bear the sight of a quiet home.

So, we watched the Westminster Dog Show and quickly found ourselves enamored with Border Collies. We connected with a rescue organization and adopted Nellie.

Nellie was about a year old when we brought her home. But that first year of her life had been traumatic. She had been abused and abandoned. Animal services workers eventually found her wandering the streets near the airport.

She was still pretty traumatized in those first weeks with us. Border collies are normally an energetic breed. But Nellie would cower under the kitchen table whenever visitors came by. And we had to be extra vigilant when a door was open, in case she made a run for it.

But gradually, Nellie emerged from her shell. She started herding my sister around the yard by nipping at her heels. And it wasn’t long before Nellie was barking at cats, chasing squirrels and playing with tennis balls.

Nellie was a willful dog, and that sometimes rubbed me the wrong way. I was approaching adolescence, and I didn’t have the skills to properly engage with her. I yelled at that dog more times than she deserved — so much so that she soon avoided me.

But I learned the error of my ways and started treating Nellie better. I prepared her food and gave her far more kindness and attention.

Not long after my turnabout, I went off to college. But when I returned for holidays and semester breaks — Nellie was there to greet me. And that filled my heart.

I had come full circle.

Eventually, my college days wound down. When I graduated without a job offer in the wings, I moved back to my childhood home for a bit. My parents and sister went on vacation to Europe, and I was tasked with watching the dog.

For the next several weeks, my routine was simple. Wake up, fill Nellie’s food and water bowls, take her for a walk and apply for news jobs in faraway cities.

It was a stressful time. But the dog made good company.

And yet, I could tell something was different. Nellie moved slower than usual. And sometimes she would struggle to jump onto my parents’ bed, where she slept in their absence.

Nellie didn’t have all that long left. And I knew it.

I ultimately did accept a job offer during that time. And once my parents returned, I prepared to move to Texas to start my new life.

On the day I left town, I spent some extra time saying goodbye to Nellie. For I was certain I wouldn’t see her again.

No, my family pleaded. Don’t say that!

But it was true.

By the time I returned to visit a year later, Nellie was gone.

After Nellie passed, I wondered if things would be different for our family.

I was living thousands of miles away, and my sister was off in college. My parents had a busy lifestyle, and I figured they might just keep the house to themselves for a while.

Boy, was I wrong.

About a year after Nellie passed, my parents brought home a puppy named Juno. An Irish Jack Russell terrier, Juno’s far smaller than the family’s two previous dogs. And from the start, she was energetic, excitable and photogenic.

Juno is the first of the family’s dogs who wasn’t also my pet. So it was hard for me to miss some major changes in my parents’ behavior.

For one thing, they made a concerted effort to make sure the puppy could travel. My grandparents were getting older, and my parents didn’t want to hire a pet sitter every time they left town. The dog would have to be mobile.

But beyond the logistics, something else seemed out of sorts. Instead of asserting a sense of reserved affection, my parents seemed to treat Juno like a small child. They spoke to her in voices I hadn’t heard since my sister was young. They put toys and dog beds in every room. And they sent me dozens of puppy pictures.

I couldn’t quite figure out why my parents were acting this way. Was this a reversion to earlier years in the house, as they stared down life as empty nesters? Were they longing for grandchildren and doting on the dog as a distraction? Had Juno’s cuteness simply disarmed them, wiping away two decades of dog ownership habits?

From afar, I oscillated between these three theories, never quite sure which one fit best. But before I could solve the puzzle, everything changed.

About four years after adopting Juno, my parents sold my childhood home. They, the dog, my sister and my grandmother moved into an apartment in the big city.

My parents were no longer empty nesters, and there were 100 different things to distract their attention from the dog.

And yet, they doted on Juno even more than before. They found creative ways to take her around town. And they planned dog-friendly excursions outside of the city.

By now, it was clear to me this behavior wasn’t a reaction. It was who my parents were. It was a side of them that had been there all along — but one that they hadn’t previously embraced.

And so, I let go of my discomfort. I embraced the stream of dog photos. I asked about Juno on our weekly phone calls. I went on late night walks with my father and her whenever I visited.

It took me a while. But I finally got it.

I don’t own any pets.

I’m too much of a neat freak to deal with pet hair. I don’t like picking up animal droppings. And I don’t want to have to go through the hassle of finding a sitter every time I leave town.

But growing up with furry home companions has left an indelible mark on my life. I’ve learned patience and practiced responsibility. I’ve found kinship and purpose. I’ve encountered the heights of joy and the depths of grief.

That is something truly special. But it needn’t be unique.

We can learn from the dogs and cats that are so prevalent in our lives. Whether we are taking care of our own pets or crossing paths with those of our neighbors, we can cherish that special bond between humans and animals. And we can heed the valuable life lessons such a connection brings.

I miss Zephyr and Nellie. And I miss Juno as well during my long stretches away from her. But I will always cherish my time with them, and its effect on me.

That is a gift without comparison.

Gratitude Through Adversity

Counting our blessings.

It’s something we’re quite good at.

Perhaps it’s because we’re naturally introspective. Or perhaps it’s because we’re obsessed with keeping score.

Either way, we don’t pass up an opportunity to enumerate all that we’ve been given. Instead, we stockpile our gratitude, as if it’s a pile of gold coins in our dragon lair.

This pattern gains gravitas as the leaves fall from the trees and the winter chill sets in. It becomes unavoidable as a holiday designated for this purpose beckons.

So, we dive deep into gratefulness. We obsess over what we’ve been blessed with over the past year. And we go into overdrive to show our appreciation.

In most times, this is a harmless exercise. A healthy one, even.

But in extraordinary times, that foundation can shift.

It’s OK to not be OK.

This refrain has gained popularity in recent years, as our society has taken a fresh look at mental health.

Generally, this message is intended for those who’ve suffered psychological trauma. It’s for anyone who might be reckoning with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder — or PTSD.

Perhaps these PTSD victims witnessed a horrifying event, such as a car crash or the 9/11 attacks. Or perhaps they had been deployed to a combat zone and ended up bringing those horrors home. Either way, their realities were likely filled with dark thoughts.

The idea behind It’s OK to not be OK is that fitting in needn’t be a primary objective. Mainstream society might have its norms and expectations. But most people who make up that society don’t have the harrowing perspective that PTSD victims do. By forcing those victims to bury their emotions and conform with society, we are placing an undue burden upon them.

I’ve long recognized the importance of this idea. And yet, I can’t fully square with it.

For I haven’t experienced enough trauma firsthand for it to apply to me. And while I’ve faced many challenges throughout my life, I’ve been reluctant to apply such a mantra to them.

These bumps in the road have been setbacks, not traumas. And I’ve long maintained that the best way to respond to a setback is to plow ahead with conviction.

So, I’ve buried my discontent at the challenges I’ve faced. I’ve shaken off my disappointments. I’ve moved on.

Many others in this position have done the same. After all, America is the land of hard knocks. It is the heartland of perseverance through challenges.

This spirit goes back to the nation’s earliest years — when settlers faced lethal dangers on their journey west. It gained steam as immigrants flowed into Ellis Island, arriving destitute and devoid of protection. And it continues today, as the entrepreneurial movement reaches a fever pitch.

Picking ourselves up and dusting ourselves off has been the American way for eons.

And yet, it might be time to rethink all of that.

As I write these words, America is enduring a moment without comparison.

In less than 10 months, the nation has confronted a pandemic, a recession, a racial justice reckoning, a contentious Presidential election, and a swath of natural disasters. All of these events have hit this nation in years past. But they’ve never struck simultaneously.

In the wake of all this turmoil, a new narrative has taken hold. One that splits our society between the fortunate and the snakebit.

The idea comes from the fact that many have lost something in all of this. Loved ones, jobs, homes, dignity, sense of identity — all of these have been ripped away in an instant.

And yet, these horrors haven’t been evenly distributed. For some, the biggest departure from “normal life” has been the requirement that they wear face masks when outside their homes.

This group has kept their incomes, their health, and their joie de vivre. If not for a few visuals — such as those masks — it might seem as if nothing had changed from the days before the virus reached our shores.

Under normal Rules of Engagement for Americana, the next steps should be clear. Those ravaged by the moment should dust themselves off and get back on the horse. Those unaffected by it should proceed with business as usual.

But these are not normal times. The prospect of a socially distanced holiday season should make that painfully clear.

It’s time we recognize the cloud hanging over us all. And it’s time we throw out the old playbook.

In the eye of the storm, gratitude can seem irrelevant.

As we batten down the hatches, we’ve got little time to savor the ride. Survival is paramount.

But we’ve been riding the storm for months now. And as the season of reflection and renewal fast approaches, it’s time to face the truths we’ve long been avoiding.

First, this ordeal is affecting all of us, whether we want to admit it or not. Yes, the harm is not evenly distributed — and for some, the shadow of this moment will linger eternally. But no one is free and clear from the blast. We all have the right to remove the cloak of invincibility and be human.

Second, we have much to appreciate. The world might look drastically different, but the hallmarks of community and grace remain. Even in the darkest and most uncertain of times, we find the strength and ingenuity to pull each other through. That should not be taken for granted.

And third, gratefulness is not a competitive sport. We shouldn’t feel pressure to wear on our sleeves the blessings we feel in our hearts. Life is messy and emotions are complicated. It’s best if we leave some runway for each of us to deal with such complexity in the manner that best suits us. Judgment gets us nowhere.

If we can come to terms with these truths, we might encounter some levity. We might rekindle the spirit that generally dominates the tail-end of the calendar. We just might find ourselves again.

Times may be tough, and joy might be in short supply. But all is not lost.

Let us never forget that.

Shovel In The Road

I was driving down a Texas highway when a shovel suddenly appeared in the roadway in front of me.

This shovel was no pithy digging tool. It was a monster of forged metal. And it was a problem.

I had no idea why it was there. All I knew was it was in my way, and I was running out of time to avoid disaster.

My first instinct was to swerve. But I quickly remembered that veering out of my lane too quickly could cause the car to flip over. So, I made a more gradual shift to the highway shoulder on my right.

The maneuver went well — at first. In an instant, the solid white line marking the right edge of the highway was in front of me. Then, the concrete shoulder appeared, with no shovel in sight.

But a split-second later, I saw something else through the windshield. Green grass.

I had overshot the shoulder, and my car was now careening down an embankment.

I tried frantically to turn back to the road and to avoid getting stuck in the ditch. I tugged the wheel to the left. I pressed harder and harder on the brakes. But gravity and momentum were not cooperating.

When the car finally did come to a stop, it was at the bottom of the embankment. It was facing the wrong way, mere feet from the retaining wall.

I unbuckled my seat belt, opened the door, and did a walkaround, looking for any sign of damage. It looked like I had done one of those NASCAR burnouts, with semicircular tire track patterns in the embankment and green blades of grass sticking to the sides of my car. But somehow, the vehicle was intact.

I wandered up toward the highway to get a better view of what I had just endured. The shovel was quite a distance up the road from where I had ended up. That meant I was out of the line of fire, even if the hunk of metal was to go flying.

I started thinking about how that shovel ended up in the road.

There were a couple of possibilities.

I had been driving behind a pickup stocked with landscaping tools. Maybe those tools hadn’t been properly secured, and the shovel had slid off the back.

Or maybe the workers in the left lane, protected by orange construction cones, had been careless. Maybe a lapse in judgment had sent the shovel from their workstation into traffic.

Either answer seems far-fetched in hindsight. But at the moment of truth, each seemed likely. And I was in no mood to let them go unaddressed.

The landscaping truck was two miles down the road by now. It was too late to track it down.

But the construction crew? All that separated me from them was the highway blacktop.

I glared in their direction.

Hey! I yelled at the workers. Y’all left a shovel in the lane over there! Y’all could have gotten me killed!

The crewmembers stared at me in bewilderment for a moment. Then they got back to work. My attempt to give them a piece of my mind had come up empty.

Dejected, I got back in my car and drove up the embankment. But as I got back onto the highway, I felt a strange sensation.

Irony.

I am a completionist.

I believe that nothing is worth celebrating unless it’s finished. And that a work in progress is nothing more than a jumbled mess.

Some may confuse these sentiments with perfectionism. But there are some key differences.

Perfectionists worry about whether a job is done flawlessly. Completionists worry if the job is done, period.

There are issues with both philosophies. Perfect can be the enemy of done. And done can be the enemy of satisfactory — if the urge to clear our to-do lists supersedes common sense.

Even so, I err on the side of completionism. The chaos of a project in process leaves a sour taste in my mouth — even though I recognize that the mess of change is often drawn-out by necessity.

I want to avoid this outcome at all costs. So, I use my discomfort as fuel to get the job done.

This ethos is what’s stoked my intense work ethic. It’s why I log extra hours to make sure assignments don’t bleed into the next day. It’s why I tune out the noise and focus religiously on the task at hand.

Others have asked why I drive myself into the ground like this, day after day. And I’ve generally responded to these inquiries with a proverb.

Don’t leave a shovel in the road.

For years, this had been nothing more than a figure of speech. But not anymore.

Now, I had gotten up close and personal with an actual shovel in the road.

I had seen the dangers. I had felt the risk.

And I didn’t like it one bit.

Half-measures are having a moment like never before.

As the world reckons with everything from pandemics to natural disasters, less and less feels guaranteed.

And with tomorrow more uncertain than ever before, we are putting less effort into sorting out today.

The urge to finish what we started seems to be waning. For what good is the feeling of a job well done when our lives are upside down? Better to do only what’s needed to get through the day, the week, the month. And then to clean up the mess once the dust settles.

At least that’s the way that many see our present predicament.

I understand this sentiment. I too have sometimes struggled to maintain motivation at a time when normal is becoming a faded memory.

But we need to fight through our malaise.

For danger lies beneath the fog of the moment. The danger that leaving a mess can bring.

And we’d really rather not come face-to-face with it.

We don’t want to relive my nightmare from that Texas highway. We don’t want to end up careening down the embankment, veering from one near-disaster to another.

So, we have an obligation not to leave the shovel in the road. We have a responsibility to tidy up.

In both good times and bad, we must be good stewards for ourselves and our neighbors. We must do our part to make the world a safer and more vibrant place.

Let’s keep our eyes on the prize. Let’s finish what we started.

Let’s get that shovel out of the road.

On Sacrifice

He was 17 years old.

He had never been on an airplane — or even a long train ride — before. All he knew of the world beyond the horizon came from newspaper columns, radio bulletins, and the names on the visiting team’s baseball jerseys.

But despite all that, my grandfather felt compelled. Compelled to sacrifice the only existence he had ever known, in order to protect his country.

It was 1945. The world had been at war for 6 years. The United States was avenging the Japanese attacks on Pearl Harbor, all while rebuking the atrocities of fascism in Europe.

My grandfather was a boy when the conflict started. But as he neared adulthood, the casualties were still mounting and the outcome of the war was still uncertain. So, he thrust himself into the fray and volunteered for the United States Navy.

His service obligations would take him westward, to Illinois and California. And while a freak injury kept him from combat in the Pacific theater, my grandfather still had to adapt to a new reality.

In the service, my grandfather’s clothes consisted of his Naval uniform. His bed was a simple bunk. Rules of decorum were paramount — salute senior officers, follow orders, and defend the base at all times.

Later in life, my grandfather would speak fondly of those days. Life in the Navy wasn’t always as vibrant and free as civilian life. But he never doubted his decision to join its ranks.

In his mind, the sacrifice was justified.

My grandfather’s tale of sacrifice is hardly unique. Similar tales have been told throughout our nation’s history.

In the earliest days, farmers abandoned their fields to take up arms against the Redcoats — even as capture meant certain death. Decades later, as a Civil War enveloped the country, entire communities rushed to the battlefields and the carnage that awaited them there.

Even in modern times, scores of young Americans have voluntarily uprooted themselves — trading the familiar lifestyle of their hometown for a tour of duty in a faraway conflict. It’s a calling as sacred today as it was centuries ago.

As a nation, we give lip service to these sacrifices. We honor active duty service members with standing ovations at sports events, and with discounts on cars and homes. We have a holiday each November for our veterans, along with myriad parades in their honor.

But many of us don’t understand the totality of the sacrifices these brave men and women make.

How could we? We have no reference point for the experience.

Or at least we haven’t thus far.

As I write these words, a pandemic is afflicting the world.

The pandemic is not a war. At least not in a traditional sense.

The objective of this struggle is not to kill each other or claim territory. Instead, we are trying to repel a common enemy. A microscopic virus that has claimed more than a million lives worldwide in less than a year.

In different corners of the globe, the fight has taken different shapes. Some nations have imposed harsh lockdowns. Others have restricted activities that help spread the virus. And still others have abdicated responsibility entirely.

The United States has been hardest hit by the pandemic, with nearly 10 percent of global cases and one-fifth of all deaths. Early initiatives to fend off the threat have given way to partisanship, impatience and anger. And while we’ve bickered, the virus has continued spread devastation.

We are in crisis. And in the midst of the crisis, we find ourselves making profound sacrifices.

We have no choice in the matter. Even if we want to live our lives as normal — pretending the pandemic isn’t raging all around us — we cannot. The businesses we rely on look different, with reduced capacities and mask mandates in place. Many schools are closed, and many jobs are furloughed.

There are many drivers behind these shifts — health safety, economic reality, and buffers against litigation. Regardless of the reason, they’ve required us to change our ways.

This has not been easy to deal with. Many of us cherished the life we had before the virus ripped it from us. Even if we didn’t, the pandemic hasn’t exactly provided us a rosier alternative.

For we are social beings, stimulated by interaction and anchored in tradition. The virus has threatened these pillars of our existence, and pivoting away from them is difficult.

The longer this drags on, the more we come to understand the sacrifices of our military. We might not face the acute risks of combat. But we are now well-versed with the sensation of being far from home.

Thank you.

These are two simple words. But they can speak volumes.

Whenever I speak with a military member — whether active duty or veteran — I show my appreciation. I know that they are making profound sacrifices to protect our nation, and everything it stands for. And I am grateful for it.

I am not alone in this sentiment. But it hasn’t always been this way.

In the time between my grandfather’s Naval service and my own existence, many Americans turned on the military. Veterans of the Vietnam War found themselves spat upon and branded as baby killers upon their return home. And that sentiment was never fully extinguished.

I’ve never quite understood this vitriol. I’ve never quite reconciled the desire to demonize those who protect us.

Perhaps this is true because I grew up in the shadow of the Cold War. Or perhaps it’s the case because I vividly remember the 9/11 attacks. But either way, I could never imagine turning on those who serve. It’s a bridge too far.

So now, I wonder if this pandemic experience will change us for the better. I wonder if this prolonged period of sacrifice has opened our eyes to what others have for so long given up. And I wonder if we can look upon those choices with dignity, rather than disdain. With empathy rather than anger.

I certainly hope that is the case.

Those who sacrifice on our behalf deserve the formal recognition, the holidays, the pomp and circumstance. But most of all, they deserve our respect and gratitude. They deserve to be told that what they do matters.

So, let’s honor their sacrifices. Today and forever.

Enfranchised

I stood in line, outside of a palm-lined church.

It was early in the morning, on a Tuesday in Florida. And I was preparing to take part in an election.

As I waited for the opportunity to cast my ballot, a strange feeling came over me.

I was a first-time voter. I hadn’t been old enough to vote in prior federal elections, so I had never experienced any of this firsthand.

Now, I was about to make a consequential decision. One of the most consequential of my life to date.

I was about to have my say over who would be the next President of the United States.

The line started to move. Moments later, I was handing a poll worker my voter registration card. And then I was in a booth, my ballot in front of me, and the moment of truth at hand.

What would my next move be?

I am a planner.

Like an expert chess player, I am always thinking two or three steps ahead. I am always seeking to avoid surprises.

So, as I embarked on my first voting journey, I had already done my homework.

I had followed the news coverage of the race. I had checked out the candidates’ websites. And I’d attended rallies for each of them — one of the benefits of attending college in a major city in a swing state.

Yet, none of it made the decision any less clear to me.

With the incumbent U.S. President facing term limits, each candidate would be new to the role. Plus, they would be taking the helm during the worst economic recession in a generation.

I found each intriguing in different ways. But I wondered how well their campaign slogans would hold up in the face of our nation’s bleak reality.

There were no easy answers. And so, as I stood in the voting booth that November morning, I agonized over my decision.

What if I made the wrong choice? What would that decision say about me?

I could feel the gravity of the moment crushing me. But as the pressure mounted, a voice in my head urged me to take a step back. To lift my gaze from the names on the paper and to think of the bigger picture.

For this moment was special.

Never again would I have the luxury of making a choice like this with no track record. Never again would I be free to decide without the crushing weight of precedent. Never again would I be a blank slate.

Remember this moment, I told myself. Cherish it.

After a few moments of hemming and hawing, I made my choice. I filled out the remainder of the ballot, submitted it, and left the polling place.

On the short walk home, I kept replaying the prior moments in my mind. How would I explain my choice to others who asked about it?

I didn’t have to wait long to find the answers.

Once I made it back to the house, I fixed up some breakfast. As I did, one of my housemates walked into the kitchen. He noticed my I voted sticker and asked me who I chose to be the next President.

I gave my answer, and he followed up with another question: Why?

I like the platform the other guy was running on, I replied. I do. But I just don’t trust him to get it done.

My housemate listened intently. He was not an American citizen, and thus would not be voting. This interaction would be the closest he got to the election.

He was the perfect person to spill the beans to regarding my choice. He had no skin in the game and no prejudice.

The conversation loosened me up. Whether my ideology was being fossilized or cognitive dissonance was setting in, I don’t know. But I felt more confident in my decision than ever. I knew I had made the right choice.

Later that evening, I stared at the television in disbelief. “The other guy” — the one who I thought was too ambitious to succeed — had won the White House.

My vote had come up short.

I stared at the image on the screen, the one that read President-Elect Barack Obama. It didn’t seem real.

But as I mused about what the months and years ahead would look like, I didn’t sulk or despair. I remained hopeful.

Change was coming. And while I might not have selected the particular brand of change, it was still an electrifying moment.

Then, there was the lineage aspect. Barack Obama would be the first Black president in United States history.

I thought immediately of my grandfather. He was likely sitting in his easy chair, about 1300 miles north of me, at that moment.

My grandfather had seen a lot in his eight decades of life. But while he had voted in 14 elections before, he had never experienced development like this. It was as new for him as it was for me.

My sense of shock was replaced by one of awe. A simple process — standing in line and casting a ballot — had consequences that were truly profound.

There are few more precious rights in America than that of the franchise.

Our nation operates under the charter of freedom. Of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

And central to that charter is the ability to choose. We can decide where to live. We can decide how to earn our keep. And we can decide who can represent us in government.

Of course, not all of us have had this ability over the years. Women and ethnic minorities have infamously only had the power of the vote for about a century or less. But these days, the biggest thing stopping us from voting is ourselves.

Politics have roiled us, divided us, and stigmatized us in recent years. We’ve come to view political parties as if they were rival football teams, instead of two components of a common goal. And those stakes have made Election Day more frightening to many than the Halloween holiday that precedes it.

But while our cultural fragmentations have made elections fraught, they are still critical. The mandate of our charter of freedom is still intact. And it’s up to us to fight through the angst and fulfill our obligations.

Doing what is uncomfortable is never easy. But perhaps, a change of perspective can help. By taking our mind off the consequences of the task at hand — and instead, taking a wider view — we might find all the motivation we need to get the job done.

So, let’s recapture the wonder of voting. Let’s harken back to that feeling we had the first time we stood at the polling place.

The awe. The power. The goosebumps. Let’s summon those once again.

The act of voting matters as much as the choices we make. Let’s make sure it matters to us.

Five

It started with a tremble, and a rush.

It was October 2015, and I was about to put myself out there in a way I never had before.

I had set up a website. And now, I was ready to post my first article there, for all the world to see.

Well, not entirely ready.

I knew that once I hit Publish, there would be no turning back. Anyone could read my words. And my sense of anonymity would be gone.

That might not seem like a big deal to many. But for me, it would be a watershed moment. And I wasn’t about to rush into it.

So, I checked the site to make sure everything was perfect. I took a deep breath. And with a tremble of anticipation and a rush of adrenaline, I clicked that Publish button.

My first article on Words of the West was titled I Am Not Perfect. It was a raw ode to my own imperfection. More poetry than anything of substance.

Publishing it felt like a big first step. But that step only matters if there are more to follow.

So, I sat down that night and committed to a schedule. I’d write a new article each week moving forward, no matter what.

I’d like to say that decision changed everything. But it didn’t. At least not initially.

Indeed, there was more art than wisdom in the articles that followed. My writing remained short and punchy. Easily read and easily forgotten.

It wasn’t until my sixth article that I really wrote anything of note — Darkness In The Light, my firsthand account of the 9/11 attacks. The words flowed from my mind to my fingers and on to the keyboard. And as they did, the emotions spilled out of me.

Experiences like this were why I had taken the leap to create Words of the West. This article was something I had longed to share with the world for years. Now, I finally had the platform — and the courage — to give this story the light of day.

This was the type of writing I needed to replicate. This was my North Star.

But, there are only so many profound, emotional experiences in my life. Turning them into articles week in and week out would be an untenable challenge.

And so, less than two months into my venture, I found myself at a crossroads.

As I determined what to do next, I thought of the renowned marketing guru Seth Godin. Seth maintains a daily blog, and he has posted something fresh there each day for a number of years. Some are more profound than others. But they are there, every day.

Seth is a teacher at heart, and he is open with his writing process. Much of his modus operandi comes down to three words: Ship your work.

In other words, stick to your schedule. The doing is more important than the perfecting.

This advice was all I needed to move forward. I leaned in, and let the articles flow.

At first, this seemed like a step back. The articles that directly followed Darkness In The Light were the same vanilla material that had existed before it.

But eventually, the writing got lengthier. It got stronger. It got more nuanced.

Over time, I found my voice.

This article is coming to you exactly five years after I Am Not Perfect first appeared on this website. It is the 262^nd piece of writing I am sharing with you — all in consecutive weeks.

That’s quite the streak. One that I’ve kept going despite a number of disruptions in my life over those 262 weeks.

I persevered because the streak matters. Words of the West matters. You, my dear readers, matter.

On tough weeks, you keep me motivated. On good ones, you keep me inspired. And that motivation, that inspiration — it’s what keeps me going.

The engine is always churning. There are always more thoughts to be shared. There is always more that can be written.

The words I write might not always be finely polished. The thoughts I share might not always be agreeable.

They’re raw and they’re real. And collectively, they matter.

Yes, these five years of articles are more than the conglomeration of 262 narratives. They’re the first segment of a long and fulfilling journey.

It’s fitting that I speak of journeys as Words of the West turns five.

For not long after I turned five, my family went on our first journey.

One summer day, my parents buckled my sister and I into the back seat of a sedan. They loaded the car with supplies. And they steered the car toward Maine.

Over the next few weeks, we would explore lighthouses along jagged coastlines. We would hike in the serene wilderness Acadia National Park. We would eat copious amounts of lobster. And we would camp under the stars.

Decades later, I still remember this trip in vivid detail. But the journey that came before it — the early years of my life — the memories of that are a lot blurrier.

This is understandable.

Our brains are still developing in our infancy and toddlerhood. We spend that time soaking up experience like a sponge.

It’s only after we build that database that our memory becomes sticky. Only then do we have a frame of reference to build off of.

Perhaps the same principle applies to Words of the West. After all, the world has seen a dizzying array of change over the past half-decade — from social unrest to environmental disasters to a pandemic-fueled recession. These shifts have permanently transformed us, altering our frame of reference.

Recounting all this might seem distressing. Yet, I find a strange comfort in this theory.

For it shows that everything is a work in progress — both the author’s work and the reader’s perspective. It shows that we all have room to grow. And it shows that there is still a mission to follow.

It’s my great privilege to continue that mission. And it’s my great honor to have you along for the ride.

Here’s to all that lies ahead.

The Confidence Conundrum

No chance.

How many times have you heard this retort, when you brought up something you thought would happen? And how many times have those doubts led you to question your own beliefs?

Probably more than once.

Skepticism has a powerful pull over us. It helps us stay in line with reality, and aligns our expectations with those of society.

As communal creatures, we are hard-wired to heed these warnings. They keep us from straying too far from the pack. They shield us from danger.

And yet, we lose quite a bit in this exchange. The principles of creativity, exploration and self-conviction all go by the wayside. Our toolkit for handling adversity is emaciated.

How do we take back our individualism without finding ourselves lost in the wilderness? And how can we summon the courage to explore new frontiers without paying a heavy price for doing so?

Such crossroads make up the Confidence Conundrum.

I am a man of faith.

Not in the way you might expect. I do believe in God, but you’re not likely to find me in a house of worship as the week winds down.

No, I am a man of great faith in myself. I believe that I will achieve and persevere.

Such self-belief has been critical throughout my life. It’s helped me navigate both adolescence and adulthood. And it’s helped me rebound from the setbacks I encountered along the way.

But such faith is not completely unbridled. There have been plenty of moments that have given me trepidation.

Some of these moments — such as the start of a new job — make many of us queasy. Others — such as moving to a new apartment or assembling furniture — are less prevalent concerns.

The situations that give me pause might seem disparate. Random even.

But they have one thing in common. They represent moments of rapid change.

I don’t do well with quick transitions. I rely heavily on precedent and routine to guide my actions. And when normalcy gets uprooted, it’s as if the rug was pulled out from under me.

So, I slow the pace when the winds of change hit. Instead of blasting blindly into the unknown, I let the dust settle before making my move.

It’s a pattern that’s worked well for me. But it’s not exactly a commonly espoused one.

There are a few places we know to expect the unexpected. Where the improbable becomes plausible.

This happens with Disney movies. It happens with the Texas weather. And it happens with the world of sports.

Sports encompasses a world of matchups. Of head to head competition. Of the victors and the vanquished.

The binary nature of sports can tempt us to handicap. To assess the match ahead of time and make our predictions.

Anyone who has donned fancy clothes to attend a horse race, tuned in to a two-hour football pregame show or placed a wager at a sportsbook knows how prevalent this practice is.

We prognosticate so that we can get a handle on what’s coming. We predict so that our emotions are primed for what we are to experience.

And we use a bevy of information for this process. Advanced statistics. Detailed strategic analyses. Even physical attributes, such as the size of the athletes.

The predictions we garner from all this information do come to pass — some of the time. But not always.

There are plenty of upset victories in sports. There are countless instances where the team or competitor deemed too small, too inexperienced or too talent-deficient comes out on top.

Why does this keep happening? How have we not learned from our errors by now?

The answer is intangible. It comes down to the one measure we can’t measure: Confidence.

Athletes believe in themselves. They draw on their experience and ability to give themselves a competitive edge. They’re not focused on the might of their opponents or anything else outside their own orbit. They’re honed in on what they can do when given an opportunity.

Sometimes that confidence can prove to be misguided. I once attended a high school football game in West Texas where the kids on the hometown team were half the size of their opponents. I could see that the home team believed in themselves despite the size disadvantage. And they did indeed hang tough for a bit. But the final score was still lopsided in favor of the other team.

Still, there are plenty of times when that confidence gives an athlete or team all the edge they need. When that self-belie is the slingshot David needs to slay Goliath.

It’s what we love about sports. Unless, of course, our team is the one bested by the plucky upstart.

Talent only takes you so far. Belief is everything.

Simple choices.

As the world gets more nuanced, we seem to want these more than ever.

So, we delude ourselves. We look for examples of binary decisions and foist them upon our complex world.

Sports is Exhibit A of this.

Think about how many sports terms are now part of our everyday vernacular.

Swinging for the fences. Playing hardball. Three strikes and you’re out.

And that’s just baseball.

We love to use these terms. They’re catchy and they flow well.

But they really don’t work the same outside the lines.

This is particularly the case when it comes to confidence. It’s tempting to tell ourselves that if athletes can keep the faith in all circumstances, we can too.

But this is a critical error.

In sports, victory is all that’s on the line. Athletes are simply looking for the chance to be better than someone else at a particular feat.

In other words, the floor is high. Professional athletes will get paid, win or lose. The worst outcome they might face (outside of injury) is that their season will end before someone else can hoist a trophy.

Even amateur competitors likely won’t see the bottom drop out. Their worst outcome is the dashing of their professional athletic dreams. And even if that happens, they walk away with an advanced degree in leadership, teamwork and preparation.

So, there’s really no reason for athletes not to be confident. In the grand scheme of things, what’s on the line isn’t all that dire.

The same can’t be said for all of us in the world outside of sports. If we walk into a situation we’re ill-equipped to handle, armed only with a dose of self-belief, we risk it all. We could end up delegitimized, destitute and devoid of hope.

Then again, self-doubt is also insidious. If we don’t believe in ourselves at all, we punt on our potential and cede control of our destiny.

This is a puzzle of the highest order. A quandary we can’t afford to sidestep.

It’s imperative that we recognize this conundrum for what it is. And that we strategize accordingly.

That strategy can take many forms. Some may do as I do, and pick certain spots in which to be cautious. Others may keep their sense confidence close to the vest, believing in themselves without letting the world know it.

But regardless, we must identify The Confidence Conundrum. And we must come to terms with it.

The stakes are simply too high to do otherwise.

Author: Dylan Brooks