Author: Dylan Brooks

My life is guided by three attributes: Humility, Grace and Passion. I’m continually driven to help make the world a better place, but I also know the importance of putting others first; the success and happiness of those around me gives me fulfillment.

Losing the Thread

Early on the morning of June 6, 1944, allied forces converged on the beaches of Normandy.

As they emerged from the English Channel, Nazi forces opened fire from higher ground. A bruising battle ensued.

Ultimately, the Allies prevailed. That victory helped turn the tide of World War II.

The Normandy invasion is known as D-Day. And when I was young, there were plenty of ceremonies honoring the veterans who risked everything to make it happen.

These tributes were noble. They were honorable. And I wanted no part of them.

Why would I?

After all, I was a kid living in peacetime modernity. I’d never been to the shores of France, or any shores other than those of my own country.

Plus, June 6th was at the start of summer. My mind was fixated on going to the beach, building a sandcastle, and letting the ocean waves cool me down.

I had no frame of reference for why D-Day was worth pausing my summer festivities for.

I was losing the thread — and fast.

On September 21, 2001, I walked up to a police checkpoint with my father.

I showed a police officer my school ID, while my father pulled his driver’s license out of his wallet.

The officer looked each document over carefully, before ushering us past the barricade.

We proceeded to walk a mile down eerily quiet streets before reaching Ground Zero.

Eleven days earlier, Ground Zero had been known as the World Trade Center in New York City. Twin skyscrapers that dominated the skyline.

Now, in the wake of the September 11th attacks, those towers were reduced to rubble. A mess of twisted steel, ash, and debris lay in the area, measuring roughly 60 feet high.

My father and I were required to stay a block away from the rubble. Recovery efforts were still ongoing, and civilians weren’t to be part of that initiative.

Even still, the sight of that twisted steel was jarring enough to haunt me forever. As was the coating of dust on a scaffold support my father touched. It was inches thick.

That scene reinforced just how much my life had changed. I’d been adjacent to the horrors of September 11th as they occurred – close enough to sense my own demise. Yet, I was still 7 miles from the towers, relying on hearsay and TV news for information of what had transpired.

Now, it was all too real. An area that had seemed familiar weeks earlier now looked like a foreign war zone.

It didn’t matter what hoops I’d need to jump through to enter a building or board an airplane moving forward. I’d happily run through the security ringer to avoid seeing something like this ever again.

I was never losing this thread.

It’s been a generation since the September 11th attacks. And it’s been five generations since D-Day.

And with that passage of time has come a sense of detachment.

Many young adults fail to take security at buildings or transportation venues as seriously as I do. They view it all as a wasteful hassle. An unneeded expense for an imaginary threat that may never transpire.

This viewpoint alone is troublesome. But the dissonance goes deeper than that.

Some have taken it upon themselves to attempt assassinations of prominent figures, to openly support enemies of our nation, or even to espouse Nazi ideologies. Indeed, extremism has emerged from the shadows on all sides of the ideological spectrum, with devastating consequences.

Many pundits have blamed our polarized society for these developments. Others have pointed to the whiplash of a pandemic, racial reckoning, and inflationary crisis in quick succession.

Those might be accelerants, much like gasoline on a blaze. But they’re hardly the initial spark.

No.

Losing the thread is what’s to blame. Plain and simple.

When we get too far from the nightmares of yesterday, we find it all too easy ignore their lessons. We wander aimlessly past the washed-out guardrails of decency and common sense. And we revisit the darker corners of our humanity.

The world becomes a more chaotic and confrontational place. The door is open to danger. And then next nightmare is suddenly upon us.

It’s a tragic inevitability. Or is it?

There’s a picture on my wall at home. It’s in black and white, and it features 124 corpsmen of the United States Navy.

There in the front row, two to the left of the flagbearer, is my grandfather.

The photo is postmarked March 8, 1945. U.S. Naval Training Center. Great Lakes, Illinois. It was two weeks after my grandfather’s 18th birthday.

History books would later note that World War II was in its final stages at this time. But as my fresh-faced grandfather wrapped up basic training, he didn’t know that. No one did.

It would be nearly two more months until Adolf Hitler killed himself in a bunker near Berlin. Another three months would pass before Hiroshima was obliterated by an atomic bomb.

As my grandfather shipped off to a base in California, he was preparing to put his life on the line.

That never transpired.

A foot injury in the barracks kept my grandfather from seeing combat. And the subsequent surrender of the Axis powers led my grandfather to complete his military service in the earliest days of postwar peace.

And yet, years later, my grandfather was unequivocal about why he joined the Navy. And he made clear to me that he’d have made the same decision 10 times out of 10.

My grandfather pointed out that he loved America and hated Fascism. The last thing he wanted to see was a Mussolini or Hitler reigning over our shores.

The horrors of the Holocaust – made evident to much of America after Hitler’s death – only strengthened my grandfather’s resolve. As a first generation American, he found ethnic cleansing to be particularly abhorrent.

I took in this wisdom wholeheartedly. And because of it, I started to pay D-Day a bit more mind.

I read up on the invasion. I white-knuckled through the opening scene from the movie Saving Private Ryan. And I started acknowledging the tributes to the aging veterans in my midst.

The cost of forgetting had been made clear to me. And I wasn’t about to pay that toll.

Deep down, I think that’s what drives me to keep remembering the aftermath of September 11th.

Yes, the trauma of that attack still impacts me – and it probably always will. But as time goes on, and many born after that fateful day grow up, the power of Never Forget fades. And the risks of reprisal accelerate.

My mission is to help prevent that. To keep us from losing the thread even more than we already have.

But it takes more than my best effort.

It’s on all of us who have been through tribulations to share our stories. To keep those bright stars of tomorrow from backsliding into the failings of yesterday.

This process is inconvenient, even painful. But it’s necessary.

For without the thread of history, our society is destined to wind up lost.

Let’s get back on the map again.

The Limits of Openness

The Library of Alexandria.

It was one of the first great wonders of the world.

An impressive structure overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, the library housed a great deal of the world’s written knowledge – all accumulated in the shadow of Alexander the Great’s empire.

For roughly two centuries, hundreds of thousands of works sat within its walls. But then, the Romans besieged Alexandria. And during the mayhem, the library burned to the ground.

All those works were lost forever.

The burning of the Library of Alexandra occurred more than 2000 years ago. And yet, the event still stirs up vivid responses.

Many mourn the loss of knowledge. Others lament the brutality of humankind. Still others daydream about loading up Doc Brown’s DeLorean from Back to the Future, just to ferry all those papyrus scrolls to safety.

And then there’s me. I wonder if the loss of those ancient texts wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

Now, to be clear, I would not classify myself as closed-minded. Quite the opposite.

I know that the burning of the Library of Alexandria was, at best, an unfortunate event. And I understand the implications as well as anyone.

You see, I’ve always been passionate about accumulating information. When I was a toddler, I memorized the various models of cars on the road, reciting my knowledge for all who would listen. When I was a teenager in the pre-Google Maps era, people would call me to ask for directions. And now, as an adult, friends love to tap into my knowledge of sports statistics.

My brain is its own library. And with the Internet era in full force, I can add a new wing to the collection with just a few clicks.

And yet, there are some downsides to this scenario. With so much new information to absorb, and such an eagerness to learn, it’s all too easy for me to get overwhelmed. It’s possible for me to attempt to take in everything — and end up gaining nothing in the process.

This has happened to me before. I’ve gone down research rabbit holes until my brain hurt and I couldn’t see straight. I’ve forgotten to eat, to go to bed, or to get outside and live a bit.

And the inverse has afflicted me as well. I’ve filled bookshelves and digital queues with unviewed materials. All as I’ve waited for there to be enough free time in my life to consume them.

Time provides the limits to my openness. There is only so much of it to go around. And it’s continually getting depleted.

These constraints force me to take in knowledge at a measured pace. And any time I seek to game the system, I find myself paying the price.

Time is undefeated.

This paradox also afflicted the scholars of Alexandria. They too were human. Meaning they too were constrained in terms of information capture.

They didn’t have the capacity to store all the library’s works in their brains. If they had, they could have rebuild the library from the ashes, drafting new papyrus scrolls from memory.

And that, of course, did not happen.

So yes, it’s easy to long for life without the fire. It’s easy to imagine all that information from the Library of Alexandria stored digitally, in the modern day, on some remote server somewhere.

But how much of it would truly be absorbed by the masses? That answer is sure to underwhelm.

I’m writing this article in the heyday of Artificial Intelligence.

In just a few short years, AI buzz has shifted from Predictive Analytics to Machine Learning to Assistants to Agents.

The world’s information has never been easier to access. And for the first time, a significant share of it has been generated by the machines themselves.

(But not this article. Ember Trace is an AI-free column.)

Many have marveled about the possibilities the AI era unlocks. The ability to democratize knowledge and boost productivity — all with reduced effort — seems like something out of a science fiction novel from yesteryear.

And yet, underneath all that hype lies a sobering reality.

You see, for all their power and prowess, machines are built to serve us. Their origin stories are intertwined with our needs. And their outputs are effectively restricted by the boundaries of our comprehension.

There’s only so much that we can take in before the hourglass runs out of sand. And that means there are only so many ways we can make use of our virtual knowledge warriors.

Despite our best efforts to manifest infinite possibilities, we are no less constrained than before.

The limits of openness. They strike again.

Intellectual curiosity.

It’s a mouthful. But one that carries plenty of promise.

Those eager to soak up knowledge, those willing to question the status quo — they’ve changed the world. These renegades have built nations, harnessed new technologies, and inspired many.

Including me.

And the heart of my information capture inclinations lies a passion for intellectual curiosity. I yearn to keep my mind as fit as my body.

Year after year, I’ve remained steadfast in this pursuit. And year after year, I’ve cursed the boundaries of time that got in the way.

But lately, I’ve started to change my tune.

For I now recognize that those boundaries are more like guardrails than straitjackets. They’re meant to protect, rather than restrict.

These limits of openness force me to choose which knowledge to absorb. And they demand that I prioritize information that can be turned to action.

This tradeoff has made me functionally wise. It’s forced me to consider the implications of all I’ve learned. And those implications have benefited those around me.

This is the silver lining the fire of Alexandria. As the great library turned to soot, so did the notion that knowledge could be hoarded and stored in a single location.

Those learnings would need to be socialized instead. They’d need to be dispersed among the populace and put to practical use.

I’m honored to carry on that tradition. And yet, I hope I’m not the only disciple.

An eagerness to learn is a gift. But the limits of openness are a blessing.

Heed both.

When Words Don’t Suffice

Our family dog cowered in the corner of the living room.

It was a warm summer day, with sunshine streaming through the bay windows. But to look at the dog, you’d think a thunderstorm was brewing outside. She seemed distant and out of sorts.

Zephyr, I called over to her. Come here, Zephyr.

She didn’t move.

Undeterred, I made my way across the room to check on her.

I noticed that Zephyr’s breathing was heavy. As I touched her nose with my left hand, I noticed it was hot.

I knew instantly that something was terribly wrong.

Moments later, the dog was on the way to the veterinary Emergency Room.

The vet said Zephyr had an enlarged heart. My parents had no choice but to put her down.

I was 9 years old at the time, and I’d never encountered death before. Realizing that I would never see our beloved family dog again was as strange as it was devastating.

The house just seemed too silent without Zephyr’s presence. Neighborhood walks just seemed too foreign without her sniffing all the bushes and tugging on the leash.

My parents sensed my discomfort, and that of my sister. So, they encouraged us to write down our memories of Zephyr.

We did so dutifully.

A few days later, the family gathered in the backyard. My sister and I shared our memories of Zephyr. My grandparents did the same, followed by my parents.

Once all the speeches were complete, we went over to the flowerbeds along the fence line and scattered her ashes.

The loss was still raw. The wounds were still present. But words had lightened the load just a bit.

On a sunny morning a little more than four years later, I was sitting in my 8th grade history class. As my teacher scribbled on the whiteboard, I heard a plane fly overhead.

Moments later, that plane hit one of the towers of the World Trade Center in New York City. And my life changed forever.

I’ve written plenty about September 11th before. On what a surreal day that was. And on the shadow it’s cast over me for years.

Those are the natural byproducts of such a profoundly traumatic event.

But there was something more to the grief I was feeling than what I’d encountered with Zephyr’s passing. The eeriness of silence.

You see, as my father gathered me from school and shepherded me home, quiet overcame him. He had nothing to share that would ease the anxiety or make things seem normal again.

The same was true once we’d gotten off the island of Manhattan and reunited with my mother and sister. You could have heard a pin drop on the ride to the suburbs.

And even the comforts of home brought little in terms of solace. As I parked myself in from of the television, I noticed that CNN was reporting diligently on what they could see – mostly fallen buildings and rescue efforts. But none of the network’s anchors or reporters could make much sense of what had happened.

9/11 was my first exposure to a new kind of tragedy. One where no words suffice to explain its horror. One where the collective silence tells its own story.

It’s uncomfortable. It’s unnerving. But unfortunately, it’s a staple of our existence.

Not long before I sat down to write this article, tragedy struck my home state of Texas.

Heavy rains turned a river into a wall of water in the middle of the night. In an instant, retirees, vacationers, and children at sleepaway camps were swept away by the floodwaters. More than 100 people died, including more than 20 young girls at one of those camps.

I live hundreds of miles from the tragedy, and I don’t know any of the victims personally. Yet, this incident has still rocked me to my core.

It’s not just the concept of children perishing that haunts me. It’s not just the concept of my state’s serene natural resources becoming a lethal weapon that gets me. It’s the eerie silence of it all, once again.

We can try our best to put the devastation into words. But no words suffice.

And so, we’re stuck with that hollow, isolating feeling. We’re left with our hearts in our throats. With pits in our stomachs. And with no prospects for a reprieve.

It’s sickening.

When I was three years old, I got separated from my mother at the playground.

I had just gone down a slide and I ran toward another one – without checking if my mother was following me. When I turned around, I didn’t see her.

I frantically retraced my steps, running back to the slide I’d just been on, the swing set, the monkey bars. I searched every corner of the playground without avail.

She was gone.

I stared across the playground, looking for something – anything – to protect me from the terror I now felt. But park benches and playground equipment don’t have much to say. And the silence only freaked me out even more.

Panic gave way to despair. I started to cry.

Soon enough, another child’s mother saw me and took me by the hand.

We’re going to find your mom, she told me as we wandered around the playground and then along the park pathways.

Moments later, we did. And a tearful embrace ensued.

It turned out that my mother had left the playground with my sister, thinking I was right behind her. When she realized I wasn’t, she’d doubled back. But because I was wandering the playground looking for her, we somehow missed each other.

This was a minor, traumatic blip in an otherwise happy childhood. But it’s stayed with me.

Why? Because during that brief moment when I was lost, I saw how callous the world really was. Park benches weren’t going to ease my despair. Neither were swing sets or tree trunks.

Indeed, nothing around me was going to make everything feel alright.

That somber sense of isolation, of vulnerability, it compounds over time. It slowly takes over our minds and our souls, leaving us distant and empty inside.

It’s on us to rebuild the buffer that was taken from us. Collectively. As a community.

It’s on us to be present. To be empathetic. To provide a modicum of comfort, even when no words can suffice to aid our mission.

That’s what I did in the aftermath of September 11th. I visited the memorial. I prayed. And I tried my hardest to connect with the community.

It wouldn’t bring the twin towers back – or all who were lost in the rubble. But it ensured that I would live a life that honored those taken.

Through that process, I eventually found the words to say. I found the strength to heal. And I found a path forward with promise.

Now, as the rushing water on the ground in Texas gives way to the tears in our eyes, I hope that we all can find the strength to repeat the feat.

Words don’t suffice right now. But actions certainly do.

On Optimization

The car was all packed up and ready to go.

The trunk of my Saturn SL1 didn’t have much space. But my mother had fit my belongings inside it.

This was no small feat. I was entering my junior year of college, and I would be living off campus for the first time. There were a lot of items that needed to make the journey with me.

Still, my mother was up to the task.

Like a Tetris puzzle, she’d expertly placed the clothes, bedding, and other trinkets in such a way that they neatly filled every inch of available space.

She ordered me not to open the trunk until I reached South Florida. Anything I needed for the 1,300-mile trip would stay in the back seat of the car for easy access.

And so off I went, departing the Northeast, cruising through the Capital region, and gliding across the Carolinas. I cut over to Atlanta to visit a friend and do some sightseeing. Then, finally, I set my sights on the Sunshine State.

The situation shifted not long after I passed that Welcome to Florida sign. For a tropical storm was barreling across the peninsula, and I was quickly caught in its outer bands. By the time I stopped for fuel in Gainesville, sideways rain was drenching me as I gripped the gas pump.

I knew the storm would only be worse if I took the direct route down the Florida Turnpike through Orlando. So, I took the long way instead, remaining along Interstate 75. As night fell, I pulled off the road and checked into motel south of Tampa.

The next morning, I got up early to conquer the journey’s final stretch. But as soon as I merged onto the interstate, I could tell something was wrong. One of my tires seemed unstable.

I pulled over at a nearby rest area and found a hole in the tire. Maybe I’d driven over something in the quarter mile between the motel and the highway. Or perhaps the effects of the storm had done the tire in.

But regardless of the cause, I knew I could go no further.

Now, I’d learned how to change a tire in high school. But I didn’t feel confident in replicating that feat at a Florida rest area in the rain.

Fortunately, my father had purchased a AAA membership for the vehicle. So, I dialed the number for roadside assistance. Within a half hour, a mobile maintenance man was pulling into the rest area.

After exchanging pleasantries, he got down to business.

Where’s the spare tire?

My heart sank. For I realized the spare was in a compartment under the trunk.

If I was going to retrieve it, I was going to have to undo all my mother’s good work.

There was no time to mope about this, though. I was being charged by the hour, and I needed to get back on the road.

So, I scrambled to get all my possessions out of the trunk and into the back seat. The mobile mechanic then got the spare on, and we parted ways.

I made a pit stop 15 miles down the road at a Walmart in Bradenton. Another mechanic installed a replacement tire and put the spare back in its storage spot. With that business concluded, I tried to fit all my belongings back in the trunk.

It proved impossible.

I lacked my mother’s ingenuity and dexterity. No matter what I did, I couldn’t get the puzzle pieces to fit.

Plus, the morning rain had given way to steamy sunshine. I was getting roasted alive as I tried to get the trunk organized. I had no choice to give up.

With some of my belongings splayed messily across the trunk, and others splayed messily along my back seat floorboards, I hit the road. I cruised down the Suncoast and sprinted across Alligator Alley, finally reaching the endpoint of my journey.

My mother’s work with the trunk of my Saturn was notable. But it was far from her first rodeo when it came to optimizing a journey.

In fact, one of my early memories involved this very feat. I was 5 years old and we were heading on a family trip to Maine in my father’s Toyota Corolla.

Between camping gear, clothing, and non-perishable food, we had too many items to fit in a compact car. So, after loading up the trunk, my mother stuffed the rest of the items on the rear floorboards, where my sister and I would normally have placed our legs.

With that space now filled with gear, we sat with our knees up in front of our faces for hours. It was hardly comfortable, but it proved effective. We got everything to Maine.

For years after that, my mother would help everyone in the family pack our suitcases — ensuring we could travel as efficiently as possible.

I had never thought much of this until that tire mishap on Interstate 75. Before I found myself stranded in that rest area, I simply considered efficient packing to be one of my mother’s tendencies.

But as I struggled to fit my items back in the trunk outside that Walmart in Bradenton, I saw the value in what my mother did. I understood the importance of optimization.

And that realization has transformed my life.

These days, I’m road tripping far less — and for shorter distances.

Plus, I have an SUV with ample space for whatever’s going on the journey with me. So, I haven’t tried to stuff a trunk in years.

Yet, I’ve worked on optimizing many other components of my daily life. What I eat. When I sleep. How I entertain myself. And much more.

I track a decent amount of this in Excel spreadsheets and smartphone apps. I rely on mental accounting for the rest.

And several of my life choices — such as giving up sweets or committing to early morning fitness six days a week — are directly tied to optimization.

There are many whys behind this behavior. Yes, I want to boost my health, maintain wealth, and manage my time.

But I also want to be better. To leverage my ever-expanding expertise so that I can continue to improve each day.

It’s something that drives me. And — if we’re being honest — it’s something that can drive others away from me.

Because it’s all so obsessive, so intense.

You see, there’s something soothing about going with the flow. Every moment of every day is both a gift and a novel adventure. A mix between Zen meditation and a Jimmy Buffett song.

All energy can be spent in service of the moment. All focus can be on the now, without worrying about the later.

We humans are drawn to this promise of a stress-free existence. For its soothing nature can prove contagious in the best of ways.

I get it. I do.

But I’ve seen the light in that steamy Florida sunshine. I’ve discovered that the greater value — for today and tomorrow — lies in optimization. And I can’t, in good conscience, go back.

So, I will continue to tinker, to adapt, to optimize.

Hopefully, I will be better for it. And hopefully, those around me will be better for it as well.

The puzzle is never fully complete. Keep optimizing.

The Boundaries of Freedom

You’re going to Disney World.

Sheer joy washed over my face as I heard those five magical words.

I was 12 years old, and I was finally heading to sunny Florida to experience the happiest place on earth. But there was more to it than that.

You see, my paternal grandparents would be the ones taking me and my sister down to Orlando. So, my parents left us with an assignment.

We were to look through a kid-friendly Disney World guidebook they provided us. Then we were to compile a list of our favorite rides at each of the resort’s four theme parks. That list would eventually be shared with our grandparents.

My sister and I dove into this project. And a few days later, we reported back with a list. One that nearly every ride.

Our parents cringed.

You kids do realize you won’t get to all these rides, right? they asked rhetorically. There will be long lines for some of them, and the parks are only open so late. Plus, your grandparents aren’t spring chickens, and you’ll need to go at their pace.

A few weeks later, we were in the land of Mickey Mouse. And it was just as my parents had predicted.

We got to some of the rides we’d earmarked. But we were nowhere close to completing the list.

It would take several more visits over decades for me to get to everything I wanted to experience at Disney World. And I’m not sure my sister ever crossed off all the items on her list.

Freedom has its boundaries.

As I write this, our nation is on the cusp of celebration.

The sun is out. The heat is on. And Independence Day is around the corner.

The Fourth of July is always full of extravagance. Bountiful burgers and hot dogs. Star spangled attire. Fireworks shows that light up the July night.

But above all, it’s a celebration of freedom. A reminder of the moment when America decided to go its own way, creating a nation on a foundation of liberty.

Freedom can mean a lot of things to a lot of people. But recently, one interpretation has taken the fore.

Yes, many across the nation now consider freedom to be the right to do whatever I want, in any circumstance. It’s something I call absolute freedom.

Much like my younger self at Disney World, the proponents of absolute freedom expect to have it all. But unlike my younger self, they seek to bulldoze any limitations to that expectation.

It’s why we see grown men throwing toddler-like tantrums in public forums. It’s why we see lawsuits aimed at even the most minor of inhibitions. It’s why we see such rudeness and cruelty in many interpersonal interactions.

Absolute freedom is having a moment. And it’s absolutely un-American.

Let’s wind the clock back to the year 1787.

America had declared its independence 11 years prior. It had spent much of the intervening decade in a war with the British to preserve its sovereignty.

Once that war had been won, America had taken an initial stab at governing itself. It didn’t go well.

The initial governing charter of this nation – the Articles of Confederation – was too weak, decentralized, and ambiguous to stand on its own. Indeed, a farmer’s rebellion in Massachusetts had already proven the impotence of the agreement.

So, our fledgling nation’s leading figures met in Philadelphia to hammer out a new, all-encompassing charter. One that would become known as the United States Constitution.

At its core, the Constitution was – and still is – a mix of rights and responsibilities. It outlined the rights of Americans and set up a federal government to protect such rights. But it also assigned responsibilities to each party.

These responsibilities defined the contours of the newly minted freedoms. For instance, all individuals maintained a right to free speech. But they had a responsibility not to slander or defame others. And the government was split into three branches, each with distinct mandates for aspects of governance.

This setup provided a roadmap to prosperity. Individuals had the liberty to thrive, so long as that prosperity didn’t come at the expense of the society they inhabited.

This covenant that was widely accepted for the better part of two centuries. Indeed, most of the arguments during that time regarded access to constitutional protections themselves — the rights of Black people, women, and so on.

But now, the absolute freedom movement is gaining steam like a menacing thunder cloud. It’s claiming that the good of society is secondary to the prosperity of individuals. And it’s offloading the burden of responsibility entirely.

Our founding fathers are likely turning over in their graves at this development. It violates the spirit of the Constitution they drafted.

And yet, they are partially to blame.

You see, the language in our Constitution is broad and ambiguous. Such wording was designed to make it applicable beyond the lifespan of its authors. But it’s also made it all too easy to poke holes in its principles.

That’s what’s happened recently. And we’re all worse off because of it.

There’s a scene in the TV show 1883 that still gets to me.

Legendary rancher Charles Goodnight is commiserating with wagon train leader Shea Brennan on the plains of what is now western Oklahoma. Goodnight mentions the advent of barbed wire fencing and laments how it will change the region he calls home.

Within that statement, Goodnight seems to be grappling with the meaning of freedom itself. He loves the principles of the open range, with its promises for prosperity. And yet, he recognizes that boundaries will make life tougher for the dregs of the region – namely, bandits and cattle rustlers.

A future with such boundaries would be both sustainable and inevitable. Even the earliest titan of the region could see that.

Barbed wire fencing didn’t end up taming the west on its own. But it certainly helped matters.

Indeed, the frontier of yesteryear has generally been stable and prosperous for the better part of a century.

Let’s not undo this principle.

Not in the west. Not in the north. Not in the east. And not in the south.

Freedom is a blessing. One of the greatest ones we have access to.

But it’s not unlimited.

Respect the boundaries. Respect each other. And respect this great place that we call home.

We’ll all be better for it.

Why Me?

The trouble started with a milkshake.

I was out at a diner with my best friend, passing the time as 17-year-olds do.

But less than a minute after I’d gulped down the mixture of milk and ice cream, I was in the restroom in distress.

I ultimately righted the ship and made my way back to the diner booth. But as my friend checked in on how I was doing, I recalled that the last milkshake I’d consumed had led to a similar outcome.

That incident had seemed like a one-off. But now, I sensed it was a start of a trend.

Maybe I’m allergic to dairy, I mused.

After a few doctor’s consultations and an experimental diet, I got the diagnosis: Severe lactose intolerance.

I was going to need to take milkshakes off the menu. And pizza. And sub sandwiches with melted provolone.

Or perhaps not.

You see, there was a supplement called Lactaid on the market that promised to help afflicted souls like me. It helped to break down the lactose in dairy products. And it quickly became part of my life.

Day after day, I would carry packets of Lactaid pills in my wallet or pants pockets. I’d swallow one at the start of each meal and then consume the same dairy-filled delicacies I’d always enjoyed.

But after about five years of this, the magic wore off. Even with the assistance of Lactaid, I found myself distressed by dairy. I had to give it all up, cold turkey.

I was devastated.

These days, dairy-free diets are all the rage. And a ton of dairy substitutes have hit the market.

People can sip a latte, devour pizza, or enjoy an ice cream like dessert without ever ingesting something that originated from a cow’s udder.

But back when I went dairy-free, the landscape looked quite different. Just about every restaurant dish seemed to be coated in milk, cheese, or butter. And most of the times that my employer offered a group lunch, it consisted of pizza.

It didn’t help that I was making this dietary change in Texas, where queso and cream gravy are practically cornerstones of the five food groups. But regardless, I was low on options and high on angst.

I’d grown up on dairy delicacies. I knew what I was missing out on. And it was tearing me apart.

Why me? I’d muse, as I went with a second-rate choice off the menu, just to avoid getting sick.

Why me? I’d muse, as I threw away a takeout order that had been tainted with cheese, against my explicit instructions.

Why me? I’d muse as I went hungry during a group lunch because there was nothing safe for me to chow down on.

It was miserable in those early days. But I eventually shifted my tune.

This was my lot in life, I reminded myself. No good would come from complaining about it.

That lactose intolerance diagnosis was one of the first big setbacks in my life. But it was far from the last.

Over the ensuing years, I’ve been saddled with multiple injuries, ailments, and undesirable circumstances. These issues have generally struck without warning, leading to sudden incapacitation.

As I’ve worked through the hurdles of shifted routines, canceled plans, and impaired function, I’ve often been tempted to ask Why me?

After all, I know exactly what I was missing out on, each time. And that makes the pill even harder to swallow.

But I only allow myself to mope like this for a fleeting moment. For I have learned to shift the narrative.

Yes, I’ve convinced myself that these are not setbacks to rue. Instead, they’re experiences to tout.

They’re a part of my story. And it’s my duty to tell that tale well.

Imagining life without a dairy sensitivity might seem convenient. But that condition has led me to be more organized and thoughtful about what I put in my body. And that focus on wellness has undoubtedly made me healthier today that I’d otherwise have been.

Imagining a scenario where I didn’t require ankle surgery sounds idyllic. But without that ordeal, I wouldn’t have learned what I was made of. I wouldn’t have understood the challenges of life with a disability. And I wouldn’t have felt the sweet satisfaction of getting my range of motion back.

Imagining a world where I didn’t get cut from the baseball team, laid off from my job, or passed over for another – all of that sounds dreamy. But without those setbacks, I likely wouldn’t have built up the grit that defines my present-day success.

The dairy sensitivity, the ankle procedure, all the other hardships I’ve endured – they’re a part of who I am now. I’ve come to embrace that fact.

Causes have effects. And I have better things to do than question them.

As I write this, I’m battling a bit of a health issue.

I won’t get into specifics here about my new affliction. But I will say that this issue came out of the blue, is relatively uncommon, and has forced some changes to my daily life.

This new ailment seems a lot like my dairy sensitivity. And yet, its effects are a bit harder to sidestep.

This whole situation is ripe for the why me question once again. A perfect storm of buzzard’s luck and isolating consequences have rocked me to the core. The sentiment of injustice has hit me from all angles.

And yet, despite the barrage of pills and the lingering discomfort and the cloud of uncertainty, I’m blocking out the siren song of woe. I’m keeping my head out of the sand.

For what’s done is done. There’s no good in re-litigating the flukes of the past.

My mission now is to determine what this affliction means moving forward. For my life, and for how I recount it.

Solving that puzzle brings clarity to the chaos. It defangs the spiral of despair. It builds a sense of purpose in a time of confusion.

I could use some more of that. Frankly, we all could.

And so, down the path I go. Looking into the fog ahead. And leaving why me in the dust behind.

I’m confident that tradeoff will prove worthwhile.

The Reverse Totem Pole

Wanna see something cool?

How could I say no to an offer like that?

I was 6 years old, and recess at school had grown tiresome. My friend and I had been in the same sequence of pantomiming GI Joe on the jungle gym for days. Something cool sounded much better.

My friend led me to a back corner of the recess yard. There, at the top of the hill, lay some old tires.

Where did these come from, I asked.

My friend shrugged.

Doesn’t matter, he said, as he set one upright. But look at what you can do with them!

He gave the tire a push, and we watched it roll down the hill. The tire picked up speed, hurtling out of control before it finally tipped over near the bottom of the slope.

I was awestruck. But my friend was already on to the next adventure. In fact, by the time I looked back at him, he’d already stood up another tire.

Pick up that one, he commanded, pointing to another tire a few paces from my feet. We’ll race.

Moments later, we were sending both tires down the hill simultaneously. Mine had a strong start, but it began to wobble midway down the slope. My friend’s tire made it down the hill first.

We headed down the hill to collect the tires. Then we pushed them back up to the top of the slope to race again. And again. And again – until the teacher called us back into the classroom.

Recess was over.

That evening at the dinner table, the tire race was all I could talk about.

I was obsessed with our recess activity. It was so much cooler than all the stuff I did in class. I wished that I could just roll tires down the hill all day long.

Well, you can’t, my mother replied. What you’re learning in school is important.

I groaned.

It’s just so boring. And it seems so pointless.

My parent chuckled uneasily. How were they to explain to a 6-year-old that his life would eventually be full of requisite monotony?

It had only been a few months since they’d broken the bad news to me that I would not, in fact, be getting my driver’s license as a 6th birthday present. The law wouldn’t allow for that until I was 16, they explained to me, as the joy evaporated from my face.

They didn’t want to burst my bubble like that again. So, they let me down easy.

Well, maybe tomorrow will be less boring. And hey, the tires should still be there at recess.

I think about the boy I was a lot these days.

I was naïve, sure. Naïve enough to consider recess tire races to be a worthwhile pastime.

But I also knew there was a chasm I needed to cross. A chasm of experience.

I couldn’t do all the things my parents did. Drink beer. Stay up late. Go to a fancy office with computers and rolling chairs and vending machines stocked with Coca-Cola and M&Ms.

I wanted to see what I was missing out on.

Yes, I was just like that Tom Hanks character in the movie Big. I yearned for everything all at once. Even if the laws of anatomy made that wholly impossible.

After all, our brains take years to develop. Our bones take decades to fuse together. And the firsthand experiences that help guide our decision making are more a slow trickle than a rushing waterfall.

But unlike Tom Hanks’ character, I didn’t blast through the divide. I didn’t wake up one day as a boy in a man’s body, doomed to suffer through the misadventures that time warp entailed.

Instead, I accepted the advice of my parents and my teachers. There were some things I’d need to learn with time. There was much I’d need to wait for.

So, I did.

I stopped dreaming of racing tires all day long. I dedicated myself to my studies in the classroom. And I remained inquisitive outside of it.

I gave myself a runway for growth – from the innocence of boyhood through the wilds of adolescence and on to the bumpy ride of adulthood.

As I climbed the Totem Pole, I never lost sight of the journey. Each etched notch that my hands gripped onto had a sense of accomplishment to it. Both for myself and for those who would follow behind me.

Or so I thought.

I’m now a seasoned adult.

By now, I’ve experienced much of what my parents once had. Well, with one exception.

I don’t have any children of my own. But many of my friends do.

Some are around the age I was when I ranged around the recess yard looking for tires to race. Others are a bit younger.

But all of them are wiser than I was at their age.

You see, children of this era have technology in their hands before they’re out of diapers. They can play games on their tablets, stream shows on their TVs, or take selfies with their parents’ smartphones.

Such a setup opens a world of opportunities – at lightning speed.

Kids can learn to write web code before they reach middle school. They can play with Artificial Intelligence before they get their driver’s license. They have many of the tools to thrive in adulthood at their disposal right now.

Some of those tools will take time to harness, of course. As that famous line from the movie Spiderman goes: With great power comes great responsibility.

But make no mistake. The path ahead for the next generation is far different than the one I followed.

I’ve gradually come to terms with this reality. I’ve accepted that while I will always be the elder, that won’t necessarily make me the teacher.

Indeed, I might be better served looking at the Totem Pole in reverse. In seeing what I can learn from those who stand where I once did, but with infinitely more knowledge at their disposal.

I’ll be better for this shift in perspective. We all will be.

If only we dare to take the leap of faith.

I’m ready and willing. Are you?

Karma’s False Promise

Why is this guy on my tail?

My father’s voice conveyed equal parts concern and annoyance.

We were cruising down the Florida Turnpike somewhere south of Orlando in a Nissan 350Z rental. Orange groves were flying by us on the sides of the highway as we traveled well over the posted speed limit.

And yet, no matter how fast we went, a Jeep was effectively on our rear fender. The Jeep’s driver was practically demanding us to go even faster. He was threatening to run us off the road.

Finally, the driver decided to leave us alone. The Jeep cut into the next lane and passed our rental sports car. As it did, my father and I glanced into the vehicle, trying to put a face to what had menaced us.

The speed demon looked no older than 20. Neither did his passengers.

College kids, my dad remarked. Figures.

I felt a bit conflicted by my father’s agitation. I was a senior in high school and would soon be a college kid myself. I was all about having fun and playing loose with the rules.

But this seemed excessive and dangerous. I got where my father was coming from.

No longer fearing for our safety, we let the conversation drift to a new topic.

But about 15 miles down the road, we saw some flashing lights up ahead. We slowed to the speed limit as the Florida Highway Patrol cruiser came into view on the shoulder.

Just ahead of the cruiser, the Jeep that had pestered us was now at a standstill. A state trooper was leaning into the open driver’s side window, likely to hand out a speeding ticket.

My father smiled.

Karma, he remarked to me, Karma.

Do the right thing.

That mantra has been lived rent free in the back of my mind for years.

Whenever the temptation has arisen to act inappropriately, those four words have emerged. And I’ve maintained proper decorum.

Many have complimented me on this trait over the years. But I’ve always demurred.

I’ve given credit to my parents for how they raised me. Or I’ve explained that I didn’t have the heart to stray from the righteous path.

But neither of those explanations are quite correct.

Indeed, it’s that experience on the Florida Turnpike that has defined my actions to date. Seeing karma delivered so swiftly on that highway that day I was meaningful.

I was convinced that those who did the right thing would enjoy the sunshine of good fortune. And those who did the wrong thing would meet swift justice.

How wrong I was.

Nearly a decade later – and 300 miles up the road – a college student was getting national attention.

Jameis Winston was a freshman quarterback for Florida State University. In his first season of college football, Winston led the Seminoles to an undefeated season and a national championship. Along the way, he claimed the coveted Heisman Trophy as the sport’s top player.

As I saw this all unfold, I seethed.

I was already an alum of the University of Miami by this point. During my college years, I’d watched holier-than-thou Tim Tebow lead the rival Florida Gators to two championships. Now, the hated Florida State Seminoles had one too. My nightmare was playing out in slow motion.

But the next season, the tide started to turn.

Winston kept getting into trouble. First, he yelled something demeaning to women from the center of campus. Then he was accused of sexual assault in a separate incident. And in the midst of all this, he got caught shoplifting crab legs from a local supermarket.

Meanwhile, on the field, Winston wasn’t as masterful as he’d once been. He had resorted to playing hero ball – tossing the ball up for grabs down the field without checking to see if his receivers were open first. Many times, the opposing team would snag the football instead. That team would then put up points – leaving the Seminoles with big deficits.

I became giddy – even gleeful – as these twin catastrophes enveloped Winston and Florida State. It seemed that karma was around the corner. Order would soon be restored.

And yet, the other shoe never dropped. The Seminoles kept winning football games, earning a bid to the new four team playoff in the process. And Winston avoided any significant consequences for his off the field shenanigans.

Florida State got humiliated in their first playoff game, ending their season. But Winston entered the National Football League draft and got selected first overall. The Tampa Bay Buccaneers gave him a $23 million dollar contract and made him the face of their franchise.

Winston was hardly worth the investment. In five years in Tampa, the team lost 60% of the games he played in. He threw nearly as many interceptions as touchdowns. And the team never sniffed the playoffs, let alone a Super Bowl.

Off the field, the controversies continued. Winston was accused of groping a rideshare driver. And he continued to make zany comments whenever a microphone was placed near him.

Yet, Winston never faced real consequences for any of this. He continued to earn his millions as one of 32 starting quarterbacks in the NFL. When the Buccaneers eventually replaced him with Tom Brady – the game’s greatest signal caller – Winston found spots on teams in New Orleans, Cleveland, and New York. And as time passed, people came to celebrate his shenanigans, rather than simply ignoring them.

Karma wasn’t coming for Jameis Winston. And that meant he had no incentive to do the right thing.

He wasn’t alone.

These days, society seems to be filled with Jameis Winstons.

That’s not to say that there are plenty of people whose occupation is Pro Football Quarterback. Or that there are scores of folks stealing crab legs from local supermarkets.

But from coast to coast, there are plenty of people who do the wrong thing, time and again. And they keep getting away with it.

Karma, it seems, is not the great equalizer I once thought it was. It’s filled with false promise.

This lack of a boogeyman leaves us with a choice.

Do we continue to do the right thing, the decent thing, the selfless thing – even if the universe doesn’t seem to require it? Or do we push the endless bounds of what we can get away with?

Many might choose the second path. But not me.

The memories of that Jeep on the Florida Turnpike are too fresh, even decades later. And beyond that, my sense of right and wrong is too strong.

So, I make sacrifices. I put up with the boorish behavior around me, while refusing to acquiesce to it myself.

I know I might not get rewarded for following this path. And I know that others might not follow in my footsteps.

But I can hope.

I can hope that the shadow of karma isn’t the only motivation people will follow. I can hope that right and wrong still matters.

That hope matters. It’s my North Star.

And I’ll continue to follow it.

On Illumination

As I wandered out into the ocean, I noticed something had changed.

The cool water still felt refreshing. The breakers were still formidable. But there was a contrast to this body of water that hadn’t existed a few hours earlier.

Sunlight was no longer exploding off the whitecaps, preventing me from seeing more than two feet in any direction. Instead, a mosaic of moving water splayed out as far as my eyes could see. A mix of cobalt blue, frothy white, and dark gray.

The tidal pull had something to do with this shift. Earlier, the ocean had enveloped half the beach. But now the tide had gone out. Instead of advancing forward into the waves, I had walked gradually downhill to submerge myself.

But the tides couldn’t explain the refreshed color palette in the sea. That had everything to do with the position of the sun.

Earlier, it had been directly overhead. But now, it was practically positioned behind the beach.

That new angle brought definition to the seascape. Shadows and highlights emerged, forming an elaborate contrast that left me mesmerized.

Illumination means everything.

Many years ago, I went to a Colorado Rockies game with a friend.

Our seats were down the left field line, a few rows from the field. It was prime territory to snag a foul ball, so all the fans around us stayed focused on the game.

But around the fourth inning, our section thinned out considerably. I joked that everyone must have had a hankering for a hot dog at the same time.

Oh, no, my friend replied. They’re heading to the concourse to see the sunset.

It turns out that the Rockies ballpark had a unique feature. Namely, a gap in the left field corner between the hulking upper deck and the massive outfield scoreboard. In this particular corner, the lower concourse was the highest feature in the stadium.

We’d walked by this area on the way to our seats, but I didn’t think twice about it. Sure, you could see the Rocky Mountains from there. But this was Colorado. You could always see the mountains off in the distance.

But now, in the fourth inning, the sun was setting over those same mountains. A rich palette of color was taking center stage in the left field corner. And for many, priorities had changed accordingly.

The ballgame was no longer the main event. The sunset in the distance had become appointment viewing.

Illumination means everything.

To get that view of the sun setting over the Rocky Mountains, one only needed to buy a ticket to the Rockies game. And to get that rich view of the ocean in the late afternoon, one only needed to head to a public beach.

But such vistas rarely come so cheaply.

Indeed, most beachfront, lakefront, and mountain views are already accounted for. They’re wrapped up in private property, valued at a premium.

Many finance types have pointed out that these investments are far from worthwhile. Between the purchase price and the insurance bills, they carry a cost that’s far from rational.

For most the day, the naysayers would be right. But then the sun hits that spot in the sky, and the vista beyond the property transforms itself. And it’s as if the wonders of the world are performing to an exclusive audience.

That’s what keeps the whole thing going. That’s why the well-off keep hold of these overpriced properties. And that’s why the rest of us search for a public beach or buy a ticket to a ballgame to do the same.

Illumination means everything.

There’s something fascinating about this whole dynamic.

First off, this setup shatters the whole concept of permanence. Mountains don’t move, and the sea continually stretches to the horizon. But at a certain time of day, it seems like we’re transported to an entirely different place, without moving an inch. The position of the sun can be just that powerful.

And such power cannot be controlled. We can do our best to corner the market on viewpoints. But no money in the world will allow us to view a sunset from the deck at 11 AM, or the rich blue of the ocean on an overcast afternoon. We are captivated by nature’s beauty, but we are powerless to conjure such majesty on our terms.

This whole dynamic defines our existence. And I’d argue that it enriches it as well.

You see, when we yearn for an experience we can’t control, it forces us to level up. We must become masters of patience and prioritization. We must strive to be richer in the illustrative pictures we paint on the canvas, on the page, or through the spoken word.

If the late day sun didn’t bring out such defined colors in the ocean, I wouldn’t have reached into the depths of my writing abilities to convey them. Such efforts only come from captivation, from awe, and from inspiration. Fading light on the water provides that.

And if that sunset view from the Rockies ballpark hadn’t captivated its first viewer just so, they wouldn’t have gone on to share that wonder with their friends and acquaintances. And those friends and acquaintances wouldn’t have gone on to tell their friends and acquaintances. And the fourth inning tradition wouldn’t have come to be.

This is the power of the world’s wonders. Of limited-time engagements. Of all that is too inspiring to be kept to oneself or patently ignored.

Illumination means everything.

Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

Ferris Bueller wasn’t heading to the beach, catching the sunset, or otherwise capturing nature’s essence when he uttered these lines at the start of the movie Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. But we could stand to gain plenty from this advice nonetheless.

Let’s turn off autopilot, remove the blinders, and take note of what’s around us. How it all looks at this moment, and how that vista might differ once this moment has passed.

This activity might seem counterintuitive in an on-demand world. But it fills a gap that modernity has created. A gap that was once filled by wonder.

Let’s bring that attribute back into our lives. Let’s fill our souls with awe. And let’s endeavor to share that feeling with others through any means that best suit us.

We’ll be better for the experience. Those around us will as well.

Illumination means everything.

Certainty of Outcomes

On June 12, 2009, the New York Mets and New York Yankees faced off in a baseball game.

The teams had played each other plenty over the years. But this was the first matchup in the Yankees’ new home ballpark.

Plenty of mayhem ensued. Home runs, bases loaded walks, and lead changes aplenty.

But as the 9th inning approached, the Mets held an 8-7 lead. As their closer took the mound, things looked bleak for the Yankees.

The home side did manage to get two runners on base, but they also made two outs. Their final hope for salvation was struggling superstar Alex Rodriguez.

Rodriguez took a mighty swing — and popped the ball high up in the air. He slammed his bat down in frustration as Mets second baseman Luis Castillo – an elite defender – drifted toward the edge of the outfield grass.

As Castillo waited for the ball to come out of the sky, everyone in the stadium thought the same thing.

This game is over. The Mets have won it.

But then, a strange thing happened. Castillo dropped the ball. Flustered, he threw the ball toward second base – even though both baserunners were already rounding third base. Another infielder quickly shuttled the ball to home plate, but it was too late.

Both runners scored. The Yankees won.

As the home fans roared, one thing was evident.

The sure thing wasn’t that sure at all.

In the years since Castillo’s infamous flub, three trends have enveloped sports.

First, advanced analytics have entered the field. Everything from the angle of Rodriguez’s pop up to the speed of Castillo’s frantic throw to second base would be tracked in the modern day.

Second, wagering has gone from taboo to mainstream. Fans don’t need to travel to a Las Vegas sportsbook to post a legal bet on sports action anymore. These days, they can even wager on little slices of a game – such as a single at-bat.

Add those two trends together, and you find the third trend. Sports broadcasters now track Win Probability within games. Indeed, there are graphs throughout the action showing the likelihood that one team will go on to win the game. Those graphs fluctuate due to factors like time remaining, score, and situational elements (runners on base, field position, penalties, and so on).

If that Mets-Yankees matchup took place 15 years later than it did, the Mets would likely have held a 97% Win Probability when Rodriguez strode to the plate. Yes, the Yankees had the tying and winning runs on base, but they only had one out left to work with. The chances of making that one opportunity count were slim.

The Mets’ Win Probability would have dropped a bit — perhaps to 95% — by the time Rodriguez took his fateful swing. He was in a favorable batting count at that point, with the Mets pitcher virtually assured of dealing him something hittable.

But as soon as the ball went into the air, and Rodriguez’s bat slammed to the ground, the Mets’ Win Probability would have spiked back to 99%. Even the analytics would have agreed the game was in the bag for them.

And yet, the 1% chance of failure became reality. The Yankees would have literally defied the odds.

This type of narrative happens frequently now. If a basketball team overcomes a 20-point deficit in the fourth quarter, or a football team wins a game they trailed by 17 points in the second half, pundits will cite Win Probabilities to show how unlikely the comeback was. The word miracle — once reserved for a famous Olympic hockey match — is now a commonplace sports descriptor.

But it’s a misnomer. In sports and in life more generally.

Several years ago, I attended an all-company meeting on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving.

It was several months after the COVID pandemic had broken out, so the meeting was held via videoconference. Unease was in the air due to the impending holiday devoid of its usual large gatherings.

The meeting started as they always did – with the head of our company reading out the organization’s mission statement.

But the next slide contained a bombshell. The company was getting acquired.

The Chief Executive Officer of the acquiring company then joined the meeting to explain the situation further. He made sure to mention that while the deal hadn’t formally closed, it would take “a meteor hitting the earth for it to not happen.”

As I took in the news, I couldn’t get past that statement.

What a stupid thing to say, I thought. There’s no certainty until the final papers are signed.

I would know.

Over the years, I’d seen my fair share of sure things fall through. I’d been stood up on dates, rejected from job opportunities after final round interviews, and seen family outings get canceled. I knew better than to consider anything the real deal before it came true.

Pen did eventually meet paper, and the deal went through. But it did nothing to quell my unease.

For this was but one example of preemptive certainty of outcomes. Indeed, our society seems fixated on calling the race before the first contestant crosses the finish line.

In some ways, this trend was inevitable. Americans have never been known for patience, and the smartphone era has vanquished the last frontier of our restraint.

But that doesn’t make it right.

For life can be cruel and irrational. Even if we’re a foot from the front gate with a 30 mile per hour wind at our back, there’s still a chance for nature to bar us entry.

That’s just the way of the world. And we need to come to terms with it.

Numbers are the universal language.

I can’t recall who imparted this wisdom on me. But I’ve never forgotten the advice itself.

So much of our lives remains up for interpretation. What we see. What we say. What we write. It can vary from culture to culture, or region to region.

But the rules of numbers are finite. 1 + 1 will always equal 2. And a 95% chance is better than a 5% one.

It’s time we reacquaint ourselves with this practice. That we stop equating a 98% chance with a 100% one. That we stop proclaiming false certainty of outcomes.

Sure, this might take the wind out of our sails a bit. And yes, it will make the journey seem a bit nervier.

But we’ll spare ourselves the egg on our face if we save the celebration for the destination. We’ll find the security we seek, and we’ll become less vulnerable to last second plot twists.

It’s a high reward, low-cost proposition.

Let’s make it a reality.