Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

Comfort in Discomfort

Along a beach in California, a strange occurrence repeats itself, time and again.

Young men, dressed in full combat fatigues, lay on the beach, just beyond the water’s edge. Waves of salt water wash over the men, as they lay there, motionless.

These young men are Navy SEAL trainees, who are in the midst of an intense physical regimen — including long runs and swims. Lying on the beach might sound like a welcome respite from all this activity. But the practice is known as Surf Torture.

Why? Because, the ocean temperatures in California are chilly, to say the least. And staying motionless while that cold water washes over one’s body is no easy feat.

And that is precisely the point.

For if the trainees are going to take on some of the military’s most advanced missions, they will need to adapt to extreme conditions. They will need to take refuge in inhospitable locations.

They will need to find comfort in discomfort.

We are not all Navy SEALs.

We don’t all get sent abroad to risk our lives in covert missions. We don’t all need to leave our families behind for months at a time, missing holidays and birthdays. We don’t all have our jobs turned into documentaries and Hollywood movies.

And of course, many of us don’t have the stomach and stamina to do all these things — even if we wanted to. There is a persistent dropout rate in the Navy SEAL training program for a reason.

But we do have one thing in common with these elite warriors. We also must reckon with discomfort.

Maybe we won’t experience anything as visceral as having cold water wash over us. But over time, we will continually find ourselves in uncomfortable situations. And we must learn to come to terms with that reality.

This is evident in times of crisis. After a hurricane or tornado, we might spend days with no electricity in our homes. After a deadly attack, we might contend with beefed-up security measures. After the onset of a virus, we might find our social interactions altered by face masks, gloves and distancing requirements.

In each case, the signs of change are visceral, and the scars of the trauma are fresh. Comfort is a fading memory, now beyond our grasp.

And yet, this discomfort is a hallmark of gentler times as well. For even when the moment feels less dire, things rarely go exactly as we wish. Bad weather might ruin our outdoor activities. A technological issue at work could get us off schedule. We might get a stain on our favorite white shirt.

These issues are far less universal than the ones we must contend with in a crisis. But they still sting when we encounter them.

For our fantasy vision of how life should go is shattered. And we’re left to pick up the pieces.

People love to classify things.

Classification allows us to delineate. It gives us the means to create order out of chaos.

So, we classify students by academic grades. We classify taxpayers by their income bracket. And we classify segments of society by their hobbies and interests.

But what started as a basic tool has gotten out of hand. For now, we even classify the troubles we face.

Case in point? The prevalence of the term First World Problems. We hear this phrase all over these days.

This is an underhanded slight. One that serves as a reminder that things could be far worse.

It’s not ideal when our washing machine breaks down, for instance. But how bad is this inconvenience? Particularly when you consider there are people in Africa who don’t have access to clean water at all.

The everyday issues people face in the so-called third world are severe. Our issues, by contrast, are merely First World Problems.

It’s a nifty argument. A more sophisticated cousin to such tough-love sayings as Toughen up, buttercup! and Don’t cry over spilled milk.

But I don’t think it works.

For comparing one’s suffering to another doesn’t make the discomfort vanish. It simply hides it behind a layer of guilt and self-loathing.

Our issues still matter to us. They still frustrate us in the moment. And even though we can generally access solutions to these problems, such solutions still require sacrifice.

Dismissing concerns like these because of their scope — or our privilege — won’t help us adapt to the situation at hand. And adapting is precisely what we need to do.

Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you respond to it.

Chuck Swindoll’s iconic line has practically become a rallying cry for those who define themselves through resilience.

But while it’s easy to find a spark from words like these, it’s harder to navigate the mechanics of change. Particularly when those mechanics feature prolonged discomfort.

We’re wired to treat discomfort like an obstacle. We act as if it’s a tunnel we must get through to find the glory on the other side.

This is why we seek to mitigate discomfort. This is why keep searching for the light in the distance.

But the world doesn’t work this way.

Discomfort doesn’t just appear or disappear in an instant. It’s omnipresent.

Masking discomfort with vices or delusions just won’t work long-term. We need to learn to live with it.

In fact, we must go further than mere coexistence. We must do what the Navy SEALs do. We must find comfort in discomfort.

This doesn’t require a trip to the California coastline or grueling physical exercise. But it does require some mental gymnastics.

It requires us to stop opining about how things were, or how we wished they would be. A Comfort in Discomfort mindset instead requires us to accept how things are — good, bad or ugly. Then, and only then, can we be expected to adapt accordingly.

This shift is quite a leap of faith. Even after years of trying, I have not been able to master it fully.

But I still hope to get there someday. And so should we all.

For once we let go of our dashed expectations of utopia, we can shed the weight of anxiety and longing. And, in doing this, we set ourselves up to thrive in nearly any landscape.

This is a future worth striving for. But we can only get there by going all in. By finding not only acceptance, but also comfort in discomfort.

Are you up for the challenge?

The Gray

Ain’t no road too long, when you meet in the middle.

This sentiment comes from an old country song. And it’s seemed to fade with the passing of the years.

As time marches on, we find ourselves drawn to the edges ever more. We dig in our heels, fighting tooth and nail over our positions and beliefs. We take an all-or-none approach.

This has long been a hallmark of competition. But it’s become embedded in our views on work, parenting, politics, religion, and even behavioral norms.

All too often, we frame these hallmarks of life in two camps. Good and bad. Or right and wrong.

And when we do this, we claim that decisions on how to proceed should be clear and evident.

But we delude ourselves.

For the world is not just darkness and light. It’s brimming with shades of gray.

There are few more frustrating types of weather than fog.

Clouds suspended in the sky can bring us shade, rain or even snow. But when those clouds reach ground level, they bring nothing but trouble.

Fog impacts our ability to move about safely. And it fills the atmosphere with a drab grayish hue.

We loathe fog because it robs us of what we seek — vision and clarity. And yet, it encapsulates how to understand our world in its realest form.

For life is full of ambiguity. Of shifting conditions and patterns.

This constant flux can lead to differing perceptions. And those perceptions make it more difficult to find consensus.

Those clear choices we believe in are often not so straightforward. They might help us, but hurt others. They might reduce our risk, but also limit our reward.

The best way to combat this is to embrace the gray area between those choices.

The most prudent way forward is to accept compromise.

Compromise is difficult.

Many leaders have mastered this discipline. But, when left to our own devices, we fail to follow in their footsteps.

For compromise requires us to step away from our picture of how things should be. It compels us to accept a solution that might seem watered down.

Yes, we can get much accomplished by leaning in to compromise. But at what cost?

For when we give, we allow others to take. And when we relax our standards, we can slam the door on our own rationality.

If we make a concession only one time, it shatters our standard of equity. It opens the door for others to question our overall judgment.

After all, why would we budge this one time, and not another?

Questions like these are difficult to answer. They threaten our reputation. They leave us vulnerable.

And so, we’d rather leave them unasked. We’d prefer to avoid the subject of compromise altogether.

But easing our discomfort is hurting our progress. And that is only leading to more pain.

In times of normalcy, we can get away with all-or-nothing thinking.

But in a crisis, the veil is lifted on our shortsightedness. And this can cause a reckoning.

Suddenly, our ideals no longer work. In an instant, our economic and social conventions are thrown into freefall.

In the fray of such carnage, we feel we have two options. We can stick to our hardened principles, enduring the suffering that is sure to follow. Or we can jump ship to opposing principles, forcing us to revisit our core beliefs.

But a third option is available. Just as it always has been.

We can embrace the gray area.

We can compromise. We can adapt. We can do what it takes to rise to the occasion.

In the context of a pandemic, this might mean accepting a government handout — even if we are normally accustomed to earning our keep. Or it might mean assessing the risks of activities in public settings, instead of barricading ourselves at home for months on end.

Neither of these options are a slam dunk, of course. In a society so fixated on precedent and liability, these tactics can go against the grain.

But the alternatives are untenable. Sticking to our principles for self-sufficiency in such a crisis can cause us to go hungry or bankrupt. And fully abandoning our principles for safety means putting ourselves — and everyone around us— at risk for a different kind of pain.

We must be willing to make an exception. To find a compromise in the gray area between the extremes. This solution won’t be perfect, but it will be best suited for the situation at hand.

How far should we venture into the mist?

How much of the gray area can we endure before we lose our way entirely?

It’s hard to know for sure. After all, the gray is ambiguous by nature.

But there are two pinnacles that can guide us — our curiosity and the moment.

Our curiosity is the latent driver. It unleashes all the possibilities we might someday explore. Maybe these possibilities are our second best options. Or maybe they’re opportunities we’ve yet to explore. Either way, we’re not fully opposed to them.

And the moment is the impetus. It’s the spark that causes us to change things up. To break the hardened rules we’ve set for ourselves and explore the possibilities instead.

When these two forces combine, we explore the gray. We can test the waters without losing our identity. We can find the reward without enduring much of the risk.

This is evident in a crisis, when the path to our survival is paramount. But it should also be apparent in more ordinary times.

Indeed, our curiosity is constantly lingering. It’s just up to us to conjure it.

And the moment is within our grasp as well. The inspiration lies within.

We don’t have to wait for our lives to get turned upside down, just to shake things up.

After all, the world is constantly evolving. Why shouldn’t we?

So, let’s adopt a new mindset.

Let’s stop hiding behind rigid principles. Let’s drop our fear of double standards. And let’s live in a more adaptable and sustainable way.

The gray area is not no-man’s land. It’s the key to our destiny.

Let’s harness it.

The Importance of Place

Every evening, I watch the sun go down.

Ostensibly.

For it is true that I’m generally sitting at my dining room table at that hour. It is true that I am facing west. And it is even true that I am at a high enough of a vantage point to readily watch the sun disappear beyond the horizon.

But for all those benefits, there is one obstacle — one thing keeping me from watching the western skies turn into a brilliant array of faded light.

That obstacle is a wall.

The western wall of my dining room is well decorated — with mementos, a grad school diploma and a photo of my grandfather’s training unit in the United States Navy. But that wall and those mementos form a venerable cliff blocking the view of anything behind it.

Of course, this wall is not the enemy. There are more than a dozen other walls beyond it before you get to the western face of my building. And even if I lived in the westernmost unit, the next building over would still block the view of anything else.

Yes, it seems like an at-home view of the sunset is out of the question — for myself and for all my neighbors.

And so, as the afternoon fades and the twilight sets in, I am forced to choose. Go somewhere else to catch the sunset, or simply imagine its presence beyond my line of sight.

All too often, I go for that second option.

Watching the sun set is not an essential part of life.

It pales in comparison to our needs for food, shelter and communal belonging.

And yet, many are enthralled by this experience. Just as many others are transfixed by the view of constellations in the clear night sky.

Observing such majesty with our own eyes reminds us of the vastness of the universe. And of just how small we are in comparison.

It is sobering in the best possible way. For it makes us aware of another concept — that of the importance of place.

This revelation is critical.

For what we do in life matters. Who we build that life with matters. But where we build that life also matters.

Such decisions are out of our hands initially. We grow up where we grow up — the choice of our parents, our guardians or circumstance. We don’t have much say in the matter.

But once we reach adulthood, we get to choose where we pitch our tent. We have some semblance of our own destiny — at least when geography is involved.

There is power in this version of independence. But only if we’re savvy enough to recognize it.

Something strange has happened recently.

With a deadly pandemic raging, much of the world has shut down. Entire countries have gone into quarantine for months at a time. And even in the United States — a nation without a federal lockdown — many people have limited their travel to a 10 mile radius of their homes.

These changes have had profound impacts on many aspects of our lives. One of those has been our understanding of the concept of place.

What was once an oversight is now facing a reckoning. For regardless how we normally feel about our home, we’ve been spending more time in it than usual. And that means we’re scrutinizing it more than ever before.

I consider myself fortunate in this endeavor. I might not have a sunset view, but I have a home I love — one that’s quiet and serene. The ability to sit on my patio, watching the wind blow through the trees and hearing the birds chirp, is an absolute godsend.

Others have not been so lucky.

Perhaps their home was an afterthought. Most of their time was spent out in the world of social interaction. Their house or apartment was simply a place to sleep and change clothes.

Perhaps other circumstances — job opportunities, financial situations or family concerns — had forced them to live in a place they didn’t desire to. Home wasn’t an exercise in self-expression. It was a symbol of their obligation.

In either case, the abrupt change to the world as we knew it must have been jarring. In an instant, their communities were forcibly separated, leaving them confined to a location they were none too fond of.

Yet, whether we love our home base or we loathe it, we now have no choice but to come to terms with it. For the world of whizzing distractions is gone for the foreseeable future. And so, there are no more convenient excuses for us to ignore what’s right in front of our nose.

At the start of the year, I made a pledge. I would walk or run at least a mile every single day. In sunshine and rain, bitter cold and searing heat, I would take the time to step out into the elements.

This was initially a ploy to improve my health. I had all too often wavered between times of intense workouts and sedentary days on the couch. I needed to commit to a plan that would keep me active.

The onset of a global pandemic threw a wrench into this plan. Suddenly, I had to change the way I strolled about in order to avoid getting sick.

But once I got used to wearing a mask and evading other people on the sidewalk, I realized how precious this ritual had become.

Not only did it get me out of my home — often for the only time all day — but it also allowed me to discover the little things that were all around me. The pattern of the stones on a retaining wall. The scurrying of rabbits and squirrels. The buzzing of high tension wires overhead.

None of these details were particularly picturesque or awe-inspiring. That’s probably why I ignored them in the first place. But now that I wasn’t shuffling around town for work, school or leisure — now that I was confined to these short forays in my neighborhood — I found a strange sense of identity within them.

These were the hallmarks of my corner of the world. They provided the backdrop to my vantage point of the world.

These sights, these sounds — they were my version of place. They were integral to my where.

I firmly believe that all of us can build this kind of connection with our surroundings. And indeed, that we need to.

For the more we stare at the horizon, the more we lose sight of what’s nearby. The more we yearn for liberation, the more we feel the walls closing in.

This is all bad enough in small doses. But over a long enough time horizon, it can be downright catastrophic.

Still, it doesn’t have to be this way.

Our mind can provide us salvation from this maelstrom. A change in our perspective can be the antidote to our despair.

And it all starts by recognizing the importance of place. Of fully understanding our whereabouts and making peace with them.

So, as we forge forward, let’s not neglect all that surrounds us. Let’s embrace it instead, with an open mind and an open heart.

For whether it’s beautiful or it’s mundane, our setting — our place — matters in our story. Don’t let it get erased.

The Blame Game

It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault.

If you were to go to a college hockey game in recent years, you were likely to hear the home fans chanting this at the opposing goalie for letting a puck fly by.

In a vacuum, this chant seems infantile. After all, the scoreboard already tells the story.

Why rub salt in the wound? Why make the goalie feel even worse for coming up short?

There is no rational explanation. And yet, the chant has lived on for years.

Some of this has to do with home ice advantage. The chant adds an element of intimidation to the proceedings, making it even more daunting for the visitors to come away victorious.

But a lot of it comes from a human obsession. An obsession in finding someone to blame.

There are few more compelling figures in our society than the scapegoat.

We worship the heroes and abhor the villains. But we depend on the scapegoats.

For these figures provide us a target for our attention. A release valve for our exasperation. A convenient excuse for why things veer off course.

Yes, we need an explanation for each hardship we face. A foil for the moments when our visions of perfection eviscerate into the murkiness of reality.

So, we look for somebody to blame.

This urge to point the finger is so prevalent that it’s practically muscle memory. We instinctively turn toward its seductive glow time and again.

At the moment we find our scapegoat, we feel relief. Our angst, confusion and vulnerability give way to the rush of adrenaline of grabbing the pitchforks and torches.

Of course, nothing on the surface has changed. The circumstances we are facing are just as they were.

But now we have a cause to rally around. A rationale for feelings of renewal.

All while someone else is left to shoulder the burden of our suffering.

There’s a prevalent school of thought. One that equates finding fault with serving karmic justice.

This is a fallacy.

For justice is blind to bias. It does not care about our feelings, or bend to the whims of our desires.

No, true justice is only about one thing: Balance.

Now, some may argue that apportioning blame restores balance. That transferring the burden of responsibility to someone at the origin of our troubles gets the universe back on track.

But reality is rarely this straightforward.

Indeed, the line between accountability and vindictive rage is often perilously narrow. And in the fog of distress, we can easily cross to the wrong side of the divide.

And so, scapegoats find themselves culpable for violations of standards that defy reality. Or wrongly accused altogether.

These are terrifying situations. They are outcomes that we don’t want to find ourselves facing.

And so, we hedge.

We hold back. We play it safe. We do all we can to reduce the risk of blowback.

This defangs us as leaders and innovators. But it also takes the worst case scenario off the table.

Or so we think.

On September 11, 2001, the world changed.

Millions watched in horror as two hijacked airplanes crashed into the World Trade Center in New York City, and another plane crashed into the Pentagon near Washington.

It was the darkest day of my life — and I’m sure I’m not alone in that fact. But the days that followed weren’t much brighter.

There was an uncomfortable stillness in the air. Anxiety and uncertainty were everywhere you turned.

Then, President Bush announced that America was going after those who brought this evil to our shores. Less than a month after the attacks, the United States Army invaded Afghanistan.

At the time of the invasion, it was hard to find many who were opposed to it. We had all just lived through an attack. If we didn’t go after those who were to blame, we would invite another act of terror.

And yet, two decades later, the results of that decision are less clear cut.

The masterminds of the 9/11 attacks are just about all dead or captured by now. And yet, the war in Afghanistan wears on.

What started as an action of blame has morphed into a costly quagmire. Some of the participants in it today were not even alive when the conflict started.

Pointing the finger took us further than we’d ever hoped to go.

As I write this, we are in a new kind of crisis.

A virus with no cure has killed tens of thousands of people across America. And the mass quarantines meant to contain it have caused 30 million people to lose their jobs.

The pain and strife are catastrophic. And the devastation lies on multiple fronts.

As battle through this uncertainty, we focus our attention on one question. Who’s to blame?

Some have pointed to China, where the virus first erupted. Others have pointed to political leaders, who didn’t act quick enough to contain early cases. Others still have blamed government agencies, who botched the rollout of testing for the virus when it was still in the nascent stages of its spread.

The blame game provides us with a convenient distraction from the despair of the present reality. It provides us with prominent punching bags for us to lob our ire at.

But it is wholly misguided.

For viruses are forces of nature. They do not neatly follow the laws of human governance.

This is why there have been pandemics before. And it’s why there will be pandemics in the future.

Even if everyone we point the finger at had acted optimally, there would still have been carnage. There is no conniving terrorist in a faraway cave that wrought this devastation. Nature itself did.

And so, apportioning blame is a futile exercise. Especially in the midst of the storm.

Crises are painful. But they are powerful teachers.

And one prevailing lesson, proven time and again, that the rush to blame is futile.

Yes, accountability is important. Sometimes, it is even a matter of life and death. But it shouldn’t be our first order of business.

We must start by righting the ship. By mitigating the damage and adjusting to the circumstances. By putting survival first.

Only after the fog has lifted should we concern ourselves with determining the blame. With the crisis in our rearview, we can objectively determine who should foot the bill. Or if anyone should at all.

This truth should be self-evident in times of tribulation. In fact, it should be standard procedure even when we’re not on the brink.

It still can be.

So, let’s make it happen.

Let’s learn from our mistakes. And let’s put the blame game behind us.

There are far better uses of our time and energy. Let’s unlock them.

The Bubble Dilemma

I slowly made my way through the crowd, trying to reach the front gate.

It was New Year’s Day and I was heading to a hockey game with my friends. But not just any hockey game. An outdoor hockey game.

Events like this only happen a few times a year in hockey. And one had never before come to my neck of the woods.

Because of that, this had been the hottest ticket in town. And I was lucky enough to snag some tickets before they sold out.

But right now, I wasn’t feeling so lucky.

I was stuck in a crush of people, with barely an inch of space in any direction. There were thousands of us trying to make it through the main entrance of the stadium, which had become a massive bottleneck.

As the throng made its slow approach, I was filled with anxiety. Would I be separated from my friends? Would the throng of people send me to the wrong part of the stadium? Would I get trampled, or worse?

About 20 nerve-wracking minutes later, we made it into the stadium. I took several deep breaths before continuing up the ramp to our seats.

Never again, I thought.

Few items are more sensitive to us than personal space.

Whether we’re from wide-open spaces or cramped cities, we crave it. We desire it. We depend on it.

Now, to be clear, we’ve long been able to get by in a pinch. In times of normalcy, we’ve packed into that crowded train car or bravely got in that two-hour line for a ride at Disney World, if the situation demanded it.

(Obviously, this behavior no longer applies at the moment I’m writing this.)

But just because we’ve traditionally been able to manage close quarters doesn’t mean we enjoyed the experience. Quite the contrary.

We are most comfortable when we are within our bubble. When we have an arm’s length of space between us and the nearest person. We demand permission for others to get within this bubble, and we don’t like it when people invade our space without invitation.

This is not conjecture. Our brains are wired to treat the violation of our personal space as a threat.

This is why it’s common to see people take a step back when someone gets in their face. Or to see people reflexively sticking an arm out to keep intruders away.

Our bubbles are sacred. And we must protect them at all costs.

The bubble has been part of our physiology for millennia. But recently, it’s become part of our identity.

With the boom in technology and media options, we extend our bubble to every aspect of our lives. We can choose what to engage with and what to believe. We can create our ideal reality.

This is a mixed blessing.

Choice brings diversity. And through the process of choosing, we can express our individualism.

Yet, choice can also bring divisiveness. Particularly if we fail to respect the viability of alternative options.

So, as we settle into our bubbles, the world fractures — split into billions of tiny fiefdoms. And any time our bubbles collide, fireworks could ensue.

Such confrontations were once sporadic. Even in more primitive times, the etiquette of respecting personal space was widely understood.

But now, the tensions are constant.

The Internet is always on. And the friction between conflicting bubbles percolates — like a >Hatfield-McCoy feud.

Worse, the Internet culture has percolated society at large in recent years. Polarization is as bad as it’s ever been. And there are few refuges from it.

Sure, our particular bubble could be off the grid, in a cabin in Montana. But for most of us, that’s not the reality.

So, we must face this friction. And we must recon with the discomfort it causes us.

The universe has an uncanny knack for calling our bluff.

At the outdoor hockey game, I said that I wouldn’t subject myself to crowds again.

I didn’t truly mean what I said. And yet, it still came to pass.

When the world plunging into a pandemic, crowds have eviscerated. Events have been cancelled. And our personal space bubbles have expanded.

Health experts have now recommended about two arm’s lengths of space between people, for safety reasons. And with many regions under quarantine, there have been fewer opportunities for people to intrude upon that expanded personal space.

In a world full of uncertainty and restlessness, this has been a rare bright spot. A rare sense of calm in a storm of anxiety.

And yet, as we move apart physically, we are also doing so virtually.

We are becoming more set in our ways, and our interpretations of reality. And we are growing ever more intolerant of alternative viewpoints.

Behind computer and smartphone screens, we are getting bolder. More extreme. Less measured.

And with in-person interaction on hiatus, we lack accountability. We don’t have to moderate our behavior to be accepted in public, because there’s no in public to speak of.

This is dangerous. And it flies in the face of precedent.

Indeed, the personal space bubble is only meant to provide protection, not fortification.

Sure, we feel uncomfortable when others get too close. But it does us no good to be too far removed either.

The quiet camaraderie of a shared experience is critical to our sense of security. It’s as important as the tacit understanding that strangers won’t get within an inch of our face.

But by hunkering down in our bubbles — even in the midst of a shared global experience — we take a machete to this ideal. We prop ourselves up at the expense of society.

The time has come to change course.

The time has come for us to be introspective of our behavior. To be empathetic toward the plight of those who differ from us. To be committed to our supporting role in a shared narrative.

The time has come for us to be more trusting. To be less vindictive. To be open to vulnerability.

The time has come for us to be better stewards of society.

It’s easy to hide from this responsibility, with altered reality and dire circumstances in our present. It’s easy to retreat further into our bubbles, as a turtle retreats into its shell.

But we must resist this temptation.

What we do today impacts tomorrow. And a tomorrow dotted with bubbles of isolation is a bleak one. A tomorrow of togetherness is far more promising.

Let’s make it happen.

To The Studs

Moderation.

It’s a term we hear often. But not one we often heed.

We are told to drink in moderation. To enjoy desserts in moderation. To watch TV or check social media channels in moderation.

We’re even told to do healthy things — like exercise or drink water — in moderation.

The rationale is simple. Balance is essential to life.

Too much of just about anything can overtax our systems. It can cause our engines to burn out, without a governor built-in to knock us back down to a safer speed.

Yet, for all its perceived benefits, moderation represents presents a substantial threat. It gives us an edict we must abide by, with little guidance on how to achieve it.

And so, we often find ourselves drawn to the extremes. We find ourselves tantalized by the adage Go big or go home.

Going big can seem more quantifiable than going for moderation. It can seem more aspirational. More exciting.

But how does this play out when we’re going home?

There’s a phrase that those in the home remodeling industry like to use. One that I heard plenty when I was a marketer in that industry years ago.

To the studs.

When remodelers used that term, it meant they were demolishing part of a home and then rebuilding it. The tiling, siding, drywall, appliances — all of it was getting removed. Then, when only the pieces of the house’s wooden framework — the studs — were showing, they’d install the upgraded replacements.

For remodelers, to the studs is the gold standard. It’s the equivalent of a blank canvas for an artist — a perfect forum to deliver a grand vision.

Yet, to the studs has found a new audience in recent years. An audience that’s more fixated on the process than the possibilities.

And this attention has transformed its meaning.

Outside of remodeling circles, to the studs is now associated with cost cutting. With tossing out everything that’s not 100% essential.

In a business context, that could mean budget cuts. In a personal finance context, it could mean slashing expenses. And in a pandemic context, it could mean shutting down everything except the hospital, pharmacy and grocery store.

Yes, to the studs is the polar opposite of our societal obsession with excess. Embracing it means going beyond the zone of moderation, and simply rebooting instead.

But for all the short term benefits of this strategy, there are some costly drawbacks.

For years, I’ve been stripping aspects of my life to the studs.

It all began with a push to get healthier.

First, I gave up on fast food. I haven’t seen the inside of a McDonalds in ages.

Then came a self-imposed ban on sugary drinks. Goodbye Dr Pepper, sweet tea and orange juice.

Then I went sober. Dry January has lasted for years.

More recently, I’ve focused on other areas. I’ve tried to drastically cut back on debt, my volume of streaming entertainment and my social media usage. And I’ve dialed back on some social engagements, even before a global pandemic mandated such moves.

The changes have made me healthier and more efficient. But it hasn’t all been rosy.

Sacrificing these habits long-term has removed many points of interaction from my life. In a way, they’ve caused me to withdraw from society.

It took me quite a while to realize that. And by then, the damage I’d already done had left a mark.

Cultural connections like having a round of drinks with friends at happy hour were gone. So was the comfort of feasting on a Whopper and fries after a rough day.

All around me, these experiences were still happening. But for me, they were foreign.

Once I recognized this, I had two choices. I could return to those experiences to some degree or another, writing off the years I went without them. Or I could maintain the more limited reality I had created for myself, with full awareness of the self-confinement embedded in that decision.

I chose the second option. Others in my position might have decided to go a different route.

But the choice I made is beside the point. My recognition that there was a choice to be made is what matters.

By opening my eyes, I made it out of the wilderness.

As I write this, the world is in a to the studs moment.

The global COVID-19 pandemic — and its public health and economic ramifications — have forced most of humanity to strip itself of excess.

Social interaction is strained. In-person commerce has eviscerated. And entertainment can only be found through our electronic devices — or in our anxiety-laden dreams.

There has surely been much pain in this moment. The combination of widespread illness and financial hardship is nothing short of devastating. And we must find a way to put that devastation to an end.

But as we work through the big problems, we’re learning just how small all the other ones are.

Indeed, the so-called “essential” trappings of culture have turned out to be more expendable than we’ve thought.

This has led to much analysis about how whether some of that in-person culture will return. There’s a chance that many business trips and conferences will permanently shift to a virtual format. That movie theaters might lose the war against streaming in-home entertainment services, or turn into a specialized relic. That the dine-in restaurant experience will become one solely of luxury, not convenience.

Of course, the prognostications of experts only carry so much weight.

Economic realities and public health concerns will help determine just how everything plays out. But so will the decisions we make moving forward.

Indeed, as our society continues to settle into this no-frills reality, we will all eventually face the same crossroads I once did. Do we stay the course, or revert back to the way we acted before?

Our decision here hinges our whims.

Each of us must look in the mirror and determine the value of re-investing in social interaction. In reinstituting a layer of excess to our bare essentials — even as such a move brings risk back into the picture.

The sum of those decisions will serve as our compass going forward. It will determine how our to the studs project will play out long-term. It will guide our legacy.

So, even if consideration of our next move is agonizing, we must go through with this exercise. It matters.

Yes, it turns out that tearing things down is the easy part. Rebuilding is much harder.

Unintended Consequences

But I didn’t mean it.

It might be the oldest defense in the book. Or if not, it’s certainly the first one we use in our lives.

Yes, these five words are almost an automatic response for kids when they find themselves in trouble.

Got caught hitting your sibling? But I didn’t mean it.

Called a classmate a nasty name in school? But I didn’t mean it.

Egged the neighbor’s house? But I didn’t mean it.

This defense, of course, is an outright lie. We did mean to do those terrible things, but we didn’t mean to get busted.

Our intentions matched our actions in these cases. And even if they hadn’t, we shouldn’t be expecting a free pass for our sociopathic behavior.

Yet, this shoddy defense tactic persists. It existed 50 years ago, it exists now, and it will exist long into the future.

Why? Because it reflects the world at large.

No matter how much we try and keep things in sync, our actions do belie our intentions from time to time.

Life is full of unintended consequences. And that fact has never been more evident.

If someone had told me a year ago that I’d be rationing toilet paper because of a respiratory virus, I would thought they were crazy.

This thought came to me as I took inventory of my supply of toilet paper in my — well, I’m not going to tell you where it’s stashed in my home. I don’t want it stolen.

As the world became gripped by a global pandemic, several predictable things happened. Many people got infected with a lethal virus. Hospital occupancies surged. And, sadly, some succumbed to their illnesses.

Then, several shocking things happened. Sports and concerts got cancelled. Schools and restaurant shut their doors. Office jobs transitioned into remote work arrangements. And entire regions and countries went into lockdown.

Yet, in the midst of all this, some unpredictable things also happened. Perhaps most notably, stores from coast to coast saw their shelves picked clean of toilet paper. And rolling shortages of this sanitary staple persisted for weeks.

There was a valid reason for this strange occurrence, of course. With people spending nearly all of their time at home, toilet paper usage rates were sure to go up.

But unlike many of the other persistent supply shortages — for such items as hand sanitizer, disinfecting wipes and paper towels — the toilet paper saga didn’t seem to match the moment at hand. Toilet paper is an essential household item, but it doesn’t directly defend against the virus the way those other items do.

No, the run on toilet paper can be tied to flaws in our behavior.

When we face a new threat, we lose constraint. We stock up on supplies and hunker down until the worst has passed.

These tendencies lead to a phenomenon called Panic Buying. As the threat approaches, unconstrained people head to the stores and buy as many essentials as they can — paper towels, bottled water, bread, eggs, milk and, yes, toilet paper.

Other shoppers see the dwindling supply levels in the aisle and feel compelled to buy these items themselves, before the store runs out of them. That only exacerbates the issue.

This scenario can lead to relatively short-term shortages of these problems during a weather event, such as a blizzard. This can be an immediate issue, but not a persistent one. Sure, the shelves might be picked clean of paper towels and loaves of bread for a bit, but replenishments will arrive once the storm passes.

Yet, in a global pandemic, the storm is not so quick to pass. And so, we end up with store shelves barren of toilet paper — no matter how much employees try and restock it. And we end up with people rationing their usage of toilet paper at home, to stretch existing supplies.

The toilet paper shortage is an unintended consequence of the pandemic.

The toilet paper supply issue is perhaps the most prominent of these unintended consequences. But others are even more dire.

Take, for example, the Stay At Home orders put in place by many regions and countries around the world as the pandemic ballooned. These measures are meant to limit motion and reduce the spread of the virus.

But the orders also restrict many opportunities for people to stay in shape. So, an unintended consequence of a measure to protect people’s short-term health is that they lose some ability to protect their long-term health.

And the broader impact of these directives is even more severe. Staying at home means shuttering nearly all businesses with face-to-face interactions. That has caused tens of millions of people lose to lose their jobs. That means they no longer have a paycheck, leaving them without the means to pay their bills or shop for things they need. That causes the people and companies who rely on those payments and purchases to run into trouble as well.

Suddenly, a single decision to save lives has caused financial disaster for many hardworking people and small businesses. That clearly was an unintended consequence of the decision. Or, at least I’d like to hope it was.

Ultimately, the greatest unintended consequence of the pandemic is that people have to make seemingly impossible choices.

As people run low on hand sanitizer or disinfecting wipes, they must decide whether to cut back on using those items to stretch their supplies. One choice risks health now, the other might risk health later.

Along those lines, as people’s budgets get tighter, some must decide what essentials to sacrifice in order to eat.

There are no good answers to conundrums like these. And while these dire consequences might be unintended, that doesn’t remove their sting.

Life is not about how many times you fall. It’s about how many times you get back up.

This famous line comes from Jaime Escalante, who famously taught calculus to students in East Los Angeles.

In a way, Escalante was the perfect vessel for this quote. For math is about making sense of the possibilities. About ordering and synthesizing the problems we face.

And yet, no matter how well we prepare, we will not be ready for all of the possibilities we face. There will be some unintended consequences we must contend with along the way.

Escalante knew this as well as anyone. Born and raised in Bolivia, he eventually emigrated to the United States. But not just anywhere in the United States. Escalante ended up working in one of the roughest and most impoverished areas in California.

Escalante persevered, and many of his students ended up passed the Advanced Placement exam. So many, in fact, that the testing review board initially considered the results to be fraudulent.

His success had led to suspicion. Unintended consequences, in the most ironic of ways.

Yet, Escalante was clearly not a quitter. He believed that the true measure of character was perseverance. And he continued to embody that sentiment.

Escalante has long since passed away. But perhaps we can all still learn from him.

We don’t have to let unintended consequences ruin us, no matter how painful they may be. Even in the face of unanticipated challenges, we can still rise to the occasion.

This takes a spirit of adaptation and an open mind. But it can be done. And indeed it must.

For the world is an unpredictable, and scary place. A place where things can fall apart in the least intentioned of ways.

But we still have a chance to determine how our story goes.

Let’s make good use of that opportunity.

On Loneliness

It started innocently enough.

It was Thanksgiving several years back, and I was up in the Northeast. I was catching up with my cousin, as we waited for the grand meal to be served.

My cousin was full of questions.

How’s life in Texas? How’s your job? What do you do for fun?

I answered everything with grace and candor. But when my cousin asked if I had a dog, the conversation veered in a new direction.

I did not, in fact, have a dog. I explained to my cousin that I spent long hours at work and traveled on occasion. I didn’t feel I had the bandwidth to care for a house pet.

“Don’t you get lonely?” she inquired.

“No,” I responded.

My cousin’s eyes got wide. She looked stunned.

To be honest, I was even surprised with my own response.

But it was the truth.

I’ve lived alone for nearly a decade.

No pets. No roommates. No girlfriends. Just me.

At first, I found the experience terrifying. When I signed the lease on my first apartment, I was fresh out of college. I had limited skills when it came to household maintenance and cleaning protocols. Plus, I knew none of my neighbors — or anyone in the city I had just moved to.

Over those first few months, I played it safe. I often picked up food from the drive-thru, or cooked boxed meals on the stove. I watched a lot of television. I withdrew from the world.

But gradually, I came to a surprising realization. I liked living alone.

I welcomed the silence that greeted me when I came home after a hectic day at work. It helped me relax and find some needed peace.

I cherished the solitary adventures that came with the territory. I could experiment with a new recipe in the kitchen — knowing that if I messed it up, no one would have to eat my mistakes. I could read a book, watch TV or sit on the balcony if I so desired, free of judgment.

And I embraced the responsibility that came with having my own domain. No one was telling me to run the dishwasher or clean the bathroom. I would need to build those routines on my own. And I ultimately took pride in doing that.

None of this is logical. Living alone is not cost-efficient at all. In those early days, I made so little money that my parents felt compelled to help me with the rent. Years later, a significant portion of my income still goes to household costs and bills.

Plus, we are culturally wired to share our living spaces with others. To mingle. To marry. And ultimately, to raise children under our roof. Living alone long-term can fly in the face of all that.

Yet, as I have grown and gained sophistication in my experiences, one thing has remained constant – my desire to live independently. It’s a core part of my identity.

So yes, I’ve lived alone for a long time. And no, I don’t get lonely.

That much is constant. But lately, everything around me has shifted.

Part of my joy in living alone comes from contrast.

While others might stick to the dominant narrative, I can relish the alternative one.

While others shack up, I can fly solo. While others go out, I can stay in.

I can choose to connect with society as much as I want. And I can withdraw whenever I so desire.

This sense of control has been critical. Living alone has never meant confining myself to my apartment indefinitely. I come and go as I please.

But in the wake of our recent health pandemic, all that has changed.

With a deadly virus spreading rapidly around the world, just about everyone is being compelled to stay home.

Millions are now living my reality. And the sense of contrast I long relied on has evaporated.

This abrupt transition has been difficult. Many outgoing people have been ravaged by pangs of loneliness as they navigate the changes. But even the introverted have struggled at times.

We are all as alone as we ever were. That point is as stark as ever.

There are many ways to define loneliness. But I associate it with a sense of longing.

A longing for connection. A longing for nostalgia. A longing for familiarity.

In the pandemic era, all three of those elements are gone.

We are living in a new reality. A terrifying dystopia where the very fabric of our connection is suddenly an existential threat.

We rely on this connection for more than emotional fulfillment. We depend on it for our livelihoods. And we need it to access the supplies that sustain us.

Because of this, there’s just about no one on the planet who wholeheartedly embraces our new normal. A longing for our former reality — now dearly departed — remains omnipresent.

So, in a way, we’re all lonely now. It’s a fate that none of us wanted to share. A burden that no one wanted to carry.

But carry it, we must. Separately, yet together.

As someone new to this sensation, I don’t quite know how to reconcile it. I find myself torn between a grim acceptance and despair.

To be sure, hope is on the horizon. But the present is painful. And that pain surrounds us.

There is no way to hide from it.

Where do we go from here?

That’s a tough question to answer.

Sure, technology can help to ease the burden. Videoconferencing has skyrocketed recently, both for personal and professional purposes. Voice calls and text messaging are surely up as well.

These options don’t remove the physical distance between us. But they do still bridge some of the emotional void. They raise our spirits and brighten our days.

That’s a start. But it’s not a full-fledged solution.

For the core of loneliness — the yearning connection to the familiar — doesn’t dissipate with an hourlong videocall with loved ones. As the fight against the pandemic intensifies, our world evolves in strange new ways. Those changes are all too present as soon as we disconnect from the videocall.

We must embrace this hardship. We’re in for a long slog, and the world as we knew it might not return.

Yes, at some point, our period of isolation will end. This much is nearly assured.

But the scars of our experience will linger. And our interactions are likely to look different than what we’re all used to.

With that in mind, let us take this time to redefine connection. Let us embrace secondhand connection methods with the same vigor as we do in-person interactions.

Let us endeavor to create art, literature and cuisine that can be enjoyed by those who are geographically separated from us. Let us form innovations that can inspire those we have never met, and may never meet.

Rolling up our sleeves like this can distract us from the situation at hand. It can keep us engaged, even as the rules of interaction ebb and flow. It can save us from despair.

So, let us commit to this choice. Today, tomorrow and for the long haul.

We are all alone now. But we don’t have to be condemned to loneliness.

Life is what you make of it. Let’s make the most of ours.

Tricks and Illusions

I woke up in a cold sweat, my heart racing.

I had just seen a vision of a dystopian world. One so horrifyingly visceral that I was convinced it was real.

As I opened my eyes and hyperventilated, I took stock of my surroundings. All was still in my darkened bedroom. Outside my window, all was quiet and calm.

Everything was normal. I had just had a bad dream.

Our minds are powerful things. They can help us solve some of life’s most profound problems. They can help us visualize new possibilities. And they can help us to get mundane tasks done.

Yet, that power can be compromised. Our minds can lure us into traps.

These traps are particularly effective when the protocols we follow are rewired. When our minds are put on the witness stand for cross-examination.

This is why we freeze when faced with tricks and illusions. This is why these mind games work.

Whether we’re observing a magic trick or falling for a joke, our minds can make us look silly at times.

We welcome this silliness because it keeps us honest. It allows us to find levity, build emotional connections and ward off burnout.

But some tricks and illusions can be more sinister. Confidence schemes can wipe out our life’s savings, leaving us destitute. And nightmares can spike our stress levels, weakening our immune systems.

It’s critical for us to avoid these outcomes. Otherwise, our survival is in grave danger.

So, we compartmentalize.

We prepare ourselves to see magic tricks by attending a magic show. We set up jokes on the first day of April, punctuating them with a warning of April Fools! We keep our guard up when we meet new people. And we do our best to be in a good mental state before we doze off.

These are not perfect solutions. But they provide us with enough control to stay afloat.

Or at least they do until a tidal wave of change hits.

Our lives are driven by emotion.

And one of the most powerful emotions out there is fear.

Fear can stop us in our tracks. It can help us avert a certain action. Or it can goad us into taking an alternative one.

Because fear has such a gravitational pull, it’s used as a tool in many societal settings. We find it in parenting techniques, in storytelling and in governance.

These applications are often for our benefit. Often, but not always.

For it turns out that fear is an illusion. It’s nothing more than a construct in our minds.

Indeed, as a common refrain goes, fear stands for False Evidence Appearing Real.

With circumspection, we can tackle these fears. We can self-triage — determining whether the outcomes that so terrify us are as likely or detrimental as we imagine them to be.

Often times, the answer to this question is No.

But there are exceptions. Exceptions like global pandemics.

In events like these, the false expectations are real. And that can be hard to fathom.

On one hand, things look normal. The sun is shining. Birds are chirping. Homes, buildings and vehicles stand intact.

But look closer.

Businesses are shuttered. People are confined to their homes. And everyone is being admonished to wash their hands, to avoid touching their faces and to stay six feet apart at all times.

Yes, the signs of normalcy are a smoke screen here. They’re an illusion.

And in these times, reality is the cruelest trick of all.

What happens when the curtain gets lifted? What transpires when the illusion becomes the status quo?

We grieve.

We go through all 5 stages of the Kübler Ross Model: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. And at the end of that process, we adjust.

Initially, we feel aggrieved. We yearn for the lifestyle we had once taken for granted. We curse the new normal.

Finding these attempts futile, we seek to bridge the gap. We try and hold on to some remnants of the past, while adjusting to the demands of the present.

This effort inevitably fails as well. A paradigm shift doesn’t allow for a soft transition. We must dive right in.

Finally, reality sets in. The loss of control yields a sense of hopelessness. We feel pangs of despair, before picking ourselves up and resolving to move forward.

This pattern is well-known for individualized shocks — such as a death in the family, a loss of a job or the breakup of a relationship. But when the entire world is turned on its head, things can get messy.

For there is no set timeline as to when all of us will make it through the gauntlet. There’s no synchronized date when we cross the threshold from one stage of grief to another.

Much like runners in a marathon, we cross the mile markers at our own pace. All as the event timer keeps ticking away.

Meanwhile, leaders wait impatiently, mired in a brutal Catch-22. They need to act quickly to properly adapt societies to the shifted landscape. But they also need consensus — which can be hard to find as individuals navigate the new normal on their own timelines.

Conundrums like these illustrate why the fascination with disruptive change in the business world is misguided. Even in the best of times, we struggle to turn on a dime.

But in crises like these — moments when our darkest illusions come to life — this tendency becomes a real liability.

So, what can we do to ease the burden?

How can we move past the paralysis of being tricked, bamboozled and floored by a world that suddenly looks much different than it once did?

We can start by letting go. By not pining for the creature comforts of the recent past, or wondering when they’ll be restored wholesale.

That ship has sailed.

We must instead focus on vigilance. On finding the right resources to follow during this period of disorientation. And on taking the appropriate actions.

This is exceedingly difficult when our world has just been rocked. For we are low on confidence, and particularly vulnerable to any tricks and illusions that persist in our new reality.

(For instance, the risk of cyberattacks is known to increase during pandemics.)

But often, what is difficult is necessary. Necessary to get us out of the quicksand of confusion. Necessary to keep us moving forward.

So, let’s recognize the circumstances. Let’s accept that illusion has become reality.

And let’s get on with finding the right light to guide the path ahead.

Our future depends on it.

Document It

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

Those are the opening lines of Charles Dickens’ 1859 novel A Tale Of Two Cities.

The novel covers a tumultuous period — the French Revolution. It was an era that preceded Dickens. But it was also one he encapsulated quite well.

Dickens was a master at finding the dramatic tension in any setting. He could extract a story from a loud moment, or even a quiet one. After all, he managed to turn the customary stillness of Christmas Eve into a page-turner.

But perhaps Dickens’ greatest skill was his most simplistic one — he wasn’t afraid to document the moment.

We tend to look at history through documentation.

This could be cave paintings, ancient tablets with hieroglyphics or crumbling Roman columns.

Recently, that documentation has been easier to access. Johannes Gutenberg changed the world with the invention of the printing press in the 1400s. Suddenly, works of communication could be mass published, instead of hand-written.

The treasure-trove of historical documentation has increased over the past 500 years. In fact, even Dickens would owe a modicum of gratitude to Gutenberg. Without his invention, there’s no way he would have been able to put out long-form content, let alone become one of the most widely-acclaimed writers of all time.

Yet, for all the documentation of recent history we can get our hands on, there is something missing — the perspectives of those in the fray.

We might watch musicals derived from the letters of Alexander Hamilton. We might learn the words to the Gettysburg Address. But those works come from the perspectives of the acclaimed. We know far less about how it felt, viscerally, as the American colonies became a nation. Or what it was like seeing that same nation plunge into a bloody Civil War.

The people on the ground in those eras surely felt the winds of transformation. But, by and large, they didn’t share their in-the-moment thoughts.

Some of that has changed in the last century. Anne Frank’s diary gave the world a heartbreaking inside view to the atrocities of the Holocaust. And the growth of home video equipment made it easier to record our reactions to transformative moments.

But we’ve only seen real progress on this frontier in the last 20 years.

In early 2011, a series of uprisings across the Arabic region caught the world’s attention. In countries from Morocco to Egypt and Yemen to Syria, people took to the streets to oppose authoritarian regimes. The movement would come to be known as the Arab Spring.

This was a fascinating development on its own. But it was even more intriguing given the way the world found out about the Arab Spring.

In many countries across the region, protesters shared their thoughts, ideals and perspectives on social media. Some shared video clips on YouTube. And as news networks started broadcasting images from the scene, the world gained a 360 degree view of what was happening.

Never before had we been able to document history in real time quite like this. Sure, media outlets have long been able to gather the facts of big moments. But they haven’t been able to fully capture the essence of those living the change.

That perspective is not theirs to document. For they are reporters and producers on assignment. They are experiencing the events from a degree of separation.

No, it’s up to those in the fight to document their experiences. In 2011, they did.

But the story doesn’t have to end there.

Sometimes I wish I could travel back to 1999.

I was a shy, submissive child back then. Far from the strong-willed, independent adult I am today.

I didn’t have a cell phone yet. Our family had just gotten DSL Internet. And I could count on one hand the number of times I’d traveled more than 500 miles from home.

Yet, life seemed simpler in 1999. People were trusting and approachable. The United States government was running a surplus. There were relatively few armed conflicts globally and the developed world seemed to be in harmony.

All of that would soon be shattered.

In less than two decades, the world has been shaken to its core by three major events. The first event was the September 11^th terror attacks in 2001 — which jolted the United States and left aftershocks around the globe. The second event was the 2008 financial crisis — which disrupted economies on multiple continents. And the third event has been the COVID-19 pandemic of 2020.

As I write this, the pandemic has sickened more than 400,000 people worldwide, and killed roughly 18,000 of them. Close to 3 billion people have been officially ordered to stay in their homes — about 500 million of them in Europe and the United States.

These are frightening times, filled with anxious uncertainty. Across the globe, people are being isolated to slow the spread of the virus. Menial activities like shopping for groceries or walking the dog are now fraught with lethal risk. And millions of people have lost their jobs as businesses shut down.

It is a difficult era to be experiencing. But experiencing it we are.

Someday, this time of strife will end. The stringent rules and restrictions will be relaxed, and society will get back to some semblance of normalcy.

We will continue to carry the emotional scars of the pandemic — just as we still carry the scars of the 2008 Financial Crisis and of 9/11.

But those feelings will get buried under the rush of the moment. Soon enough, they will be all but forgotten.

Future generations will lose connection with the shared experience under the COVID-19 pandemic. News reports and statistics will only say so much.

Look at what we know about the last global pandemic of this scale — the Spanish Flu outbreak of 1918. More than a century of distance means that there aren’t people around with firsthand accounts of that experience. Much of what we know comes from newspaper clippings and photographs. And that means there’s a whole lot we don’t know as we navigate these rough seas.

This is tragic.

We should be taking the time to document our experiences, even during trying times. Especially during trying times.

There are not many other generations that have experienced what many of us have — three global security, financial and health crises in a 20 year span. What we’ve experienced firsthand is worth sharing.

I’ve long committed to share my experiences right here on Words of the West. I will continue to do so. And I’m keeping a daily diary of my time under de facto quarantine, which I hope to share with the world at some point.

Yet, I hope I’m not the only one.

After all, our excuses have evaporated. Technology makes it easier than ever to share our firsthand accounts. But only if we commit to action.

So, we move through life’s challenges and triumphs, let’s commit ourselves to being more than mere passengers.

Don’t just witness history. Document it.

Author: Dylan Brooks