Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

On Uncertainty

Outcome unknown.

These two words can bring us to our knees and leave us screaming in agony.

We may consider ourselves resilient in the face of challenges. But such a characteristic is formed under an assumption of normalcy.

When that assumption is removed, we find ourselves in the wind. And that causes us strife.

There is no light at the end of the tunnel. And without such tangible signs of hope, we despair.

As I write this, the world is in the midst of its most severe health crisis in more than a century.

A lethal pathogen has made its way around the globe, causing a Coronavirus pandemic. This coronavirus is highly infectious, and it causes a potentially deadly respiratory disease.

The last time a pandemic of this nature spread worldwide at this scale was 1918. That’s when the Spanish flu infected more than a quarter of the global population. In the United States alone, more than 500,000 people died.

Much has changed since that time. Vaccines are prevalent today. Medicine has advanced. And we now can get critical information quickly over the Internet.

These changes have helped mitigate the damage of plenty of viral threats over the years — including a new outbreak of a similar flu strain in 2009. But they couldn’t completely rid us of them.

The risk of an untamed virus wreaking havoc on society has remained. And that risk has become reality.

With lives at stake and no remedy imminent, many global leaders have turned to the same solutions employed in 1918. Large gatherings —including religious services, concerts and sports events — have been banned. Bars and restaurants have been shuttered. Travel has been curtailed. Hygiene norms have been revisited. And quarantine measures have been employed — both for those ill with the virus and for those at risk of infection.

These measures have led to a moment that feels eerie and dystopian. Across the globe, normally bustling streets and public squares are empty. Financial markets are in freefall. Unemployment is up. And the short-term viability of many industries is uncertain.

This is all distressing. But the ambiguous nature of what comes next has been unbearable.

In the midst of the storm, there have been no clear answers about how long the risk will last. And it’s anyone’s guess when this period of mass isolation will end.

To be sure, society is better-equipped for moments like these than ever before. Thanks to technological innovations, millions of people can work or attend classes from home. Food and supplies can be delivered to our doors. And entertainment options abound on our televisions, computers and smartphones.

But all of that is cold comfort in an environment so ripe with uncertainty.

The existential threat provided by this virus could last for weeks. Or it could last for months.

That’s a long time for anyone to be caught in a lurch, filled with anxiety about what comes next.

There is a great amount of irony in these anxieties.

After all, uncertainty is a common staple of our lives.

We don’t know what each day will bring us, from opportunities to missteps. From the moment our feet hit the floor, we’re essentially flying blind.

Under most circumstances, we accept this ambiguity. We even embrace it — through our compulsion for gambling, our obsession with watching live sports events and our No spoilers warnings for movies we have yet to watch.

Uncertainty is a source of intrigue. It provides spice in our otherwise monotonous lives.

But it only works effectively when it’s contrasted with something we’re sure of. It’s only welcomed within the context of normalcy.

This normalcy could be the rules of a game, an event on a published schedule or other patterns that impact our behavior.

We know that the plane or train should depart at a certain hour. We know that our favorite sports team should only play a specified maximum amount of games in a season. We know that when we place our wagers at the casino, there are small odds that we’ll win big and overwhelming odds that we won’t win at all.

But in moments of crisis, this façade of normalcy can get stripped away. And all that we don’t know is made painfully apparent.

This turns uncertainty from a diversion into the main event. And we’re not equipped to handle such instances well.

Sure, we might appear to adapt to such sea changes after a brief transitionary period. But appearances can be fleeting.

Deep down inside, the continued ambiguity is tearing us apart. Emotionally and psychologically, we’re struggling.

After all, we are social beings by design. Throughout the millennia, connection has helped humanity grow and thrive.

Regardless whether we’re introverted or extroverted, our understanding of the world is defined by the experiences we share with others. When that understanding is turned on its head, we find ourselves in freefall.

We panic. We abandon rationality. And chaos ensues.

We see this every time an external calamity tanks the financial markets. We see it every time a potential disaster causes people to make a run on supplies at the grocery store. And we see it in hundreds of smaller-scale forums at the same time.

The downward spiral accelerates exponentially as uncertainty continues to linger. Society frays. Tensions mount.

Suddenly, that irony doesn’t seem so amusing.

Day by day. Moment by moment.

Those are truly the only ways to look at life.

For uncertainty rules the roost. There is only so much we can do to mitigate its effects. And all that mitigation stands up like a house of cards in a hurricane.

This blunt assessment might not be reassuring. But it’s needed.

For the more we grasp the illusions of normalcy, the more we set ourselves up to fall.

We must embrace life’s ambiguities. We must accept a reality that is full of unanswered questions.

And we must do all this, even as we strive to find solutions for life’s myriad mysteries.

Not much is granted in this world — including our continued existence.

We had better understand that, and adjust accordingly.

There is no other way.

Singles and Home Runs

Like a cat ready to pounce, I waited eagerly for the question.

I had read the case study and identified the big ideas it entailed. All I needed was an opening from the professor to share it with the class.

I normally wouldn’t be so cavalier in sharing such insights. I’m an introvert, more apt to stay silent than to toot my own horn.

But this was business school. Discussions like these were part of the fabric of the experience. And class participation was part of the grade.

So, I waited for my opportunity, and raised my hand when it came. When the professor called on me, I shared those big ideas I’d identified.

But the reaction to these insights was not what I expected.

Instead of affirmation, there was silence and bewilderment throughout the classroom.

Okay, the professor said, after an awkward pause. But what else did we learn about the company from the case study?

One by one, my classmates would speak up, repeating facts so clearly written in the text that a sixth grader could have shared them. And time after time, the professor would approve of their simple commentary.

Now I was the one bewildered.

Why were we spending so much time on obvious points? Was this really the best use of our time in class?

I had to be missing something here. But what was it?

I racked my brain for a while, until I came up with the only that seemed semi-reasonable.

I was going for home runs, not singles.

When I was growing up, I played baseball.

I was an outfielder on my middle school team. And I was on my high school’s Junior Varsity team for a season as well.

I didn’t play much, because I wasn’t very good. I had trouble running down fly balls. And when I threw the ball, it would tail off to the right.

But I wasn’t entirely a lost cause.

In fact, I got a hit in two of my three at-bats in high school.

One of those hits was a ground ball to the right side, which I beat out for an infield hit. The other was a soft line drive over the second baseman’s head that landed in right field.

These were the kind of results that would make star batters blush with embarrassment. If they were right-handed like me, they’d much rather crank a ball to left field.

But I was just fine with my two base hits. I was most comfortable extending my arms and serving a ball on the far side of home plate into right field. That was my natural swing.

I was a singles hitter. And that was alright by me.

Then again, this approach wasn’t going to get me a ton of playing time. And it wasn’t going to help me make the Varsity team in the future.

The prominent roles on both squads were filled by the impact players. By the kids who could hit home runs, not just singles.

Home runs guaranteed that the team would score at least one run. Singles only got the team one step closer to scoring a run.

(For those uninitiated with baseball, runs are the same as points or goals in other sports.)

In other words, home runs meant more.

I must admit that I envied my teammates who were impact players . For I was a scrawny teenager with limited athleticism and a long swing. I couldn’t easily relate to their abilities, as much as I yearned to.

There was one day when I got a taste, though. We were taking live batting practice, and a got a hold of a pitch. I watched the ball sail down the left field line, landing about 300 feet away.

It was exhilarating.

Wow, I thought to myself. I can actually do that.

But then, the next pitch came in. I took a swing and hit a weak ground ball to the right side.

Back to normal.

My time playing organized baseball is long gone.

And so, it seems, is my singles-hitter approach.

These days, I’m all too tempted to swing for the fences. To try for the bold and profound.

For I know all too well that the world can be a ruthless, competitive place. Hitting home runs seems like the best way to rise above the fray.

But is it? Probably not.

Swinging for the fences is the very definition of a high-risk, high-reward strategy.

The successes can be majestic. But the odds of swinging and missing are much higher.

At a single moment in time, this dynamic can provide a thrill. Just like gambling, the uncertainty and potential can enrapture us.

But our lives are filled with quintillions of moments. And over that large of a sample size, the failures of a home run strategy loom large.

It’s much better to consider the merits of the single.

I often speak of incrementalism. Even as I appear to be doing a poor job of practicing what I preach.

I’ve brought up this principle mostly as an antidote to the dangers of radicalism. As proof that taking a series of gradual steps can bring smoothly needed change to society.

But there is a second reason this philosophy holds water. It gets us to adopt a winning strategy when it comes to singles and home runs.

We are not following that winning playbook right now.

As the line in the old Nike commercial goes: Chicks Dig the Long Ball. Truth be told, we all do.

Going for it all — calling our shot and taking a mighty swing — this is more than brash expression. It’s the opportunity we see to swat our problems into orbit. To find a panacea and live happily ever after.

These urges are part of human nature. After all, who would rather keep suffering than find a quick cure?

But these desires are also self-serving. And with the home run strategy gaining mass appeal, this attribute can cause problems.

For what ails us might not ail others. And our instant cure might cause others collateral damage.

All too often, this is exactly what happens when we swing for the fences. And while the downstream impacts might be unintentional, that doesn’t make them any less catastrophic.

It’s time for us to get ourselves out of this downward spiral.

Let’s keep the line moving with singles, instead of going for the home run. This way, we can leverage the upside of progress, while minimizing exposure to the downside.

This might be tedious. And it might go against the grain of how others approach problems.

But it’s a move in the right direction. An approach that can pay massive dividends over time.

So, let’s kiss the long ball goodbye. It’s time for us to dig the base hits.

Sheep and Lions

In like a lion. Out like a lamb.

Growing up, I heard this phrase in school every March.

It was an old proverb about the change in seasons over the course of the month. A saying that illustrated the transition from winter’s frigid roar to the relative calm of spring.

It’s hard to take this proverb at face value. After all, different regions of North America experience the shifting seasons in different ways.

In California and Florida, winter fades away quietly. Indeed, the weather is consistently divine in both places throughout the month of March.

In Texas and Oklahoma, the opposite is true. The relative serenity of a southern winter devolves into the destructive chaos of severe storm season — where green skies, tornadoes and giant hailstones lurk.

Even in the northeast, where I grew up, the adage didn’t exactly go to plan. The late stages of March would approach, bitter and blustery, and I would wonder where this lamb was that we were promised.

But while this talk of lions and lambs might be stylized, it still has some substance.

For it’s not just about the weather. It’s also about us.

Words on a page are not always equal.

Sure, most have the same size, color and font. But some of them are louder than others.

And perhaps the most resonant word out there is Roar.

When we see those four letters in sequence, our pulse quickens. Our adrenaline starts pumping. And our horizons expand.

We don’t feel this way because we are all jungle cat aficionados.

No, we feel this way because that one simple word reflects what’s expected of us.

From our earliest days, we are encouraged to be lions. To be hungry. To be courageous. And to make our voice heard.

We are expected to lead. To boldly break new ground while furthering our ideals.

These demands can indeed become reality. There are definitely times when we charge ahead as if we are the kings of the Serengeti, hot on the trail of a herd of antelope. And there are certainly moments where we take bold steps onto unproven ground.

But those moments are fleeting.

Most of the time, we are far more likely to appear as sheep. We are more apt to stay with the pack. To choose the security of routine over the risk of possibility.

This fate befalls just about all of us at some point, no matter how ambitious we were at the outset of our journey. Our devolution is close to inevitable.

In like a lion. Out like a lamb.

What’s driving this phenomenon? What’s the magnetic force repelling us from regal lions to feeble sheep?

The answer isn’t clear-cut. But I believe much of it can be found within the structure of our society.

For those of us in the westernized world are trapped by the friction that lies between opposing realities.

On one hand, there is the social reality. Here, we are expected to be courteous and communal.

On the other hand, there is the economic reality. Here we are asked to be cutthroat and self-serving.

Our economic reality, in particular, demands a degree of independence. After all, we can’t be go-getters unless we have the liberty to do the going out and the getting.

But there is a limit to just how free we are.

Ultimately, the magnetic force of our social reality will rein us in. Like one of those retractable dog leashes, the tether of public perception will keep us from straying too far.

This might seem disheartening. But it shouldn’t be all that surprising.

By their very nature, social conventions are filled with rigidity and inertia. Change is met with skepticism, and revolution is met with resistance.

Tradition holds court. Even if it keeps flawed perspectives in place for generations.

We can scoff at this shortsightedness. But we’d be foolish to ignore its power.

For in a capitalist society, it is our social community that holds the purse strings. Our economic destiny depends on its support.

We must kowtow to communal influence. Otherwise, we might end up cast out of society, left destitute and starving.

There’s no way we can truly be lions in this world.

In a moment of crisis, where will you run?

It’s a difficult question. An unpleasant one, even. But the answer can be telling.

If we were to follow the edicts impressed upon us, we would charge ahead. We would run toward the danger. Like lions, we would boldly lead.

But instead, we tend to do the opposite. Like sheep, we tuck our tails and retreat.

There are sensible reasons for this, of course. Protection and self-preservation are chief among them.

But on a wide scale, the results of our apprehension can be catastrophic. Our society becomes a rudderless ship, devoid of the bold leadership needed to propel it through tumult.

These collective failings cut deep. And they can resonate for the long-term.

How can we expect to meet the challenges of tomorrow if the crises of today paralyze us into inaction? How can we find a way forward if we keep backtracking at the first sign of trouble?

We must adapt our ways if we hope to rise to the moment.

It’s time to redefine success.

The traditional measure — the ability to provide for one’s family — is too conservative. While this measure is important, it’s table stakes.

We can think so much bigger. And we must.

The challenges of the world today and tomorrow call for bravery. They call for determination. And they call for leadership.

We don’t have to tout radical ideas or accelerated timelines for disruptive changes to take on these challenges. In fact, we’re more likely to find success by being incremental.

But we do need to get started.

We must have the license to embrace the bold. We must be allowed to be lions.

So, let’s loosen our vice grip on the status quo. Let’s be accepting of the potential of a new normal. Let’s exude courage and strength, even in the face of uncertainty.

In with the lion. Out with the lamb.

The Dark Side of Discourse

The First Amendment.

If you’re American, you likely learned about this in middle school. You read the following 45 words in all their grandeur, studying them in detail.

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

Yes, I know. It’s about as riveting as a trip to the motor vehicle office. But the ideal behind these 45 words put a pep in our step.

They allow us to gather together and to have a say. They allow us to find strength in our voice, conviction in our beliefs and an audience in our midst.

Most of all, they allow us to tap into the power of discourse.

I owe my entire professional existence to the First Amendment. I started my career as a TV news journalist, with my rights etched in stone by those 45 words. Now, as a marketer, I facilitate discourse between buyers and sellers.

And I owe Words of the West to the First Amendment. There’s no way I would have been able to publish years of original thoughts without the license to speak freely.

Yes, the First Amendment is a timeless gift. One with the resilience to last through the centuries without losing its luster.

But recently, some warts have started to show.

In Back to The Future, Marty McFly travels back to 1955, thanks to a time-shifting DeLorean invented by the zany scientist Doc Brown.

If I had the keys to that DeLorean, I’d travel back to 1789. I’d head back to the year the first United States Congress stood in session.

This was the laboratory that yielded the first set of amendments to the U.S. Constitution — better known as the Bill of Rights. And front and center in the Bill of Rights is the First Amendment.

If I were to travel back to 1789, I would tell America’s early legislators that some 200 years later, an innovation would arise called the World Wide Web. And that innovation would help billions of people connect on something called the Internet.

I’d likely end up in the stockades for talking like this. After all, it wasn’t too long before this that settlers were burning young women at the stake, simply because someone accused them of being a witch.

But the risk would be worthwhile. For the Internet presents the greatest threat yet to the spirit of the First Amendment.

Free discourse has persevered throughout the generations. It survived a Civil War that left America reeling. It stayed afloat through a great financial depression and two global wars. And it provided the guiding light for the Civil Rights movement.

Even in the darkest moments, discourse tended to call to our better angels. While some truly terrible viewpoints have been shared throughout the years — such as hate speech and violent extremism — the balance of national discourse remained courteous and respectful.

I believe this prosperity of discourse had more to do with logistics than anything else.

In America’s earliest days, a message could only travel as far as the voice could carry. If someone spoke loudly to a gathered crowd, hundreds of people could hear it firsthand.

Members of the crowd could pass those words on to others further afield, but that secondary message would likely get diluted. Only those in the room where it happened got the unvarnished message.

This made it hard for radical discourse to spread. Harmful messages might poison the bucket, but not the entire well.

As time went on, technology chipped away at these limitations. Newspapers, radio frequencies and TV channels helped spread that firsthand message further and faster.

Yet, these new technology options came with their own limitations. Not just anyone could write for a newspaper or get airtime on the radio or TV. There were gatekeepers — such as editors and programming directors — controlling access and managing the message on each medium.

So, those who sought to use discourse to drag down society found their plans foiled. For every instance of a televised Klan rally, there was an image of Martin Luther King on the Lincoln Memorial steps, proclaiming I have a dream today. For every demand of an extremist to publish their manifesto, there was John F. Kennedy imploring America to go to the moon.

But now, things are different.

The Internet age is here. And the guardrails are gone.

The veil has been lifted.

Often, this phrase is a joyous one. Sadly, that’s not the case this time.

For the veil the Internet age has lifted was an essential protection. It was the buffer shielding us from the dark side of discourse.

Now, in a world with open access to a megaphone, we are seeing just how sinister that dark side can be.

Malicious discourse is no longer solely the domain of torchlit rallies in the backwoods. It’s no longer the specialty of radicalized criminals racking up collateral damage.

Instead, it’s in the hands of anyone with a smartphone.

A healthy respect for diverging viewpoints has gone by the wayside. Bullying and intimidation are rampant.

Those at the helm of these malicious campaigns run the gamut. They’re everything from middle schoolers to the middle age. They range from the far right to the far left. They represent the downtrodden everyman and the down-looking elite alike.

The expressions of vitriol they spew are no longer reserved for the masses. Like heat-seeking missiles, they can each be fixed upon a single target. One person. One family. One organization.

And the fallout from this prevailing brand of discourse has been brutal. Many have seen their dreams shattered. Many have had their livelihoods subverted. And some have even gone so far as to take their own lives.

This surely wasn’t the dystopian future America’s early legislators envisioned when they bestowed us with the power to speak freely.

Yet, it’s precisely the world in which we find ourselves.

It’s going to be difficult for us to find our way out of this sinkhole.

For as long as there is an open Internet full of popular social networking platforms, there will be cyberbullying. There will be those who launch digital grenades at others under the guise of an alias. There will be those who poison our discourse with little fear of repercussion.

This reality is bleak. But it is not hopeless.

We do have some control of our destiny. And that process starts with us putting our foot down and making our voices heard.

We can begin by letting those around us know that we won’t tolerate rancorous malice. That we won’t sit silent when other use the Internet to turn words into weapons.

We can continue by leading by example. By avoiding the temptation to use our First Amendment rights to make others feel pain — even if we feel it’s justified.

And we can take it to the next level by standing with the victims. By providing them the strength needed to sidestep the harm malicious discourse can bring.

These are only first steps. A first phase in a much larger crusade.

But they are steps in the right direction.

The First Amendment gave our society a great opportunity. Let’s make the most of it once again.

The Power of Inertia

I’m in over my head.

The thought flashed through my mind, over and over, as I stood nervously on the edge of a ski run.

To the left of me was the gentle meandering trail that had gotten me here. On my map, this trail was marked green, which meant it was for beginner skiers.

Straight ahead of me was a steeper trail I had not taken. That trail was marked blue on the map, for intermediate skiers.

And to the right of me was the remainder of the run, an unrelenting slope down to the lodge, some 50 feet below. It was marked blue on the map, but the skiers on the green trail would have to take it to make it back to base.

I was not ready for what was to come. This was only my second time skiing, and I’d never taken a lesson. Plus, the sun had gone down and much of the trail had turned from powdery snow into an icy slush.

I knew that if I wasn’t careful, I could get badly injured. Yet, it would be nearly impossible to be careful while streaking down a slick slope under the black skies of a winter night.

So I stood off to the side with my skis perpendicular to the incline and my ski poles anchored into the snow. Then, I waited. And waited. And waited.

Eventually, I mustered up the courage to continue. I turned my skis to the right and began the harrowing journey down the slope.

At first, the task seemed manageable. I was zigging and zagging across the hill with precision. But as I picked up speed, my turns got wider and wider. And control quickly became an illusion.

I somehow managed to stay upright the entire way down the hill. But once I reached the bottom, I realized I had a new problem — I couldn’t stop.

I tried every technique I could to pull up. Nothing seemed to work.

I bounded around the traffic in front of me, nearly taking out a family waiting in line for a chair lift. I was quickly running out of real estate, and gripped with helplessness.

Finally, just before I reached the parking lot, I was able to slow to a stop.

My skis were at a standstill once again. But my heart was beating furiously.

I had survived.

Often times, my thoughts on this forum have a predictable pattern. One that goes something like this:

Point out a behavior
State why it’s a problem
Encourage everyone to stop doing it
Ask everyone to try something different instead

It’s a familiar formula. One used by philosophers, authors, teachers and behavioral scientists for centuries to evoke change.

Yet, this narrative pattern glosses over a significant factor. It fails to account for inertia.

Inertia is a critical component of change. One we must contend with when speeding up, slowing down or shifting course.

This force that causes friction in the face of change. It makes it hard to alter our speed or direction on a dime. We need space and resistance to counteract its force. And we need resistance to chart ourselves a different path.

I saw the power of inertia firsthand on my ski misadventure. And I’ve notice it every time a plane I’m flying on touches down on the runway. Those few moments before we reach full-stop are the most harrowing of the entire journey.

Why do we fail to factor such a critical component into our thinking and behavior? Why do we perpetuate the myth of the quick change.

Are we willful? Brash? Petulant?

Well, yes. But that’s only part of the story.

I want off this ride.

Just about all of us have had this thought from time to time.

For whether we’re a daredevil or a scaredy cat, we’ve likely had that moment where our stomach tied in knots and the room started to spin.

That feeling has seemed particularly pronounced in recent years. As society has become splintered by divisiveness, a tidal wave of angst has consumed a great many of us.

We don’t want the status quo to continue. We want a kinder, gentler reality.

So, we propose ever more radical solutions for the issues we see. We get ever more ambitious with the scope of these demands.

Our emotions are driving the show. After all, we are pained by our current quandary. And we feel compelled to find the fastest source of relief.

But while our hearts seek a quick shift, our minds should know better.

We should know that it takes some time to grind our present actions to a halt, and that it takes time to chart a course for our future ones. We should know that old habits die hard, and that new ones are hard to break in.

And because of this, we should know that change is often incremental, not disruptive.

We should know all this. But we’d rather act as if we don’t know any of it.

For that narrative is too drawn out. It’s too slow and plodding for our fast-twitch, instant gratification world.

We want off this ride now. Consequences be damned.

It would seem that our yearning for radical change is a problem. A problem that needs to be stopped in its tracks.

But by framing the issue this way, we risk falling into a trap.

For ultimately, we can’t stop anything in its tracks. That’s not how we resist inertia.

We must work toward the change we seek. Gradually, methodically and persistently.

Then, and only then, can we shift course the way the laws of nature intended. Then, and only then, can we reach our desired destination in a manner that minimizes damage.

This is a long-term gain that’s worth the short-term pain.

Indeed, in essence, that pain is just part of the process.

So, let us not stop those unsavory behaviors or actions we seek to purge. And let us not immediately enact their replacements.

Instead, let us continue.

Let us continue moving from the problems we encounter now toward the solutions that we see ahead. Let us continue challenging the status quo in hopes of a more idealized reality. And let us continue working to build a brighter future, brick by brick and day by day.

Inertia is ever powerful, and ever present. It’s best if we use it to our advantage.

Hackbuster

Not long ago, I stumbled upon a strange article on the Internet.

The title read: Dopamine Fasting Is Silicon Valley’s Hot New Trend.

Normally, the words Hot New Trend would repel me like pepper spray. I’m not on the cutting edge, and am not looking to hang out with the cool kids.

Yet, I found myself compelled to click on this particular article. For something in the title just didn’t add up.

After all, dopamine is a central part of our existence. The neurotransmitter evokes feelings of pleasure throughout our bodies. That sensation can be found when we complete that big work project, when our favorite team wins a big game— or when we’re scrolling through the social media feeds on our smartphone.

Why would tech executives — the stewards of such dopamine-inducing platforms as social networks and smartphones — refuse to eat their own dog food? Why would they subject themselves to prolonged periods of masochistic misery?

It only took me five short paragraphs to find out.

It turns out the hoodie-clad overlords of Silicon Valley are adopting dopamine fasting as a health hack. They’re using it to recalibrate their bodies to meet target metrics. And they’re equating the act of hitting their numbers to having optimal health.

Health hacks like these are often billed as course corrections. They’re often considered a rapid regression to the mean.

But in essence, they’re shortcuts. They’re the fast lane to a desirable destination.

This is why even the most counterintuitive hacks — like denying oneself any sources of pleasure —can spread like wildfire. The promise of a craveable outcome and the pull of social pressure can make these hacks appear to be sensible options.

Yet, all too often, appearances can be deceiving.

I am not a fan of hacks.

I never have been. And I probably never will be.

I don’t feel this way because of anything the hacks themselves contain. Sure, they might seem absurd at times. But that absurdity amuses me.

No, my issue with hacks comes from their underlying premise.

Hacks find their greatest power at the intersection of impatience and snobbishness. For their doting audiences seek both instant gratification and elite status.

With hacks, it’s not enough to simply to get an advantage. It’s essential to have an edge that others don’t.

While everyone else is stuck in neutral, we’re going full speed ahead. While everyone else is fighting the same old battles, we’re above the fray.

This thinking is as much about exclusivity as it is efficiency. And this perspective eats at me.

Why must a hack be Zero Sum? Why does it matter what information others have access to? And why should we consider ourselves to be better than others — simply on the merits of achieving something more optimally?

There really is no good answer.

I believe in incrementalism.

Like a ship headed for the horizon, I feel progress is best made one inch at a time.

This is not an exciting viewpoint. But it is a well-practiced one.

According to the Diffusion of Innovation Curve, most people don’t rush toward exciting products as they’re launched. Instead, they wait for others to take the leap along with them.

Moving ahead at the speed of the masses is incrementalism at its finest. And by and large, this theory has helped us evolve over the millennia.

Even so, we crave something more than putting one foot in front of the other.

We don’t merely want to walk. We want to soar.

And so, we find ourselves entranced by flash. We seek out the boldest, brightest and loudest concepts. And we throw the full weight of our aspirations at them.

These actions run contrary to our cautious nature. But they provide us what our heart yearns for.

Of course, a proof of concept can ease this shift from incrementalism to disruption. And our society is full of such examples.

Perhaps the oldest of these is the very foundation of the United States of America. While we might take the concept of a self-ruling democracy for granted these days, it was relatively nascent in 1776. And the idea of splitting from a presiding kingdom was downright unheard of.

America’s success in both declaring and defending its independence was a shock to the system. It was an early case of disruptive innovation.

Many other disruptions have followed in the subsequent centuries. Many of these disruptions — such as the Model T automobile and the personal computer — grew from self-serving roots to gain widespread adoption.

This pattern has helped grow our sense of individualism. It’s caused us to think of our own short-term needs, in lieu of the longer-term implications for society.

In the cases of America, the automobile or the computer, the desirable short-term advantages we’ve enjoyed haven’t been overshadowed by undesirable long-term effects. But in many other situations, a less optimal scenario has come to bear.

This is a critical point, because hacks tend to thrive under the guise of disruption. They promise us short-term benefits and shrug off the long-term view entirely.

This perspective may seem desirable to us in the moment. But over the long haul, it’s extremely dangerous.

Don’t build on shaky ground.

This proverb is as prescient as it is straightforward. For centuries, settlers — perhaps excluding some in California — have taken it as gospel.

A solid foundation means everything. Our homes, our families, our lives — they all depend on stability.

We don’t gain this stability by rocking the boat. By making big waves and leaving others in our wake.

We gain it by working meticulously, methodically and collectively.

I truly believe that the greatest achievements in life are not the result of short-term, selfish thinking. They are the result of long-term, selfless action.

When we aim for immediate personal satisfaction, we only set ourselves up for future disappointment. But when we work together toward a common objective, we have the potential to lift up all of society.

This work might not be glamorous. It might not be hair-raising or pulse-quickening.

But it can bring a lasting satisfaction.

And that is something no hack could ever match.

On Negotiation

Winning isn’t everything. It’s the only thing.

Surely, you’ve heard this phrase before.

After all, it seems to be the ethos of life.

Our culture is captivated by winning. We’re entranced by it. And we’re obsessed with it.

Whether we’re backing down defenders in a pickup basketball game or gunning for that prime parking spot outside the grocery store, coming in first is all that matters.

This fixation gives us an edge. It can provide us the impetus to drive ourselves to greatness.

But that edge cuts both ways.

Much of our lives involve negotiation. Negotiation is the process of giving something up to get something in return.

It all sounds a bit cold and transactional. But that’s precisely the point.

For life is full of conflicting interests.

Sometimes all parties involved are going after the same resource — like the last croissant on the breakfast spread. Other times, their objectives might be different than ours — as is the case during a salary deliberation.

In either case, trade-offs are essential to finding a productive middle ground. And trade-offs get hashed out through negotiation.

The art of negotiation is an increasingly important concept. One that has come to govern the world in recent generations.

This is the case because of the rise of economics. Adam Smith published The Wealth of Nations in 1776. In the centuries since then, economists have come to view societies as markets constrained by scarce resources.

In plain English, this means that modern economics is based upon the concept of trade-offs. On giving up something to get something else.

By nature, these trade-offs necessitate negotiation— between owners and employees, between government and its constituents and between nations themselves. And so, these discussions have become a hallmark of our society.

Yes, it’s hard to get too much done without negotiation these days.

So, why are we so terrible at it?

You can’t always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, well, you just might find you get what you need.

These lines come from an eponymous 1969 Rolling Stones song. While the full set of lyrics from this song carry an ironic tone, the message from these lines rings true.

Or at least it used to.

My first memory was listening to this song in the back of my parents’ car. Nearly two decades had passed since it first hit the airwaves at that point, and I was too young to know what the words meant. But I distinctly remember hearing them.

Not long after that moment, the Berlin Wall fell — and with it, the Iron Curtain. Apartheid was abolished in South Africa. A military dictatorship ended in Chile. New trade agreements appeared between the United States, Canada and Mexico.

The world was evolving at a breakneck pace. And for the most part, it was doing so peacefully.

This was an extraordinary development after decades of divisiveness and armed conflict. And it spoke to the power of negotiation.

In most of these cases, representatives didn’t gather around a table to hash out their differences. But they still engaged in a series of significant trade-offs.

It was a great moment for the principle of negotiation. But that moment has faded.

Today, the world looks much different. Our perspectives are colored by the long shadows of the 9/11 terrorist attacks and the global financial crisis. Trust is waning.

Meanwhile, the rapid rise of technology behemoths like Facebook and Twitter — both founded by college dropouts — has conveyed the message that the old rules don’t apply. That you can get what you want and what you feel you need. All without compromising along the way.

Negotiations these days no longer seem like trade-offs. They’re standoffs.

This is a full-fledged breakdown of an essential skill.

And while this breakdown is not solely responsible for the divisiveness of our society, it’s certainly helping to fan the flames.

Many people view negotiation as a Battle Royale these days. As a test of mettle or resolve.

I’m not one of them.

Instead, my negotiating philosophy is straightforward.

Help others get what they want.
Accomplish this without causing myself irreparable harm.

If I can achieve these objectives, I move forward. If I can’t, I walk away.

Yet, I rarely find myself abandoning the negotiation.

There’s a simple reason for this. It draws from my first principle of negotiation.

By looking to help others first, I flip the script. I approach the deliberation asking What can I give? instead of What can I get?

This tends to have a bit of a disarming effect on the people I’m negotiating with. Instead of declaring a competing objective, I’m offering to help them achieve theirs.

My negotiation partners are often eager to accept my assistance. Doing so can mark a significant victory for them and their objectives. Plus, in a moment where tensions are heightened, it provides them a path of least resistance.

But invariably, their conscience will get the better of them. Whether under the guise of fairness, respect or politeness, the satisfied negotiation partner will ask me what I am looking for out of the deliberation. And when I state my objectives, they often feel an obligation to help me achieve them.

This is the ideal way my negotiations play out. But in practice, it doesn’t always go like this.

Indeed, there are some who go into a negotiation looking for a free ride. There are some who see my accommodation as an invitation for their indulgence.

This is why I have the second principle in place. It’s why I have the fortitude to draw a line in the sand and the gumption to give up on the proceedings altogether if need be.

When push comes to shove, I will protect myself with all my might.

But I treat that situation as a possibility, not an inevitability.

Winning matters. It’s been this way for centuries, and will likely be this way for centuries to come.

But the way we perceive winning can evolve. And indeed it must.

Our world is more connected than ever before. That means we must work together more often.

There is no room for winner-take-all. Our patience for zero-sum standoffs is waning.

It’s time for us to approach negotiation with an infinite mindset. It’s time for us to focus on what we can give over what we stand to get. It’s time for us to consider what we can achieve together.

That is where true power lies. And that is what winning is all about.

The Fragility of Emotion

There have been thousands of sci-fi TV shows and movies throughout the years. But only a select few franchises have the level of popularity that Star Trek does.

Why that is remains an open-ended question.

It could be the aspirational mantra— To go where no man has gone before. It could be the fascination with all the technological flair. It could be the intrigue of the mysterious language of Klingon.

But I think the appeal of Star Trek comes from something far more fundamental — the allure of the protagonist.

The franchise primarily covers the adventures of the Starship Enterprise. The ship’s captain in the initial series — James T. Kirk — is a confident character who is not afraid to wear his emotions on his sleeve. Yet, his First Officer — Spock — is meticulously logical and comparatively emotionless.

Spock’s tendencies are biological. Spock is Vulcan on his father’s side, and Vulcans are defined by their adherence to logic. Kirk’s tendencies are also biological — as humans are often known for their bravado.

The dynamic between Kirk and Spock defines much of the narrative — both in the 1960s TV show and the 2000s reboot film series. Their interactions often demonstrate the conflict between emotion and logic.

This dramatic tension resonates. After all, logic and emotion are two core conditions of humanity. And they represent the two pillars of storytelling.

With this in mind, it’s no wonder Star Trek is so compelling. In a strange way, it’s the story of us.

Step away from the TV screen, and the view is much different.

In our everyday lives, we don’t want to explore the overlap of logic and emotion. We’d rather keep them separated.

So, we protect our emotions with vigor. We aspire to keep our mood steady. And we angrily rebuke anyone who pokes holes in our defenses.

This process takes no prisoners. Like an enraged dragon, our defenses engulf anyone who questions our decision making processes.

No one is spared when this inferno rages. Not our enemies. Not our acquaintances. And not even our loved ones.

And sometimes, entire industries feel our wrath for prodding a little too deeply. Two, in particular, get on our nerves most often — the news media and marketing.

These professions get all up in our business. They blast right through our varnished facades and expose the raw emotions within us.

We don’t like getting exposed like this. So, we brand the news media as Triggering. And we give marketers scarlet letter of Manipulative.

We sing the praises of other industries in their stead. Of professions that are more logical.

They seem like lines of work that Spock would excel in, if he wasn’t the First Officer on a famous Starship. And we aspire to be like Spock — or at least to appear to be like him.

Of course, in reality, we are not like Spock. Not even close.

Unlike half-Vulcans, we are driven by emotion. We feed off it. We rely on it.

We want to be loved, cared for and doted on. We want to experience joy, wonder and satisfaction. We want to our pulse to quicken, our heart to race, the blood to flow through our veins.

Most of all, we want to feel.

So, we lead with emotion. We let it pilot our decisions. Then we use logic to justify them.

None of this, on its face, is improper. After all, emotion is what makes us human.

Still, this approach comes with its own set of issues.

For emotion is fragile. Emotion is raw. And emotion leaves us vulnerable.

Our feelings can cloud our judgment. That means others can use them against us for nefarious purposes.

We avoid this outcome by spinning a narrative. By portraying ourselves as logic-based machines. And by rebuffing anyone who openly tries to stoke our emotions.

This is the objective we seek — this relentless homogeneity. It’s the safe play. Far safer than exposing the soft underbelly of our emotions.

But it’s also vanilla. Too vanilla for our tastes.

And that dissonance looms large.

When there’s a logjam, it’s best to cut through the clutter.

We want the stability of logic-based decision making. But we need information to feed our emotional side.

The legal and financial industries help give us what we want. They provide us the cornerstones of order and power — even as seem more detached from reality than someone hopped up on Valium.

But maligned industries like the media and marketing — they give us what we need. They call to our emotions, providing us the fodder to make choices in the manner we’re most accustomed to.

Yes, professions like these are the purest reflection of the human condition. They allow us to make profound connections. Connections that capitalize on the very fragility of emotion we so fear. Connections that build upon empathy to make the world a better place.

This is why I’ve chosen to work in both the media and marketing realms throughout my career. And it’s why it irks me to see them so callously smeared.

For there is a lot of good in these lines of work.

Indeed, unlike many “logic-based” professions, these industries are seldom zero-sum. It’s not about winners and losers, or lifting up one at the expense of another.

At their best, these industries think broader. They focus on connecting buyers and sellers, or providing knowledge to the uninformed.

These are the types of mutually-beneficial exchanges that can raise entire societies. When we have each other’s backs — when we’re focused on the same endpoint — we soar.

But we can’t get there by playing it safe. By putting distance between ourselves and those who are attempting to reach us. By deluding ourselves as to our true nature.

No, we must welcome vulnerability. We must accept the fragility of emotion. And we must recognize the potential that exists if we allow others to move us toward action.

To be sure, this is not a silver bullet. If we don’t do our due diligence, we can get badly hurt.

But it is a step in the right direction. A necessary step.

The fragility of emotion is not a bug in the human condition. It’s a feature.

Let’s get the most out of it.

The Ambiguity Trinity

There’s an old adage: You never forget your first professional moment of crisis.

I can still remember mine.

I was fresh into my first post-college job, working as a news producer in Midland, Texas.

My job was to put together the 5 PM and 10 PM newscasts — which made me a jack-of-all-trades.

I organized each newscast, determining which stories would run where. I coordinated with the reporters and made sure their full-length reports ran on-air as planned. I wrote news scripts for the anchors to read. And I contacted the authorities to confirm developing information as it arose.

These last two responsibilities were the most critical. For they helped get fresh information on the airwaves, while adhering to the three principles of news: Be First. Be Right. Be Best.

At first, I had no trouble with this part of my job. This was years ahead of the era of toxic anti-media sentiment, and Midland had something of a small-town feel.

The officials I talked to would generally confirm the information I was asking about instantly. And I was able to get most stories on the air with little to no trouble.

One day, that changed.

I can’t remember the story I was working on covering that day. A shooting perhaps. Or maybe a car accident. Whatever it was, I’d heard about it on the police scanner that sat by my desk.

I sent our cameraman to the scene to get some footage. But it was getting perilously close to 5 PM, and there was no way that footage was making the early newscast. So, I would need to write a short summary of the situation for the anchors to read on the air.

I picked up the phone and dialed the number for my police contact. But when I asked them about what I’d heard over the scanner, I got an unexpected reply.

“All we can confirm is that we have officers on the scene,” they said. “We have nothing more we can share at this time.”

I descended into a panic.

I couldn’t run the story. For I couldn’t confirm that what I had heard over the scanner frequency was accurate.

Yet, I couldn’t not run the story. If I did that, our viewers would be denied important information — and our competition would get the edge on us.

What was I to do?

My boss — who was both the news director and an anchor — overheard my dilemma and gave me some quick advice.

“Tell the viewers three things,” he said. “What you know, what you don’t know, and what you’re working to get more information on.”

It was a simple, straightforward tip. Yet, hearing it lifted a weight off my shoulders.

I got back to work, quickly typing out a news script that looked something like this:

Police are on scene investigating an incident in West Midland. We don’t know at this point if anyone has been injured in the incident. We have a crew on the scene and will bring you more information as we get it.

With three short sentences, I covered all three points of emphasis. And even without assistance from the authorities, I was able to get accurate, fresh information on the air.

What happened that day might seem like a small win. But it left a lasting impact on my life.

Since then, I’ve encountered many moments of uncertainty. Many times where I’m on the spot and I don’t have all the answers.

It’s no fun at all to be in this spot. To be caught off-guard. To feel trapped and dumbfounded.

But fortunately, I have the antidote. For I know there are three questions I can for sure answer:

What I know
What I don’t know.
What I’m working to get more information on.

Yes, I’ve made those same three questions I used to get that story on the air into a blueprint.

I call these questions The Ambiguity Trinity.

The Ambiguity Trinity helped me plenty of times in my TV news career. But it’s helped even more in the years since I left the media behind.

In fact, it’s gotten me out of more tough spots than I care to count.

I’m no longer dumbfounded when a client calls me out of the blue to go over something out of left field. I no longer freeze when facing a gauntlet of questions after giving a presentation.

The Ambiguity Trinity is like a security blanket. It keeps me from losing my poise or getting exposed.

And unlike the art of shooting bull, The Ambiguity Trinity stands the test of truth.

There are no fancy elaborations required. Just the simple facts that are at hand at the moment.

It might not be a perfect solution. But it’s darn close to it.

The Ambiguity Trinity can help us out in a pinch. But could we be selling it short?

After all, what we know, what we don’t know and what we’re working to learn more about are the three fundamental pillars of our lives.

In a world where knowledge is power, expanding our knowledge base is critical. So is the act of reducing our unknowns.

Indeed, the quest to learn mirrors the directive to grow. It’s imperative.

So, why are we relying on these principles only in times of crisis? Why do we only aspire to answer these questions in times of crisis?

Is it because of our hubris? Our ego? Our misplaced self-assuredness?

Perhaps.

In a culture built on confidence, sharing what we don’t know is generally considered unwise. It reflects doubt and vulnerability. And each is a principle the confidence movement seeks to banish.

So we hide what we don’t know from the world until we figure it out. Unless the world calls our bluff, and we have to show our cards.

Then, and only then, The Ambiguity Trinity is our ace in the hole.

It need not be like this.

We can get much more mileage out of The Ambiguity Trinity. And we can glean so much more from the world as a result.

Sharing what we know, what we don’t know and what we’re working to learn more about can make us seem honest and self-aware. That transparency can breed trust. And trust can forge connections.

Yes, a little more openness can go a long way.

So, let’s stop hiding from the unknowns. Let’s embrace them head-on, with The Ambiguity Trinity as our guide.

For uncertainty might await. But so might opportunity.

Let’s seize it.

Earn It

The sun was barely up and the coffee was piping hot.

Yet, there was palpable excitement throughout the office.

For it was Friday.

And not just any Friday. A short-week Friday.

There had been a holiday earlier in the week. We had barely gotten back to work. And yet, there were already two more days off on the horizon.

As the day wore on, more and more of the office slid into full-fledged Friday mode. Fewer and fewer items on to-do lists got completed. More and more sidebar conversations popped up at various cubicles.

It seemed like everyone’s focus was on the impending weekend.

But mine was not.

As my co-workers ran down the clock, I was racing against it.

There was so much to do. And there wasn’t enough time.

I did my best to tune out the distractions around me. I locked eyes with my computer screen. And I started crossing items off my to-do list.

It was slow going at first. But soon, I picked up momentum.

I was getting to more tasks in a shorter amount of time. The to-do list was getting shorter.

But it wasn’t enough. As the workday wound down, I was still behind the 8-ball. Some items on my list would have to get pushed to next week.

I got in my SUV and headed home, where two days of freedom awaited me.

But I didn’t feel triumphant. I felt like I had failed.

There are several theories about the balance between our lives at work and our lives outside of it.

Parkinson’s Law states that work expands to fit the time available for its completion. Many scientific studies have shown that vacations are good for our health. And there is even a growing consensus that working longer hours hurts our productivity.

These revelations have changed the way work is done. Many companies now offer flexible work schedules, generous vacation policies, and the ability for employees to work from home.

Now, some are pushing the boundary even further. Some experts in recent years have been calling for the 8 hour workday to be cut to 6 hours. And the Prime Minister of Finland has floated the idea of moving to a four day work week.

On the surface, I have no qualms with the idea of vacations or 4 day work weeks. After all, I once set my college class schedule specifically so I could have three day weekends.

But there’s another side to reduced work schedules. A darker side.

For while an abbreviated work schedule gives us more time to enjoy life outside of the office, it also leaves us with less time to get things done within it. And that can cause problems.

There are two ways to approach time off.

One is as a gift. As something bestowed upon us with no strings attached.

The other is as a reward. As something achieved in exchange for our hard work.

These days, many of us take the first approach. We expect time off to be generous and unconditional. And we indulge in opportunities to get away from the grinding demands of the professional world.

We live for the weekends and holidays. We curse Mondays and approach Fridays with a sense of righteous vindication.

Now, there’s nothing wrong with taking this route. It’s natural — even expected — in a world where the traditional workplace norms are getting unshackled, one by one.

But I don’t follow the crowd here. Instead I go for the second approach.

For I believe in the grind. I believe in rolling up my sleeves and getting to it.

Most of all, I believe that to get a break, I need to earn it.

Now, there are upsides and downsides to this approach.

On the plus side, I’m able to keep a steady course. I don’t get crushed by the Monday Blues, and I rarely find myself flying high on Fridays. There is only the next task. The next day. The next opportunity to get after it.

But on the minus side, I get flustered when I get off-schedule. So short weeks and missed deadlines each eat at me.

When the routine suddenly shifts, I find myself without direction. And I feel unworthy of the freedom bestowed upon me. For I haven’t earned it.

Why on earth would I subject myself to this torture?

In a world where instant gratification has never been more plentiful, why would I shun it in favor of monotony?

The answer is equal parts self-control and self-awareness.

As avid Words of the West readers know, I’m a bit obsessed with control.

I crave it. I depend on it.

Yet, I often have doubts on my abilities. And these doubts undercut my sense of control.

This paradox used to paralyze me. I was a ship in irons, caught between the warm trade winds of ambition and the frigid gales of doubt.

It got so bad that by the middle of my high school years, I had checked out. I would sleepwalk through classes, come home and blankly watch whatever sports game was on television.

I was a mess. My grades were slipping. And my misery was rising.

My mother saw all this. And she was not happy.

One day, in a fit of seething exasperation, she called me lazy. Not once, but multiple times.

I could have shrugged this off, the way I shrugged off everything else at that time. But something in those stinging words lit a fire under me.

I didn’t like being called lazy. And I wanted make sure that wouldn’t happen ever again.

So, I made a pact with myself. I conceded that others might have more talent than I did, but I swore that no one would outwork me.

This helped me break the ice of my self-doubt and regain control of my destiny. And it’s continued to provide me direction to this day.

Yes, the Earn It approach is not just habit. It’s my guiding principle.

There’s no need to evangelize the Earn It approach. For it’s not for everyone.

Still, it’s important that we understand the merits of this mindset. It’s important that we recognize the value of hard work and determination.

These principles might not be flashy. But they provide a steadfast certainty in an ever-changing world. And they can yield an unparalleled sense of satisfaction — the satisfaction of a job well done.

So, while we count our blessings and indulge in ever more abundant leisure opportunities, we should remember one thing.

Some of the best things in life are not given. They’re earned.

Author: Dylan Brooks