Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

When We Lose the Governor

It was a beautiful Florida day.

Blue skies stretched as far as the eye could see, dotted with puffy white clouds. Sunshine and warmth abounded. The slightest breeze kept things from getting insufferable.

But on this day, I wasn’t on the beach or dining under a palm-lined restaurant patio. Instead, I was behind the wheel of my old Saturn, trekking up the Florida Turnpike from Miami to Orlando.

The route was boring and monotonous. An endless stream of trees and swamps that were occasionally interrupted by suburban neighborhoods.

But as I passed the Fort Pierce interchange, my heart started beating faster.

For I knew what came next. A 40 mile trek across a remote corner of the Everglades.

Between Fort Pierce and Yeehaw Junction, there were almost no distractions. There were hardly any trees. There were few onramps, offramps or curves in the road. And, most importantly, there were no sheriff’s deputies with radar guns looking to make their speeding ticket quota.

I could go as fast as I wanted. So, I pushed the pedal to the floor.

The Saturn accelerated as it roared down a long straightaway bracketed by sawgrass and swamps.

I watched the speedometer gauge on my dashboard move ever more to the right. 85 miles an hour. 90. 95. 100. 105.

But when it hit 107 miles per hour, I felt a jolt. Suddenly, I was traveling at 80 miles an hour again.

The governor had kicked in on my engine. I had hit top speed.

Not the 120 mile per hour clip my speedometer advertised. But not far from it either.

Either way, the experience was truly terrifying.

In the moments after my need-for-speed encounter, my mind was still racing.

Suddenly, the potential consequences of what I had done were clear to me. I recognized that by flooring the gas pedal, I had actually ceded control. My actions had increased the risk of the car rolling over, veering off course or going up in flames.

The governor saved me from all that. And I was truly grateful for it.

In all the years since this incident, I have never tested top-speed in any vehicle I’ve driven. And even as I’ve moved on to vehicles with more powerful engines, I can count on one hand how many times I’ve cracked the 100 mile per hour mark.

The guardrail is there for a reason. Better not to use it as a crutch.

Governors don’t just exist in car engines. (Or as positions in regional politics, for that matter.)

They play a sweeping, yet pivotal role in our society.

Governors are the voices of reason that call to our conscience. They keep us from veering into anarchy.

For many years, a web of institutions has served as our society’s governor. These institutions have included civic bodies, religious establishments and the media.

Each institution has approached rationality in a different way. Civic bodies — such as police and the courts — have spoken to the rule of law. Religious establishments have spoken to the question of morality. And the media have spoken to the obsession with legacy.

No matter how reckless and swashbuckling we got, these institutions have continually provided a line in the sand. Cross it and become an outcast from society. A pariah. A wearer of the Scarlet Letter.

No one wants this outcome. And because of that, the societal governor has been quite effective at putting a lid on extremism.

But recently, that lid has been sent skyward.

Ever wondered what life would look like with no limits?

Look around you. It’s happening now.

Yes, we are in the midst of contentious times. Divisiveness is as high as it’s ever been. Trust in institutions is as low as it’s ever been. And more and more, there is a sense that the guardrails we’ve long heeded need not apply anymore.

Thanks to the growth of the Internet — social networking in particular — we can shroud ourselves in filter bubbles. We can rally behind ever more radical worldviews, casting stones at anyone who dares think differently from us. And we can count on a network of like-minded thinkers to rally around us, fortifying our views.

But what of the old establishment? We can cast stones at them too. We can call the civic bodies corrupt. We can call religious establishments hypocritical. We can call the media “fake news”.

We can, and we do.

Certainly, there is an element of truth to these accusations. Our key societal institutions are far from infallible.

But by painting them with such a broad brush — by undermining them in this fashion — we remove the governor entirely.

We allow chaos to ensue. And with chaos comes absurdity.

Absurdity like a leading evangelical Christian magazine being branded as offensive for calling the President of the United States immoral.

Sure, the magazine took a controversial stand in an opinion column, calling for the president to be removed from office. But the rebuke of being branded as offensive hardly seems to fit the circumstances. As these words are being written, the president is facing an impeachment trial, and people on both sides of the political spectrum are questioning his morality.

In labeling the president’s actions as immoral, the evangelical magazine was trying to restore reason. To demonstrate where the lines in the sand for acceptable behavior are.

This is well within the scope of expertise for an organization that is built on the issue of morality. It’s within bounds for an entity that focuses upon morality as our one true measuring stick.

Yet, in a world where we’ve lost the governor, even measuring sticks get attacked.

There is seemingly no limit to what we can do or say without getting called to account for our behavior.

And that’s more frightening than feeling the engine lock up on a Florida highway.

It’s time for this madness to stop.

It’s time to bring the governor back into the equation.

We, and we alone, have the power to do this. For we are the ones who defanged the old system in the first place.

Getting this done will take us stepping out of our comfort zone. It will take us shunning our filter bubble and voluntarily putting restraints on ourselves.

This is a big ask. But for the future of society, it’s a worthwhile one. And a necessary one.

We built this monster. The time has come to slay it.

The Obsession With Newness

Square One.

It’s an interesting place.

On one hand, you have a clean slate. Endless opportunity. Like a jet at the end of the runway, you’re ready for takeoff.

Then again, you have no experience to build off of. No internal compass sending you in the right direction. You’re as wobbly and tentative as a baby giraffe learning how to take its first steps.

Yes, everything about the Square One experience — for better or for worse — is just new.

And we can’t get enough of it.

We are now in an era of peak newness.

As these words are being shared, the world is embarking on a journey into a new decade. And while my thoughts on alcohol-fueled calendar worship are well documented, the scope of newness in the world these days is truly unprecedented.

The way we think, act and organize is all far different than it was when I was in high school. And I wasn’t in high school all that long ago.

These changes are pervasive — stretching from business to politics, from dating to grocery shopping. No matter where you look, cultural conventions have been turned upside down.

There are plenty of explanations for this phenomenon.

For instance, some say technological innovation is driving the change we see. Others say the rise of entrepreneurship is leading the charge.

Neither of these explanations is wrong. But neither is entirely correct, either.

Large-scale innovation has been around for centuries. From the printing press to the automobile, innovations have long shifted the course of our culture.

And entrepreneurship might be having its day in the sun, but it’s been in the shadows for quite some time. Lest we forget, Thomas Edison was an entrepreneur. And his heyday was more than a century ago.

Even the intersection of these two phenomena is not particularly novel. There is a lot of buzz around twentysomethings who rocketed to wealth on the strength of their smartphone apps. But a little more than a generation ago, Bill Gates and Steve Jobs each did the same thing — from their garages, with the personal computer.

So, what’s really driving the accelerating rate of change we’re seeing?

I believe it’s a surge of Square One fever.

Newness is in style now. But it hasn’t always been that way.

In fact, there was a time when starting over was a dirty word in our society. A time where it reflected a step backward. A time where it represented a lack of respect for the sacrifices prior generations had made.

These snubs were significant, as the dominant culture had been built upon the sacrifices these prior generations had made — primarily through consecutive waves of migration.

The first wave of migration brought settlers across the ocean to North America. The second sent pioneers across the land.

Each wave faced down its share of danger. Harsh weather, rampant disease and frontier lawlessness made success far from a sure thing.

Yet, these settlers powered through to provide a better future for their families. They laid the foundation that future generations could build upon.

Whether one was raised in posh Boston townhome or born in a modest farmhouse in Nebraska, they had a leg up on their ancestors. Tossing that advantage away would be sacrilege.

The events of the early 20^th century only accelerated this pattern. With two world wars, a financial catastrophe and the growing threat of nuclear annihilation, it’s no wonder that we became more risk averse.

Staying the course was no longer the safe thing. It was the only thing.

Yet, gradually, the outlook improved. The economy grew. The threat of global-scale conflict shrank. And society evolved to tap into the power of the imagination.

Newly empowered generations began to shed the shackles of risk-aversion. They started to test the waters of Square One.

This process took a few generations to really catch on. But by the turn of the Millennium, it was nearing critical mass.

By that point, many who had seen the calamities of the early 20^th century firsthand had passed on. And the ascendant generations were starting to assert themselves.

The dream of the house with a white picket fence was no longer ubiquitous. Neither was the image of getting a gold watch after 50 years of work for the same company.

Trying something new was not only possible, it was probable.

And now, it’s expected.

I’ve experienced Square One plenty of times in my life. But the most drastic instance came when I switched careers.

I knew that I was done with the TV news industry. But I had no idea what I would do next.

After all, I had gone to school to become a news producer. And I had spent three years in the business. It was Plan A, B, C, D and E. There was no plan F.

And to top it all off, I was moving to Dallas. A new city that offered plenty of opportunity, but one that I had no direct experience in.

I wasn’t standing on Square One. I was clutching onto Square One for dear life.

Ultimately, I weathered the storm and found a path forward. And I’ve continued to explore new ventures since then — including Words of the West.

But as I think back to those early days in Dallas, the thrill of newness was equaled by the terror of uncertainty. There was no guarantee that everything would work out. Far from it.

Many of us have been afflicted by the same fear. No matter how much we try and play it cool, the concept of starting over terrifies us.

So, we find strength in numbers. We rally around shared events, like the turning of a calendar. We package the events of our lives into measured boxes — months, years, decades — and create artificial nostalgia. We make absurd resolutions to ease the pain of diving into something new.

Yet, in our zest to roll with the pack, we lose focus. We forget why we wanted to start over in the first place.

And when we lose our why, we tend to lose our way.

My why was clearly defined when I switched careers and moved to Dallas. I wanted a job with that better supported a healthy lifestyle. Even as my future got murkier, the goal remained crystal clear.

That goal — along with some good fortune — got me through the maelstrom. It helped me accept newness and emerge from the experience stronger.

But my experience doesn’t need to be unusual.

In fact, I firmly believe that the same principle I followed can apply to anyone.

So, as we explore Square One, let’s consider reasoning behind our choice. Let’s make sure we’re striving for our goals, instead of arbitrarily rolling with the pack.

For it is only when we proceed with purpose that novelty becomes more than a gimmick.

Let’s make change we can believe in.

The Spirit of Giving

Every year, as the calendar winds down, something magical happens.

Colorful lights cut through the darkness. Familiar songs hit the airwaves. And good spirit abounds.

Yes, it’s the holiday season. The time of reindeer antlers and gingerbread cookies. The time of ugly sweaters and endless parties. And the time of shopping and wrapping.

We have prepared all year for this moment — some more zealously than others.

For we know that when the days are short and the winter chill is strong, we can count on the dopamine high from these festivities to sustain us.

That dopamine high might come from a gift, wrapped in pretty paper. It might come from the serenity of loved ones gathered with us. It might even come from a cheerful Hello from a stranger.

In all of these cases, we are on the receiving end of bliss.

Bliss is addicting. Bliss is intoxicating. Bliss is the fuel that powers this magical time of year.

But there’s one small problem.

We’re experiencing it all backwards.

Tis better to give than to receive.

Many have parroted this proverb. But perhaps none as deftly as Charles Dickens.

With his 1843 masterpiece A Christmas Carol, Dickens managed to do the unthinkable. He crafted a cautionary tale that still resonates during our traditional month of revelry.

A Christmas Carol follows Ebenezer Scrooge, as he transitions from bitter and exacting accountant to kind and gentle. This might seem like an overdone narrative, but there’s a catch. The entire plot takes place in a 48 hour period between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

Scrooge’s overnight transformation from miserly to joyous is inspiring. But what we really connect with are the apparitions that visit Scrooge in his sleep — the Ghost of Christmas Past, The Ghost of Christmas Present and the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come. These are the visions that show Scrooge the errors of his ways, and inspire him to chart a new path.

These spirits lay bare the consequences of neglect. They warn us of the dangers of self-absorption. And they project the impact these behaviors have on one’s legacy.

This is all pretty heavy stuff for the season of elves and one-horse open sleighs.

Yet, that was precisely Dickens’ point.

At the time Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol, the holiday season was one of extremes. The well-off would spend evenings in a drunken stupor, indulging themselves to no end. But across town, the less fortunate starved and froze, afflicted with a dearth of hope.

A Christmas Carol aimed to close that gap. To get the selfish to think of those around them. To convince the fortunate to give to the needy.

Dickens felt passionate about this cause. As a teenager, had to work long hours in deplorable conditions in a factory after his father was sent to a debtor’s prison. He never forgot what it felt like to be marginalized. And he made sure his readers understood that sensation too.

Encapsulating this message in a holiday tale was only fitting. After all, Christmas is the celebration of the birth of Jesus — who is renowned for his selfless deeds. The reformed Scrooge at the end of A Christmas Carol channels the very essence of that spirit.

Even so, I would argue that A Christmas Carol only partially succeeded at its mission.

As it turns out, the spirit of giving did increase after the novella’s publication. For a while anyway.

But the onset of the Industrial Revolution and the advent of advertising were too much for Dickens’ ideals to overcome.

Suddenly, factories were cranking out more products than ever before. And there were plenty of ways to introduce the masses to these items.

The elements were in place for consumerism to take hold of society. And as it did, the holidays went from a season of giving to one of receiving.

The noble cause trumpeted by Charles Dickens found itself overturned in a bar ditch. And it has yet to get itself back upright.

Growing up, the holidays felt a bit different for me than it did for my friends.

I didn’t grow up in a Christian household. So, there was no Christmas tree in our living room. There were no garlands wrapping around the stair bannisters. And there were no lights strung to the edge of the roof.

Even so, I found myself sucked into the vortex of the holiday season, and the obsession with receiving that came with it.

For on Christmas Day each year, we’d head to my godmother’s house — where there was a Christmas tree in the living room. And as I took in the scene, I would find that Santa had left me a gift — generally that year’s edition of the Hess Toy Truck.

It wasn’t long before I developed a Pavolvian response to the holidays. As I thought of Santa bringing me the latest Hess Truck, my heart started racing.

This continued for several years. But then, something strange happened.

The entire gift receiving parade started to feel hollow. While I was still appreciative for what I received, I no longer craved it.

In short, I found I was over the season of receiving.

This revelation shook me to my core. The entire identity I had associated the holidays with was gone. And I wasn’t sure what would fill the void.

As I contemplated all this, I wandered into the kitchen of my childhood home. The Christmas Day edition of The New York Times was still on the table. At the top, above the iconic masthead, lay six words in green text: Today is Christmas. Remember the neediest.

Suddenly, it all clicked.

In that moment, I saw the true potential of the holidays. I saw it as a time to give, not to take.

I had yet to experience A Christmas Carol at this point. But Dickens’ grand moral of that tale found its way to me anyway.

Ever since that day, I’ve made a conscious effort to be more generous during this time of year. Not only with my money, but also with my time and disposition.

This has become more challenging over the years, as increasing demands of work, school and travel have taken their toll. But I do my best not to divert from my holiday season North Star.

Over time, I have seen this mission expand. In fact, I now consider generosity one of my core tenets. And these days, the spirit of giving is with me year-round.

My kitchen table revelation changed the trajectory of my life, in some sense. But I don’t consider my tale to be extraordinary.

For the truth is, we all have the power to embrace the spirit of giving. To unleash hidden generosity. To put others ahead of ourselves.

All that’s in doubt is whether we have the inclination to do so.

With that in mind, let’s flip the script that consumerism has thrown at us.

Let’s make the holidays about giving, not receiving.

That little change can make a world of difference.

How Will You Be Remembered?

Legacy.

It’s just one word, and three syllables.

But that word is anything but simple.

Legacy describes the lasting image of us after we’ve left the frame. It describes how we’ll be remembered.

And that can be a tricky subject to broach.

Much like an onion, there are layers to the concept of legacy.

There’s the layer of mortality. Of knowing there will be a time when we’ll no longer be able to add chapters to our story. This truth is as inconceivable as it is inevitable, and many of us struggle to come to terms with it.

There’s the layer of ego. Of obsessing over what others think of us and our accomplishments. Many of us are afflicted with this obsession to some degree, even as society frowns on such selfish fixations.

And then there’s the layer of control. Of when and where we have agency over our narrative.

This layer is the most complicated of the three.

It’s impossible for us to maintain complete control over our legacy, since it lives on long after our heart stops beating. After our light fades, how we’ll ultimately be remembered is anyone’s guess.

We might have a hunch, sure. But as the decades pass and societal norms evolve, what once seemed crystal clear becomes much murkier.

There are many examples of this phenomenon throughout the years. In fact, there’s now a well-known term for it — revisionist history.

And while it’s not a given that our legacy will be rewritten in this manner, it’s certainly a distinct possibility.

Even so, we do have some ability to influence our legacy. The way we live, the values we espouse, and our consistency of purpose can all feed the story others will tell of us.

Shaping that narrative is important work. It’s our only opportunity to have our say, which is why we take on the task so vigorously — even if there’s a chance it will end up fruitless.

It’s this delicate balance, this act of weaving a tale we have no final judgment over, that makes the subject of legacy so intriguing.

And it’s what makes How will you be remembered the most maddening question we face.

The matter of shaping our legacy often comes down to four words.

Do the right thing.

It seems like straightforward advice. Or even common sense.

But the right thing is open to interpretation.

In religious circles, it might mean attending a house of worship, following a certain diet and remaining abstinent until marriage.

In the world of organized crime, it might mean not telling the authorities about your co-conspirators, or not getting behind on your debts.

In the world of politics, it might mean prioritizing your base, or sticking it to the other side of the aisle.

In each instance, those following the code are doing the right thing. They’re staying on the right side of their community’s code of conduct. And they’re ensuring that community will look upon them fondly.

Many of us channel this spirit within our own day-to-day lives. We might not be religious zealots, or mafiosos, or members of the C-suite. But we still fixate on doing what our moral compass deems to be proper.

Through discipline and devotion, we take steps to build our narrative. And we use the community around us as a mirror to gauge our success.

Often times, we’ll use this confirmation bias as a sign of self-righteousness. We’ll assert that our version of the right thing is the one the world will approve of. We’ll believe that we’ll be remembered fondly for years to come, so long as we stick to the path we’ve been following.

But this is delusional.

Our version of the right thing might not be viewed by others as criminal, intolerant or unethical — the way the worlds of organized crime, religion or politics often are. But that version is still heavily biased by our specific worldview. And by the contours of the times we live in.

For instance, smoking was once considered fashionable. Buoyed by public popularity and reinforced by opportunistic advertising, packs of cigarettes were as commonplace as smartphones are today. Restaurants and bars billowed with cigarette smoke, and lighters were everywhere.

Around this time, the number of women in the workforce was increasing. But by and large, women found themselves confined to clerical roles. Hiring women based on their looks was considered acceptable behavior. And so were other practices we now consider discriminatory or abusive.

These days, we would not consider any of this the right thing.

Sure, there are plenty of smokers out there. And there is, sadly, plenty of misogynistic behavior as well. But these behaviors now come with a social stigma — a stigma that could impact our legacy.

Our world is better off because of this evolution. But that doesn’t give us license to act self-righteous.

For even if we’re don’t smoke or abuse women, we’re not doing everything right. There are parts of our day-to-day lives that future generations will look at just as unfavorably as we now look at smoking or gender discrimination.

Our legacy will be rewritten over time. And parts of it might end up tarnished.

There’s no way around it.

So, how should we approach the topic of legacy?

We can start by reframing the question.

We can stop concerning ourselves with how we’ll be remembered, and start thinking about how we’d like to be remembered.

This small tweak puts the power back in our hands. It gets everything back to two dimensions.

By looking at the question this way, we can imagine an ideal future. One unencumbered by the shifting of society and the razor’s edge of revisionist history.

Then, we can imagine how this ideal future would entertain our memory if we were no longer around. And we can work toward bringing that vision to fruition.

This is the way I approach the thorny question of legacy. It’s what grounds me. It’s what inspires me. And it’s what drives me to do my best each and every day.

We can all take a page from this book.

How will you be remembered is insignificant. How would you like to be remembered is everything.

The Planning Paradox

I love it when a plan comes together.

If you’ve ever seen The A Team, you’ll find this phrase familiar. Colonel Hannibal Smith uttered it dozens of times — in both the 1980s TV series and the 2010 film adaptation.

The phrase resonates with us because we find it serendipitous.

It’s a magical feeling when everything just works. But it feels ever more satisfying when we play a part in making that outcome happen.

We are better positioned to make the most of our good fortune. For the groundwork has already been laid.

This is why many of us obsess with planning. With envisioning the possibilities and putting in the work to make them a reality.

We fill our calendars, set budgets and forecast possibilities. We give ourselves marching orders and then follow them religiously.

It’s dutiful work. Routine work, even.

But it might be a waste of our time.

God laughs at your plans.

This phrase makes me wince.

Not because I’m one to question God’s work. Far from it.

No, this phrase makes me wince because of the utter futility it describes. Specifically, that of making plans and seeing them go to waste.

For I am a planner.

I relish the opportunity to prepare for what lies ahead. In fact, one could say I obsess about it.

I chart out my meals for the upcoming week even before I make my way through the supermarket aisles. I get tickets to sports events or concerts weeks ahead of time. I show up to the airport two hours early to ensure my checked luggage makes it on the plane.

I even regiment my days. I set an early alarm on weekdays so that I can work out, freshen up and take care of other household tasks before I even head out the door to work. And I make sure to wake up with the sun on weekends so that errands don’t eat up too much of my day.

My calendar is my compass throughout this process. I want to make sure I’m on time, on budget and on top of things.

Above all else, I want to maintain control. After all, such tendencies are in my nature.

Still, I know I’m fighting an uphill battle.

For all measure of obstacles lie in my wake — from real-time changes in the weather forecast to daily fluctuations in my health. There’s no sure way to see these coming, which means advance preparation for them is, at best, half-baked.

Even on the micro level, unpredictability abounds. Friends and family can put together last-minute events. A sudden traffic jam on the highway can make that trip to the airport take twice as long as it should. A supply-chain issue can leave many of the supermarket shelves barren at the moment I’m pushing my cart down the aisle.

And when it does — when God laughs — it can be utterly frustrating.

I’ll seethe as I think of all the energy I’ve wasted preparing for a future that turned into pure fiction. I’ll lament being blindsided by the current reality. And I’ll second guess every plan that led me into the current predicament.

This is not the best response to unpredictability. But when you obsess over planning, it’s often Live by the sword. Die by the sword.

And all too often, I find the bitter end of that proverb.

Is planning futile?

Not exactly.

Certainly, an overarching reliance on a plan can hurt. My own experience bears that out. So does the failure of the Centralized Economic Planning philosophy under the Soviet bloc.

But going without a concrete plan can be just as devastating. When Napoleon invaded Russia in 1812, for instance, there was no plan for how his army would handle the upcoming winter. The harsh conditions decimated the troops nearly as much as the Russian forces did, leading to a humiliating defeat.

The overarching lesson is that planning is important. But only to a point.

We have to be ready for what should come to pass. But also to expect the unexpected.

I call this The Planning Paradox.

The Planning Paradox is an uncomfortable concept.

For it demands that we do our due diligence, yet still be ready to turn on a dime.

Few of us are naturally that agile. On the contrary, we tend to fall into one of two camps: The Planners and the Reacters.

Planners do what they can to control their environment ahead of time. Reacters analyze the environment in the moment and respond to it ad hoc.

In order to find success in life — in work, in relationships and elsewhere — we need to use each trait. But only one of them is inherently dominant in each of us.

Personality tests help surface that dominant trait by forcing us choose between them on each question. They embolden us to circle the wagons around our position of strength.

But The Planning Paradox challenges us to broaden our approach.

The Planning Paradox first encourages us to embrace the dark side. To learn how to manage the approach we naturally repel.

For Planners, this means accepting the chaos and going with the flow. For Reacters, it means taking the time to prepare for future outcomes.

Then, The Planning Paradox requires us to combine the two approaches into a single protocol. One that sets the rules of engagement, and then determines the conditions for breaking those rules.

This is not an easy ask. And the ambiguity of it can weigh on us. But the strain is for our benefit.

For such an exercise encourages us to think on our feet. To get comfortable with the uncomfortable. To add slack to our rigid approach.

These are the muscles we need to flex. These are the skills we need to master in order to thrive in a world that’s equal parts routine and unpredictable.

So, let’s stop fighting the Planning Paradox. Let’s stop ruing the energy we waste on plans that go bust. Let’s stop wishing that the world did away with schedules altogether.

Let’s get out of our corners. Let’s get used to thinking outside the box.

That is our only way forward in this perfectly imperfect world.

Home Away

The faded light of dawn appeared out of the airplane window, barely illuminating a dark gray wall of mountains.

There were no houses, no lights. Just the mountains, surrounded in early morning solitude.

I had no idea where I was, only where I was headed. And I had no idea what to expect when I got there.

Some time later, the plane touched down in Santiago, Chile. I groggily made my way through passport control and customs, still weary from the overnight flight. I quickly knocked the rust off my Spanish as I attempted to locate the point person for my study abroad program.

I had never met this man. I just had a name and a phone number. Fortunately, I found him a short time later.

After a few more students made their way through customs, we all got into a van and embarked on a 90-minute journey to the Pacific Coast.

All of this was new to me. I had never been to South America before. And I’d never traveled abroad alone.

Still, as we made our way through arid landscapes and coastal mountain passes, something seemed strikingly familiar about where I was heading.

This odd déjà vu continued after I arrived in Viña Del Mar — the seaside city that would my home for the next six weeks. Even after taking a nap and walking around the city, I still felt strangely comfortable.

I had never before felt like this after leaving the United States. When I traveled to Spain, France, and Italy with my family as a teenager, the unfamiliarity overwhelmed me at first.

You might think this was due to the language barrier. But I felt the same way when I traveled to England, or even Canada.

Something just felt off compared to what I was used to. And I had to adjust — quickly.

But Chile was different. It reminded me of California.

Yes, the architecture was different and everyone spoke Spanish. But the landscape and the cuisine had a distinct California vibe.

It rained every day of my first week in Chile. The skies were foreboding and the sidewalks were flooded. This all seemed so un-Californian, and it should have broken my spell. But I ignored the reminders from the heavens.

I still felt calm and reassured. The locals were quiet and reserved, a perfect match for my introverted nature. The food included steak sandwiches, French fries and hot dogs with avocado and mayonnaise — all close enough to what I could get back home. And the streets were broad and easy to navigate, much like a city in the United States.

My mood only changed when I found out about student protests engulfing the area. Students had taken over the campus of a university in nearby Valparaiso, where one of my classes was to be held. Other students were out protesting in the center of the city.

My class in Valparaiso was moved to a different building, and it went on as scheduled. But we were warned not to check out the protests going on nearby.

The Caribineros de Chile — Chile’s national police force — routinely use tear gas and water cannons to break up protests, we were told. And the study abroad program leaders didn’t want us to risk getting injured.

My roommate ignored this advice at first. As a journalism major, he felt it was his duty to cover what was going on. So, he headed into the fray of a protest.

He returned with bloodshot eyes and a runny nose. He had stayed a couple of blocks away from the action, but tear gas doesn’t discriminate. After he washed his face, he told me he wouldn’t be heading out to check out the protests again.

The entire scenario was unsettling to me.

This was years before the Ferguson protests in Missouri, where police used tear gas and rubber bullets to assert control. Protests in the United States were mostly peaceful back then. Or at least that’s what I believed to be true.

Seeing police using such force against similar types of protests was jarring. While I had heard much about the atrocities of the Augusto Pinochet dictatorship, those days were long gone in Chile. And everything else I had seen on the ground to that point reminded me of American values.

It was my We’re not in Kansas anymore moment. I might have felt at home, but I was very much away.

So many memories come to mind when I think of my time in Chile.

There were the exotic ones: Riding horses over massive sand dunes. Skiing high in the Andes. Seeing the Southern Cross in the night sky of the Elqui Valley. And exploring Santiago — a mountainous city that seemed like a cross between Denver and New York.

And there were the familiar ones: Watching a movie at a Cinemark movie theater. Shopping at the mall. Watching the sun set over the ocean.

The similarities outstrip the differences, in my mind — even today. Even though I knew I was abroad — in a nation where police used brute force to quell unrest — the familiarity of my experience still makes me nostalgic.

Chile seemed to be proof that American-style economics and structural ideals could thrive abroad. Yes, the United States had taken some damaging steps to bring these ideals to the nation, including supporting a coup and the deadly Pinochet dictatorship that followed. But in the post-Cold War — and post-Pinochet — era, Chile appeared to be thriving and harmonious.

That synergy with my home nation is what kept me calm throughout my time south of the equator. It’s what made six weeks on another continent feel more like a day at the beach than a plunge into an icy lake. It’s what makes me yearn to return someday.

But now, I wonder if it all was a mirage.

Recently, there’s been lots of unrest in Chile.

Throughout Santiago, people have taken to the streets to protest the inequities of life there.

It all started with a 30 peso increase to the Santiago Metro fares.

This would be equivalent to a 4 cent fare increase to a public transit system in the United States. Seemingly innocuous.

However, thousands of Chileans saw it differently.

For the cost of living in Chile has gone up in recent years. But wages and employment opportunities have not kept up.

The financial situation has trapped many Chileans in poverty or on the lower end of the middle-class. The stagnation carries across generations — even older Chileans are finding that their pensions and retirement funds are far less valuable than they once expected.

It’s been a fraught situation. But the Metro fare increase was the spark that brought it to the fore.

It’s not about 30 pesos. It’s about 30 years, the protesters have been chanting. And as their anger has risen, the protests have turned ever more violent.

There are reports of protesters breaking store windows, spraying graffiti on buildings, setting fires and defacing much of the Metro system — previously one of the nicest in the world.

Police have responded with the usual display of force — tear gas and water cannons. But this time things feel different.

This time the unrest is widespread. This time the world is watching.

It makes me sad to see all of this. To see the Chile I got to know and love go up in flames.

For Chileans are not normally flamboyant or bombastic. Unlike their neighbors to the east in Argentina, Chileans are generally reserved and respectful.

To see so many of them turning to violence reminds me that they must really be hurting. They must feel as if they are without hope, and out of options for peaceful discourse.

This breaks my heart.

In my mind, Chile is a magical place. A nation with a unique mix of natural beauty, kind people and western ideals.

I’m not alone.

Many others have looked with wonder at Chile’s rise to a capitalist power over the last several decades. They refer to Chile as an economic miracle.

And instead of focusing on the nation’s checkered past, they point to its bright future.

Have we all been hoodwinked? Have we deluded ourselves into thinking that silence equated to success?

I certainly hope not.

For if capitalism has failed Chile, I shudder to think of the alternatives.

All across South America, from Argentina to Venezuela and Bolivia to Brazil, Chile’s neighbors have been roiled by political and economic crises in recent years. I wonder if a move to a different model would yield the same destructive results.

But mostly, I wonder if my memories of Chile were even reliable.

People seemed happy and content. But could they have been coerced into silence by the memories of the dictatorship? Or by the police’s heavy-handed responses to any sign of unrest?

It’s certainly possible.

Either way, I hope Chile can resolve its current issues peacefully. And I hope Chileans can find a future full of prosperity.

My home away from home deserves nothing less.

The Power of Thank You

Sometimes, words carry extra weight.

Think of Abraham Lincoln delivering The Gettysburg Address. Ronald Reagan demanding Mr. Gorbachev, Tear Down This Wall. Jim Valvano imploring Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.

These speeches have captivated our society. These words helped change our perspective and even altered the course of history.

They are powerful indeed.

But the most impactful words out there are actually quite simple: Thank you.

Thank you is brief and ubiquitous. We say it reflexively at times. We add it to our letters and emails by default.

Viewed this way, thank you looks like a formality. An expression of politeness, to be sure, but a formality nonetheless.

But don’t be fooled. These two words have a far deeper meaning than that.

In a world where we are quick to assert our independence, saying thank you indicates humility. It reminds us that we can only get so far on our own. And that the assistance of others is critical to our success.

Recognizing that, and expressing our appreciation, means everything.

In our culture of individualism, we all too often treat reliance on others as a sign of weakness.

As a compromising flaw in the human condition. As a bug in our software.

But reliance is no bug. It’s a feature.

We have relied on others throughout our history. As far back as ancient times, humans have banded together to avoid falling prey to lethal threats surrounding them.

Protecting the future of humanity has always been essential. And the best way to achieve that objective has been to avoid going it alone.

Even the earliest books of the Bible allude to this principle.

When Moses parted the Red Sea, he wasn’t simply going his own way. He was liberating his people from bondage.

Conversely, when Eve wandered alone in the Garden of Eden, she came upon the serpent of temptation. She bit into the forbidden apple, and humanity was cast out of paradise.

The lesson is stark. Going it alone is a recipe for disaster.

As I write this, Western society is fraught with unprecedented divisiveness.

Isolationism is at its peak, and polarization has poisoned public discourse. Facts are under attack, eclipsed by partisan theories and agendas.

Self-reliance is having a moment right now. And those Thank yous in our daily conversations and our email threads have never felt more hollow.

We don’t often think about the paradox this presents. After all, this behavior is now considered normal. And we find little inherent need to cross-examine normalcy.

But the irony grows thicker toward the end of the year, when gratitude is baked into our schedules.

In November, we celebrate those who serve in our military and then have a big meal in celebration of each other. In December, we shower each other with gifts before making a toast about the year to come.

It’s an intriguing eight-week run. One that causes us to reflect on what we have, why we have it and what we have to look forward to.

But our toxic divisiveness has turned this once-joyous period into a chore.

Appreciating veterans for their service has been turned into a litmus test for patriotism. Or a verdict on foreign policy.

Sitting down for Thanksgiving dinner now means going to battle with those at the table who have different views. Or perpetuating our filter bubble if no differences in opinion are present.

Unwrapping gifts on Christmas now means reviving the debate over whether America is a Christian nation. Even as the Constitution clearly separates religion from governance.

And ringing in the New Year now means lamenting how awful the prior year was, and approaching the new one with skepticism.

Our quest to reach self-reliance has reached its destination. And the misery it sows is now swallowing us whole.

We blame The Other for our plight. After all, is what the self-reliance playbook tells us to do.

But that only further deludes us from the truth.

Many years ago, a group of English settlers sat down for a feast on a chilly fall day.

The settlers had left England on some wooden ships, escaping religious persecution there. They crossed the Atlantic Ocean, hoping to land in the recently established Virginia territory and set up a colony there.

But this was centuries before GPS or motorized vessels, and the voyagers drifted off course. They ended up more than 500 miles up the coast from Virginia, in the region that would come to be known as Massachusetts.

The settlers were ill equipped for the frigid winters of the region, or the way the climate hardened the soil.

The attempts to go it alone had failed miserably. Many died of cold and starvation in that first winter. And the survivors seemed doomed to face the same fate, sooner or later.

Yet, the settlers reversed course. They turned to native tribes in the area for assistance in planting crops and building weather-resistant shelter.

Once the harvest was done, the settlers invited the natives to share in a feast of appreciation. A feast that is replicated each year. And one that will take place once again on the week I am writing about this.

Looking back now, this all seems quite remarkable. For we know what happened next.

The fledgling settlements in Virginia and Massachusetts grew into English colonies. Those colonies broke free of England and became the United States. The new nation expanded westward, the surge led by pioneers and frontiersmen out for their own interests. And native tribes like the ones who sat down for that first Thanksgiving dinner were villainized and confined to reservations.

Yes, our entire history has been defined by a divergence from that moment. From the point we thanked others for helping us survive to our current edict of Individualism-At-All-Costs.

We have forgotten our roots. We have abandoned the inclination to rely on each other, and to appreciate each other.

And in the process, we have become lost.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

The power to change our narrative remains in our hands.

We can start by expressing gratitude, as we do each year amongst heapings of turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce and pie.

But we must dig deeper.

We should consider what a Thank you represents. Namely, appreciation for the assistance of others.

We should swallow our pride, and stop running from this assistance. Instead, we should seek it out when we are in need. And we should return the favor to others in need.

These actions represent humanity at its most efficient. These actions show humanity at its best.

Gratitude can be the gateway to this ideal. But only if we open our hearts and our minds to the principles it espouses.

There is great power in thank you. It’s time that we start using it.

Dueling Interpretations

Not long after I started working in television news, I encountered a strange term.

HIPAA.

This acronym might sound like something you’d see at the zoo. But it actually stands for the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act.

HIPAA protects personally identifiable health information. And as a news producer, HIPAA meant that health records were a no-fly zone for me.

If someone was injured in an accident or crime that made my newscast, I couldn’t give any updates on their status.

I couldn’t do this because I didn’t have access to the victim’s health records. Those were protected from journalists like me by the regulation.

I accepted this.

For I recognized there was a good reason for HIPAA. And I figured that the regulation would fend off other entities looking to access sensitive information as well.

So, imagine my surprise when I learned recently that Google has access to these classified records.

It’s true. Google has been partnering with a healthcare network called Ascension to gather the personal health information of millions of people.

The partnership has been dubbed Project Nightengale. And unlike other health data sharing agreements, the information Google has been receiving from Ascension has not been anonymized. That means patients’ names and dates of birth are present in the data set.

While I left the news industry long before this story broke, I was still rankled by it.

That’s illegal, I thought. That arrangement violates HIPAA.

But I was wrong.

Since Google is considered a business associate of Ascension, the tech giant is in the clear. HIPAA specifically allows health providers to pass data to third parties in order to improve patient care. And, lo and behold, that was the stated objective of Project Nightengale.

Of course, the cynics among us — myself included — see right through this façade. We can point to Google’s traditional intentions — profit through advertising revenue — and start musing about how the company might cash in off our most sensitive data.

It’s an upsetting thought. But not one without merit.

And there’s not much we can do about it.

There is no chance that lawmakers had an arrangement like Google’s in mind when they drafted HIPAA in 1996.

After all, Google hadn’t even been founded yet. And the Internet consisted mostly of America Online CDs and those iconic dial-up connection tones.

But even if legislators could have seen this nascent issue brewing, they likely couldn’t have done much to prevent it.

For Google has taken a deft approach to entering the healthcare market. The Silicon Valley behemoth has leveraged its advantages in data management to secure the Project Nightengale partnership. And it has done all this in the name of improving the healthcare process.

These types of opportunities are within the bounds of HIPAA. This is a main reason why Project Nightengale was allowed to proceed.

But Google’s true intentions as a company — growth in advertising opportunities, revenue and profit — run counter to the entire act.

HIPAA was specifically designed to keep marketers, advertisers and salespeople from exploiting our sensitive health information. But Google now has open access to just that.

In other words, Project Nightengale is a Trojan Horse. It’s allowed the fox into the henhouse.

The Project Nightengale loophole is a prime example of a broad interpretation of a regulation.

Broad interpretations encourage free enterprise. They provide ample opportunities for people and companies explore and create. But that’s not always a good thing.

Indeed, many use a broad interpretation of a law to meet prioritize their own needs and objectives. They sidestep the spirit of a rule for their own selfish gain.

This might sound excessively sinister. But it proves itself true, time and again.

Consider the Rooney Rule, for instance.

This regulation states that whenever there’s a head coach opening in the National Football League, the team must interview a minority candidate as part of the hiring process.

The Rooney Rule was designed with the best of intentions — to get more African-American and Hispanic coaches a chance to get a head coaching gig. But in practice, it rarely works as intended.

These days, many NFL teams simply go through token interviews with minority candidates. They have little intention on following through with a job offer, as they already have their sights set on a different coach. One who’s older, more experienced — and whiter.

So, they do the interview with the minority candidate, and quickly move on.

This practice technically complies with the Rooney Rule. But it pierces a dagger through the spirit of it.

Minority candidates are still not given a fair shake. If anything, they’re being further exploited.

On the other side of the spectrum lies the narrow interpretation.

This is the literal expression of the rule. The letter of the law. The words on the page without any added context.

If the broad interpretation is easy to exploit, the narrow interpretation is quite the opposite. For the words on the page are as restrictive as they are unambiguous.

Think of the Ten Commandments. And all the Thou Shalt Nots.

Thou shalt not murder. Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not bear false witness against your neighbor.

Whether we’re secular or not, we take the narrow interpretation on these edicts as a society.

There is no wiggle room. We can’t keep in the spirit of the rule while we flaunt it. Murder, theft and lying are all forbidden acts. We must avoid them or face harsh consequences.

Over the years, many have embraced the narrow interpretation. Religious zealots have pounded the Bible. Conservative politicians have wrapped themselves in the Constitution. And exacting supervisors have demanded adherence to the employee handbook.

It’s easy to see why this view has such a draw. It provides authoritative clarity in a world that’s all too often murky and gray.

But don’t be fooled. The narrow interpretation is no panacea.

Some of the great Supreme Court justices have relied on the narrow interpretation. But so have some of the most legendary mobsters.

Indeed, our obsession with by-the-book justice helped gangsters like Al Capone and Whitey Bulger become notorious.

Sure, under the narrow interpretation, Capone and Bulger would be considered rule breakers. In theory, they would be castigated as murderers, thieves and liars.

But Capone and Bulger did much of their bidding through associates. Through coded instructions and well-defined syndicates.

And under United States law, that made them nearly impossible to catch.

Yes, federal law enforcement officials went after them. But their hands were tied by the narrow interpretation of two words from the Constitution: Probable cause.

These two words made it difficult for the feds to get search warrants or arrest warrants. These two words effectively prolonged the reigns of terror of Capone and Bulger.

This is the problem with the narrow interpretation. It doesn’t adapt with the times. And because of that, it can be easily short-circuited.

It can keep us from killing each other. Unless our name is Al Capone.

So, which path should we allow to guide us? The narrow one or the broad one?

It’s hard to say.

Each has its benefits. But each has its drawbacks.

When I think of my sensitive health information in Google’s hands, I wish that the interpretation of HIPAA was narrower. I wish that I still had the final sign-off for sharing information about my own body.

But when I think of all the criminals who evade justice on a technicality, I wish the interpretation of the law was broader. I wish there wasn’t free license for mobsters and corruption to run unchecked.

With this in mind, it’s probably best to follow a hybrid interpretation. To go narrow when enforcing specific guidelines designed to protect us. And to go broad when enforcing the more general ones.

Going hybrid would require us to completely overhaul our approach.

Instead of focusing on the regulation itself, we would need to focus on the effect. On what activity the rule is prohibiting. And who would be harmed by that activity if it was allowed to remain unchecked.

This would take more due diligence. And it would open the door to more ambiguity.

But these inconveniences would be worth it.

For rules and regulations are more than text on a page. When drafted well, they serve as signals of intent to protect us.

It’s about time we honor that spirit. And govern ourselves accordingly.

Blank Slate

Every day is a new chance to start fresh.

That is what we’re told, from Day One. It’s what we believe.

After all, we live in a land built on liberty and opportunity. In a culture where we root for the underdog. In a society where we’re motivated by tales of redemption.

It’s invigorating knowing that we can write our own story. It’s revitalizing knowing that no matter how rough things might be today, there’s always the chance to start anew tomorrow.

Yes, the blank slate is central to our being. It’s how we define ourselves.

Yet, that very definition iss a myth.

We see it on the news all the time. Celebrities having a meltdown.

There’s that infamous clip of Tom Cruise jumping up and down on a couch during a taping of the Oprah Winfrey Show. There’s that avalanche of embarrassing Britney Spears headlines from 2007. There’s Antonio Brown — perhaps the most talented wide receiver in football — burning bridges with three National Football League teams in one year due to a series of off-field antics.

It’s a sad sight. People we recognize — people we think we know — hitting rock bottom.

Tom Cruise and Britney Spears have managed to revitalize their careers, and their images. The jury’s still out on Antonio Brown.

But in all cases, the slate isn’t exactly blank.

In the world of the 24/7 news cycle, of YouTube and of social media spotlights, those moments of infamy live on. Even if those involved have since moved beyond their lowest moments.

And this phenomenon isn’t restricted to this digitally-enabled millennium either. Politicians in the United States and Canada have recently been accused of wearing blackface in their younger years. While the evidence of these transgressions often comes in the form of grainy yearbook photos, the backlash remains fresh as the morning dew.

We can’t just wipe the slate clean. We can’t treat the past as it if didn’t happen. We can’t just start over.

For even if we don’t have paparazzi following our every move or a criminal record sullying our name, we have baggage.

The choices we’ve made have left a mark. Whether officially — such as on a credit report or resume — or unofficially.

No matter what we do to reboot, we have a history.

Time accumulates experiences. Those experiences become lodged in our memory banks, stimulating our senses and forever altering our perspective.

So long as our mind remains intact — that is, so long as we remain free of a traumatic brain injury — our judgment will be biased by what we have seen, felt and learned. Our past experiences — good and bad — will inform our future decisions, regardless of whether we’re sticking with old routines or looking to start new ones.

No matter how hard we try, the slate will never be clean.

I find the blank slate conundrum deeply personal. For I have encountered it, time and again.

I’ve moved to three new cities in my adult life. And I’ve cut my teeth in two different careers.

That’s a lot of change for anyone. But it’s particularly grueling for an introverted control enthusiast.

Why would I take myself so far out of my comfort zone? Why would I break with the routine I rely on, over and over?

Money and ambition are two reasons. I aspire for a brighter future, just as many do. And the bills don’t pay themselves.

But that’s only part of the story.

The true catalyst for the changes I’ve made has been the illusion of the blank slate. The myth of the fresh start.

At each turn, I’ve relished the chance to unleash my untapped potential. To explore new possibilities. To become a new man.

That often meant downplaying my prior history. It meant shunning my origin story. And it meant forgetting about all the left turns I took along the way.

After all, I didn’t want my past to define me. I was all about my present and my future.

It was only after years of adulthood that I realized how ridiculous this notion was.

I now recognize that the past is an indelible part of me. It’s allowed me to gain new friends, unforgettable moments and invaluable lessons at every turn. It’s what made me who I am.

These days, I can finally embrace that fact. A fact I should have understood a long time ago.

So now, as I reach an age where many second-guess the decisions of their youth, I refuse to do just that. For I can see that those decisions — and all that they unlocked — made me precisely who I am.

And I wouldn’t trade a thousand blank slates for that.

There is no moving on. There’s only moving forward.

This is the gist of Nora McInerny’s brilliant TED Talk about grief.

McInerny proves a powerful point.

After we lose someone we love, we can’t just turn the page. Our bond with that person remains a part of us, through our memories.

So, while we might yearn to start a new chapter, starting over is out of the question.

We move forward. But we don’t move on.

I believe this philosophy applies to life as a whole, as well.

For while our journeys may differ, we are all sure to face tough times now and then. We’re sure to face moments of doubt, of fear, of yearning.

In these moments, we’ll want to step away from the pain of the present. We’ll find ourselves magnetically drawn to the potential of a brighter future, and repulsed by the shackles of circumstance in our past.

We might take this leap. We just might break free from the ordinary and launch ourselves into the unknown.

But this break will not be clean. This will be a new chapter, not a whole new start.

That trusty rearview mirror will still guide us, for better or for worse. The joy, the pain, the gains and the losses will all provide direction for our next escapade — either vividly or subconsciously.

This is a beautiful thing. A powerful thing. A human thing.

So no, the blank slate does not exist. But we should be thankful for that.

For it is only through the its absence that we can truly experience what it means to be alive.

The Error Term

When you hear the word beautiful, what comes to mind?

Maybe it’s a golden sunset. Or a vista of snow-capped mountains. Or the elegant grace of wild horses running free.

Those are all beautiful sights, no doubt.

But when I hear the word beautiful, I think of something else entirely. I think of a regression function.

You’re probably thinking this is an odd choice. And you’re right.

Beauty is supposed to be about the majesty of nature. About the tenderness of emotion.

A regression equation seemingly has little of either of these sentiments.

It’s a string of numbers, letters and symbols. As cold and calculating as a movie villain. As dry as day-old ink on the page.

Still, there is a method to my preference.

How could there not be? After all, method is math’s bread and butter.

So, let’s break it down.

At its core, a regression function is an explanation.

It explains how one variable is impacted by others.

For instance, we could run a regression to see how interest rates impact home prices. Or how days with cold temperatures impact doctors’ visits.

We could even look at the impacts of two different variables. For example, how the local football team’s performance impacts the number of traffic accidents on the city’s streets and the amount of nightly revenues at the city’s restaurants.

With enough data, we can look at just about anything. The regression model is simply the tool we use to transform the data into something worth talking about.

Now, this data-driven explanation doesn’t necessarily show cause and effect. After all, a golden rule of statistics is that Correlation does not equal causation.

No, a regression equation simply shows how the variables are related. How two — or three, or four — elements tend to work together.

This knowledge is what allows us to make predictions. It can help meteorologists build 10 day weather forecast models. It can help political consultants handicap future election results. And it can help business managers make shrewd strategic pivots.

In all these cases, the data speak volumes. The regression equations provide evidence to guide the prognosticators in their choices. They seem to illuminate the path ahead, like runway lights at an airport.

But while a strong regression can give a forecaster confidence, the process is far from failproof.

We’ve all seen a time where the weathercaster was flat out wrong. Where the pollster missed the mark. Or where a company’s bold moves fell flat.

When this happens, we’re quick to assign blame.

We rush to shame the experts for getting it wrong. For leading us astray. For not being perfect.

This is ridiculous — for multiple reasons.

For one thing, perfection is not an attainable ideal. Mistakes are a fact of life, and we all slip up from time to time. There’s no need to call out others for being human.

But just as importantly, regression models themselves are not perfect.

If you were to write out a regression equation, it would likely look something like this.

y = ß₀ + ß₁x₁ + ß₂x₂ + e

The y’s and x’s show the part of the equation that can be predicted. This section of the equation shows how a change in variable y tends to impact variable x₁ or x₂.

This is the part of the equation that prognosticators — weathercasters, pollsters, business leaders — rely on. And they’re right to do so — most of the time.

But that e at the end of the equation represents something totally different.

The e stands for the error term — the part of the model that can’t be predicted.

This is the randomness, the chaos, the side effects that can’t be explained.

Statisticians do their best to build models that reduce that e term as much as possible. To isolate the exact factors that explain a relationship between multiple variables.

Still, no matter how much they try and remove all error, it remains.

That might seem like a problem. But I believe it’s a good thing.

For the world is neither simple nor clean. It can’t be neatly organized in boxes, wrapped in paper and topped with bows.

No, the world is inherently messy. It can defy logic and be straight-up perplexing at times.

The error term captures this reality. It captures life in its purest form.

This is why I love the error term. This is why I associate a regression equation with beauty.

And this is why I believe the error term requires more attention from all of us.

Throughout our daily lives, we do our best to prepare.

We brush our teeth, shower and put on climate-appropriate clothing. We add appointments and events to our calendar. We map out our immediate and future spending needs.

We do what we can so that we’re ready to act decisively now and in the future.

I am no stranger to this behavior. Indeed, I tend to obsess over preparation and organization.

This laser-sharp focus is a net benefit. It allows us to be presentable and to make proper decisions.

But relying solely on this approach can get us off track.

For life is defined by the error term. By the instances when things take an unexpected left turn. By the moments we can’t possibly prepare for.

These changes of pace, these shocks to the system — they do more than spice things up. They test our mettle.

These are the moments that define our lives. These are the occurrences that unlock ingenuity and innovation. These are the opportunities for us to display our humanity.

We build emotional connections by navigating the error term. Those connections lead to storytelling, as we share accounts of our experience through visuals, through audio and through the written word. And those stories we tell ourselves — they help shape our culture.

It’s time we embrace the error term. It’s time we stop obsessing on all that can be explained, and that we come to terms with what confounds us.

This is what will allow us to live our lifes to the fullest. To treasure the journey with a clear and open mind.

To err is human. Let’s get back in touch with our humanity.

Author: Dylan Brooks