Author: Dylan Brooks

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

Chasing vs. Accepting

Shoot for the stars.

Go for gold.

Dream it. Do it.

We’ve probably heard some advice like this over the years.

We are hard-wired to be relentless. To go full-throttle after that which we seek in order to achieve it.

It’s a cultural legacy.

From our earliest days, we’re being conditioned to chart our own destiny.

Parents, teachers and mentors tell us to dream big. To try hard. To ignore doubts and fears.

This is the same advice their parents, teachers and mentors once told them. And it’s the same advice we’ll likely tell our own kids.

The idea behind this advice is harmless enough. If we set a goal and work towards it, we can sustain success.

Yet, even the noblest of causes can lead to complications. And this advice is not immune to such problems.

Chief among them is the issue of chasing vs. accepting.

Dreaming big is a noble cause. But it’s also decidedly one-sided cause.

If we truly lean in to this advice, we become chasers. We find ourselves chasing after our dreams and desires, which always seem to lie a few steps ahead of us.

We might end up realizing some of these dreams. But likely not all.

For example, many boys in America dream of playing Major League Baseball. I was once one of them.

I set my goal and worked toward it. But I wasn’t talented enough to make it.

I know that now, of course. Truth be told, I knew that then. But I was so focused on the dream it, do it doctrine that I kept chasing my objective until the trail went cold.

Around the time all of this was going on, Michael Lewis released a book called Moneyball: The Art of Winning an Unfair Game. The book chronicled the 2002 Oakland Athletics, who claimed a division title without a lineup of high-priced star players.

It was an underdog story with a twist.

In near desperation, the Athletics turned to advanced analytical models to assemble their roster. This practice bucked 100 years of tradition in terms of scouting and evaluating talent. It also allowed the A’s to field a winning team on a shoestring budget.

In the years since Moneyball, many other teams have adopted these principles. Teams now have advanced analytics departments, often staffed with twentysomethings who probably would have ridden the bench in Little League.

These employees might have had the same dreams I did as a kid. Given the fact that they work for professional baseball teams, I would imagine that many did.

But, unlike me, they accepted their shortcomings. They recognized where their skills truly lay, and managed to parlay them into a new version of success.

Many of us would do well to follow their lead.

One of my favorite pieces of literature is the Serenity Prayer.

God, give me grace to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed, Courage to change the things that should be changed and the Wisdom to distinguish one from another.

Here, in 31 words, is a roadmap for bringing dreams into reality.

The Serenity Prayer hits us with the hard truth. There are some things we have control over, and others that will forever remain beyond our grasp. It’s up to us to recognize where that dividing line lies, and not to cross it.

Yet, I fear that we are all too often deluded into believing that there is no divide. There is nothing that we should accept. There is still more that we do to be the change we seek.

This is foolish.

For, if one person out there achieves their dreams under this doctrine, there are likely four others who will waste years of effort on what can ultimately be classified as a delusion.

Their talents are better exercised elsewhere.

This doesn’t have to be a nail in the coffin of their hopes. Much like the baseball analytics employees, they might even be able to parlay their latent talents into a role that achives their goals in a new way.

But it starts with accepting that which cannot be changed, as early as possible. And then pivoting accordingly.

How have I followed the advice of the Serenity Prayer in my own life?

Not well at all.

Well, at least not until recently.

I have always had a knack for writing. While I didn’t grow up a bookworm, writing has always come easy to me, and I’ve enjoyed putting thoughts to paper.

Even so, my dreams generally lay elsewhere.

First, I wanted to be a baseball player. Then, I wanted to be a movie director.

I saw both roles as a path to notoriety, and shock therapy for my introverted nature. I could be the person I believed society expected me to be, all while producing work that people could refer to.

It was only in college when I recognized my delusions and shifted course accordingly.

I ended up getting my degree in broadcast journalism. Then I spent three years as an executive news producer at the ABC affiliate in Midland, Texas.

By finally accepting that which I could not change and chasing that which I could, I realized the dreams I hadn’t realized I had.

Yet, I quickly found that dreams are not all they’re cracked up to be.

For while I was passionate about assisting my community through the newscasts I put together, I was crumbling under the stress, odd hours and low pay. And the tragic nature of the news stories I covered ultimately gutted me.

I got out of the industry and started over. In doing so, I went right back to chasing dreams.

But what dreams? Aside from a stable lifestyle, I had no idea what to pursue.

My winding journey led me to the world of digital marketing, where I am now a seasoned veteran. It also eventually led me to pursue an MBA while working full-time — something I would have considered preposterous just years earlier.

But in the midst of all this chasing, I found room for acceptance as well.

I realized I missed writing. I missed sharing my words with the world.

I accepted that. But I also acted on it.

I launched Words of the West after making two promises to myself: I would share my truth with an eye toward improving society and I would publish regularly. Ultimately, the promise to publish regularly became a commitment to put out a new article each week.

This is the 200th of these articles.

This feat has not been easily attained. Showing up 200 weeks in a row is challenging in any context.

Yet, by accepting that writing will always be an important part of my life and chasing an ambitious goal related to it, I have persevered.

Yes, this forum has finally allowed me to live into the tenets of the Serenity Prayer. And my life is better for it.

So, what’s the actual secret to success? Determination? Passion? Talent?

I believe the answer is actually a healthy mix of accepting and chasing.

When we accept what we cannot change, we can set adequate boundaries. We can determine what’s worth chasing after, and how to pursue it most effectively.

Doing this might clip the wings on our sense of freedom. It might threaten our ability to dream as wide as the Texas sky.

But ultimately, it will help us fulfill our destiny faster. With fewer fits and starts along the way.

Chasing. Accepting. They’re two sides of the same coin.

It’s about time we recognized that.

The Truth To Power Paradox

Speak Truth to Power.

It’s an American rallying cry.

These words have come through as gospel time and again throughout our history, from the Boston Tea Party to the Civil Rights Movement. They’re even anchored in our Constitution, courtesy of the First Amendment.

We have long admired the truth-tellers, the rabble-rousers, the muckrakers. They have helped give a voice to the voiceless and keep corruption in check.

Indeed, the underdog is a particular favorite of our culture for this very reason. The ability to speak truth to power gives us hope.

Yet, this phrase carries with it an inherent irony.

For success in this case is subversive.

The ultimate goal of speaking truth to power is to evoke change.

Yet, the initiative in question is not the only thing turned on its head by this shift. So are the power dynamics.

Think about it.

Those who speak truth to power and succeed often end up toppling those on high. In doing so, they assume the figurative position of the fallen.

They fill the vacuum. They become the power.

And with that role change comes the hefty weight of responsibility.

The eyes of others remain on the ascendant truth to power speakers. But now, those eyes look with suspicion.

For within that crowd lies the next wave of truth-tellers. If an opportunity arises, they will strike swiftly and ruthlessly.

Those with power and influence will fall. The new breed will rise.

And so the cycle perpetuates, like the ebb and flow of a tide.

This might sound ruthless. Even cutthroat. But it is inevitable.

Those that take the escalator of accountability to prominence will eventually find themselves cut down. Much like our own existence, our time of influence is not unlimited.

This process cannot quite be summarized by the phrase Heavy Lies The Crown. After all, many truth-tellers are simply seeking transparency, not prestige.

No, this process is instead akin to The Principle Overrides The Person.

The system we have cultivated is bigger than any of us. It has to be.

Much like America itself — a grand experiment in constitutional democracy — the ability to speak truth to power is meant to be timeless.

The people who exercise this right with agility are mere footnotes to the greater ideal. In the grand scheme of things, they’re pawns to be used and disposed of.

I recognize this idea is controversial. Maybe even distressing.

But having cut my teeth in the ultimate truth-to-power profession — journalism — I’ve found it to be the truth.

As a young TV news producer, I prodded at the gatekeepers. I did my best to ensure the local police and sheriff’s offices were above board, civic governance bodies were transparent and major employers were not exploiting the community.

This was not a difficult task in West Texas during the midst of an oil boom. The entire community rallied around its Cash Cow product. Big city crime and corruption were hardly to be found.

Still, I took my job seriously. I kept prodding.

At first, I didn’t realize the power that I was wielding with this approach, or the weight it carried. After all, my check-ins with the movers and shakers of the region were only one part of my job, interspersed with coverage about knife fights at a local Whataburger and teenagers doing donuts in the median of the highway in stolen Jaguars.

(Yes, both of those stories really happened.)

But I soon came to understand the full weight of my responsibility.

One day, about 18 months into my tenure, I found a treasure of a story to include on the evening newscast.

Down near Big Bend, a woman had rescued a bunch of severely malnourished horses from across the Rio Grande in Mexico and nursed them back to health. She was preparing to adopt them out when I caught wind of her exploits.

Unfortunately, I had been working 14 hour shifts for much of that week, and I made an egregious typo on the news script for the story.

Instead of writing the word adoption, I put auction.

The error made it onto the 5 PM newscast. A few hours later, word got back to the woman, who called the station irate and threatened to sue.

We collectively did what we could to right the wrong. We made corrections and did our best to make amends. But the damage had been done.

Until that moment, I had been speaking truth to power. Now, I was the one being called into account. My job and my good name were on the line, because of a typo I whiffed on catching.

Ultimately, I survived. I got written up, but was able to keep my job.

Still, I will never forget that feeling where the tables turned on me. When I felt the heat of the spotlight I had so brazenly cast on others previously.

I can only imagine how the true veterans of the Truth to Power paradox feel.

People like John Lewis.

Lewis was a key figure in the Civil Rights Movement. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. might have gotten the notoriety — and rightly so — but John Lewis was right there with him.

After spending his youth fighting for and attaining civil rights, John Lewis has spent three decades fighting for the people in the U.S. House of Representatives. He has gone from speaking truth to power to becoming part of that power machine.

During his time on Capitol Hill, Lewis has served with dignity and grace. He has put the people first.

Yet, when people call out Congress as a body, they call out John Lewis. He is one of the 535 lawmakers in the Capitol. Even he, a national hero, is not immune to the Truth to Power paradox.

So, how can we improve this process? How can we make the world a better place without ending up as the villain?

I think we can start with a new perspective on power dynamics. By understanding the unique pressures those on high face, but also the boundaries they should not cross. By recognizing when to hold those above us in account and when to back off.

This perspective can make leadership desirable, instead of a fool’s errand. It can provide a forum for aspirations to flourish, while providing a needed barrier against exploitation.

This is only one potential solution. It might not be the best one. But it’s a start.

Ultimately, one thing is clear. Speaking truth to power, in itself, is not a panacea.

Let’s keep searching for better.

On Smoking

When I was growing up, eating out usually meant one thing.

A trip to Red Robin.

I loved Red Robin.

I remember the chicken fingers and steak fries. The helium machine the staff used to inflate balloons for my sister and I. And one question the restaurant host would never fail to ask when my parent asked for a table.

Smoking or non-smoking.

The answer was always the latter. Even if it meant a 30 minute wait with two hungry and impatient children in tow.

I always found it strange that the other side of the restaurant — the one behind a pane of glass — was so empty, while we were forced to wait by the host station with only those balloons as entertainment.

Many years later, I found out exactly what I was missing out on.

As a young TV news producer, I would often go to the Buffalo Wild Wings in Midland, Texas to watch football games or grab a drink with co-workers. Whenever I did, an unwelcome visitor tagged along — cigarette smoke.

The Midland Buffalo Wild Wings didn’t have a smoking section. The entire place was the smoking section. The same went for just about any other bar or restaurant in West Texas back then.

So, after a night out, you would need to throw your clothes in the wash. Or else, you’d smell like a chimney for days to come.

I mention these memories because of how quaint they seem today. We live in a world where smoking sections in restaurants have gone the way of payphone. Which is to say they’ve all but disappeared.

Yet, the act of smoking has not.

I don’t understand the tradition of smoking.

How could I?

In my life, I’ve only ever smoked three cigarettes.

All were during my freshman year of college, when my poor decision making was at its zenith.

Frankly, I’m surprised that I even got to three cigarettes. Because I didn’t enjoy the experience anytime I lit up.

The thick tobacco smoke clogged my lungs, making me cough. With each drag, it felt like tar was constricting my airway. (Fitting, because tobacco residue is frequently called tar.)

I found none of this pleasurable. Frankly, I felt dirty inside and out once I’d disposed of the cigarette butts.

Even if I hadn’t despised the experience so much, it’s unlikely I would have tried to light up much more. Even in my college years, I had no desire to add a nicotine addiction — and its long-term health risks — to my repertoire.

After all, my family had a longstanding aversion to tobacco. There was a reason my parents avoided the smoking section at Red Robin like it was the bubonic plague.

My grandfather — the one I’ve written about extensively before — had a heart attack when my mother was 4 years old. Formerly a heavy smoker, he gave up the habit cold-turkey after that. Something unheard of in the Mad Men era of the 1960s.

On my father’s side, my grandfather is a longtime family physician. He knows too much about the dangers of smoking to have ever picked up the habit. To my knowledge, neither of my grandmothers have ever smoked either.

So, in an era where cigarettes were as popular as fashion or candy, my parents grew up in tobacco-free homes. And while my mother had a rebel streak in her adolescence, buying cigarettes by the pack was never part of the equation.

Two generations in, I grew up in a segregated world — smokers and non-smokers. The cultural war was in full swing. And I was raised on the tobacco-free side of it.

As I neared adolescence, that side closed in on victory.

The United States government sued the pants off of Phillip Morris — and won. Cigarette ads went into hiding. A mockumentary lampooned Big Tobacco and its lobbyists. And cities and states started to ban smoking in bars and restaurants.

A half-century after smoking was a cultural standard, society was largely smoke-free. And even though I dabbled with cigarettes in college, I had no desire to linger any more on the wrong side of history.

Yet, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Don’t call it a comeback.

Really, please don’t.

Years after the fall of Big Tobacco, smoking seems to be back in vogue.

Young adults who were toddlers when the government beat Phillip Morris are smoking Marlboros today. If not that, they’re taking a puff from their Juul e-Cigarette.

This has me perplexed, and more than a bit concerned.

For the formal manipulations designed to turn vulnerable young adults into cash cows for the tobacco companies have eroded. Gone are the neon signs, the magazine ads, and the ashtrays every 10 feet.

There is no good reason to assume our rising generation is getting duped into something dangerous. And there are only so many bad actors out there using peer pressure to get others to light up.

No, I believe the rise in new tobacco is part of a broader cultural shift.

For decades, young adults have wanted it their way, without compromise. But often, the intersection of society and logistics stood in their way.

It was hard to have a night out on the town without risking a DUI on the way home. It was challenging to connect with people based far away. And it was nearly impossible to speak out and demand a change in cultural values.

Even after needed change swept the country with civil rights legislation, societal values remained conservative. The old guard tradition of the working man and the picture-perfect family stood tall.

Yet, with the rise of the Internet and smartphone technology, much has changed.

Young adults can now connect with nearly anyone, anywhere. They can party until dawn and then hail a ride home with a stranger, using the computer in their pocket. And they have a megaphone that cuts through the static of tradition and allows their voice to be heard.

Young adults have it all. There’s nothing and no one to hold them back.

This is a good thing. It’s led to openness and change throughout society.

But that power does not discriminate.

So, if young adults want to vape from an e-Cigarette, or smoke a traditional one, no one’s going to stop them. Haranguing them on the risks is tantamount to restricting their freedom.

The issue is that the risks are real.

Nicotine is an addictive substance, no matter the form it comes in. And addictions are destructive.

Smokers risk their health — physically or financially — each time they take a drag. While that is their right and their choice, it is not solely their responsibility.

We have a chance to put a cap to this second wave of smoking. To curb the spread of e-cigarettes — and the slow creep of traditional ones — by indicating that such behavior is not desirable in our society.

It is on us to take responsibility. It is our duty to take these actions.

I say this not just because of my own opinions on smoking — those should be clear by now. No, I say this because we are the final hope to deal the final blow against the ills of tobacco.

The future is in our hands. Let it not slip away.

On Excess

How much is too much?

That’s a loaded question. One that varies by where you come from and who you are.

In collective cultures, what is enough to provide for your immediate circle is the upper limit. That means what’s enough to keep your family clothed, housed and fed. The bare necessities.

In individualistic cultures, what’s enough to live the good life is often the upper limit. That means enjoying more than just the requisite. It means taking advantage of fine cuisine, art or entertainment.

And in America? Well, there is no upper limit.

Our society is one built on excess. On taking all we can, and then taking some more.

It’s part of our heritage. Our westward expansion in the 1800s was dubbed Manifest Destiny. That wording transformed the forceful relocation of native tribes and the wars over Mexico’s northern territories from acts of savagery to actions ordained by God.

That spirit has stuck with us to the present day. Drive around Malibu in California or cruise around Star Island in Miami and you’ll see the temples we’ve built to celebrate excess. Mansions owned by the uber-rich — many of whom maintain lavish homes in other locations.

If you were to look in the master closets or garages of these mansions, you’d probably find extravagant clothes that are never worn and sports cars that are rarely driven.

If a utilitarian were to look at this scene, they’d consider it a waste of resources. But that’s precisely the point.

Excess is part of our DNA. It tells the story of who we are better than anything else.

Excess is what popularized the all-you-can-eat buffet and the 30 page menu at The Cheesecake Factory. Excess is what spawned the endless array of TV channels and smartphone apps. Excess is what built the city of Las Vegas into the shrine of decadence it is today.

Excess has appeal. Visitors from other societies find themselves drawn to it, by pure novelty, if nothing else. And emerging cities around the world have even emulated it, through the creation of elaborate skylines and other lavish features.

But excess has severe risks as well.

It’s unhealthy, it’s self-serving, and it’s unbecoming.

If we seek to be treated with dignity and build a legacy filled with reverence, our tendency toward excess is the biggest obstacle to realizing our dreams.

For excess makes us seem primal. Even animalistic.

How so? Consider a tangible example — alcohol consumption.

Imbibing alcoholic beverages has been a time honored tradition throughout human history. Tales of drinking stretch as far back as the Bible. And they’re featured prominently in ancient Greek mythology.

Even in the disjointed world that preceded transcontinental trade routes, alcohol consumption was common in several corners of the globe.

However, the way cultures approached the activity varied. And those variances have persisted into the modern era.

Collective cultures predominantly drink as a form of status. The context of the occasion tends to matter most — particularly in Asia, where familial social customs are critical in maintaining honor and identity. The fact that the beverage consumed at these gatherings happens to be alcoholic is immaterial.

Individualistic cultures predominantly drink for artisanal reasons. Think of the French pairing the right wine with their dinner, or the British enjoying a pint at the pub. Beverages are meant to be savored, even cherished. The attributes of the beverage chosen — taste, smell and fullness — matter as much as the act of drinking it.

And then, there’s America. Where pure volume consumed is the only measure that matters.

Our culture has turned drinking into an ugly form of competition. One replete with a tradition of overbearing peer pressure and a total lack of accountability.

Go to any lake or river and you’ll find people downing drinks by the dozen. Go to the club and you’ll find people ordering bottle service. Go to a wedding or holiday party and you’ll find people cycling back to the open bar, over and over.

Somewhere along the line, we’ve been taught to drink, drink and drink some more. To spend our free time hitting the bottle until we can’t taste what we’re putting into our bodies anymore. To transform our social interactions into inebriated soirees that we won’t remember the next day.

Those critical of this behavior have placed the blame in many corners. But I can find only one such source that best explains it — our culture of excess.

In a society that bends toward decadence, Go big or go home is a rallying cry. Not taking it to the max is considered a sin.

So, we don’t savor cold boozy beverages on a hot day. We force them down our throats it the way Kobayashi or Joey Chestnut inhale hot dogs. And then we down 5 more.

We keep at it until our bodies give in. Even if the end result is a raging headache and a list of regrets, it’s still better than the scorn we’d get for only sticking to a drink or two.

Both collective and individualistic cultures look at this behavior with horror. Getting drunk can be akin to losing face. And downing drinks three at a time is the antithesis of the artisanal credo.

Is it any wonder why American culture is frequently lampooned outside its borders? While other cultures are fascinated by the idea of excess, they’re also disgusted by our implementation of it.

Just as critically, our culture of excess is destroying us from the inside out. The prevalence of binge drinking has caused a trail of collateral damage that has destroyed lives. Our oversized food portions have helped lead to several health crises, from obesity to heart disease. And our desire for more, more, more has helped us get addicted to everything from caffeine to opioids.

By any measure, things are moving in the wrong direction. But there’s an easy way to reverse this trend: Embrace moderation.

This doesn’t mean giving up what we enjoy. It just means giving up on enjoying it endlessly.

It means taking a stand. No more will we clamor for more than we need. No longer will we succumb to the social and marketing pressures telling us that enough is never enough.

When we have enough to be comfortable, we should be comfortable enough to say no to temptation. To use our powers to help others rather than denigrate ourselves through needless decadence.

Some may call this un-American. And they might be right. After all, they have two centuries of history to point to as evidence.

But look around. Excess has caused more harm than good. We — the society that has it all— find ourselves more broken than ever these days.

Let’s put ourselves back together again. Let’s chart a new course.

One that starts with three words.

No. That’s enough.

Are you up for the challenge?

The Favorability Conundrum

It doesn’t matter if people like me, so long as they respect me.

We’ve likely heard this phrase before.

It’s a statement of priorities. A clear proclamation of what we stand for, when push comes to shove.

But it also has an underlying manifesto.

That manifesto claims that popularity is childish. That currying for favor only serves to compromise our integrity.

It’s better to act within our character, this philosophy claims. That way, we will remain respected, even by those unlikely to cheer us on.

And with that respect comes synergy. Others can work with us and for us, without the destructive patterns of overt subversion.

There are many figures in our society who treat this philosophy as gospel. Figures who espouse a degree of authority.

School teachers. Military commanders. Sports coaches. Mafia bosses.

And while I have far less influence than any of these figures, I tend to espouse the same philosophy.

I don’t concern myself with how many people like me or loathe me. I don’t think I’m greatest thing since sliced bread, so why does it matter whether others do?

It’s far more important to me that I am treated with respect. That others give me the benefit of the doubt and provide me the opportunity to deliver on the promises I make.

I’ve long managed my life this way. While others have expanded their social circles for camaraderie and companionship, I’ve generally expanded mine exclusively to discover new opportunities to prove myself. While others yearn to be the life of the party, I seek to be just visible enough that I don’t get trampled.

Let the social butterflies bask in the glow of adulation, I say. Trust is the catnip for my soul.

While I won’t win any popularity contests this way, I don’t feel I need to. So long as I maintain my dignity, I will continue to move forward.

Yet, this philosophy I cherish appears to have hit a dead end. For no matter how much I try and deny it, two words ring true.

Favorability matters.

In a world that changes by the minute, there seem to be few ideals that can be classified as timeless.

Beauty and personality are among those few.

These concepts appear in some of the earliest literature, including the Bible. And some of the most powerful examples of them can be found in Homer’s epic The Odyssey.

The Odyssey is one of the greatest travel narratives of human history. It follows Odysseus as he sails back from the conquest of Troy, running into exotic adventures each time the wind changes direction.

One of the most poignant challenges Odysseus faces comes when he nears the Sirens — beautiful women who sing in harmonic voices. The beauty of the Sirens has lured many a seafarer off-course, causing their ships to splinter on the rocky coast and their crew to perish.

Odysseus has heard rumors of the lethal danger of the Sirens, but he is too charismatic to chart a new course to avoid them. He wants to hear their songs and live to tell others about them.

So, Odysseus orders his crew to chain him to the ship’s mast. And he fills the ears of the crew members with wax, so that they may not be led astray by the divine voices as they sail by.

Thanks to these preparations, Odysseus hears the Siren Song and doesn’t pay for the experience with his life — or the lives of his crewmembers.

He survives to tell the tale. And Millenia later, we still love him for it.

Odysseus’ Siren adventure demonstrates why beauty and personality are timeless. For they can spice up just about any story. And we’re addicted to stories.

The problem is that beauty and personality have been used in countless stories since the Odyssey. They’ve become staples of narrative, gradually conditioning us to the fallacy that good looks and a powerful personality are the keys to success.

This is a myth — a vain and shallow one, at that. But it’s a myth we fully believe in.

So, we aspire to be the cool kid in our school. We spend hours of effort to look our best. And we read How to Make Friends and Influence People in order to fine-tune our personality.

All to achieve the Holy Grail of reverence, and the social status that comes with it.

Yes, being likeable is a societal prerequisite these days.

Favorability matters.

Our bias toward likability has its benefits.

It elevates connection in our society. It promotes friendliness. And it reminds us to do the right thing.

These attributes are a package deal. After all, morality and decency are prerequisites for favorability. Throughout humanity, we’ve found jerks and tyrants repulsive.

But while favorability brings out the best in us on a macro level, the finer details are far less rosy.

For we are a diverse set of people who like many different things. And this divergence of favorability has led directly to the polarization infesting our culture.

If there are some who like our views and tastes, it safe to assume there are others who loathe us for the same qualities.

There is no escaping this quandary. If we take a neutral position and become our own private Switzerland, we end up marginalized and forgotten.

We find ourselves barred from opportunities where likeability is a prerequisite. Which these days is just about any opportunity.

This is hopelessly discouraging to those of us who would rather be struck by lightning than pander to the crowd.

For it proves that merit means next to nothing. That we have far less control over our destiny than we’d like to believe.

Yes, all too often, the doors to our success are manned by others. Others who have the discretion to let us in or keep us out.

If these gatekeepers like us, our window of opportunity remains open. If not, we have no chance.

While we do our best to influence that perception, the truth of the matter is we ultimately do not have control over it. Our destiny is out of our hands, hanging tenuously on a single attribute.

Favorability matters.

With this in mind, what should we do?

Should we build a persona? Should we try and be the person others adore, even if it makes us feel hollow inside?

Should we let it ride? Should we maintain our authenticity and take advantage of whatever opportunities come from it.

I’m honestly not sure. I don’t have the right answer, because I don’t believe there is one.

I’ve seen various approaches work in certain cases. And I’ve seen them go down in flames in others.

So, your mileage may vary.

It’s on you to tinker. To experiment and determine what works best for you.

But no matter what approach you take, keep one thing in mind.

Favorability matters. Proceed wisely.

Leap of Faith

I stood on the platform and took in the view.

To my left and right were palm trees and buildings, illuminated in the steamy morning sunshine.

Below me — some 33 feet below me — was a swimming pool.

I was at the top of the 10 meter dive tower at the University of Miami. And at this moment, I was wondering what I had got myself into.

Wow, I thought. I can see all of campus from here.

Not exactly a reassuring thought, as I prepared to plunge into the water three stories below.

My mind started to race.

What if I overshoot the pool and land on the concrete? What if I injure myself hitting the water? What in the world am I doing?

I thought back to the only time I had seen someone up on the platform who wasn’t on the diving team. It was a girl who won a belly-flop contest the lifeguards set up. She ran off the edge, screaming in terror until she was underwater.

We all laughed insensitively, because that’s what college kids do. But now, the joke was on me.

I looked back at the narrow ladders I had climbed to get here. They looked even more treacherous to descend.

There was only one realistic way down. I knew it. But I wasn’t ready.

I felt a pit in my stomach. The sweat from my anxiety mixed with that from the humidity.

I closed my eyes and opened them. Then I ran off the edge.

The first thing I remember seeing was the water through my peripheral vision.

No, not the peripheral vision that helps us see what’s to our left and right without us turning our heads. The peripheral vision that helps us see what’s above and below us.

We normally don’t think about what we visualize from this vantage point. After all, looking at our shoes gets old pretty quick.

But we’re normally not hurtling 30 feet toward the ground. That changes things.

I was falling, but the water still looked distant. So I started flailing my legs, thinking that would somehow soften the blow.

Suddenly, I remembered the instructions I was given: Run off the edge and make sure you’re straight up when you hit the water.

I stopped moving my legs and let gravity run its course.

As soon I did this, something unexpected happened. I felt a strange sense of calm.

I let gravity do its work. Everything felt Zen.

Well, everything except that rushing sound in my ears. It kept getting louder and louder.

That sound was the air flying by me as I was in freefall. And it was getting louder because I was speeding up.

Suddenly, the water was right below me. I was close — painfully close — to impact.

I made a last ditch effort to straighten my legs. Then, SPLASH.

I hit the water like a ton of bricks. My feet and ankles felt the sting of impact.

After dropping close to 10 feet underwater, I started to ascend back to the surface. Then I slowly swam over to the ladder and climbed onto the deck.

My classmate approached me, holding my digital camera and a few other items I’d temporarily put in her care.

This whole crazy experience was her idea.

She was an NCAA champion diver, and we were in a video production class together. She was at the pool that morning filming a promo for a class project.

She had asked me to tag along to help her carry the video equipment, since some of the clips she was filming were from the 3 meter springboard — about 10 feet above the pool deck. I happily obliged.

“Wear your swim trunks,” she told me the day before the shoot. “That way, you can jump off the 10 Meter when we’re done.”

Now, I had just that. And the adrenaline had yet to wear off.

“Oh, that was something else!” I told my classmate. “Say, which height did you win the NCAA title in, again?”

“The 10 Meter,” she calmly replied.

I stared at her, awestruck.

Diving off the 10 Meter means walking to the edge of that 33 foot high platform and turning around in such a way that your toes are just about the only part of your body still making contact with that platform. It means propelling yourself backwards off the edge, headfirst. It means contorting your body into a set of elaborate twists and rolls as you’re falling. And it means entering the water with pinpoint precision.

It takes a leap of faith just to do this once. As NCAA champion, my classmate had done this hundreds of times — often in the heat of intense competition. And she executed it to precision when it mattered most.

This was no fluke. Three years after my leap of the 10 Meter, my classmate was in London, representing the United States in diving at the Olympic games. There’s no doubt that she’s the best athlete I’ve ever personally met.

Even so, her daily accomplishments from the diving platform put everything in perspective. That acute fear I’d felt moments earlier seemed downright silly now.

I took a deep breath, and resolved not to make such a big deal out of what I’d just done.

In the years since my plunge from the 10 Meter, I’ve had other aquatic adventures.

I’ve jumped off a 10 foot dock into a lake inlet. And off the top of a party barge into the middle of a different lake.

It was fun to take flight. And on scorching Texas summer afternoons, I dare say it was necessary to plunge into cooler waters.

Yet, both times, I failed to feel the exhilaration I did after I jumped off the 10 Meter. The apprehension was gone, but so was the rush of energy.

This was not because of differences in the height I jumped from. It was because of something far more fundamental.

My 10 Meter experience represented the first leap of faith I ever took. Quite literally.

I put myself in a position to do something both novel and uncomfortable. I felt the fear and I did it anyway.

I was better for the experience. I unlocked confidence and courage I didn’t realize I had before.

This confidence and courage came in handy months later, when I moved halfway across the country to a city I had never been to and started working in a field I had little experience in.

It helped me again years later, when I switched careers and moved to another new city without a job lined up.

And it has helped me in countless other, less-dramatic scenarios as well.

Feeling the fear and doing it anyway is a vital part of growing up.

For we will all encounter a new experience in our lives. Whether that starting a job, starting a family or starting to notice changes in our physical abilities. Or maybe even all three.

There’s no reference guide for these experiences. Sure, we can lean on the knowledge of those who’ve encountered these experiences before, but that won’t fully prepare us for what we feel in the moment.

We will feel apprehension —  if not abject terror — as we navigate these experiences firsthand for the first time. This is normal.

Yet, our ability to make it through the changes, and to grow from the experience, only comes if we’re willing to take a leap of faith. To feel the fear and do it anyway.

And that journey has to start somewhere.

Maybe not on the top of a 10 Meter dive tower, as mine did. But somewhere.

So, let us resolve to be bolder. To look out upon that new experience on the horizon that terrifies us and to face it head on.

Let us resolve to take a leap of faith.

Our future depends on it.

No Rest

I’m wide awake.

The dulcet tones of Katy Perry reverberated through the taxi as it pulled away from Chicago O’Hare Airport.

It was a chilly, rainy morning in early fall. One of those dreary days where a cup of Starbucks and Katy Perry on the radio would be a nice proxy for an alarm clock.

Yet, I had been awake for six hours already. I had caught two separate flights while traveling from Texas to Illinois to visit my sister. And I’d done all this on three hours of sleep.

Hearing I’m wide awake over and over again in that vehicle was like a cruel joke. I wasn’t having it.

No! I thought. I am NOT wide awake!

Yet, I soldiered through.

I survived the long ride to Evanston, where I rendezvoused with my sister — at the time a senior at Northwestern University. We then headed down to Chicago for some sightseeing, culminating our trek with dinner at my favorite restaurant.

It was a great day. A glorious day. Yet, my only ammunition to ward off exhaustion was iced coffee and a catnap.

So, by about 8:30 PM, I was toast. I passed out on my sister’s couch.

 

I think about this day often, for two reasons.

First, it ruined a perfectly good Katy Perry song.

Second, it encapsulates the past decade of my life.

I’ve kept my days busy. I’ve achieved a lot in a condensed period of time.

But what I’ve not done is get enough sleep.

This is partially due to logistics. Working an evening shift in my TV news days — and, years later, taking business school classes at night — meant I had to get used to jetting out of town at the crack of dawn when I wanted to travel.

This is partially due to necessity. I could tackle my tri-weekly two-mile outdoor run on a scorching Texas summer afternoon, I suppose. But running at dawn — when the heat is less oppressive — seems like a safer bet. And that requires getting up early.

And this is partially due to my nature. I’m a morning person who would rather be out and about than sleep in.

But regardless of the cause, all of it is an issue.

Don’t count the days. Make the days count.

Those powerful words come from the late Muhammad Ali. They’ve been quoted time and again.

But with great power comes great responsibility. And we’ve been using The Greatest’s words in vain.

Entrepreneurs — particularly those in Silicon Valley — invoke Ali when they treat sleeplessness as a badge of honor. The gig economy encourages millions of people to work 18 hours at a time. And many of us — including me — pack our days with activities, whether it’s a workday or not.

This is asinine.

We are humans, not machines.

We perform best when we’re most energized.

Yet, we only have a finite amount of energy. Energy that depletes over time and must be replenished.

Much as it takes time for our smartphones, laptops and other electronic devices to recharge, our bodies take time to replenish energy.

Traditional wisdom has said we need eight hours of uninterrupted rest. I’m lucky if I get six hours in an average night. Many others are even worse off than I am in this regard.

And no matter what some might say, we can’t make these hours up. Binge-sleeping doesn’t undo the damage of chronic exhaustion.

This is an issue. A major issue.

And motivational quotes about our productivity culture aren’t helping it one bit.

There is a prevailing narrative that as long as we’re awake, we’re capable of great things.

This is a myth.

When we’re exhausted, we’re compromised.

Sure, we’re able to see, to walk, to speak. But we’re also more easily agitated, more prone to error and a danger to ourselves and others.

Drowsy driving can be as devastating as drunk driving. And those heated late-night arguments with loved ones are extra vicious because our emotional control mechanisms are compromised

Even the toxic culture found at companies like Uber in recent years likely has roots in exhaustion. A company built on long days and sleepless nights doesn’t, by itself, spark misogyny. But the lingering corporate culture can spread acceptance system-wide.

Yes, there are profound dangers to our always-on culture.

Rapid advancements in technology might have made 24/7 commerce possible. And drinks supercharged with sugar and caffeine might have extended our daily time horizons.

But our bodies still rely on circadian rhythms. They’re in our nature.

We can try to innovate around this, but the results are inevitable. Inevitable and devastating.

As Dr. Malcolm says in Jurassic Park, Nature will always find a way.

So, what can we do to right ourselves?

It’s pretty simple. Commit to more sleep.

And while some might take this as an excuse to sleep in more, or work later shifts, I believe in the opposite.

I believe the answer lies in going to bed earlier and rising with the morning light.

For the sun is our ultimate guide. In the days before electricity and blackout shades, it had profound influence on our schedule.

Today — in the age of bars, nightclubs and late night TV — that pattern is reversed. We burn the midnight oil. We fight the sun, rather than work with it.

Getting back on the right track means getting attuned with nature.

And while I find this edict challenging as I balance a job and night classes, I am taking steps in the right direction.

I am committed to going to bed earlier on weekends, and on weekday evenings when I’m not in class. I even took a break in writing this article to get some shut-eye. At 10 PM on a Saturday when I had nothing on my schedule for the next day.

The result? I get my eight hours of sleep more often than I used to. And I wake up fully recharged more often as well.

We can all see benefits from following a policy like this one.

Sure, there will be sacrifices. No more midnight movies. No more taking advantage of cheap fare on red-eye flights.

But the benefits outweigh the costs.

Not only for us, but for everyone we come in contact with.

So, let’s do what we can to get the right amount of rest. Consistently.

That way, I’m wide awake can be more than a line in a Katy Perry song. It can be a universal reality.

Self-Monitor

How well do you understand yourself?

Probably not as well as you think.

This statement is not meant to be an insult. It’s more a recognition of inherent blind spots in our own understanding.

For there are three components to our existence: Which values we hold internally, how we project those values externally and how others receive those projections.

All too often, when we claim self-actualization, we only have a grasp on the first two of these components. Or perhaps only the first one.

Calibrating our internal compass is important. It shields us from a self-fulfilling destiny of falsehoods and inconsistency. Having that True North reminds us of who we are and what we stand for, so that we may live our life consistent with those principles.

Yet, we do not live our lives in a vacuum. We rely on others for community and companionship. And as such, we must be vigilant when expressing our core tenets to those around us.

If we maintain consistency of purpose, clarity of vision and an unwavering commitment to our North Star, we can evoke clarity. We can engender trust. We can build connection.

The act of projecting our values doesn’t have to be flashy. But it should remain within character at all times.

Some of us might consider ourselves proficient at pulling this off. Others of us might not. Still others couldn’t care less.

Regardless of how we feel, the honest truth is the same: We likely have no clue about our ability to show the world who we are.

That’s because it’s not entirely up to us. It’s also up to those who receive our message and make their own assessment of it.

The opinion of others matters. It can open the door to opportunities or bar us from them. It can secure us a golden legacy or one of infamy.

We’ve traditionally downplayed this aspect of self-understanding. After all, other people can be unpredictable; gaining their acceptance can quickly devolve into a high-stakes guessing game. And pandering to the crowd could cause us to sacrifice our long-term values for short-term acceptance.

None of this is desirable.

So, we resolve to stay true to ourselves and focus on staying on a righteous path. The idea being that if we do this, everything else will fall into place.

It’s a nice thought. A utopian thought. And a deeply flawed thought.

That flaw in this idea? Our own humanity.

We are not perfect. Far from it.

And our bias blinds us to the truth.

Even if we believe we’re on the right path, there could be all manner of mistakes to stealthily sabotage our mission. There could be all sorts of blind spots to trip us up.

Workplaces have started to recognize this issue in recent years. That’s one reason why 360 degree assessments have taken over an increasing share of performance reviews.

Seeing how employees view themselves compared to how others view them provides a clearer picture. Aggregating these responses allows for more actionable feedback.

Yet, while this system has been helpful inside office walls, much of our life exists outside of them. And there are no scheduled performance reviews in the Real World.

So, how can we make sure we’re staying on track? How can we better understand the whole picture?

We can self-monitor.

Self-monitoring involves discovering our latent flawed tendencies and taking proactive steps to eradicate them. Much like a 360 feedback session, it requires us to step outside of our common perspective and view ourselves in a new light.

But this time, it’s not a supervisor initiating the cross-examination process. We’re running the show.

That means the right mindset is critical.

Self-monitoring requires humility, vulnerability and flexibility. It demands that we keep our eyes open, as well as our minds.

We must get comfortable with these traits, even if they make us squirm at first. For it is only by encountering our weaknesses that we can find our true strength.

Once we’ve bought into the self-monitoring mindset, we can commit ourselves to observation. We can see to how others react to us and follow up with subtly probing questions to get more context.

A self-critical perspective is crucial here. If we take on this task convinced of our own greatness, we won’t give these subtle cues from others their due process. We’ll consider them to be a nuisance at best, and an affront at worst — ignoring the critical role they might play in our identity.

A contrarian view provides for an open mind. And an open mind can lead to greater success.

After our period of observation, we should take some time to reflect.

What insights can we draw from the reactions we’ve seen? Are there situations where we’re viewed more favorably than others? Are there times when we act out of character?

This period of reflection can alert us to our unsavory tendencies — particularly those tied to a particular state of mind.

Perhaps we snap at others under stress. Or, we freeze when we unexpectedly find ourselves in the middle of a crisis.

If we hadn’t self-monitored, we likely wouldn’t have unearthed inconsistencies like these. But now that we’ve discovered them, we can work on replacing them with habits that better reflect our values.

We can come up with action plans for these new habits and practice them until they become muscle memory. Until the old tendencies are fully wiped away by the new ones.

Then, we can repeat the entire self-monitoring process. We can make new observations, find new insights and break new ground in ridding ourselves of inconsistencies and bad habits.

We can repeat the process, over and over — improving ourselves with each cycle.

This will make us well-rounded. And it can curry favor among those who once quietly disapproved of some aspect of our persona.

We still won’t be perfect, but we’ll be less flawed.

All of this is only possible when we surrender to a deeper level of introspection. And that’s only possible if we take the time to self-monitor.

So, let’s stop hiding in the safe havens of our own perspective. Let’s do the heavy lifting to truly understand ourselves. And to elevate ourselves to be the best we can be.

Accomplishments and Stepping Stones

Celebrate good times. Come on!

If you’ve been to any party or other social gathering with a boombox, you’ve likely heard this song.

And you probably saw someone too old, too overweight or too uncoordinated — or maybe all three — gleefully letting loose on the dance floor to Kool and the Gang’s upbeat rhythms.

It’s an odd mixture. Big smiles, cringeworthy dance moves and a song we rarely listen to on any other occasion.

Yet, it’s as much a part of our culture as Apple Pie and Fireworks on the Fourth of July.

For we are wired to go all-out to recognize accomplishments. To rent out that hotel ballroom, put on our formal wear, hire the expensive DJ and invite all our family and friends to come join us.

We do this for weddings, birthdays and graduations. For anniversaries and reunions. If there’s an accomplishment to be had, it will be celebrated with glamour and gusto.

At first glance, it all seems innocuous enough. After all, what’s so wrong about one night of fun?

A lot, it turns out.

There is a phrase making the rounds. One still riding the embers of the afterglow, a decade after it went viral.

That phrase? Start With Why.

Simon Sinek introduced the phrase to the world through a TEDx Talk and a bestselling book. And many of us have been finding our Why ever since.

On the whole, this is a good thing. We operate better — as people, corporations and social systems — when we have a clear North Star.

Purpose drives passion. Passion drives productivity. And productivity drives results.

But the Start With Why model is not a panacea. It’s a finite resource, meant to be used in moderation. And we’ve spread it way too thin.

Consider this. Many 5-year-olds these days will have a Pre-K Graduation. They’ll put on a miniature cap and gown and pose for pictures. All in front of their beaming parents.

What is the Why behind this celebration? Those kids in the caps and gowns haven’t even gone to school yet. The experience of sitting in those tiny desks, reading what the teacher is writing on the whiteboard — it’s all foreign to them.

No, these Pre-K graduations are all for the parents. It’s another photo opportunity, another chance for a social media status update showcasing their child’s latest accomplishment. Even if that accomplishment is simply being at a daycare center 45 hours a week, while their parents are at the office.

The celebration does not match the occasion.

Compare this with my Kindergarten graduation. My class had a barbecue on an early summer evening with our teachers in the school’s recess yard. Our parents weren’t allowed to attend.

I remember being nervous at first. I had hardly ever been away from my parents or grandparents after dark at that point in my life, and I didn’t know what to expect. But after several hours of running around outside, eating burgers and toasting marshmallows on a campfire, I was actually bummed when my parents came to pick me up. I wanted to stay longer.

The barbecue was a celebration. But it was very down to earth.

I don’t remember feeling as if I had accomplished anything in particular. I just remember having fun hanging out with my friends and teachers.

And for a shy, introverted kid, that was sufficient.

Our daily lives are full of accomplishments these days.

If you participate in a 5K race, you’ll get a finisher medal. Even if it takes you an hour and a half to walk the course.

If you’re a teenage girl, you get to sport a fancy evening gown and ride in a limo. Simply for turning sixteen.

And if you’re done with daycare, you get that Pre-K graduation.

These disparate celebrations have one thing in common. They’re really all about showing up.

About making your way to the 5K course. About waking up on your sixteenth birthday. About being at that daycare program day after day — even if you’re too young to have anywhere else to go anyway.

Is this really how we want to define accomplishment? As the moments we reach by default?

I certainly hope not.

For accomplishments are not about the end of a chapter. They’re not about the changing of a calendar field. Or adding another year to our age.

Those are arbitrary occurrences that occur without our direct influence.

No, accomplishments — true accomplishments — are that which we attain through transformation. They’re markers of the change we either initiate or manage. They’re our reflection after we get to the other side of that tunnel.

When it comes to our personal lives, marriage is an accomplishment. So is the advent of parenthood.

On the work side of the equation, earning a promotion to a new position can be an accomplishment. And if your work leads to a positive change in society, that’s an accomplishment as well.

Simply showing up is not sufficient. To realize an accomplishment, you have to give something more.

As I write this, I am not far removed from my MBA graduation.

Not long ago, I put on a cap, gown and decorative hood. I walked across a stage in a basketball arena, and was handed a diploma cover. I posed for endless pictures, holding my smile in place until my face hurt.

In the weeks after this occasion, dozens of people offered congratulations. They talked about what a significant achievement this was, and asked me what I had planned to do next.

The thing is, I’m actually not done with my business school classes yet.

My MBA program actually holds ceremonies for summer graduates three months before the completion date of our classes. So, the inside of that diploma cover is empty. All of those well-wishes premature.

Some of my classmates speak of how odd the whole situation has been. Of how the graduation ceremony felt like a tease.

Yet, I do not share these laments.

I am still not sure what we were celebrating in the first place. Because I don’t view the act of completing an MBA program as an accomplishment.

Now, I’m sure some of my dear readers might consider this statement to be crazy. Perhaps most of them do.

After all, business school is no day at the beach. It’s challenging, stressful and transformative.

But if you boil it all down, an MBA program is a service. A service I paid for and have, at the time of this writing, nearly completely attained.

An MBA can open doors. But, as with any university degree, it alone guarantees me nothing.

So, from that perspective, considering my graduation an accomplishment is akin to getting a trophy for showing up. Not my cup of tea.

This is not to say that such celebrations as an MBA graduation are worthless.

For while I feel the near-completion of a business school regimen is not significant on its own, the opportunities it can unlock certainly are.

Those opportunities, when realized, represent the true accomplishments from this endeavor.

But they’re only possible if you go through the ringer first. If you show up and don’t give up. If you do the seemingly ordinary things that lead you to sport a cap and gown. The very things that lead to a disproportionate of well-wishes from onlookers.

Society considers the aggregation of these mundane moments as accomplishments. I prefer to call them stepping stones.

Such a term represents the long game, not the endgame. It illustrates a fluid state of affairs — one where each seminal moment leads to the next challenge.

The stepping stone analogy taps into the power of connection.

Of the ties that bind between our experiences.

Of how, in the words of Semisonic, Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.

There is something blissfully pure about that concept.

I find strength in it. I’m sure you can as well.

Sure, it’s not quite as fun as throwing a party for the next milestone. And it might demand more introspection than we’re comfortable with.

But that dash of perspective keeps us aligned. It inspires us to keep climbing, keep aspiring, keep achieving.

That’s a great gift to give ourselves and those around us. 

Let’s give it.

Order of Operations

PEMDAS.

I still remember the day I first saw those strange letters on the whiteboard. I couldn’t have been more than 12 years old, and I was fully perplexed.

There I was, sitting in a middle school Algebra class, and there was no math. Just a bunch of letters — letters that didn’t even spell out a real word.

What on earth was going on?

Moments later, my teacher decoded the mystery. PEMDAS was simply an acronym for the mathematical Order of Operations.

When faced with a complicated math problem, we should solve the area in Parentheses first, the teacher explained. Then, we should resolve the Exponents. After that, we should take care of anything that needs to be Multiplied and Divided. And finally, we should handle everything that must be Added or Subtracted.

The teacher then wrote a jumbled math problem on the board, making quick work of the tangled mess to show us how to use the power of PEMDAS to our advantage.

“This is critical,” the teacher exclaimed. “You will need to know this principle to solve the problems in this class.”

My confusion turned to righteous indignation.

Up to this point, math class had consisted of conquering straightforward tasks. What’s 150 divided by 3? What’s 4 to the third power? I did what was asked of me to the best of my abilities, and that was that.

But now? Now I was expected to just do all this work on my own, just to make a problem solvable.

It didn’t seem fair to me. Why was I being asked to jump through all these hoops? To understand and apply these obscure rules about what to do when?

This is so pointless, I fumed inwardly. I’ll never have to use this in real life.

Oh how wrong I was.

It was not just another work day.

I was cooking lunch with several colleagues at the Ronald McDonald House — part of my employer’s volunteer initiatives.

As lunchtime approached, I took my place on the serving line. My task was to open a sandwich bun, put it on a plate, fill it with meatballs and pass it to a colleague — who would help fulfill the next part of the meal.

With sanitary gloves covering both of my hands, I prepared for the mass of people entering the dining room.

I quickly developed a routine for making sandwiches. My left hand would pry the bun open, while my right one would add the fillings.

While I did this, several other colleagues cooked more food behind me. This way, we made sure we fully covered the lunch rush.

Things were going smoothly at first. But once the new batch of food was integrated into the serving line, everything went haywire.

Suddenly, my rhythm was off. My hands no longer instinctively knew what role to play. And I lost track of what I was doing.

At one point, instead of filling a sandwich bun, I handed the empty bun to the person I was serving.

My colleague quickly stepped in and filled the order. But she gave me a hard time about it for the rest of the day.

As I reflected on what went wrong, my mind drifted to somewhere I hadn’t expected. It went back to PEMDAS.

For my experience on the food line was like a math problem. My hands were the operators and the plated sandwich was the output.

It was a simple equation, until the new batch of food was introduced. Suddenly, there was more information than I could process in real-time.

With a line of hungry patrons, I couldn’t just call Timeout to solve the suddenly more complicated math problem. So I powered through — and made some boneheaded errors.

My words from decades earlier had come back to haunt me. Order of Operations was indeed quite present for me in real life.

My serving mishap story is not unique.

Order of Operations is critical in nearly everything we do.

We rely on a proven routine, both for survival and for cultural acceptance. There is a sequence to things — a pattern we’re inclined to follow. And there are consequences for severing ties with that sequence.

This is not only true on the assembly line. It’s true in all corners of life.

If we don’t shower and brush our teeth each morning, we grace our loved ones, friends and co-workers with a foul stench. If we don’t properly prep our meals before cooking them, we waste a perfectly fine dish. If we take items from the shelves at the store without rendering payment on the way out, we break the law. And if we get intimate with someone without consent, we break the law and obliterate trust.

Whether we’re creatures of routine or change artists, we must remain vigilant to the power that Order of Operations holds. We must do what we can to avoid utter chaos.

For the costs of chaos can be fatal — either literally or through social exclusion. To survive and thrive, we must find some order in a world that’s naturally frayed.

Order defines the boundaries of connection. And connection allows us to achieve far more together than we can alone.

Even as technological advances break down established barriers — from processes to communication challenges — this principle remains as true as ever. While the tech systems we rely upon today are more efficient and expansive than ever before, there is an established protocol to each of them — both for coding them and for using them.

Order of Operations reigns supreme.

As it turns out, the day I saw the word PEMDAS on the whiteboard might have been the most consequential of my scholastic life.

It opened my eyes to a critical framework. One that could help me for the rest of my life.

Yet, I believe it could have a similar effect on all of us.

The more we are aware of the invisible processes that drive our habits and routines, the more we can use them to our advantage.

This selective mindfulness can keep us centered, coherent and consistent. These qualities can help us provide even greater value to those we impact.

So don’t mock PEMDAS.

It might be a clunky acronym, but it’s also the key to something profound.