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.

Distilling It Down

I am process-oriented.

Much like an engineer, I think in terms of previous steps and next steps. Aspects and ingredients. Time and place.

These are important components on their own. But when they’re brought together in a cohesive way, that’s where the rubber meets the road.

It takes careful coordination for many of the occurrences in our lives to take place. The right set of factors must line up just so for the end result to be memorable and noteworthy.

Sometimes, recognize this chain of events. Other times, we’re oblivious to it.

Either way, the end result gets the most attention. When things just work out, the how’s and why’s don’t seem to leave a lasting impression in our memories.

We focus on the shiny objects we see. On the warm fuzzies we feel.

We fixate on the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow more than the leprechaun that led us to it.

And yet, without all of the right elements in place, we wouldn’t be basking in the glory.

Without a firm foundation, the greatness of serendipity would never be realized.

So, I make it my mission to distill down every process I can.

To look at what the elements are. To consider what’s needed to drive success. To be aware of the circumstances that could lead to failure.

A great example of this is cooking. I love to cook, and I love the satisfaction of getting a dish just right. It awakens senses of fulfilment and satisfaction I rarely experience otherwise.

But that result hardly comes out of the blue.

Getting a meal just right requires the right elements in place. If the ingredients are subpar, the cooking apparatuses are inefficient or the timing is off, a meal can turn into a disaster.

Just one missing element can trip up a dish. While I can still salvage a meal without top-notch meat, a fully functional oven range or precise cooking times, the end result just won’t be the same.

Distilling down the process helps me find the path to success in the kitchen.

But this technique is effective in many other areas as well.

In fact, just about anything that requires a decision can be distilled down to its core elements.

For each decision is a part of a process that leads to a result. And each decision involves root factors that can be considered.

We might not want to evaluate these factors, time after time. But we should take the initiative to do so.

For looking at the minutia gives us agency. It allows us to discover what drives success. It provides us the opportunity to iterate and grow.

We owe it to all those around us to have this depth of focus and commitment to precision. Just as importantly, we owe it to ourselves.

So, continue to dream big. But think small as well.

Focus on distilling it down.

On The Precipice

I’m on the edge of glory, and I’m hanging on a moment of truth.

These iconic Lady GaGa song lyrics speak volumes.

Whether we’re watching our favorite TV show, playing Monday Morning Quarterback after a football game or researching business case studies for work, the narratives we absorb have one thing in common.

They hang on the precipice. On the point of divergence between what got us here and where we’re going from here.

These cliffhanger moments are both overdramatic and overly cliché. But we continue to see them because they work.

That feeling of being on the edge of something new exhilarates us. Much like the moment before that first big drop on our favorite roller coaster, we can feel the butterflies of anticipation.

We’re addicted to this narrative. And the content creators are addicted to our addiction.

So, the literature we read, the hot air we listen to on the radio, the moving pictures we binge on our flatscreen TVs — all are filled with moments of truth.

It’s as if these game changing moments are a dime a dozen, just waiting for us to grab them.

They shouldn’t be.

You see, continually living life on the precipice is as irresponsible as it is exhilarating.

For those turning point moments are more than just high drama. They’re often the result of a lack of prior execution.

If the person or company facing a moment of truth had acted earlier, their future wouldn’t hinge on one make-or-break decision.

Debate the thought process for the fourth down play all you want. If you’d moved the ball enough on the first three downs, it wouldn’t have come down to one play.

Evaluate that big acquisition all you want. If the company had kept its financial health in order, then maybe it wouldn’t have had to bet the farm on such a risky move.

Glorify Jordan Belfort’s life all you want. But The Wolf of Wall Street wouldn’t be writing memoirs and sales coaching books for restitution money if he hadn’t spent years defrauding investors.

Yes, just like our fixation with the Rock Bottom Paradox, we can’t seem to move off of the life-and-death moments. We celebrate the winners and take lessons from the losers — all without realizing that all participants have already lost.

The real winners? They’re the ones who never brought their venture to the edge of a cliff. They planned ahead, executed with consistent precisions and heeded the warning signs of lurking danger.

You don’t hear about these winners, because their stories are wholly unmemorable. The highs and lows of their journey don’t captivate our imagination, call to our fears or stimulate our aspirations.

Make no mistake, though. This is the path we should follow.

It’s far more likely to get us to where we want to go. And it’s far less likely to put us in a spot where we risk losing it all.

So, forget the fancy narratives and the juicy cliffhangers.

The steady path forward is enough.

No Filter

How will you act with no net?

With no excuse? No safety blanket?

With no filter?

I try and answer as affirmatively as possible. For it’s the way I live my life.

I don’t pass the buck for my actions. The responsibility lies with me, and me alone.

If I make mistakes, I do what I can to rectify them. I’m not perfect, but I can strive to be better.

For I am the master of my domain. It’s critical that I assert control over my actions, even when I’m not in prime condition.

If I do something out of step because I’m sleep deprived, ill or under any number of influences, I own it. Then, I take the steps to depreciate those conditions moving forward.

Those steps could include giving up drinking, maintaining a healthier diet or adhering to a proper sleep schedule.

Regardless, the end goal is simple. I get to look upon the world without a filter. And the world gets to see the real me in real time. All the time.

Others know what to expect of me. They know how I’m likely to act.

And they know that the words coming out of my mouth — or being typed into this article — have gravitas. They have intention behind them.

I adhere to a consistent, accountably approach because I believe strongly in the One True Self philosophy. While others might believe in Being Their Best Self, I see that line of thinking as a farce — one that gives people an unwarranted Mulligan for times when they don’t act up to par.

Make no mistake. The world is watching our every move. Our actions carry more weight than our excuses.

The guy who makes a fool of himself while drunk doesn’t get a pass. Neither does the girl who says offensive things to others when she’s tired and cranky.

What we say and what we do resonates. Regardless of context, it resonates.

Heck. In this era, our facepalm moments might even go viral — for all the wrong reasons.

It’s time to cut ties with the Best Self Fallacy. To stop stumbling through life dazed when we find it convenient.

It’s time to be more accountable. To be more aware.

This might be uncomfortable at first. Especially in a world where the radio implores us to Blame it on the alcohol, amongst other vices.

But we must power through. We owe it to all those around us to take this step forward.

For we can offer so much more by being more consistent. And we can eliminate a great deal of collateral damage.

So, let’s find greater clarity.

Let’s approach life with no filter.

The Rock Bottom Paradox

At the start of the year, I gave up drinking.

I was not in crisis, but I had my reasons.

I didn’t like what alcohol did to my body or mind. I wanted to save the money that beer and liquor cost. And I wanted to ensure I was always in a situation where there was someone sober that could get behind the wheel.

It was a necessary move. A calculated one. But I wasn’t prepared for what would come of it.

For while my decision made me feel healthier and more fulfilled, it also opened me up to a constant line of questioning.

Why did you stop drinking?

What’s wrong with having a cold one now and then?

Did something bad happen?

Is there something wrong with booze?

Is everything OK?

I tried to anticipate the question. To have an answer at the ready.

But in truth, I felt like I was in that scene in Forrest Gump when the media bombarded Forrest with questions about why he was running.

As question after question rolled in, he gave one simple answer.

I just felt like running.

I can relate to that. I just felt removing alcohol from my life was the best thing to do. Simple as that.

And getting a barrage of questions about it quickly wore me out.

I understand the source of these questions. I don’t live in Utah, or a dry county in West Texas. Drinking is very much a societal norm. And I’m an outlier.

Yet, I find the line of questioning troublesome.

You see, the first question in the series is innocuous. People want to figure out what keeps me from raising a glass or clinking a beer bottle with them.

But once people find out I didn’t make my choice because of alcoholism or a DUI, they start grilling me with question after question.

They simply can’t grasp that someone would shun drinking all on their own. That no demons would be involved in the decision.

I’m not sure why this perception is so prevalent. But I don’t like it.

Why must we hit rock bottom in order to better ourselves?

I fail to see how that trajectory does anyone any good.

For when we wait until we bottom out to seek change, there’s collateral damage. Traumatic things happen. People get hurt. Or worse.

Sure, it makes for a better story when someone reforms themselves and emerges from the darkness. When an antihero finds redemption, everyone soaks up the narrative.

I know this pattern well. I’m a storyteller and a former news producer.

But are the warm fuzzies of a comeback from despair really worth the price paid to get there? Are they worth the suffering, the ruined lives and the traumatic memories that ensue when we let bad habits spiral into disaster?

Not at all.

I might not have ever hit rock bottom with my drinking habits. I might never have seen firsthand the misfortune and devastation that alcohol can bring.

But I wasn’t willing to take that chance.

I wasn’t willing to cede control of my mind just to live without inhibitions. I wasn’t willing to shed my dignity just to make it onto the dance floor. I wasn’t willing to drag my body through a round of beers — let alone 10 rounds with Jose Cuervo — just to fit in.

No, I drew the line. No demons were going to come out of that bottle. Not for me anyway.

Now this is not to say I think drinking is a bad thing. What’s wrong for me might not be wrong for everyone.

But the Rock Bottom Paradox needs to go.

We need to stop looking to the chasm as our source of redemption. To stop glorifying the canyon floor as the launchpad for the stars.

Far more good comes from righting the ship before it teeters over the edge. From finding salvation through pre-emptive action.

It won’t make for a compelling Hollywood script. It won’t make us memorable or legendary.

No. Instead we will all prosper. No one and nothing will have to be sacrificed for us to see the light.

Isn’t that worth it?

How We’re Wired

How are you wired?

It’s a question that gets to the heart of our individuality.

For the way we operate is not standard. Everyone has their own approach, their own flavor.

And that variance in styles — that diversity — is what makes us innovative. It allows us to grow and adapt in ways that our ancestors never could.

If we are able to fully understand exactly how we operate, we can use that information to maximize our effectiveness. We can actively work to make the world better.

As such, determining how we’re wired is both personal and powerful.

I recently discovered then when I set out to determine how I am wired.

It all started with a career assessment. The exercise highlighted that I approach situations with an “engineering mindset.”

I saw those words and laughed incredulously. After all, I considered myself the furthest thing from an engineer. My arithmetic skills have long been lacking, and I struggled mightily in most science classes I took.

Yet, the more I thought about it, the more I understood what the assessment said.

You see, an engineering mindset is not about complicated math formulas and high-level scientific laws. It’s about developing a consistent process for problem solving.

This means classifying what occurs in an often-messy world into a set of inputs and outputs. It means focusing on the journey between those points as much as the result.

It takes intense discipline, obsessive organization and a Spockian adherence to logic to live into this mindset.

It’s a trio that’s hard to put into practice. Yet, I’ve been making it work for years. I just hadn’t realized it until I took that assessment.

Why not? Because, as a writer and former journalist, I’ve traditionally considered myself a connoisseur of the softer skills. I’ve believed in the power of logic, but have long felt that emotion was a more critical element in my work.

Emotion is what inspires connection. It’s what drives action. It’s what makes one resonant and makes contributions memorable.

As such, I’ve harbored a profound obsession with emotion. I’ve shared my thoughts on connection, context and intent in this space and throughout my daily life. I’ve rehashed the memories that have taken my breath away, in the hope of inspiring those same feelings in others.

I can’t help it. I’m a storyteller. This is the way I communicate.

Yet, under the hood, my day-to-day life looks much different.

From the moment I spring out of bed to the moment I collapse back into it, my day is full of choices.

Everything from what shirt I wear to whether I buy a pack of Skittles from the checkout line rack is up for grabs. Anything and everything that requires time or money sparks an internal deliberation.

These choices I face daily represent a series of inputs. And the decisions I make in each instance represent outputs.

In between, I do a lot of careful calculations in real time.

I look at the costs and benefits of each option, and their probabilities. Then, I determine whether each option worth the requisite resources.

I am both deliberate and decisive in choosing the best path forward.

Many times, the choices I make put me in a better position to succeed. Or at the very least, they keep me in line with my goals.

Other times, things don’t work as anticipated. Whether through bad luck or bad choices, I don’t get the result I’m looking for.

But either way, I know that I did my due diligence. I recognize that my careful and calculated approach gave me agency over the decision. And I understand that I eliminated much of the variability of outcomes.

This approach is not for everyone. It takes a lot of energy and willpower. And that probably explains why I’m continually in thought, and able to carefully observe the details of my surroundings.

Yet, this is the way I’m wired. And now that I recognize it, I must admit that I’m quite comfortable with it.

In fact, I can’t see myself approaching life any other way.

Still, I know that others approach their daily lives quite differently. And that the world is better for this diversity of thought, this balance of cognitive approach.

The key is for us all to recognize our patterns. To see which ingredients we bring to the table, and then use them to build and innovate.

So, let’s start that process — with a question.

How are you wired?

Your answer could make all the difference.

The Big Shift

The afternoon was cold and raw.

Rain was cascading nonstop from the gray October sky.

It was the perfect weather to stay inside and read a book, or watch television. But I was doing neither.

I was out on wooded dirt trail in the 38-degree chill.

Outfitted in a T-shirt, shorts and a pair of running shoes, I sprinted for a quarter mile up a steep hill. Rain drenched my face and stuck to my clothes with every striding step.

My reward when I got to the top? To jog back down to the bottom of the hill and do it all over again.

Jog, not walk. After all, the number one rule of Cross Country practice: No Walking Allowed.

By the fourth jaunt up the hill, I was dragging. My quad muscles were so full of lactic acid that I felt like I’d been stabbed. My arms were raw from the elements. My teeth were chattering.

I made it to the top, and our coach mercifully called it a day.

By the time we got back to the locker room — a full mile from Hell’s Hill — I could barely move. I sat on a bench for what felt like eternity.

Never again, I told myself.

Never again will I subject myself to this.

 

If you had told me how this scene would play out two months earlier, I flat out would not have believed you.

I was preparing to start high school, and to experience all the changes that would bring.

One of my main goals for my freshman year was to make the Junior Varsity baseball team. So, when the baseball coach encouraged me to join the Cross Country team — which he also coached — I didn’t think twice.

How hard can this be? I thought. I’ve run before.

I quickly learned just how wrong I was.

For my first practice, my task was to run a mile-long loop on the backcountry trails near school. I didn’t run up Hell’s Hill that day, but I did weave my way through some remote and hilly trails.

All the while, the coach paced me on his bicycle. There was no chance to slow down, even after I began to suck wind a half mile into the run.

Still, discouraged as I was, I decided to keep going. It was important for me to show the coach how resilient I was. It would pay dividends in the spring. And staying in shape couldn’t be a bad thing — although I was a string bean back then anyways.

Over the following months, I learned to shift my habits. I swapped out fries and Coca-Cola for Subway and Gatorade. I committed to stretching properly. And I learned to conserve my energy on race day.

I found that by sprinting that final quarter mile of the race, instead of the first one, I could pass dozens of fatigued runners and bolster my final position. That tactic became my secret weapon.

It seemed as if everything was working out. That I could learn to love this brutal sport after all.

Then, that fateful afternoon in the rain came to pass.

No more, I told myself. This would be my first and last season on the team.

I finished the year with a medal in the Freshman State Championships. Then, I walked away.

There was no going back. Not to Cross Country. Not to running regularly.

I was done.

Or was I?

I’m doing it again.

The thought crossed my mind as I scaled a 100-foot hill, with the day’s first light ahead of me.

The origins of what was sure to be another triple-digit summer day were taking its toll on me. As I cut through the muggy predawn air, my shirt and face were drenched in sweat. My quads felt the familiar resistance of that cold afternoon from half my life ago.

Yet, I powered through. I continued to push the pace.

Yes, a lot had changed since I walked away from running. I grew up, fell out of shape and had a shift in perspective.

Somewhere along the line, I decided that running could help me get back on track. So, I started spending 10 minutes on the treadmill twice a week.

But even with that workout in tow, I felt something was missing. I missed the thunder of my shoes hitting the pavement, the freshness of the air in my lungs, the excitement of every stride taking me somewhere new.

So, I started running a mile in my neighborhood. That mile run quickly became a two-mile loop. Then, I added a third run to my weekly routine, so that I was hitting the pavement roughly every other day.

I could feel the difference. My running regimen made me healthier, happier and more balanced. What was once a nuisance activity was now an essential part of my life.

So, I made sure to get my scheduled running in each week, no matter the weather. I ran in everything from 1-degree wind chills to 107-degree heat indices, blazing sunshine to pouring rain.

Then, I moved.

I had to find a new running route. And my search led me to the 100-foot hill.

At first, I didn’t want to mess with it. Too steep of a grade. Too tall a task.

But eventually, curiosity got the better of me.

And now, here I was. Scaling the hill. Dealing with déjà vu all over again.

Only this time there was a twist.

I wasn’t taking on this grueling workout because I had to. I was taking on “The Death Run” because I wanted to.

The steady hands of time and fate had gradually guided my back to one of the most miserable moments of my youth. And somehow, they led me to find joy in it.

The irony was palpable. It lingered long after my workout ended.

There must be a lesson in this, I told myself. It can’t be pure circumstance.

Still, I had trouble finding the connection, until I put pen to paper.

I realize now how well this experience showed life’s circuity. That over time, we can learn to love the things we once despised. We can embrace experiences we once abhorred.

Better yet, we can thrive off of these changes. We can use them to push our boundaries, gain fulfillment and become more well-rounded.

We’re all better served by embracing the power that big shifts can have in our life. By adopting a growth mindset. By replacing the word never with perhaps someday.

For we don’t know what surprises the future might hold. We don’t know if the mountain standing in our way now might provide the key to self-fulfillment later.

Endless possibilities await. An open mind is the key.

Don’t throw it away.

Passing The Test

What do you remember from your time in school?

Classes and homework, most likely. But also tests.

Tests are a fundamental part of the education experience. They’re the prove it moments. The opportunities to show what we’ve learned by answering a set of specific questions.

This is especially the case later in the education experience. Test scores define grades, provide us admission to the next level of learning and even certify us to practice certain professions.

Tests require preparation. They demand focus. And they can cause students great amounts of stress and anxiety.

Why is that? Because of the high stakes, for sure. But also because of the lack of control.

In most testing environments, we don’t know what’s coming. We might have some ideas as to the topics and general focus. But we don’t know the exact questions we’ll be working with until we’re in the moment.

This makes the build-up process somewhat of a toss-up. Studying involves internalizing information, practicing sample questions, and taking educated guesses as to the actual questions we’ll see in prime time.

It also changes our expectations of the learning experience. We focus our attention solely on the topics that might be on the test. We synthesize most of the information we learn in the waning hours before the test. And we take our performance from the test as a full indication of our potential.

We might succeed in this endeavor. But we’re ultimately setting ourselves up to fail.

You see, the test-intensive education structure is focused on the wrong things. It looks solely at the outcome, at the destination. And it gives that outcome, that result, an inordinate amount of weight when it comes to opening doors to our future.

This setup sends the wrong messages to students.

For one thing, it systemizes gratification. We’re raised to believe If we do one thing, we’ll get something else. Yet, outside the classroom, doing one thing only gives you the opportunity to get something else.

The world is notoriously random and irrational. Building an expectation of fairness and gratification in impressionable young students is downright reckless.

But perhaps more importantly, this focus on outcomes undercuts the very efficacy of education.

You see, learning is more about the journey than the destination. Sure, it can provide great benefits — such as the ability to make more informed decisions and live a more prosperous life. But ultimately, learning is a process. One that is built up gradually over time.

A heavy-handed focus on a few specific data points unravels the entire ball of yarn.

Now, instead of focusing on steady, incremental growth, we emphasize a feast-or-famine approach. We encourage students to pack their brains with information right before a test, data dump it during the exam, and then quickly forget what they’ve just memorized.

The sheer ridiculousness of this cycle is clear. In fact, it’s valid to ask if students really learn anything at all through this process.

The answer, too often, is no.

And that’s a problem.

Because the world needs us to keep learning. It needs us to continually embrace the pattern of growth.

Not just for us to leave our mark on society. But for us to simply survive the day-to-day.

For every day is a series of tests. From the moment we wake up to the moment we hit the pillow, we face a series of new situations and challenges.

These tests don’t follow an academic course structure. We can’t do much to anticipate them ahead of time. We walk into them blind.

It’s on us to build off what we’ve previously learned to handle these situations well in the heat of the moment.

Sometimes we’ll pass with flying colors. Other times, we won’t.

But regardless the result, we can learn from the experience. And use the information we’ve gleaned to prepare us for the next challenge we face.

This is incrementalism at its finest. It’s a full-bore commitment to the journey over the destination. And it’s critical to our daily existence, no matter our walk of life.

We must get on board with growth mindset. Our future depends on it.

So, stop thinking in terms of big moments and gratification. Of tests and grades.

Look at the big picture. Embrace the process.

The journey will be more rewarding.

What’s Your Excuse?

What’s your excuse?

It’s surely out there, waiting on you to call it out.

There’s always something else we can blame when we don’t meet the expectations others have of us, or that we have of ourselves. There’s always a scapegoat — whether it be a person, an object or a set of circumstances — that we can point the finger at. There’s always something we can explain away as being beyond our control.

For our existence appears to us as a story. And when things don’t always go to plan, we can just shift the way that story is told.

That way, we’re the hero. That way, the odds are back in our favor. That way, we can do no wrong.

How do you paint your narrative?

What’s your excuse?

 

My friend Johnnie is a Veteran. He served as a combat controller in the United States Air Force.

On his second deployment to Afghanistan, Johnnie’s convoy hit an IED. Critically injured in the explosion, Johnnie’s life changed forever. He had 31 surgeries to save his legs, and he had to learn how to walk again. His active duty career in the military was over.

Johnnie was awarded a Purple Heart. George W. Bush painted Johnnie’s likeness as part of the Portraits of Courage series, and invited him to participate in his Warrior Open golf tournament for wounded veterans.

But along with all the accolades, Johnnie found himself on strange footing in civilian life. Surrounded by people who couldn’t possibly understand what he’d been through — people who’d never been through the trauma of armed combat, the grueling ordeal of multiple surgeries, the hours and hours of Physical Therapy — it would have been easy for Johnnie to be bitter, to blame the world for what befell him.

But he didn’t.

Johnnie is one of the most positive people I’ve ever met. He makes a point to thank everyone who helped him get back on his feet, and he tries to pay it forward by helping others in need whenever he can. In our second week of business school together, Hurricane Harvey ravaged Southeast Texas. Johnnie gathered what supplies he could from our class, and headed down to Houston to help with the rescue effort. There was no hesitation, only determination.

That’s who Johnnie is, even in the wake of an injury that turned his life upside down. There’s no wallowing in self-pity. Only a determined quest to spread positivity and help others in need.

What’s your excuse?

My next-door neighbor in my college dorm was a young man named Scottie. Living in close quarters, we became fast friends.

Scottie started college a semester after I did. Still, it was miraculous that he even was able to attend college at all.

As it turns out, Scottie had been battling brain tumors of most of his life. The first one appeared when he was only 8 years old. As a child and a teenager, he went through round after round of cancer treatment. Tumors would go away, only to come back months later.

It took a while for me to learn about Scottie’s plight. That was by design.

For Scottie didn’t want people to pity him. Not once did I hear him ask Why me?

His plight was just an obstacle to get past. It was not going to define the way he lived his life.

So, Scottie pursued a college degree, even as his treatments interfered with the process. He continued to cheer on his beloved Florida Panthers. He remained devoted to family and friends.

And he did all of this with a smile on his face and joy in his heart, even in the face of an unthinkable struggle.

Scottie lost his battle in 2014, months after marrying the love of his life. Before his tragic passing, Scottie published an autobiography, which I have yet to finish reading. (What’s my excuse?)

As heartbroken as all who knew him still are today, we can take some measure of solace in learning from the way Scottie lived his life. We can remind ourselves that the plights we face in our lives don’t have to define them. That we can choose the way we live, even in the midst of the gravest battles of our lives.

We can heed these lessons, because Scottie showed us the path.

That’s who Scottie was. And still is.

What’s your excuse?

If you’ve watched prime-time television in recent years, you’re probably familiar with Amy.

I’m talking about Amy Purdy. Snowboarder. Dancing With The Stars contestant. Model. Actress. Motivational speaker. Amy has many different roles.

I’ve never met her. But in a way, I have.

In a TEDx talk, Amy recounts her life. Outfitted in stylish jeans and boots, she confidently walks back and forth on stage as she describes her upbringing, hopes and aspirations.

Then, the moment of conflict.

At age 19, she gets what she thinks is the flu. It turns out to be bacterial meningitis, and lands her in the hospital. She goes into a coma, and wakes up to find her legs amputated below the knee.

Tears are rolling down Amy’s face as she harkens back to those first days after losing her legs. She recalls the despair in knowing that life as she knew it would never again exist.

Amy speaks of spending days on end sleeping with her prosthetic legs by her bedside. Of being too depressed to face her reality.

The raw emotion is palpable and resonant.

But then, something changes. Amy realizes that her condition doesn’t have to hold her back. That with a lot of drive and a little ingenuity, she can accomplish great things.

She starts snowboarding again, and ultimately finds herself in the Paralympics. Her career soars, and she ends up in the limelight.

As her star ascends, Amy looks to help others. She co-founds a non-profit to help individuals with physical disabilities get involved with action sports, art or music.

Amy could have given up when she lost her legs. But she didn’t.

Instead, she set out to achieve great things. And to help others do the same.

That’s who Amy is.

What’s your excuse? 

What’s your excuse?

It’s worth asking again.

What’s the insurmountable obstacle that’s preventing you from achieving your potential? What’s the circumstance standing in your way? What’s the scapegoat, the villain, the convenient alibi?

It’s not as real as you wish it was.

Johnnie, Scottie and Amy didn’t let excuses stop them, even in the wake of unthinkable challenges. So, why are you letting it stop you?

It’s time to get real. To take ownership. To recognize that regardless of the circumstance, you can define your own destiny.

This is your right. And your obligation.

It’s up to you to seize it.

If you feel you can’t, like it’s too much, think of the example Johnnie, Scottie or Amy set. And remember these three words.

What’s your excuse?

The Gift of Generosity

What is a giver?

Is it someone who is generous? Someone who goes above and beyond to serve others?

Perhaps. But that description only tells part of the story.

A giver is someone who is devoted to generosity, with no expectation of anything in return.

Someone who gives without taking.

This definition separates the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. It defines givers as a separate group from those who give.

Those who give can describe anyone who views giving as a transactional activity. Anyone who engages in an I’ll help you so you can help me arrangement. Anyone who sees generosity as a means to an end.

There are definite benefits to this model. Reciprocity can enhance networks, build trust and stoke collaboration.

Yet, it would be wrong to consider the transactional-minded people among us to be givers. The insincerity of their intentions makes the generosity ring hollow, even if it does benefit others.

A giver is not transactional. A giver is altruistic.

A giver’s energy is fully devoted to the act of giving. A giver’s focus is on the benefit their actions will provide others.

It’s not about putting oneself second. It’s about taking oneself out of the picture entirely.

This is the mentality that’s led to the anonymous monetary gift to fund so many critical institutions. To the volunteer who travels to a village in Africa to teach English. To the person who devotes their extra time and money to assist the less fortunate.

These actions have one thing in common. They were spurred compelled to help, but with no desire for recognition.

Everything else is irrelevant. The change the action provides for is paramount.

As such, expense is not a concern to givers. The act of generosity is worth what they pay in money, time and energy. If anything, the giver wishes they had more to donate.

And reciprocity is not a concern to givers either. Seeing others succeed provides givers their greatest thrill. It lifts their spirit and puts a smile on their face.

It’s all about the gift.

No strings attached.

This pureness is pretty straightforward. Yet, our society doesn’t know how to handle true generosity.

When we’re on the receiving end of a giver’s actions, we predominantly have two responses.

We either take advantage of the giver, or we seek to reciprocate.

The takers among us will gravitate toward the first response. In their minds, nothing needs to be exchanged. The giver is like a fire hose of free stuff. Might as well keep going back to the well.

For other recipients of generosity, conscience reigns supreme. These people recognize that the giver sacrificed something for their benefit, and they feel obliged to sacrifice something of their own to even up the score.

It might seem like one of these responses is worse than the other. But each is equally damaging to the giver.

You see, givers believe that a rising tide lifts all boats, and they’re committed to making a positive difference. They feel deep empathy for the cause they devote themselves to.

This is not a feeling they can just turn on or turn off. Every opportunity to help others in need is one they identify with. They simply can’t say no.

This empathy leaves givers open to being taken advantage of. Even if they recognize that they’re being used, givers identify with the plight presented to them more than the malicious intent behind it. They feel compelled to swoop in and save the day.

But this empathy also leaves givers open to being subverted. The one-for-you, one-for-me nature of a reciprocity offer undermines the giver. It wipes out any notion of common empathy in favor of obligation. And this makes the giver feel as if the purpose of their generosity was misunderstood.

When givers decline this quid pro quo offer, they will often follow up with a new act generosity toward the same recipient. The hope is that the second time is the charm. But this action unintentionally opens the door to more misunderstanding and potentially, further exploitation.

Both examples add to the emotional burden that givers carry. They make life harder for the giver. And they place the long-term viability of their actions that much more in doubt.

At some point, the load will be too much. At some point, the giver’s resolve will crack. And, tragically, these same recipients who have taken so much of what the giver has provided will turn around and ostracize them for breaking from their gratuitous pattern.

It’s a tragic cycle. But one that’s fully preventable.

And one that needs to me.

So, let’s change our mindset.

Let’s do right by the givers among us.

Let’s do what we can to grow the influence of generosity.

We can start this process by keeping things simple. When we receive the gift of generosity, we can respond with two words: Thank you.

This shows our appreciation to the giver, without roping them into another transaction.

But while we should demand less of the givers who have touched our lives, we should demand more of ourselves.

We should pay it forward. We should help others in the same manner that we were one assisted. And we should expect nothing in return.

If we get in the habit of doing this, we can become givers ourselves.

And the more givers there are, the more people there are to carry the burden of generosity. No longer will a saintly few will have to carry the emotional burden of so many.

These actions are within our reach. All we need to do is commit to them.

We can. And we must.

Generosity is a gift. Pass it on.

On Patriotism

Every year, as the summer nears its swell, we follow some familiar patterns.

We break out the sunglasses and fire up the grill. We jump into a body of water to cool off.

And we think about patriotism.

Yes, with Independence Day coming smack dab in the middle of the summer, we inevitably take some time to think about what it means to be American. On the significance of having pride for the Red, White and Blue.

For me, patriotism is not about burgers and hot dogs, flags or fireworks. It’s not about buzzwords like liberty or Stars and Stripes. And it’s certainly got nothing to do with the hot-button issues that have done little but divide us.

No, to me patriotism is about a black and white photo.

The photo sits on my living room wall, under my college diploma. It’s framed, dated March 8, 1945 and postmarked RTC Great Lakes. It features 124 recruits of the United States Navy, arranged in 6 rows for a group photo.

In the first row, two recruits to the left of the young man holding the Navy flag, is my grandfather.

He’s just two weeks past his 18th birthday. Baby faced and decked out in his Navy uniform, he stares toward the camera with a reserved smile. It’s his first time west of the Eastern Time Zone, yet there’s nowhere he’d rather be.

My grandfather grew up in Brooklyn during the Great Depression. There was poverty all around him, but also hope. That hope came from the relative freedom of opportunity America provided to those driven to improve their standing.

As my grandfather approached high school, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, propelling the U.S. into World War II. My grandfather quickly learned of the atrocities of dictators in Europe and Asia and was inspired to defend the way of life he’d come to know. He was determined to protect America from the grasp of totalitarian powers.

My grandfather enlisted in the Navy at age 17. There was no decision to be made, he later told me. He believed in America and felt obligated to defend it.

The journey took him further from home than ever before. He first went to Illinois for training at RTC Great Lakes. Then, it was off to Camp Pendleton in California to prepare for action in the Pacific theater.

But days before he was slated to see combat, my grandfather broke his foot in an accident in the barracks. The injury relegated him to the role of Corpsman and kept him stateside.

The ship went out to sea without my grandfather, and the Japanese quickly torpedoed it. His replacement was one of the casualties in the incident.

My grandfather’s non-combat injury saved his life. Yet, it also robbed him of the chance to defend our nation in combat. And another man made the ultimate sacrifice in his place.

My grandfather never spoke much about this dynamic — this mix of luck and guilt. He only spoke of the principles he believed in, the ones that led him to enlist in the first place.

My grandfather still believed in his mission of protecting our country, even if his role had now changed. Protecting and rehabilitating the injured was still a key part of that objective — and it’s one he took seriously.

Even when fate once again dealt him an adverse hand.

On a sunny California day, my grandfather set out on the San Francisco Bay in a small vessel. On the boat with him were several wounded midshipmen, outfitted in plaster body casts. My grandfather’s orders for the day were to take these combat veterans out fishing.

As the boat made its way through the bay, it inadvertently drifted too close to Alcatraz Island. At that time, the island included an active federal prison that housed some of America’s most notorious criminals. The island was very closely guarded.

Patrolling Coast Guard boats saw my grandfather’s vessel approaching and made large wake to steer the fishing boat away from Alcatraz. But the large swells turned the boat almost sideways, sending some of the injured men into the water.

My grandfather jumped into the frigid waters of the bay to retrieve them. But the plaster body casts weighed the men down, and he couldn’t lift them back onto the boat. He couldn’t save them.

It was the cruelest form of irony. These men, injured in combat, meeting their end stateside in a series of unfortunate circumstances. My grandfather, powerless in his attempt to rescue them.

“I wish, to this day, that I could have saved them,” he told me years later.

It was my grandfather’s biggest regret in life.

My grandfather passed away a couple of years ago. But he lives on in sprit, through that picture on my wall.

I think of my grandfather each day. Of the decision he made to defend our nation at such an early age. I couldn’t be prouder of him for that.

But mostly, I think of that fateful day on the bay. Of the one sad story my grandfather told amidst a lifetime of happy ones.

There’s no doubt the story is deeply tragic. But I feel it also encapsulates what patriotism is about.

Patriotism is about jumping into the unknown to help our neighbors. And about the remorse we feel if anyone is left behind — plaster body cast or not.

For no matter the color of our skin, the city we call home or the faith we observe, we are part of the same great nation. We are strongest when we are as one.

It’s our obligation to lift each other up, rather than push others down. To trade our boorish ego for humility and selflessness. To discover what’s possible through collective action.

This, to me, is the true meaning of patriotism.

It’s what my grandfather believed in. It’s what he fought for. And it’s what I will continue to strive for, in his memory.

I’d be honored if you joined me.