Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

An Ode to Incrementalism

As I made my way through the cavern, I felt something hit my left shoulder.

It was cold, wet, and gray. And it was now sitting on my favorite shirt.

With an exasperated sigh, I moved to rid myself of the moisture. But as I did, my father cautioned me.

Don’t be so quick to wipe it away. That’s history in the making.

Indeed, the cavern we were traversing was formed by actions like this. The slow drip by drip of water eating away at a limestone core — over millions of years.

This all happened out of sight and out of mind. That is, until an intrepid explorer discovered the cavern this process had created.

That nearly finished product was what we were now witnessing. Its promise had lured us off the highway and compelled us to pay an exorbitant entrance fee. Its grandiosity was the selling point.

The methodical path the cavern took to this moment was hardly worth noting.

But perhaps it should have been.

On January 9, 2007, Steve Jobs stepped onto the stage at the MacWorld Conference in San Francisco.

The Apple co-founder quickly rattled through some of the company’s greatest innovations – the Macintosh and the iPod. Then, roughly two minutes later, he introduced the iPhone.

Some have called this moment transformative. They’ve framed it as a moment where the world as we knew it ceased, and better future entered the fray. A future driven by a breakthrough piece of technology.

There is some truth undergirding these claims. Smartphones have changed the ways we work, shop, socialize, and interact. And the iPhone will always be considered the original smartphone.

But make no mistake. Its launch was no moonshot. It was a master class in incrementalism.

Long before Jobs took the stage, iPhone components were in our hands. Plenty of people had cell phones. Many had portable music players as well. And Internet on the go wasn’t exactly scarce — assuming you had a laptop computer.

Some devices — like the Palm Pilot and the Blackberry — had already brought a couple of these features together. No one had offered the full enchilada, but the groundwork was certainly there.

The iPhone, then, was a next step in the cycle. A sleek, fancy next step. But a next step, nonetheless.

Jobs’ own presentation made mention of this. He first told the audience that Apple would be unveiling three products – a widescreen iPod, a mobile phone, and an Internet browser. Then, he mentioned that those three products would actually be one product.

This is how the iPhone made its debut. As incrementalism defined.

We’ve come a long way since the launch of the iPhone.

Technology has evolved. Apple has grown. Steve Jobs has left us.

And yet, we continue to delude ourselves.

We remain fascinated by the mirage of sudden breakthroughs. And we willfully ignore the incremental work that makes them happen.

The instant gratification, the quick fix, the answered prayer — they’re all big parts our lexicon. The gradual build-up is not.

This baffles me.

It’s no secret that the world around is evolving, just as our bodies and our minds are evolving. Why are we so tempted to hit Pause and Fast Forward on that process? Why can’t we let the process play out as it is?

Are we lazy? Fearful of boredom? Overwhelmed by the magnitude of it all?

I don’t know. But it’s time we say goodbye to this nonsense. It’s time to give incrementalism its due.

On the second day of my professional life, I strutted into the newsroom at a West Texas television station.

Day 1 had been a whirlwind, filled with onboarding and training. But now, it was Go Time.

Hopped up on adrenaline, I was ready to spend hours putting together the 5 PM newscast.

But it was a summer Friday in a small town. Action was light, and the newscast was fully assembled within 40 minutes. There’d be plenty of time to kill before 5 PM rolled around.

My co-workers started talking about their weekend plans. As the new guy in town, I had none. So, I started daydreaming about my future.

I thought about where I’d be in a month and in a year. I imagined that one day between now and then, everything would just click. The hard times would be over, and the fear buried beneath my bravado would evaporate.

It’s been close to 15 years since that moment. And none of what I imagined has come to pass.

I’ve made a ton of progress — both professionally and personally. I’ve established myself in a different career and put myself on a footing to live comfortably. I’ve made new friends, mastered new hobbies, and gained new competencies.

But none of this happened overnight. There was no breakthrough moment when everything just fell into place.

There was just a long, slow march.

Incrementalism has been the drumbeat of my life. And I’m better for it.

For it has allowed me to build, to grow, to iterate. It’s kept my gains from being unsustainable. It’s kept my mistakes from being catastrophic.

Accepting this subtlety has been critical. It’s helped me commit to better without obsessing over the goalposts. It’s allowed me to embrace the journey even more than the destination.

The future is uncertain, and anxiety is inherent in uncertainty. But incrementalism has gotten me here. And I’m confident it will help drive me forward.

Eight years ago this week, I did something bold.

I established the publication now known as Ember Trace. And I published my first article.

This was as close to a breakthrough moment as I’ve had in my life. Ember Trace seemingly appeared on the Internet out of thin air. (In reality, I took some steps behind the scenes to make it happen.)

And that first article — that first time shipping my words to the world — that was indeed a cathartic moment for me.

But every week since then, I’ve made a commitment. A commitment to share fresh words, fresh ideas, and fresh thoughts. Whether my week has been good or bad, slow or busy, I’ve taken the time to add a fresh article — for 418 weeks now.

This exercise in incrementalism has built Ember Trace into a bona fide publication. And it’s built me up as well.

There’s no question that the words shared here are crisper, deeper, and more polished than they were eight years ago. I have grown as a thinker and a writer. You, my dear audience, have grown as readers as well.

What a testament to the power of incrementalism this is. Week by week, we’ve built this structure together. It’s stronger and more profound that it’s ever been. And it only stands to get even stronger over time.

I am grateful for your support, for your time, and for your subtle embrace of the incremental. Let’s see what more we can build together, brick by brick.

Load Management

Have you heard the news?

My colleague spoke in hushed tones, alarm palpable in her voice.

I wondered what this news could be. I was about to head to my first Milwaukee Bucks game, so it was probably basketball related.

Did the Bucks trade a player away? Did someone get hurt during practice? I brimmed with anticipation.

Giannis Antetokounmpo is sitting the game out, my colleague replied. So is Khris Middleton. Load management.

Antetokounmpo and Middleton were Milwaukee’s two best players. They weren’t hurt, but they were sitting out anyway – all part of a ploy by Milwaukee coaches to keep them fresh.

The upshot was that I’d still be going to the Bucks game, but not getting the full experience. What I would later witness was a narrow victory over an inferior opponent.

I did my best to take this in stride. I was only in town for a few days for work. There was no option to go to a different Bucks game.

Yet, something about the situation didn’t sit right with me. It still doesn’t.

More than a decade before that game in Milwaukee, a friend and I boarded a coach bus bound for a snowy parking lot in New Jersey. We were headed to see the Los Angeles Lakers play the New Jersey Nets.

The Nets were historically bad that year, and tickets were historically affordable. My friend and I weren’t going to miss our chance to see Kobe Bryant play in person for the first time.

Kobe did indeed suit up in the Lakers vaunted purple and gold uniforms. From the upper deck, we watched him pour in 29 points to lead Los Angeles to a road victory.

It was never in doubt.

And yet, if that game had taken place a decade later, it wouldn’t have been such a sure thing. With a winter storm raging outside the arena, an overmatched opponent across the court, and six days to go until a Christmas showdown on national television, maybe Kobe would have been held out of action.

Our tickets would have been devalued. The opportunity to see an all-time great stolen away from us.

This hypothetical is reality these days, as my Milwaukee experience showed. Load management is as much a part of basketball as the pick and roll.

The movement is driven primarily by math.

With half of all National Basketball Association teams making the playoffs each year, the regular season has become a formality. The teams who can rattle off 16 wins in the postseason get all the glory — no matter how many victories they racked up in the preceding six months.

Health and energy are paramount for this quest. And a challenging schedule — featuring several games on back-to-back days and long flights to faraway cities — threatens to deplete star players before the spring hits full swing.

So, teams turn the tide by sitting star players now and then. They hope the rest rejuvenates these key contributors without leaving them rusty upon their return.

The practice has enveloped pro basketball, and it’s shifted to other sports as well.

This pattern seems to map to those of corporate America. Employees in that world are encouraged to take time off ahead of busy season. That way, they’re rejuvenated for crunch time.

But corporate workers don’t perform their duties in front of thousands of paying fans. Their desks are not broadcast to the world. And their bosses are the only ones scrutinizing their off time.

The comparison is apples and oranges. But it all might be moot.

Back in 2007, the Dallas Cowboys had a dominant season.

Dallas won 13 of its first 15 games, wrapping up prime positioning for the postseason, including an automatic bye through the first round of games. With little to play for in the regular season finale, the Cowboys held out most of their star players — effectively giving them two weeks off.

Two weeks later, the Dallas Cowboys returned to their home field against the rival New York Giants, who they’d beaten twice during the fall. But the third time was the charm for New York, who looked sharper and more desperate.

The Giants took the game. The Cowboys were left with nothing.

In the days after Dallas’ playoff loss, the tabloids were buzzing. During the off week, quarterback Tony Romo had traveled to a resort in Mexico with his then-girlfriend — pop star Jessica Simpson — and two of his teammates. The ill-timed vacation had quashed the Cowboys intensity, dooming the season. Or so the pundits said.

It all sounded sensational. But this might not have been too far off track.

You see, for all the “conventional wisdom” about employees taking some time away before crunch time, there’s little evidence of its effectiveness. In fact, many employees return to the fray out of sync. They’re a step behind heading into a critical moment in their professional life.

Why should we expect this to be any different for professional athletes, who face off against elite competition week after week?

We shouldn’t. And the 2007 Cowboys show us why.

This is why I can’t get on board with load management. It’s not just the coddling of multimillionaire athletes that rubs me the wrong way. It’s also the ineptitude of the mission itself.

Sports leagues are finally starting to crack down on load management. They’re drafting new protocols for player rest, hoping the restrictions allow fans to witness the feats of stars in-person.

But why rely on a set of rules to set everyone straight? Karma itself is a powerful teacher.

The 2007 Dallas Cowboys are but one example of a top-billed team stumbling after a bout of load management. It’s happened at least seven more times in pro football since then, and three times in baseball.

And load management ultimately did in the Milwaukee Bucks. Not two months after I saw their “B Squad” in action, the “A Team” fell in the second round of the playoffs.

These are the outcomes we know about, of course. How many similar flameouts have taken place in corporate offices, after load management efforts went awry? Likely hundreds.

Have we not seen enough?

It’s time to recognize that rest vs. rust is a fallacy. It’s time to accept that load management is self-sabotage. And it’s time to chart a better course of action.

Whether we perform under the lights or far away from the glare, the world expects much of us. And it’s on us to deliver.

There are no shortcuts to success. Act accordingly.

The Motivation Play

It’s a scene that’s hard to forget.

Midway through the 2013 film The Wolf of Wall Street, the main character – Jordan Belfort – stands in front of a set of office windows, facing dozens of his employees. Belfort – played by Leonardo DiCaprio – is sporting a fancy suit and has a microphone in his hands.

In a raucous speech that would make football coaches blush, Belfort extolls the trappings of wealth status. Then he implores the stockbrokers assembled before him to pick up the phone and start dialing.

The brokers roar voraciously, and then they get to work. They relentlessly push the stock of a fledgling shoe company on their clients.

The brokerage firm – Stratton Oakmont – makes a hefty profit on the inflated shares. The brokers get the trappings of wealth status. And their clients? They’re left in the cold when the smoke clears and the share price drops.

This might all seem like a cautionary tale. Perpetrating securities fraud rarely ends well — and it didn’t for Stratton Oakmont.

But while the tactics in the film have largely been shunned, the speech at the center of it all has not.

And that’s a problem.

Every few months or so, I tune into an all-company meeting on my work laptop.

The core of this meeting has become familiar. There are financial results. There’s a refresher on the company’s core values. There are updates from key business units.

And there’s always a motivational speech from leadership wrapping the proceedings.

Yes, this tenet from The Wolf of Wall Street has made its way to my company. We might not be trading in penny stocks — or profanity — like Stratton Oakmont. But the messaging is directionally similar.

You see, Jordan Belfort was onto something. He might not have held a fancy business degree or consulting accolades before starting his brokerage. But he knew that motivation was key to boosting business productivity.

Job titles and paychecks could only do so much to unlock achievement within Stratton Oakmont’s workforce. To get the most out of his employees, Belfort would need to inspire them, to cajole them, and to fire them up.

This understanding is what built the template for the motivation play that so many companies use today — mine included. By boosting the promise of productivity, the quarterly pump-up speech seems to be an all-around win for businesses.

But looks can be deceiving.

There was a time when work was primarily a transactional pursuit.

Employees would put in their 40 hours each week. And the company would reward them with a paycheck. If the employee stuck around for long enough, they’d get a gold watch at retirement and collect a posh pension.

Those days are long gone. Now, employees are looking for more than pay and stability from their vocation. They’re committed to making the most out of their work.

Many employees enter the workforce intrinsically motivated. They’re driven to make a difference, and they’re committed to maximizing their effort to satiate their desire.

The motivation play from companies would seem to pair well with this ethos. By adding extrinsic motivation to the mix, business leaders could inspire employees to believe in the collective mission at hand. Execute on that, and inspired employees could feel compelled to run through fire for the company.

Motivation proliferates. Productivity soars. Success abounds.

Read between the lines, though, and the implied picture is darker. By motivating their workforce to give more, company leaders are also saying they’re not currently doing enough.

Perhaps that would be a needed kick in the pants if employees weren’t trying their hardest. But in the new world of work, that’s rarely an issue.

And telling the intrinsically motivated to crank it up more can be problematic.

You see, contrary to popular belief, there is an upper bound on effort. We can only give so much before we give out.

The fruits of that effort can certainly accelerate. But such improvements take time to manifest.

So, telling a group of intrinsically motivated achievers to try harder and do more can be counterproductive. Slamming a hammer more vigorously into a concrete bunker wall will only do damage to the hammer.

Worse still, such directives can foster resentment. For while some of those giving these edicts rose through the ranks of their company to reach leadership, many did not.

That dissonance can degrade trust. So, when an outsider drops mandates on their adopted workforce, it can seem elitist — and lead to blowback.

Yes, the motivational play has plenty of cracks under the surface. And if they’re left to fester, those fissures can swallow a company whole.

How can I help you?

This is more than an opening prompt from a chatbot. It’s a core question on many company’s performance review forms.

I’ve encountered this question, or something like it, while filling out dozens of these reviews over the years. And while others might have called for higher pay, more guidance, or more perks, my response has remained consistent.

Provide me the tools to perform my role to the best of my ability.

This response is illustrative. Both of what the intrinsically motivated are looking for and of what their employers are loathe to provide.

Resources, you see, are costly. Software licenses, physical tools, and seminar registrations carry costs for a business — costs that might not directly correlate to increased revenue. It’s a losing financial equation that’s all too easy to nix.

The motivation play, on the other hand, is free. Firing up the troops unlocks the potential for more business, without the company spending a dime.

But the hidden costs are far from trivial. Broken trust and burnout in the wake of these initiatives can fuel attrition. And the endless clamor for more can lead achievers to ration their efforts; that way, they have that extra 5 percent to devote to the next motivation play.

I’d argue that these costs are plenty high. Likely steeper than those incurred while preparing employees for success in their roles.

It’s time for companies to realize this. To understand that motivation is not a commodity for them to peddle. And that the carrots and sticks can only go so far.

Workers are not racehorses, subject to the edicts of their trainers and jockeys. No, employees are free willed thinkers. Achievers who are often driven by intrinsic motivation.

They deserve better than raucous speeches. They deserve more than pleas to work harder. They deserve to be given the benefit of the doubt.

Let’s provide it.

On Anticipation

The doctor made small talk as he procured his rubber hammer.

The chattiness was part of his bedside manner. A way to get through all the awkward tests that were part of a physical exam. All while keeping the patient relaxed and at ease.

I was playing along, to a degree. But I was also on guard.

So, as the doctor flashed the hammer in my direction, I jolted my right knee backward. The hammer hit nothing but air.

Impressive reflexes, the doctor remarked. But much like his hammer, he hadn’t quite hit the mark.

This wasn’t about reflexes. Not by a long shot.

It’s long been known that humans have five senses.

Sight, smell, sound, taste, and touch are each critical. They shape how we perceive the world. And they serve as guardians of our survival.

However, I believe there’s a sixth sense out there. Not in an M. Night Shyamalan movie sort of way. Rather, something more tangible and impactful.

I’m talking about anticipation.

Anticipation is more than a gift or an attribute. It’s an acute sense — with a twist.

You see, anticipation takes our traditional five senses to a new level. It mixes their recorded inputs with situational awareness. All in a manner that can prime prediction.

Anticipation puts us on the front foot. It allows us to think a step ahead, and to act accordingly.

This is more than a nice-to-have. In a world full of lethality, the signals of danger often arrive too late for us to avert them. We need to see the flames, smell the smoke, and feel the burn before first spark ignites. That way, our fight-or-flight response can activate in time to save our skin.

We need anticipation, plain and simple.

And like a fine wine, anticipation gets better with time. With more data in our brains, and more experience in our bones, our power proliferates. We’re less likely to be caught off-guard, and more likely to jump into the fray in a flash.

This was the case when my knee jolted at the doctor’s office. After all, I’d been through a physical or two before.

I understood what that rubber hammer meant. I knew how it would feel when it slammed against my kneecap. And I wasn’t inclined to sit around and let it happen again.

It was a display of anticipation. One by design.

He’s playing 4D chess.

We’ve heard a phrase like this plenty before. Often when a master tactician, such as a military leader or a football coach, takes strategic execution to another level.

The implication is that these masterminds have unique ability. They’re able to think several steps ahead and process dozens of hypotheticals in real time.

In other words, they have uncanny senses of anticipation.

How did this come about? Were these hallowed leaders born this way?

No. In their earliest days, these feted geniuses were just as feeble as the rest of us.

But as they grew up, their paths began to diverge from ours.

They put their minds to the test, time and again. They paid meticulous attention to detail. And they set themselves up to seize opportunities before they happened.

Make no mistake. Anticipatory dominance is built, not bequeathed. It’s forged with tools available to all of us.

I don’t believe enough of us realize this fact. I sure didn’t.

For years, I drifted through the roaring rapids of reality. I was never quite prepared for the jagged rocks, the dips and drops in my path. I would react to life after it happened.

This pattern continued into early adulthood — a time when I could least afford it.

I had just started my career as a TV news producer. It was a position built on elite anticipation and quick decisions. But I had neither in my arsenal.

The results were predictable. News broke across town late one night, and I was slow to react. My station’s coverage was subpar. The competition wiped the floor with us.

This colossal meltdown wasn’t all my fault. But it wasn’t a good look. And I took this failing hard.

I knew I couldn’t let my colleagues and my viewers down like that again. I needed to be ready for the next big story — which could break at any time.

This was the inflection point. It’s what spurred me to hone my focus, to stretch the limits of my senses, to sharpen my resolve.

It’s what taught me how to anticipate.

These days, anticipation is my most treasured attribute. I relish the opportunity to initiate the action. To remain prepared and to put myself in position for success.

It took a while to get to this point. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Several years ago, I attended a boxing match.

A headline bout hogged the marquee. But several undercard brawls led up to it.

On one of those undercards, a fighter connected on a vicious cross — his oversized glove battering the top of his opponent’s head. He followed up that blow with a hook to the jaw.

The one-two punch was too much for the other fighter to absorb. He dropped like a rock. The fight was over.

The crowd gasped in horror, stunned by the flash of brutality they’d just witnessed. But I was less stunned than perplexed.

How was the stricken fighter so unprepared for what felled him? Why did he not have his hand up to protect his face?

This was a basic tenet of self-defense that even I knew about. Yet, it had gone begging.

The lack of anticipation carried a brutal toll for this brawler. But the cost is steep for us as well.

Make no mistake. Anticipation is not a nice to have. It’s a need to have.

We cannot expect to get ahead in life by waiting for the action to reach our doorstep. Heck, we can’t even get by that way.

We need to steel ourselves for what lies ahead. To synthesize our past and predict our future. To make moves before the picture comes fully into focus.

This is hard work. It’s uncomfortable work. But it’s necessary work.

Sustainable success is within our range. Let’s prepare ourselves to grasp it.

The Poison Hook

On a summer night in 2008, a left-handed batter won over the crowd at Yankee Stadium.

With mighty swing after mighty swing, the slugger sent baseballs flying deep into the bleachers. Some threatened to leave the stadium altogether. It was a sight to behold.

This man wasn’t wearing the pinstriped uniform of the hometown New York Yankees. And the bold AMERICAN across his chest did little to hide his status as the budding star of a league rival — the Texas Rangers.

But that mattered little to the New York masses.

As Josh Hamilton shattered the record for first-round tallies in the Home Run Derby, a chant cascaded from the stands.

HAM-IL-TON! HAM-IL-TON!

Hamilton didn’t win the derby on that summer evening. But he certainly won the night.

Not just because of his power prowess. But because of his story.

Hamilton, you see, had been a top baseball prospect a decade earlier. As a teenager, he’d appeared on magazine covers and was touted as the future of the game.

But after sustaining injuries in a car crash, Hamilton turned to alcohol and cocaine. And he soon became addicted to both.

The substance abuse sent his career spiraling. And he quickly found himself booted out of baseball.

Hamilton ultimately made his way back from this nadir, getting clean and returning to the sport. The journey eventually took him big leagues for the first time. Then found his way into the hearts of the New York faithful on that magical night at Yankee Stadium.

Hamilton followed that up by winning a batting title and a Most Valuable Player award. He powered the Rangers to their first two World Series appearances.

That mighty potential had been realized. Hamilton’s redemption seemed complete.

It wasn’t.

Hamilton relapsed, and everything fell apart. He started struggling at the plate and in the field. He took potshots at the Texas fans while departing for a division rival. And his marriage disintegrated.

It was a sad ending to a promising story.

The poison hook had the last word.

I was once a fan of Josh Hamilton.

I was in the stands that night he won over New York. And I proudly sported a Texas Rangers t-shirt with his name and number on the back for years.

But when things went south, I soured on him.

I was deeply hurt by Hamilton calling out fans like me. And I was frustrated with his inability to kick addiction.

So, I cut bait. I gave those T-shirts to Goodwill. And when Hamilton returned to Texas to close out his career, I refused to cheer for him.

This all might seem heartless. But given all I’d been through at that time, it made perfect sense.

Not long before Hamilton’s second fall from grace, I had tried to help some alcoholic friends. I’d bent over backward to keep them from hurting themselves or others. But when their demons returned, I was left holding the bag.

I ultimately cut ties with these friends, recognizing that my abandonment could lead to dire circumstances. It hurt my soul knowing that my choice increased the odds of a drunk driving crash or some other tragedy. But I had to protect myself.

This ordeal led me to form a dim view of addiction. I saw it as a lack of mental fortitude, rather than a powerful disease.

I hadn’t been in my erstwhile friends’ shoes, let alone Josh Hamilton’s. Yet, I felt that I had.

You see, I had picked up my own bad habits over the years. Nothing as illicit as drug abuse or alcoholism. But still nothing that would be considered healthy.

Month after month, year after year, I let these bad habits fester. Instead of doing what was sensible, I settled for what was comfortable.

At some point, I saw the light. I realized that better habits would yield better outcomes. And I sprang into action.

One by one, I kicked my bad habits. I learned to treat old tendencies as the enemy. And I fought like hell to keep from falling back into them.

I succeeded, over and over. And my life improved as a result.

This accomplishment was noteworthy. But it made me overly judgmental.

I believed that if I could overcome my vices through sheer will, others could just as easily conquer their demons.

How wrong I was.

When I returned to competitive running after a long hiatus, other runners would often ask me the same question.

What brought you back? Was it the runner’s high?

I had heard about the runner’s high before. But I wasn’t lacing up my shoes to capture any endorphin-fueled euphoria.

So, I replied truthfully. Running was a task, not a calling for me. It helped me stay in shape and I’d shown some prowess at it. There was nothing more drawing me in.

Yet, as the months passed, my relationship with running began to change. I was hitting the streets more often, and for longer mileage. Not by grudging obligation, but by willful compulsion.

I knew I was taking on more than my body could handle. But I found it impossible to stop.

What happened next was utterly predictable. An injury forced a full shutdown, and a marathon withdrawal. I was devastated and lost, unsure of how to start my day without pounding the pavement.

I poured my despair into injury rehab, determined to come back with a vengeance. But once I was cleared to run again, I did too much, too fast. I got hurt again, with this newest injury requiring surgery. I was on the sidelines for months.

As I worked my way back from the brink, I remained dedicated. But one day, during a grueling physical therapy session, I paused to ask myself a simple question.

Why?

Why was I putting myself through hell for a sport that had broken my heart, and my body, twice?

What kept drawing me back to running, against every ounce of common sense?

As the answer dawned on me, I turned pale as a ghost.

It was addiction.

I was addicted to running. Its poison hook had an impermeable grip on my soul.

I wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. The act of running – as frequently as possible and as long as I could – was an involuntary compulsion

I’d keep thrusting myself into the fire, no matter how badly it burned.

This revelation shook me to my core. I realized that I was no better than those I’d cast off. Despite all my false bravado, I never really knew them at all.

Shame on me.

I still haven’t forgiven Josh Hamilton.

The man who lost his baseball career to addiction — twice — would later plead guilty for savagely beating his daughter. And that’s something I can’t abide by, demons or not.

Still, I wish I’d shown him a bit more grace back when he was playing ball and trying desperately to stay clean. I wish I’d done the same with those friends I turned my back on.

Their compulsions were certainly more unsavory than my running habit. But they deserved better than harsh judgment as they grappled with it.

The poison hook of addiction is insidious. It’s a powerful riptide we have little chance of swimming away from. The best we can do is try and keep our heads above water.

I recognize that now. And I’m committed to be better. To give those afflicted with addiction a second look. To provide more support, without prejudice.

May we all.

Keeping Receipts

What am I going to do with this?

Those were the first words out of my mouth when my father handed me an accordion folio.

It looked like one of those cabinet drawers at the local mechanic’s office, where the office manager stored invoices. Only, this one was laid out on my kitchen table.

My father explained that heretofore, I’d be keeping all my paper receipts in the folio.

This process would help me keep track of my spending. And it would provide a paper trail for tax filing.

I stashed the folio in my coat closet. It was bulky and unsightly, after all.

But each week, I’d retrieve it from its dark hiding place. And I’d proceed to fill it with that week’s paperwork.

So it went, week after week. Until eventually, more of my bills and receipts went paperless. And the folio in the closet started collecting dust.

The folio beneath my skull, though? That was another story.

An elephant never forgets.

This age-old adage is based in fact. The bulky, lumbering animal relies on its massive memory banks for survival. It’s a competitive advantage in a world filled with nimbler predators.

Humans don’t need to rely on memory for such existential reasons. But we still hold this attribute in high regard.

I know this as well as anyone.

When I was young, adults would marvel at my knowledge of car models or state capitals. It was trivial information, but the fact that I retained it was somehow considered notable.

Such is the allure of memory. It causes us to tilt at windmills, to fawn after window dressing.

Of course, there is some tangible value in memory. It helps us ace exams in school, thrive at work, and stay connected to our social circle.

But so many other applications are less than essential. Such as keeping receipts.

This is not the practice of filling up a folio with paperwork. It’s the tendency to fill our minds with all the slights volleyed in our direction.

Receipt keeping is an extrinsic motivator. It provides us a bit of edginess. It puts a chip on our shoulder.

It’s the reason why football coaches openly share negative mentions of their team with the players themselves. It’s the reason why scholars continue to seek out their next academic paper. It’s the reason why innovators turn It can’t be done into Watch me do it.

Without that virtual ledger, the spark would dim. Complacency would threaten to degrade the task at hand.

So, we endeavor to remember each slight. To file it away, and to get to work on changing the narrative.

It sure is satisfying to cash in those receipts. To prove the doubters wrong. To gain a level of redemption.

But such actions are not core to our survival. They might even prove detrimental.

I have a folder in my email platform, which I’ll often notice when checking my messages.

This folder is tied Rejections. And it has 151 items in it.

The Rejections folder had humble beginnings. I had just cannonballed into the job market after switching careers, applying to dozens of jobs each day. I needed a system to keep track of my applications.

Filing job rejection emails in a single folder uncluttered my inbox. And it allowed me to take those closed opportunities off the board.

But as the folder filled up, its purpose changed. Being told No 151 times – particularly for something that would help me put food on the table – was deeply agitating. And I started to take the rejections personally.

I was determined to prove all the doubters wrong. And even after I finally landed a job, I kept glancing at the Rejections folder.

Those who sent me the Thanks but no thanks messages knew nothing of this, of course. But I pretended that they had – and that the error of their slight had given them pause.

This all kept me deeply motivated. And I thrived in my new career as a result.

On the surface, keeping receipts had served me well. But all was not as it seemed.

The practice had made me more cantankerous, and those around me noticed the shift. Friends remarked that I’d hold grudges for months on end. Family would remind me that I had nothing left to prove.

I tried to take this feedback to heart. I yearned to change my ways and settle into my rebuilt life. But it proved difficult.

The scars of my recent job search were still there. The months of applications and interviews. The drawdown of my savings. The 151 rejections.

How could I just let that go? How could I let anything go?

There was no water to be found under the bridge. Not at that time.

Eventually, though, I did loosen up. I perused that Rejections folder less frequently — and eventually not at all. I let grudges go and leaned into forgiveness. I stopped keeping receipts.

And in doing so, I found a semblance of inner peace.

My experience with the job rejection folder is not uncommon.

Not everyone gets turned down for employment 151 times. And even if they do, they likely don’t keep those rejection emails in a folder.

But plenty of us have kept receipts in some form, only to see the exercise consume us whole.

We become chippy and vindictive. Settling scores obscures our joie de vivre.

This is not a desirable outcome. The costs outweigh the benefits.

And it’s not all that sustainable. If the outside noise quiets, the receipts dry up. And our motivation wanes.

So, it might be worthwhile to rethink our approach. To stop using those receipts as fuel. And to turn to intrinsic motivation instead.

Yes, everything we need to succeed lies between the ears. We can tap into confidence just as effectively as we can counter doubt. And the results can prove far more harmonious.

Let’s tap into that.

It may be tempting to prove others wrong. But it’s so much more rewarding to prove ourselves right.

Dereliction of Duty

The initial message from my supervisor was direct.

A co-worker had not reported to work in a few days. I was going to need to pick up the consults with his clients.

I quickly agreed to the mission. But it turns out my supervisor had more to share.

I know this isn’t ideal, she stated. I know it’s a new circumstance, and it puts you in a tough spot. But rest assured that I’m going to get to the bottom of this.

I read between the lines instantly.

You see, my colleague had pulled this stunt at the most inopportune time. Our team had gone remote due to a global pandemic. And this made it easy to slack off on the job without detection.

Timecard reporting and vacation requests were on the honor system. There was no foolproof way to see if any of us were at our desks.

My supervisor had only caught on to my colleague’s ruse when clients complained to her. Messages to him went unrequited. A forensic analysis revealed extensive work undone.

It was increasingly clear that my colleague had abandoned his post. He’d deserted his responsibilities. He’d committed dereliction of duty.

And now we were left to clean up the mess.

Dereliction of duty.

It’s a fancy term. But it often carries severe consequences.

We bristle at violations of the Ten Commandments — murder, theft, dishonesty, and so on. But of the offenses not etched in those ancient tablets, dereliction of duty might draw our strongest ire.

You see, despite our boasts of individuality, we rely on others a great deal. There is no i in team, and it takes a village to accomplish anything of note.

The biggest threat to group work is attrition. When team members don’t pull their weight, it forces others to fill the gaps. Balance evaporates, progress slows, and strain proliferates.

This is a significant problem. And when team members walk away from the mission, the problem grows exponentially.

Deserters do more than put pressure on those they left behind. They threaten to use that team’s operational secrets against it. And they cast doubt on the group’s legitimacy.

This is an existential threat. One that leads us to sound the alarm for dereliction of duty.

Indeed, soldiers who’ve walked away from their battlefield posts have been rounded up and executed. Athletes who’ve walked out on their team have been banned from their league. And those who’ve walked off the job have often been sued for breach of contract.

I don’t believe my employer sued my deserting colleague for breach of contract. But I’m sure he was dismissed with cause for what he’d done.

Such a fate would have been deserved.

But plenty of others in differing circumstances have received similar punishments. And those condemned masses likely got a raw deal.

The medical bill caught me off guard.

Eight months after forking over some money to get an MRI, I was being charged for the remainder of the cost.

That remainder was not cheap. And it complicated my attempts to pay off my credit card balance.

As I stared at the bill, I fumed.

Surely, there a statute of limitations for this. A reasonable period in which such residual costs could be collected. And eight months seemed beyond the pale of that statute.

I felt like I was being extorted. I felt used. I felt blatantly disrespected.

And I wanted a pound of flesh from the medical billing employees.

If I was this terrible at my job, I wouldn’t have one, I muttered.

It wasn’t the first time I’d uttered this phrase. But deep down inside, I knew it was all talk.

I wasn’t looking to peel people from their livelihoods on the account of incompetence. I’ve been laid off before, and I know how damaging job loss can be.

I was simply blowing off steam.

That said, many in positions of power have been less merciful. They’ve been quick to hit the Eject button on underperforming employees. And all too often, Dereliction of Duty has been listed as the cause.

If this seems like a misnomer, it’s because it is.

After all, these employees are not abandoning their posts. They’re just degrading the effectiveness of their positions.

The specialist tasked with my MRI statement likely reported to work each day, even as my bill lay in limbo for months. The corporate associate who missed their monthly targets still showed up to give it their best shot.

And yet, if they were to be shown the door, it would come with the stain of abandonment. Of desertion. Of dereliction of duty.

Do the power brokers casting these stones know what dereliction of duty means? Do they care?

They should.

Four times in my career, I’ve joined a new company.

Each time, the fresh start came with plenty of emotions — and lots of paperwork.

Most of the paperwork was standard — federal tax reporting forms, computer usage policies and the like. But twice, I also had to sign a non-compete agreement.

These agreements were defensive maneuvers. The industries I was preparing to work in were highly competitive, and company-hopping employees were a clear threat. By demanding that new hires sign a non-compete, businesses were minimizing the danger of job abandonment.

I’ve long associated these overt agreements with a tacit one. By signing them and abiding by them, I was proected against professional character assassination. If I showed up each day, stayed above board, and maintained a strong effort, I wouldn’t be accused of dereliction of due.

So far, that has come to pass. But that’s more by chance than by decree.

More and more companies assess employee performance by outcome these days, rather than output. Hitting the objectives of a role matters, but only if it leads to positive outcomes for the company. This could be revenue growth, increased market share, or a host of other corporate markers.

If employees deliver the goods and the company prospers, they stay on. If they only manage the first part, they could be dismissed. And on the way out the door, they’ll be slapped with the label of Dereliction of Duty.

This is similar to the mandate for football coaches. A coach can improve the readiness and performance of all the players on the squad. But if that positive momentum doesn’t lead the squad to win football games, that coach will get kicked to the curb.

But lay employees are not football coaches. There are no weekly scrimmages. There’s no central entity keeping score or handing out trophies at the end.

It’s apples and oranges. And it’s high time we start recognizing that.

So, let’s reserve Dereliction of Duty for those who truly deserve the label. Those like my ex-colleague, who pulled a Houdini and vanished into thin air.

And let’s stop smearing those who keep showing up and giving their best, just because the organization fell a bit short.

Team goals are shared responsibilities. Those who pursue them with strong effort and good intentions are derelict of nothing.

Soothing or Scathing?

The kids in the swimming pool were giddy.

They took turns jumping into the water, thrashing around like sharks, and splashing each other.

I sat in a lounger on the deck, cringing.

All the activity didn’t bother me. Kids will be kids after all.

But the gleeful shrieks they were emitting? That was something different.

The shrill noise hit my eardrums like a heat-seeking missile. It caused my heart to take off like a jet engine. And it put my nerves on red alert.

I had hoped to spend my afternoon relaxing poolside, but the shrieking left me in fight-or-flight mode. It was threatening to ruin my day.

I knew there was no easy antidote for my situation. The kids weren’t trying to trigger my body’s distress signals. They simply hadn’t learned how to control their voices yet.

I would need to wait out the soundstorm.

Eventually, the kids got out of the swimming pool.

Their parents wrapped them in towels, and the whole family headed on their way.

The area was quiet, once again.

Well, mostly quiet.

One end of the pool was flanked by a waterfall feature. The sound of fresh water cascading down offered a subtle soundtrack. And it had quite the effect on me.

My heart rate slowed down. My nerves went nearly catatonic. And I was tempted to doze off.

This is the vibe I’d come here for, I thought. The waterfall noises. Not the high-pitched shrieks.

But the more I thought about it, the more absurd that statement seemed.

Back when I was learning to drive, one phrase from my instructor stuck with me.

Driving is a non-contact sport.

The idea was to promote safe habits behind the wheel. Avoiding hitting objects — from stray animals to street signs to other vehicles — was paramount.

I was in high school at the time. And while I had opted out of studying physics, I still knew enough to find this advice darkly ironic.

The everyday world, you see, is full of contact. High-speed contact, to be specific.

All around us, particles are colliding with each other. Solids, liquids, and gases are pinballing off each other with great force. And as we drive, air is continually colliding with our vehicle.

The key is to not to avoid all collisions. That would be impossible.

Rather, our mandate is to avoid the big ones — with potentially deadly projectiles, with pedestrians, and with other hunks of sheet metal on the roads. The ones whose impact is accompanied by noise.

Yes, sound is an indicator of what we’re looking to avoid while driving. It’s a marker of the contact we don’t want to incur.

And so, we react forcefully when we hear a thud or a smash. We associate those sounds with a problem and seek to remedy the situation immediately.

Meanwhile, some other sounds hardly evoke a shrug. We’re apoplectic to the roar of the engine, the rush of the air conditioning or the pinging of raindrops off the windshield.

Mastering this dichotomy is key to becoming an effective driver. But the advantage wanes when we get out of the vehicle.

And that’s a problem.

I stared over at the pool waterfall.

The cascade of water sure sounded peaceful. Yet, the sight in front of me was anything but.

Gravity was causing this rushing water to collide with the water in the pool. The impact displaced the pool water, causing a series of bubbles and mild splashes in all directions. And those violent collisions were what caused that soothing rushing sound.

The mechanics of this auditory operation were quite complex. Far more involved than those that caused a shriek to leave a child’s mouth.

That too included a violent collision, between air and vocal chords. But the invisibility of that process made it seem innocuous to even the most trained of eyes.

The disconnect between my eyes and my ears was apparent. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

If sound is a universal marker of impact, how have we come to categorize it so differently? To recoil from some auditory cues and embrace others?

Some of this was likely learned. But much was innate, and likely without logic.

The rush of water might sound relaxing, but there is plenty of danger at the bottom of remote waterfalls.

High-pitched shrieking might trigger alarm, but it could just be a sign of glee.

Indeed, what we find scathing and soothing is mostly arbitrary.

It’s time to stop taking it for granted.

As I lay in bed, I could hear the commotion.

Outside my window, it was pitch black. But I still could hear loud booms and bangs from nearby.

Fireworks, I thought. It was almost Independence Day, and this seemed like a logical explanation.

I paid the noise no more mind, and soon dozed off to sleep.

But should I have been so sure? Gunfire does sound a lot like fireworks, after all. And the protocol for responding to it is far different.

If there was a shootout going on outside, would I be able to identify the auditory danger? Would my fight-or-flight responses activate in time? Would I get myself out of harm’s way?

I’m not sure. And that uncertainty is distressing.

Of course, I’m far from the only person to have this concern. But while many seek to root out the cause of such a dire situation, I’m focused on better identifying the symptoms.

No longer will I allow my brain to code sounds without reproach. Innate senses are not immaculate. What scathes and what soothes might turn out to be a red herring.

Yes, I am capable of sorting through the audible markers of impact. I can identify which ones truly present a threat and which do not.

This will require some intense focus, and some challenged assumptions. It might require me to stop shrugging off the booms and bangs of fireworks, for instance. And to start ignoring the shrieking of children.

It won’t be easy. But I’m here for it.

Sound is more than a sense. It’s a tool.

I intend to use it properly.

The Breakdown Industrial Complex

It was a beautiful day.

I was in an upbeat mood as I got into my SUV and turned the ignition.

But the radio put a damper on my spirit.

Station after station featured songs with heavy lyrics. Heartbreaks. Cheating. Despair.

These sordid tunes ran the genre gamut. Country, rock, pop. They were everywhere.

Good Lord, I wondered aloud. Is everyone going through it right now?

The answer to that was no, of course. There were plenty of people out there who were having as sunny a day as I was.

But us brightsiders had something else in common. All of us had experienced a time without smiles on our faces. Times when we sat with our heads in our hands.

We had once been broken. And the radio was not going to let us forget it.

Rites of passage.

They abound throughout our society.

We remember when we got our driver’s license, went to prom, or moved out of our family home.

And we’ll never forget our first heartbreak.

That deep, bitter despair is a unique kind of pain. The sting of the loss is counteracted by a deep sense of longing.

We want to walk right back into the fire to get back what we had — somehow without getting scorched. And the sheer impossibility of this desire only amplifies the throbbing we feel from head to toe.

Heartbreak, in other words, is a Howitzer. It lays waste to our sensibilities, rendering us a mess. It’s far from our favorite sensation.

So, why is it memorialized time and again in songs, novels, and movies? Why are our most vulnerable moments packaged up and thrown back in our faces?

Artistic license has something to do with it. The most visceral of emotions drive the richest of narratives. And entertainers are master storytellers at heart.

But that explanation only goes so far. Those songs wouldn’t make the radio if we refused to hear them. Those movies wouldn’t be greenlighted if we refused to see them. Those novels wouldn’t get published if we refused to read them.

Yes, we’re willing participants in this endeavor. We offer our attention and our hard-earned dollars to the stories of our worst moments.

This is nonsensical behavior. Or is it?

Why do we fall? So, we can get back up again.

A young Bruce Wayne hears this advice from his father at the start of the movie Batman Begins.

The advice is literal in origin, as Bruce has just fallen down a bat-infested well. But it’s also meant to be symbolic — namely as a tagline for resilience.

The message lands well with most audiences. But it failed to do so with me, when I first saw the film.

Why go through all that trouble? I thought. Wouldn’t it be better not to fall in the first place?

This pompous reaction was a telltale sign of my adolescence. I was in high school when Batman Begins was released. I figured I knew what was best.

In truth, I had no idea.

I hadn’t yet experienced those core rites of passage. I hadn’t had my heart broken, or seen my dreams dashed. I hadn’t lifted myself out of the void.

Those developments did eventually come to pass. And once they did, I started viewing Batman Begins far differently.

It turns out I was better for suffering the fall. Surviving the worst allowed me to pursue my best, uninhibited. Plus, it left a chip on my shoulder I had no designs on relinquishing.

These advantages are not mine alone. Indeed, many who have gotten knocked off their feet have found redemption in the ordeal.

The catch is that we need to be shattered to be able to pick up the pieces. We must first suffer if we hope to find salvation.

This is what’s behind The Breakdown Industrial Complex. It’s why we can’t escape heartache, no matter where we turn. And it’s why finding an upbeat tune on the radio is so hard.

Offer up your best defense. But this is the end. This is the end of the innocence.

No, an old Don Henley song wasn’t featured within the heartbreak medley as I drove down the road. But perhaps it should have been.

There’s something haunting about that tune. The soothing mix of piano, bass, and melody belies the dark and cynical lyrics.

Whenever I hear that song, I think of 9/11. It was a harrowing day that impacted so many lives. And it left an indelible mark on mine.

I’ve often said that 9/11 was the end of my innocence. How could it not be?

I was adjacent to so many of the horrors of that day, and the days that followed. I was barely an adolescent at that time, but I could feel the devastation and heartbreak.

Still, there’s a reason why there are precious few songs, movies, or novels about that awful day. The rupture was too widespread and eternal for us to take anything positive from the experience. There are no silver linings for a mass tragedy.

Indeed, the first rule of The Breakdown Industrial Complex is that the disruption must be overwhelmingly personal. We must face tribulations that shatter our own status quo, so that we can build something greater out of the shards.

All that heartbreak-themed entertainment? It’s just a communal outlet for our individual suffering and redemption.

This all proved a bit awkward for me. There was a sizable gap between the global event that shattered my innocence and the acute occurrences that shattered my hopes and dreams.

But having now experienced both ordeals, I will admit I’m better it. Less naïve. More resilient.

And somehow wishing it could all have been arranged a bit differently.

When I was growing up, my father would occasionally make pizza for dinner.

His scratch-made pies were always a treat, and he’d let me partake by punching the pizza dough after the yeast had risen.

The punch was mostly an honorary step — a way to stage the dough for its imminent placement in the pan. But it still gave me pause.

Did I really have to hurt the dough with my knuckles? Wasn’t there a less violent way to get to the destination?

The answer, of course, was no. And despite my hesitation, I would eventually let fly with my right fist.

Even so, all these years later, I find myself asking similar questions.

It’s clear that we can accomplish great things after suffering setbacks. We can find love after heartbreak. We can find passion after dreams are dashed. We can find resilience from the depths of despair.

But wouldn’t it be better if we could reap these rewards without suffering so much pain? If we didn’t have to break into pieces to make ourselves whole?

That’s not the way it works, of course. The Breakdown Industrial Complex is there for a reason.

But I can still dare to imagine. To scheme for a day where gains don’t come at such a steep cost. Where the radio might actually play an upbeat song or two. Where levity is more than a fleeting notion.

Perhaps we don’t have to fall apart to put ourselves back together. Perhaps a less heart-wrenching future awaits us.

Let us hope that day comes.

Open-Ended

Who Shot J.R.?

The question reverberated across America in the summer of 1980.

This was the heyday of network television. There was no tangle of cable and streaming platforms to compete for entertainment attention. There was no Internet or social media for instant virality.

If there was a prime-time program on ABC, CBS, or NBC, a good portion of the country’s households were tuning into it. And in early 1980, the TV show Dallas was captivating the nation’s attention.

The show about the oil-rich Ewing family was certainly dramatic. Episodes featured everything from backstabbing business deals to brazen infidelity to caricatures of Texan glamour. But the intrigue rose to a new level during the show’s third season, when an unknown assailant shot the show’s antagonist J.R. Ewing.

The season ended immediately after the shooting. The setup gave the audience half a year to wonder if J.R. would survive — and who pulled the trigger.

It was the ultimate cliffhanger. One that helped Dallas soar into the cultural stratosphere.

Yet, Who Shot J.R.? was far from a harmless plot twist. It was a master class in exploiting a key emotional weakness. One that we’re still struggling to counter, decades later.

Back when I worked in the media, I would write short news scripts for the anchors to read.

On any given newscast, there would be 12 to 20 of these scripts, featuring subjects that we hadn’t sent a reporter to cover in depth. And many of them followed The Formula.

The Formula was the protocol for reporting on developing news. In rapid succession, the script would mention what our crews knew about the event, what we didn’t know, and what we were working to get more information on.

I viewed The Formula as a necessary evil. A public progress report was never ideal, but it was still better than withholding the story entirely.

The occurrences we reported on impacted our viewers, and we competed with two other stations to share them. We’d lose the trust of the local community — and our raison d’etre — if we want radio silent until we had the full picture.

Yet, we couldn’t speculate or embellish while filling in the blanks. If we did, we’d get in legal trouble.

The Formula treaded an uneasy middle ground between these outcomes. And so, I begrudgingly threaded that needle — knowing full well that it would irritate our viewers.

You see, humans crave closure. We don’t want things to be open-ended. We want all the information as soon as possible.

Not knowing who shot J.R. — or what will happen to him — eats at us. So does ambiguity surrounding a shooting, car crash, or brush fire in our local area.

Certainty provides the best closure. But it’s often made unavailable to us.

Sometimes, this is by necessity. Police and firefighters are scrambling to make it to the scene. The ambulance is still en route to the hospital. This is what I was contending with in my news media role, and it’s why I had to leave things open-ended.

But other times, certainty is willfully withdrawn. A situation is intentionally kept open-ended, with the understanding that the ambiguity will force us into action.

Mentally, we cannot leave loose ends untied. We’re just not wired for it. So, we do what we can to fill the gap — making a move that benefits those who fed us the partial information.

This might be watching the next episode of a TV show or buying a product in a panic. In any case, the closure hawker reaps the rewards of our Pavolvian response.

Such practices can be lucrative for these proprietors. But they’re fundamentally unjust.

And it’s time to stop turning a blind eye to that point.

I sat in the exam room, waiting for the gastroenterologist.

My appointment had been set for 2 PM. But now, it was pushing 4, and I was getting antsy.

The appointment was supposed to be nothing major. A basic follow-up for an endoscopy.

But with each passing moment, doubt gripped tighter and tighter like a boa constrictor.

Was the doctor just exceptionally bad at time management? Or was there something in my results that required another look? And what would that mean for me?

Finally, the gastroenterologist entered the room. He pulled up my file on his computer, read the report quickly, and informed me I had nothing to worry about. Everything was fine and I didn’t need a follow-up appointment.

This should have been music to my ears. But on the drive back to the office, I was irate.

What nerve did this man have holding me hostage for two hours — in the middle of a workday, no less — to tell me…nothing? And if I was fine, what explained the occasional flare-ups that had me stumbling to the kitchen at 2 AM to chug Alka Seltzer? Some of those had happened between the endoscopy and this farce of an appointment. Would I ever be able to connect the dots?

To that end, what of the original problem I came in for some years back? That also spurred an endoscopy, which did not come back clean. Back then, the gastroenterologist stated that he found something in my stomach and removed it. But what was it? Had I been close to dying without that intervention? And what were the odds of it coming back?

This experience illustrates the quandary of medical care.

To treat our maladies, doctor’s must diagnose them. And that often means reconciling what they see with what we feel.

The tests — the labs, imaging, scopes, and biopsies — tell all. They indicate what, if anything, needs to be remedied — leaving doctors to chart the course to cure. The tests provide closure to our open-ended health dilemmas – one way or another.

At least that’s the intent.

But reality is quite different. Our bodies are volatile, and our issues be elusive — disappearing at the time of a blood draw or scan, only to re-emerge when a doctor is not looking.

Indeed, certainty is a much rarer commodity than doctors would have us believe. That’s why my family didn’t post a Mission Accomplished banner when my grandmother’s cancer went into remission. Instead, we crossed our fingers every day for the next 16 years, hoping the disease wouldn’t come back. Frankly, it’s a miracle that didn’t.

So, I’ve paid little heed to the gastroenterologist’s reassurance about my endoscopy. I wait each day for the other shoe to drop, in the form of another flare-up. This outcome would not be pleasant, but perhaps it would provide some actual closure.

I’ve started taking this approach with all my medical adventures now. If I get an MRI or an X-Ray, I hope that it does find something — no matter how devastating the consequences. When I meet with various specialists, I do more than state which part of my body is hurting. I make a full case for an ailment diagnosis, leaving it to them to disprove it.

This is all irrational behavior. Kooky, really. And the fact that I continue to pursue it shows just how distressing ambiguity is. To me. To all of us.

So, why do we let others gleefully hold it over our heads? Why do we let them manipulate us like marionettes? Why do we let them exploit our emotions for their own gain?

We must do better.

It’s time that we, as a society, put the clamps on open-endedness. That we stop using it as a weapon for gain, and instead treat it as a tool of last resort.

This means changes to the way we write, the way we market, and the way we engage with each other.

It will be a jarring shift, sure. But we’ll be better for it.

There was a time when the question Who Shot J.R.? mattered. May there be a time when the question Why Weren’t We Told Promptly? matters more.

Author: Dylan Brooks