Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

Convective

What goes up must come down.

These words caught me off guard.

Sure, I’d heard them before. They were a favorite saying of my father on family road trips.

But I wasn’t in the car this time. I was in my college meteorology class. And my professor was the one conveying these words.

The professor was introducing the concept of convective weather. An abstraction that he sought to make reality in our minds.

About 10 miles to the west of the classroom, the professor explained, moisture would rise from the swamps of the Florida Everglades. Those vapors would cool as they rose, turning into thick clouds as they collided with the stratosphere.

Those clouds would drift out toward the coast until they got too heavy. Then they’d dump down rain — usually right onto the university campus during the mid-afternoon.

What went up had indeed come down. And this scientific illustration left an indelible impression.

I thought about all the times I showed up to class drenched to the bone. I thought of all those times when black clouds suddenly sent me scurrying from the beach.

Convection might have been a force of nature. But I was not a fan of it.

Career pathing.

It’s a concept that’s gained steam in the corporate world of late.

Gone are the days of keeping workers in stable, specialized roles for decades. These days, companies focus on elevating employees through the ranks.

At first glance, there would seem to be much to like about this. Employees can attain loftier titles, more responsibilities, and bigger paychecks. Companies can retain highly motivated workers, who might prove more efficient in managerial roles than outside hires.

But make no mistake. Career pathing is no panacea.

There is only so much room at the top, and providing an escalator to that rarefied air does nothing to relieve the pressure.

There are only two ways to make space — add layers to the organizational chart or cut ties with existing managers. One method exacerbates the core issue at hand. The other punctuates it.

We might enjoy the promise of time in the sun, boosted by career pathing and a culture of upward mobility. But the fall will eventually come for us, just as it did those we displaced during our rise. And when that drop arrives, it will be precipitous.

These are the laws of a convective system. What goes up must come down.

My roots are American.

This is the answer I always give when people ask me about my background.

Others may rally around strains of lineage. Irish, Italian, Mexican, and so on. But not me.

I was born here, and I was raised here. So were my parents and three of my grandparents. Shouldn’t that be enough?

Maybe not.

None of us are really from America. Our ancestors all emigrated from somewhere. And whether they crossed the Bering Strait 10,000 years ago, crossed the Atlantic Ocean by boat 100 years ago, or crossed the Rio Grande a decade back — well, those ancestors were likely not all that well off when they arrived.

My lineage reflects this well. Most of it spreads across the hilly terrain of Eastern Europe. Yet, it converges here in America. Not by luxury, but by necessity.

Consider the ancestral string that carries my surname.

My ancestors from that strand came to America four generations ago. I don’t know much about what brought them here. But I do know that in the 1910s, my great grandfather was growing up in a single parent household. His mother would sell goods along the beach, skirting permitting laws to make ends meet.

My great grandfather eventually found a more stable income by operating his own corner grocery store. My grandfather improved his stature even further, becoming a family doctor.

These days, my father is a teacher at a prestigious private school. And my uncle is a renowned surgeon who heads a department at a major American hospital.

My family has certainly followed the convective pattern, rising in prominence with each generation. This feat is laudable, if not entirely noteworthy.

Indeed, plenty of families have risen through the ranks the way mine did. The convective route to acclaim is so commonplace that it’s become a staple of American culture.

That is one reason why I’m unapologetic about claiming my roots as American.

But this gravy train must end sometime. At some point, a generation of my family will hit the stratosphere. Upward mobility will be quashed. And things will start going in the other direction.

What goes up must come down. But when?

Will this reckoning happen to my generation? The next one? The one after that?

I have no idea.

What I do know is I’ve got a clean slate. My parents allowed me to pursue a career of my choosing, free of prejudice. And I’ve been successful in that pursuit.

Still, my exploits have brought me precious little inner peace.

I often ask myself if I should be going after more in my profession. I often ask myself if I’m in the right profession.

I wonder if I’m adequately contributing to the convective process that’s brought my family to the fore. I wonder if I’m doing enough to sustain the rise and stave off the downfall.

But I could be chasing after the wrong questions.

What’s next?

I asked myself this openly, as I prepared to vacate a volunteer leadership role.

I had been president of my alma mater’s local alumni chapter for four years. And I had served as vice president for two years before that.

Now, my time at the helm had come to an end. And I was readying myself for the next challenge.

I thought through my options for my next step. Other volunteer organizations to devote my time to. Other rungs of involvement within alumni leadership. Other activities to get acquainted with.

These were the ways I could keep rising, keep contributing, keep demonstrating prominence. The convective system of influence demanded I choose one.

But I didn’t want to.

I was tired. Tired of sacrificing my time and energy at volunteer leadership pursuits. Tired of leaning deeper into that sacrifice with each passing year.

I didn’t want to keep rocketing up to the Teflon ceiling of the stratosphere. I was just fine floating along in the mid-levels. Not getting stepped on, but not getting knocked down either.

I wanted to break the cycle. So, I did.

I replaced my volunteer leadership role with…nothing. And in the process, I found a semblance of inner peace.

My decision in this area is far from noteworthy. But it is illustrative.

It shows that the convective system — the escalator to the top — is not the prerequisite to success.

Those who want to keep defying gravity have full license to do so. Our societal systems make that abundantly clear.

But not everyone wants that.

Indeed, a great many likely prefer a less turbulent journey. They yearn to get to a comfortable cruising altitude and level off the plane. But they don’t recognize that such a path is possible.

Let’s change that.

It’s high time we evangelize that gentler path. That we normalize an alternative to the never-ending climb. That we blaze a trail to a more sustainable future.

What goes up doesn’t have to come down. Let’s make it so.

Finishing the Job

On July 20, 1969, a nation watched with awe as three astronauts planted an American flag on the surface of the moon.

A month later, residents of the North Side of Chicago probably still felt like they were on the moon.

The temperate Midwest summer was still in full swing. The ivy on the brick outfield walls of Wrigley Field was lush and green. And the team playing in that venerable ballpark was having its best season in decades.

The Chicago Cubs had already won 75 games by mid-August, and the team held a 9-game lead in the division standings. The Cubs hadn’t played in the postseason in 24 years, and the team hadn’t won a World Series championship in 61 seasons. But it sure looked like the days of ineptitude were over.

They weren’t.

As August turned to September, the Chicago Cubs hit the skids. The team was suddenly losing games at an alarming rate, while the second-place New York Mets were stringing together wins.

When the two squads faced off in New York, a stray black cat ominously ran in front of the Chicago dugout. The Cubs would lose both games to the Mets and cede the top spot in the division soon after that.

The Mets would go on to win the division by 8 games, before rolling through the postseason and claiming a World Series championship. The Cubs would become a punchline.

1969 was well before my time. Still, I remain captivated by that season. My mother — a lifelong Mets fan — has said that year is what sparked her love of baseball. And the black cat incident remains an iconic moment in the sport decades later.

Still, I wonder if the 1969 Chicago Cubs deserved better than ridicule. Even with the late-season swoon, Chicago finished with a 92-70 record — by far the franchise’s best in what would ultimately become a 38-year postseason drought.

In subsequent years, 11 teams have gone on to claim World Series championships with fewer regular season wins than the 1969 Cubs. 6 more with identical records to that team have claimed titles.

But ultimately, that matters little. The Cubs failed to finish the job. And that’s how they’ll continue to be remembered.

Mama didn’t raise no quitter.

I’ve told myself this line time and again when I’ve found myself at a crossroads.

It’s not factually accurate. My mother might not have quit rooting for the New York Mets, but she’s stepped away from several ventures in her life. She also encouraged my father to leave a dead-end career for a better opportunity. And she was fully supportive of me during my youth when I stopped playing the violin or walked away from the cross-country team.

Still, the adage has resonated with me in adulthood. I’ve seen how our society treats those who don’t see a job through. And I don’t want to become one of those cautionary footnotes.

So, I’ve rarely quit at anything. And when I have, it’s come with a giant asterisk.

When I considered leaving the news media, I waited until my employment contract expired to do so. Since I was switching careers, I wasn’t beholden to that contract end date. But it provided the cleanest way to make a break.

When I gave up alcohol some years back, I didn’t consider sobriety to be quitting. Instead, I’ve treated abstinence as its own mission — one I must not ever stray from.

And even when I’ve dropped out of marathons due to injuries, it was on doctor’s orders. It took outside intervention to keep me from running through the pain.

Yes, I’ve remained steadfast in my commitment to finish the job. To be the 1969 New York Mets, and not the 1969 Chicago Cubs.

Yet, I’ve failed to consider the cost of this edict I’ve foisted upon myself.

You see, I’ve generally attributed finishing the job to consistency. If I show up day after day and give my all, I will achieve what I set out to achieve.

This is not a novel concept. It’s practically gospel in the worlds of sport and project management.

But this idea is fatally flawed.

Indeed, not much is consistent in the world around us. And the longer the timeline of an initiative, the more likely it is that we’ll face a curveball on our quest. A curveball that can’t simply be swatted away with the tenet of consistency.

This leaves us with a choice. Do we stay true to our approach, despite diminishing returns? Or do we become who we need to be to get the job done?

The answer is not as straightforward as it seems.

The Godfather is an American classic.

Both Mario Puzo’s novel and Francis Ford Coppola’s film adaptation represent storytelling at its finest.

Many consider The Godfather to be a Mafia tale. But I see something else.

In my view, The Godfather is an allegory for the challenges of finishing the job.

Consider the story structure.

Don Vito Corleone prepares his youngest son Michael for a future in the U.S. Congress, as his Mafia outfit seeks to go legitimate. But Michael leaves college to join the military in World War II. And upon his return, he draws a line between the Corleone family and himself.

The family is tough-minded, principled, and often violent. By contrast, Michael shows himself to be sophisticated, calculated, and thoughtful.

But a series of events eventually weaken the Corleone family. And Michael doubles down on Vito’s original vision of making the outfit legitimate.

This requires Michael to become ruthless and domineering while finishing the job. The metamorphosis of his character carries a heavy toll.

Time and again, Michael’s temper comes to the fore. Paranoia over potential mutinies leads Michael to cut himself off from lower-level associates. And his demeanor causes his marriage to crumble.

Yes, Michael Corleone chose both paths of the Finishing the Job Conundrum in succession. First, he walked away from the Corleone outfit so he could serve his country. Then he re-entered the fold and committed himself to finishing the job he’d previously abandoned.

That second path brought Michael Corleone the trappings of success. But he was undoubtedly happier following the first one.

I’ve been thinking about this more often, as I consider finishing the job on complex initiatives. Is following the principle worth the personal price? Perhaps not.

Mama didn’t raise no quitter. But maybe I should take a step back anyway.

When I was in high school, my family took a trip to Spain.

One of our many stops was the Sagrada Familia Basilica in Barcelona.

My parents and sister were awestruck by the ornate structure with its architectural flair. But I was preoccupied with something else.

Namely, the cranes and scaffolding hovering over the site.

The Sagrada Familia, you see, was still under construction. The groundbreaking had taken place more than a century prior, and the completion was nowhere in sight.

I wondered out loud why we were giving a construction site the time of day. My father bristled, explaining that I was looking at the site all wrong.

Sure, the Sagrada Familia was still a work in progress. But the work that had been done — all the finished accents illuminated by the Catalan sunshine — was still worth noting. It earned architect Antoni Gaudi acclaim in his lifetime. And it continued to add to his legend in the many decades since his passing.

Someday, my father explained, the Basilica would be completed. The world would marvel then at the realization of Gaudi’s vision.

But even now, there was much to celebrate. What had been done was far from nothing.

There was a profound lesson in my father’s words. One I could do a better job of heeding. One we all can.

Perhaps we shouldn’t put as much stock into finishing the job. In bringing the initiatives we’re involved in across the finish line at all costs.

For those costs could accelerate throughout the journey. And much like Michael Corleone, we could lose ourselves in a quest for what is ultimately an abstract principle.

Perhaps it’s better to take a step back sometimes and pass the torch.

We might not get feted for our early-stage accomplishments, as Gaudi has been. But we’ll still know the value of our contribution. And we won’t compromise our sense of self.

That means something. But only if we let it.

So, let’s draw a line in the sand. Let’s demonstrate that something matters more than finishing the job.

That something is us.

Courageous Discipline

It was a living Mount Rushmore.

On my TV screen, Alex Rodriguez, David Ortiz, Derek Jeter, and Mookie Betts sat behind a desk, engaging in a panel discussion.

It was almost surreal. Two Baseball Hall of Fame members, a future Hall of Famer, and a would-be Hall of Famer talking about the game I love so much. This was a rare treat.

At one point in the discussion, Jeter turned to Betts.

Mookie, you’ve achieved everything in this game. You’ve won a batting title and a Most Valuable Player award. You’ve been an All-Star and a two-time world champion. What are you chasing now?

I stared intently as Betts pondered the question.

Discipline, he replied. I’m trying to stay disciplined as I keep after it. Motivation will come and go. But if I can maintain my discipline, I feel I can continue to achieve at a high level for quite some time.

I was floored.

Here was a man with immense talent and accolades. Someone who would have no qualms about setting a lofty goal on national TV, and then going out and achieving it.

But instead, he stayed within himself. He remained focused of the path, rather than the destination.

Perhaps there’s something to maintaining discipline, I thought. Perhaps it’s the key to achievement.

Not exactly. But it can certainly get the journey off to the right start.

When I was a freshman in high school, I was a two-sport athlete. I ran cross country in the fall and then played baseball in the spring.

The crossover between those sports was minimal at best. If I smacked an extra-base hit, I’d fly around the bases. But it wasn’t quite the same as bounding on gavel trails through hilly terrain for a few miles.

Even so, my approach to both sports was nearly identical. I would have healthy fare – such as a sandwich and a Gatorade – for lunch. Then, I would spend a good 10 minutes stretching my muscles before a practice or a competition.

None of this had come naturally to me. As a bratty adolescent, I yearned to get right out there and compete. All these preparation routines seemed like a waste of energy.

Yet, my coaches instilled the value of discipline in me. Not just in the batter’s box or at the starting line. But well before those points, as well.

And I bought in. Completely.

Much about my life has changed in the decades since high school. But my commitment to discipline has remained.

I still stretch before I work out. And I still try to eat relatively healthy. But I’ve expanded the scope of my rigor.

I remain fiscally responsible. I keep my calendar meticulously organized. And, I’ve committed to adding a new article here on Ember Trace each week for nearly eight years.

It’s not easy to maintain this approach. Much like Mookie Betts, I’ve seen my motivation wane at times. And when it has, the temptation to loosen my grip on the reins has been powerful.

Still, I remain steadfast in my commitment.

Yes, discipline has been resonant for me for much of my life. And it could resonate with all of us.

Discipline is not inherited. It’s learned.

Those high school coaches that instilled discipline in me once had their own introduction to the principle. And there was a time when their mentors learned the ropes as well.

Yes, discipline is a construct. It’s something humanity has innovated, evangelized, and abided by through the generations.

This point is more than a footnote. It’s a reminder that the concept of restraint is itself constrained.

Adherence to discipline, by itself, doesn’t take us to the promised land. But it does raise the floor. It sets solid confines for us to explore our potential while minimizing the risk of bad outcomes along the way.

Taking that next step is on us. Unlocking new possibilities requires guts. We must be courageous while staying within the bounds of discipline.

This truth has held for generations. And I have no doubt that it will continue to do so.

Recently, I had a discussion with a co-worker in a different department of my company.

The colleague was interested in the impact of Artificial Intelligence – or AI – in marketing. And as a marketer, I had some thoughts.

I had heard the gloomy narrative from outsiders about AI replacing my discipline wholesale. I’d seen the sunny disposition of those within my team, all too happy to let the machines take over the most monotonous of responsibilities.

Further afield, I’d caught wind of some amazing things AI had already done. I’d also read about the technology helping students cheat academically, or prodding journalists to end their marriages.

These fragments of information were disparate enough to be disorienting. It was hard for me to connect the dots, and to determine the scope of this sea change.

But instead of panicking about the implications of an unwritten future, I zoomed out.

For all its might, AI is still a human innovation. It’s a quantum leap forward for technology that we’ve created. And while it might already act independently of our explicit commands, we can still set the terms of play.

Indeed, we still have the chance to instill some discipline.

This is precisely what I told my colleague. Sure, AI could be a boon for marketing, for business, for life. But those advantages would fade away quickly if we gave it the reckless abandon of a toddler hopped up on candy.

We need to hold onto some discipline. To use our judgment to set strategic frameworks for AI to work under.

But we also need to have the courage to let AI operate boldly within those frameworks. We must swallow our pride and accept the paths blazed by the machines, even if they break with precedents we’ve set.

This careful balance of courageous discipline will allow us to get the most out of the next chapter. It will provide us the tools to embrace AI as a friend, rather than a foe. And even when the discussion moves beyond AI, this framework will help us thrive personally.

When rigor meets heart, it’s a powerful thing.

Let’s harness that power.

Act 2

The house lights went down, and the crowd got quiet.

Then, with a flourish of light and of a crescendo of sound, the stage came to life.

The hour that followed was filled with plot twists, musical interludes, and intrigue. Once it was over, the entire cast of actors lined up on the stage and took a bow.

I was too stunned to applaud.

I had just witnessed the second act of a Broadway musical. One that featured far more action than what had preceded intermission. And I had struggled mightily to keep up with it all.

On the way out of the theater, my sister asked me what I thought of the performance. She had been an assistant director on the production some months prior, and she’d accompanied me to the show on this night.

The second act seemed rushed, I coarsely replied.

Well, that’s Shakespeare, my sister responded.

I stood there, puzzled. Yes, this musical was an adaptation of William Shakespeare’s work. But his plays had five acts to disperse the action. Couldn’t these writers have spread things out more evenly?

I pondered this for a moment. Then we headed out into the night.

Act 2 is an important concept in our society.

It’s the portion of our journey that leads directly to the finish line. It’s where the spotlight is brightest, and where the rewards are most tangible.

We’re primed to give our best in the second act. And we’re conditioned to do the most.

The first act simply sets the table. It’s a construct to acclimate us for the sprint to the finish.

Sports teams don’t get accolades for a hot start if they tail off down the stretch. Neither do companies who frontload revenue growth. The stain of missed potential lingers in these situations, dulling the shine of those early milestones.

Yes, Act 2 is all that truly matters. And if we want to make the most of our opportunity, we better hit the stretch run with reckless abandon.

This is the current upon which entertainment travels. It’s the reason why that Broadway musical was so backloaded.

But does this standard represent reality?

I don’t believe so.

When I was four years old, my mother gave my father an ultimatum.

Change your life or change your wife.

At that point, my father had been an advertising account executive for the better part of a decade. His passion for the job had since faded, and the long hours weighed on him.

Yet, my father was fearful of exiting the industry. The pay was comfortable enough to support a young family. And career shifts were still largely taboo in those days.

So, my father went through his work weeks with a dour disposition. As each month passed, he became more and more of a ghost. That is, until my mother’s ultimatum snapped him back to life.

My father made the wise choice. He changed his life, leaving advertising behind and becoming a teacher.

His Act 2 has lasted for decades. My father has found far more success and fulfillment in his second career than he did in his first. And he’s blazed quite the path for me to follow.

You see, I too have found far more success, fulfillment, and longevity in Act 2 than I have in Act 1. This has proven true with my profession, my hobbies, and even my efforts to build a social circle.

At a high level, this is not all that different from the societal ideal. My first act still sets the table for my second act to feast upon.

But at ground level, the differences are stark. Act 1 is setting the scene for what I should avoid, while Act 2 is establishing the alternative to move toward. And that movement should, by nature, take far longer to play out than the bungled missteps that preceded it.

My career trajectory illustrates this perfectly.

I got my start in broadcast journalism, in the high-octane world of TV news media. I lasted about three years in that industry before making a change. But those three action-packed years still feel like six to me. The strain and stress carried that much weight.

As I write this, I’ve spent a decade in my second career as a marketer. My journey from wide-eyed newbie to seasoned professional in this field has been anything but swift. And yet, I am far from dissatisfied.

The long tail of my Act 2 represents the stability I’ve long craved. It’s provided me with the satisfaction I’ve long yearned for. And it’s offered me the opportunity to grow in my discipline at a sustainable pace.

Sure, it might seem boring to outside observers. But that isn’t necessarily a bad thin

I’m currently on the cusp of another Act 2. One that I find just as significant.

After years of achievement as a competitive distance runner, my body has broken down. The medals, personal record times, and pictures standing atop race podiums have faded into an array of doctor’s visits, protective braces, and canceled race entries.

I still love running, and I love competing. But my body has given me an ultimatum. I can only choose one.

I’ve chosen the former. I’d rather run for fun than compete in something I’m less passionate about. It’s a bittersweet choice, but one I’ve made without a hint of hesitation.

Still, this decision doesn’t have to be a tradeoff. Indeed, I consider it an opportunity. An opportunity to start the second act of my running life.

I’m not quite sure what I should expect.

I’m not sure if my body will accept a steady running mileage base better than it handled the peaks and valleys of training. I’m not if my mind will stay motivated without races dotting the calendar. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to attain the same level of fitness as I did before.

My hope is that all of this does come to pass. That I stay healthy, successful, and fulfilled for years to come — even without the measuring stick of racing.

But I know that this won’t happen overnight. I might be past intermission, but there are miles and miles to go on this stretch run.

Act 2 of my running career will be a protracted journey, hopefully with more ups than downs along the way.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Death of a Dream

This is not the way I envisioned my dream dying.

I thought this while staring up at blue skies and puffy clouds, the sounds of country music pulsating through my head.

Of course, not all was what it seemed. Those blue skies were an elaborate decoration covering the florescent light banks on the ceiling. The country music tunes were heading into my ears through headphones while the MRI machine took a reading of my left knee.

It all seemed so cheerful, so relaxing, so peaceful. All masking the solemn facts.

If this scan showed a stress fracture in my left knee, my competitive running career was over.

Within 25 minutes, the scan was done. This trip into the MRI tube was much shorter than I’d anticipated. But the expedience gave me no solace.

It still ached to take a step when it hadn’t two weeks before. I knew that I wasn’t alright. And I fully expected the radiologist’s report to confirm it.

All I could do now was wait.

The room was sterile and uninviting.

Fake wood tiles and three beige walls. The fourth was pea green with a beige stripe accent.

One wall was decorated with anatomies of the knee and lower leg. Another had an oil painting of a man swinging a golf club.

There wasn’t a window in sight, and little airflow to keep the room cool on a scorching summer morning.

I sat in a chair on one side of the room. My hands rested on my jeans while I stared at the patient table directly across the room.

It was quiet within these four walls. But I could hear the muffled conversations from adjacent rooms. Why don’t doctors’ offices invest in soundproofing, I wondered.

Within a few moments, I heard a slight knock on the door. Then it opened and the orthopedist walked in.

Good news, he said. Yes, it is a stress fracture, but you caught it early. So, the recovery time will be shorter. No running for 8 weeks. But then let’s get you back out there.

This update was mercifully short and to the point. But the doctor’s words manifested the death of a dream.

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.

I’ve heard this adage many times before. And I’ve done my best to avoid succumbing to it.

But this quest has proved challenging, for a couple reasons.

For one thing, this gospel implores us to shake things up. To sacrifice the sacred cows that might be holding us back. As a change-averse person, I’ve found this difficult.

That’s a me problem.

But the other challenge impacts us all.

Maintaining fitness, you see, requires a great many things. But one of them is repetition.

If you want to get stronger, you might turn to a weightlifting routine. But it’s only by repeating that routine that you’ll eventually unlock new levels of strength.

The same goes with dietary choices and other habits. Following them once does us no favors. But doing them over and over can improve our outcomes.

Yes, fitness literally refutes the premise of insanity. It forces us to stand up to that pretentious adage. It’s a stake in the ground for the value of continuity.

Taking all this into account, it’s no wonder why I’ve been so infatuated with staying in shape over the years. It’s helped me get stronger, build resilience, and unlock new possibilities.

My fitness venture started on a dubious note. I showed promise as Cross Country runner during my high school days. But unlike that Corrs song, I didn’t yearn to be left breathless after every practice. So, I walked away from the team after my freshman year.

Soon, I stopped running entirely. And I said goodbye to the balanced diet the team coach had implored me to follow.

These were the dark days. That portion of adolescence and early adulthood where I thought my youth would wipe away my unhealthy behaviors.

But then, things began to shift.

I moved to a new city, embarked on a new career, and determined that staying in shape could no longer be an afterthought.

So, I started taking bi-weekly trips to the gym to lift and to run on the treadmill. I started eating better and stopped drinking soda. Eventually, I gave up alcohol too.

Over time, I noticed the difference these changes brought. I looked better. I felt better. I was better.

And it was only the beginning.

There are many advantages to working out in a gym.

There’s tons of fitness equipment. There’s climate control. There are TV screens to keep you entertained.

But when you take that away, the experience is decidedly less enjoyable.

One day, I arrived at the gym to find all the treadmills non-operational. So, I headed outside to run, for the first time in years.

The rest was history.

I soon exclusively became an outdoor runner. Eventually, I entered 5K races. Then, I joined some local running groups.

It wasn’t long before I was racing at longer distances — surprising myself with my performance at every turn. I had more speed and natural talent than I’d ever imagined. And I had a whole group of newfound friends encouraging me to make the most of my ability.

The unthinkable had happened. I’d shed the shadow of my bratty teenage self and become a bona fide runner.

Soon, I set my sights on a long-dormant dream: The New York City Marathon.

I knew plenty about the race already. Growing up in the area, I would follow the coverage year after year. And I’d gasp in awe at the Kenyan superstars who would break the tape in Central Park.

I yearned to run that race someday. But the thought of running 26.2 miles was so daunting to me that I’d convinced myself I never would.

Now, I was rethinking that stance. I was imagining running the streets of the Big Apple, with friends and family cheering me on. I was picturing myself with that finisher’s medal.

But the road ahead was less than assured. The New York Marathon is both the world’s biggest and one of the 5 toughest to enter — particularly for a distance running neophyte in Texas. My best shot would be to enter a random draw with a roughly 10% acceptance rate.

I put my name in the virtual hat. And it was drawn.

The impossible dream was headed toward reality. Or so I thought.

It started with an ache.

I was out running with a friend one morning when I felt the dull pain in my left leg.

Shin splints, I thought. When we stopped at a water fountain, I stretched my leg vigorously. It didn’t help.

I tried running through the discomfort for a time. I saw a chiropractor and a physical therapist. I bought some new resistance bands and massage balls.

I hoped I’d wake up one day and just feel right. I never did.

A visit to the doctor eventually confirmed what I’d feared. That pain in my leg was from a stress fracture. I’d need to take a couple months off and drop out of that year’s New York City Marathon.

My dream had gone from improbable to likely to life support. But it was still alive.

I had an option to defer my race entry to the next year, and I took it. That would give me more than a year to prepare for my second and final shot at the race.

But the road back would prove rocky.

Within a couple weeks of resuming running, I ran into issues with my right leg. I was hit with a double whammy – a new stress fracture below my right knee and a damaged ankle tendon that would require arthroscopic surgery.

I had made it through all that — the second shutdown, the surgery, the grueling rehab — and was ready for my second go at marathon training when my left knee started hurting. And then, it was all over.

My dream was dead.

It’s hard to take stock of what’s happened to me. It’s been such a strange odyssey, one that bubbles up a mess of emotions.

I am saddened that I failed in the pursuit of my dream. I am angered that my body betrayed me time and again. I am exhausted from navigating all the highs and lows of this journey. I am frustrated that I put in so much work with absolutely nothing to show for it. And I am resigned to the fact that this is how life goes sometimes.

But most of all, I am determined. Determined to move forward from this melancholy chapter.

Dreams can be fleeting. And sometimes our pursuit of them can lead to that token definition insanity — to trying the same thing and expecting a different result.

I’ve lived that experience now. And while I loathe the outcome, I do respect it.

So, running will look a little different for me moving forward. Life will look a little different.

But I am here for it.

The Best Days

When you look back, you’re gonna find that these were the best days of your life.

It seemed like this line was in half the movies I watched as a teenager.

And I watched a lot of them.

This was the era just before smartphones and streaming. It was easy to gather information on any movie ever released, but difficult to watch anything not currently in theaters.

So, I made a list of films to catch up on, and I methodically worked my way through it. First, courtesy of rental DVDs from the video store down the street. Then through DVDs sent by mail from a fledgling company called Netflix.

This was how I caught up on the classics, the contemporary classics — and all the high school movies.

The Breakfast Club? Dazed and Confused? American Pie? I saw them all — and others. And for the most part, I liked what I watched.

Still, this line about high school being the best years of one’s life irked me. It didn’t quite compute.

You see, I was in high school at that time. But it wasn’t exactly Ridgemont High. Instead, it was fancy private school with a hefty tuition.

I was not exceedingly well off. But my parents taught in the institution’s middle school. So, starting in 9^th grade, I got the opportunity to enroll. And my parents benefitted a hefty tuition discount.

When it came to academics, I certainly belonged. I was a bright kid, able to meet the challenge of rigorous classes. But socially, I was a fish out of water.

I was a suburban kid, surrounded by the scions of the city. I had nothing in common with them, and they had little use for me. Plus, I was shy, and none of the girls I liked would give me the time of day.

I did have a best friend — who remains my closest friend to this day. And we got into all kinds of misadventures together. But aside from that, nothing seemed to match all those Hollywood scripts.

The best days of my life? I thought out loud one night, while studying for a Pre-Calculus exam. God, I hope not.

Going to college felt like lifting a weight from my shoulders.

I was in a new city, surrounded by new people, embracing newfound freedom. And I made the most of it.

Surrounded by friends, and with new experiences at my fingertips, I felt like a new person. I remember viscerally declaring that the movies were wrong. These were the best days of my life.

Yet, when I look back, some of that shine starts to fade.

I was the odd man out when my freshman dorm hall neighbors chose their suitemates for sophomore year. That meant I had to essentially start over as a second-year student.

While I did build a new social group, I had a falling out with many of them during my senior year. As my collegiate days dwindled, I found myself alone once again.

I also totaled my car on a busy freeway. And I once had to pack up and quickly move to a new off-campus home when my landlord got a foreclosure notice.

So yes, these were the days. But the best ones? Those were yet to come.

Job requires 3 to 5 years of applicable experience.

I read this line over and over as I browsed online job postings from my extended stay hotel room.

I didn’t have the applicable experience. But I applied anyway.

I had to.

You see, I’d spent the past two years and nine months in another city and another industry. I had taken a job that I loved but had come to loathe it.

So, I left for a fresh start. A new career. A new city. A new chance to find those best years of my life that I’d been chasing for the better part of a decade.

But the job experience disclaimer foretold a grim reality. There was no quick exit from purgatory.

By the time I did land a position, I’d accepted reality. I would need to spend five more years proving myself — professionally and personally — before better things came my way. I’d be pushing 30 years old by then. But better late than never.

So, I got to it.

I quickly learned my new trade and set out to master it. I changed my lifestyle to improve my health. And I enrolled in business school while working full-time.

I did hit a few bumps in the road — including a layoff — but I kept moving forward. And after those five years, I felt my investment paying off.

I was confident, self-sufficient, and self-assured. I’d learned to lean into my introversion. And I’d built enough life experience to bring contexts to the ups and downs of my day to day.

There was the potential for even more — once I earned my MBA and took my career to the next level. But at long last, the best days of my life were finally here.

For various reasons, that breakthrough never fully arrived. There have been a series of ups and downs in my life since then. But I still consider these to be the best days of my life.

Well, mostly.

Do I have the flu, or am I just old?

I ask myself this question each morning, as I achingly sit up in bed.

It might sound like a joke. But it’s the honest truth.

The days of me hitting the ground running are gone for good. My body is perpetually sore from resting, and it takes a moment to get going.

My sense of resilience is similarly elusive. As a boy, I once bounced back up and finished a race after falling on an asphalt track. Now, when I wipe out on black ice, I need a few minutes to compose myself before getting to my feet.

Yes, the best days of my life are long gone from a physical standpoint. I peaked athletically years ago and am now on a steady decline.

Of course, I didn’t make the most of those days. For they lined up with my early-adulthood malaise — when I lacked the discipline and maturity to make the most of my physical gifts.

I have to live with that now.

Staying healthy is a costly venture in every sense for me. Yet, the cost of unhealthy habits is even steeper.

It’s a brutal catch-22. One that my peers and I are all mired in.

I wish that the two peaks aligned. That physical mastery overlapped with mental and emotional maturity.

But that’s never been the case.

As humans, we’ve been trained for millennia to harness our skills in succession. First, we’d exhaust our physical gifts through menial work and procreation. Then, when our bodies started to give out, we’d share the gift of seasoned wisdom with the tribe.

Such are the ways of nature. And it would be preposterous for me to question them.

So, maybe it’s time for me to let go of the Hollywood fantasy. Maybe it’s time to acknowledge that there is no singular set of best days of my life to strive for.

What I was chasing, what I thought I attained — it may well have been a white whale.

It’s time to admit my error. To make peace with the concept that I’ve been at my best physically, mentally, and spiritually in different eras. And to simply be grateful for the gifts I’ve been given, instead of clamoring for what might still lie ahead.

I am making this shift. So should we all.

The Myth of the American Dream

Everyone talks about the American Dream. Of envisioning it. Of striving for it. Of living it.

The American Dream is the gold standard upon which our lives are calibrated. But I’m not on board with this mythology.

Dreams, you see, are illusions. Half-formed fantasies that remain out of grasp. Idealistic tropes that never had the structure and substance to be tangible in the first place.

So, no. I’m not living the American Dream. My journey is that of the American Reality.

I’ve had far more struggles than triumphs, but I have experienced both extremes. I’ve worked harder to maintain what I’ve got than I had to attain it in the first place – par for the course in a world where someone always has a hand in your pocket. I’ve exhausted myself — physically, mentally, and emotionally — more times than I can count, without ever getting that expended energy back. I’ve shed blood, sweat, and tears in my endeavors. And ultimately, I’ve had precious little to show for any of it.

I’ve fought uphill time and again. And I will persist in this venture until my heart stops beating.

These are the realities of my American life. Unsatisfying, unpleasant, but oh so true.

Through it all, I’ve been told that I should be grateful. That my problems are first-world problems. That there are others abroad struggling for food, shelter, or safety whose strife is more noteworthy.

I recognize the motivation behind this perspective, but I also believe that these two worlds are not compatible. The challenge I face – that so many of us face – as Americans are less existential than those found abroad. But they still carry a toll. And they deserve more credence than we dare to provide.

Freedom is a real concept. There’s no doubt about that. But it’s not absolute.

Freedom comes with strings attached. Strings that are more like weighted belts. Wishing away those strings – or worse, hiding our ongoing tussle with them from others – does more than set an unreasonable bar of false hope to reach for. It degrades the validity of what life in America is for so many of us.

So, let’s stop waxing poetic about the American Dream. Let’s stop grasping for a golden illusion at the expense of the reality in our midst.

We deserve better than to degrade our lived experience. We deserve the truth.

What’s in a Name?

Personalized party favors.

They were all the rage when I was a kid.

Go to a birthday party and you’d get some inexpensive cup or trinket with your name painted on it.

Or something like it.

You see, my name is Dylan. But according to dozens of party favors, it was Dillon.

An honest mistake? Perhaps. But try telling 4-year-old Dylan that.

It was bad enough to hear people mispronouncing my name. (It’s not Die-lahn, people. It’s Dill-in.)

But to misspell it too? That was one indignity too far.

All those party favors that read Dillon? I threw them in the trash.

Naming can be a thorny subject.

What might seem like a parent’s expression of affection can quickly turn into a burden.

Odd names might lead to teasing on the playground, or flustered looks from teachers. They might even make you a punchline if you end up on the news for, say, leaking intelligence reports.

This burden weighed heavily on me throughout my childhood. There weren’t many other kids named Dylan back then. And a big part of me wished I wasn’t either.

I remember thumbing through those souvenir racks at gift shops, looking for a mini license plate with my name on it. I would always come up empty.

It was exhausting and demoralizing. I felt like I was fighting my way uphill just to be seen — in a way that a Dustin or Justin or Kevin didn’t have to.

Those days are behind me now. I’ve come to embrace my name, and it’s become immensely popular. Not only can I find that personalized mini license plate at the gift shop, but I can hear my full name on ESPN’s SportsCenter.

(Of course, I’m hearing it because the other Dillon Brooks — the lanky, smug Canadian — is punching the world’s best basketball player in the groin during a game. But that’s beside the point. That Dillon Brooks spells his name wrong anyways.)

Yes, it’s much easier to be Dylan as an adult than it was as a kid. But when someone mistakenly calls me Dustin or Justin or Kevin, I still hesitate for a moment before correcting them.

Names carry weight. And old habits die hard.

For 400 consecutive weeks, I shared a fresh article on a website called Words of the West.

Writing something new each week was — and still is — a passion of mine. But the name of the publication I shared it to? That was anything but.

Truth be told, Words of the West was not my first choice of a name for this venture. I’d thought of the name I really wanted some weeks before. But I’d forgotten to write it down, and it slipped out of my memory banks like a bandit in the night.

So, I found myself brainstorming name ideas, and Words of the West was what stuck.

At first, it was no big deal. But as the articles accumulated, the name felt like an albatross.

I wasn’t sharing Cowboy Poetry or recounting trips up a rugged mountain. I was sharing my thoughts. Thoughts that transcended geographical boundaries. Thoughts meant to apply to all.

Plus, Words of the West was too lengthy of a title. It was clunky, hard to remember, and grammatically complex. I knew better than to roll with a name like that.

I had failed as a publisher, as a marketer, as a wordsmith. I needed to do better.

Now, I have.

This is the first article under this publication’s new name — Ember Trace.

It’s not quite the start of a new era. It’s the evolution of a longstanding one.

The name and the website domain are all that have changed. They’ve evolved to reflect the ethos of this venture I began years ago.

So, why Ember Trace? What spurred that title?

Well, it’s shorter. Snappier. Catchier.

But it also has its own origin tale.

You see, the writings shared on these pages tell a story. And storytelling itself is an art.

Long before there were books and silver screens, our distant ancestors would gather to share in words of wisdom.

These gatherings would often take place around the glow of a fire. And even after the fire burned out, memories of what was shared would linger.

Those tales were what remained from the fireside gathering. The traces of its dying embers that could carry over to the next get-together, and the one after that.

This is the spirit with which I write. This is the impact I hope to have here.

I hope that the words I share light a spark. I hope they move, inspire, or lead to introspection. And once the embers have died out, I hope the trace of the experience lives on.

That is what storytelling is about. That is what I am about. And that is what Ember Trace is about.

Back in 1975, a fledgling company debuted with a unique name.

Microsoft was simply announcing what it provided — namely micro-computer software. But the single-word abbreviation stood apart from such corporate titans as General Electric and U.S. Steel.

Around this time, another new venture in the Pacific Northwest adopted a short name. Blue Ribbon Sports became Nike, featuring a swoosh logo on its signature shoes.

These companies would grow into behemoths, rising from obscurity to prosperity. And as they did, they changed the game.

If you look at the Top 50 list of the 2020 Forbes Most Valuable Brand list, you’ll find a total of six companies with multi-word names. Only five more feature punctuation, such as hyphens or apostrophes. And only about half have more than two syllables.

Corporate naming has gone from a legal requirement to a brand asset. Companies have shed the technicalese for monikers that consumers can embrace. Heck, even General Electric has rebranded as GE.

At the same time, human names have gotten more unique. That playground teasing mentioned earlier has gone by the wayside as common names become less prevalent.

Which shift is the right one? The one toward uniqueness or the one toward conciseness?

It’s hard to come up with an objective answer. Maybe because we’re asking the wrong question.

Perhaps we should be considering what the purpose of a name is. What it does. What it symbolizes.

Yes, a name is but an appetizer. A vessel to connect us with the uninitiated.

It needs to draw attention. But it needn’t be the event.

Striking that balance is challenging. But it’s a challenge worth pursuing.

I hope to strike that balance with the Ember Trace moniker. Thanks for coming along for the ride.

400

Today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.

Lou Gehrig uttered those words into a microphone on July 4, 1939.

The New York Yankees captain wasn’t reveling in his title. He’d last played an inning of baseball more than two months prior.

Nor was he expressing his patriotism. Gehrig was an embodiment of the American dream,

but that’s not what this day was about.

Gehrig, you see, was retiring. Forced out of the game by a debilitating disease, he was saying goodbye to an adoring Yankee Stadium crowd.

Such a ceremony was unheard of in those days. But so was Gehrig.

Yes, before his disease chased him from baseball, Gehrig had played in 2,130 consecutive games. For the better part of 14 years, he took the field every single day — earning himself the nickname of The Iron Horse.

That might not sound like much at first. But think about how many times you’ve called in sick or taken a vacation day. Gehrig never did, until his deteriorating body forced his hand.

It was a remarkable achievement. One that has only been surpassed by one baseball player — Cal Ripken, Jr. – in the near-century since. And one that might never be surpassed again.

They just don’t make ‘em like The Iron Horse anymore.

Consistency is hard to do.

What are the consistent traits of your life?

Eating? Sleeping? Walking around?

These seem like natural answers. But I know there are days and nights when I haven’t done one or more of these things.

This is not meant to glorify the all-nighter or the all-day fast. It’s more to highlight that doing anything consistently is hard.

This context makes Gehrig and Ripken’s feats even more notable. They fought through the inevitable speed bumps to get the improbable done.

Doing what so many cannot helped to make these baseball stars incomparable. Both Gehrig and Ripken are enshrined in the Baseball Hall of Fame.

But consistency did not bestow superhuman powers upon them. Ripken’s performance on the field declined somewhat in the late years of his streak. The disease that forced Gehrig out of the lineup ultimately claimed his life.

Yes, consistency is firmly within the grasp of humanity. We all have the ability to do the improbable.

And you’re reading one such example.

This is article 400 of Words of the West.

For 400 consecutive weeks, I’ve shared a fresh thought, opinion, or reflection with you, dear reader. That’s every week, without fail, for almost eight years.

Some of these articles were deep and personal. Some were more banal. Some were a tad preachy.

But no matter the tenor of the content, one new article has appeared here each week for 400 consecutive weeks.

Now, at first glance, this shouldn’t be noteworthy. After all, the first rule of any publication is Find a schedule and stick to it.

I heeded this edict, committing to sharing weekly musings before I ever hit Publish. But if we’re being honest, I never thought I’d be able to keep the streak alive this long.

How could I?

Think of other markers of longevity.

American football teams play between 10 and 17 weekly games as part of their regular slates. International football — or soccer — teams play 34 to 38 matches each year. Television series generally contain 22 new episodes a season.

And all of them have off weeks built into the schedule.

Yes, when exercising our abilities — of mind, body, and soul — there is a limit to our continued exertion. We need a break from our routine now and then. So much so, that it’s often mandated.

Even Gehrig and Ripken had a respite from the grind. While both donned a uniform and took the field every day throughout the summer heat, they had the winters off to recharge.

Year-round consistency is within the realm of human possibility. But it’s harder to find.

And year-over-year consistency? Rarer still.

Indeed, there are relatively few examples of people taking on feats like this without interruption or assistance. Marketing guru Seth Godin has famously added a new blog post each day for more than a decade. Some runners have taken to the streets each day for years.

But those are the exceptions to the rule. And in a way, what I’m doing here is an exception too.

You see, just about everything in my life has changed since I first hit Publish on Words of the West.

Where I live. What I do. How I interact with others. How I critique myself.

Both through circumstance and through choice, I’ve had to break with so many routines throughout this time. I’ve had to sacrifice sacred cows, lean into the unknown, and embrace novelty.

Yet through it all, the weekly articles here have remained a constant. The one steady rock amidst shifting seas.

It’s kept me grounded. It’s kept me honest.

And I thank God for that.

Ripken and Gehrig ended their streaks on their own accord.

Each man walked into the manager’s office and asked for a day off.

Circumstances were different. Eras were different. But the final act was the same.

What will be the final act of this streak? When will the stream of articles cease?

I don’t profess to know. And I don’t want to find out anytime soon.

When looking ahead, the only constant is uncertainty.

Years ago, when I started this publication, I would never have dreamed that my life would be as it now is. I would never have imagined that my writing would become what it has.

The void ahead of me was vast. And I knew better than to peer into its infinite depth.

I feel the same way today.

Yes, I have hopes and dreams for the future. But I harbor no illusions of manifesting them into reality. Much remains beyond my control.

What I can do is keep plugging away. Keep writing and publishing. One article at a time.

And that’s what I will continue to do. Until I can’t — or won’t.

So, let’s not focus on the destination. Let’s cherish the journey.

Thanks for coming along for the ride.

Discouragement vs. Doubt

Don’t take it too fast.

This was the advice I got from some friends as I headed to the starting line of a fun run.

These words were sensible.

I had just returned to running from an injury. And there were no medals to be won in this event.

Plus, it was my second run of the day. And I’d felt some soreness in my ankle and knee in my first go-around that morning.

So, I heeded the advice — for a bit.

I jogged nice and easy for the first mile. But then I felt the itch to let it fly. And I scratched that itch.

I breezed my way through the second mile, and the third. I ultimately crossed the finish line with a head of steam.

I felt great — for a moment. Then I didn’t.

My knee and ankle were suddenly angry again. Walking became difficult. And the pain persisted for days.

I would soon be shut down from running once again. And I would eventually require surgery, keeping me from my passion for much longer.

I had mistaken discouragement for doubt. And I’d end up paying the price.

Let’s prove them all wrong.

It’s the rallying cry found in just about every underdog sports movie.

Sure, it’s cliché. But these words draw on a fundamental truth.

Doubt, you see, can be a powerful motivator. When others don’t show belief in us, it can put a chip on our shoulder. It can motivate us to take our performance to another level.

We’re hard-wired to say no to doubt. We’re inclined to reject the doubter’s narrative — unless that doubter is us.

But discouragement — that’s something wholly different.

Discouragement is meant to both advise and protect. While doubt wagers that we can’t do something, discouragement tells us to not even try.

This might make discouragement seem like the harshest of rebukes. But such a perception is merely a mirage.

Why? Well, consider who’s delivering the message.

Those who discourage us are often looking out for our best interests. Those who doubt us aren’t looking out for us at all.

These are two extremely different sentiments. Yet, they’re two sentiments that can easily get conflated.

When we consider discouragement as nothing but doubt, we’re tempted to run the stop sign. We feel obligated to do the thing we’ve been warned against. And we are doomed to travel a path to sabotage.

It’s all too easy to fall into this trap. But avoiding the danger can be tricky.

I deliberated for an entire weekend.

I had been accepted to two business school programs. And now, I had to decide which one I’d attend.

So, I thought about it. I prayed about it. And after a couple sleepless nights, I came to a decision.

I felt confident in my choice. But then I informed my parents.

They were none too thrilled. Instead of celebrating my decision, they implored me to go with the other program.

I was annoyed by this development. All that work I’d done had been categorically dismissed.

Was I not an adult capable of making my own decisions?

But I thought about where my parents were coming from. They wanted the best for me, and their rationale for reversing my choice was sound. It would be worthwhile to take another look.

So, I did just that.

I reconsidered the points I’d laid out in favor of the program I’d decided on. And I weighed those against the points my parents had made in favor of the other one.

In the end, I stuck with my choice — rebuffing my parents. And ultimately, this decision paid off in spades.

I made new friends and business connections. I got a top-notch education. And I was able to take my career to the next level.

Yes, it turns out the discouragement from my parents was unfounded. Passing it up did me well, but it also set a dangerous precedent.

Indeed, this precedent might have spurred me to take off during that infamous fun run. Sure, others might have claimed to know what was best for me. But hadn’t I proven I could figure that out for myself?

No. I most certainly had not.

Act with discretion.

This advice seems simple, but it’s deceptively complex.

When there’s no line drawn in the sand, we can struggle to find our way. Each decision we make is a high stakes bet. One that could make our future — or destroy it.

Discouragement is but one path to the discretion quagmire. But it’s a particularly treacherous one. And it leaves us uniquely vulnerable.

You see, discouragement flies in the face of everything we’ve been taught. It disrupts everything we believe.

Yes, from our earliest days, we’re conditioned to power through adversity. More than two centuries of American stick-to-it-iveness have shown the value of mettle.

Achievement is unlocked through doing. So, when someone we trust tells us not to do something, they better be right. Otherwise, they’ve just led us astray.

This is the issue at the heart of discouragement. The messenger views it as a clear-cut edict. The recipient isn’t quite so sure the message is credible.

It all amounts to a high-stakes staredown.

Maybe it’s time to continue the conversation. Instead of instantly reacting to words of skepticism, maybe we should ask why.

Why are we facing discouragement? What’s the rationale for it? What’s the evidence behind it?

This context — or lack thereof — can help us navigate uncertain waters. It can help us determine whether to heed the edicts of discouragement, or to defy them.

Now, this strategy is not foolproof. The future is inherently uncertain, after all.

There will be times when discouragement causes us to be too conservative. And there will be times when defiance proves foolhardy. Freer discourse won’t eradicate either error.

But by asking more questions, we can come closer to clarity. We can cut down on the guesswork and gain confidence in our decisions.

And we can stop conflating discouragement with doubt.

Let’s get to it.

Author: Dylan Brooks