Dylan Brooks | Words of the West

On Clothes

I logged into work and found myself in the middle of a firestorm.

It was the early days of the COVID pandemic. Terms like social distancing and quarantine were in vogue. And instead of commuting to an office, my colleagues and I were logging into our laptops from home.

We still saw each other daily, thanks to the magic of videoconferencing. But the camera cut us off at the shoulders. Whatever we wore below that point would not be seen.

Now, a debate was brewing over that just that details.

Many of my co-workers happily shared how they’d stopped wearing pants to work. They noted how they replaced those clothes with pajama bottoms, sweatpants, or workout attire.

I was not doing any of this. I still sported jeans and a collared shirt to my post at the laptop each morning.

My co-workers were incredulous when I revealed this information. They saw little value in putting such effort into something that no one else would see.

I explained to them that professional dress made me feel professional — and thereby act professional. I referenced the importance of time and place, alluding to Leggingsgate while making my point.

My colleagues heard me out. And then, we all agreed to disagree.

I logged off work that day feeling vindicated. But now, I wonder if I dropped the ball.

I recently addended a storytelling showcase in Dallas.

The showcase took place in a large performance hall downtown. One by one, raconteurs took the stage there to tell their tales.

I took note of what each storyteller was wearing as they performed. But during the intermission, I also took note of what the other audience members were wearing.

I had outfitted myself in a polo and jeans. But now, looking around the venue, I felt underdressed.

Surely, there were some explanations for the fancy attire. It was a weeknight, and many people had come straight from work.

But many others had not. They’d donned their finest clothing simply to watch others speak.

And as I looked at them, I found myself asking such pretense was necessary.

Clothes, you see, are mostly a construct. They protect our bodies from the elements and allow us to appear decent when out in public. But any nuance beyond that is entirely of our own making.

The finely dressed men and women in the audience were trying to make a statement. A statement of their style, their class, and their sophistication. But on an evening where they’d be sitting mostly in darkness, it seemed to be a needlessly risky endeavor.

I would know.

Some time ago, I went to a conference in New Orleans for work. One morning, I craved some beignets and coffee from Café du Monde. So, I made the mile-long trek to the venerable restaurant in my nice slacks and button-up shirt.

Once at Café du Monde, I took great care to avoid getting powdered sugar or coffee on my clothes. But there was no escaping the stifling humidity of a Louisiana morning. I came back to the conference center glistening, my shirt and slacks dampened by perspiration.

Risk had certainly outpaced reward for me that day. My quest to both look presentable and enjoy a New Orleans staple had backfired.

Back at the performance hall, none of the audience members appeared quite as ragged as I had in New Orleans. But it was a similarly sultry evening in Dallas that night, and anyone who had parked even a couple blocks away was taking a risk wearing nice clothes. A risk of seeing the muggy air muck up their wardrobe, and lay waste to their efforts.

I did not have that problem. My understated attire was durable enough to handle conditions outside the performance hall and in it.

I sat back in my seat and took a deep breath. I might have been outclassed, but wearing a polo and jeans was the right move.

What changed between that work chat during the pandemic and the storytelling performance? How did my views about clothing shift so drastically?

To put it simply, I started running.

Now, I had run plenty before the pandemic. I’d often hit the streets or the treadmills in old basketball shorts and some cheap cross-trainers.

But during the COVID lockdowns, I started running more. And as I ramped up intensity, I found that any old athletic clothes wouldn’t cut it.

So, I bought some new attire. And my running performance subsequently surged.

Now, I won’t chalk up the improvements solely to what I was wearing. But the attire certainly didn’t hurt matters.

Shorts made of lightweight material didn’t drag me down. Shirts with patterned polyester wicked sweat away from me without sticking to my skin. Specialty socks protected my feet against blisters. And supportive running shoes took the punishment of the pavement without disintegrating.

I was experiencing a real-time lesson in the power of function. And it led me to shuffle my priorities when it came to clothes.

Style still had a role to play. But it took a backseat to function.

If what I wore kept me protected and comfortable, that would be all I’d need.

This epiphany has changed the way I view wardrobe decisions. I still have a collection of fancy attire. But I only break it out when it’s necessary. Say, for a wedding, a holiday gathering, or an important work function.

Aside from that, I will remain understated. I will fit my attire to the needs of my active lifestyle in a Southern climate. Not the other way around.

Many have come to a similar conclusion as I about clothes. We’ve determined what it should be, and which aspects should matter most.

But when we try and live this credo, we find ourselves thwarted. For the headwind we’re turning into is at gale-force strength.

There’s a $1.5 trillion industry that designs the fibers we place on our bodies. One that is financially incentivized to hawk glamour to us.

There are generations of cultural traditions equating wardrobe sophistication with status. One that actively encourages us to dress up at every opportunity.

And, thanks to an globalized world, there are few contingencies given to climate. Formal dress is formal dress, no matter where it’s worn.

Add it all up, and we’re stuck choosing style over function, time and again. We’re left mapping our lifestyle to our clothes, and not the other way around.

It’s high time for us to think differently. To consider the true meaning of attire, and to build around that.

Some fashion purveyors are already toying with this. They’re offering up stylish options that prioritize functionality.

It’s a start. But it’s on us to take the next step.

It’s on us to define our priorities. It’s on us to make fashion choices consistent with those priorities. It’s on us to make attire work for us, and not the other way around.

Clothes are just a collection of fibers and threads. It’s what we do with them that truly matters.

What’s Customary

She was strikingly tall, stunningly beautiful, and outfitted in an elaborate Deel.

There was much to be mesmerized by when this woman set foot in my family’s tent. But I was particularly curious about the large bowl in her hands.

I would soon get answers.

After a few moments, the woman turned to my father. Through a translator, she explained that the bowl was a gift for the honored guests who had traveled long distances to arrive in this place. Since this place was the Mongolian grasslands — half the world away from our family home — we were the honored guests.

It was now my father’s duty to drink from the bowl. He obliged without delay.

Hours later, I stepped out of the tent to relieve myself. As I did, I noticed my father stumbling around in the moonlight, slurring his words.

I was 10 years old, and I had never seen my father drunk before. Now I had, and it was jarring.

It turned out that bowl my father consumed was filled with Baijiu. That’s a 120 proof Barley liquor.

It was more grain alcohol than anyone could handle. A bout of drunkenness and a killer hangover were inevitable.

A few days later, I asked my father why he had willingly gone off the deep end. Couldn’t he have spared himself some pain by just saying no?

My father mentioned the importance of showing respect to our hosts and their customs. Declining the invitation was not an option for him.

I nodded in understanding. But I hoped I wouldn’t find myself in a similar position.

I made the team!

The shouts in the hallway woke me up early on a Saturday morning.

One of my floormates in my college dorm had tried out for the vaunted Miami Hurricanes football team. And he had made the cut.

His role would be far from glamorous. As a walk-on, my floormate would be on the scout team. He’d do all his work in practice, emulating opposing receivers and taking massive hits from defensive backs.

Still, my floormate wasn’t immune to the initiation traditions of the squad. So, when the team leaders demanded that he shave his wavy blonde hair, my neighbors helped him oblige.

This opened the door to more issues. My floormate got a sunburn on his scalp while practicing in the bright Florida sun. Some of the football players compared him to a cancer patient.

But this act also helped forge an intractable bond between my floormate and his teammates. He did ultimately appear in a game. When it concluded, the entire Miami Hurricanes football team carried him off the field on their shoulders. Then, they gave him the game ball.

I’m sure none of this would happen these days. There are copious safeguards in place against initiation rituals. The dignity of the individual supersedes the sanctity of customary team traditions.

Culture is no longer defined through majority rule.

While I’ve never played football at any level, I’ve seen the benefits of this shift.

I do not drink alcohol, and I have a dairy sensitivity. In prior eras, I might have found myself compelled to break with both restrictions to fit in.

But now, I can buck with precedent. I can turn down a round of shots at the bar. I can politely decline a home cooked dish if it’s laden with dairy.

There is a built-in support system for my choices and requirements.

I’m grateful for that. But I’m also aware of what I’m leaving on the table.

As I child, I viewed my father’s conundrum on the Mongolian grasslands as a cruel one.

What culture would treat poisoning its guests as a customary practice?

But in hindsight, I realize that I was looking at this scenario all wrong.

The bowl of Baijiu wasn’t the focus of the evening. It was what tied everything together.

Yes, my father was made to drink more than would seem ethical. But that was just part of a massive celebration speckled with dancing and traditional garb. A celebration in honor of him — the visitor from far away.

By downing the bowl of barley liquor, my father was sharing in the celebration. He was forging a connection with his hosts that could transcend distance and language barriers.

It was worth the ensuing drunkenness and hangover.

This is the notion behind so many customary traditions. Weddings are particularly grand because they encourage two families to connect. French wine and charcuterie boards allow for bonding through cuisine. Holi provides an opportunity to find common ground through color —even if it means ruining our clothes in the process.

Even if we’re unfamiliar with these traditions, we benefit by leaning into them. By taking ourselves out of our comfort zone, we create lasting memories that can transcend cultures.

This is what’s missing in our shift toward individuality.

We might not be forced by our teammates to shave our heads. We might not be prodded by family members to eat something that we can’t digest. We might not be egged on to drink something that makes us incoherent.

Those are net benefits, for sure. But they come with costs. Costs that can’t be brushed away.

The excursion to the grasslands was part of my first trip abroad. A three-week odyssey across China.

In the subsequent decade, I’d get my passport stamped several more times.

But then, the journeys through customs ceased.

As I write these words, it’s been nearly 15 years since I left the United States. I haven’t even ventured to Canada or Mexico.

There are many reasons why I’ve stayed home. But one of them has to do with customary traditions.

I don’t want to put myself in a situation where I get myself sick — either from consuming dairy or alcohol. And I know from my prior travels that I might well be entrapped in these scenarios.

For years, I treated this credo as a validation. Now, I’m not as convinced.

I’ve spared myself a lot of potential misfortune by playing it safe. But I’ve also missed out on numerous chances for cultural connection.

And that does give me pause.

Perhaps the customary traditions of others aren’t a threat to our sensibilities. Perhaps they’re a test of our courageousness.

My father and my floormate in my college dorm each passed this test. I have yet to face it.

And that is a problem.

Moving forward, I resolve to be more open-minded. I will still hold true to my values and lifestyle choices. But I will view the customary traditions that fly in the face of them as something other than an unvarnished threat.

I will view them opportunities. Opportunities I might not take, but at least should consider.

May we all find the gumption to do the same.

Imperfect Information

The graph lit up the projector in the front of the classroom.

A left triangle was the star attraction. A dizzying array of shading, dotted lines and math formulas balkanized its interior.

This diagram was supposed to illustrate pricing power. But to me, it resembled an eye chart.

My economics professor worked his way through the triangle. The top left corner represented the most that a company could feasibly charge for its services. But it was a price that they’d never actually set.

They couldn’t.

The professor explained that companies are saddled with imperfect information. They don’t know every move their competitors will make. They don’t understand which price is at the top of each consumer’s budget. And they have no concrete idea how financial markets will react.

Given that gumbo of uncertainty, companies needed to figure out the next best thing. They need to determine which price would maximize upside and minimize risk.

That’s what the various formulas and lines on this graph were for. And that’s what I’d need to master on the upcoming exam.

I did ultimately master the concept. Then I promptly forgot it.

But the term imperfect information? That was unforgettable.

I’ve found it odd that ambiguity is an indelible part of economic models.

But perhaps I shouldn’t.

What do you do with your free time?

It’s a question I hear bandied about now and then.

Friends and acquaintances tend to have the common responses. Binging TV shows. Gardening. Baking bread.

My answer is a little less traditional. I’ll go down a Wikipedia rabbit hole.

You see, I have a thirst for information. There is always more to be gleaned. And when I get started, it’s hard to stop.

I don’t embark on this quest to win game shows or stand out at parties. I do it out of genuine interest.

I lament all that I don’t know. And I wish to bridge that gap.

Others also seek to scratch this itch. It’s why so many people take continuing education courses online. And it’s why companies have robust research departments.

Still, this appetite for learning is not infinite. Many of us readily accept that a knowledge gap will persist.

But what if we didn’t?

What if more of us went down Wikipedia rabbit holes? What if we left no stone unturned in our quest for knowledge?

At first pass, this sounds idyllic. With a full tank of information, we’d never make an error of ignorance again. We’d be able to put our best foot forward every time.

If only it were that simple.

In finance, there is a concept called arbitrage.

This represents the gap between an asset’s true value and its sticker price. The bigger the gap, the more the seller can make on the margin — and the more the buyer is a sucker.

I’ve long despised arbitrage for this exact reason. Any practice that involves exploiting others seems immoral to me.

But arbitrage does have its advantages.

In a capitalist market, it offers incentives for both sellers and buyers. The sellers are motivated to offer up goods when there’s an opportunity for profit. And the buyers are motivated to uncover options with the least hefty gap.

This motivation drives action, keeping the economic engine turning. It spurs innovation, dangling a hefty reward for displacing quo. And it inspires branding, redefining the notion of value.

These developments have made us better as a society. Even if the individuals who make up our society have gotten fleeced along the way.

Perhaps that Gordon Gekko line from Wall Street wasn’t an indictment on our collective nature. Perhaps greed actually is good.

Arbitrage is, by nature, an invention of imperfect information. If both parties in a deal had the same intel, there would be no invisible tension. The buyer and seller would exchange money and goods, and that would be that.

But such exchanges would happen far less often.

With so little incentive to leverage an advantage, buyers and sellers would only make a deal at the time of highest need. And with such little marketplace activity, there would be little room for our culture to evolve and grow.

We would effectively become Amish. All while hoarding a war chest of facts in our heads.

Information without a practical purpose.

No, arbitrage isn’t perfect. But it’s hardly the opposite of the ideal.

In ancient times, much of the world’s information could be found in one location.

That location was a massive library on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea.

The library of Alexandria was a marvel. The first great repository of the written word, it offered its visitors a unique opportunity. The chance to accumulate more knowledge than their ancestors ever could.

Then, all that information went up in flames.

So much of this event remains an enigma. There’s no way to know for sure why the library burned, or what its demise meant to those who lived in its shadow.

But the modern-day response to the burning of Alexandria’s library is nearly unilateral. We treat the conflagration as a wrong that must be righted. And a great many of us — from scholars to wealthy connoisseurs to the founders of Google — have sought to recreate what once towered over the sea.

Selfishly, I admire this ethos. After all, it provides me endless fodder for my Wikipedia rabbit holes.

But I often wonder if we got the story of Alexandria all wrong.

Maybe the fire wasn’t an unvarnished tragedy. Maybe it was a warning of the dangers of our hubris.

One not unlike the tale of Icarus.

Our quest to collect perfect information is as misguided as our quest to fly close to the sun. Just as gravity keeps us grounded, imperfect information keeps us yearning for more.

This is a blessing, not a curse. And we should start acting like it.

That is what I’m beginning to do.

I no longer yearn to know everything. I’m content with learning a little bit more, each day.

I hope others follow my lead.

Imperfect information might not seem ideal. But it provides us what we need to thrive.

From Whence We’ve Come

I took a deep breath and admired the view.

Behind me stood the columns of the Parthenon. Ahead of me, the white, sunlit rooftops of Athens stretched into the distance.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my Canon PowerShot camera. As I prepared to take some photos, I heard my mother’s voice.

Worth the climb, huh?

Ah yes, the climb. The steep 500-foot ascent from the city center to this point. I’d been hypnotized by this vista and forgotten about it. Until now.

The flashback to this recent trek made me shudder. Thank goodness my family made that climb on one of the coldest days of the year. Those poor souls who visited Athens in the dead of summer had it rough.

As I considered all this, I reflexively lowered my right arm. The PowerShot was still firmly in my hand, but that hand was now parallel with the outside of my jeans.

I raised my arm once again to take some more photos. But now the view looked different.

The city looked grander, the sun brighter, and the hills in the distance more luscious.

It had been an arduous trek to get up here. And now, the destination appeared worthy of the journey.

I took a few steps and anchored my feet upon the crushed rubber surface.

The view ahead of me now was not that of Greek hills and valleys. Instead, it was the flat oval of a running track in the faded light of dawn.

I was about to embark on my first run workout in seven months. And I was equal parts nervous and hopeful.

I pressed a button on my watch, and I was off. Within seconds, I was flying down the front stretch with reckless abandon.

I felt alive. I felt free — if only for a moment.

By the time I hit the backstretch of the track, I was gassed. Three more laps at this pace were just not in the cards.

So, I dialed the pace back, lap by lap. That mile-long journey resembled a slow fade.

Moments later, I stepped off the track for a swig of water. As I grabbed my bottle, I was despondent.

Why was this so hard? Had I lost my way?

I thought back on my preparation that morning. Had I not stretched for long enough? Had I not fueled properly?

And then, out of nowhere, I thought back to that morning in Athens.

You see, I was out here standing on high, taking the view ahead of me at face value. All while ignoring the arduous journey to my perch.

I had willingly forgotten about the injury I’d suffered, the doctor’s visits I’d had, the surgery I’d endured. I had buried the memories of lying in an MRI machine, hobbling around in a walking boot, or struggling through endless Physical Therapy exercises.

The journey back seemed irrelevant. How I’d gotten my second chance meant less than what I did with it.

I had to make the most of my opportunity. And I simply hadn’t yet.

But maybe I was deluding myself.

The Parthenon of Athens is iconic. But it’s also a reminder of what once was.

Indeed, the columns basking in the Mediterranean sunlight represented the skeleton of a great temple. And in the days when that temple stood intact, a legend reverberated through the Greek hills.

The legend was that of Heracles — better known to us as Hercules.

After killing his family in a fit of madness, Hercules was assigned 12 tasks to satisfy his penance. These tasks were nearly impossible to achieve. Yet, Hercules risked life and limb to master them.

This process elevated Hercules. Not only did he erase the shame he had brought upon his name, but he also gained mythical status.

The arc of Hercules is a narrative lynchpin— one commonly referred to as a man in hole story. As the late novelist Kurt Vonnegut once pointed out, audiences admire that narrative. So, tens of thousands of tales now follow its pattern.

Even so, I feel this fascination is mostly aspirational.

We accept the protagonist’s ordeals only if they lead to a better outcome. We want to see that figure thrive on the backside of adversity. For it proves that our own lowest of lows can lead to the highest of highs.

Yet, something laudable gets lost in this process. Namely, the return to the status quo.

Getting back to where we started is a non-event. It just isn’t worth writing home about.

We need the culmination first.

As I stood beside the track after my workout, I realized just how far into this trap I’d fallen.

I was obsessed with what I was to become. And I was unwilling to just be.

Perhaps more achievements were in store for me. Perhaps they weren’t.

But just getting back to running was a notable feat. And it was high time I recognized it.

A trek to the heights of Athens would surely look different these days.

The columns of the Parthenon still stand. And that vista of sunlit rooftops persists.

But that Canon PowerShot that was in my right hand that winter morning? It’s long been retired.

Six months after I descended from the Acropolis, Apple founder Steve Jobs took the stage in California. He announced a revolutionary product called the iPhone.

That device — and others like it — changed the way we interact with each other, shop, read the news, and take photos.

It’s perhaps the greatest example of our society’s thirst for better.

It’s easy to get caught up in novelty. It’s all too natural to do so.

But what’s next isn’t all that matters.

What we have, what we’ve built, what we’ve regained — all of that is significant.

It’s important to consider from whence we’ve come, and to celebrate our accomplishments. It can provide needed perspective. And it can relieve some of the tension inherent in our drive for more.

I will try to consider the bigger picture moving forward. Will you?

Going Hard and Going Smart

The gun went off, and I took off.

I felt my feet glide over the crushed gravel. I felt the air rushing by my ears. And I saw the pack of runners behind me.

It was my first Cross Country race in high school. And for a moment, I thought I might win it.

But then I felt my breath get heavy and my brow get sweaty. And I saw the hills up ahead.

There was no way I was going to keep this pace up.

I tried to fight the inevitable for a bit. But then a cramp emerged under my right rib. So, I slowed down and watched the pack whiz by me.

Now, I was on my own, plodding my way through the hills in a slow jog. It was a miserable, helpless feeling.

But then, something dawned on me. I’d run this course several times in practice. And I knew it better than my competitors.

I remembered that the circuit ended with a downhill, followed by a long straightaway. If I could take off on the downhill and maintain that momentum, I’d likely catch some of those runners who had just left me in the dust.

I followed this plan to perfection, passing startled runner after startled runner down the stretch.

And while I didn’t finish the race first — not by a longshot — I found myself beaming.

I had made something out of nothing.

I earned something valuable that day. Namely, a primer in race strategy.

You see, I had started the race thinking that effort was my key to success. But as I crossed the finish line, I realized that discretion mattered more.

I only had so much energy to give. If I kept going for it all at the start, I’d run out of steam before I reached my destination.

But if I conserved effort early on, and throttled down later, I’d be in good shape. I’d get the most out of my energy reserves, making it to the finish line in one piece. And I’d likely score a decent placement.

So, I started replicating my race strategy in subsequent contests. I would wait until the downhill to let it fly. And I’d use that momentum to pick off runners down the straightaway.

I never tired of seeing the panicked look on runners’ faces as I sped by them with the finish line in sight. It became my sole race motivation.

Eventually, this approach led to hardware. I medaled in the state championships.

But that turned out to be my final Cross Country race. I didn’t rejoin the team the next year. And I stopped running entirely for a time.

By the time I returned to the sport, I was a seasoned adult. I had gained much in maturity and wisdom. But I’d lost my grasp on strategy.

I would go into races with maximum effort and try to hang on for 3, 6 or 13 miles.

Surprisingly, I got away with it for a time. But eventually, my performance plateaued.

By this point, I was training with experienced runners. Many of them had coaches or had coached others. So, as big races approached, strategy conversations would percolate on our group runs.

I took these conversations to heart. I reconsidered how to race, how to pace my training runs, how to fuel, and how to recover. All of it would impact when I crossed the finish line.

Yes, going smart was better than going hard. It was just as it had been during my high school days.

But this time I was primed to remember the lesson. Maybe.

Most of my mornings start the same way.

I wake up and head out for a pre-dawn run.

Where I run from and how long I run for can vary. But my approach never does.

The days of me taking off like a racehorse are over. Even in training, I commit to going smart.

But something strange happens when I head home after my workout.

I shower, change clothes, and head to work. And in the process, I forget everything I’ve just practiced.

Yes, I approach my job, my errands, and other aspects of my day-to-day with an unrelenting tenacity.

I am dogged. I am determined. I only believe in going hard.

This ethos has paid dividends. It’s helped me build a career — twice — and live a fulfilling life.

But it’s also worn me down. It’s caused mental and physical fatigue. And sometimes, it’s led me to spiral.

All of this is tragically inevitable.

You see, going hard is an asset in certain situations. When we’re making a name for ourselves, we don’t get to choose when to give our best.

It’s full throttle all the time. It has to be.

But at some point, our ticket to the summit betrays us. That all-out grit becomes our undoing, sending us sliding down the mountaintop.

It’s our responsibility to see this demise coming. And it’s our obligation to change tactics to protect ourselves.

For our own preservation, we must switch from going hard to going smart.

I’ve figured this out in my competitive running career — twice. But in the world outside of running, I’ve missed the boat. Repeatedly.

I’m afraid I’m not the only one in this predicament. But it needn’t become manifest destiny.

Early in the COVID pandemic, I did something incredibly common.

I went online and ordered an outdoor furniture set.

I envisioned this furniture sitting on my patio someday. But what I didn’t envision was how I was going to put the set together.

So, when some boxes arrived at my door — filled with parts and a page of instructions — I knew I was in trouble.

At first, I tried to solve this problem by going hard. I followed the instructions the best I could, putting more and more effort into the project.

But I quickly realized I was in over my head. I didn’t have power tools and had no concept as to whether I was doing this right.

Flustered, I pivoted.

I hired a handyman, who put the furniture together in less than two hours. His work remains intact on my patio to this day.

I hadn’t thought much about that situation until I sat down to write this article. But it proves the value of going smart.

If I had doubled down on going hard, I might have gotten that furniture put together. But I likely would have injured myself or melted down in rage during the process.

The toll of going all-in would have been heftier than the benefits.

Fortunately, I never faced that toll. I made the smart move instead.

I can take something from this experience. We all can.

There are times when it makes sense to take a step back. To consider other options than Try Harder. And to calibrate our efforts accordingly.

Navigating this nuance won’t be easy. But it will be beneficial.

Much like runners, we’ll conserve our energy. We’ll maximize our performance. And we’ll likely be happier than we otherwise would have been.

Going hard is a means to an end. Going smart is a path to sustained success.

Let’s follow it.

Who We Need to Be

All I have I would have given gladly not to be standing here today.

Those were some of the first words Lyndon B. Johnson uttered on November 27, 1963.

Johnson had just ascended to the highest office in the land — the United States Presidency. It was a role he had long aspired toward. But now, in a speech to Congress, he seemed to yearn to give it all back.

In a vacuum, such desires might have seemed odd — even alarming. A reluctant leader of the free world would be a major liability.

But at this moment, those words were a torniquet for a wounded nation.

You see, just four days earlier, Johnson had taken the oath of office aboard Air Force One. President John F. Kennedy had just been assassinated during a parade in downtown Dallas. And Johnson needed to assume Kennedy’s office immediately.

The shock and horror of that event had rattled everyone. The worst had happened — in Johnson’s home state of Texas, no less — and now the nation was reeling. This surely was not how Johnson had envisioned his ascension.

Johnson had a reputation as a bulldog, a politician who could achieve objectives through sheer will and resolve. He was as tough as they came, and he could be emphatically persuasive.

But those were not the qualities the American people needed to see at a time like this. So, in that initial address to Congress, Johnson took far more somber tone.

An assassin’s bullet has thrust upon me the awesome burden of the Presidency. I am here today to say I need your help; I cannot bear this burden alone.

Johnson would later speak of the need for strength, and his obligation to honor Kennedy’s legacy by seeing through his initiatives.

But make no mistake. This was not a bold and fiery address. It was quite the opposite.

In a moment of turmoil, the normally tough-minded Texan had become exactly who the nation needed him to be.

About three months before Johnson took the dais in the United States Capitol, another man stepped up to a microphone on the far end of the National Mall.

Staring toward the Washington Monument, that man spoke of his dreams. Dreams of a future of improved racial relations, of civil rights, of hope.

That man, of course, was Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. And those words would go on to change history.

But they almost didn’t happen.

Indeed, if you were to peek at Dr. King’s script on that August day in 1963, the words I have a dream would not be on there. The reverend was planning to speak of reality, rather than visions.

This straightforward approach had been Dr. King’s hallmark. He took a plainspoken tone during the Montgomery Bus Boycotts and in his Letter from Birmingham Jail.

The objectives were to call out injustice and spur action. And this style of leadership had helped achieve both thus far.

But as he stared out from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, Dr. King realized the crowd assembled before him needed something more. They needed hope.

And in that moment, Dr. King became who he needed to be to deliver it.

There’s no doubt that Lyndon B. Johnson heard about that speech. After all, the White House is roughly a mile from where Dr. King delivered it.

So, when it was his turn to speak to an aggrieved nation, Johnson had a blueprint. A shining example of how to speak from the heart. A case study in being what his audience needed him to be.

Johnson followed that blueprint and met the moment.

But his words ended up guiding us into the wilderness.

History has proven unkind to Lyndon Johnson.

An escalating war abroad and civil unrest at home ultimately did his presidency in. The fiasco redrew political lines in permanent marker, setting the precursor for a modern-day divided America.

Perhaps that’s why few point to Johnson’s address to Congress as exemplary leadership these days. Maybe they feel that discretion seems the better part of valor.

That could well be the case. But I think something deeper is at play.

You see, there is a popular leadership standard called The Steady Hand. This approach prioritizes consistency in all situations. And prominent examples of it are everywhere.

There’s Winston Churchill’s steely defiance, which remained intact through the ups and downs of World War II. There’s Derek Jeter’s quiet confidence, a metronome that steered the New York Yankees through years of baseball dominance. There’s even Steve Jobs’ petulance, which might not have been desirable, but still yielded consistent innovation.

These examples — and others — have helped The Steady Hand take on a life of its own. So much so that it’s become the de facto playbook for leadership.

Those who follow it are lauded. Those who eschew it are critiqued — through shouts or in whispers.

That’s what happened to President Lyndon B. Johnson. It’s even what happened to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Each is remembered for how their moment in the limelight ended. One a pariah, the other a martyr.

Such focus is a reflection on their malleability and their vulnerability. It’s a statement on the price to paid by those who buck the Steady Hand trend.

Yet, these broad doses of rug sweeping do us no good. It doesn’t cover up the inherent flaws in the Steady Hand approach.

Indeed, there are times when this approach is not enough. There are times when we need to see our reflection in the eyes of those who inspire us. There are times when we need our heroes to be human.

And in those moments, the best leaders become exactly who we need them to be.

We seem to have forgotten this lesson. But it’s not too late to change course.

There’s a concept out there called Active Listening.

Rather than just opening their ears, active listeners open their minds. They absorb the speakers’ words rather than jumping at ready responses. They try to understand what the speaker is thinking and take that context into account.

I learned of this concept in business school and was smitten with it instantly. It’s changed how I communicate and how I live.

There’s more nuance to my personal and professional relationships now. I better understand where friends, family and co-workers are coming from when they speak with me. And I’m more adept at meeting the moment and being who they need me to be.

It’s worked wonders for me. And I’m certain it could have a similar effect for others.

You see, we could all use some active listening. We could all use some malleability in our approach. We could all use some practice in being who we need to be.

So, let’s put away our stubborn pride. Let’s stop standing on ceremony. And let’s get to work.

A world of good awaits us. Let’s unlock it.

The Talent Load Fallacy

On a summer night in 2010, all eyes were on a Boys and Girls Club in Connecticut.

The gym there was filled with TV cameras. Studio lights aimed their glare on two chairs in the center of the room.

On one chair sat veteran sports reporter Jim Gray. On the other sat LeBron James.

James was a transcendent talent. Dubbed “The Chosen One” on a Sports Illustrated cover as a high school junior, he had made the leap to the National Basketball Association as a teenager. And he had become the face of basketball before he could even legally drink alcohol.

By the time he set foot in that Boys and Girls Club, James had already claimed a league scoring title, been named an All Star six times, and won two Most Valuable Player awards. Pundits were starting to compare him to Michael Jordan — who was widely considered the best basketball player of all time.

But Jordan had something James did not. Championship rings.

Jordan had been to the NBA Finals six times in his career. His Chicago Bulls had hoisted the championship trophy after each appearance, and Jordan had claimed Finals Most Valuable Player.

James had only been to the championship series once. And his Cleveland Cavaliers failed to win a single Finals game.

Now, LeBron James was a free agent, with the option to sign a lucrative contract wherever he pleased. Would he stay loyal to Cleveland? Or would he set off for greener pastures?

That’s what this TV special — dubbed The Decision — was about. After much speculation, James would finally spill the beans.

Sporting a lavender and white dress shirt, James turned to the TV cameras and announced his intent.

In the fall, I’m going to take my talents to South Beach and join the Miami Heat.

And with those words, the sporting landscape changed.

For not only was James heading to Miami, but he had left some money on the table to do so. By signing a contract below the market rate, James enabled the Heat to sign even more top-end talent.

Miami used that money to lure another star player from the Toronto Raptors, and to re-sign their best player. Their roster was now loaded.

With great fanfare, James had coordinated the launch of a superteam.

Days after The Decision, the Miami Heat hosted a buzzy event at their arena to introduce their new signees. James took the mic and told attendees that the Heat would win Not one, not two, not three, not four, not five, not six championships. The crowd roared.

The implication was clear. James had moved to Miami for one reason — to clear the last hurdle between him and Michael Jordan. If he could win the next seven championships, he’d be considered the greatest ever. That was all he was chasing.

Perhaps the man nicknamed King James thought his moves that summer would be enough. The hard part was over, the titles and accolades would come rolling in, and he’d be revered in all corners.

That’s not what happened.

Back in Ohio, fans revolted at his betrayal. Many burned their Cavaliers jerseys with James’ name on it, and videos of the infernos appeared on the internet. When the Heat traveled to Cleveland, the response was so hostile that the arena needed extra security.

And many NBA fans — and longtime Michael Jordan fans — actively rooted against James, hoping his perceived shortcut to accolades would fail.

The doubters got their wish the following summer. The Heat did make the NBA Finals, but they lost to the Dallas Mavericks. James was thoroughly outplayed by Dallas’ Dirk Nowitzki in that series, and he faced intense ridicule afterward.

It appeared that The Decision had backfired bigtime.

As I write this, I’ve been a professional for the better part of 12 years.

I don’t play basketball, and I don’t find myself in front of the cameras. But I’ve worked in multiple industries for various employers.

These companies have all had homegrown talent. They’ve hired unproven commodities like me and let us grow into our roles. They’ve often promoted from within, giving new responsibilities to those already familiar with their operations and culture.

But every now and then, I’ve caught wind of a splashy hire or two. Someone with a star-studded resume, newly arrived from a big-name company.

I welcome these developments. But not unconditionally.

For I remember the story of LeBron James and the Miami Heat. I know that assembling a superteam, Avengers style, doesn’t always guarantee success.

Indeed, recent corporate history is littered with missteps like these. JC Penney, Bed Bath and Beyond, and Twitter — among others — have recently faltered under the watch of ballyhooed executives.

I don’t rejoice in such carnage. But I am aware of what it represents. And I hope that those within my orbit are as well.

You see, the mixed returns of the Talent Load strategy represent more than luck. They demonstrate the folly of a prevalent myth.

Talent is not finite. It’s not zero sum. And it is far from guaranteed.

Indeed, talent is more like the yeast starter for a loaf of bread. When it’s given time to cultivate and mesh with its surrounding environment, it can grow into something special. But it needs that time and space to thrive.

This is a self-evident truth. But it’s an inconvenient one for our modern world — where the demand for instant results is high.

So, we keep going to the well. We rely on the abilities of a proven few. And, in doing so, we ignore the potential of many others.

That does no one any good.

There’s an old episode of Family Guy where the show’s protagonist — Peter Griffin — buys volcano insurance from a traveling salesman.

The whole thing was a gag. It was proof Griffin was so dim-witted that he’d throw his money at just about anything.

But the bit only works because of some common knowledge. Namely, that there is insurance coverage for just about anything.

One of those just about anything coverages is called Key Man Insurance. It’s meant to protect a company financially if one of its core employees is incapacitated.

In a sense, this coverage seems prudent. If top talent is taken out, a business might lose its edge — financially and otherwise. Insurance protection could be a worthy hedge against that risk.

But this line of thought can corrode an entire organization. It can give top executives a God complex, inflating their sense of self-importance. And it can create a de facto glass ceiling for everyone in the organization with a lower title.

Whether these employees are mid-level managers or entry level associates, they seemingly don’t matter. They’re the worker bees. The talent is upstairs, out of reach.

This might not be entirely true, of course. But actions can feed perceptions. And every move to quickly assemble a superteam and encase it in Key Man Insurance protection — well, it tells a story.

It’s a bleak narrative. But not an inevitable one.

Indeed, corporate leaders can flip the script. They can view their workforce as diamonds in the rough, rather than cogs in a wheel. They can commit to development and build a pipeline to the top.

And those in that workforce can showcase their potential. They can advocate for themselves, lead by example, and shine radiantly when the lights are brightest. Through will and determination, they can douse cold water on the myth of finite talent.

These are small changes, with minimal impact on their own. But once combined, they can turn the Talent Load fallacy on its head. They can forge a more equitable and promising future for all.

That’s what we’re all after. So, let’s go get it.

Thoughtful Idiocy

As the sun set on an October day in Texas, anticipation rose.

The Texas Rangers were about to take the field for their first home playoff game in three years. With a win, they’d advance to the next round of baseball’s postseason.

The ballpark was filled with 50,000 fans, all waving red and white rally towels. And I was one of them.

I’d scored my seat thanks to some good fortune. There had been a lottery for the opportunity to buy playoff tickets, and my name had been selected. All around me, fans who had come by their tickets the same way were remarking how fortunate they felt.

The game started. The roar of the crowd was deafening. And the view from down the third base line was honestly not all that bad.

But then, in the second inning, a beer vendor started walking up and down the aisles. He was directly in my line of sight as I looked out toward home plate where the action was.

I craned my neck to look around him, knowing he’d be gone in a moment.

But then a fan approached him in the aisle and ordered two beers. The fan, wearing the opposing team’s jersey, stood there while the vendor tried to serve him.

It was as if the fan was in the concession stand line. But he wasn’t. He was blocking the view of hundreds of Rangers fans. Fans who hadn’t paid hundreds of dollars to stare at him buying beer.

Eventually, some of those Rangers fans had enough. They asked the opposing fan to crouch down while he waited, so that they could watch the game.

The opposing fan replied by threatening to drop his pants. He then verbally abused all of the Rangers fans in the section, oblivious to the fact that he was vastly outnumbered.

It was all so childish, so comically immature. But it left an impact.

I’d paid top dollar to see playoff baseball. But my enduring memory of that experience are the actions of an idiot.

What were you thinking?

These words fill me with dread.

When I hear them uttered, it means that someone has just done something idiotic. And they’re getting raked over the coals for it.

You see, the answer to this phrase is self-evident. The target of wrath couldn’t possibly have been thinking. If they had, they wouldn’t have done something this dumb.

This critique itself doesn’t make me cringe. But what it symbolizes does.

It means there’s already been collateral damage from the idiot’s actions. It’s the ballpark fiasco all over again.

I feel for all those impacted by this self-absorbed behavior. Those who are essentially victimized by thoughtlessness.

And I seek to never be that thoughtless person. I yearn to never find myself rightfully called to the carpet.

Still, such plans are far from foolproof.

Back at the ballpark, behind that obnoxious fan in the aisle, a duel was going on.

Well, more like a series of them.

Each time a player strode to home plate and dug their cleats into the dirt, a new confrontation would begin. A high stakes battle between the batter and the pitcher.

The batter was looking for a pitch he could hit hard. And the pitcher was looking to make the batter miss.

Occasionally, one of these combatants would make the other one look foolish. The batter would drive a pitch over the heart of home plate to the outfield wall, 400 feet away. The pitcher would fool the batter into swinging at a ball in the dirt. Both of those things happened in this playoff game.

But sometimes, the pitcher or batter would do exactly what they wanted — and end up with nothing to show for it.

That was ultimately how the game got away from the Rangers.

In the sixth inning, with his team down by a 2-0 score, Texas starting pitcher Martin Perez returned to the pitching mound. He gave up base hits to the first two batters — both on pitches below the batter’s knees.

The ball was thrown where he wanted it each time. But it didn’t yield the desired outcome.

Perez was pulled from the game. Both batters he gave up hits to would ultimately come around to score when his replacement gave up a home run.

As I write this, Perez has yet to start another postseason game. Surely, he must think back on that night and wonder how it got away from him.

Truth be told, Perez pitched decently well in that game. His intensity, focus, and effort were where they needed to be.

But the results belied his best intentions. And for years, that disconnect cast a shadow over his career.

There’s a term that defines Perez’s predicament that October evening.

Thoughtful idiocy.

Perez was seeking to command the game. But he still ended up sinking his team’s chances.

Thoughtful idiocy is a bitter pill to swallow. It’s insidious, as it takes a good thing and turns it bad.

We are primed to be the opposite of that fan waiting for beer in the middle of the aisle. We’re supposed to be selfless, conscientious, and committed to the cause.

It’s tantalizing to tie outcomes to these attributes. Act absent-minded and suffer the consequences. Operate with thoughtfulness and reap the benefits.

But that’s not how it works in practice.

In truth, we can try too hard. We can push too far. We can get beat at our own game.

Sometimes this looks like Martin Perez on the pitching mound that October night. Minimal mistakes yield lopsided results — with thousands watching in disappointment.

Other times, it can be a bit more subtle. It might mean pushing ahead on a work project without getting the requisite sign-off. It might mean ramping up a workout regimen faster than your body can handle. It might mean trying a bit too hard to reconnect with long-lost acquaintances.

I know all these mistakes. For I have made them before.

That my heart was in the right place mattered little. The results told the story.

I was an idiot. Not for doing too little. But for doing too much, without even considering a sanity check.

You’ve got to be part strategist, part psychologist.

This is the unofficial job description for a baseball manager.

It’s only fitting. In a sport where 9 players take the field each night for six months, it’s a requisite skill. Especially when you consider how difficult it is to hit a baseball.

Yes, great baseball managers have mastered the art of nuance. They get their teams in the right tactical positions to win. But they also get their players in the right headspace to thrive.

The best managers must remain active without overacting. The must be thoughtful without overthinking.

Such skills are not relegated to baseball. Many coaches in other sports display similar nuance. So do many supervisors in office settings. And many parents in households across America.

Nuanced thought and measured action can help just about anyone thrive at their role. They can avoid the polarizing extremes of absent mindedness and of taking things too far. They can avoid both supreme dumbness and thoughtful idiocy.

But we can’t get to this point right out of the gates. Experience is an unrivaled teacher in this endeavor. And blunders sometimes provide the most vivid lessons.

When I recount my moments of thoughtful idiocy, I first feel humiliated. How could I have been so foolish? How could I have gotten things so wrong?

But then, I remember to give myself some grace. To treat the incident as a building block. To show the same level of dedication next time, but with a bit more restraint.

This is the roadmap to a better tomorrow. For me. For all of us.

But we must commit to it.

We must not bury our thoughtful idiocy. We must instead have the courage to address it and iterate off it.

There’s nothing dumb about that.

Out of the Shadows

It was a beautiful afternoon.

Outside my window, sunlight radiated through blue skies. The branches of the trees barely budged in the light breeze.

It was one of those mid-winter days in Texas that just begged everyone to get outside. To enjoy the temperate conditions before they gave way to the muggy slog of spring and the searing heat of summer.

But on this day, I was not heeding the call. On this day, I remained indoors.

I was recuperating from a recent ankle surgery. And I had been ordered to wear a protective boot whenever I was away from home.

Getting that boot on my foot was quite a challenge. Walking in that boot was another. And cleaning that boot was no picnic, either.

It seemed prudent to avoid all of this when possible. So, I tended to stay indoors — even on beautiful days like these.

Although I craved the light, I remained in the shadows.

That protective boot now sits in my closet, collecting dust.

But my memory doesn’t.

I might have recovered from my injury. But all around me, I see plenty of others amid their own tribulations.

At the ballgame, the grocery store, and the airport, I see the marks of recuperation. People are sporting slings, crutches, and protective boots. And I feel for them.

This is not a Baader-Meinhof situation. That happened when I purchased my SUV, and then suddenly noticed dozens of others like it.

No, I had noticed people with disabilities before. But where I’d once gotten out of the way of them, I now did what I could to help.

I would hold a door open for them or give up my seat to them. All with a knowing nod.

I understood their plight. And I wanted to lessen the burden.

In late 1989, the Berlin Wall came down.

For a generation, the treacherous concrete barrier had defined the divide between East and West, between communism and democracy. But now, it was gone. And the USSR would soon follow.

The Cold War was over.

I was playing with Matchbox cars and watching Sesame Street when this occurred. I understood little of what was going on.

But now, as an adult, I frame my life story around this event. I was born during the Cold War but grew up after it.

This narrative is factual. But it omits another seismic event from that time.

In mid 1990, the United States Congress passed the Americans with Disabilities Act. The legislation afforded protections to anyone facing an impairment.

In one fell swoop, it brought those with disabilities out of the shadows and into the light.

Remnants of this legislation were everywhere during my youth. Public facilities were being retrofitted to comply with the law. Public announcements were educating the masses on the accommodations.

And yet, I couldn’t quite relate. I was able-bodied and had no reason to believe I wouldn’t be. This wasn’t my fight.

So, I continued to ignore the narrative around me. I would pay no mind to the revolution at home, and instead wax poetic about events that occurred far afield.

It would take three decades for me to change my tune.

When the COVID pandemic hit in 2020, we got a glimpse of the shadows. Confined by lockdowns, business closures, and mask mandates, we all got to see how the 26 percent of Americans with disabilities live.

Like many, I loathed this experience. I did my best to get some distance from it as the pandemic receded.

But I could never fully escape.

About two years after the COVID shutdowns, I was to meet my family in Houston for a vacation. A few days before the trip, my mother informed me that she would be showing up in the Bayou City in a wheelchair.

I knew my mother had been dealing with some knee issues. But I was still caught off-guard by this announcement.

As a longtime Texan, I knew my state wasn’t the easiest to navigate by wheelchair. And I spent hours ticking through contingency plans.

What if we needed to change up our seating at the rodeo? What if the Johnson Space Center had exhibits that were only accessible by stairs?

Everything ended up working out just fine. But I remained hyper-aware of the challenges facing those with disabilities.

Then I went under the knife and experienced those challenges firsthand.

As I navigated that time in the shadows, post-procedure, I was introspective. I was ashamed of how badly I’d overlooked those with disabilities for so much of my life. And I was determined to do better.

I’ve lived by that creed ever since.

I’m determined to show compassion to those with disabilities, helping them emerge from the shadows. And I’m hoping my actions inspire others to do the same.

This might seem like a noble quest. But it has its challenges. And perhaps not the ones you might think.

The Washington Post has employed a slew of high-profile journalists over the years. Perhaps the most recent of these is Taylor Lorenz.

Before joining the Post, Lorenz made her name writing about internet culture for the New York Times. As the online world has evolved in hyper speed, Lorenz has covered every bit of it — garnering both acclaim and outrage along the way.

If you follow Lorenz on social media though, you’ll find something else. Namely, a long-running critique of loosened COVID pandemic restrictions.

In much of American society, this point is a non-starter. The worst of the pandemic has passed, medical interventions are now available, and a yearning for normalcy percolate.

But Lorenz is either immunocompromised or carrying the flag of those who are. She will not stop criticizing the world for “moving on.”

I can see where Lorenz is coming from, to a degree. There are some similarities between being injured and immunocompromised — particularly when it comes to societal isolation.

It was frustrating when I found myself alone in the shadows. Still, I never once expected others to stay inside during my recuperation, just because I was deprived the outdoors. That would have been an unreasonable request.

It’s no more feasible for the immunocompromised to demand that the world remain perpetually locked down. It’s several bridges too far.

So yes, Lorenz’s advocacy should remain off the table here. But so should the status quo.

It’s time for us to embrace the spirit of the Americans with Disabilities Act. It’s time to provide reasonable accommodation to those we’ve banished to the shadows.

That means awareness. It means compassion.

It means giving a hand up, but not necessarily a handout.

Making this compromise might seem daunting. But those with disabilities are making compromises of their own too.

We owe it to them to meet them halfway.

Manufactured Rebellion

Silicon Valley.

The string of suburbs nestled toward the bottom of the San Francisco Bay is where the titans of computing, the Internet, and social media are based. It’s where a glut of venture capital and private equity firms have set up shop.

It might seem this sun-speckled stretch of California paradise has always been the epicenter of technology. But back in the early 1980s, the seat of power was 3,000 miles east.

You see, back then, Steve Jobs wasn’t a household name. Elon Musk was a secondary school student in South Africa. Mark Zuckerberg wasn’t even born yet.

Business computing was king. And there was but one behemoth in business computing — IBM.

The sleepy suburban enclave of Armonk — some 35 miles north of New York City — was the heart of IBM’s corporate functions. It’s where the accountants maintained their balance sheets. It’s where the financial analysts did their modeling. It’s where executives maintained their cushy offices.

But not all of IBM’s operations were based there. Some 1,300 miles south in Boca Raton, another unit was hard at work.

These employees paid little attention to the details of what was going on up in Armonk. And the bigwigs at headquarters had precious little line of sight into what was happening down in Florida.

This was all by design.

The Boca unit was IBM’s skunkworks. It was the space where IBM-ers could innovate, free of the constraints of the IBM brand banner. It was where IBM could attempt to disrupt its own business.

IBM wasn’t the first company to try its hand at skunkworks.

Lockheed Martin introduced the concept as it developed weapons in secrecy during World War II. Over the years, other companies followed its lead.

However, IBM had a novel use for its skunkworks setup — Manufactured Rebellion.

Yes, the team in Boca was made up of IBM employees aiming to disrupt IBM’s business.

The company knew that its stronghold was far from assured over time. Technology changes. Consumption patterns shift.

If IBM were to wait before reacting to these changes, it would be too late. The only shot at longevity would be to stay on the cutting edge. To diversify the company portfolio to include the innovations of tomorrow and the strategic strengths of today.

That’s what Manufactured Rebellion was all about. And it yielded the Personal Computer for IBM.

We might overlook that point these days, with Apple and Microsoft dominating the PC market. But the skunkworks likely helped IBM stay relevant for far longer than the company otherwise would have been.

And thanks to a Harvard Business Review writeup, the IBM skunkworks continues to cast a long shadow.

Indeed, Manufactured Rebellion is all the rage in the technology world. Companies left and right are trying to disrupt themselves, even as they reach the pinnacle of success.

This is how Apple ended up making smartphones. It’s what got Netflix into streaming. It’s why Google’s parent company has a division called “other bets,” fueled by an incubator called X.

It’s also the reason companies in other industries — automaking, hospitality, and finance — are rebranding themselves as tech companies.

Manufactured Rebellion is all around us. And to some degree, within us.

You see, these companies have an outsize influence on our behavior. Consider it the halo effect.

Starbucks once convinced us to pay $4 for a cup of coffee. Disney persuaded us that happily ever after was inevitable. And Apple, Google, and Netflix have directed us to shake up today in favor of tomorrow.

So, we seek to disrupt ourselves.

We cast off old routines. We reinvent our style. We shake up our professional identity.

We do all this for the same reason as IBM. To stay ahead of the curve.

But are we getting more than we bargained for?

Early in the film Catch Me If You Can, FBI agent Carl Hanratty enters a French prison, seeking to take custody of a prisoner there.

The prisoner — Frank Abagnale, Jr. — had pulled off a string of confidence crimes. Hanratty’s mission was to bring him back to the United States to face charges.

Abagnale had been a confident and quick-witted man throughout his crime spree. But in the dark confines of a jail cell, he appeared young and frightened.

After making a feeble attempt at an escape, he made a frail request to Hanratty.

Take me home, Carl.

Abagnale had brought all kinds of Manufactured Rebellion into his life. He had posed as a lawyer and an airline pilot. He had forged millions of dollars worth of checks. And he had stayed one step ahead of the law throughout most of these escapades.

But now, he had been stripped of all that. Reacquainted with his real identity, all he wanted to do was go home.

Most of us are not confidence artists like Abagnale. Our journey probably won’t include a stop in a French jail.

But we can relate to him a bit too viscerally.

You see, our penchant for self-disruption has its benefits.

Switching jobs yields increased earning power. Moving homes yields enhanced surroundings. Changing diets yields improved health.

But Manufactured Rebellion also has its costs.

If we keep changing for change’s sake, we start chasing ghosts. We’re always in pursuit. Never comfortable. Never satisfied.

We lose sight of who we are on the quest to find out who we could be.

This is a basic fact. And yet, it always seems to catch us off guard — just as it did Abagnale.

It shouldn’t.

For despite its bravado, Manufactured Rebellion often fails to deliver. For every Netflix stream or iPhone, there are dozens of failed corporate pivots. Heck, even the flagship PC from IBM’s skunkworks ultimately fell short.

We can’t expect our success rate to be any better. For we are human.

Unlike billion-dollar corporations, we bear the brunt of disruption. We feel every bit of the ups and downs.

And while brand irrelevance is disastrous for any company, the loss of our identity can be downright tragic.

So, let’s turn this ship around. Let’s stop needlessly putting ourselves in jeopardy. And let’s be more thoughtful about when and where we change things up.

This might not give us the sugar rush of Manufactured Rebellion. But it spares us the inevitable crash that follows.

And that’s not nothing.

Author: Dylan Brooks