Category: Reflections

Problem Solvers

We hadn’t spent five minutes in the living room when my dad piped up with a question.

When you hung these pictures on the wall, were you standing up?

Our host— a family friend — acknowledged that she had.

Well, they’re hung too high, my father replied. But don’t worry. I’ll get them fixed.

A few minutes later, my father headed to the restroom to relieve himself. When he re-emerged, he had a quizzical look on his face. He wanted to know how long the toilet handle had been loose.

Our host admitted the handle had been that way for some time. But she insisted it wasn’t a big deal.

Nonsense, my father replied. I’m happy to fix it. In fact, I’ll feel better if I do that.

I stared at my father in disbelief. Here we were enjoying free shelter in the company of a friendly face. And instead of expressing gratitude, my father was exerting control.

But my father didn’t see it that way. He noticed that some problems around the house needed fixing. And in his eyes, gratitude came through the salve.

Every river tells a story.

So goes an old axiom.

Few other features in the natural world are as elaborately complex as river. Mountain ranges rise up to the sky in thick lines. Oceans stretch uniformly to the horizon – and beyond.

But rivers bend and wind through canyons, prairies, and forests. They dart and meander through rugged terrain with a determined ferocity.

The water in those rivers seeks the simplest route downhill to the sea. The path of least resistance.

Those twists and turns are obligatory in achieving this objective.

Much like rivers, we are taught to seek the easiest route forward. To eschew complexity and to keep from flowing uphill.

This is the mandate our family friend was living under when she left her pictures hanging too high and her toilet handle too loose.

But my father saw right through it all. He knew that the path of least resistance was futile. Things had to get fixed, as unpleasant as that work might seem. And he was going to be the one to fix them. 

My father’s resoluteness left an impact on me then. An impact that still resonates now.

Late in my elementary school years, I was asked to read The Odyssey.

The book was thick and bulky. As I brought it to class and back home, it turned my backpack into a rock.

And by the time I’d read about 100 pages, I’d had enough. The story had just begun, but I was in full protest mode.

Why did this work have to be so drawn out, I asked my mother. Couldn’t Odysseus have just made an easy, simple trip home from Troy?

My mother responded that the travails were what made the book stand the test of time. We don’t remember the stories of the warriors who had an easy trip across the Aegean Sea. We remember Odysseus because he went to hell and back on his journey.

That description resonated with me. No longer was the easy path the default path.

I realized I’d eventually be defined by the complexity I navigated, by the problems I solved. I recognized we all would be defined by these characteristics

So, I started embracing the problem solver’s mindset. I started tackling the challenges in my midst head on, instead of trying to avoid them.

This didn’t seem like a big deal at first. But over time, I started to realize how much of a seismic shift it was.

I’d become more engaged in school — fully committed to answering the questions my teachers posed to the class. I felt less helpless when my daily routine got knocked off kilter. And I started — for the first time — to truly consider what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.

Which would become an odyssey in itself.

In our age of modernity, there remains a fascination with Leonardo DaVinci.

The Renaissance figure left this earth more than 500 years ago. But his impact still resonates.

DaVinci was a polymath — a person of a wide range of expertise and interests. And he had a keen desire to express himself in many of these areas.

Much like his contemporaries, DaVinci painted frescos. But when he wasn’t holding a paintbrush, he was seeking answers to the mysteries of the day in botany, biology, physics, and engineering.

DaVinci mocked up contraptions for flying, for mobile warfare, for harnessing the energy of the sun, and for adding numbers together. The airplane, tank, solar panel, and calculator wouldn’t arrive for several more centuries. But all of them owe partial credit to DaVinci’s problem solving expertise.

I’m nowhere near the genius that Leonardo DaVinci was. But when I look at my life’s journey, I still see some parallels.

For my tale has been anything but simple. I’ve moved around the country and across the state of Texas. I’ve shifted careers and nearly gone broke. I’ve fallen headlong into new hobbies and ping-ponged between social circles.

These developments have not been without their fair share of challenges. Meeting the moment meant solving each problem in my midst, one by one, with an unrelenting air of zeal.

I needed to fashion myself as a polymath — much as DaVinci did. And I needed to harness the right mixture curiosity and grit to get difficult things done.

I’ve done that, and I’ve been rewarded for it.

But that’s only part of the story.

The movie Pulp Fiction is full of indelible characters. But the one that stands out to me is The Wolf.

The Wolf is not a costumed vigilante or a brutish thug. He’s Winston Wolf — a middle-aged man in a sharp tuxedo.

The Wolf arrives when two of the film’s main characters find themselves in an unconventional and messy situation. He helps the men get out of a jam by breaking the big dilemma into a series of smaller ones — and then making those dilemmas disappear.

This is The Wolf’s superpower. He’s a professional problem solver. A man who thinks quickly on his feet and takes control of a situation.

These days, I see a lot of The Wolf in myself. I not only have the motivation to solve any problem in my path, but I also have the touch needed to take control of the situation.

I’ve learned the principles of all this from my father, Odysseus, and Leonardo DaVinci. But I’ve learned the application from Winston Wolf.

I hope I can carry the torch they lit with honor. In fact, I hope we all can.

For problem solving needn’t be a special skill for special people. It’s available to all of us.

But no one can force us to take up the mantle. The inspiration must come from within.

Let us find that spark and act upon it.

The Energy Budget

It’s now or never.

That’s what I told myself as I prepared for my first all-nighter.

I was 17 years old, and I’d just spent a month in a college prep summer program on the west coast. I’d connected with new friends, made new memories, and just generally had a time of it.

But now, it was the last night of the adventure. When the sun rose again, everyone would return to their homes in different corners of the globe. We would never all be in the same place again.

Mindful of this, the leaders of the program lifted the nightly curfew. And we took full advantage of that freedom.

Reminiscing at 11 PM. Karaoke at 2 AM. Delirious laughter at 5 AM. It all happened.

We cursed the dawn when it arrived. And we started saying our solemn goodbyes.

As my shuttle headed away from the college campus, I was stone faced and composed. But once I arrived and the airport, reality set in. Surrounded by strangers, my eyes started to well with tears.

I reminded myself that an airport was no place for a breakdown. So, I pulled myself together — making it through the security line, through the concourse, and onto the plane.

As it took off, and I watched the West Coast disappear out of the tiny double-paned window.

And then I fell into a deep slumber.

When I woke up, the plane was over Detroit. Day had turned to night, and we were an hour from landing on the East Coast.

I knew that my parents would be waiting at the airport once I arrived. I knew they’d be excited to see me after a month away. And I knew that I needed to match that excitement.

So, I spent the remainder of my flight preparing myself for that moment. And I did indeed manage to stay upbeat at the moment of reunification.

But once my parents started asking me to share details from the program, I lost it. Sobbing uncontrollably, I felt the urge to apologize for my behavior.

My parents deflected my pleas.

How much have you slept recently? they asked.

I confessed that I’d been awake for 34 of the prior 38 hours. And my parents told me to head up to bed.

The stories of the prior month could wait. I needed to recharge.

As dawn’s light entered my childhood bedroom, I found myself cheerier — and wiser.

For the first time, I recognized that the energy at my disposal was not infinite. And I resolved to be more judicious with how I used it.

Well, sort of.

As I moved on to my senior year of high school — and then college — I generally steered clear of all-nighters. But I did tend to stay up late and wake up somewhat early, relying on caffeine to pull me through.

I had one speed, and I gave myself full license to use it. As long as my energy reserves didn’t go into the red, I’d be alright. At least that’s what I told myself.

But as I got older, I could feel things start to shift.

My body was requiring more sleep. And continuously going all out no longer seemed possible.

So, I made some changes. I got rid of those late nights. And I moderated my effort levels throughout the day.

Those adaptations proved prescient for many years. But recently, their shine has started to fade.

These days, it’s not just how much energy I spend that matters. It’s what I spend it on.

Early in adulthood, I ran into some financial challenges.

I’d lived paycheck to paycheck in my first career. And when I switched careers, I found myself unemployed for three months. As I powered through job applications and showed up for fruitless interviews, what little savings I had to my name disappeared.

Eventually, I did land a job with a steady income. I got a new apartment and moved my furnishings out of storage.

But ridding myself of the credit card debt I’d accumulated in prior months proved trickier. So, I met with a financial advisor to strategize.

The advisor reacquainted me with some advanced budgeting techniques, which I followed to a T. And soon enough, my house was back in order.

The lessons from that experience remain ingrained. Every now and then, I might incur a charge or two beyond my means. But when I do, I moderate my spending until I can balance the books. It’s just the way my brain works now.

And in the past few years, such budgeting habits have started to extend beyond dollars and cents. Now, I’m mindful of which daily activities I should devote energy to and which ones I should defer to other forces.

For instance, where I was once militant about reducing my thermostat usage, I now tend to keep the heat or air conditioning running continuously. I recognize that the mental calculus of toggling the on-off switch was taking too much of my daily attention. And I understand that preserving mental energy is more precious to me than saving a few dollars on an electric bill.

So, it goes for other aspects of my life as well. I divvy my focus wisely, no longer striving to control the most granular details of anything in my midst. Adherence to routines, healthy habits, and technological assists tend to make this shift easier.

But every now and then, the system breaks down. Something that should just work no longer does, and I find myself diving into troubleshooting.

Perhaps my SUV ends up in the shop for a few days longer than anticipated, forcing me to get creative with transportation and meal planning. Maybe one of the appliances in my home malfunctions, forcing me to alter my dishwashing or laundry routine. Or one of the many computerized systems I use has an outage, forcing me to handle processes manually.

Such occurrences are more than annoyances for me. They carry collateral damage.

Indeed, the energy I need to divert toward workarounds is diverted from other portions of my daily life. I’m left with reduced capacity to think deeply, to function professionally, and to stay connected socially. And what little energy I have left over for these critical endeavors is depleted far earlier in the day than usual.

There’s little I can do to fix these situations. I can’t just generate more energy to power through, the way I once did. And I can’t abandon my daily responsibilities.

With that in mind, I do my best to minimize the blow. I prepare myself as best I can for adverse outcomes before they strike. I put intention into my pivoting strategy, so that I don’t lose steam while changing course. And I treat my energy budget as a central force underpinning it all.

It’s far from a perfect solution. But it works.

It works for me. And it will likely work for anyone else in a similar conundrum.

So, if you find yourself flustered and exhausted by the frustration, consider the energy budget approach. Accept limitations. Shift habits. Build resilience.

It might not be a perfect salve. But you’ll be better positioned to reap the benefits.

When It Goes Right

As I strode up to home plate, memories flooded my mind.

Memories of the last time I’d dug into a batter’s box.

It was a couple games ago, on a baseball field 25 miles away. I had been summoned off the bench as a pinch hitter. And everything seemed to be moving at a million miles a minute.

I took a couple of pitches, with the umpire calling one a strike. Then I slashed a ball into foul territory.

I was down to my last strike. And I was terrified of looking like a fool in front of my teammates.

So, as the next pitch came in, I left the bat on my shoulder. It spun toward the outermost edge of home plate, landing with a dull thud in the catcher’s mitt.

Strike three, the umpire shouted. I made the short walk back to the dugout, all semblance of self-confidence extinguished.

So, as I dug into the batter’s box for this delayed second chance, I had just one objective.

Don’t strike out looking.

The pitcher wound up and hurled the baseball. It bounced in the dirt several feet to the outside of home plate.

I smirked. No one was going to swing at that. Not even me.

Still, now was no time to get cocky. With a pitch that bad, who knew where the next one was going?

So, I zoned in. I stared intently at the pitcher as he prepared his next offering.

It sailed toward the upper part of the strike zone. A bit away from my body, but still reachable.

I took a swing and felt my bat connect with the ball. Then I watched the ball head straight toward the second baseman.

He leaped, and my heart sank. Another at bat was about to go to waste.

But a funny thing happened on the way to despair. The ball kept rising over the second baseman’s outstretched glove, before dropping to the ground in the outfield grass behind him.

I’d gotten a hit — the first of my high school baseball career.

As I stood on first base, my coach gave me a fist bump.

Good job. Now, stay focused.

I nodded. But this would prove to be an impossible task.

You see, I was still flabbergasted. I’d shown myself capable of close to nothing up in that one prior at bat. But somehow, I’d just peppered a humpback line drive into right field. What was happening?

The disbelief continued into the next game. Summoned off the bench yet again, I rolled a ground ball past an infielder’s lunging dive. I had another hit.

Now, I was 2 for 3 on the season. And technically I — the last guy on the depth chart — had the team’s highest batting average.

Where had this surge of success come from? And what was I to do with it?

I’ve spent more than half my life trying to figure that out.

Those three at bats were my final ones of organized baseball.

I tried out for the team again the next spring. But this time, I didn’t make it.

I none too surprised. There was a reason I was the last guy on the depth chart the season prior, after all.

Still, getting cut from the team exposed me to the rawness of reality. If baseball wasn’t going to be my future, I needed to figure out what would be.

That quest took several years. And even when I thought I had it figured, life had a few curveballs for me.

A recession. A career change. A layoff. Several drawn out job searches. And more than my fair share of work projects that didn’t yield the expected results.

After more than a decade of these occurrence, I’ve come to expect the worst. I might stride to the plate with the best of intentions, but I know that Strike Three call is coming.

So, when it doesn’t, I’m dumbfounded. I find myself frozen in my good fortune, unsure what to do next.

It might seem like a good problem to have. But it’s still a problem.

There’s a scene in the movie Talladega Nights that’s etched in my mind.

Main character Ricky Bobby is out to dinner with his sons and his parents at Applebee’s. It’s the first time in his life when the family is enjoying a restaurant meal together.

Suddenly, Ricky’s father — Reese — causes a commotion. He quickly gets kicked out of the restaurant.

When Ricky chases after his father, Reese explains that things were going too well for his liking. He caused a scene to find an escape.

I’m nowhere near as ornery as Reese Bobby. I’m not inclined to sabotage my success.

Still, I understand his perspective.

For a favorable outcome means little in the grand scheme of things. In a world that’s often cold and random, a glimmer of light is just a flash in the pan. It’s foolish to make anything more of it.

Yet, our world relies on us making more of it. On getting base hit after base hit. On going on a winning streak.

Life favors those who can handle success. The optimists. The dreamers. The charismatic.

The rest get left behind. And if I’m not careful, I will too.

Own your wins.

I share these words with my co-workers whenever they deflect the praise I send their way.

Modesty is considered a proper approach in professional settings. But it condemns far too many of my talented teammates to the shadows. So I break through its defenses, time and agein.

But when it’s time for me to step into the limelight, I tend to resist. Why bask in the glory of something that I can’t explain or knowingly replicate? Why search for meaning in the meaningless?

After all, the struggles I’ve endured – the challenges, the failings – they matter far more. That’s what I’ve told myself for years.

Lately though, I’ve started to change my tune.

I’ve come to recognize that the narrative of a realist is anything but a best seller. The community around us will only be regaled in the woe of dead ends if there’s some hope on the horizon.

My wins – spurious as they may seem – provide that hope. They make my story palatable to others. Others who might, in turn, open the door to more opportunities.

So, I’m taking my own advice. I’m accepting my successes for the mysteries they are. I’m owning my wins.

I don’t know if my new approach will yield me more favorable outcomes. But one can hope.

And for the first time in a long time, I am.

A Capital Gamble

It was a weekday afternoon in June.

The sun was blazing. The air was heavy. And the mercury had eclipsed 100 degrees.

Yet, as I made my way into the air-conditioned comfort of a chain restaurant, I found it nearly empty.

Apparently, this wasn’t dining-out weather for others. But it was for me.

So, I ambled over to the bar and asked for a food menu.

The bartender glanced at the suit I had on and smiled.

You look real fancy for the bar at a Razzoo’s.

I explained that I’d just come from a job interview up the road. One that I thought had gone well.

That’s great, the bartender replied. I’m sure you’ll land the role.

A few moments later, a basket of fried crawfish and shrimp appeared in front of me. And as I dug in, I started to daydream.

What if the bartender was right? What possibilities would that unlock?

Plenty.

I’d finally get to move out of the extended stay hotel I’d been in for months. I’d pay down the credit card debt I’d accrued. Maybe I’d go out on the town and meet people.

This job was the key to unlocking my life. I just needed the opportunity.

A few days later, my phone rang. It was the Marketing Director I’d interviewed with, calling to offer me the job.

I happily accepted.

Over the next several months, I transformed myself from a business novice into a reliable marketing professional. My employer took on clients, and I helped drive results for them. The Marketing Director added two more marketers to work alongside me.

But then, one client decided our services weren’t good enough. They forced their way out of their contract, leaving my employer short on revenue. Tension started to build.

I pressed my nose further into the grindstone. I told myself that my hard work would cure all – preserving the company and my spot in it.

Besides, it wasn’t like I had any other option. I was still low on cash and high on debt. And now, I had an apartment rent to cover.

It didn’t matter.

I soon got the dreaded Hey do you have a moment to talk? Prompt from the Marketing Director. Despite my best efforts, I was being let go.

By the time I made it home and unloaded my belongings from the car, reality had sunk in.

Despite my best efforts, I had failed. Failed at keeping my job and earning a steady income.

I realized how dire my situation was. Before that lunch at Razzoo’s, I’d spent three months in career limbo. I watched helplessly as job application after job application went awry.

Now, I was in a similar spot — with only marginally more experience on my resume.

If I wanted to keep my apartment and the possessions in it, I needed someone to offer me another job. And this needed to happen before my severance dried up.

Fortunately, my luck was better this time. Within days, I was in discussions for three digital marketing positions. I got two offers from those conversations, and I was able to take my pick of employer.

I had gone from losing to winning in a flash. But I remained on edge.

For what had just happened to me could easily reoccur down the line. And if it did, I might not find the same good fortune.

Capitalism is one of America’s great legacies.

It’s no coincidence that the country that declared itself independent in 1776 adopted the economic theories of Adam Smith – theories first were published that same year.

The invisible hand of the free market has helped propel America from a fledgling nation to a global powerhouse. It’s built prosperity and fostered influence.

But those outcomes are far from guaranteed.

You see, capitalism is built on the premise of equal access. Of supply and demand having free reign in a marketplace.

When the two meet, opportunities can proliferate. And when those opportunities are seized, magic can happen.

But even if the conditions are ripe, such opportunities don’t appear on their own. They must be offered up by people. And people are notoriously unpredictable.

As such, the game of capitalism is lathered with risk. If an opportunity falls through, there’s no guarantee that the next one will be as juicy. In fact, there’s no guarantee that there will be another opportunity at all.

I think about this when looking back on my early career journey, and all the bumps in the road I endured. Sure, well-wishers were quick to tell that everything would work out. But was that actually true?

Not in the least.

The truth was that I was taking a capital gamble each time I readied myself for work in the morning. A gamble that my opportunity would still be there at the end of the day. And that another would follow if this one fell through.

This game wasn’t for the faint of heart. I understood that.

But I swallowed my anxiety and played along. Just as I do today.

More than a decade has passed since I was last unemployed. And these days, I’m far more prepared for that adverse outcome.

I’ve built up an emergency fund to cover expenses. I’ve gathered years of marketing experience. I’ve earned a master’s degree in business administration and built a professional network.

But even with that elaborate buffer, I’m hardly at ease. Far from it.

For I know that despite my successes, I’m only three steps removed from desperation. And I recognize that each opportunity that eludes my grasp might be the last one I get.

It’s a sobering reality. But it’s one I readily accept.

You see, I now recognize that life is inherently unfair. Even at its elemental level, outcomes can vary arbitrarily.

A full safety net, a clean slate — it might artificially raise our floor. But it also lowers our ceiling. All while merely distracting us from the world’s sobering realities.

It’s better to face the darkness. To take a bit of risk in pursuit of the golden glow of opportunity.

That’s why I keep riding the roller coaster into parts unknown. That’s why I keep embracing the challenge and accepting the process.

A capital gamble is nothing to sneeze at. But it’s nothing to run away from either.

Testing the Limits

The sign appeared in the distance. A rush of bright colors emerged from the darkness.

As my SUV got closer, the red and yellow hues came into focus. I saw a large circle with a cartoon beaver head inside it.

I was approaching Buc-ee’s.

Buc-ee’s, for the uninitiated, is part of the Texas Trinity of iconic brands. Buc-ee’s, Whataburger, and H-E-B grocery stores are the three chains most Texans can’t get enough of.

But even in that crowd, Buc-ee’s stands alone. For it reinvented an American tradition – the road trip pit stop.

Such rites of passage had long been unceremonious. You’d pull into a travel center along the highway, use a dingy restroom, fill up your vehicle’s gas tank, and maybe scarf down some greasy fast food. Then you’d be back on your way.

But Buc-ee’s has turned all of this on its head. Its travel centers – often located by the interstate in rural Texas towns – are the size of Walmart supercenters. Dozens and dozens of gas pumps bracket the large edifices, with low fuel prices luring drivers to fuel up.

Inside the travel center is a little bit of everything. Home décor. Buc-ee’s branded apparel. Snacks and drinks. Freshly prepared food. And the world’s cleanest travel center restrooms.

It’s a Disneyfied, Texas-sized travel center experience. And many a traveler just can’t get enough – including me.

Well, most of the time at least.

The illuminated beaver sign got bigger and bigger.

I was nearing the exit now. And I had a decision to make.

Normally, you see, I would stop at this travel center. I had done so two days prior when I was heading in the other direction.

But it was already past 8 in the evening. And I needed to get home as quickly as possible.

After all, I was embarking on a work trip the next morning.

I still needed to unpack the remnants of this trip from my suitcase. Then I needed to repack the bag with fresh clothes — all in time to make it to the airport for my flight.

It was a lot to do. And there was no time to waste.

So, I let the exit pass me by. I watched the beaver sign fade into the rearview.

Hopefully, I don’t regret this, I told myself.

The lines of the interstate are the definition of monotony.

Solid white and yellow strips mark the edges of the roadway. And white dotted lines differentiate the lanes in between.

It’s mesmerizing. Hypnotizing. And potentially dangerous.

I figured this out the hard way a few miles past the Buc-ee’s sign. That’s when the lines on the highway started to fade.

The dotted lines became faded white streaks. The darkness of the Texas night took over the cabin of my SUV. I felt my head leaning forward into the steering wheel.

I was drifting off.

It had been a long time since I’d felt this sensation from the driver’s seat. Maybe a decade or more.

And that prior time was after 12 hours of driving. I just had to make it to the hotel down the road then. No big deal.

This time was different. I hadn’t even been on the road for two hours. And I had more than two hours left to go.

I thought for a moment about doubling back. Of turning around at the next exit and beelining it back to the Buc-ee’s.

But how much would that extend my drive? And how late would I ultimately get back home if I did that?

It was too much for my drowsy brain to process.

So, I kept driving.

In the midst of the faded lines and the all-enveloping darkness, I spotted a sign along the side of the road.

I squinted my weary eyes, reading the words Picnic Area, 1 mile.

Salvation was nigh — if I could reach it.

I struggled my way down the highway, straining to find the exit ramp. Finally, it mercifully appeared.

I followed it off the highway, and I parked in the darkness behind another vehicle. I cut off the engine and turned off my headlights. I made sure to lock the doors, wary of suffering the same fate as Michael Jordan’s father.

Then I fell into a deep slumber. For a while, at least.

You see, the night was cold. And with my car engine turned off, there was nothing to keep that chill from slowly permeating the cabin.

So, after a bit, I felt my legs shaking. Then my arms did the same, followed by my torso.

A jolt of energy rushed through me. I was fully awake now.

I turned my key in the ignition, reading the digital clock on the dashboard.

Twenty minutes had passed. I could still make it home at a decent hour.

I hit the gas pedal and headed to the exit of the picnic area. As I merged onto the interstate, I took stock of my surroundings.

The dotted lines were distinct now. The road signs were clear.

I was going to be fine.

Years have passed since that road trip. And I’ve been up and down that interstate quite a few times since then.

Sometimes, I’ll stop at the Buc-ee’s to grab a bite or use the facilities. Other times I glide by that giant beaver sign at 80 miles an hour.

But no matter which option I choose, I always feel a shiver down my spine about 10 miles later. That Picnic Area, 1 Mile sign always brings it back.

If it hadn’t been there, I might not be here today. For I’d tested the limits of my ability. And I’d nearly lost it all as a result.

I consider all this for a moment or two. I remain in silent repose as the prairie and the cottonwoods pass me by.

Then I move on to the next thought rattling around in my head.

There are still hours to go, after all.

I’m grateful I get to experience them.

Re-Prioritization

It all started with a question in a job interview.

Where do you see yourself in five years?

I froze in my chair at the conference room table, unsure how to respond.

I didn’t have the luxury of thinking five years down the road. I’d recently gotten laid off, less than a year into my marketing career. I was still new in town and devoid of a support network.

I needed this job, now. I needed the income to pay the bills. And I needed the legitimacy of a stable assignment to prove my professional worth.

So, I came up with a boilerplate answer. And I ultimately landed the job.

I was set, but far from settled.

For even as I sat in my cubicle – with a full list of clients to support and a steady salary – I thought about the question from the interview.

I was still in my mid-twenties, but I’d bounced around a bit already. And I’d seen the costs of such transience.

I needed a five-year plan badly.

So, I gave my future some thought. I put a plan together. And I strove to make it a reality.

My journey to better started quietly.

I was doing well enough in my job, but I knew more mastery was on the horizon. So, I earned some Digital Marketing certifications, proudly displaying the badges in my cubicle and on my social media profiles.

Still, I knew that a certification badge could only get me so far. I resolved to think bigger.

So, I took the GMAT and applied to business schools. Then I enrolled in a Masters’ of Business Administration (MBA) program that held classes in the evenings. This allowed me to obtain full marketing training in the classroom and earn a prestigious degree – all without requiring me to quit my job.

I earned my MBA roughly five years after I had hashed out my five-year plan. Now, there was just one more step to fully attain it.

I started looking at other jobs, hoping to land a prestigious role with a prominent company. My post-MBA job, as it were.

I set a hard deadline for myself. By the time the new year arrived, I’d be in a new place professionally. Since the upcoming year was 2020, I dubbed this plan 2.0 in 2020.

But despite my best efforts, I didn’t land that job by the dawn of the new decade. And a few months after New Year’s Day, a global pandemic turned the world upside down.

My five-year plan was now in limbo. I hung on to my existing job for dear life. And my grip tightened further after my employer was acquired by a larger company – leading to job redundancy fears.

Everything I had hoped for was hopelessly off-course.

What on earth was I going to do?

Plans be damned. Seize opportunities.

That’s what I told myself as 2020 faded into the rearview.

The most restrictive portion of the pandemic had passed. My job had not been made redundant. And the holding pattern hanging over my life had started to lift.

So, I jumped on an opportunity to move over to my new employer’s corporate marketing team. I dove headfirst into the new role – making connections, drafting materials, and traveling coast to coast to evangelize the business segment I was now supporting.

Off the clock, I seized the opportunity to exercise more frequently. I joined running clubs, entered in races of longer and longer distances, and started taking home hardware from them.

None of this had been in my prior plans. All of it seemed like a happy accident.

But I wasn’t complaining about the result. I was just hoping the good times would continue.

They didn’t.

Economic headwinds led my employer to reorganize itself several times, with the shifts changing the nature of my role. Meanwhile, a series of injuries stopped my running exploits in their tracks.

Once again, I was trapped. The five-year plan had already stalled out. And now, the Carpe Diem approach had also run aground.

What on earth was I going to do?

What are you chasing?

This question was at the heart of the inquiry into my five-year plan, whether the job interviewer knew it or not.

And even after drafting that plan, I struggled to adequately address the core premise.

I found myself oscillating between prestige and stability over the intervening years, striving for one and falling back on the other when the rug inevitably got yanked from below my feet.

This process left some scars. But as those scars accumulated, my determination only deepened.

I would get this right. I would uncover the answer.

But recently, something has changed. I’ve started to wonder whether I’ve been asking the right question.

You see, I’ve been blessed with a great support network throughout. Family, friends, and peers have been there for me on every step of my winding odyssey through life.

But I’m not so sure the inverse has been true.

Sure, I’ve supported my supporters through the years. But only to a point.

For as I worked on my five-year plan – and the carpe diem era that replaced it – I mostly lost track of what was going on with my friends and family. Sometimes, I lost touch with them entirely for months on end.

It was easy to overlook this development. After all, with every twist and turn in my journey, I grew my social circle.

There were new people to connect with and new sources of support to rely on. So, I missed the obvious signs that things had gone awry with the others in my orbit.

But my eyes are wide open now.

I realize how much what I missed matters, and how little what I was chasing really meant.

Sure, it’s nice to have objectives, and the trappings of a profession can help maintain a lifestyle.

But the connections with our community are the ties that bind. Being there for those who support us — in the good times and the tough ones — is nothing short of essential. It can sustain us — enriching our experience on this rock and enhancing our legacy after we leave it.

So, consider this my re-prioritization.

I might continue to demand more of myself professionally and recreationally. But I will no longer act as this venture is Item 1A, or even 1B.

Where I’ll be in five years is hardly the point. Who will be in my orbit means far more.

What We’re Fighting For

How bad do you want it?

The twangy tones of Tim McGraw were living rent-free in my head as I sat on the training table, staring at my compromised ankle.

A surgeon’s scope had methodically made its way through that ankle’s interior about a month prior, while I was sedated with anesthesia.

Now the stitches were out, and the swelling had mostly receded. I could walk in a straight line without any noticeable limp. And if not for my bulky walking boot, most passersby wouldn’t even know I was at less than 100%.

But I knew.

I realized how limited my ankle rotation had become. How tough it was to take the stairs or get into the shower. How tentative I was when getting out of bed in the morning.

If I ever wanted to run again, I needed to fix this.

It was all up to me.

Running is what had got me to this spot on the training table. The thread tying this lightweight Greek tragedy together.

It had become a hobby of mine in adulthood. First on the treadmill, then out on the streets and sidewalks.

I never went all that far, and I never expected all that much of it. Much like Forrest Gump, I was just…running.

But eventually I got bored of this routine, and I signed up for some local races. That led me to local running groups, who talked me into training more and entering longer races.

Suddenly, everything started to click. I was putting up faster times than I ever imagined I could and collecting a ton of hardware along the way.

I set loftier goals and began to picture attaining them.

But then I got hurt.

A stress fracture in my left leg brought running to an abrupt halt. I was forced to withdraw from the marathon I was training for, deferring my entry to the following year. As my leg healed, I clung to the silver lining. With a full year to prepare for this race, the sky was the limit.

But once I got clearance to run again, I realized how tall a task this would be.

My stamina was poor, and I got winded easily. But beyond that, my right ankle was starting to bother me.

Whenever I made a left turn on the street or the track, it felt like someone was whacking my ankle bone with a wooden mallet. Sometimes, this dull pain would slow me down. Other times, it would cause me to shift my running gait.

Eventually, I found my way to an orthopedist, who recommended surgery. And after some thought, I agreed.

So now, here I was on the training table. My deferred marathon entry was still waiting for me 10 months in the future. But I had to get there.

It was all up to me.

The physical therapist started with some light exercises. I turned my ankle in a circle a few times. Then I flexed it back and forth while a resistance band applied tension.

It wasn’t much, but I attacked it all with vigor.

As the weeks went on, the exercises got more challenging. But my determination never waned. If anything, it got stronger.

I would power through my reps, re-doing any that seemed off. Rather than dawdling between assignments, I’d add in old exercises the physical therapist had dropped from my routine.

There was a fire in my eyes through it all. This was more than a doctor’s prescription or an insurance requirement to me. It was my Normandy, my Gettysburg, my Saratoga.

If my future as a runner was what I was fighting for, this was the battle I had to win.

How bad did I want it?

Day by day, session by session, I was providing the answer to Tim McGraw’s question.

It was all up to me. And I was up to the challenge.

After four months of physical therapy, I found a semblance of victory.

My ankle had regained its strength. My range of motion had returned. And I was even doing some light jogging as my physical therapist looked on.

I was elated when I got the clearance to graduate from the biweekly physical therapy sessions. I started running again. And I reacquainted myself with the local running groups.

The tide was turning. My goal seemed attainable.

But a couple months later, I sustained yet another bone injury. And follow-up testing uncovered a degenerative condition.

My racing days were done — for good. Even recreational running seemed dicey.

I was devastated.

I felt waylaid by the diagnosis, and I was furious at my own body for betraying me. I withdrew from everyone and everything for a time, finding sanctuary in solitude and silence. As the holidays approached, I glumly referred to that year as the worst of my life.

It was all up to me. And I’d failed.

Quite a bit of time has passed since those dark days. And I’m picking up what I’d missed back then.

Namely, my four-month crusade to get my ankle right again.

It might not have led me to the starting line of my marathon. But it still amounted to something.

I’d set my sights on a goal. And I’d fought like heck to attain it.

That was a noble undertaking. And looking back now, I am proud of what I did.

But it needn’t be a one-off.

While I have no designs on reprising my post-surgery rehab, there are still things in life that I can prioritize. There’s still plenty I can fight for.

Much of that has come into focus for me in recent months. And as we embark on a new year, I’m eager to thrust myself into the battle.

Perhaps this is a better way to approach the calendar change. Rather than rewriting our core narrative or checking off items on a self-improvement list, we can reacquaint ourselves with what we’re fighting for.

In doing so, we can give ourselves the spark to go after it. Not for the calendar’s sake. But rather for us.

How bad do you want it?

It’s more than a Tim McGraw song. It’s an invitation.

Take it.

The Web

It started with Beanie Babies.

A friend of mine was obsessed with them. And he showed me his nascent collection when I visited.

You have to get some, he exclaimed.

Soon enough, I had a miniature plush dog named Bones. My sister had a red plush dog named Rover.

But naturally, we wanted to be as cool as our friends. We wanted more Beanie Babies.

Our parents got us the Beanie Baby guide – a book covering all the stuffed animals in circulation, and all the limited-edition options we’d missed.

At the start of the book was a disclaimer.

The collection continues to change. Go to the Ty website for a more detailed list.

And thus began my first cannonball into the waters of the Internet.

There were no smartphones back in those days. There were no Google Chrome browsers. There wasn’t even a broadband connection.

To get online, I needed to log into the America Online app on our home computer. This process would tie up our landline, blocking phone calls to the house. And it would cause a bunch of odd sounds to come from the modem next to the computer.

Once connected, I’d need to navigate to the web browser — and then enter the Ty website. The page would load over the course of several minutes, with images loading line by line for several more minutes after that.

A click to a deeper webpage – in this case, the complete Beanie Baby collection list – would start the process over. All told, I was on the web for a half hour or so before I found what I was looking for.

But eventually I got there. And I once I did, I spent several minutes – and ink cartridges —printing out the entire list of Beanie Babies. That way, I could pore through it on my own time.

The Internet was just a digital guidebook to me back then. No more, no less.

As I grew up, my relationship with the web shifted a bit.

We got broadband in our family home, and I got my own computer in my bedroom.

After I finished my homework each evening, I’d spend hours at my desk browsing.

I’d read sports columns on ESPN’s website. I’d set my fantasy baseball or football lineup. I’d chat with my friends on AOL’s Instant Messenger (better known as AIM).

But as I moved off to college, my reliance on the web dwindled.

I still hopped on to keep up with sports news, and to update my social media profile. But I now had text messaging on my flip phone, allowing me to communicate with friends on the go. And with my life centered on a college campus, I valued in-person connections over endless online browsing anyway.

The web was back to being a convenient novelty. But that was all about to change.

I sat in the lobby of the CBS Miami news station, dressed in my finest suit.

My palms were sweating as the bright Florida sunshine filtered into the room. I needed this interview to go well.

You see, I’d decided what I wanted to do with my life after my college graduation. I wanted to make a living as a TV news producer.

I’d taken most of the requisite classes. I’d volunteered on the campus TV station’s sports and news broadcasts.

But I didn’t have any true local news experience on my resume.

This internship – in the last semester of my last year of school – would be my final chance at filling that gap. I’d do whatever was needed to get brought on board.

Soon enough, I was in a conference room with Dave Game. He was older, a bit heavy-set, and came off as a bit blunt.

How much do you know about Internet news, he asked.

I replied that I’d looked at the CNN and Fox News websites before, as well that of ESPN. But that I tended to watch local news on television. This was why I wanted to be a producer after all.

I watched intently as Game nodded.

That’s all well and good, he said. But trust me. Most of the viewers of our station are not like you. They’re doing something else while the news is on. Or they’re busy and miss the broadcast entirely.

They still want to get caught up on the news, but on their own time. My department brings that to them.

He went on to explain how the web department achieved that mission. They revised news scripts for easier reading on the web. They took the associated clips from the newscast and added them to the on-demand video feed. And sometimes, they added pertinent local stories that didn’t make the local broadcast.

If you take this internship, you’ll get a hand in all that, Game told me. It might not seem relevant to you. But trust me. News stations are hiring for these skills. You’ll stand out.

His words proved prophetic.

I took the internship, gaining a mastery on Internet news reporting. When I landed a job as a news producer at a TV station in West Texas, I brought those protocols to my new station.

I’d often be in the newsroom until midnight ensuring that all articles and video clips from the day’s newscast made the website. I told myself that the viewers that missed the 10 PM newscast needed me. And I powered through exhaustion to get the web content uploaded.

The Internet was now my passion. And it would soon become my livelihood.

I sat in a modest office in a suburb of Dallas, wearing the same suit I’d once sported in Miami.

Across the table from me, the man I hoped would become my boss perused my resume.

I see you have some experience writing for the web, he stated. How much do you know about blogging?

I stated that I didn’t have much experience with that forum. But I added that I was a quick study.

That’s good, the man stated. This role is for digital marketing, which is not news production. But content marketing is the way of the future, and I think you might have the online writing experience we need.

I landed the job, and my second career was off and running.

That first marketing role revolved around websites. Specifically, the half-dozen websites of the home remodeling companies my employer took on as clients.

A web designer built those sites. But I did everything else – filling in the product pages, posting blog articles, and helping ensure the sites ranked on Google.

After a layoff, I landed with a different company that provided websites to insurance agents at scale. I started that role with 20 agency websites under my purview. Eventually, that number ballooned to 120.

The Internet had gone from something I accessed for Beanie Baby lists to the technology that paid my salary. I was bullish on its potential.

Still, I could see the buzzards circling.

The smartphone had been around for more than a half-decade by the time I started optimizing websites. And the mobile experience was improving by leaps and bounds.

Content marketing and search optimization relied on consumers perusing Google results and clicking through to websites. With mobile apps entering the fray, there was now a new way to find information.

Soon, social media channels would turn into commercial marketplaces. And artificial intelligence would enter the fray.

The web was still powerful, and my job still drove revenue. But the returns were dwindling. It was time to pivot.

So, after earning a Master’s degree in Business Administration and weathering a global pandemic, I took a new role in product marketing. And I left my website-heavy focus in the rearview.

I still browse the web to catch up on the news now and then. But less often than I used to.

There are many reasons for this shift. For one thing, I have less free time than I once did. For another, the events of the world have grown increasingly contentious.

But the biggest reason is the paywall.

Indeed, many websites now charge money for access to their information. And given my other concerns, I have no desire to open my wallet for this unlimited access.

This shift to paywalls was inevitable. Prompts to get website readers to buy related items have fallen flat as new channels have emerged for purchases. Advertising follows audiences, so those dollars have also shifted elsewhere.

Websites simply aren’t as revolutionary as they once were. They still matter, but they hardly command the lion’s share of attention.

I’ve even seen this in my own company. My product marketing position oversees the website and digital marketing products I worked on for years. I promote them, but not as vigorously as the other products under my purview.

The product pricing is too paltry for me to evangelize those solutions. And I know the insurance agents I market to care more about my company’s higher-dollar offerings.

Add it all up, and those who still rely on the web for a living are left with few options. Charge loyal viewers for access or be left withering on the vine.

It breaks my heart to see this. I grew up on the web. I built my career on the web. I still use the web to share this column with you each week, dear reader. (With no paywall, I might add.)

Still, I understand it all. The web had a good run at the top of the mountain. And it will remain in the picture for the foreseeable future.

But the next big thing is already here. And so is the thing after that.

It would be foolish not to chase after them.

The Anchor

The culprit was a rogue sidewalk crack.

I didn’t spot it in time while heading to our family car. And suddenly I was off my feet.

The magnetic pull of gravity sent me hurtling to the ground, skinning my knee in the process.

I yelped, and my parents rushed me back into the house.

As they cleaned, treated, and bandaged the gash on my knee, I cursed gravity.

If not for that magnetic force, my knee would still be unblemished. Stinging pain wouldn’t emanate from my leg. All would be fine.

Not long after this, I learned about space travel in school.

As I stared at pictures of astronauts floating around spaceships, I was filled with jealousy.

Why couldn’t we all be free to glide? Wouldn’t it be better this way?

I imagined life without the scab on my knee or its associated itchiness. I daydreamed about soaring near the ceiling without fear.

What I failed to consider was how I’d take a drink of water or use the restroom without causing a mess.

Yes, it seems gravity had its benefits too. Wishing it away might be more than I bargained for.

I couldn’t just throw out the bad and leave the good. I needed to consider the consequences.

My childhood adventures instilled an important lesson.

Some forces are too big to be controlled. They must simply be managed.

Gravity is one of those forces.

Surely, Sir Isaac Newton didn’t desire to get bopped on the head by an apple to experience its pull. But once he did, he understood that gravity needed to be studied further.

This recognition led Newton to derive mathematical theories that solidified the immutability of gravitational pull. And we’ve worked off that premise ever since.

No longer do we attempt to be Icarus, brazenly flying close to the sun with wax wings. We factor gravity into everything we do — whether we’re working with its leverage or counteracting it.

Yes, gravity-induced tragedies do still occur. But we’re better positioned to avoid them than we were in Newton’s day, thanks to increased measures of anticipation and prevention.

I see the value in this now, and I’ve come full circle.

Gravity might prove to be a pain now and then. Still, adapting my life around it is better than trying to navigate its absence.

Gravity might be an immutable anchor in life. But it’s not the only one.

Indeed, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve recognized the importance of three factors – where I live, what I do, and who I spend time with.

None of these are as absolute as gravity. But collectively, they keep me anchored.

Where I am defines what I can do. What I do defines the way I can live. And both help define who I spend my time with.

I’ve tinkered with these factors multiple times over the years. But I’ve rarely done a wholesale rip-and-replace operation.

Only twice, in fact.

My first defiance of gravity came right after my college graduation. I moved halfway across the country for a new job in a town where I didn’t know a soul.

I remember feeling wholly discombobulated.

I liked my new home, but I knew there was nothing tying me to it. Sure, my new furniture was arrayed throughout the place, but my only other connection to the space was a monthly rent check. If I ever couldn’t pay it, I’d be without a home address.

I felt confident with my new job, but I knew I wasn’t on solid ground there either. I was green and prone to making mistakes. And I knew a bad mistake could cost me my livelihood.

And I quickly discovered how challenging it was to meet new people. Unlike college, I wasn’t in an environment full of adolescents seeking to make connections. Many of my neighbors were older or more established. Several had families. And nearly all of them worked a different schedule than I did.

It was clear that I was beyond my depth. I’d gotten more than I’d bargained for. But I had no choice but to soldier on.

It was only after I collapsed in the Texas heat — ending up in the Emergency Room in the process — when things started to change. Alarmed by my ordeal, several co-workers urged me to add their phone numbers to my address book. A few of them invited me to socialize with them off the clock as well. I started doing just that, and my social circle started to grow.

Suddenly, my new home and job started feeling a bit less temporary. For the first time in a while, I felt the tug of the anchor beneath me.

But it wouldn’t last.

A few years after my arrival in this once-foreign town, I loaded my belongings into a moving truck.

My contract at work had expired and my lease was up. So, I headed 300 miles east to another city I barely knew. One that offered a bevy of job opportunities and housing options.

For three months, my belongings sat in a storage unit. Meanwhile, I sat in an extended-stay hotel two miles down the highway, trying to earn a job offer in a new field.

Once I signed an acceptance letter, I knew things would fall into place. I’d be able to find a new home, establish myself, and rebuild my social circle.

But in the interim, I was running out of options. There was nothing to anchor me aside from my desire and what was left of my savings. And both were getting critically low.

Ultimately, I did earn that opportunity. And everything did fall into place as anticipated.

I found a place to live. I established myself in my career. I built a larger social circle than I’d ever had before.

I located the anchor, and I set it deep in the soil.

But I never forgot all that proceeded this triumph. The fear. The uncertainty. The doubt.

And I pledged never to return to those sensations again.

I’m writing this at the tail end of a rocky half-decade.

Our society has been turned upside down by a pandemic, economic turmoil, and partisan vitriol. Much of what was taken for granted has gone up in smoke.

I’m trying my best to stay the course. To keep where I am, what I do, and who I spend time with intact.

But this is proving immensely difficult.

For one thing, the financial system has provided little assistance. The cost of living has skyrocketed in recent years, making it harder to stay where I am. The viability of what I do has been threatened by layoffs, offshoring, and corporate mergers. And these stressors have impacted my ability to maintain social connections.

On top of that, the nature of opportunities has shifted irrevocably. The most lucrative of doors have always opened to substantial risk, but Door #2, and Door #3 seem to open to profound change as well these days. Such is the reality in a world where offices have been replaced by remote work, the stock market has been usurped by cryptocurrency, and human capital has been supplanted by artificial intelligence.

With all this in mind, I might need to raise the anchor to get back to solid ground. Getting ahead might mean taking yet another quantum leap into the unknown.

But this time, I don’t know if I’m willing. It’s too unsettling. And the scars of my past travails run too deep.

And so, I will continue to resist wholesale change. To adapt one thing at a time instead — all while remaining anchored to what I know.

This will be a difficult approach to maintain. And I’m sure to suffer some more setbacks along the way.

But ultimately, I know in my heart that this journey will prove worthwhile.

I understand the cost of giving up the anchor. Of defying the rules of gravity.

And I have no designs on paying that price again.

Reckoning with the Wreckage

It was a great morning for a run.

The air was crisp. The stars in the sky were bright. The humidity was low.

And as I took my first few strides, my worries faded away.

I was in my element. I felt strong. I felt free.

But I knew it wouldn’t last.

I sensed the change around the two-mile mark. I ignored the beeping of my watch, telling me how far I’d come. But I couldn’t avoid the tightness in my calf muscles, telling me I didn’t have much more left to go.

It was the same tightness I’d felt at this point – or earlier – on every run I’d been on for the past eight months. If I didn’t stop and stretch soon, my stride would start to falter. My legs would lock up, leading my feet to feel like anvils. The discomfort would prove excruciating – and potentially damage-inducing.

I managed to make it another mile this time, stopping as my watch beeped its Mile 3 warning. As I stretched, I felt the chilly air hit my body. I was shivering and sweating at the same time.

I’d never contended with this dueling sensation before. Because in autumns past, I would never have broken stride this early. On crisp mornings like this, I’d have gone six or seven miles before I even considered stopping. And by then, even the coolest air would have felt balmy.

But those days were long gone. This was my reality now.

And it wasn’t likely to change.

A friend of mine once spoke of the significance of the age of 26.

There’s nothing given to us at that age. By the time we hit 26, we can already do everything from buying a lottery ticket to renting a car.

But 26, my friend posited, is when life starts to take for the first time.

Young adults might be able to party as voraciously as they did in college without consequence. But 26 hits different. Newly minted 26-year-olds need a minute, an hour, even a whole day to recover.

I can’t speak to this all that well. By the time I’d hit my mid-twenties, my wildest days were behind me. I was hitting the gym more. I was going to bed earlier. And I had given up fast food.

But now, more than a decade later, I feel the weight of my friend’s words.

For despite my best efforts, time has caught up with me. The force of its impact has sent me hurtling to the ground. And it’s taking me longer and longer to get back up.

I’m consistently exhausted now, often irritable, and immensely perplexed. How is everything that was once so easy now so difficult?

There are no easy answers. Only more unsettling questions.

As I stood there stretching my calves, I took a moment to consider what had been.

On those autumn mornings of yesteryear, the miles flew by because I was chasing something greater.

I was a competitive runner back then. I entered in several distance races a year. And I brought back hardware in most of them.

I had the talent and the willpower to deliver excellence. But I had no idea how quickly the sand would run out of the hourglass.

When my first injury hit, I moped about it for a week. But then I thrust myself into the rehab process, determined to come back stronger than before.

My zeal backfired. I picked up two new injuries in short order, one of which required surgery. Two months in a walking boot ensured, followed by four months of physical therapy.

By now, my fiery defiance had been doused. Just getting back to running regularly would be a victory, considering how far I’d fallen.

Amazingly, I achieved that victory, and even began a race training block. But I sustained two more injuries in the ensuing months, forcing me to shelve my plans once again.

I was now in the valley of that prolonged disaster. I was a shell of my former self. And I was growing more and more certain that I’d remain in that state.

But instead of wallowing in self-pity for my present, I was full of indignation for my past.

Sure, my exploits back then had put plenty of silverware on the wall. Medals for podium finishes and age group wins. A plaque for breaking the tape in a backwoods 5K.

But those mementos represented only a fraction of my potential.

I could have done better, I told myself. I could have dreamed bigger, tried harder, achieved more.

If I had gone all-in during those peak years, maybe I wouldn’t feel so hollow. There would be no unfinished business festering as Father Time stripped my speed and stamina away.

But I hadn’t.

And now, I was out in the cold. Literally.

I was left reckoning with the wreckage of it all.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

The words of The Serenity Prayer are omnipresent in my mind. I’ve leaned on their wisdom countless times throughout the years.

Much is made of the middle and the end of the prayer. After all, courage and wisdom are desirable traits in our society.

But it all starts with acceptance. Which – according to the Kubler-Ross Model – is where the grieving process ends.

I don’t think this is a coincidence.

Grief is the one of the most powerful emotions we experience in life. It’s visceral, multifaceted, and inevitable. It washes over us, regardless of whether we’re ready for the force of its mighty wave.

It’s only when the tide has gone back out that we can see what’s left behind. And that we can use those odds and ends to build back up anew.

This is the evident when we lose loved ones. While we miss them dearly, we must find some way to propel ourselves forward.

Yet, it’s just as applicable when the loss is less existential — such as our youth, our ability, or our potential.

I am finding that out firsthand.

I was once a great runner. Just as I was once an emerging marketer. Just as I was once a young man.

I am none of those things anymore. Time and its companions have taken much of the shine off me.

I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. I’ve grieved it.

But now is the time to get off the mat.

Now is the time for me to accept it all. What I was. What I am. What I can still become.

And now is the time to follow that revised path.

Reckoning with the wreckage might be a solemn obligation. But it’s an obligation, nonetheless.

Mile by mile, I’m honored to take the mantle of its responsibility.