Category: Reflections

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.

t 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.

The Only Way to It Is Through It

I’m just out for a morning run.

Those six words rolled through my mind like a ticker on a marquee. Each time my shies hit the pavement, I thought of them.

The absurdity wasn’t lost on me. All I had to do was look down at the number pinned to my shirt, or glance at the spectators on the sidewalk to know that this was no normal morning run.

It was a race. A half marathon, specifically.

I’d never run one of these before. And the unknown filled me with anxiety.

I worried that I’d run out of steam somewhere on the course. That I wouldn’t cross the finish line. That I’d make a fool of myself.

So, I let my mantra be my guide. I treated the race like it was a casual training run – one of the many I’d completed leading up to this moment. And I kept myself from getting overzealous.

The strategy seemed to work. As the chilly morning air hit my skin, I took stride after stride with little resistance. It felt as if I was floating on air.

In reality, I was running hard. And I was passing dozens of other runners on the course.

I started to catch onto this around the Mile 3 marker. So, I instinctively glanced at my watch.

The pace it showed astounded me.

There’s no way I can hold this for 10 more miles, I told myself.

But everything still felt so effortless. So, I resolved to try.

With each mile, my confidence grew. I’d entered the starting corral with a goal to complete this race in 1 hour and 40 minutes. But now, I was on pace to finish in under 1:30:00.

As I passed the Mile 12 marker, the digital clock read 1:22:42. A 90-minute finish was within reach, if I could hold on for another 1.1 miles.

I was giddy with excitement. And totally unprepared for what was to come.

I was about 500 feet past the Mile 12 marker when I first felt it.

A sharp, stabbing pain just below the side of my ribcage.

The air rushed out of my lungs in an instant. And as I inhaled, my right oblique tightened like a vice.

I knew exactly what this was. A side stitch.

The side stitch is the bane of any runner’s existence. I’d encountered my fair share when I’d first started running regularly. But they’d faded away as I’d gained fitness. I hadn’t encountered one in months.

But now it was back – at the worst possible time.

The easiest way to resolve a side stitch is to stop for a moment and stretch. I’d done this plenty of times in those early days of training.

But stopping wasn’t an option at mile 12 of the half marathon course. Not if I wanted to break the 1:30:00 barrier.

So, while still in motion, I gave myself a pep talk through strained breaths.

The only way to it is through it. Let’s go.

I winced as the course turned left, and then right. Each step felt excruciating. And I knew it would only get worse.

I was downtown now, running in the cavernous shadows of giant skyscrapers. The morning sun was in my eyes, blinding me through my racing sunglasses.

I had no idea how much of the course was still ahead of me. A half mile? A quarter mile?

As I scanned in vain for a street sign or a mile marker, I noticed some silhouettes darting through my peripherals. Other runners, passing me by.

I started to panic. Was I fading? Was my race coming undone?

Just hang on, I told myself. You’re almost there.

I passed the Mile 13 marker. And after what felt like an eternity, the finish line came into view.

I glided my way across the line and slowed to a walk. As I hobbled over to a barrier fence to stretch my oblique, I took a look around. Those silhouettes that had just passed me were hunched over, vomiting profusely.

I stared up at the race clock, and suddenly everything made sense.

I hadn’t faded. Those runners had just outsprinted me. All so that they could finish before the clock hit 1:30:00.

I’d missed that mark by 4 seconds. But I’d also persevered, fighting through immense pain and giving myself a chance at glory.

No matter what the clock read, I could hold my head high.

Back when I was a child, my father came back from work one day looking ragged.

Grass stains were all over his jeans, and dirt specks covered his shirt like a Jackson Pollock painting.

My mother asked what happened, and my father – then an elementary school teacher – explained that it had been Field Day.

Field day, of course, is a late spring ritual in schools across the country. A day when students and teachers ditch the classroom for structured activities outdoors.

One of the activities at my father’s school was a gauntlet run. Teachers got low to the ground and ran across the grass. And as they did, students lined up on both sides would whack at them with sticks.

It was an absurd annual tradition. But there was no avoiding it.

If my father wanted to maintain the respect of his students, he was going to have to make his way across the grass – dirt stains and stick whacks and all.

The only way to it was through it.

So, my father obliged. And he wore the evidence home for his family to see.

That image has stuck with me over the years.

My father’s decision, you see, ran counter to one of the great ironies of our society. That despite our bluster about grit and toughness, we tend to detour around challenges at every opportunity. To take the path of least resistance.

Calloused hands and battle scars are yesterday’s news. We’ve found a path to glory that doesn’t involve the spilling of guts. And we’ve turned it into a six-lane highway.

Gain without pain. It’s the ultimate life hack.

Or maybe not.

No, Easy Street might not be the panacea we portray it as. Accomplishments ring hollow when they’re dislodged from the principles of perseverance and sacrifice. We know only what we’ve gotten, not what it took.

If that last mile of my half marathon had felt the same as that first dozen, I’d be in the same boat as everyone else. The finisher’s medal around my neck would have been little more than an accessory. A reward barely earned.

But that last mile proved to be its own gauntlet. One that I faced head on, just like my father before me.

And because of that, the medal will always mean more.

The only way to it is through it.

I believe those words with all my heart. And for that, I am grateful.

Finite Resources

It was a restless night.

I tossed and turned repeatedly, failing to summon slumber.

I was away from home, lying atop a mattress that was too thin and too firm. And I was struggling to get comfortable.

Still, that only explained half of the issue.

For it was a sultry summer night. The air conditioner was going at full blast to combat the muggy conditions outside. But it had turned the guest bedroom into an icebox.

I’d covered myself with a blanket. But it was only so wide. And with each toss and turn, the blanket folded in on itself like a piece of origami.

As the night went on, I felt more and more of me freeze. First, my foot was exposed to the chilled air, then my lower leg, my arm, and my shoulder.

When it became unbearable, I’d shake the blanket free and toss it over my body. But a few tosses and turns later, it would be back to where it was. And I’d be cold again.

It was sometime around 2 AM when I realized the futility of my situation. The blanket was simply not built for my sleep patterns.

I wouldn’t be able to feel fully comfortable in this bed. Each movement I made would come with visceral tradeoffs.

These were the facts. I’d just have to live with them.

Not too long ago, I was watching a hockey game on television.

At a break in the action, a QR code appeared on the screen, promising a chance at a $10,000 grocery giveaway. The winner would get the reward in monthly sums over the course of the year.

I scanned the code and entered the contest. But my name was not picked.

Disappointment washed over me when I learned this news. But it quickly faded.

For I realized that I typically spend far less a month on groceries than the contest promised. And I could still pay for my smaller grocery haul with the plastic card in my pocket.

That card was tied to my bank account, whose balance swelled each time I got a paycheck from my employer.

So, even though this streaming service wasn’t subsidizing my food, I was covered. My employer was footing the bill.

Or not.

My employer, you see, wasn’t simply doling out money from a bottomless vault to keep me fed. It acquired those funds by selling its goods and services to others. Those others were businesses in the insurance industry, who used those goods and services to help provide coverage to consumers.

Many of those consumers were individuals, who covered the value of their homes and vehicles with monthly insurance premiums. The money paid toward these monthly premiums came from their own paychecks – which their employers provided after selling their own set of goods and services.

The dizzying chain I just described is work of the economy. It’s an illustration of the patterns of supply and demand that keep our capitalist society running.

The economy is what keeps us fed, housed, clothed, employed. It’s the engine that keeps us going.

That engine is fueled by two things – finite resources and market participation.

Finite resources mean there’s not enough of everything to go around. There are only so many loaves of bread, pairs of pants, or shiny new vehicles we can produce, for instance. And there’s only so much money we have to offer in exchange for them.

It’s as if we all have a blanket that’s too narrow. We can’t have it all, but we can make tradeoffs to improve our situation. We can participate in the marketplace – as buyers and sellers – to better fulfill our needs.

But if we get too close to the edge of the blanket, market participation breaks down. It becomes too difficult for companies to offer up enough goods, or too expensive for individuals to procure them.

Everything shuts down. And everyone suffers.

It’s an uncomfortable prospect. But one that’s all too real.

Follow the money.

Those three words are perhaps the most memorable of the 1976 film All The President’s Men.

Washington Post journalists Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein have seen their investigation run aground. What started as a story about a burglary has unfurled a broader government conspiracy. But Woodward and Bernstein can’t seem to connect the dots in a manner that is safe for print.

Eventually, Woodward and Bernstein contact a shadowy informant, who urges them to follow the money. This turns out to be the missing link in the investigation.

A trail of payments would ultimately tie the break-in to the administration of United States President Richard Nixon – who seemingly authorized the heist to get intel on his political rivals.

The Washington Post would soon publish its report on what came to be known as The Watergate Scandal. And it would ultimately cost Nixon the presidency.

Following the money is now a central tenet of investigative journalism. It has a way of exposing even the most covert activities.

But following the money can be illustrative outside the newsroom as well.

Indeed, in a world of finite resources and market participation, money speaks loudly. It telegraphs how everything is meant to play out. It provides a map through the chaos.

That is, if we’re willing to pay attention.

That hockey game I was watching – the one with the $10,000 grocery giveaway –was being aired on a new streaming service.

This new service promised to air nearly every game for my local team. All for free.

I was flabbergasted to see this claim.

You see, I’d hardly watched any of my local teams for free before. I’d either paid for a ticket to go to the game or paid for a subscription to watch game telecasts on a cable or streaming channel.

Football offered an exception to this rule. Networks like CBS, FOX, and NBC carried free game telecasts year after year, thanks to decades-old broadcast agreements.

But that was an anomaly.

Indeed, pro hockey seasons included nearly five times as many games as pro football seasons. And to remain solvent, hockey clubs have traditionally relied heavily on fans to pony up for viewing access.

I couldn’t imagine that financial model changing overnight. So, what would be filling that revenue hole for my local team now? If I wasn’t paying for my viewing access, who was?

As I write this, I’ve yet to figure those details out. Just as I’ve yet to determine who’s subsidizing the restrooms at shopping center I recently visited.

Those facilities were too clean and well-furnished for public access. Someone was paying to keep them pristine.

Yet, I continue to dig. On both counts.

Why? Because I know the score.

There are no free rides in the realm of finite resources. Even if someone else is footing the bill, I’m still paying for those game telecasts and fancy public restrooms somehow.

The more I understand this arrangement, the more sustainably I can avail myself of it. Without being abruptly left out in the cold when the blanket folds in on itself.

I’m not alone in this regard. We can all enjoy these benefits. That is, if we Author Dylan BrooksCategories ReflectionsPosted on

Non-Negotiables

The list was written in pen.

Scribblings of messy handwriting on a notepad.

The title? Non-Negotiables.

Carmen Berzatto – the co-owner of a fictional Chicago eatery – compiled this list early in the third season of the acclaimed television series The Bear.

In forming this list, “Chef Carmy” drew on his experience working at the finest restaurants on the planet. Those establishments got their Michelin stars thanks to their consistently exemplary dishes and exemplary service. But those plaudits were rooted in a fanatical devotion to house procedures.

Berzatto knew that accolades come with discipline. And he yearned to instill it in his refurbished establishment.

So, he outlined his non-negotiables and declared them law.

This all went over like a lead balloon. The staff found the new requirements tedious. The financiers found them unprofitable. And everyone found it insulting that they weren’t consulted.

They all ridiculed Berzatto’s work as the scribblings of a mad man. And they refused to comply.

The dysfunction from this spat put the restaurant’s viability in serious jeopardy. Characters who once got along found themselves at each other’s throats, or talking behind each other’s backs. All while the service quality withered on the vine.

It was a jarring turn from the earlier seasons of The Bear. And many viewers were uncomfortable with the show’s shift in tone.

But I was not one of them.

I was captivated.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been stubborn as a mule.

I fretted over the particulars of each aspect of my life since before I could even talk.

As a child, I clung to preferred patterns for dear life. And I refused to even consider a compromise.

Fortunately, my parents were up to the challenge. They prepared meals that suited my narrow tastes. They moved heaven and earth to procure the Matchbox Cars I obsessed over. And, whenever I spent an overnight away, they packed the ragged sheepskin I slept on inside my travel bag.

As each year passed, I grew in knowledge and stature. Yet, I refused to budge on my non-negotiables.

This all came to a head one New Year’s Eve. A snowstorm had roared through the area, and I’d grown bored of sitting around at home.

I begged my parents to drive me across town to my grandparents’ house. My father hesitated, noting that the roads were slick and filled with drunk drivers.

But I was stubborn and insistent. I refused to take no for an answer.

So, my father relented to the treacherous journey.

We headed onto the highway, over a long bridge and through slushy side streets until we reached my grandparents’ front door.

As we arrived, my mood brightened noticeably. My non-negotiables had been honored.

But by the next morning, I came to realize the error of my ways.

My grandparents hadn’t stocked the fridge with my favorite breakfast foods, and it was still too dicey out to venture to the grocery store. Other out-of-home activities were also a no-go due to the weather and the holiday.

I was back at Square One. Stuck in a house with not much to do. Only, this wasn’t even my house.

The universe had conspired to shred my non-negotiables. To demand compromise from stubbornness.

And I could avoid that fate no longer.

I wish I could call that snowy New Years Eve a true inflection point.

The moment when I went from a high-strung boy to an open-minded young man.

But that’s not quite what happened.

In the years that followed, I remained as stubborn as a mule. But if my demands were truly infeasible, I would call an audible.

No longer would I trek across town during a holiday snowstorm. No longer would I starve myself if a restaurant was out of my favorite dish.

I was cautiously flexible. But only when I absolutely needed to be.

As such, it took a long time for me to evolve. To embrace the unfamiliar. And to acquiesce to the requests of others.

This still hasn’t fully happened. I’m well into adulthood, and my non-negotiables list remains quite long.

But I’m committed to whittling it down. And I’m working at it.

Partway through The Godfather, a group of men hold court at a long table in a hotel conference room.

The men are all outfitted in sharp suits that belie their aging features. They fill their cups with water, load their plates with grapes, and puff smoke from their cigars.

They seem alike, but they do not like each other.

You see, the men at this table head up the Five Families of the New York Mafia. They’ve been engaged in a turf war for months. But now, they’re trying diplomacy.

Don Vito Corleone – one of the film’s main characters – proposes a truce, leaving territories and trades the way they were before the bloodshed. But the other mob bosses object.

They claim that Corleone has hoarded all the corruptible politicians in New York, leaving them with no cover for illicit activities. And they state a desire to add drug trafficking to their racket – an activity Corleone staunchly opposes.

The discussion looks like a dead end at first. But the men keep talking, and eventually come to an agreement.

The Five Families can move forward with drug trafficking, but with strict rules of operation. And Corleone will cede some of his political protection to the rival bosses.

No one gets exactly what they wanted. But the bloodshed ends, and everyone is better off. Even if only for a moment.

It’s been more than a half century since The Godfather hit movie theaters. But this scene seems more important than ever.

For in our modern-day society, me has won out over we. Unilateralism is omnipresent. Cults of personality are stronger than ever.

It’s easy to draft a non-negotiables list and clobber others over the head with it. It’s acceptable to be as stubborn to a fault. It’s laudable to invite conflict and to never back down.

But it’s reasonable to do none of these things.

Indeed, the best path forward is paved in compromise. In giving up a bit of what we hold dear to gain a lot more.

This makes us more considerate, more palatable, and more well-rounded. This makes us better, while also lifting those around us up.

It’s a win all around.

So, let’s make the shift. Let’s reconsider what we won’t consider. And let’s leave the mule train behind for good.

The non-negotiables are open for negotiation. It’s our move.

Next Play

Onward and Upward.

My advisor ended her email with those three words.

She was replying to an apology email I’d drafted. One where I’d wholeheartedly taken the blame for a televised meltdown.

I wasn’t on the air having a viral moment. I was helping behind the scenes on a college TV newscast.

But the activity off-camera was hopelessly chaotic, and the broadcast had turned visibly turbulent.

I took this all personally. I felt that if I did my job better, everything would have fallen in line.

And so, I typed up that apology. And I hit Send.

My advisor wasn’t having it. She reminded me that we’d all played a hand in the fiasco, and that falling on the sword did no one any good. The best thing to do was to turn the page.

That’s what those last three words were meant to refer to. But they turned into so much more.

Football is a game with a staccato rhythm.

The offense huddles up. Then the players move to where the referee is holding the ball, flanking the width of the field in the process.

Defensive players stare into their eyes from inches away. It’s eerily still for a moment.

And then it isn’t.

The ball is snapped backwards. Burly linemen collide where the ball once was. Offensive playmakers run in various directions, hoping to help advance the ball. Defensive playmakers seek to stop them in their tracks.

A few seconds later, the action ends. The referee blows their whistle. And the offense huddles up again.

Each of these sequences is called a play. And in an average pro football game, there are 153 of them.

All those stops and starts can be a lot to take in, particularly for the novice fans in the stands.

But for the combatants on the field, they’re best encapsulated in two words.

Next play.

If you tune out the roar of the crowd, you might hear the captains on the field barking that mantra. Or maybe the coaches on the sideline.

What happened on the last sequence only matters so much. The next play offers a clean slate, a fresh opportunity. If the team is ready to seize it.

This thinking extends to other elements of the game as well.

Football is a violent sport, and injuries are all too common. When they occur, teammates will often take a knee, and maybe give the felled player a light pat on the shoulder as he is helped to the sideline.

But there is no more time to wallow in despair. There’s still a game to be won.

So, the captains and coaches will often bark Next man up. Next play.

Another player comes into the game, in place of their injured teammate. And the contest goes on as if nothing had happened.

It’s all so crude. And it’s all so real.

My advisor was not a football coach. She was a media professor.

And yet, something in those three words at the end of her email lit a fire under me.

Onward and upward had me ready to don my helmet, buckle my chinstrap, and charge into the fray.

Not in football. In life.

You see, up until that moment, I’d viewed my actions as cumulative. Everything I’d done would impact what I did next. The book on me had already been written, and all I was doing was adding words to the page.

To a certain degree, this philosophy made sense. I’d spent 18 years under the watchful eyes of my parents and another four on a college campus. Grade point averages, course credit accumulations, and internship assessments were my only guideposts to success.

But the weight of that legacy was starting to hinder me. I’d become cautious and tentative to a fault. With each small stumble, I retreated further into a spiral of fear and doubt.

And now, I’d stepped in it bigtime. I’d put something terrible on the air. The putrid evidence had beamed into television sets and landed on tape.

I was doomed.

But those words from my advisor changed everything.

They cast the next newscast as a fresh opportunity, clear of the baggage of the prior debacle.

And the concept didn’t end there.

The next adviser conversation, the next assignment, the next experience I faced – in the classroom or out of it – would offer a similar chance to cast a new narrative. All I would need to do is compartmentalize.

I got the message loud and clear.

Not long after reading my advisor’s email, I headed to class.

I had an exam in that course that day. And as I turned in the test paper to the proctor, I wasn’t quite confident I’d aced it.

By the time I made my way into the hallway, doubt had taken over my mind. I was second-guessing all my answers, my preparation, and even my self-worth.

But then I thought about the email, and those final few words.

Next play, I told myself. And I put the exam out of my mind.

Something similar happened when I slightly flubbed an assignment at my internship the next day. And when I put a typo in the script for a volunteer sportscast at the end of the week.

Both mishaps were unfortunate. But there was no need to make them catastrophic. So, I didn’t.

Next play, I reminded myself. Keep going.

I could feel the change in me. I was bolder, more productive, and more resilient. People were starting to feed off my positive energy, and I felt inspired by their belief in me.

It was a virtuous cycle, all fed from a shift in mindset.

Eventually, I graduated and left that college campus behind. But the next play mentality has stayed with me.

It’s guided me through a career in the news media, and a much longer stint in marketing. It’s steadied my hand as a writer, allowing me to publish a new article here on Ember Trace each week for nearly a decade. It’s helped me improve my craft at cooking and achieve great things as a competitive runner.

So much of my success comes from leaving my failings behind. By focusing on the challenge to come rather than dwelling on what could have been.

It’s a lesson that’s salient for anyone. But in my case, it was lifechanging.

So, I’m eternally grateful to my college advisor for guiding the way. And I thank my lucky stars that I took a moment to listen to that guidance.

Next play. Onward and upward. Keep going.

Patience, Grasshopper

We ventured out onto the pier. My grandfather and I.

Suddenly, we stopped and turned toward the water.

A large bridge towered over us. That structure had long ago replaced this one, ferrying traffic over the intercoastal.

As I gazed upwards in wonder, my grandfather took some bait out of a box. He fixed some to the hook on the end of his fishing rod. Then he did the same with my fishing rod.

We cast our lines into the water. And as we watched the bait disappear below the surface, I asked one question.

What now?

My grandfather smiled.

Now, we wait, he said.

It was quiet on the pier. And boredom quickly started to wash over me.

But then, I felt a tug on my line.

I reeled it in with the ferocity of a caged tiger. Only to find the bait gone – and seaweed stuck to the hook in its place.

I had caught nothing.

My grandfather helped me rebait the hook. I cast my line once again and stared at the water.

How long is this going to take? I openly mused.

He glanced over to me.

It depends on the fish, he replied. It could be minutes, or hours. Patience. Patience is key.

These were not the words an 8-year-old wanted to hear. And I protested vehemently.

So, we reeled in our lines and went home empty-handed.

Fishing was a flop.

Cult classic.

These words are overused today. But in a less hyperbolic era, they perfectly defined the TV series Kung Fu.

Back in the 1970s, shows like M*A*S*H, Happy Days, and The Brady Bunch permeated American culture. Kung Fu never gained the level of eponymy that those shows did. But it’s maintained critical acclaim through the decades.

The series covered the travails of Caine, a Shaolin monk with a deft proficiency in martial arts. As he drifts across the American frontier, Caine’s calm demeanor seem as out of place as his fighting skills.

A series of flashbacks help audiences fill in the gaps. They show Caine’s origins as an orphan in a Chinese monastery.

A blind master named Po oversees much of Caine’s training. And whenever Caine acts restlessly, Po turns to some variation of a familiar phrase.

Patience, young grasshopper.

Those words come to define Caine’s life. And that phrase has come to define the series.

This is all more than a bit ironic.

You see, for all its Asian tendencies, Kung Fu was an American show. It catered to an audience that stood for the Star Spangled Banner.

Americans have held many defining traits over the generations. But patience has not been one of them.

Just look at our history.

Impatience was behind our decision to declare independence in the wake of British tax hikes. It’s what spurred us to rapidly expand our borders westward to the Pacific Ocean. It’s what fueled us to unleash technological innovations that changed the world.

So, what led us to reverse course while viewing Kung Fu? What caused us to embrace a phrase we fail to embody?

Necessity. And aspiration.

Not long ago, I was looking for tickets to a major sporting event.

The tickets never went on sale to the general public. So, I was forced to scour the resale market.

Going the resale route is like taking a plunge into a frigid lake. Sellers can set their own prices based on demand. And the sticker shock often stings at first.

This was the case when I searched a prominent resale database. Ticket prices were not only outside my budget, but also outside the realm of reason.

But the event was a little more than a month away. I’d already committed to attending, and I’d gotten time off from work to do so. I needed these tickets.

What was I to do?

I stared at my computer screen, my mouse cursor hovering over the Buy button.

I was ready to bite the bullet. I was prepared to overpay just to get in the gate.

But then, I heard a voice in my head.

Patience, grasshopper.

There was no harm in waiting. Prices likely wouldn’t get much worse until the eve of the event. And there remained a chance that they’d go down as sellers got desperate to unload their inventory.

I heeded the voice of reason. And I closed out of the website.

A couple weeks later, I checked the website again. Across town, another pro team was playing for a league championship. All the attention was on them at the moment, and the resale prices for my event had dropped precipitously.

I quickly clicked Buy. Patience had paid off.

I’d come a long way from the fishing debacle to find the ways of Caine.

But that road wasn’t easy.

What are we gonna do now?

If I were to tally up my most common phrases of childhood, that one would be near the top of the list.

I demanded a planned activity at all waking hours, much to my parents’ chagrin.

Learn to entertain yourself, they’d grumble.

This proved to be a challenge.

Books were a dud, as I kept losing my place in the text. Toys were exciting until they weren’t. We only had access to three TV channels; smartphones and streaming were still decades away.

And so, my impatience festered.

This is one of the reasons I spent so much time with my grandparents growing up. My grandfather was already retired when I was born, and my grandmother retired when I was in elementary school. They had plenty of time to embark on adventures with me, and to keep me entertained.

Some of these treks didn’t go as intended. The fishing trip was one of those.

Yet, most others went swimmingly. At least that’s what I felt at the time.

But now, I wonder if I had it all wrong.

There’s a case to be made that my grandparents’ endless activities only fueled my impatience. That it deferred the concept of delayed gratification. And that made me ever more restless in the process.

Indeed, I reached adulthood nothing less than impulsive. I ran up my credit card balance in college, without much consideration as to how I’d pay it off. And when I had to wait six weeks after graduation for a job offer, I was completely despondent.

I had no concept of the value of waiting. Of letting the dust settle and the picture come into focus.

It took years to gain that clarity. But once I finally embraced it, I felt like a changed man. A better man.

I’m better equipped now to avoid overpaying for a sports event. Or making a poor career decision. Or ditching an exercise plan prematurely.

I’m better able to embrace the process and reap the results.

Patience, you see, is a weapon. It allows us to read situations fully before acting. It cuts out rash actions. It keeps us in control.

Patience is the road not taken. Yet, it represents the best path forward.

This isn’t a hard and fast rule, of course. There are plenty of times where waiting it out can be quite costly.

But on the balance, we could use more patience than we currently exhibit.

We could stand to be more like Caine. We could be well-served fending off our impulses. We could thrive when embracing a deliberate pace.

There is nothing in the way of this future. Nothing but ourselves.

Patience is a virtue. Let’s make it our own.

Post Trauma

I looked down at my right ankle. The sight was hardly recognizable.

Red welts now dotted the inside of it, migrating down toward the top of my foot. It was as if an army of mosquitoes had swooped in and gone to town.

These were the marks left by the surgeon. The entry points for the tools that repaired my damaged tendon and removed a bone spur.

The procedure was deemed a success. But as I stared at the welts on my ankle, with my protective boot sitting nearby, this hardly felt like victory.

I was told to give it time. It had only been two weeks since the operation, and I hadn’t even started physical therapy yet. As I worked through my rehab, the welts would retreat. Things would look more normal.

This all turned out to be true. But more normal still left a mark. Several, actually.

Even with the welts gone, the scars on my ankle would remain for life. And while the discomfort in that area was thoroughly minimized by the procedure, it would never fully dissipate. Phantom pain would sporadically appear.

Post trauma? There’s no such thing.

I am posting this article on the anniversary of the worst day of my life – September 11, 2001.

It was the day when terrorists hijacked passenger planes and used them to attack our nation. When they killed roughly 3,000 people and left millions of others wondering if they’d make it to tomorrow.

Nearly a quarter century has passed between then and now. And so much has changed.

The sites of the rubble have been cleared and rebuilt. The mastermind of the attack has met his demise. American troops have mostly withdrawn from the Middle East after waging a two-decade War on Terror abroad.

I too have changed over this time.

On September 11, 2001, I was in school in New York City, less than 10 miles from the World Trade Center. When I got word of the attack that felled those buildings, I thought my life was over. Rumors were already flying about an imminent, wide-scale invasion. I was certain they were true, and that the terrorists were coming for me next.

I survived that day, of course. And the next one. And the one after that.

Survival was the only way to describe that time. Because even if you hadn’t run from the avalanche of debris, it still felt close enough to shake you to your core.

Eventually, that feeling faded. I grew up and moved far away. I weathered financial crises, a pandemic, and a career change. I made friends who knew nothing of my September 11th experience.

I’m fundamentally different now than I how I was back then. I’m more seasoned. I’m more knowledgeable. And I believe that I’m a better person.

But every now and then, I tremble as an old memory comes to the fore. I still freeze at the mere mention of any terror attacks – domestic or international. And September 11th is the toughest day for me to get through each year.

Convention states that none of this should be happening. I should have gotten over my trauma long ago.

But convention is wrong.

Trees are timekeepers.

So, I was told as a child.

The phrase is based in science. Tree trunks expand outward over time, growing a fresh set of bark each year. This process creates a ring pattern on the trunk’s interior.

This means that when a tree is felled, one can ascertain its age by counting the trunk’s rings.

Such a pattern doesn’t hold true for humans. We morph as we grow, leaving few outward indications of what we once were. It takes something jarring, such as ankle surgery, to leave any kind of visible mark.

But what of the invisible ones? How do we account for them?

Traditionally, we haven’t. Bury it and move on has long been the American credo. It’s how we’ve persevered in a landscape full of danger and tragedy.

In recent decades, that has changed. By necessity as much as anything.

Many of us have found ourselves in situations too traumatic to bury, with disastrous results. This trauma-fueled carnage has been broadcast by the 24-hour news cycle, allowing no quarter for collective deniability.

We all know what’s going on, and what’s causing it.

At the same time, we’ve changed our relationship to mental health services. What was once the realm of One Flew Over the Coocoo’s Nest and Freud’s extravagant theories is now mainstream.

We’re quick to get help, from a variety of channels. And we’re willing to talk proudly about the help we’re getting.

The upshot of all this is that our invisible marks are now out in the open. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is being accounted for, with the promise of healing the afflicted.

This is a positive change, no doubt. But also one that’s oversold.

For better is not back. And it never will be.

Some mornings, I’ll look down at the pockmarks on my ankle.

They’ve all faded now, to the point where they’re less notable.

But I still see them clearly. And I yearn to go back to the days when they weren’t there.

Sure, I was injured. Unable to run the turn on the track without feeling like a 2×4 was digging into my bones.

But I didn’t have this visible reminder of that ordeal then. And now, I always will.

I’ll admit that I’ve had similar thoughts about September 11th. If the attacks had never happened, how much better would life have been?

But such questions are foolhardy.

Time moves in but one direction. You can’t erase the marks it’s made.

Perhaps it’s time I let go of that fantasy. Perhaps it’s time we all did.

Yes, it’s time to face the music.

With time and with help, we can move forward from the trauma we endure. But we won’t be able to move fully past it. No matter how much we might desire to.

There is no post trauma. There is only a new equilibrium.

Our task is to make the most of it.

Youth and Experience

The ball wasn’t going where I wanted it to.

Sometimes it would slice. Sometimes it would hook. Sometimes it would skid across the grass.

With each swing, my frustration mounted. And a sense of dread started to sink in.

You see, I had come to this driving range near Fort Worth with good intentions.

I was unemployed at the time, residing in an extended-stay hotel, and applying to jobs left and right. But none of it was going well.

No hiring managers were willing to take a chance on a career-changer with no experience in their industry. Few even offered me an interview. And all the while, I was burning through my savings to fund my food and lodging.

I needed to get away from it all. To spend an hour or so outdoors, doing something that could clear my head. And spending $20 to hit a bucket of golf balls seemed like a sensible choice.

But now I was kicking myself.

My hand was chapped from gripping the golf club too tightly. My golf pants and polo were drenched in sweat. And my doubts about my golf game threatened to rival those of my employability.

Was I ever going to be able to earn an honest living again? And if I did, would I even be able to live life to the fullest?

If this day was any indication, the answer was no.

It’s been more than a decade since that afternoon on the driving range.

I’m now gainfully employed, and I’ve advanced in my career. I have a true place to call home and tangible financial stability.

At first glance, I have everything the younger me once craved. But looks can be deceiving.

These days, I could go to the driving range just about any time I desire to. The cost is negligible, and the stakes are low.

And yet, I don’t do that. I haven’t for years.

For the joy in that activity has dwindled for me. Just as it has for so many others.

Some of this change is physical. I don’t have the stamina to do as much as I used to. And when I do wear myself down, my body aches for days.

But the shift is also mental. I’ve lost the capability for unbridled glee. And the sensation of letting myself go now feels foreign to me.

For example, there was a time when I loved roller coasters. I would patiently wait in line for hours at the theme park, boldly lock myself into the safety harness, and cheer with vigor through each dip and turn of the track.

I was having the time of my life.

I still want to love roller coasters in this way. And occasionally I do find myself riding one.

But as my body is defying the laws of gravity, my mind is somewhere else. It’s staring down from a distance as I dip and twist and invert.

I’m just not there anymore. Not completely.

This, I believe, is the encapsulation of experience.

Growing long in the tooth can make a person somewhat jaded. It can leave one detached from the thrills of life. It can estrange one from the reckless abandon of innocence.

With those connections severed, the only way to relive such sensations is through one’s own memories.

And so, from my high perch of career and fiscal stability, I look back longingly at my younger self. The one who would venture out to the driving range to clear his head, even if such a trek was to end in futility.

The older me might have the trappings of a successful life. But not the inclination to get the most out of it.

A few weeks after my ill-fated trip to hit golf balls, I got a call back for a job application I’d submitted.

The hiring manager wanted me to come into the office for an interview. I accepted the invite.

The interview ultimately went well. While I wasn’t one to count chickens, I was relatively confident that I’d be offered the job.

So instead of microwaving a pouch of rice back at the extended stay hotel, I went to a Cajun restaurant for a proper lunch.

Sitting at the bar in my suit and tie with a plate of fried crawfish in front of me, I was hopeful. This was just the start of the pathway to success, I told myself.

I think back on that memory of myself more than I’d like to admit. For that young and scrappy version of me was looking unabashedly at who I am today. And yet, I find myself just as unabashedly staring back.

We’re both staring through the murky portal of time. Each wanting what the other has — and neither knowing it.

Truth be told, we each want to believe that there’s no inherent tradeoff between youth and experience. That gaining one doesn’t necessitate losing the other.

But given the inextricable truth of that tradeoff, we’re each looking to fill a hole in the current version of our life. For one, the substance to sustain the joie du vivre. For the other, the joie du vivre itself.

It’s devastating in a way. Even tragic.

But it’s the reality of my life. And I’m not alone.

Indeed, many of us look longingly at our former glory, just as we once stomped our feet yearning for our future to arrive. If we think hard enough on it, we can each find our own split-screen moment.

But should we? That’s open to debate.

There’s something to be said in leaving the past behind and living in the moment. On recognizing that what’s gone is gone. And on giving it no further mind.

But there’s also value in sustaining those memories. On recognizing the sensations we once had. And on gaining context from those recollections.

Such thinking might not eliminate the tradeoff between youth and experience. But it will provide helpful context in assessing our lives. It will also make us more empathetic and socially aware — which is always a plus.

The key to this, of course, is discernment. We must be able to glance at our youthful past without getting consumed by the memory.

That’s easier said than done. I’m Exhibit A as to how challenging it can be.

But I’m working on it. And I will continue to do so.

I hope I’m not the only one.