Category: Reflections

The Next Chapter

From 30,000 feet above the ground, I stared out at the Plains.

Through the airplane window, I could see pastures stretching straight to the horizon. The late-day sun cast a golden glow over it all.

I might have been over western Illinois at this moment. Or maybe eastern Missouri. Even after all the times I’d flown this route, I couldn’t quite tell.

But the GPS coordinates were inconsequential. The majesty of the view meant everything.

Many people have looked at this same vista and come to a different conclusion.

They see no mountain peaks. They see no coastline. And they slide their window shade shut.

I get it.

The sight of the Rocky Mountains has taken my breath away before. And I’ve found myself transfixed with wonder as I stared at the Pacific Ocean from the bluffs of La Jolla.

Middle America is not that. It’s a different brand of special.

There’s just something about vast, open land that stretches to the horizon. It’s a blank canvas fit to be painted with a million tales – all distinct, yet somehow familiar.

This glimpse of that canvas in the late-day sun told one story. But a couple of hours later, a traveler peering out of a plane crossing these same coordinates would see something far different. The faded light of dusk would punctuate the vista of those pastures.

The next morning, fliers on the red eye might witness yet another perspective from this spot. The shadow of the sunrise would stretch all the way to the western horizon, marking the landscape with an understated sepia.

Even this late-afternoon moment I was witnessing seemed to lack routine. In the dead of winter, the light of the day would illuminate the plains far differently at this hour. The same would be true during the dog days of summer.

Yes, each of the views from this one spot is familiar. Yet each is also distinct.

It’s in those differences that I find solace.

I remain amazed at how one small shift in perspective can make the ordinary captivating, time and again.

It’s simple. But it’s also special.

A decade ago, I set out on my own journey to fill a blank canvas.

I launched Ember Trace, putting my thoughts and experiences out in the open for all the world to see.

As I prepared to post that first article, I was full of apprehension. I didn’t want that first entry to be a one-off. And I didn’t want to fall into a scattershot publication approach. My readers needed to know what to expect from this publication – and when to expect it.

So, I made a commitment. I would post a fresh article every week. No excuses.

I’ve held to that promise now for a full decade. For 523 straight weeks, to be exact.

The world has changed drastically during that time. My life has as well. But through it all, I’ve kept on writing.

This is quite an accomplishment. One I’m immensely proud of.

And yet, I find myself questioning its power.

You see, if you stare out that airplane window enough times, the majesty of the view starts to fade. Dawn and golden hour morph together. Summer and winter begin to blur. And everything just starts to look gray.

I’m wary of that fate overtaking my work on Ember Trace. I don’t want the quality of what I write to go down, just so the quantity can go up. I don’t want a writing schedule that I set a decade ago to become the headline.

It’s time to try something different.

My first view of the Plains was from ground level.

I was 8 years old, and my family was taking a cross-country train trip. I saw cornfields and cow pastures roll past my window for hours on end.

This was the mid-1990s. There were no tablets or smartphones in the train car to divert my attention. For two days, I was transfixed.

Cross-country flights would soon follow. As my family jetted off to the opposite coast for vacation, I’d stare at those cornfields and cow pastures from above for hours. The view was far different than the one from the train. But I still found it stunning.

As I grew up, I still found myself soaring over the same plains. Both leisure activities and celebrations kept calling me back to the heartland.

Those same vistas awaited me along the journey. But somehow, I still hadn’t grown tired of them.

This sentiment was fresh in my mind when my employer was acquired by a Midwestern-based company. Suddenly, flights across the prairie became a business obligation – a fait accompli every few months. And with all that back and forth, my zeal for the vistas of Middle America faded.

That view out my window stopped feeling so novel. It became ordinary and boring. And I’d had enough.

I started buying the Wi-Fi on those flights, occupying myself with work tasks and streaming entertainment. I stopped gazing beyond the airplane cabin.

I needed a change.

That change came in the form of an economic shift. Costs increased, and opportunities to travel to headquarters decreased for a couple of years.

I all but forgot about the familiar aerial of the Plains during that time. But eventually, the travel restrictions were lifted, and I was reacquainted with that vista.

Like an old friend, that sense of wonder returned. A sense of awe washed over me once again.

And in that moment, something strange happened. I started musing about my writing.

I’d been in a creative rut with Ember Trace. And it dawned on me that a prescribed break might revitalize my work — much in the same way that my travel hiatus had rekindled my zeal for staring out at the Plains.

I didn’t act on that instinct then. But I am doing so now.

What does the next chapter look like?

It’s a question that many an author has struggled with. But in this instance, I have clarity.

Ember Trace is not going away, dear reader. You can still expect my thoughts and reflections to fill this space. Just not quite as frequently.

Going forward, I will share an article once a month, rather than once a week. This will give me more time to find inspiration, sharpen my craft, and share more articles worthy of awe and wonder.

I am sure that this is the right move. And I’m sure that it’s the right time to make it.

But what I don’t know is if my audience will follow me into the next chapter.

I hope so. But hope is not a strategy.

On September 20, 1998, the New York Yankees and Baltimore Orioles faced off for a late-season game at Baltimore’s picturesque Camden Yards.

Three future Baseball Hall of Famers appeared in that game – Derek Jeter, Roberto Alomar, and Mariano Rivera. But a fourth future Hall of Famer remained on the bench for all nine innings.

And that became the story of the evening.

For the first time in more than 16 years, Cal Ripken Jr. sat out a baseball game. His record-setting streak of 2,632 consecutive games played was history.

Baseball’s previous Ironman – the Hall of Famer Lou Gehrig – never played another baseball game after he ended his streak. Roughly two years after taking himself out of the lineup, he died of a cruel disease that now bears his name.

But Ripken’s time on the bench wasn’t to be permanent. The next day, he was back in the lineup, manning third base for the Orioles up in Toronto.

Ripken would play three more seasons for Baltimore. He joined baseball’s vaunted 3,000 hit club and won an All-Star Game Most Valuable Player award during that time. He remained distinguished, even after untethering himself from the streak.

Like Ripken, I still have more in the tank. More stories to tell, and more articles to share with you, dear reader.

The next chapter might look a tad different. But it’s still worth turning the pages.

It would be my honor if you did so.

On Optimization

The car was all packed up and ready to go.

The trunk of my Saturn SL1 didn’t have much space. But my mother had fit my belongings inside it.

This was no small feat. I was entering my junior year of college, and I would be living off campus for the first time. There were a lot of items that needed to make the journey with me.

Still, my mother was up to the task.

Like a Tetris puzzle, she’d expertly placed the clothes, bedding, and other trinkets in such a way that they neatly filled every inch of available space.

She ordered me not to open the trunk until I reached South Florida. Anything I needed for the 1,300-mile trip would stay in the back seat of the car for easy access.

And so off I went, departing the Northeast, cruising through the Capital region, and gliding across the Carolinas. I cut over to Atlanta to visit a friend and do some sightseeing. Then, finally, I set my sights on the Sunshine State.

The situation shifted not long after I passed that Welcome to Florida sign. For a tropical storm was barreling across the peninsula, and I was quickly caught in its outer bands. By the time I stopped for fuel in Gainesville, sideways rain was drenching me as I gripped the gas pump.

I knew the storm would only be worse if I took the direct route down the Florida Turnpike through Orlando. So, I took the long way instead, remaining along Interstate 75. As night fell, I pulled off the road and checked into motel south of Tampa.

The next morning, I got up early to conquer the journey’s final stretch. But as soon as I merged onto the interstate, I could tell something was wrong. One of my tires seemed unstable.

I pulled over at a nearby rest area and found a hole in the tire. Maybe I’d driven over something in the quarter mile between the motel and the highway. Or perhaps the effects of the storm had done the tire in.

But regardless of the cause, I knew I could go no further.

Now, I’d learned how to change a tire in high school. But I didn’t feel confident in replicating that feat at a Florida rest area in the rain.

Fortunately, my father had purchased a AAA membership for the vehicle. So, I dialed the number for roadside assistance. Within a half hour, a mobile maintenance man was pulling into the rest area.

After exchanging pleasantries, he got down to business.

Where’s the spare tire?

My heart sank. For I realized the spare was in a compartment under the trunk.

If I was going to retrieve it, I was going to have to undo all my mother’s good work.

There was no time to mope about this, though. I was being charged by the hour, and I needed to get back on the road.

So, I scrambled to get all my possessions out of the trunk and into the back seat. The mobile mechanic then got the spare on, and we parted ways.

I made a pit stop 15 miles down the road at a Walmart in Bradenton. Another mechanic installed a replacement tire and put the spare back in its storage spot. With that business concluded, I tried to fit all my belongings back in the trunk.

It proved impossible.

I lacked my mother’s ingenuity and dexterity. No matter what I did, I couldn’t get the puzzle pieces to fit.

Plus, the morning rain had given way to steamy sunshine. I was getting roasted alive as I tried to get the trunk organized. I had no choice to give up.

With some of my belongings splayed messily across the trunk, and others splayed messily along my back seat floorboards, I hit the road. I cruised down the Suncoast and sprinted across Alligator Alley, finally reaching the endpoint of my journey.

My mother’s work with the trunk of my Saturn was notable. But it was far from her first rodeo when it came to optimizing a journey.

In fact, one of my early memories involved this very feat. I was 5 years old and we were heading on a family trip to Maine in my father’s Toyota Corolla.

Between camping gear, clothing, and non-perishable food, we had too many items to fit in a compact car. So, after loading up the trunk, my mother stuffed the rest of the items on the rear floorboards, where my sister and I would normally have placed our legs.

With that space now filled with gear, we sat with our knees up in front of our faces for hours. It was hardly comfortable, but it proved effective. We got everything to Maine.

For years after that, my mother would help everyone in the family pack our suitcases — ensuring we could travel as efficiently as possible.

I had never thought much of this until that tire mishap on Interstate 75. Before I found myself stranded in that rest area, I simply considered efficient packing to be one of my mother’s tendencies.

But as I struggled to fit my items back in the trunk outside that Walmart in Bradenton, I saw the value in what my mother did. I understood the importance of optimization.

And that realization has transformed my life.

These days, I’m road tripping far less — and for shorter distances.

Plus, I have an SUV with ample space for whatever’s going on the journey with me. So, I haven’t tried to stuff a trunk in years.

Yet, I’ve worked on optimizing many other components of my daily life. What I eat. When I sleep. How I entertain myself. And much more.

I track a decent amount of this in Excel spreadsheets and smartphone apps. I rely on mental accounting for the rest.

And several of my life choices — such as giving up sweets or committing to early morning fitness six days a week — are directly tied to optimization.

There are many whys behind this behavior. Yes, I want to boost my health, maintain wealth, and manage my time.

But I also want to be better. To leverage my ever-expanding expertise so that I can continue to improve each day.

It’s something that drives me. And — if we’re being honest — it’s something that can drive others away from me.

Because it’s all so obsessive, so intense.

You see, there’s something soothing about going with the flow. Every moment of every day is both a gift and a novel adventure. A mix between Zen meditation and a Jimmy Buffett song.

All energy can be spent in service of the moment. All focus can be on the now, without worrying about the later.

We humans are drawn to this promise of a stress-free existence. For its soothing nature can prove contagious in the best of ways.

I get it. I do.

But I’ve seen the light in that steamy Florida sunshine. I’ve discovered that the greater value — for today and tomorrow — lies in optimization. And I can’t, in good conscience, go back.

So, I will continue to tinker, to adapt, to optimize.

Hopefully, I will be better for it. And hopefully, those around me will be better for it as well.

The puzzle is never fully complete. Keep optimizing.

Why Me?

The trouble started with a milkshake.

I was out at a diner with my best friend, passing the time as 17-year-olds do.

But less than a minute after I’d gulped down the mixture of milk and ice cream, I was in the restroom in distress.

I ultimately righted the ship and made my way back to the diner booth. But as my friend checked in on how I was doing, I recalled that the last milkshake I’d consumed had led to a similar outcome.

That incident had seemed like a one-off. But now, I sensed it was a start of a trend.

Maybe I’m allergic to dairy, I mused.

After a few doctor’s consultations and an experimental diet, I got the diagnosis: Severe lactose intolerance.

I was going to need to take milkshakes off the menu. And pizza. And sub sandwiches with melted provolone.

Or perhaps not.

You see, there was a supplement called Lactaid on the market that promised to help afflicted souls like me. It helped to break down the lactose in dairy products. And it quickly became part of my life.

Day after day, I would carry packets of Lactaid pills in my wallet or pants pockets. I’d swallow one at the start of each meal and then consume the same dairy-filled delicacies I’d always enjoyed.

But after about five years of this, the magic wore off. Even with the assistance of Lactaid, I found myself distressed by dairy. I had to give it all up, cold turkey.

I was devastated.

These days, dairy-free diets are all the rage. And a ton of dairy substitutes have hit the market.

People can sip a latte, devour pizza, or enjoy an ice cream like dessert without ever ingesting something that originated from a cow’s udder.

But back when I went dairy-free, the landscape looked quite different. Just about every restaurant dish seemed to be coated in milk, cheese, or butter. And most of the times that my employer offered a group lunch, it consisted of pizza.

It didn’t help that I was making this dietary change in Texas, where queso and cream gravy are practically cornerstones of the five food groups. But regardless, I was low on options and high on angst.

I’d grown up on dairy delicacies. I knew what I was missing out on. And it was tearing me apart.

Why me? I’d muse, as I went with a second-rate choice off the menu, just to avoid getting sick.

Why me? I’d muse, as I threw away a takeout order that had been tainted with cheese, against my explicit instructions.

Why me? I’d muse as I went hungry during a group lunch because there was nothing safe for me to chow down on.

It was miserable in those early days. But I eventually shifted my tune.

This was my lot in life, I reminded myself. No good would come from complaining about it.

That lactose intolerance diagnosis was one of the first big setbacks in my life. But it was far from the last.

Over the ensuing years, I’ve been saddled with multiple injuries, ailments, and undesirable circumstances. These issues have generally struck without warning, leading to sudden incapacitation.

As I’ve worked through the hurdles of shifted routines, canceled plans, and impaired function, I’ve often been tempted to ask Why me?

After all, I know exactly what I was missing out on, each time. And that makes the pill even harder to swallow.

But I only allow myself to mope like this for a fleeting moment. For I have learned to shift the narrative.

Yes, I’ve convinced myself that these are not setbacks to rue. Instead, they’re experiences to tout.

They’re a part of my story. And it’s my duty to tell that tale well.

Imagining life without a dairy sensitivity might seem convenient. But that condition has led me to be more organized and thoughtful about what I put in my body. And that focus on wellness has undoubtedly made me healthier today that I’d otherwise have been.

Imagining a scenario where I didn’t require ankle surgery sounds idyllic. But without that ordeal, I wouldn’t have learned what I was made of. I wouldn’t have understood the challenges of life with a disability. And I wouldn’t have felt the sweet satisfaction of getting my range of motion back.

Imagining a world where I didn’t get cut from the baseball team, laid off from my job, or passed over for another – all of that sounds dreamy. But without those setbacks, I likely wouldn’t have built up the grit that defines my present-day success.

The dairy sensitivity, the ankle procedure, all the other hardships I’ve endured – they’re a part of who I am now. I’ve come to embrace that fact.

Causes have effects. And I have better things to do than question them.

As I write this, I’m battling a bit of a health issue.

I won’t get into specifics here about my new affliction. But I will say that this issue came out of the blue, is relatively uncommon, and has forced some changes to my daily life.

This new ailment seems a lot like my dairy sensitivity. And yet, its effects are a bit harder to sidestep.

This whole situation is ripe for the why me question once again. A perfect storm of buzzard’s luck and isolating consequences have rocked me to the core. The sentiment of injustice has hit me from all angles.

And yet, despite the barrage of pills and the lingering discomfort and the cloud of uncertainty, I’m blocking out the siren song of woe. I’m keeping my head out of the sand.

For what’s done is done. There’s no good in re-litigating the flukes of the past.

My mission now is to determine what this affliction means moving forward. For my life, and for how I recount it.

Solving that puzzle brings clarity to the chaos. It defangs the spiral of despair. It builds a sense of purpose in a time of confusion.

I could use some more of that. Frankly, we all could.

And so, down the path I go. Looking into the fog ahead. And leaving why me in the dust behind.

I’m confident that tradeoff will prove worthwhile.

The Reverse Totem Pole

Wanna see something cool?

How could I say no to an offer like that?

I was 6 years old, and recess at school had grown tiresome. My friend and I had been in the same sequence of pantomiming GI Joe on the jungle gym for days. Something cool sounded much better.

My friend led me to a back corner of the recess yard. There, at the top of the hill, lay some old tires.

Where did these come from, I asked.

My friend shrugged.

Doesn’t matter, he said, as he set one upright. But look at what you can do with them!

He gave the tire a push, and we watched it roll down the hill. The tire picked up speed, hurtling out of control before it finally tipped over near the bottom of the slope.

I was awestruck. But my friend was already on to the next adventure. In fact, by the time I looked back at him, he’d already stood up another tire.

Pick up that one, he commanded, pointing to another tire a few paces from my feet. We’ll race.

Moments later, we were sending both tires down the hill simultaneously. Mine had a strong start, but it began to wobble midway down the slope. My friend’s tire made it down the hill first.

We headed down the hill to collect the tires. Then we pushed them back up to the top of the slope to race again. And again. And again – until the teacher called us back into the classroom.

Recess was over.

That evening at the dinner table, the tire race was all I could talk about.

I was obsessed with our recess activity. It was so much cooler than all the stuff I did in class. I wished that I could just roll tires down the hill all day long.

Well, you can’t, my mother replied. What you’re learning in school is important.

I groaned.

It’s just so boring. And it seems so pointless.

My parent chuckled uneasily. How were they to explain to a 6-year-old that his life would eventually be full of requisite monotony?

It had only been a few months since they’d broken the bad news to me that I would not, in fact, be getting my driver’s license as a 6th birthday present. The law wouldn’t allow for that until I was 16, they explained to me, as the joy evaporated from my face.

They didn’t want to burst my bubble like that again. So, they let me down easy.

Well, maybe tomorrow will be less boring. And hey, the tires should still be there at recess.

I think about the boy I was a lot these days.

I was naïve, sure. Naïve enough to consider recess tire races to be a worthwhile pastime.

But I also knew there was a chasm I needed to cross. A chasm of experience.

I couldn’t do all the things my parents did. Drink beer. Stay up late. Go to a fancy office with computers and rolling chairs and vending machines stocked with Coca-Cola and M&Ms.

I wanted to see what I was missing out on.

Yes, I was just like that Tom Hanks character in the movie Big. I yearned for everything all at once. Even if the laws of anatomy made that wholly impossible.

After all, our brains take years to develop. Our bones take decades to fuse together. And the firsthand experiences that help guide our decision making are more a slow trickle than a rushing waterfall.

But unlike Tom Hanks’ character, I didn’t blast through the divide. I didn’t wake up one day as a boy in a man’s body, doomed to suffer through the misadventures that time warp entailed.

Instead, I accepted the advice of my parents and my teachers. There were some things I’d need to learn with time. There was much I’d need to wait for.

So, I did.

I stopped dreaming of racing tires all day long. I dedicated myself to my studies in the classroom. And I remained inquisitive outside of it.

I gave myself a runway for growth – from the innocence of boyhood through the wilds of adolescence and on to the bumpy ride of adulthood.

As I climbed the Totem Pole, I never lost sight of the journey. Each etched notch that my hands gripped onto had a sense of accomplishment to it. Both for myself and for those who would follow behind me.

Or so I thought.

I’m now a seasoned adult.

By now, I’ve experienced much of what my parents once had. Well, with one exception.

I don’t have any children of my own. But many of my friends do.

Some are around the age I was when I ranged around the recess yard looking for tires to race. Others are a bit younger.

But all of them are wiser than I was at their age.

You see, children of this era have technology in their hands before they’re out of diapers. They can play games on their tablets, stream shows on their TVs, or take selfies with their parents’ smartphones.

Such a setup opens a world of opportunities – at lightning speed.

Kids can learn to write web code before they reach middle school. They can play with Artificial Intelligence before they get their driver’s license. They have many of the tools to thrive in adulthood at their disposal right now.

Some of those tools will take time to harness, of course. As that famous line from the movie Spiderman goes: With great power comes great responsibility.

But make no mistake. The path ahead for the next generation is far different than the one I followed.

I’ve gradually come to terms with this reality. I’ve accepted that while I will always be the elder, that won’t necessarily make me the teacher.

Indeed, I might be better served looking at the Totem Pole in reverse. In seeing what I can learn from those who stand where I once did, but with infinitely more knowledge at their disposal.

I’ll be better for this shift in perspective. We all will be.

If only we dare to take the leap of faith.

I’m ready and willing. Are you?

500

I placed my palms down on the floor, a little more than shoulder-width apart. I let my legs slide backwards until only the balls of my feet touched the ground.

I took a deep breath, with my torso suspended a foot or so in the air. Then I let my body sink toward the ground, my elbows bowing outward to make room.

Just as my nose was about to hit the floor, I straightened out my arms. I felt the pressure move from my forearms to my shoulders as my torso rose upward to its original position.

I’d just completed a push up.

That wasn’t so bad, I thought to myself. I could do a few more of these.

So, I did. I kept sinking to the ground and lifting myself back up. Over and over again.

10 repetitions became 20. 20 reps became 30. But around rep 31, I started to feel a burning sensation in my arms.

The force of all that movement had caught up with me. My body felt tired and heavy. I could no longer make it through without discomfort.

I struggled my way to the 40th push up. Then I stopped.

It turns out time does take its toll.

Half of success is just showing up.

I’ve heard that phrase plenty. And it’s led me to scratch my head.

You see, I’ve always considered showing up to be table stakes. After all, it’s hard to seize opportunities without being present for them.

How could something foundational be worth half of the jackpot? It shouldn’t be.

So, in an era of participation medals and self-indulgence, I’ve kept my nose to the grindstone. I’ve focused on my execution and tried to keep the spotlight off my effort.

Being there has meant nothing to me. What I do in the moment has meant everything.

Recently though, I’ve found myself re-evaluating my point of view.

For it turns out that showing up is trickier than it might seem.

Sure, it’s simple enough to be present on day one, day two, or even day ten. We’re fresh. We’re eager. We’re determined.

But eventually the weight of all our expended energy catches up with us. We get worn down. And our will to persist wanes.

This is why the 31st pushup is harder than the first. And it’s why the 31st day of any venture is more challenging than the 11th.

It takes something special to power through. Stubbornness. Determination. Sacrifice.

It’s uncommon to see such traits in action, day after day. And when they are on display, the least we could do is recognize them.

Showing up might not be precisely half of success. But it matters.

Nearly a decade ago, I took a plunge into the unknown.

I’d been considering sharing my writing online for some time, in the form of an online publication. I had a lot of stories to tell, and I was eager to share my thoughts with the world. But I was terrified that my venture would fall into the abyss of online content out there.

How can I break through? I thought to myself. How can I avoid the curse of irrelevance?

As I pondered these questions, I thought about my favorite thought leaders on the Internet.  The personalities I followed back then showed up repeatedly and reliably. A daily blog post. A weekly YouTube video. A monthly newsletter.

It kept me engaged as an audience member. And it kept me accountable.

Perhaps I could try the same thing with my nebulous audience.

So, I made a commitment. I would share something fresh, original, and substantive each week. And in doing so, I’d give readers something to come back for, time and again.

This pledge didn’t seem overly daunting at the time. After all, I had lots of stories in my head that were yearning for the light. Sharing one a week would be relatively simple.

So, I set up my web domain, drafted my first article, and hit Publish. Then I did it again. And again. And again.

500 times, to be exact.

Yes, this is the 500th consecutive weekly article to appear on Ember Trace. There hasn’t been a single hiatus since the publication came to life.

Technically, I’ve only relied on three items to keep this streak alive — a word processor, a website, and a stable Internet connection. But this whole venture has demanded  far more of me.

I’ve become relentlessly creative, judicious with time-management, and determined to make writing a priority. I’ve made this venture a focal point of my life.

All to repeat the trick of hitting Publish 500 times over.

That’s nothing to sneeze at.

Several years back, I met with a physical therapist who specialized in treating runners.

I was close to the peak of my running career at that point, with the physique and the medal haul to match. But I’d also picked up a couple of injuries that had knocked me out of some races. And I worried that my gait was to blame.

The physical therapist looked on as I ran on a specialized treadmill. Then he showed me some video clips of my form.

Sure enough, my right foot was freelancing. It would oscillate with each stride – oftentimes landing behind my left heel. This wild motion led my torso to twist, putting strain on my right hip, knee and ankle.

I looked on, defeated. It seemed that I was going to need to relearn how to run.

But the physical therapist had other ideas.

He gave me a litany of exercises to practice at the gym. Mobility drills. Strength training. Balance tasks.

I was to run through that circuit several times a week, paying close attention to detail. But when I went for a run, I was ordered to pay my form no mind.

Confusion washed over my face. Why wouldn’t fixing my form be the number one priority?

The physical therapist explained the gait doesn’t define success for runners. In fact, many with unusual strides have gone on to achieve great things. Their bodies adapted to the unbalanced movements, and they created a new equilibrium.

I think about this often when I’m drafting a new article for Ember Trace.

The stories in my mind are no longer abundant, and article topics no longer flow freely. Indeed, I feel far more like I’m on my 31st push up than my first. Such are the challenges of doing something 500 times over.

But with God’s grace, I’m still out here. I’m still writing, still publishing, still making a miniscule mark on this world every seven days.

I’m proud of that feat. And I’m honored to keep it going.

Here’s to 500. And to all that’s still to come.

On Adequacy

The image speaks volumes.

I’m standing on a racing podium, displaying my silver medal. Beside me are the gold and bronze medalists. We all look happy, but my smile is the most radiant.

I’d headed to the starting line of this race with a clear objective. I wanted to traverse the 10-kilometer — or 6.2 mile — distance in under 40 minutes.

It was an audacious goal, one that required equal parts speed and endurance. The fact that the race was occurring on hot summer morning — and that I’d been battling an injury in the week prior — only made this mark more difficult to attain.

But against all odds, I’d persevered. I started out the race briskly, settled into a steady pace, and survived the final couple miles.

As I crossed the finish line, the clock read 39:54. I’d set a personal best for this distance.

Mission accomplished. Well, sort of.

You see, my finishing time wasn’t atop the leaderboard on this day. In fact, I wasn’t even in the top 10 of all racers. And when it came to my division — the subset of male racers who were around my age — my performance was only second best.

That’s why I was holding a silver medal on the podium, rather than a gold one or a winner’s plaque. I’d earned those in other races — either for overall performance or standing in my division. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping for similar accolades this time.

But I wasn’t going to let my standing impact my mood. I’d done my best on this day, and I’d proved my adequacy in the wake of some tough competition.

I had everything to smile about.

It’s good enough for government work.

I was dumbfounded when one of my high school teachers stated this to my class.

The solution he’d posited on the whiteboard was not quite complete. It was maybe 90% to the point of where it should be.

Why call it a day there? And why smear the government like this?

Clearly, there was much for me to learn about the ways of the world. And I needed to rid my mind of its utopian perceptions.

In the classroom, achievement was graded on an A to F scale. Expectations were clearly defined, and it was my responsibility to attain them.

If I paid attention, completed assignments, and studied diligently, I’d find the rewards of the winner’s circle. Sparkling grades, the praise of my teachers, a chance to continue my studies at a prestigious university — they were all possible if I just did the work.

Adequacy was everything in this environment.

But in the world outside the classroom windows, things were far murkier. There was no framework of expectations. There was only a bar to clear — one that could be set higher or lower at will.

The government, in my teacher’s telling, set that bar lower. There was too much bureaucracy in play to demand a culture of excellence.

But other corners of society were more akin to an Olympic high jumping competition. People could set the bar higher and higher, until they were leaping halfway to the moon.

The context was established by the pace setters, the winners, the high-fliers. Doing an adequate job in this environment would earn you precisely nothing.

It was a hard lesson to take in. In fact, I’m still wrestling with it today.

I tried so hard and got so far. But in the end, it doesn’t even matter.

That refrain is the centerpiece of Linkin Park’s hit song In The End – which was playing seemingly everywhere during my teenage years.

I found those lines needlessly dark and brooding back then. After all, this was the land of opportunity, and my future was bright. Why should I think my hard work would go for naught?

But now, I feel a kinship with them.

You see, I’ve attained quite a bit in my adult life. I’ve embarked on a career, left it, and built another one. I’ve increased my net worth, grown my social circle, and expanded my knowledge base.

I’ve shown adequacy at every turn. And I’ve taken every opportunity to demonstrate my competence.

But what has it gotten me?

Far less than I’d anticipated.

According to my teenage logic, I should have been well-established by now. I should have already reached a higher standing in my professional field, with my own piece of land to call home, and enough in the bank account to be perpetually comfortable.

But instead, I’m hearing Linkin Park in my head, over and over.

Some of this has to do with the era I’ve come of age in. Economic turmoil, a pandemic, and rapid technological innovation have scrambled the deck more than ever before.

But I believe a more specific shift is at play. One that rejects adequacy in favor of exceptionalism.

Now, to be clear, the allure of the exceptional has always been there. But with the world more interconnected than ever before, it’s now easier to find unicorns. And the risks of settling for anything less are dauntingly steep.

This presents quite the problem for the adequate.

Indeed, in every corner of my life, I feel like I’m in a silent auction with moon jumpers. I can put in my best effort and prove my adequacy. But there will inevitably be someone with more means, more accolades, and more abilities to seize that which I am striving for. Someone I cannot see or size up. Someone I will only hear of after the fact.

There is no silver medal for me to claim. There is nothing for me to do.

There is only me standing on the podium in the wind. And the smile on my face is gone.

I sat on an upholstered chair in a wood-paneled office next to the school gym. The baseball coach sat across the table from me.

He got straight to the point.

I’m sorry. You didn’t make the team.

Those seven words stung, no doubt. I’d yearned to be a pro baseball player for years. Now, I wasn’t even going to have the chance to suit up for my sophomore year of high school.

But I can’t say I was all that surprised.

I’d done a few good things the prior season, and I’d given my best during tryouts. But others had attained more. They deserved a spot on the team more than I did.

I walked out of the room, hearing the door close behind me. And I started to consider which doors ahead might open for me.

I had good grades in school, and I knew I could write. Plus, I liked watching movies. Maybe I could be a screenwriter.

I followed this thread all the way into my first year of college. But after taking a few film classes there, I discovered that television was more up my alley. So, I switched my major to Broadcast Journalism and parlayed that into a job as a TV news producer.

Adequacy hadn’t helped me live out my baseball dreams. But it opened other avenues for me to move forward into self-sufficiency.

Now, all these years later, I’m unsure where to turn. The path forward to the next era of my life seems to be reserved for the unicorns, the invisible exceptionalists. I have no guidance on what’s needed to reach their level. And I have no alternative avenues to get me to my destination.

Adequacy has led me to a dead end. And I’m stuck in the cul-de-sac.

There seems to be no simple path out of this morass. But I won’t give up.

I’ll keep trying my best, giving my all, and proving my adequacy at every turn.

Hopefully someday that will be enough to get me through.

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.