Category: Reflections

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.

Hidden Battles

He was a grocer. A blue-collar American. The first man in my family to carry my last name.

I never met him. And neither did my father.

A heart attack felled my great grandfather before he could even see his 50th birthday. The tragic event cast a shadow over my family. One that was still hard to ignore when I entered the picture three decades later.

The other side of my family tree was no less somber. My mother adored her paternal grandfather. But by the time she was in grade school, he was gone. A heart attack claimed him too.

Heart disease is a sobering reality in my family. The leading cause of death in America has wreaked havoc on my family tree.

Even those who’ve managed to fend off the reaper ended up sporting pronounced war wounds. My mother’s father survived two heart attacks, a triple bypass, and a stroke in his nine decades on this planet.

I remember the third and fourth legs of that odyssey. I vividly recall the toll it took on him. The toll it took on all of us.

I observed it. I absorbed it. And I buried it.

Until now.

Everyone’s fighting a battle you know nothing about.

I’ve seen this phrase more and more recently. It’s a hallmark of the era we live in.

Those eight words are meant to serve as a powerful reminder. A reminder not to judge others for what they show us through their actions. And a reminder to not be so secretive ourselves.

I’ve long struggled to heed this advice.

I do my best not to cast stones at others. But I’m often hesitant to show my own cards. Even when doing so might help clarify my actions.

This dichotomy came into sharp focus some years back. I’d recently entered the world of competitive running, ramping a modest exercise routine into a full-fledged recreational hobby.

My commitment to the sport was notable – and intense. And soon everyone around me was asking one question: Why?

Why was I doing this? What kept me going?

I’d often provide stock responses to these inquiries.

I do it because I’m good at running!

I do it because I love running!

I do it because no other experience matches it!

All those statements were technically true. But none of them represented my why.

They weren’t the reason why I showed up in an empty parking lot at 5:30 in the morning. They weren’t the reason I cranked out the miles until my legs and lungs hurt. They weren’t the reason I spent hundreds of dollars on gear and entered every race I could.

No, the reason – the real reason – I did all these things was my family history.

I was haunted by the legacy of heart disease in my lineage. I was determined to stay in shape and avert an early demise. And when it came to this objective, no other cardio workout quite compared to running.

So, I ran with vigor and determination. I made friends in the running community. I won medals in distance races.

I gained the upper hand in my hidden battle with heart disease.

And then I got injured. Four times over.

And a new set of hidden battles began.

There’s a famous video on the internet of a baby giraffe learning to walk.

The calf first struggles to stand up, then to steady itself, then to move on its own four feet.

Running for the first time after a hiatus is somewhat like this. You’re tentative and skittish at first, but eventually you get the hang of it.

But those first steps back are only half of the experience. The other half occurs the next morning, when you feel like you’ve been hit by a truck.

It’s hard to explain the level of soreness that accompanies that first time back running. Muscles you didn’t know existed now radiate with pain. You find yourself shuffling about, hunched like an elderly person with sciatica.

It hurts to do just about anything, and it takes days for your body to loosen up.

I know this sensation all too well. After all, I’ve experienced it four times in less than two years.

Yes, this full body soreness has become a constant for me. A painful milestone I keep passing in a bevy of injuries and recoveries, of setbacks and comebacks.

This strange purgatory is foreign to many competitive runners. Some have stayed healthy throughout their journey. Others ran through an injury without taking a break. Their bodies have been spared the trauma that comes with starting all over again.

Even those who are forced to reboot will likely only go through this ritual once or twice. Rapid injury recurrence is somewhat rare in this sport. And those facing such affliction often step away for good.

So, I’m one in a million. Which makes me one of one.

I put myself through hell time and again, just to get back in motion. And others couldn’t possibly comprehend the struggle as well as I.

This has become my hidden battle. One that I’ve worked hard to keep under wraps.

But what good has that done me? Surely none.

Suffering in silence is still suffering. It brings me no closer to closure, and it pushes others away from understanding.

So, I’m changing course. I’m coming clean. I’m putting my cards on the table.

I’ve had my ups with running. And I’ve had my downs.

I’ve enjoyed the thrill of running free and easy. Of setting personal bests and standing on podiums. It’s scintillating.

But I’ve also felt the pain of running. Of acute injury, of drawn-out rehab, and of head-to-toe soreness that comes with every reboot. It’s miserable.

The peaks and valleys don’t always sync up. A return to glory as no more guaranteed than a fall from grace. Yet, I stick with it anyway.

For the alternative is not palatable.

I refuse to walk away from the fight. To bury my head in the sand. To willingly succumb to the ailments that have dogged my lineage.

I’m determined to stay active. To give myself a chance for more chapters to be written.

That’s worth the battle. Whether its fought in the shadows or the light.

Face the Music

There’s no cheering in the press box.

I heard these words plenty in college.

As both a broadcast journalism major and a sports fan, I’d seized just about any opportunity to nab a press credential – either for a class project or for the campus TV station I volunteered at.

My press pass got me a dinner buffet and a prime seat for the action. The only cost was the edict against cheering in the press box.

So, when I scored a credential to a Florida Marlins game – courtesy of a colleague at my internship – I followed the rules. The Marlins starting pitcher hurled a complete game masterpiece that night. But even as the crowd roared below me, I stayed cool as a cucumber.

There’s no cheering in the press box.

After the final out was recorded, my colleague turned to me.

Alright, it’s time to head down to the clubhouse for quotes. You ready?

I was certainly not ready.

I was not on an assignment that evening. I was simply tagging along to shadow my colleague. I was wearing a button down, jeans, and cowboy boots – hardly the look of a serious beat writer. And instead of a laptop, I’d brought a spiral notebook and pen with me.

Still, I only had a split second to answer my colleague. So, I nodded and hustled out of the press box, forgetting my my pen and notebook in the rush.

We made our way to a hallway under the main concourse. The dim corridor was filled with support staff and security.

As we reached a nondescript door, we turned. The door opened and we strode through the Marlins clubhouse to the manager’s office in the back.

The office was small – designed for two or three people. But at least a dozen were in there, flanking the Marlins manager. Most had the same credential around their neck as I did. But they also had a digital recorder or notepad in their hands – and I did not.

I stood close to my colleague and tried my best to blend in. I listened intently to the manager’s responses to reporters’ questions, laughing earnestly with the crowd when the skipper threw in some dry humor. It felt collegial and comfortable. My worries about my missing notebook faded away.

But as soon as the questions stopped, I heard a new one from a redheaded man standing nearby.

Who’s that? Is that an intern?

I saw the man’s badge, which read Florida Marlins PR Manager. And I realized he was talking about me.

My colleague explained that I was shadowing her for the game. But the redheaded man wasn’t having it.

No interns in the clubhouse, he exclaimed sharply to me.

Guilt washed over my face.

OK, I’m leaving, I replied.

I strode briskly toward the door to the manager’s office, feeling the condescending stare of a dozen journalists on the back of my shoulders. I exited into the locker room, making a beeline for the front door.

I had was most of the way across the room when I heard the PR manager’s voice behind me again, harsher than before.

No interns in the clubhouse.

Suddenly, two dozen major league ballplayers were staring at me from their lockers as I finished my brisk walk to the door. I felt humiliated.

Why the second warning, I mused silently, as I waited for my colleague in the dim hallway. I was doing what the PR manager asked. Couldn’t he see that?

The night was ruined. And it was about to get even worse.

On my drive home, I got a speeding ticket. The officer threatened to charge me for having an out-of-state license while maintaining Florida residency. Ultimately, he just gave me a hefty fine.

I was 18 days from graduation, preparing for a bright future in the real world. But this disastrous Monday night was threatening to undo me.

A couple days later, I was back at the local TV station where I interned at. My boss asked to speak with me.

He had heard from the Marlins PR manager about my gaffe, and he was none too pleased.

Personally, I think his reaction was over the top, my boss exclaimed. But it doesn’t matter what I think. You made a mistake, and you brought shame to this news station. That’s something we can’t have.

I hung my head.

Here’s what you’re going to do, he continued. You’re going to write him a letter, and you’re going to sign it. You’re going to apologize completely for what you did, and you’re going to ask him for forgiveness. Hopefully, he’ll accept the written apology – and we’ll put this whole incident behind us.

I was miffed. I’d made a seemingly minor mistake, and I’d already gotten the Scarlet Letter treatment for it. Now, I had to apologize for my own humiliation?

But I wrote the letter with a contrite tone and I sent it off. Then I went home to pay the speeding ticket and spend hours completing an online defensive driving course.

I probably could have gotten away with the basics. I could have written a boilerplate apology and paid the speeding fine. No real contrition. No defensive driving course.

After all, Florida would be in my rearview mirror a month later. There was no need to go the extra mile as I vacated the premises.

But my boss’ words weighed on me. No matter the circumstances, I’d erred. I needed to face the music, fully and completely.

Accepting the consequences of my actions would be my penance. It wouldn’t provide a joyous end to the story for me. It wouldn’t get my fine rescinded, and it wouldn’t lead to another invite to the Florida Marlins press box. Ever.

But it was the right thing to do. So, that’s what I did.

A few years after my apology letter hit the mailbox, I got a message that jolted me.

My former boss from my internship at that local TV station had died.

I stared into space, stunned.

I’d only spent a few months interning under this man on the station’s Internet news desk. But I’d owed so much to him.

I’d learned about the importance of web stories for local TV stations. After all, not everyone could catch the 6 PM news in its entirety. But if the stories were posted online, they could learn about what was covered on their own time.

I’d learned how to source news material. I’d learned how to confirm information from behind the news desk. And I’d learned how to crank out high quality web articles in mere minutes.

All of this had helped me in my first job – I job I was still in when I got this terrible message. I was far away from Florida, serving as an executive producer for a TV station in West Texas. But I was still able to raise the profile of the both the station’s newscasts and its website.

Now, my former boss had left this earth. And in seven weeks’ time, I’d be leaving the news media.

All that this great man had taught me was sure to fade as I switched industries. I knew it in my bones.

And I was flat out wrong.

You see, on my journey through life’s adventures in subsequent years, I’ve made some wrong turns. Nothing serious or irrevocable. But some things that just didn’t work out.

These decisions, however well-intentioned, have carried bitter consequences. Consequences sure to leave a lasting mark on my psyche and my memory.

Even so, it’s none too difficult to sidestep them. To convince myself that I don’t deserve them, that circumstance and misfortune are to blame. To distract, to deflect, to disassociate.

These strategies are hardly novel. The art of dodging repercussions is in vogue throughout society these days. From the powerful down to the populace, we’re well versed at how not to face the music.

But I can’t ride this wave. I couldn’t abdicate accountability.

My former boss taught me better. And even though he’s gone, his words live on.

So, I judge myself on outcomes, not intentions. I try and do the right thing. But when it goes wrong, I make it right. Even if it means putting myself through hell.

I face the music.

Living with the consequences of my choices has made me more pragmatic. It’s made me more well-rounded. And it’s made me better.

These are advantages we can all enjoy. Why don’t we?

It’s time to tear down the curtain of delusion. It’s time to stop running out the clock. It’s time to cease this circumvention of consequences.

For our own good, and for the good of those around us, we must face the music.

Let’s get to it.

Having It All

I sat at my desk, struggling to stay awake.

It was just past lunchtime. The early morning adrenaline had worn off. The food I’d consumed had yet to digest.

My eyelids felt heavy, and I was tempted to let them fall. But I couldn’t.

For I was on the clock. There was work to be done and meetings to attend. A snooze wasn’t in the cards.

I thought back – way back – to my days in Pre-K. Right around this time of day, the teachers would set up mats on the ground. I’d lie on a mat until a wave of drowsiness came over me. Then I’d descend into a peaceful slumber.

I really had it all back then, I thought.

But that statement was nothing more than a delusion.

In the late 1980s, audiences went wild for a movie called Big.

In the film, a 12-year-old named Josh ambles up to a fortune teller machine at an amusement park. Josh makes a solitary wish. He asks the machine if he could be big.

Josh wakes up the next day appearing like an adult, even though he is still a boy. This disconnect leads to a series of adventures tailor-made for Hollywood.

Many people consider Big to be an iconic movie. And I am one of them.

Although though I first encountered the film years after its release, I still found it resonant. Particularly the scene with the fortune teller machine.

You see, I remembered a similar moment in my own childhood. Only mine didn’t appear at an amusement park. It came during naptime.

Yes, each day, as I lay down on a mat in my Pre-K classroom, I had but one thought.

I can’t wait until I don’t have to do this anymore.

I was through with being patronized.

I wanted to ride in the passenger seat of the car. I wanted to be able to drink a beer. I wanted to be able to sit on the back patio, talking with houseguests late into the evening.

These were all things I saw my parents do. But I they were off limits to me.

I was stuck in the car seat buckled into the back row. I was stuck drinking Coca-Cola – if my parents let me have a soda at all. I was stuck with that 8 PM bedtime.

And I was separated from my parents for most hours of the day. Sequestered in a Pre-K classroom, with a mandatory afternoon nap.

I knew deep down that this arrangement wasn’t eternal. Someday, it would all be different.

But I was sick of waiting for someday to come. So, each afternoon, I spent naptime longing for my future.

Yes, my wish was the same as Josh’s in Big. But the results were far less instantaneous.

My mind was still deep in my past when my head bumped softly against the desk. Despite my best efforts, the urge to nap was winning.

I felt a stiffness in my neck and a strain in my lower back. I couldn’t even rest these days without risking injury.

My desire to pile into Doc Brown’s DeLorean was never stronger. I wanted to go back in time and shake my 4-year-old self into submission.

You fool! Stop complaining! Some of us would dream of being you!

But that would be disingenuous.

Truth be told, some of what the younger me yearned for was worth the wait. Finding my way to the passenger seat of the car was enthralling during my pre-teen and early adolescent years. Staying up late and drinking beer were exhilarating during my first years on my own in the real world. (Although I kicked both habits not long after that.)

And adulthood, for all its flaws, has proven to be a worthwhile destination. I cherish the freedom and control I now possess. It’s everything a young boy dreamed of, and more.

So why was I now yearning to go backward with the same fervor that my earlier self yearned to go forward? Did I miss the turn for utopia somewhere between then and now? Or was that destination never even on the map?

The second explanation seems more likely.

I never really had it all. Not in the way I imagined.

How could I?

I’ve been in flux for all my decades on this earth. My body has evolved. My mind has expanded. My priorities have shifted.

The world has also shifted over time. Trends have come and gone. Opportunities have opened and closed. Possibilities have appeared and vanished.

To have it all, I’d need to hit a moving target – all while I was myself in motion. That would be a tough feat to manage, let alone sustain.

I need to give myself some more grace for missing the mark. More than that, I should be grateful for such an outcome.

So must we all.

In 2005, Tom Brady sat down for an interview on 60 Minutes.

Brady had a lot going for him at the time. He was in his late 20s, he was dating a Hollywood actress, and he had already won three Super Bowl championships as the New England Patriots quarterback.

Some would say that Tom Brady had it all. But he wasn’t saying that.

When the interviewer asked which championship ring was his favorite, Brady calmly stated The next one.

Yes, despite all his accomplishments, Tom Brady was on a mission. A mission to get more out of himself and his team. A mission to expand his excellence.

The results of that mission are now legendary. Brady played 18 more seasons after that interview. He broke the National Football League’s all-time passing yards record. He won the league’s Most Valuable Player award three times. And he appeared in seven more Super Bowls, winning four of them.

If Brady had stopped and smelled the roses, would he have become the greatest American football player of all time? Maybe. But I doubt it.

That continual quest for the missing piece was what made Tom Brady Tom Brady. It gave him the motivation and discipline to doggedly pursue excellence – even as he started to line up against defenders half his age.

Brady refused to let time or circumstance define him. He was the one taking control of the narrative.

It’s a lesson we’d all be wise to follow.

For while might not spend our days evading 250-pound linebackers, we will undoubtedly contend with the disruptive forces of life. What it gives us and what it takes from us along our journey.

If we try to solely corral what’s been given to us, we’re condemned to disappointment. We’re bound to be bitter about the sins of our past, the barrenness of our present, or the hopelessness of tomorrow. Maybe even all three.

But if we stop searching for utopia – if we let go of the illusion of having it all – we just might make the most of the duality in our midst. We just might roll with the punches and bring continual improvement to our lives – no matter the circumstances.

This is a path worth following. This is a destination worth pursuing. It’s on us to take the first step.

We never had it all. And thank God for that.