Category: Reflections

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.

Follow the Leader

It starts with a spur-of-the-moment decision.

Forrest Gump wakes up one summer morning to an empty house. His love – Jenny – has departed in the dawn’s early light while he lay sleeping.

Alone and heartbroken, Gump laces up a pair of Nike running shoes. The same pair of Nikes that Jenny had gotten him for his birthday. And he goes for a jog in them.

The experience is invigorating to Gump, and he doesn’t want it to end. So, he keeps going until he reaches the ocean. Then he turns around and runs until he finds “another ocean.”

This pattern repeats itself for several years. But as it does, something changes.

Others join the fold. Not to race Gump, but to run in formation with him.

Some seek advice. Others are content with the sound of their feet hitting the pavement. But all follow, wherever Gump goes.

The entourage views him as a leader. Gump begrudgingly accepts this role – even though he ultimately strikes a match to it with seven words.

I’m pretty tired. Think I’ll go home now.

The movement fizzles out when Gump stops running. But the lessons of the experience live on.

When I was growing up, I would head with my father to the barbershop on Saturday mornings once a month.

We’d sit in adjoining chairs while two barbers – both native Italians with thick accents – gave each of us a haircut to our stylistic specifications. All the while, we’d talk.

We’d discuss the ballgame. We’d marvel at the new traffic light at the parking lot entrance. We’d gab about other events in our lives.

Discussions of leadership bring me back to the barbershop. It seems that everyone has their own style. And they’re none too shy about sharing their opinions with the world.

There have been books, documentaries, and debates about the practice of leadership. There have popular theories, handy checklists, and trendy buzzwords bandied about. There have been attempts to tie leadership to management, and efforts to cleave the two concepts apart.

But I wonder if we’re all making this too complicated. Perhaps the key to leadership is in the hands of Forrest Gump.

Of course, Gump is not an actual person. He’s a low-IQ character in an acclaimed movie from decades ago. That makes him all too easy to dismiss in this discussion.

But let’s consider Gump’s journey again. He goes for a run, and others follow along. While Gump doesn’t seek out this group, he provides them direction nonetheless. All by continuing to do what he’d already been doing.

Maybe that’s all that’s required to be a leader. No superhero cape. No upskilling. No bluster.

We just need to be worthy of following. And we need to do something that inspires others to follow us.

It’s harder than it sounds. Especially if we try.

You are here to become a leader.

I listened incredulously as my college orientation got underway.

The school I’d devoted the next four years of my life to was acclaimed for many things. Football. Partying. Sun tans. But leadership was not traditionally one of them.

The university president was on a quest to change all that. And it started with this speech to freshly arrived students.

The president knew what she was talking about. After all, she’d come to campus after a stint in a White House cabinet.

She understood the power of effective leadership. And she was committed to bringing it to the next generation.

But I was not buying what this campus leader was selling.

You see, I fancied myself many things as I sat in the arena that day. But aspiring leader was not one of them.

I’d just spent high school in the shadows, content to let others drive the agenda in the classroom, in the lunchroom, and on the baseball field. I fancied myself more a follower than a leader, and I had no qualms with that.

I didn’t think I was cool enough to be a leader. I didn’t consider myself charismatic enough to be a leader. I didn’t believe I was talented enough to be a leader.

And even if I had regarded myself that way, I didn’t want to be a leader. Following seemed so much safer.

But the university president’s words proved prescient. For as I progressed through my studies – and eventually into the workforce – I started growing into the role demanded of me.

This was by no means intentional. I honestly didn’t try to change my approach much this whole time.

But staying true to myself started to yield me a following. One that started small but soon grew to the point where it couldn’t be ignored.

That revelation brought some gravity. I still wasn’t quite sure what made me worthy of following. But the why didn’t matter. I felt responsible for my followers. I would not, could not let them down.

I might not have been seeking out leadership. But it found me, much like it found Forrest Gump on the silver screen.

And I was ready to heed the call.

Childhood is often considered the age of innocence.

The youngest among us race around playgrounds, scarf down candy, and dream big dreams. All with a refreshing dose of enthusiasm.

But our earliest days are not immune to pressure. Quite the opposite.

We might feel the wrath of an overbearing parent, the strain of a sibling rivalry, or the crush of cultural demands from the land of our ancestors.

I encountered none of those forces growing up. The pressure I contended with was purely circumstantial.

I’m the first member of my generation. My sister and cousins are all younger than me. And from an early age, I understood what that meant.

Sure, I’d get the first crack at everything. But all eyes would be on me.

A misstep would risk setting an entire generation down the wrong path. It could shatter familial trust, relegating my existence to a cautionary tale.

My mission was to avoid that fate. And I took it seriously.

That’s one of the reasons I played it so safe in my youth. It helps explain why I yearned to be a follower – albeit one who followed the clean-cut crowd.

But looking back now, it’s hard to see anything but a missed opportunity.

You see, I’d been conscripted into the role of leader by pure circumstance. I had a sibling and a bevy of cousins who literally followed in my footsteps. Yet, I failed to make the most of the opportunity right under my nose for years.

Fortunately, my reluctance hasn’t had lingering effects. My sister and cousins are all grown up now, and all of us have found success.

Still, I feel an urge to do better with my second chance. To face the burden of leadership more directly. To prove to my followers that their choice was worthwhile.

This doesn’t require me to change much in terms of my fundamentals. But it does demand that I live my values with consistency.

When things are going well, I must not let it embolden my approach. And when times are tough, I must not run and hide.

Others are watching what I do and what I say. I must not fail them.

I know the path, and I’m ready to travel it with grace and humility. My hope is that I don’t undertake this journey alone.

For the truth is, leadership is not a talent or an accolade. It’s a responsibility. A responsibility those blessed with a following are bestowed with.

How we account for that responsibility matters. It matters more than our title, or any 10-step plan found in literature.

Simply put, it defines us.

So, let’s stop seeking out leadership bona fides. Let’s allow the quest to come to us.

And when it does, let’s handle that burden with care.

Make It Simple

I stood in the back and watched.

Across the break room, the CEO was standing next to a monitor, riffing on the numbers it displayed. Between us were rows of chairs, filled with my co-workers.

It was my company’s first big all-hands meeting since a Private Equity firm acquired it. The days of broad platitudes were over. The whole employee base was going to see the financial results each time we gathered.

Here’s our bookings, which is essentially revenue for the last month, the CEO exclaimed. And here’s our EBITDA, which is essentially accounting gobbledygook.

My eyes glared daggers across the room. Accounting gobbledygook?! EBITDA was so much more than that.

I was in business school at the time, working full-time and then heading to evening classes across town. The experience was a grind, but my mind was still sharp as a tack.

So, I quickly recalled what I’d learned in my Financial Accounting class the prior semester. Namely, that EBITDA was essentially profit – or a figure close to it.

That seemed like important information for my co-workers to know. For whether they worked in support, sales, or product development, that number mattered to them. If the company’s expenses outweighed its revenue for too long, it could become insolvent. And we could all lose our jobs.

This was a critical conclusion to illustrate. And yet, our CEO sidestepped the issue entirely. In one sentence, he focused on the unsightliness of the EBITDA acronym and stated that it was beyond our grasp.

What a way to miss the mark.

When I was young, browsing the Internet was an immersive experience.

I would sit down at my family’s desktop computer, which was hard-wired to a modem. I’d launch America Online, hearing iconic sound effects as the modem connected to the World Wide Web.

Soon, data would flow through the home’s landline and straight to the computer screen. The setup would make it impossible to use the home phone, in an era where mobile phones were rare. So, surfing the web was an escape from society – for the entire household.

Still, this escape was far from an oasis. The Internet data speeds were glacially slow back then. Web pages could take several minutes to load.

This whole clunky adventure sounds arcane in the modern era of technology. These days, you can quickly browse the Internet on a smartphone in the remote wilderness. Or you can put a headset on in your living room and imagine you’re in that same wilderness.

The steps that led to this technological innovation were nuanced. And yet, billions have been able to reap its rewards with ease.

Why is that?

I believe it has something to do with a 14th century principle called Occam’s Razor.

Occam’s Razor states that the simplest explanation is usually the best one. It’s a precursor to the KISS method – Keep It Simple, Stupid.

Technologists have followed Occam’s Razor for decades. The pioneers of the industry were problem solvers at heart, and they recognized that their solutions needed evangelism. If a problem was fixed but that fix was not widely adopted, it would remain a problem. And complexity was the bane of adoption.

So, each wave of innovation has followed a familiar pattern. The new ways make the old ones obsolete. But they they’re also easy for the masses to understand.

This premium on simplicity – on packaging up complex information in a widely understandable manner – is the hidden superpower of the tech industry. And yet, it rarely expands beyond the search bar of Google or the home screen of an iPhone.

In too many other industries, complexity is still the price of admission. And even within the tech industry, the push to make it simple is not absolute.

That comment in an all hands meeting about EBITDA being accounting gobbledygook? It took place at a tech company.

This duality is making a mess of us. And something’s got to give.

Tell me like I’m 5.

My colleague’s command rankled me.

Here I was, sitting in the producer’s chair in one of 800 TV newsrooms in America. I had the honor of conveying the major events of the day to 150,000 households across West Texas. But now, I was being asked to focus on the kindergartner-level viewers in the area.

Why was that?

My colleague explained that most people didn’t plan their day around my newscast. If they caught it at all, they were likely multitasking. Cooking, perhaps. Or changing out of their work clothes. Or wrangling their rambunctious kids running around the living room.

They were listening to our broadcast as much as anything else. And listening with one ear, at the end of a long day, with energy flagging. I had to meet them more than halfway to keep them from tuning me out entirely.

I nodded in understanding. And from then on, my newscasts looked different. Simpler. Plainspoken. And easier for a 5-year-old to understand.

I didn’t know it at the time, but this advice would come to define my life.

As I left the news media behind for a career in marketing, I found myself supporting industries I knew little about. First home remodeling. Then insurance.

The acronyms and jargon bandied about in fields put a wedge between me and the major players. They made it feel as if I was gathering information from the other side of a closed door.

My job was to get others to walk through that doorframe and into the room beyond it. But it would be hard to succeed if I was out in the cold with those I was recruiting. If I didn’t understand why the products I represented mattered, how could I explain that to the masses?

So, I went strove to make it simple. I learned all I could about my industry and my employer in the most straightforward terms. And then I conveyed that information in a way that just about anyone could understand.

This has worked wonders. I’ve made it easy for an inexperienced consumer to recognize what my employer’s solution can offer them. And I’ve made it just as easy for a relative at a holiday gathering to understand what I do for a living.

There are no prerequisites to information in my world. There is no room for pretense.

But in that sense, I stand alone far too often.

Check this out. An entry level job that requires three years of experience!

My friend beckoned me over to the laptop on the coffee table, hoping we’d find humor in the absurdity of it all. But as we stared at the job description on the screen, neither one of us was laughing.

There were enough acronyms to flummox the Merriam-Webster Dictionary. There were vague descriptions of arbitrary tasks. And there was that firm demand for 3 to 5 years of professional experience in the field. For an entry level job.

Good Lord! Was this employer trying to seal off the talent pipeline?

It made no sense to me then. But it does now.

The company who put out this misguided job ad had the same goal as millions of others. To make enough money to cover its costs and then some.

This meant catering its offerings to the masses. But not opening its doors to them.

Indeed, success in the ultra-competitive business world meant having the best talent in tow. And complexity was the measure separating the wheat from the chaff. Exclusivity was the name of the game – even at the lowest levels.

So, this company offered no quarter for on-the-job growth. It demanded three years’ experience just to get in the door.

This contradiction mirrors life itself. We rely on simplicity to reap the benefits of community. Yet, we also rely on complexity to make our mark in a crowded field.

Our minds can’t handle this polarization. So, we tend to focus on complexity, making our actions more and more exclusive. Until eventually, we miss the forest for the trees entirely.

What if we chose the other road? What if we shunned the illusion of the sophisticated elite, and yearned to make it simple?

A voice in our head might scoff at this idea, claiming it’s beneath us. But that voice betrays us.

A focus on simplicity has changed my life for the better. Not because I’m anyone special. But because the concept just makes sense.

It’s time for more of us to reap these rewards. To open our minds, our hearts, our spirits. To tell it like we’re 5.

Let’s get to it.

On Serenity

The instructions were clear.

Don’t leave your computer station for any reason. If you get to a break in the proceedings and need to stretch your legs or use the restroom, raise your hand. A test proctor will see it and head your way. Then they’ll escort you to where you need to go.

Such were the rules of standardized test centers. Elaborate cheating schemes needed to be stamped out aggressively. I understood that.

But as I sat down to take the GMAT, those rules were hardly of significance. For I was prepared.

I’d completed some practice exams. I’d gotten a good night’s sleep. I’d drank a lot of water, just like my prep course instructor told me to.

I had everything I needed to excel. Or so I thought.

As I neared the end of the exam’s second section, I was struck with a familiar sensation. My bladder suddenly felt as heavy as a boulder. I would need to relieve myself in short order.

Fortunately, a scheduled break was coming up. And those familiar instructions were still fresh in my mind.

So, when the break arrived, I raised my hand and waited patiently. But no help arrived.

I turned my head to the testing center surveillance booth, encased in glass. A proctor was sitting in there, mindlessly checking her smartphone. She was twenty feet and a world away.

The timer on my computer kept ticking down. By now half of the break had expired. Even if I did get the proctor’s attention, I wouldn’t be able to get to the restroom and back in time.

So, I audibled. I clicked the End Break button and got started on the next section of the exam.

That section was the quantitative one – a hybrid of math and logic. I struggled with these types of test questions under normal conditions. And now, with my body under siege, I was in dire straits.

This situation drained my focus, strained my memory, and left me with little time to deliberate between possible answers. So, I powered through as quickly as I could, submitting answers off first instinct.

Mercifully, I reached another break. I raised my hand again – and once again my gesture was met with no response.

Desperate, I walked over to the booth and tapped on the glass. When the proctor looked up, I mouthed the words Bathroom Break. A moment later, I was on the way to my salvation.

But the damage had been done. My GMAT results were subpar – especially in the quantitative section. I had wasted a day off work for this result, and now my business school prospects had dimmed.

I was mad. Mad at the proctor for her failure to acknowledge me in my time of need. Mad at myself for drinking all that water beforehand. Mad at all of it.

It didn’t really matter who I was angry at, I told myself at the time. But that was far from the truth.

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

So goes The Serenity Prayer – my favorite bit of scripture.

Those 27 words have long had an association with Alcoholics Anonymous. By sheer coincidence, I quit the bottle some years ago. Which has left some to label my affinity for these words as a cry for help.

It’s not.

Truth be told, you don’t need to be afflicted with anything for these words to have meaning. All of us can find some solace in them.

You see, we’re tested day in and day out. Not necessarily on a 100-point scale like those school exams. Or on a pass-fail grade like an engine diagnostic. But more in the form of stimulus-response.

The universe is continually in flux, and we feel the impacts in our tiny corner of it. Things happen to us – good, bad, or a mix of both – and we’re forced to respond to them.

That response is all too often predicated on control. On optimizing the outcome, on limiting the fallout, and on preparing ourselves for greater success moving forward. This is particularly true then the test in question leaves poor marks on our ledger, or a bad taste in our mouth.

We’re inclined to lament the entirety of the incident – both the obstacles thrown in our midst and our erroneous moves that dug us in deeper. And we’re determined to engineer both out of the equation next time around.

The Serenity Prayer stops us in our tracks.

It reminds us that much is beyond our grasp. And that any efforts to reel in the unreachable amount to wasted energy.

If I were following the Serenity Prayer in the wake of my GMAT fiasco, I’d have known better than to let my anger over the test proctor’s inaction linger. Her dereliction of duty was wrong, no doubt. But it was firmly beyond my control.

In fact, the proctor’s negligence was only an issue because I consumed more water than my body could handle. That decision was firmly under my control. And while it was well-intentioned, it backfired spectacularly.

I would need the courage to change course the next time around. Even without the Serenity Prayer on my mind back then, I recognized that. And on my next go at the GMAT, I did change my approach.

Less water. No bathroom breaks. And results that ultimately helped me earn business school admission.

What’s your next move?

This is often the reply I get when I share how things are going in my life. Particularly if the news is less than rosy.

It’s understandable.

We’re a fix-it society. A culture full of pluck and innovation.

Anything wrong can be righted. Any challenge can be put behind us.

Except, not all of them can.

Indeed, there a great many obstacles for which there is no easy fix. Where the scars linger and the mess proliferates.

These occurrences could be as basic as my GMAT experience. Or they could be more substantial – such as a catastrophic situation at work or the revelation of some grim medical news.

Regardless, our first step should not be to put on our superhero cape. Our first step should be to triage. To accept the things we cannot change before summoning the courage to fix that which we can.

Serenity matters more than we care to admit. Let’s give it the respect it deserves.

We’ll be better for it.

Ghosts of Youthful Indiscretion

The dentist walked into the room. After examining my teeth for a moment, he came to a swift conclusion.

Invisalign treatments were needed. The sooner the better.

Sooner was not going to happen. Not until I scrounged up the money and checked what – if anything – my insurance would cover.

I shared this information with the hygienist. But she shocked me with her reply.

You had braces once, didn’t you? Maybe put your old retainer back in at night for the time being. Every little bit helps.

My old retainer. I hadn’t thought about it in years.

That oversight was probably the reason I was in this mess. Maybe if I’d worn the darned thing for more than a week after getting my braces off, things would have been different.

But that wiry metal mouthpiece was unsightly and uncomfortable. It cut into my cheeks as I slept. It was a nightmare to clean. It represented the opposite of freedom.

And so, in a fit of teenage defiance, I stashed the retainer in its case and hid it in a dresser drawer. As I left my childhood home for college, the retainer remained. And when I later moved halfway across the country to start my adult life, the retainer did not move with me.

At some point between then and now, it ended up in a dumpster. And my teeth drifted out of alignment.

So now, I was staring down corrective treatment. Treatment that would both be time-intensive and expensive. Treatment that was deemed obligatory for my health.

The ghosts of youthful indiscretion had caught up with me.

I backed into my career.

Longtime Ember Trace readers are likely familiar with the story. Burned out after three years in the television news media, I up and moved to a new city without a job lined up.

All my professional credibility was tied to writing back then. And content marketing was having a moment.

There was a fit for me, and I desperately needed a living wage. So, I ended up as a marketer.

These days, I do precious little writing for work. My current position is more strategic than operational. It pays far better than the job I entered the industry with. It’s more stable than that initial role. And it turns more heads at networking functions.

But getting from then to now has required a bountiful helping of humble pie. Marketing is not a profession that offers up the benefit of the doubt. A mix of persistence, patience, and self-investment is needed to prove oneself.

I had all of this in spades. And ultimately, it helped me break through.

I don’t take this achievement lightly. Yet, the opportunity cost of my journey isn’t lost on me.

You see, there are plenty of other marketers who got their start on-time. They majored in business in college. They gained footholds with major companies straight out of school. And they proceeded to climb the ladder in those structured, corporate environments.

I did none of this. So, I’ve found success later in life than many of my professional peers. And I’ve endured years of struggle that they haven’t.

The ghosts of youthful indiscretion have haunted the road I’ve traveled. And there’s nothing I can do to shake them.

Or is there?

When I was born, my uncle was still a teenager.

Even in early days, this narrow age difference wasn’t lost on me. I might not have known how to count, but I realized that I could play Tonka trucks with my uncle. I understood that we could watch Sesame Street together.

What I didn’t know was how unique my uncle was. Unlike many young men his age, my uncle had a clear vision of what he wanted to do in life. And he was well on his way to achieving it.

As early as high school, my uncle aspired to become a doctor. By the time I was in the picture, he was on a pre-med track in college. Through my youth and early adulthood, I witnessed his rise from medical school to residency to becoming an acclaimed surgeon. He now oversees an entire surgery department at a prestigious hospital.

My uncle was certainly “on-time” for attaining these accolades. But that required a remarkable clarity of vision during his teenage years. And that fact, more than anything, has left me awestruck.

Why? Because my teenage years were a complete mess. I wasn’t running afoul of the law or partying until 4 AM each night. But despite my best intentions, I wasn’t doing anything to set myself up for long-term success either.

I waffled over which profession to pursue. I stopped wearing my retainer. I couldn’t manage my own finances properly.

These decisions – and more – would haunt me for years to come. They left costly holes for me to dig out of before I could know what it was like to thrive.

It’s easy now to vilify my teenage self for not having it all together. But if I put myself back in those years, it’s not hard to see why I made the choices I did.

Adolescence, you see, is a confounding time. As we get our first taste of independence, we’re filled with both confidence and uncertainty.

I was sure I was making the right decisions back then, given the information I had at the time. But that information was short on experience and introspection. Only the passage of time would eventually add that seasoning to my prefrontal cortex.

In short, I couldn’t have expected any better of my younger self. I need to give myself some grace.

But then there’s the issue of the ghosts of my youthful indiscretion. Do I let them linger, or do I put in the extra effort to exorcise them?

For a while, I tried the former. But those ghosts cast a heavy shadow on my present and future.

So, I’ve gone all-in. I’ve made the investment – in time, money, and effort – to rectify the results of my flawed choices. I’ve willingly sacrificed my newfound prosperity to dispel the echoes of What if?

I suspect I’m not the only one at this crossroads. A great many of us are surely haunted by the effects of choices made long ago, when we lacked wisdom and maturity.

There is no shame in that conundrum. After all, it shows that we’ve grown into more discerning, conscientious people.

But we’re also left with a weighty decision. A decision on how to handle the albatross in our midst.

I’ve made my choice. What’s yours?

Lessons of Bitter Medicine

I stood in the backyard practicing my batting stance.

I steadied the wooden near my shoulder. Then, I took a practice hack – and clobbered my sister in the face on the backswing.

Startled, my sister started to cry. Then she ran into the house to let our father know what happened.

It was an honest childhood mistake. My sister had stood too close to me. I hadn’t checked my surroundings before swinging the bat.

But I still got in trouble.

Some years later, the two of us were standing in the same spot in the yard of our childhood home. I had just demonstrated how to swing a golf club. Now, my sister was giving it a try.

She took a practice swing — and clobbered me in the face. Karma couldn’t have been more complete.

My father ran out of the house, concern washed over his face. He was frantic, speaking a mile a minute.

Are you alright? Are you bruised? Are you bleeding?

I was in my late teens by this point and well-conditioned to take a blow like this. So, I found his over-the-top reaction amusing.

I’ll be fine, I chuckled. I’m just an idiot. But I guess we’ve all learned our lessons about standing too close.

Indeed, we had. All too well.

That’s a bitter pill to swallow.

This adage has transcended the generations.

It’s been years – decades really – since the days of bitter-tasting medicine. These days, many pills are coated in sugar, mixed into gummies, or otherwise made to seem bland.

Yet, the phrase remains transcendent. Why is that?

I believe this has everything to do with the underlying message. We may have solved the Bitter Medicine Taste problem. But we haven’t found a way to avert unpleasantness itself.

This might not be as dire a concern as it seems.

After all, discomfort is an important part of our life experience. A strange rite of passage. A feature, not a bug.

Old school medicine carried the promise of healing if you could get through the bitterness first. Perhaps swallowing those new school bitter pills – accepting discomfort – can bring us the promise of some invaluable lessons as well.

I am proof positive of this idea.

I would not have understood the danger of black ice if I hadn’t once slipped on it and taken a spill. I would not have appreciated the value of sunscreen if I hadn’t once gotten sunburned. Such knowledge was embedded in the bitter pill I swallowed each time.

Now, this theory is far from absolute. When discomfort becomes habitual or continuous, its lessons wash away. Suffering is all that remains.

This is why teaching someone a lesson with a fist or a belt is a fool’s errand. Beyond being immoral – and in many cases, illegal – this act does little beside inflict vengeful damage upon its victims. It’s also why intentional self-harm – in all its forms – is nothing short of disastrous.

But, when we allow ourselves to spontaneously encounter discomfort, we often come out of the experience wiser. When we step out of our cocoons – accepting the risk of unpleasantness in the process – we tend to reap the benefits.

The pain of the bitter medicine is temporary. But the lessons are forever.

This is why I don’t regret taking that golf club to the face (although I still feel guilty for accidentally hitting my sister years earlier). The experience taught me what I would never have otherwise learned.

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

As I write these words, we are nearing the end of another year.

The holiday spirit is in full swing. And we’re preparing to flip the calendar over once again.

A year is just a construct. One I don’t take all that much stock in celebrating.

Yet, this trip around the sun has been quite the journey.

I started the year by undergoing ankle surgery. The procedure relieved some lower leg discomfort that had turned into suffering. But it left me with a grueling rehab.

I learned much from this ordeal. I became familiar with the tribulations of disability. And through the process, I found out just what I was made of.

But even after I got my range of motion back, I wasn’t out of the woods. I was able to walk unencumbered once again, and I would soon be back to running.

But the injuries kept coming. A lower back bruise. Right knee tendonitis. A stress fracture in my left leg. An intercostal strain. A right hip flexor strain.

Some of these injuries were exercise-related. Others were the product of bad luck. All caused me more than a modicum of discomfort – leaving me wondering when I’d ever be back to “normal.”

But licking my wounds and ruing misfortune was getting me nowhere. So, I embarked on a new approach.

I started thinking of all these injuries as bitter medicine. As ordeals I’d need to endure to learn more about myself.

For years, I’d neglected this task. I’d focused on brain health, on expanding knowledge, and on honing decision-making. I’d also focused on heart health, making a concerted effort to stay in shape.

But the rest of me? I often took that for granted.

Who cared how my joints operated, how my bones replenished themselves, or how my muscles interconnected? I hardly noticed them when I was healthy. So, I felt little need to maintain their function.

It was only when things went wrong that I started to see the whole picture. That experience taught me how to properly take care of myself from head to toe.

So yes, this year has been unpleasant at times. In the most physical, visceral of ways. But I wouldn’t trade this ride I’ve been on for the world.

For more than half a century, families have made a pilgrimage to the middle of Florida.

Their destination? A 27,000-square-acre oasis called Walt Disney World.

Walt Disney World has long been billed as The Happiest Place on Earth. And as a four-time visitor, I can verify that elation does radiate there like the tropical sunshine that illuminates the grounds.

Yet, this billing has an unspoken downside. For once families, leave the oasis – once they reach Interstate 4 or the Orlando International Airport – they return to reality. A reality that, by definition, is less happy and less pleasant than the place they’ve just visited.

This is an unsettling fact. One that we’re determined to dispel.

We try ever harder to protect our children from unpleasantness and to delude ourselves from its existence. We wall ourselves off inside convenient fantasies and put our risk-aversion senses on overdrive. We encase the pills of our life experience in a mountain of sugar, consequences be damned.

But such attempts are far from ironclad. Now and then, unpleasantness overwhelms our defenses, washing away our defenses.

Maybe this unpleasantness is an unconscionable terror attack on our shores. Or a financial meltdown in our markets. Or even a pandemic infesting our atmosphere.

Our pleasantness at all costs crusade leaves us ill-equipped to handle such stark reality. So, we stumble through the fallout, feeling lost and betrayed. And all the while, we wish the experience had never happened.

Perhaps we can follow a more productive path. Instead of relying on dreams of revisionist history to restore our fantasy, perhaps we can build off our ordeal. To take the lessons of bitter medicine, internalize them, and be better for it.

I’ve embarked on this journey, this past year especially. But my experience – and my mindset – should be anything but extraordinary. It should be but one case of millions – millions who accept unpleasantness as a vessel toward improvement, rather than a scourge to eradicate.

Let’s make it so.

What’s Left to Prove?

This is where the cowboy rides away.

I heard this verse from across the arena, and I knew what it meant.

This would be the last song of this George Strait concert. Because it was the last song of every George Strait concert.

No use demanding an encore. Best to prepare to give The King a proper sendoff.

Up on stage, Strait crooned the familiar tune. As always, he was sporting boots, Wrangler jeans, a Western shirt, and a Stetson hat.

When it was all over, Strait smiled and waved to the screaming crowd. Then he left the stage.

The cowboy really was riding away.

There’s a home décor sign that’s popular across Texas.

It reads:

Unless you’re God or George Strait, take off your boots in this home.

Yes, The King is worshipped in his native Lone Star State. And the same is true outside its borders.

Why is that?

It’s not as if George Strait revolutionized country music. Perhaps the most radical thing he’s done was cover a Mexican corrido.

No, it’s the adherence to custom that’s made The King such a superstar. George Strait brought Western traditions into the modern era and introduced them to the masses.

Everything about his presence has remained intentional. Even as other country stars now show up on stage in tank tops or trucker hats, Strait has maintained his signature look. Instead of prancing around the stage like a showman, he’s simply picked at his guitar and sang. And at the end of each show, he’s ridden off into the sunset like the Western heroes of old.

George Strait has nothing left to prove. And he couldn’t care less if you felt different.

That is the stuff of legend in Texas. And that is why George Strait is the only human allowed to keep his boots on in every Lone Star home.

When I saw George Strait in concert, I was mesmerized by his presence. All these years later, it remains the greatest concert I’ve ever attended.

Still, I couldn’t relate well with his persona. The understated confidence. The utter lack of edginess.

It was everything I wasn’t.

You see, when I set foot in that arena, my life was in turmoil. I’d left my first career behind and moved to another city. Money was low and tensions were high.

My confidence had been depleted by a prolonged job search. And the chip on my shoulder grew with every passing day.

I had something to prove to everyone — most of all myself. And there was no guarantee I’d get that opportunity.

Fortunately, my situation did improve. I ultimately landed a job and worked my way up the ladder in a new line of work. My bank account stabilized. My confidence grew.

And yet, I never quite lost my edginess. I never stopped feeling as if I had something to prove.

Until recently.

I’m an avid runner.

Passion plays a large role in my tendency to hit the pavement. As do the health benefits of exercise. But the burden of proof also looms large.

It turns out I have innate running talent. I’ve finished in the top 10 percent of all competitors in each race I’ve entered as an adult. And I’ve posted some blistering times during those competitions.

These accolades have only driven me to dig deeper and train harder. There are always higher levels of achievement I can unlock. There’s always more to prove.

At least that’s what I’ve told myself.

However, this quest has hit a snag lately, as I’ve dealt with a boatload of injuries.

The wake of these unfortunate incidents has seemed hauntingly familiar. I’ve found myself low on confidence and with plenty of work ahead. It’s all I need to put a Texas sized chip on my shoulder.

And yet, I have none.

I remain dedicated to regaining my form. But whether I ultimately exceed my prior abilities or fall short of them, I will be satisfied.

I have no desire to prove anything – to myself or those around me. That evidence is already etched in stone.

The same goes for everything outside of running. The obsession with proving myself professionally and personally has faded away. In its place lies a silent satisfaction.

This has all been a bit jarring to witness, even as I pull the strings. After all, my edginess has gotten me to this point. And now I’m willingly killing the golden goose.

Still, my running injuries have underscored the risks of the Prove It approach. By driving myself so forcefully and relentlessly, I’ve risked driving myself into the ground.

My accomplishments would be canceled out in such a scenario. My abilities would be wasted. My joie de vivre would be extinguished.

I want no part of that fate.

So, I’ve found solace in what I’ve built and accomplished. I’ve put that insatiable demand for more on the back burner.

What’s left to prove? For me, not much.

And that’s OK.

Now and then, I’ll meet with a financial professional.

These discussions are relatively standard. A recap of my medium-term goals. A review of my investments. And a discussion of my plans for retirement.

That last part always makes me squirm.

Now, retirement is in no way imminent for me. I am decades away from the big day.

And yet, I wish it was even further off.

My desire is to work as long as I live. Not for the money or the prestige. But so that I have something to do.

That old Bible verse that reads Idle hands are the devils workshop? I feel it in my soul.

There is always more to accomplish. More to offer. More to prove.

But perhaps my recent shift in perspective can challenge this maxim. Perhaps it can help me take a more productive path forward. Both with my far-off retirement, and with everything that comes before it.

Such a shift would certainly impact my life. But it needn’t be exclusive.

That’s why I’m sharing it here.

The chip on our shoulder can sharpen our edge. But that blade can cut both ways.

The insatiable drive to prove ourselves can drag us down just as quickly as it lifts us up. It can make our lives seem like empty vessels. It can shatter our confidence, break our will, and lay waste to hope.

It’s our obligation to get off this train before it jumps the tracks. To determine what well enough is. And to leave well enough alone.

This approach does more than benefit us. It benefits everyone in our orbit. And that’s an outcome worth striving for.

I’m proud to have made this shift. Will you join me?

An Ode to Incrementalism

As I made my way through the cavern, I felt something hit my left shoulder.

It was cold, wet, and gray. And it was now sitting on my favorite shirt.

With an exasperated sigh, I moved to rid myself of the moisture. But as I did, my father cautioned me.

Don’t be so quick to wipe it away. That’s history in the making.

Indeed, the cavern we were traversing was formed by actions like this. The slow drip by drip of water eating away at a limestone core — over millions of years.

This all happened out of sight and out of mind. That is, until an intrepid explorer discovered the cavern this process had created.

That nearly finished product was what we were now witnessing. Its promise had lured us off the highway and compelled us to pay an exorbitant entrance fee. Its grandiosity was the selling point.

The methodical path the cavern took to this moment was hardly worth noting.

But perhaps it should have been.

On January 9, 2007, Steve Jobs stepped onto the stage at the MacWorld Conference in San Francisco.

The Apple co-founder quickly rattled through some of the company’s greatest innovations – the Macintosh and the iPod. Then, roughly two minutes later, he introduced the iPhone.

Some have called this moment transformative. They’ve framed it as a moment where the world as we knew it ceased, and better future entered the fray. A future driven by a breakthrough piece of technology.

There is some truth undergirding these claims. Smartphones have changed the ways we work, shop, socialize, and interact. And the iPhone will always be considered the original smartphone.

But make no mistake. Its launch was no moonshot. It was a master class in incrementalism.

Long before Jobs took the stage, iPhone components were in our hands. Plenty of people had cell phones. Many had portable music players as well. And Internet on the go wasn’t exactly scarce — assuming you had a laptop computer.

Some devices — like the Palm Pilot and the Blackberry — had already brought a couple of these features together. No one had offered the full enchilada, but the groundwork was certainly there.

The iPhone, then, was a next step in the cycle. A sleek, fancy next step. But a next step, nonetheless.

Jobs’ own presentation made mention of this. He first told the audience that Apple would be unveiling three products – a widescreen iPod, a mobile phone, and an Internet browser. Then, he mentioned that those three products would actually be one product.

This is how the iPhone made its debut. As incrementalism defined.

We’ve come a long way since the launch of the iPhone.

Technology has evolved. Apple has grown. Steve Jobs has left us.

And yet, we continue to delude ourselves.

We remain fascinated by the mirage of sudden breakthroughs. And we willfully ignore the incremental work that makes them happen.

The instant gratification, the quick fix, the answered prayer — they’re all big parts our lexicon. The gradual build-up is not.

This baffles me.

It’s no secret that the world around is evolving, just as our bodies and our minds are evolving. Why are we so tempted to hit Pause and Fast Forward on that process? Why can’t we let the process play out as it is?

Are we lazy? Fearful of boredom? Overwhelmed by the magnitude of it all?

I don’t know. But it’s time we say goodbye to this nonsense. It’s time to give incrementalism its due.

On the second day of my professional life, I strutted into the newsroom at a West Texas television station.

Day 1 had been a whirlwind, filled with onboarding and training. But now, it was Go Time.

Hopped up on adrenaline, I was ready to spend hours putting together the 5 PM newscast.

But it was a summer Friday in a small town. Action was light, and the newscast was fully assembled within 40 minutes. There’d be plenty of time to kill before 5 PM rolled around.

My co-workers started talking about their weekend plans. As the new guy in town, I had none. So, I started daydreaming about my future.

I thought about where I’d be in a month and in a year. I imagined that one day between now and then, everything would just click. The hard times would be over, and the fear buried beneath my bravado would evaporate.

It’s been close to 15 years since that moment. And none of what I imagined has come to pass.

I’ve made a ton of progress — both professionally and personally. I’ve established myself in a different career and put myself on a footing to live comfortably. I’ve made new friends, mastered new hobbies, and gained new competencies.

But none of this happened overnight. There was no breakthrough moment when everything just fell into place.

There was just a long, slow march.

Incrementalism has been the drumbeat of my life. And I’m better for it.

For it has allowed me to build, to grow, to iterate. It’s kept my gains from being unsustainable. It’s kept my mistakes from being catastrophic.

Accepting this subtlety has been critical. It’s helped me commit to better without obsessing over the goalposts. It’s allowed me to embrace the journey even more than the destination.

The future is uncertain, and anxiety is inherent in uncertainty. But incrementalism has gotten me here. And I’m confident it will help drive me forward.

Eight years ago this week, I did something bold.

I established the publication now known as Ember Trace. And I published my first article.

This was as close to a breakthrough moment as I’ve had in my life. Ember Trace seemingly appeared on the Internet out of thin air. (In reality, I took some steps behind the scenes to make it happen.)

And that first article — that first time shipping my words to the world — that was indeed a cathartic moment for me.

But every week since then, I’ve made a commitment. A commitment to share fresh words, fresh ideas, and fresh thoughts. Whether my week has been good or bad, slow or busy, I’ve taken the time to add a fresh article — for 418 weeks now.

This exercise in incrementalism has built Ember Trace into a bona fide publication. And it’s built me up as well.

There’s no question that the words shared here are crisper, deeper, and more polished than they were eight years ago. I have grown as a thinker and a writer. You, my dear audience, have grown as readers as well.

What a testament to the power of incrementalism this is. Week by week, we’ve built this structure together. It’s stronger and more profound that it’s ever been. And it only stands to get even stronger over time.

I am grateful for your support, for your time, and for your subtle embrace of the incremental. Let’s see what more we can build together, brick by brick.