Category: Reflections

Act 2

The house lights went down, and the crowd got quiet.

Then, with a flourish of light and of a crescendo of sound, the stage came to life.

The hour that followed was filled with plot twists, musical interludes, and intrigue. Once it was over, the entire cast of actors lined up on the stage and took a bow.

I was too stunned to applaud.

I had just witnessed the second act of a Broadway musical. One that featured far more action than what had preceded intermission. And I had struggled mightily to keep up with it all.

On the way out of the theater, my sister asked me what I thought of the performance. She had been an assistant director on the production some months prior, and she’d accompanied me to the show on this night.

The second act seemed rushed, I coarsely replied.

Well, that’s Shakespeare, my sister responded.

I stood there, puzzled. Yes, this musical was an adaptation of William Shakespeare’s work. But his plays had five acts to disperse the action. Couldn’t these writers have spread things out more evenly?

I pondered this for a moment. Then we headed out into the night.

Act 2 is an important concept in our society.

It’s the portion of our journey that leads directly to the finish line. It’s where the spotlight is brightest, and where the rewards are most tangible.

We’re primed to give our best in the second act. And we’re conditioned to do the most.

The first act simply sets the table. It’s a construct to acclimate us for the sprint to the finish.

Sports teams don’t get accolades for a hot start if they tail off down the stretch. Neither do companies who frontload revenue growth. The stain of missed potential lingers in these situations, dulling the shine of those early milestones.

Yes, Act 2 is all that truly matters. And if we want to make the most of our opportunity, we better hit the stretch run with reckless abandon.

This is the current upon which entertainment travels. It’s the reason why that Broadway musical was so backloaded.

But does this standard represent reality?

I don’t believe so.

When I was four years old, my mother gave my father an ultimatum.

Change your life or change your wife.

At that point, my father had been an advertising account executive for the better part of a decade. His passion for the job had since faded, and the long hours weighed on him.

Yet, my father was fearful of exiting the industry. The pay was comfortable enough to support a young family. And career shifts were still largely taboo in those days.

So, my father went through his work weeks with a dour disposition. As each month passed, he became more and more of a ghost. That is, until my mother’s ultimatum snapped him back to life.

My father made the wise choice. He changed his life, leaving advertising behind and becoming a teacher.

His Act 2 has lasted for decades. My father has found far more success and fulfillment in his second career than he did in his first. And he’s blazed quite the path for me to follow.

You see, I too have found far more success, fulfillment, and longevity in Act 2 than I have in Act 1. This has proven true with my profession, my hobbies, and even my efforts to build a social circle.

At a high level, this is not all that different from the societal ideal. My first act still sets the table for my second act to feast upon.

But at ground level, the differences are stark. Act 1 is setting the scene for what I should avoid, while Act 2 is establishing the alternative to move toward. And that movement should, by nature, take far longer to play out than the bungled missteps that preceded it.

My career trajectory illustrates this perfectly.

I got my start in broadcast journalism, in the high-octane world of TV news media. I lasted about three years in that industry before making a change. But those three action-packed years still feel like six to me. The strain and stress carried that much weight.

As I write this, I’ve spent a decade in my second career as a marketer. My journey from wide-eyed newbie to seasoned professional in this field has been anything but swift. And yet, I am far from dissatisfied.

The long tail of my Act 2 represents the stability I’ve long craved. It’s provided me with the satisfaction I’ve long yearned for. And it’s offered me the opportunity to grow in my discipline at a sustainable pace.

Sure, it might seem boring to outside observers. But that isn’t necessarily a bad thin

I’m currently on the cusp of another Act 2. One that I find just as significant.

After years of achievement as a competitive distance runner, my body has broken down. The medals, personal record times, and pictures standing atop race podiums have faded into an array of doctor’s visits, protective braces, and canceled race entries.

I still love running, and I love competing. But my body has given me an ultimatum. I can only choose one.

I’ve chosen the former. I’d rather run for fun than compete in something I’m less passionate about. It’s a bittersweet choice, but one I’ve made without a hint of hesitation.

Still, this decision doesn’t have to be a tradeoff. Indeed, I consider it an opportunity. An opportunity to start the second act of my running life.

I’m not quite sure what I should expect.

I’m not sure if my body will accept a steady running mileage base better than it handled the peaks and valleys of training. I’m not if my mind will stay motivated without races dotting the calendar. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to attain the same level of fitness as I did before.

My hope is that all of this does come to pass. That I stay healthy, successful, and fulfilled for years to come — even without the measuring stick of racing.

But I know that this won’t happen overnight. I might be past intermission, but there are miles and miles to go on this stretch run.

Act 2 of my running career will be a protracted journey, hopefully with more ups than downs along the way.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Death of a Dream

This is not the way I envisioned my dream dying.

I thought this while staring up at blue skies and puffy clouds, the sounds of country music pulsating through my head.

Of course, not all was what it seemed. Those blue skies were an elaborate decoration covering the florescent light banks on the ceiling. The country music tunes were heading into my ears through headphones while the MRI machine took a reading of my left knee.

It all seemed so cheerful, so relaxing, so peaceful. All masking the solemn facts.

If this scan showed a stress fracture in my left knee, my competitive running career was over.

Within 25 minutes, the scan was done. This trip into the MRI tube was much shorter than I’d anticipated. But the expedience gave me no solace.

It still ached to take a step when it hadn’t two weeks before. I knew that I wasn’t alright. And I fully expected the radiologist’s report to confirm it.

All I could do now was wait.

The room was sterile and uninviting.

Fake wood tiles and three beige walls. The fourth was pea green with a beige stripe accent.

One wall was decorated with anatomies of the knee and lower leg. Another had an oil painting of a man swinging a golf club.

There wasn’t a window in sight, and little airflow to keep the room cool on a scorching summer morning.

I sat in a chair on one side of the room. My hands rested on my jeans while I stared at the patient table directly across the room.

It was quiet within these four walls. But I could hear the muffled conversations from adjacent rooms. Why don’t doctors’ offices invest in soundproofing, I wondered.

Within a few moments, I heard a slight knock on the door. Then it opened and the orthopedist walked in.

Good news, he said. Yes, it is a stress fracture, but you caught it early. So, the recovery time will be shorter. No running for 8 weeks. But then let’s get you back out there.

This update was mercifully short and to the point. But the doctor’s words manifested the death of a dream.

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.

I’ve heard this adage many times before. And I’ve done my best to avoid succumbing to it.

But this quest has proved challenging, for a couple reasons.

For one thing, this gospel implores us to shake things up. To sacrifice the sacred cows that might be holding us back. As a change-averse person, I’ve found this difficult.

That’s a me problem.

But the other challenge impacts us all.

Maintaining fitness, you see, requires a great many things. But one of them is repetition.

If you want to get stronger, you might turn to a weightlifting routine. But it’s only by repeating that routine that you’ll eventually unlock new levels of strength.

The same goes with dietary choices and other habits. Following them once does us no favors. But doing them over and over can improve our outcomes.

Yes, fitness literally refutes the premise of insanity. It forces us to stand up to that pretentious adage. It’s a stake in the ground for the value of continuity.

Taking all this into account, it’s no wonder why I’ve been so infatuated with staying in shape over the years. It’s helped me get stronger, build resilience, and unlock new possibilities.

My fitness venture started on a dubious note. I showed promise as Cross Country runner during my high school days. But unlike that Corrs song, I didn’t yearn to be left breathless after every practice. So, I walked away from the team after my freshman year.

Soon, I stopped running entirely. And I said goodbye to the balanced diet the team coach had implored me to follow.

These were the dark days. That portion of adolescence and early adulthood where I thought my youth would wipe away my unhealthy behaviors.

But then, things began to shift.

I moved to a new city, embarked on a new career, and determined that staying in shape could no longer be an afterthought.

So, I started taking bi-weekly trips to the gym to lift and to run on the treadmill. I started eating better and stopped drinking soda. Eventually, I gave up alcohol too.

Over time, I noticed the difference these changes brought. I looked better. I felt better. I was better.

And it was only the beginning.

There are many advantages to working out in a gym.

There’s tons of fitness equipment. There’s climate control. There are TV screens to keep you entertained.

But when you take that away, the experience is decidedly less enjoyable.

One day, I arrived at the gym to find all the treadmills non-operational. So, I headed outside to run, for the first time in years.

The rest was history.

I soon exclusively became an outdoor runner. Eventually, I entered 5K races. Then, I joined some local running groups.

It wasn’t long before I was racing at longer distances — surprising myself with my performance at every turn. I had more speed and natural talent than I’d ever imagined. And I had a whole group of newfound friends encouraging me to make the most of my ability.

The unthinkable had happened. I’d shed the shadow of my bratty teenage self and become a bona fide runner.

Soon, I set my sights on a long-dormant dream: The New York City Marathon.

I knew plenty about the race already. Growing up in the area, I would follow the coverage year after year. And I’d gasp in awe at the Kenyan superstars who would break the tape in Central Park.

I yearned to run that race someday. But the thought of running 26.2 miles was so daunting to me that I’d convinced myself I never would.

Now, I was rethinking that stance. I was imagining running the streets of the Big Apple, with friends and family cheering me on. I was picturing myself with that finisher’s medal.

But the road ahead was less than assured. The New York Marathon is both the world’s biggest and one of the 5 toughest to enter — particularly for a distance running neophyte in Texas. My best shot would be to enter a random draw with a roughly 10% acceptance rate.

I put my name in the virtual hat. And it was drawn.

The impossible dream was headed toward reality. Or so I thought.

It started with an ache.

I was out running with a friend one morning when I felt the dull pain in my left leg.

Shin splints, I thought. When we stopped at a water fountain, I stretched my leg vigorously. It didn’t help.

I tried running through the discomfort for a time. I saw a chiropractor and a physical therapist. I bought some new resistance bands and massage balls.

I hoped I’d wake up one day and just feel right. I never did.

A visit to the doctor eventually confirmed what I’d feared. That pain in my leg was from a stress fracture. I’d need to take a couple months off and drop out of that year’s New York City Marathon.

My dream had gone from improbable to likely to life support. But it was still alive.

I had an option to defer my race entry to the next year, and I took it. That would give me more than a year to prepare for my second and final shot at the race.

But the road back would prove rocky.

Within a couple weeks of resuming running, I ran into issues with my right leg. I was hit with a double whammy – a new stress fracture below my right knee and a damaged ankle tendon that would require arthroscopic surgery.

I had made it through all that — the second shutdown, the surgery, the grueling rehab — and was ready for my second go at marathon training when my left knee started hurting. And then, it was all over.

My dream was dead.

It’s hard to take stock of what’s happened to me. It’s been such a strange odyssey, one that bubbles up a mess of emotions.

I am saddened that I failed in the pursuit of my dream. I am angered that my body betrayed me time and again. I am exhausted from navigating all the highs and lows of this journey. I am frustrated that I put in so much work with absolutely nothing to show for it. And I am resigned to the fact that this is how life goes sometimes.

But most of all, I am determined. Determined to move forward from this melancholy chapter.

Dreams can be fleeting. And sometimes our pursuit of them can lead to that token definition insanity — to trying the same thing and expecting a different result.

I’ve lived that experience now. And while I loathe the outcome, I do respect it.

So, running will look a little different for me moving forward. Life will look a little different.

But I am here for it.

The Best Days

When you look back, you’re gonna find that these were the best days of your life.

It seemed like this line was in half the movies I watched as a teenager.

And I watched a lot of them.

This was the era just before smartphones and streaming. It was easy to gather information on any movie ever released, but difficult to watch anything not currently in theaters.

So, I made a list of films to catch up on, and I methodically worked my way through it. First, courtesy of rental DVDs from the video store down the street. Then through DVDs sent by mail from a fledgling company called Netflix.

This was how I caught up on the classics, the contemporary classics — and all the high school movies.

The Breakfast Club? Dazed and Confused? American Pie? I saw them all — and others. And for the most part, I liked what I watched.

Still, this line about high school being the best years of one’s life irked me. It didn’t quite compute.

You see, I was in high school at that time. But it wasn’t exactly Ridgemont High. Instead, it was fancy private school with a hefty tuition.

I was not exceedingly well off. But my parents taught in the institution’s middle school. So, starting in 9th grade, I got the opportunity to enroll. And my parents benefitted a hefty tuition discount.

When it came to academics, I certainly belonged. I was a bright kid, able to meet the challenge of rigorous classes. But socially, I was a fish out of water.

I was a suburban kid, surrounded by the scions of the city. I had nothing in common with them, and they had little use for me. Plus, I was shy, and none of the girls I liked would give me the time of day.

I did have a best friend — who remains my closest friend to this day. And we got into all kinds of misadventures together. But aside from that, nothing seemed to match all those Hollywood scripts.

The best days of my life? I thought out loud one night, while studying for a Pre-Calculus exam. God, I hope not.

Going to college felt like lifting a weight from my shoulders.

I was in a new city, surrounded by new people, embracing newfound freedom. And I made the most of it.

Surrounded by friends, and with new experiences at my fingertips, I felt like a new person. I remember viscerally declaring that the movies were wrong. These were the best days of my life.

Yet, when I look back, some of that shine starts to fade.

I was the odd man out when my freshman dorm hall neighbors chose their suitemates for sophomore year. That meant I had to essentially start over as a second-year student.

While I did build a new social group, I had a falling out with many of them during my senior year. As my collegiate days dwindled, I found myself alone once again.

I also totaled my car on a busy freeway. And I once had to pack up and quickly move to a new off-campus home when my landlord got a foreclosure notice.

So yes, these were the days. But the best ones? Those were yet to come.

Job requires 3 to 5 years of applicable experience.

I read this line over and over as I browsed online job postings from my extended stay hotel room.

I didn’t have the applicable experience. But I applied anyway.

I had to.

You see, I’d spent the past two years and nine months in another city and another industry. I had taken a job that I loved but had come to loathe it.

So, I left for a fresh start. A new career. A new city. A new chance to find those best years of my life that I’d been chasing for the better part of a decade.

But the job experience disclaimer foretold a grim reality. There was no quick exit from purgatory.

By the time I did land a position, I’d accepted reality. I would need to spend five more years proving myself — professionally and personally — before better things came my way. I’d be pushing 30 years old by then. But better late than never.

So, I got to it.

I quickly learned my new trade and set out to master it. I changed my lifestyle to improve my health. And I enrolled in business school while working full-time.

I did hit a few bumps in the road — including a layoff — but I kept moving forward. And after those five years, I felt my investment paying off.

I was confident, self-sufficient, and self-assured. I’d learned to lean into my introversion. And I’d built enough life experience to bring contexts to the ups and downs of my day to day.

There was the potential for even more — once I earned my MBA and took my career to the next level. But at long last, the best days of my life were finally here.

For various reasons, that breakthrough never fully arrived. There have been a series of ups and downs in my life since then. But I still consider these to be the best days of my life.

Well, mostly.

Do I have the flu, or am I just old?

I ask myself this question each morning, as I achingly sit up in bed.

It might sound like a joke. But it’s the honest truth.

The days of me hitting the ground running are gone for good. My body is perpetually sore from resting, and it takes a moment to get going.

My sense of resilience is similarly elusive. As a boy, I once bounced back up and finished a race after falling on an asphalt track. Now, when I wipe out on black ice, I need a few minutes to compose myself before getting to my feet.

Yes, the best days of my life are long gone from a physical standpoint. I peaked athletically years ago and am now on a steady decline.

Of course, I didn’t make the most of those days. For they lined up with my early-adulthood malaise — when I lacked the discipline and maturity to make the most of my physical gifts.

I have to live with that now.

Staying healthy is a costly venture in every sense for me. Yet, the cost of unhealthy habits is even steeper.

It’s a brutal catch-22. One that my peers and I are all mired in.

I wish that the two peaks aligned. That physical mastery overlapped with mental and emotional maturity.

But that’s never been the case.

As humans, we’ve been trained for millennia to harness our skills in succession. First, we’d exhaust our physical gifts through menial work and procreation. Then, when our bodies started to give out, we’d share the gift of seasoned wisdom with the tribe.

Such are the ways of nature. And it would be preposterous for me to question them.

So, maybe it’s time for me to let go of the Hollywood fantasy. Maybe it’s time to acknowledge that there is no singular set of best days of my life to strive for.

What I was chasing, what I thought I attained — it may well have been a white whale.

It’s time to admit my error. To make peace with the concept that I’ve been at my best physically, mentally, and spiritually in different eras. And to simply be grateful for the gifts I’ve been given, instead of clamoring for what might still lie ahead.

I am making this shift. So should we all.

400

Today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.

Lou Gehrig uttered those words into a microphone on July 4, 1939.

The New York Yankees captain wasn’t reveling in his title. He’d last played an inning of baseball more than two months prior.

Nor was he expressing his patriotism. Gehrig was an embodiment of the American dream,

but that’s not what this day was about.

Gehrig, you see, was retiring. Forced out of the game by a debilitating disease, he was saying goodbye to an adoring Yankee Stadium crowd.

Such a ceremony was unheard of in those days. But so was Gehrig.

Yes, before his disease chased him from baseball, Gehrig had played in 2,130 consecutive games. For the better part of 14 years, he took the field every single day — earning himself the nickname of The Iron Horse.

That might not sound like much at first. But think about how many times you’ve called in sick or taken a vacation day. Gehrig never did, until his deteriorating body forced his hand.

It was a remarkable achievement. One that has only been surpassed by one baseball player — Cal Ripken, Jr. – in the near-century since. And one that might never be surpassed again.

They just don’t make ‘em like The Iron Horse anymore.

Consistency is hard to do.

What are the consistent traits of your life?

Eating? Sleeping? Walking around?

These seem like natural answers. But I know there are days and nights when I haven’t done one or more of these things.

This is not meant to glorify the all-nighter or the all-day fast. It’s more to highlight that doing anything consistently is hard.

This context makes Gehrig and Ripken’s feats even more notable. They fought through the inevitable speed bumps to get the improbable done.

Doing what so many cannot helped to make these baseball stars incomparable. Both Gehrig and Ripken are enshrined in the Baseball Hall of Fame.

But consistency did not bestow superhuman powers upon them. Ripken’s performance on the field declined somewhat in the late years of his streak. The disease that forced Gehrig out of the lineup ultimately claimed his life.

Yes, consistency is firmly within the grasp of humanity. We all have the ability to do the improbable.

And you’re reading one such example.

This is article 400 of Words of the West.

For 400 consecutive weeks, I’ve shared a fresh thought, opinion, or reflection with you, dear reader. That’s every week, without fail, for almost eight years.

Some of these articles were deep and personal. Some were more banal. Some were a tad preachy.

But no matter the tenor of the content, one new article has appeared here each week for 400 consecutive weeks.

Now, at first glance, this shouldn’t be noteworthy. After all, the first rule of any publication is Find a schedule and stick to it.

I heeded this edict, committing to sharing weekly musings before I ever hit Publish. But if we’re being honest, I never thought I’d be able to keep the streak alive this long.

How could I?

Think of other markers of longevity.

American football teams play between 10 and 17 weekly games as part of their regular slates. International football — or soccer — teams play 34 to 38 matches each year. Television series generally contain 22 new episodes a season.

And all of them have off weeks built into the schedule.

Yes, when exercising our abilities — of mind, body, and soul — there is a limit to our continued exertion. We need a break from our routine now and then. So much so, that it’s often mandated.

Even Gehrig and Ripken had a respite from the grind. While both donned a uniform and took the field every day throughout the summer heat, they had the winters off to recharge.

Year-round consistency is within the realm of human possibility. But it’s harder to find.

And year-over-year consistency? Rarer still.

Indeed, there are relatively few examples of people taking on feats like this without interruption or assistance. Marketing guru Seth Godin has famously added a new blog post each day for more than a decade. Some runners have taken to the streets each day for years.

But those are the exceptions to the rule. And in a way, what I’m doing here is an exception too.

You see, just about everything in my life has changed since I first hit Publish on Words of the West.

Where I live. What I do. How I interact with others. How I critique myself.

Both through circumstance and through choice, I’ve had to break with so many routines throughout this time. I’ve had to sacrifice sacred cows, lean into the unknown, and embrace novelty.

Yet through it all, the weekly articles here have remained a constant. The one steady rock amidst shifting seas.

It’s kept me grounded. It’s kept me honest.

And I thank God for that.

Ripken and Gehrig ended their streaks on their own accord.

Each man walked into the manager’s office and asked for a day off.

Circumstances were different. Eras were different. But the final act was the same.

What will be the final act of this streak? When will the stream of articles cease?

I don’t profess to know. And I don’t want to find out anytime soon.

When looking ahead, the only constant is uncertainty.

Years ago, when I started this publication, I would never have dreamed that my life would be as it now is. I would never have imagined that my writing would become what it has.

The void ahead of me was vast. And I knew better than to peer into its infinite depth.

I feel the same way today.

Yes, I have hopes and dreams for the future. But I harbor no illusions of manifesting them into reality. Much remains beyond my control.

What I can do is keep plugging away. Keep writing and publishing. One article at a time.

And that’s what I will continue to do. Until I can’t — or won’t.

So, let’s not focus on the destination. Let’s cherish the journey.

Thanks for coming along for the ride.

On Fragility

The stakes were low.

I was playing a pickup game of indoor soccer at the college rec center with some friends.

There were no trophies to be hoisted. There was no money to be won.

All that was on the line was bragging rights.

Still, as I lined up in a defensive position, I prepared to go full throttle. I didn’t get to play soccer all that often, and I was going to make the most of this opportunity.

I got as close as I could to the opposing forwards. If they tried to advance, I’d poke the ball past their heels and race around them to pass it to a teammate. If they tried to pass or shoot, I’d get my body in the way.

This style of play was more suitable for hockey than soccer. And I soon found out why.

A sizzling shot from an opponent hit me square in the jaw. The entire left side of my face went numb for a moment. It proceeded to tingle, and then throb.

My teammates asked if I was alright to continue. I gave them a nod and carried on.

Moments later, another shot hit me in the groin. I doubled over from the blow. But after taking a moment to gather myself, I fought through.

Finally, I went to block a shot, and an opponent’s foot clipped my left shin. I tried to continue after this setback too but quickly found that to be impractical.

The blow to my shin had sapped all the power from my left leg — which is my dominant one. Crisp passes quickly devolved into feeble dribblers across the hardwood.

I subbed myself out of the game. Then I sat on the bench, catching my breath.

Once the game had finished, I headed back to my dorm, showered, and changed clothes.

That was it.

There was no ice pack. No ibuprofen. No imminent trip to the health center to get checked out.

I simply went about my business. And the next day, I was no worse for wear.

I was young and I was durable. Bouncing back from an injury was as easy as pie.

Fast forward nearly half my life. It’s a weekend morning and I’m heading to the gym. But on the way there, I slip on a slick spot on the concrete. I fall partway down a flight of stairs and land on my lower back.

I lie on the steps for a few moments, feeling every bit of the blunt-force trauma I’ve endured. But after a quick check, I determine I haven’t broken any bones. So, I cautiously get back to my feet and continue my trek.

This time, though, I realize something is amiss.

My bruised back causes me problems for the rest of the day, the entire next day, and the ensuing week. I go to the doctor, get a prescription for anti-inflammatories, and put a heating pad on the bruise.

Nothing seems to work. And I start to get flustered.

Sure, I fell, I tell myself. But young children fall all the time. And they get right back up as if nothing happened.

The same went for my teenage self. My actions following that pickup soccer game are proof positive of that.

What’s different this time? I have no good explanation.

Then, lying in bed one night, it hits me.

I’m older now. And an increase in age means a spike in fragility.

I should be reassured by this straightforward fact. But I am not.

Several years ago, the Dallas Cowboys took the field for a critical late-season football game.

After shoving an opposing ballcarrier out of bounds, Cowboys defensive back Byron Jones noticed his knee was askew. Sitting on the turf, he calmly popped the knee back into place, got back up, and played the rest of the game.

Jones credited his flexibility for the quick adjustment. But he likely could have credited his age as well.

You see, Jones was in his first year of professional football. Only 23 years old, Jones was primed for athletic feats. He could leap to deflect passes, run with the fastest offensive players, or even put his knee back into position when necessary.

These days, Jones can do none of those things. While he hasn’t officially retired from football, Jones has noted that he can no longer run or jump — two skills needed to play his position.

As I write this, Jones is still in his early 30s. If his vocation were that of a foreman, a financial accountant, or a firefighter, he’d be decades away from retirement. But as a football player, he’s used goods.

This is by design.

Football has no tolerance for fragility. It’s a violent sport. One that frontloads the value of its combatants and then discards them as they depreciate.

Those over-the-hill players are quickly forgotten — their battered and brittle bodies withering away beyond the glow of the limelight.

If not for the harrowing headlines regarding CTE, we wouldn’t know anything about their plight.

This is unfortunate, as such knowledge could be mutually beneficial.

Seeing how the titans of sports deal with their accelerating fragility can give us a roadmap for dealing with our own brittleness. And it can help us support these gladiators as they transition into the next stage of their lives.

Such knowledge can also help us overcome our own demons. Indeed, this is a sentiment I understand all too well.

Traditionally, I’ve never been one to succumb to any age-related meltdowns. I’ve been as steadfast and determined in my 30s as I was in my 20s.

But this sudden reminder of my fragility has shaken me a bit.

So much of my identity is harnessed to my resilience. On my ability to shake off a soccer ball to the face, a shot to the groin, a kick in the shin.

If a fall sets me back this much, what does that mean? Has my identity corroded? Will my response to setbacks — physical or otherwise — remain compromised?

I’ve been thinking about all of this, searching for a definitive answer.

And the closest I’ve gotten to one came from the words of Byron Jones.

We were all more flexible and resilient way back when. But now, it’s okay to need a moment.

It’s one thing to note our fragility. It’s another to accept it.

But then what?

This is not like the 12-step program, where we might be building toward something. No, frailty is more in the other direction. A steady crumbling of the tower that we’ve built.

There is no clear path back to where we once were. There is only a choice.

Will we continue to take calculated risks, knowing that the downsides are steeper than ever? Or will live in fear of an all too real unknown?

I’ve chosen the first path.

I realize now that danger lurks at every turn. I understand that recovery is more of a process than a breeze.

But I also realize that life is too precious to waste for fear of a bad outcome. Even as those outcomes are more challenging than ever to bounce back from.

This is my choice. But it’s not the only one.

Indeed, plenty of others have faded away under the weight of time. They’ve seen their shadows and retreated into their shells.

Neither decision is inherently right nor wrong.

But make no mistake. Each of us has decided.

Fragility, dear readers, is a fact of life. The effects of time are inevitable.

It’s how we handle such an unwelcome reality that defines us. Not just in this moment, but possibly in many others to come.

So, let’s be brave. Let’s be thoughtful. But most of all, let’s be true to ourselves.

It’s not too much to ask.

The Price of Integrity

I pulled into the parking lot, certain I’d arrived at the wrong address.

I was in a suit and tie. And I had driven across town at rush hour to get here. But here looked nothing like I’d expected.

You see, the reason for all of this — the fancy clothes, the slog through traffic — was a job interview with a marketing firm. I knew little about the firm, but I expected it to be located within some massive office building.

Instead, I found myself face-to-face with a nondescript, industrial office park. Single-story buildings abounded, devoid of signage. Plumbing and home contracting work trucks sat on the far end of the parking lot.

I couldn’t be in the right place, could I?

Fighting through my apprehension, I made my way to the front door and opened it. In the small lobby sat a few other job candidates, dressed like me. I gave my name to the receptionist and took a seat alongside them.

One by one, we were called into a manager’s office. When it was my turn, the manager only asked me a few basic questions. Then he asked me to return to the lobby with the others.

A few minutes later, we were told we’d be going out in the field. We were paired off with existing employees, all wearing suits like we were. And we followed them outside of the building.

The employee I’d been paired with directed me to his car, and asked me to get in. Soon, we were found ourselves at a different industrial office park. We got out of the car, walked right past the No Soliciting signs, and entered an office.

The employee introduced himself and launched into a pitch about some kitchen knives. The startled office workers stated they didn’t need cutlery, but this man would not be so easily denied. He endeavored to change their minds, unveiling a prototype he had brought with him in a carrying case.

When the office workers softened their stance to We’ll think about it, the man handed over a business card. Then, we were on our way to the next office.

At this point, I was starting to realize that I’d been duped. This marketing role I’d applied to was actually a sales job. A door-to-door sales job. And I was now trapped.

After a couple more office visits, the employee and I returned to his car. Sensing my apprehension, he tried to sell me on the job.

The man spoke of how much money he was able to earn in commissions each month, and all the nice things he was able to get his girlfriend. He gushed about the opportunity to earn even more soon.

I was still unconvinced, so I peppered the employee with questions.

When I asked about the No Soliciting signs, he implied those were just suggestions. When I asked about the man’s tactics, he talked about the importance of turning a No into a Yes. When I asked if he could truly vouch for the product, he mentioned that he could vouch for making money, and that was what mattered.

Then he turned the questioning back on me.

Is this something you feel you can do? If so, we can keep going. If not, I can bring you back to the main office now. But consider about the opportunity this job brings before you answer.

I did consider it for a moment. But ultimately, I told the truth.

I could not see myself doing this, and I wanted a ride back to my car. Immediately.

Every now and then, I think back to the “job interview” experience I had that day.

It was unpredictable, manipulative, even deceptive.

But was it worthy of my icy response? Probably not.

The salesperson I was paired with was certainly shallow. But ultimately, he only cost some office workers a few minutes of their time. People have done far worse.

So, why was I so anatomically opposed to his work? Why was I so revolted that I bailed on the only job prospect I had at the time?

The roots of that answer lie in an unfortunate event from my childhood.

I was about 5 years old, tagging along with my parents as they shopped for a new car. After looking at a Toyota Camry, my parents told the salesperson they didn’t want to buy it. But the seller wouldn’t take No for an option and pushed my parents to make a down payment on the spot.

Offended, my father asked to speak with a manager. But instead of hearing us out, the manager locked all of us in his office and showed us a Camry promotional video.

When the video was over, he tried — forcefully — to coerce my parents to sign a check for the down payment. And once they again refused, he lit into them for making his salesperson look bad. It was only when my father threatened to call the police that the manager finally unlocked his office door and let us leave the dealership.

Witnessing traumatic events like this at a formative age can be scarring. And this particular experience continued to cast its long shadow over me when it comes to the art of selling.

You see, going into that cursed interaction, intents were aligned. My parents had an interest in buying a car. The sales staff at the Toyota dealership had an interest in selling one.

But once my parents changed course, that alignment broke down. They didn’t want to buy a Camry, but the sales staff still wanted them to make the purchase. They tried every dirty trick in the book to turn a No into a Yes.

Now, all these years later, I found myself in a similar dynamic. I was tagging along while someone doggedly attempted to turn a No into a Yes.

Only this time, intents weren’t aligned. This time, the salesperson was showing up out of the blue hawking a random product. A product his audience didn’t want. And one they could likely purchase elsewhere if they changed their minds.

In both cases, the resistance of the prospective buyers was real. It wasn’t a bluff or negotiating tactic. It was the truth.

But that truth got in the way of the seller’s objectives and compensation. So, they tossed integrity aside. They waged war on their audience’s stated intentions to put another closed deal on their ledger.

They might have been able to sleep soundly at night after acting this way. But I wouldn’t.

As I write this, I’m nearing a decade of work as a professional marketer.

My roles, functions, and knowledge have changed over those years. But one thing has remained constant.

No matter what my job title has been, or the core industry I’ve supported, my employer has always featured a direct sales staff.

The sellers I’ve worked with have generally been fantastic. And people are often eager to buy the solution they’re hawking. So, as a marketer, I’ve had no qualms about supporting their efforts.

But that support comes with strings attached.

You see, I carry one lesson forward from that door-to-door sales experience. In my case, the price of integrity is infinite.

I refuse to sell myself out for a quick buck. And I refuse to sell anyone else out by walking all over their resistance.

This means two things for me.

First, I will not work in sales roles. The chances of a moral crisis are too high, particularly when my financial solvency is on the line. Much respect to all the above-board sellers out there, but the discipline is not for me.

Second, I will not directly support efforts that sacrifice integrity. I don’t create marketing materials that run afoul of the truth. And if a salesperson does feel like doing some arm-twisting, I make sure to stay clear of it.

This is my mission. It’s the path I walk alone.

But it doesn’t have to remain that way. Indeed, it shouldn’t.

We can all raise the price of integrity. We can all agree to respect our intentions and to act with decency — without exception.

Such a shift might change the way we buy and sell. And it might mean that we’re talked into fewer experiences outside our comfort zone.

But such tradeoffs are worthwhile.

Indeed, if we can treat each other — and ourselves — with respect and dignity, it will truly make the world a healthier place.

And that outcome would be invaluable.

How Little We Know

I stood in the shadow of the Hotel Sam Houston, trying not to shiver.

Corral A of the Aramco Houston Half Marathon was packed. Half marathoners brimmed with anticipation.

And then, there was me.

I had never run a half marathon before. I had no idea what I should have been doing or thinking. I hadn’t even brought throwaway clothes to protect me against the 33-degree temperatures.

Fortunately, I didn’t have too long to dwell on these details. The clock reached the top of the hour, and suddenly I was off.

It took about a few blocks for me to recognize that I was actually doing it. I was running a half marathon.

And it took a few miles for me to realize that I was running it a lot faster than anticipated.

I thought about dialing back and saving my energy. But I felt good running in the crisp morning air and decided to keep at it.

I passed a pace group and dozens of other runners, and I didn’t even start to fade until the last mile. I rallied to cross the finish line just over 90 minutes after I started running. My time was a full 10 minutes ahead of my goal.

As I caught my breath and headed over to claim my finisher medal, I was still in disbelief. I had never run that distance in that time before. It must have been a fluke.

But it was no fluke.

I bested my time at another half marathon in Fort Worth six weeks later. And then I went to Oregon two months after that and set yet another personal best.

It turned out I had a knack for distance running. But I had no idea this power lay within me as I waited in the frigid corral that morning in Houston.

How little we know.

That memory from Corral A in Houston seems distant — a sepia-toned postcard from another era.

In truth, it occurred less than a year before I put these words to paper.

Yes, a year ago, I had no idea I’d become an accomplished distance runner. I was just hoping I’d cross the finish line without running out of gas.

These days, I’m hoping for the same thing.

A rash of injuries has put my running adventures on pause. And after a series of interventions to help those maladies heal, I’m hoping I can return to form someday.

Many in my circle are bullish about my chances. They’ve seen what I’ve accomplished and have no doubt I can do it again.

But I’m far less confident.

This sport can bring you to new heights, but it can also break your heart. I’ve experienced both outcomes in less than twelve months’ time. And what comes next is anyone’s guess.

I hope my will remains strong and my body gets stronger. I hope to make it through the grueling rehab cycle without major setbacks. I hope to fly again, my strides gliding over the pavement with a burst of speed.

But I expect none of that.

How little we know.

As I write this, the world is preparing for one of my least favorite rituals.

The calendar is set to turn over again. And we’re set to stay up until midnight, watch fireworks, and pour champagne. Again.

New Year’s Eve is always quite the party. But it’s also something of a last hurrah.

We might speak broad platitudes about the year to come. We might erroneously muse about how we’ll be different when the clock strikes 12. (Seriously, stop that nonsense!) We might put on a brave face, sharing tidings and cheer.

But deep down inside, we’re terrified.

There’s no clue what’s to come in the next chapter. There’s no proof to validate our gut instincts.

The road ahead is shrouded with fog, and there’s nothing to clear it away.

We hope for favorable outcomes. But we cannot count on them. Millenia of history prove as much.

How little we know.

This New Year’s seems more fraught than many.

Spiking interest rates, rising prices, and a spate of high-profile layoffs have many Americans concerned. Violence and divisiveness continue to hound our society. And a spate of health crises remains ever present.

It certainly feels like we’re up against it. The pessimistic responses to various opinion surveys certainly bears that out.

But there are others who remain cheery and optimistic. Even amidst the spate of dark clouds, they see brighter days ahead — and soon.

It’s a classic conundrum — glass half-empty vs. glass half-full. But both sides are wrong.

For the mindset we bring into the upcoming year won’t impact our fortunes. The future writes itself the same way, whether we approach it with a smile or a frown.

We might think we have a peek around the bend. But these thoughts are nothing more than false prophecies.

How little we know.

I was obviously ill-prepared for the Aramco Houston Half Marathon. But it wasn’t for a lack of information.

All week, I’d checked the weather forecast. I’d looked at the hour-by-hour conditions, and I’d brought a variety of athletic clothes with me to Houston.

Yet, in the moment of truth, such prognostication meant little. As I dressed for the race, I had little confidence that the forecast would hold. And even if it did, I had no idea what those temperatures, wind speeds, and humidity measures would feel like as I ran.

So, I scrapped any plans to predict what came next. I committed to embracing the gray.

And while that left me underdressed at the starting line, it didn’t cost me at the finish.

Perhaps I can repeat this feat as I stare down the future. Perhaps we all can.

It might not make the events that lie ahead of us any rosier. It might not make the outcome any clearer. And it surely won’t leave us any readier to hit the ground running when they occur.

But it will save us the disappointment of dashed predictions. It will spare those around us the toxic effects of pessimism. And it will shield all of us from the futile temptation to write tomorrow today.

We gain acuity through our experience, not our musings. And the best way to gain that experience is with an open mind, a full heart, and a courageous spirit.

How little we know today. How much we are yet to know.

Let’s make it happen.

A Winning Hand

You gotta know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em.

Kenny Rogers’ The Gambler is famously hokey. It amounts to three and a half minutes of non-advice about how to find a winning hand — both in card games and in life.

The song was well past its peak when I was a teenager. You’d hear it now and then out in public, but not frequently enough.

Truth be told, we could have used a bit more Kenny Rogers back then. For plenty of us were in big trouble.

You see, poker was gaining popularity nationally. And online poker was becoming prevalent. Many of my teenage peers were caught up in the craze, mesmerized by the allure of massive payouts.

Yet, most of these teens had little experience managing money. And when the winning hands dwindled — when the bluffing and bravado went up in smoke — some ended up deep in the hole to entities determined to collect.

It was a real problem. One that threatened to haunt my generation for years to come.

I didn’t get swept up by the online poker craze as a teenager. And I didn’t end up with a mountain of debt.

There were two factors guarding me from such a fate. I was extremely risk averse. And I was bad at poker.

I played the game now and then — mostly at family game nights or gatherings with friends. I knew what a Royal Flush and a Full House were. And I could usually identify a winning hand.

But when I didn’t have that hand, I was toast.

Yes, I was proficient at playing the cards I was dealt. But when it came to reading the table, I was a novice.

I never bluffed. And wouldn’t dare call out others for doing so.

I didn’t win much this way. But I didn’t lose big either.

All this was extremely on brand for my life at the time.

I tried to shy away from false pretense as a teenager. Sure, my fashion sense and musical taste were less than authentic. But when it came to items of substance, I focused on the tasks directly in front of me. This ethos made me a solid student and a reliable friend.

Yet, as I grew older, I began to stray from this path. I started dreaming big, making grand plans, and racking up assumptions.

And just like those amateur teenage poker players, I got burned.

2.0 in 2020.

That was the name of my now-infamous plan to take my life to the next level.

It had already been quite the ride for me in early adulthood. I’d moved to faraway West Texas to work in TV news, only to ultimately leave that industry and move east to Dallas.

I’d landed on my feet and built a stable career in digital marketing. But I feared that I’d plateaued, and I saw few advancement opportunities out there.

Rather than play the cards I was dealt, I yearned to build myself a winning hand.

So, I bet big. I enrolled in business school, while still working full time. And as I neared the finish line of my Masters of Business Administration studies, I set objectives for myself.

Getting a new job was paramount. But not just any job. I needed an “MBA job” in marketing at a major company in the area. And it had to happen not long after graduation, while my degree was still “fresh.”

By my estimations, this metamorphosis needed to be in full swing by the time 2020 rolled around. Hence, the 2.0 in 2020 moniker.

At first, things looked promising. I made it all the way to a final round of interviews with a prominent global brand. I had some other promising prospects as well.

But then, things dried up. The interview requests dwindled, and I got snubbed for an internal promotion.

As my self-imposed deadline of 2020 approached, I felt as if I was holding anything but a winning hand.

Then, a global pandemic arrived.

With the world shutting down, I felt compelled to hang on to what I had. My home, my friends, and my job.

This feeling only intensified when my employer was acquired. The future of my position was shaky, and I prayed that my income would continue to come in.

2.0 in 2020 had gone up in flames spectacularly. I had retreated into my shell in response, waiting in vain for the firestorm to abate.v

But I grew bored after a time. And I got bold.

I landed a role on my new employer’s marketing team — finally getting that MBA job I’d yearned for. I joined some local running groups and started medaling in races. I trekked around the country more than I had in years.

Like a phoenix, I’d risen from the ashes. I was making my own luck, and I was thriving.

But a big part of me wondered how much of all this was real. And I feared that I’d become Icarus, flying too close to the sun.

My fears were soon realized.

I got sick on a work trip and then hit a few bumpy patches at work. I got injured, putting an abrupt pause to my running exploits. I faded away from friends and family, losing confidence in myself throughout the ordeal.

I was frustrated. I was dispirited. I was lost.

The ghost of 2.0 in 2020 had burned me once again.

What is a winning hand?

I asked this rhetorically one night, as I stared aimlessly at the living room wall.

Through all the ups and downs, my North Star had remained constant. But it was evident that I had no idea what that star was.

It seemed best to get back to basics. To stop waffling between honest play and the bluff. To stop looking at the cards altogether.

The planning hadn’t led to the payoff. The house got the last laugh every time.

It would be far better for me to take things one day at a time. To look at what’s in right front of me and to react accordingly.

I’ve started taking this approach a bit more. And thus far, I’m happy with the results.

There’s a poignant lesson in here for all of us.

While we might desire to upgrade our hand through bluster and bravado to find success, we might have all we need already. It’s likely been there the whole time. We just hadn’t bothered to look for it before.

Success can be found in stillness. In simplicity. In the six inches in front of our face.

It’s our job — our obligation — to open our eyes to it. Let’s do so.

Deferred, Not Denied

The plan was on paper.

It had objectives, timelines, and even a formal name.

Relaunch 2020.

I was determined to fire on all cylinders as the new decade rolled in. It was all mapped out.

I would leverage my newly minted master’s degree into a marketing role at a major company. I would take my volunteer leadership efforts to new heights. I would accelerate healthy living habits. And I would strengthen my relationships with friends and family.

My first decade of adulthood had been rocky at times. There were certainly some accomplishments worth celebrating. But there was also a career shift, two moves to new cities, and a continual struggle to earn a respectable living wage.

I’d risen to meet the challenges I’d faced, over and over. But I had started to feel myself stagnating, and I worried about putting an artificial lid on my potential.

This is what spurred me to enroll in business school while working full-time. It’s what convinced me to work out more and improve my diet. It’s what led me to take on a leadership role with my local alumni chapter.

Relaunch 2020 would be the next phase of all this groundwork. It would lead to tangible results that would improve my life. And in doing so, it would cut down on my anxiety.

As 2020 approached, I could feel the momentum building. I was filled with excitement.

I was on the edge of realizing my dreams. And then they were ripped away from me.

It’s a harrowing feeling when the world you thought you knew transforms into something that’s anything but familiar.

I’ve experienced this dystopia several times in my life. I felt it in the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks. I lived it in the white-knuckle years of the Great Recession.

But nothing quite knocked me to my knees like the onset of a microscopic virus.

The COVID Pandemic disrupted all our lives in previously unheard-of ways. But the aspects of those disruptions — well, they seemed like a bowling ball taking dead aim at all my hopes and dreams.

The job market dried up as both office spaces and the economy temporarily shuttered. In-person events all but disappeared. And many health and wellness amenities went dark — ironically, in the name of protecting public health.

Suddenly, my hopes of getting a new job were scuttled. I needed to jump through hoops to work out. And, for a time, I was prohibited from even seeing my friends and family.

At first, I was fine giving all this up. The virus was frightening, and sacrifices were needed to keep it at bay.

So, I paused the job search. I pivoted from lifting weights at the gym to running outside. And I replaced in-person visits with videocalls.

But as the pandemic dragged on indeterminately, I grew more and more agitated. I had formed a plan to get out of the situation I was in, only to see the universe bar me from following through.

My dreams were denied. At least that’s what I thought.

It’s not how many times you get knocked down. It’s how many times you get back up.

This boxing analogy has become tired, even cliché.

We’ve made too much of our own resilience, even considering it a feature of our life’s journey. In doing so, we make it seem if the mere presence of a setback will send us roaring into high gear.

It’s rarely that simple.

As I sought to move past the power punch the Pandemic threw at me, it seemed opportunities for resilience were lacking. With the business world in the throes of a recession and social life on hold, I didn’t even have a stage for my comeback. I would need to be patient and see how it all would play out.

But as I bided my time, the calculus changed yet again.

First, my employer was acquired by a different company. Second, in-person road races returned — giving me a forum to benchmark my running abilities.

I ultimately found unexpected opportunities from both these developments. I was able to move to a new role on the marketing team of the parent company of my employer. And through racing, I was able to find running groups and a broader running community.

Now, I’m thriving in my career. I’m using the full breadth of my marketing skillset while embracing the support my efforts yield. And I’ve gone from a recreational runner to an advanced one, scoring top finishes in shorter races and training for major marathons.

None of this was in the cards for Relaunch 2020. I was supposed to switch employers, not stay on board. There was no mention of running one mile, let alone 26.2.

And yet, I am still living the ethos of that plan. I’m realizing my full potential, while taking aim at the opportunities that still lie ahead. And it is glorious.

My dreams were deferred, but they have not been denied.

Tick, tick, tick.

That once was the soundtrack of my mind.

No longer.

Sure, I still feel a sense of urgency. I’m not getting any younger, and there’s now a generation directly below me going after the same things I am.

But I’ve come to learn that my destiny might not arrive right on schedule. And the costs of such a delay might not be as steep as I once feared.

To be clear, I still don’t expect such delayed gratification to befall me. And I’m keenly aware that I must still have a plan to bridge the gap if it does.

But I’m far better equipped to roll with the punches now. For I have seen light at the end of the tunnel and basked in its glow. And I recognize that there are many routes to a desirable destination.

So, to all agitated at the status quo, to all those frustrated by the prospect of dreams deferred, don’t despair.

Hope still lucks on the horizon if you’re willing to look for it.

Deferred is not denied.

If You Could See Me Now

The assignment was simple. Write a letter to your future self.

I took the instructions seriously. For I received them during a summer internship in college — when I was inclined to do anything and everything asked of me.

So, I put pen to paper. I turned that piece of paper in. And some years later, I received it back in the mail.

But instead of opening the letter and regaling in my advice from the past, I filed that envelope away.

My words of that bygone summer couldn’t possibly meet the moment of where I was now.

Through lines.

They’re a critical element in almost any plot. For they serve as the connective tissue for the story arc.

When we look at our own narrative, it’s tempting to search for these through lines. It’s commonplace to expect our past to serve as prologue. It’s tantalizing to imagine connecting the dots with Hollywood flair.

Such scenarios might seem aesthetically pleasing. But they’re out of touch with reality.

The cold, hard truth about our narrative is best summed up by a scene in The Shawshank Redemption.

In this scene, longtime prisoner Red Redding is being interviewed by a parole board. When the interviewer asks Redding if he’s sorry for the crime that landed him behind bars, he offers up the following response.

There’s not a day goes by I don’t feel regret. Not because I’m in here, or because you think I should. I look back on the way I was then, a young, stupid kid who committed that terrible crime.

I wanna talk to him. I wanna try to talk some sense to him — tell him the way things are. But I can’t. That kid’s long gone and this old man is all that’s left. I gotta live with that.

Even while locked away from the world for decades, Redding has grown. And he’s gained enough perspective to realize that this growth happened while behind bars, not before it. As much as he might want to draw a through-line, he simply cannot.

I’m not a hardened criminal who’s spent decades behind foreboding prison walls. But I understand where Redding is coming from. And as such, I’ve stopped trying to connect the dots.

The person I was when I wrote that letter to myself, that was a different person than the one I am now. Yes, my body and mind have remained intact throughout that time, but both have transformed. Any quest for through lines is an exercise in futility.

Still, it’s fun to imagine. So, I’m allowing myself that liberty here — and inviting you along for the ride.

If you could see me now.

That’s how I’d start an address to my former self. The self-assured young adult, freshly immersed into the real world. Or the bratty teenager that preceded him.

The address would read like this:

If you could see me now, you wouldn’t believe your eyes.

I’ve reached the upper limits of what you think is possible, and then ascended even higher. It might not be the way you drew it up, but the result still tastes oh so sweet.

I’ve faced the struggles you might have assumed I’d confront, as well as some challenges that no one would ever see coming. The process has been painful at times, leading me to wonder if hope was beyond reach. And even now, the scars from those experiences fester. But I’ve made it to the other side.

I’ve tried new things at every turn. Novelties you might scoff at or write off, they’ve become the fabric of my life. The change I’ve encountered hasn’t always been comfortable, and it hasn’t always worked out. But branching out beyond the familiar has opened doors and unlocked so many opportunities I would have once considered unattainable.

I’ve become a TV news producer, then a marketer. I’ve gone back to school, while working full-time, to get a business degree. I’ve parlayed that into a job that I love at a company where I’m valued.

I’ve moved cities twice and forged lifelong connections along the way. I’ve launched a weekly publication, headed up an alumni association chapter, and built myself into a competitive distance runner.

Through all these experiences, I’ve grown into the man I am today. I still have that chip on my shoulder, that drive for continued excellence. But I also have a sense of balance and fulfillment in my life, along with a quiet confidence. I’m grateful for all of it.

If you could see me now, you wouldn’t believe your eyes. But in time, you’ll find out firsthand what you are truly capable of. Think bigger.

I know every inch of these words. I wrote them, and I lived them. And yet, they still give me chills.

For the younger version of me would not have been ready for any of this.

The younger me had a fixed mindset. The younger me believed in stability. The younger me took the world at face value, rather than challenging assumptions.

I’ve proven the younger me wrong at every turn. And for many years, I’ve done this without even noticing. It’s only recently that things have changed in that regard.

Perhaps this is the hallmark of growth. A steady transformation in the shadows that unlocks our potential and expands our horizons.

I don’t know for sure. But I do know that I’m in a far different place today than I was back then.

Where will I be a decade from now?

This question is a trap door. And I refuse to fall through the bottom.

You see, I might be more self-assured these days than ever before. I may have a better sense of what I’m capable of.

But the whole picture hasn’t come into focus yet. There’s still plenty of room to grow, to evolve, and to unlock even more of my potential.

Make no mistake, I’m proud of what I’ve achieved so far. But I still believe that the best is yet to come. And that a familiar refrain will still ring true.

If you could see me now, you wouldn’t believe your eyes.