Category: Reflections

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.

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.

Twists and Turns

It’s an adventure.

That’s what my aunt said, as my father and I sat at her kitchen table.

My car was out in the driveway, loaded with as many of my possessions that could possibly fit inside it. My father and I were heading halfway across the country to Texas, where I was set to start a job as a TV news producer. And we’d stopped at my aunt’s house near the start of our journey.

This whole endeavor was hard to fathom. Sure, plenty of people have set out for greener pastures somewhere across our fair land over the years. But not in our family.

That’s why my aunt called the whole endeavor an adventure. The word evoked an expectation that my foray to Texas would be short on time and long on memories.

As I sat at that kitchen table, I didn’t disagree with my auut. How could I?

After all, I had no idea what lay in front of me. I’d never been to the city I was moving to. I’d had no real career experience or adulthood experience. Add it all up, and it was hard to envision my move as anything more than temporary.

And yet, I never made that return trek by my aunt’s house, with my belongings in the back of my car. Instead, I made Texas my home for good.

That TV job? It’s long gone. And yet, I remain.

It might have seemed like an adventure at the start. But I ended up finding what I didn’t know I was looking for under the Lone Star flag.

Never again.

Those words were on my mind as I walked away from the finish line on a sunny fall morning.

I’d just medaled in a state championship cross-country meet, finishing in the Top 25 of the final race of my freshman year. But I was tired.

I was done with sweating through late afternoon workouts. I was done with sore legs and side stitches. I was done with my gray New Balance 880’s, which could never be as stylish as a pair of Nikes.

I quit the cross-country team that day. There would be no more running for me.

And for a good decade or so, I stayed true to that prognostication.

But gradually, I came back around.

I started by running 10 minutes on the treadmill twice a week after I lifted weights. Soon, I took the workout outdoors, running a mile on the road. And eventually, I convinced myself to sign up for a 5K.

It wasn’t pretty.

My medal-winning form from high school was a distant memory. I lumbered along for a couple of miles until I started seeing green flashes and hyperventilating. I had to stop for a couple of minutes to catch my breath before struggling my way to the finish line.

I was humbled by this ordeal and determined not to repeat it. But the scars of my cross-country days still festered. So, I kept doing what I had done before — running a mile or two after lifting weights. I entered a few more 5K races and did marginally better — making it to the finish line in one go. But my abilities were nothing to write home about.

Then, a global pandemic shut my neighborhood gym. Lifting weights was now impossible; running outside was my only option for exercise. So, I started running slightly longer distances more often.

It didn’t take long for me to notice the difference. I was stronger. I was faster.

But I was also bored.

And so, when an opportunity about for me to join a local running club, I didn’t hesitate.

My first run with the club was a 10-miler on a hot summer morning. I’d never ran that far in my life, but I managed to stick with the group the entire time. And, to my surprise, I enjoyed the experience.

Pretty soon, I was running with the group three times a week, putting more miles on my legs than ever before. And these efforts paid dividends.

I started medaling in races, putting up times I would have found unfathomable a year earlier. This inspired me to start a training regimen, which made me even faster.

Now, I’m signing up for half marathons all over the country. I’m spending a big chunk of my salary on workout gear. And I’m dreaming of the day when I can toe the line in the New York City Marathon.

I never could have imagined that putting one foot in front of another would get me so far.

These outcomes I’ve lived — they’re far different than anything I would have imagined back in my aunt’s kitchen.

They weren’t on the script. And yet, they’re now an indelible part of who I am.

What did I miss back then? Was I too young, too stupid, too naïve to anticipate what was around the bend?

Hardly.

Truth be told, there was no way I could have known what life would have in store for me. No matter how straight a course I’d chart for my future, there were always bound to be some twists and turns along the way.

Embracing those twists and turns is critical. For some of the greatest joys in life involve what you don’t see coming. Appreciation needn’t stem from anticipation.

Yet, even as I write these words — seeing their reflection in my own narrative — I struggle to adhere to them.

For I am predisposed to seek control. To chart a path for myself and follow that path to a T.

I struggle to leave things as they are. To sit still and let the waves crash over me. To allow the twists and turns to catch me off-guard.

This means my gratification is delayed. I can only experience the joy of the unexpected after the panic of being thrown off-course has dissipated.

It’s been like this for me for decades. But it needn’t be this way forever.

So, I’m adding a twist and turn of my own. Instead of charting my future, I’m simply committing to living my values. And I’m letting the chips fall where they may.

Life happens on its own terms. It’s about time I embrace the beauty in that.

Wide Open

The horse was slender. Scrawny even.

A sandstone-colored coat of hair wrapped tightly around the equine’s ribs, causing me to nickname it Arizona.

Secretariat this was not. But I wasn’t in Kentucky either.

My encounter with Arizona took place down in Chile some years back. I was studying abroad there, and my cohort was on a horseback riding excursion.

I had saddled up a few times in my youth. But never for a whole day. So, I was already nervous before I was assigned the runt of the litter.

The journey began as expected. I spurred Arizona on, and the horse barely budged. The others in my cohort — high atop their stately steeds — laughed at our impunity as they rode ahead down the trail.

But all this movement seemed to inspire Arizona. Suddenly, we were speeding across dusty plains and up sand dunes. I could hear the wind rushing by my face as we galivanted along. Each stride sent me out of the saddle, the momentum threatening to launch me into orbit. I gripped onto the reins for dear life to keep that from happening.

As this all played out, I experienced a range of emotions. I felt exhilarated. I felt terrified. But most of all, I felt free.

As we wound our way through the Chilean countryside, across beaches and up abandoned railroad tracks, I started to dread the ride’s impending end. I wasn’t worried about dismounting from Arizona — I’d already done that when we’d stopped for lunch — but I was filled with dread about returning to the hustle and bustle of civilization.

I wanted to keep living my life wide open.

It’s been more than a decade now since that experience. And I haven’t gone horseback riding since then.

Even so, my life has been transformed. Ever since that day, I indeed have been chasing the wide open.

I cover lots of ground in my day-to-day. Whether I’m exercising, taking care of errands, or just relaxing, I tend not to confine myself.

For many, this might seem normal. But such a pattern goes against my raising.

I grew up in the Northeast, where a tradition of strength in numbers is notable. Space is famously at a premium in that part of America, and this feeds prominently into the regional culture.

While I grew up in a nice suburban home with a backyard, many of my friends lived in apartments. And my grandparents resided in a rowhouse so narrow that you could bounce a ball of each of the walls they shared with neighbors on a single throw.

Such arrangements were not unusual. In Boston, New York, and Philadelphia, many don’t commute downtown for work or entertainment. Instead, they live in close proximity to those options — trading space for prestige.

This pattern mirrors that of Europe. In London, Paris, and Rome, prominent residents have centrally located apartments, with the less affluent living further afield. And much like those cities across the pond, citizens of those Northeastern metro areas rely on city parks for their outdoor space.

Still, such a setup flies in the face of the broader American experience. Our nation was built upon principles of land ownership and mobility, and much of the country follows in that tradition.

Many Americans are used to seeing the nearest fence line at a distance. They’re accustomed to the sounds and smells of nature. They’re enamored with the feel of the open road.

Such sensations terrified me in my youth. In my experience, the vastness was a threat.

I imagined predators attacking me, with no one to come to my aid. I shivered at the thought of facing harsh weather conditions head-on. I developed a prolific fear of the dark.

By the time I saddled up for that horseback ride half a world away, I had moved beyond many of these concerns. I’d grown from a child to a self-assured adolescent. I’d left the cramped Northeast to attend college in Florida. And I’d gotten a better sense of the American way.

Still, I was in irons. I had little sense of where my future would take me.

It ended up taking me to Texas, a place that was seemingly the polar opposite of where I’d grown up.

Indeed, the Lone Star State was seemingly the epicenter of the wide open lifestyle. And I was ready to grab the reins, in pursuit of that same sensation I’d had down in Chile.

This pursuit has been uneven at best. But through all the ups and downs, one thing is certain. I love where I live.

To be clear, I have no ill will for my area of origin or the lifestyle that goes with it. I still have family and friends living in tight quarters there, and they get by just fine.

Still, such environs are not for me. I need space to operate.

By definition, an existential threat touches a central nerve. The nerve of survival.

And the recent pandemic certainly fit the bill.

There was, of course, the existential threat of illness and death. And there was the existential threat of economic strife as the world shut down.

But for me, there was another existential threat associated with all of this. The threat of confinement.

As the pandemic blossomed and the stay-at-home orders proliferated, I thought I was ready. Fear and uncertainty were in the air, and I wanted no part of the virus.

But I grew restless quickly.

The four walls of my home, nice as they were, couldn’t contain me. I knew I was meant to live wide open. And that was true now as much as ever.

So, I acted on my impulses. I opened my front door and went for a run or a long walk every day. That time outdoors provided me more than fresh air. It also gave me peace of mind.

Perhaps it’s no coincidence that I started thinking of that day back in Chile during these exercise sessions. I pictured the sunshine. I heard the rush of the wind. And I smelled the dust.

Most of all, I tried to get myself back to a place where my soul was carefree. I hoped that would be enough to get me through.

These days, I’m still trying to get back to that feeling. The pandemic’s grip has lightened. But the summer air is thick and my responsibilities are heavy. That wide-open feeling seems to dangle on the horizon, beyond my reach.

Perhaps one day, I’ll saddle up again. Or maybe I’ll find that nirvana in some other fashion.

But until then, I know what I’m chasing.

I’m on the trail of the great wide open. And I won’t rest until I find that feeling again.

The Habit Trap

As I prepared to back out of my parking spot, I was on edge.

Our nation was two months into a blossoming pandemic. Due to virus concerns and stay-at-home orders, I hadn’t been out of my neighborhood much. But on this afternoon, I’d headed to FedEx to ship off some damaged headphones for repairs.

As I returned to my vehicle from that errand, I wasn’t in the best state of mind. But I still needed to get home, so I focused on the task at hand.

I put my SUV in reverse and took my foot on the brake. Then I peered over my left shoulder as the vehicle slowly moved backward. I wanted to make sure there wasn’t any cross traffic.

The coast was clear to my left. But before I could look to my right, I felt a dull thud.

I knew immediately what that meant. I’d collided with another vehicle.

I inched my SUV forward and put it in Park. Then I stepped outside to survey the damage.

It turned out that another driver was backing her SUV out of a nearby spot at the same time as I was. Neither one of us could see the other vehicle until it was too late.

The collision happened at a low speed, but there was still damage. My fender was dented in one spot, and it would need to be replaced. Her fender also had a few marks on it.

I checked to see if the other driver was alright. She did the same.

But then, the realities of pandemic life overtook us. We quickly exchanged insurance information and went our separate ways.

On my ride home, I kept replaying the incident in my mind. What could I have done differently to avoid this small calamity?

One answer kept coming to mind. I could have checked my backup camera more closely.

I’d owned my SUV for five years at this point. And yet, I hadn’t quite mastered the art of using the backup camera when I was in reverse.

None of the previous vehicles I’d driven had such technology on board. And that meant I was woefully prepared to use it.

Way back when I was learning to drive, I had been instructed to check my rearview mirror when backing out of a parking spot. I was also taught to check over each shoulder to make sure no cross traffic was in my way.

I had mastered these lessons. And over the years, they became fossilized habits.

Now, there was a backup camera in my vehicle that promised to replace all these arcane practices. The future was here. But I still didn’t fully trust it.

So, I fell back on old habits. I would check the camera for a moment, but then glance over each shoulder to ensure the coast was clear.

I got away with this sequence for years. But now, it had finally caught up with me.

And now, with a damaged fender in tow, my objective was clear. It was time to break with my old driving habits, for once and for all.

Back in 1925, a baseball player named Wally Pipp woke up with a headache.

Instead of manning first base for the New York Yankees, Pipp sat out the game. A young ballplayer named Lou Gehrig manned his position instead.

Pipp never regained his old role. Gehrig went on to play the next 2,130 games at first base for the Yankees, earning the nickname The Iron Horse. The streak only ended when Gehrig retired 14 years later, crippled by a strange ailment that would later bear his name — and claim his life.

The demise of Wally Pipp will forever remain a cautionary tale. But an ill-timed headache wasn’t the only reason Pipp lost his spot for good.

Gehrig had immense talent. His Hall of Fame accolades make that clear.

But Gehrig also had great habits. He prepared himself to play each and every day. He perfected his craft as a hitter and a fielder. And he made no excuses when he faced adversity.

For many years, Gehrig was overshadowed in baseball lore by Babe Ruth, Mickey Mantle, and Hank Aaron. But when I was young, his name came back into the spotlight.

A shortstop on the Baltimore Orioles was set to surpass The Iron Horse’s consecutive games streak. Cal Ripken, Jr. ultimately shattered the record, finishing with 2,632 consecutive games played. And in the process, he displayed the same stellar habits that Gehrig had six decades earlier.

I did not grow up as an Orioles fan, but I had plenty of respect for Ripken. I tried to follow in his and Gehrig’s footsteps, finding productive habits and latching on to them. Such commitments have kept me productive into adulthood.

But adhering to fundamentals is not a panacea. Preparation and discipline are timeless virtues, but the protocols for backing a car out of a parking spot are not.

Indeed, for all we complain about technology, it does drive progress.

The automobile goes faster than any tandem of horses ever could. Computers have transformed businesses in ways our legal pad-wielding predecessors could only dream of. The Internet has provided the world an unprecedented opportunity to connect in real-time.

Adopting these innovations has meant casting off old habits. And yet, as new protocols emerge, I still find myself struggling to adapt to them.

Grappling with novelty makes me feel vulnerable and powerless. So, I fall back on the familiar — even when such actions are fraught with danger.

I call this conundrum The Habit Trap. And all too often, it’s swallowed me whole.

There’s no experience quite like catching the sunrise.

A splash of light emerges from a dark sky. And with it comes a realm of new possibilities.

I’ve considered myself averse to novelty. And yet, I’ve found myself awestruck by the rising sun again and again.

It provides a sense of calm in the wake of uncertainty. It melds the familiarity of habit with the opportunity for improvement. It provides us balance and leaves us feeling whole.

Perhaps I can learn from the example of the sunrise.

For there are ways to wean ourselves off outdated routines. Instead of making a clean break, we can mix the uncomfortable with the familiar.

In my case, this has meant going through my peek-over-the-shoulder routine while my car is still in Park. I’m not going to catch much cross traffic this way — my view is blocked — but I won’t find myself colliding with other vehicles either.

For others stuck in The Habit Trap, the way out might look different. But the details are not what matters here. What’s important is that there is a way out.

We simply need to be strategic, intentional, and open-minded. We need to be willing to move toward a new normal, even if it takes us a little longer to leave the past behind.

If we do this, we can make The Habit Trap history. And we’ll be better for it.

So, let us begin.