Category: Reflections

Daily Gratitudes

Each day, before I take my first bite of a meal, I do something peculiar.

I bow my head, close my eyes, and sit silently for a moment.

It’s similar to saying grace. But without the interlocking hands. Without the well-worn lines of thankfulness. Without any audible words whatsoever.

You see, I am not a religious man. But I am a man of faith.

Faith in humanity. Faith in the goodness of the world. And faith in the Lord above who provides us the chance to learn and grow, overcome and prosper.

This opportunity is in itself a blessing. For it provides hope eternal.

Through the good times and the bad, joy and strife, we have the opportunity to make our next move brighter than our last one. We have the chance to experience a brighter tomorrow.

This is all too often forgotten in the bustle of life. The speed of our day to day can make these overarching rays of light seem ordinary and obscure.

We hardly take the time to pause, except when we nourish ourselves.

That opportunity is, in itself, a blessing. Something so critical, yet so simple that it becomes automatic.

Not to me.

I believe that meal time is a perfect time to reflect. To bow my head and show my most sincere appreciation.

So, I do so. But quietly and personally.

What do I silently reflect on?

It depends.

I don’t believe in following a time-honored script. I recognize the power of ancient blessings for various food items, passed down through scripture over millennia. I understand the emotional connection forged by saying grace the way a beloved family member once did.

But, in my case, going over the same lines over and over rings hollow. It’s not specific enough.

So, I do something completely different. I think of a new concept to be thankful for each time I sit down for a meal. It could be an opportunity that lies ahead, a fresh experience in my memory or a lesson I learned in the prior few hours.

I reflect on what these opportunities, experiences and lessons bring me. I consider how they will make me stronger, wiser and better.

Then, I express complete humility and gratitude for them.

I mention this not to evangelize these practices. But instead to promote the overarching idea behind them.

On the day this article is posted, I will become a year older. Traditionally, such an occasion is filed with parties, gifts and wishes.

We take these occasions to recognize how much we matter to others. And to let our hopes and dreams fly free.

These are worthy things to celebrate, and worthy aspirations to hold dear.

But why limit them to just one day?

Every day is a gift. A blessing filled with experiences, opportunities and lessons to help us grow.

When we open our mind and open our heart, we can take something valuable out of each and every day. Not just the days when we’re showered with love and attention. Not just the days where we feel on top of the world.

Every day.

Through the tough times and the good ones, we have the ability to see the silver lining. We can  gain valuable perspective each day we’re above ground.

But without reflection, this intuition is lost. And without humility, we are blind to it altogether.

It’s our responsibility to take internalize life’s abundance. To transform our experiences into a brighter next chapter. To seize the opportunities placed in front of us.  To turn lessons to enlightened actions.

How we go about doing this can vary. But whether we’re silently saying grace at the dinner table or taking a walk around the block to breathe in the fresh air, our daily gratitudes mean everything.

Life is a blessing. Don’t take it for granted.

Getting Whole

How long does it take your world to get rocked?

Sometimes, less than a second.

I was driving down the road not long ago, heading between work and my business school class. It was a mild, sun-speckled day, but appearances were deceiving.

I’d had a rough day at the office. And I was driving to campus to take a quiz I didn’t feel fully prepared for.

Somewhere in the middle lay some solace. As I plodded down Dallas streets bathed in golden sunlight, an episode of This American Life played through the speakers of my SUV. It was a rerun, but a compelling one — part murder mystery, part unexpected journey narrative.

As the episode neared its dramatic peak, I approached a green light. Then…

WHAM.

I felt something slam into the side of my SUV.

The airbags didn’t deploy. My vehicle didn’t veer off course. Yet, I instantly knew something was wrong.

By the time I was able to pull over to the side of the road, I could see that my vehicle was significantly damaged.

It turns out the driver of a pickup truck sitting in the turn lane to the left of my vehicle had decided to bail into my lane without warning. There was nothing I could have done to avoid getting hit.

Fortunately, I wasn’t injured. But I was still greatly inconvenienced.

As I got back in my SUV, I thought of all the new items on my to-do list. I would need to file a claim, schedule repairs and get a rental vehicle. All because of an accident that was in no way my fault.

While insurance would foot most of the repair bill, I would still bear the cost of lost time while getting everything back in order.

And until I was able to get my SUV into the shop, I would need to drive around with a dented door. I would carry the stigma of appearing too cheap to fix the damage or to too irresponsible to have avoided it in the first place.

During that time, I imagined a figurative bull’s eye on my vehicle — with other drivers judging me and avoiding my vehicle as much as possible.  I felt vulnerable and ashamed.

Why did I feel this way? The answer lies in my core tenets, particularly when it comes to responsibility and ownership.

My SUV is the most substantial item I own. It’s also the biggest purchase I’ve ever made.

As a control enthusiast, I feel compelled to protect that investment. I’m obsessed with keeping it out of harm’s way.

This is why I pay extra to park my car in a covered spot. It’s why I drive with extreme caution in bad weather. It’s why I leave a buffer between my vehicle and nearby ones as much as possible.

But of course, protective measures only go so far. The open road is full of risks, from falling objects to aloof drivers. Danger lurks around every turn.

So, when I find myself in harm’s way, I latch onto a new obsession. That of getting whole.

I focus all my attention on what it will take to get things back to normal. As if the mishap had never happened.

And if someone else is liable for the damage incurred, I see to it that they incur the costs.

Call it my pound of flesh moment. Or whatever else you may. But when things go sideways, getting whole is my entire objective.

I’m not sure how healthy this thinking is.

After all, bad things will happen to all of us in life. Things that are inherently unfair and a lot worse than damage to a car door.

When these mishaps occur, the primary focus should be on moving forward. Getting whole is a secondary concern, as it might not be a feasible proposition.

For instance, if we were to suffer a debilitating injury, we might never fully recover from it. Yet, life must go on. We must move forward, even if we do so in a compromised fashion.

I grapple with this dichotomy as I face milder crises in my life. Is it truly worthwhile to expend the energy needed to erase the dents and scratches life can add to my body or my possessions? Am I breaking my own rule by chasing perfection?

Perhaps. Perhaps not.

What I do know is this.

I will keep trying to remain whole as much as possible. To cut out risk and limit instances of my own liability.

And when misfortune strikes — when, not if — I will be resilient. I will focus on getting back on the horse as steadfastly as possible. And I will keep moving forward.

That, in its essence is what getting whole is all about. About taking that hit and keeping on moving forward.

That is where I was, quite literally, in the aftermath of my car accident. But really, it’s where I’ve been throughout the peaks and valleys of life.

And so have we all. It’s what makes us stronger.

Let’s keep that momentum going. Let’s keep plowing forward in the face of adversity and challenges. Let’s do what it takes to get whole.

We’ll be better for it.

The Elite Conundrum

If you read Words of the West frequently, you’ve probably noticed that many of the topics covered converge on one central theme.

Inclusivity.

I’ve long talked about the importance of doing things together. Of the strength of working as one for mutually beneficial causes.

I’ve spoken of breaking down barriers that stand in the way of our success. Of pushing past selfish thinking that, at scale, can hold us back.

No matter what angle is covered, the underlying message is the same.

Together we rise.

Yet, for all I’ve written of the virtues of inclusivity, I’ve done a poor job of practicing what I preach.

I live with my own blind spots. Only they’re not all that blind.

In fact, they’re out in the open.

I’ve long spoken of a simplistic concept. One where there are two types of people in the world — those who go after the results they seek, those who wait for these results to be given to them.

In essence, this theory splits our society into two groups — one that views the world as an ongoing grind and one that views it as a meritocracy.

Which one do I prefer? Ideally, the answer should be neither. But read a few articles of Words of the West, and it’s clear I lean toward the mindset of affecting change. Of actively going after what we seek.

Implied in this preference is an air of elitism.

By actively promoting those with a certain drive, I create a boundary of my own. I state, This is the mindset I associate with. These are the types of people who can help us forward to the brightest future.

This, of course, says just as much about those I don’t associate with. Those I identify as the problem, not the solution.

It assumes working with these people will send us on a path to nowhere.

And right within that statement lies a major issue.

If I consider myself above those with a different mindset, I can never fully live into the objective I speak of.

And if that I becomes a we, our hopes of achieving an inclusive society dwindle. The wedge between the haves and have-nots grows wider.

Worse still, an air of snobbiness can be associated with this elitist thinking. One that will make unifying the sides of the divide we’ve created even more challenging.

So, what’s the solution?

Should we suppress any inherent biases we have toward a particular mindset or attitude, and simply make the best of the situation? This model could drive us toward greater inclusivity, but everyone would not necessarily be pulling in the same direction.

Should we consider keeping things as is? This could help us promote the change we seek, but at the risk of alienating those who don’t buy in to our vision.

I believe the answer lies somewhere in the middle.

We must be more inclusive. We need to commit to breaking down the barriers we all know exist, and breaking through the inherent ones we might create in the process.

But we also must be wary of carrying too much of the load. Of taking initiative on behalf of those whose attitude, mindset or temperament don’t jibe with the vision we promote.

In other words, we should give everyone an opportunity to participate in the culture we build. But we shouldn’t look with scorn on those who go a different way.

This strategy, by nature, won’t bridge the divide completely. But it’s a step in the right direction.

I need to buy into this as much as anyone. And I’m game to do so.

Are you?

Uncovering the Unknowns

There are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns – the ones we don’t know we don’t know.

These famous words were uttered by Donald Rumsfeld, the former United States Secretary of Defense.

The year was 2002. And barely five months after 9/11 shook America to its core, Rumsfeld was briefing the press. The topic? Whether Iraq was supplying weapons of mass destruction to terrorist groups.

Rumsfeld could have provided a boilerplate non-answer. He could have been a steel wall, hiding behind military clearances and other bureaucratic walls. He could have rattled off a bunch of jargon to throw us all of the trail.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Rumsfeld rattled off this now-iconic line.

Some ridiculed it. After all, this sound bite came off clunky and evasive. And once the U.S. did go to war in Iraq, the statement got even more scrutiny.

There were no WMDs, it turns out. Many members of our military lost their lives in a war we entered under faulty pretenses. And Rumsfeld’s line seemed to be the epitome of those pretenses.

Yet, if you strip away the politics and revisionist history surrounding the statement, you might find Rumsfeld’s words to be eerily profound.

I certainly do.

Three years ago, I started Words of the West with a purpose and a promise. The purpose was to share my truth through the power of the written word. The promise was to do so weekly.

For 156 articles, I’ve kept that promise. I’ve fulfilled that purpose.

But facts and figures doesn’t tell the complete story.

For the past three years I’ve taken heed of Rumsfeld’s words. I’ve delved into the world of unknown unknowns and made them a little less confounding.

You see, I’ve viewed every topic I’ve covered here as a chance to gain clarity. No matter what I’ve shared, I’ve learned even more through the process of putting it to paper.

For no matter how certain I seemed about a particular topic, I’d quickly learn that there was a lot I hadn’t been aware of.

There were plenty of unknown unknowns.

This was true for big idea topics. I didn’t know that the Rock Bottom paradox could be so pervasive. Or just how many challenges were that next great opportunity.

But it was just as true for retrospectives. I didn’t know that sharing my memories of 9/11 would help bring solace. Or that recounting all that went into my career switch would inspire confidence.

I didn’t know what I didn’t know. But now I do.

 

Words of the West has helped me grow. By sharing my truth, I’ve expanded my understanding of so many aspects of life. In a world that can often times be turbulent, I’ve been able to chart a steady course. One grounded in the musings I’ve shared with the world each week.

I’ve been blessed to undertake this journey. And blessed that you, the reader, have been able to take it with me.

My hope is that you’ve taken something valuable from these articles. That you’ve found some clarity. That you’ve uncovered an answer to your unknown unknowns.

I look forward to us exploring more of the unknown in the articles to come. To us making the unexplored and overlooked less confounding and more actionable. To us helping make the world a better place — even in some small way.

The journey has just begun. Come along.

The Rock Bottom Paradox

At the start of the year, I gave up drinking.

I was not in crisis, but I had my reasons.

I didn’t like what alcohol did to my body or mind. I wanted to save the money that beer and liquor cost. And I wanted to ensure I was always in a situation where there was someone sober that could get behind the wheel.

It was a necessary move. A calculated one. But I wasn’t prepared for what would come of it.

For while my decision made me feel healthier and more fulfilled, it also opened me up to a constant line of questioning.

Why did you stop drinking?

What’s wrong with having a cold one now and then?

Did something bad happen?

Is there something wrong with booze?

Is everything OK?

I tried to anticipate the question. To have an answer at the ready.

But in truth, I felt like I was in that scene in Forrest Gump when the media bombarded Forrest with questions about why he was running.

As question after question rolled in, he gave one simple answer.

I just felt like running.

I can relate to that. I just felt removing alcohol from my life was the best thing to do. Simple as that.

And getting a barrage of questions about it quickly wore me out.

I understand the source of these questions. I don’t live in Utah, or a dry county in West Texas. Drinking is very much a societal norm. And I’m an outlier.

Yet, I find the line of questioning troublesome.

You see, the first question in the series is innocuous. People want to figure out what keeps me from raising a glass or clinking a beer bottle with them.

But once people find out I didn’t make my choice because of alcoholism or a DUI, they start grilling me with question after question.

They simply can’t grasp that someone would shun drinking all on their own. That no demons would be involved in the decision.

I’m not sure why this perception is so prevalent. But I don’t like it.

Why must we hit rock bottom in order to better ourselves?

I fail to see how that trajectory does anyone any good.

For when we wait until we bottom out to seek change, there’s collateral damage. Traumatic things happen. People get hurt. Or worse.

Sure, it makes for a better story when someone reforms themselves and emerges from the darkness. When an antihero finds redemption, everyone soaks up the narrative.

I know this pattern well. I’m a storyteller and a former news producer.

But are the warm fuzzies of a comeback from despair really worth the price paid to get there? Are they worth the suffering, the ruined lives and the traumatic memories that ensue when we let bad habits spiral into disaster?

Not at all.

I might not have ever hit rock bottom with my drinking habits. I might never have seen firsthand the misfortune and devastation that alcohol can bring.

But I wasn’t willing to take that chance.

I wasn’t willing to cede control of my mind just to live without inhibitions. I wasn’t willing to shed my dignity just to make it onto the dance floor. I wasn’t willing to drag my body through a round of beers — let alone 10 rounds with Jose Cuervo — just to fit in.

No, I drew the line. No demons were going to come out of that bottle. Not for me anyway.

Now this is not to say I think drinking is a bad thing. What’s wrong for me might not be wrong for everyone.

But the Rock Bottom Paradox needs to go.

We need to stop looking to the chasm as our source of redemption. To stop glorifying the canyon floor as the launchpad for the stars.

Far more good comes from righting the ship before it teeters over the edge. From finding salvation through pre-emptive action.

It won’t make for a compelling Hollywood script. It won’t make us memorable or legendary.

No. Instead we will all prosper. No one and nothing will have to be sacrificed for us to see the light.

Isn’t that worth it?

How We’re Wired

How are you wired?

It’s a question that gets to the heart of our individuality.

For the way we operate is not standard. Everyone has their own approach, their own flavor.

And that variance in styles — that diversity — is what makes us innovative. It allows us to grow and adapt in ways that our ancestors never could.

If we are able to fully understand exactly how we operate, we can use that information to maximize our effectiveness. We can actively work to make the world better.

As such, determining how we’re wired is both personal and powerful.

I recently discovered then when I set out to determine how I am wired.

It all started with a career assessment. The exercise highlighted that I approach situations with an “engineering mindset.”

I saw those words and laughed incredulously. After all, I considered myself the furthest thing from an engineer. My arithmetic skills have long been lacking, and I struggled mightily in most science classes I took.

Yet, the more I thought about it, the more I understood what the assessment said.

You see, an engineering mindset is not about complicated math formulas and high-level scientific laws. It’s about developing a consistent process for problem solving.

This means classifying what occurs in an often-messy world into a set of inputs and outputs. It means focusing on the journey between those points as much as the result.

It takes intense discipline, obsessive organization and a Spockian adherence to logic to live into this mindset.

It’s a trio that’s hard to put into practice. Yet, I’ve been making it work for years. I just hadn’t realized it until I took that assessment.

Why not? Because, as a writer and former journalist, I’ve traditionally considered myself a connoisseur of the softer skills. I’ve believed in the power of logic, but have long felt that emotion was a more critical element in my work.

Emotion is what inspires connection. It’s what drives action. It’s what makes one resonant and makes contributions memorable.

As such, I’ve harbored a profound obsession with emotion. I’ve shared my thoughts on connection, context and intent in this space and throughout my daily life. I’ve rehashed the memories that have taken my breath away, in the hope of inspiring those same feelings in others.

I can’t help it. I’m a storyteller. This is the way I communicate.

Yet, under the hood, my day-to-day life looks much different.

From the moment I spring out of bed to the moment I collapse back into it, my day is full of choices.

Everything from what shirt I wear to whether I buy a pack of Skittles from the checkout line rack is up for grabs. Anything and everything that requires time or money sparks an internal deliberation.

These choices I face daily represent a series of inputs. And the decisions I make in each instance represent outputs.

In between, I do a lot of careful calculations in real time.

I look at the costs and benefits of each option, and their probabilities. Then, I determine whether each option worth the requisite resources.

I am both deliberate and decisive in choosing the best path forward.

Many times, the choices I make put me in a better position to succeed. Or at the very least, they keep me in line with my goals.

Other times, things don’t work as anticipated. Whether through bad luck or bad choices, I don’t get the result I’m looking for.

But either way, I know that I did my due diligence. I recognize that my careful and calculated approach gave me agency over the decision. And I understand that I eliminated much of the variability of outcomes.

This approach is not for everyone. It takes a lot of energy and willpower. And that probably explains why I’m continually in thought, and able to carefully observe the details of my surroundings.

Yet, this is the way I’m wired. And now that I recognize it, I must admit that I’m quite comfortable with it.

In fact, I can’t see myself approaching life any other way.

Still, I know that others approach their daily lives quite differently. And that the world is better for this diversity of thought, this balance of cognitive approach.

The key is for us all to recognize our patterns. To see which ingredients we bring to the table, and then use them to build and innovate.

So, let’s start that process — with a question.

How are you wired?

Your answer could make all the difference.

The Big Shift

The afternoon was cold and raw.

Rain was cascading nonstop from the gray October sky.

It was the perfect weather to stay inside and read a book, or watch television. But I was doing neither.

I was out on wooded dirt trail in the 38-degree chill.

Outfitted in a T-shirt, shorts and a pair of running shoes, I sprinted for a quarter mile up a steep hill. Rain drenched my face and stuck to my clothes with every striding step.

My reward when I got to the top? To jog back down to the bottom of the hill and do it all over again.

Jog, not walk. After all, the number one rule of Cross Country practice: No Walking Allowed.

By the fourth jaunt up the hill, I was dragging. My quad muscles were so full of lactic acid that I felt like I’d been stabbed. My arms were raw from the elements. My teeth were chattering.

I made it to the top, and our coach mercifully called it a day.

By the time we got back to the locker room — a full mile from Hell’s Hill — I could barely move. I sat on a bench for what felt like eternity.

Never again, I told myself.

Never again will I subject myself to this.

 

If you had told me how this scene would play out two months earlier, I flat out would not have believed you.

I was preparing to start high school, and to experience all the changes that would bring.

One of my main goals for my freshman year was to make the Junior Varsity baseball team. So, when the baseball coach encouraged me to join the Cross Country team — which he also coached — I didn’t think twice.

How hard can this be? I thought. I’ve run before.

I quickly learned just how wrong I was.

For my first practice, my task was to run a mile-long loop on the backcountry trails near school. I didn’t run up Hell’s Hill that day, but I did weave my way through some remote and hilly trails.

All the while, the coach paced me on his bicycle. There was no chance to slow down, even after I began to suck wind a half mile into the run.

Still, discouraged as I was, I decided to keep going. It was important for me to show the coach how resilient I was. It would pay dividends in the spring. And staying in shape couldn’t be a bad thing — although I was a string bean back then anyways.

Over the following months, I learned to shift my habits. I swapped out fries and Coca-Cola for Subway and Gatorade. I committed to stretching properly. And I learned to conserve my energy on race day.

I found that by sprinting that final quarter mile of the race, instead of the first one, I could pass dozens of fatigued runners and bolster my final position. That tactic became my secret weapon.

It seemed as if everything was working out. That I could learn to love this brutal sport after all.

Then, that fateful afternoon in the rain came to pass.

No more, I told myself. This would be my first and last season on the team.

I finished the year with a medal in the Freshman State Championships. Then, I walked away.

There was no going back. Not to Cross Country. Not to running regularly.

I was done.

Or was I?

I’m doing it again.

The thought crossed my mind as I scaled a 100-foot hill, with the day’s first light ahead of me.

The origins of what was sure to be another triple-digit summer day were taking its toll on me. As I cut through the muggy predawn air, my shirt and face were drenched in sweat. My quads felt the familiar resistance of that cold afternoon from half my life ago.

Yet, I powered through. I continued to push the pace.

Yes, a lot had changed since I walked away from running. I grew up, fell out of shape and had a shift in perspective.

Somewhere along the line, I decided that running could help me get back on track. So, I started spending 10 minutes on the treadmill twice a week.

But even with that workout in tow, I felt something was missing. I missed the thunder of my shoes hitting the pavement, the freshness of the air in my lungs, the excitement of every stride taking me somewhere new.

So, I started running a mile in my neighborhood. That mile run quickly became a two-mile loop. Then, I added a third run to my weekly routine, so that I was hitting the pavement roughly every other day.

I could feel the difference. My running regimen made me healthier, happier and more balanced. What was once a nuisance activity was now an essential part of my life.

So, I made sure to get my scheduled running in each week, no matter the weather. I ran in everything from 1-degree wind chills to 107-degree heat indices, blazing sunshine to pouring rain.

Then, I moved.

I had to find a new running route. And my search led me to the 100-foot hill.

At first, I didn’t want to mess with it. Too steep of a grade. Too tall a task.

But eventually, curiosity got the better of me.

And now, here I was. Scaling the hill. Dealing with déjà vu all over again.

Only this time there was a twist.

I wasn’t taking on this grueling workout because I had to. I was taking on “The Death Run” because I wanted to.

The steady hands of time and fate had gradually guided my back to one of the most miserable moments of my youth. And somehow, they led me to find joy in it.

The irony was palpable. It lingered long after my workout ended.

There must be a lesson in this, I told myself. It can’t be pure circumstance.

Still, I had trouble finding the connection, until I put pen to paper.

I realize now how well this experience showed life’s circuity. That over time, we can learn to love the things we once despised. We can embrace experiences we once abhorred.

Better yet, we can thrive off of these changes. We can use them to push our boundaries, gain fulfillment and become more well-rounded.

We’re all better served by embracing the power that big shifts can have in our life. By adopting a growth mindset. By replacing the word never with perhaps someday.

For we don’t know what surprises the future might hold. We don’t know if the mountain standing in our way now might provide the key to self-fulfillment later.

Endless possibilities await. An open mind is the key.

Don’t throw it away.

On Patriotism

Every year, as the summer nears its swell, we follow some familiar patterns.

We break out the sunglasses and fire up the grill. We jump into a body of water to cool off.

And we think about patriotism.

Yes, with Independence Day coming smack dab in the middle of the summer, we inevitably take some time to think about what it means to be American. On the significance of having pride for the Red, White and Blue.

For me, patriotism is not about burgers and hot dogs, flags or fireworks. It’s not about buzzwords like liberty or Stars and Stripes. And it’s certainly got nothing to do with the hot-button issues that have done little but divide us.

No, to me patriotism is about a black and white photo.

The photo sits on my living room wall, under my college diploma. It’s framed, dated March 8, 1945 and postmarked RTC Great Lakes. It features 124 recruits of the United States Navy, arranged in 6 rows for a group photo.

In the first row, two recruits to the left of the young man holding the Navy flag, is my grandfather.

He’s just two weeks past his 18th birthday. Baby faced and decked out in his Navy uniform, he stares toward the camera with a reserved smile. It’s his first time west of the Eastern Time Zone, yet there’s nowhere he’d rather be.

My grandfather grew up in Brooklyn during the Great Depression. There was poverty all around him, but also hope. That hope came from the relative freedom of opportunity America provided to those driven to improve their standing.

As my grandfather approached high school, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, propelling the U.S. into World War II. My grandfather quickly learned of the atrocities of dictators in Europe and Asia and was inspired to defend the way of life he’d come to know. He was determined to protect America from the grasp of totalitarian powers.

My grandfather enlisted in the Navy at age 17. There was no decision to be made, he later told me. He believed in America and felt obligated to defend it.

The journey took him further from home than ever before. He first went to Illinois for training at RTC Great Lakes. Then, it was off to Camp Pendleton in California to prepare for action in the Pacific theater.

But days before he was slated to see combat, my grandfather broke his foot in an accident in the barracks. The injury relegated him to the role of Corpsman and kept him stateside.

The ship went out to sea without my grandfather, and the Japanese quickly torpedoed it. His replacement was one of the casualties in the incident.

My grandfather’s non-combat injury saved his life. Yet, it also robbed him of the chance to defend our nation in combat. And another man made the ultimate sacrifice in his place.

My grandfather never spoke much about this dynamic — this mix of luck and guilt. He only spoke of the principles he believed in, the ones that led him to enlist in the first place.

My grandfather still believed in his mission of protecting our country, even if his role had now changed. Protecting and rehabilitating the injured was still a key part of that objective — and it’s one he took seriously.

Even when fate once again dealt him an adverse hand.

On a sunny California day, my grandfather set out on the San Francisco Bay in a small vessel. On the boat with him were several wounded midshipmen, outfitted in plaster body casts. My grandfather’s orders for the day were to take these combat veterans out fishing.

As the boat made its way through the bay, it inadvertently drifted too close to Alcatraz Island. At that time, the island included an active federal prison that housed some of America’s most notorious criminals. The island was very closely guarded.

Patrolling Coast Guard boats saw my grandfather’s vessel approaching and made large wake to steer the fishing boat away from Alcatraz. But the large swells turned the boat almost sideways, sending some of the injured men into the water.

My grandfather jumped into the frigid waters of the bay to retrieve them. But the plaster body casts weighed the men down, and he couldn’t lift them back onto the boat. He couldn’t save them.

It was the cruelest form of irony. These men, injured in combat, meeting their end stateside in a series of unfortunate circumstances. My grandfather, powerless in his attempt to rescue them.

“I wish, to this day, that I could have saved them,” he told me years later.

It was my grandfather’s biggest regret in life.

My grandfather passed away a couple of years ago. But he lives on in sprit, through that picture on my wall.

I think of my grandfather each day. Of the decision he made to defend our nation at such an early age. I couldn’t be prouder of him for that.

But mostly, I think of that fateful day on the bay. Of the one sad story my grandfather told amidst a lifetime of happy ones.

There’s no doubt the story is deeply tragic. But I feel it also encapsulates what patriotism is about.

Patriotism is about jumping into the unknown to help our neighbors. And about the remorse we feel if anyone is left behind — plaster body cast or not.

For no matter the color of our skin, the city we call home or the faith we observe, we are part of the same great nation. We are strongest when we are as one.

It’s our obligation to lift each other up, rather than push others down. To trade our boorish ego for humility and selflessness. To discover what’s possible through collective action.

This, to me, is the true meaning of patriotism.

It’s what my grandfather believed in. It’s what he fought for. And it’s what I will continue to strive for, in his memory.

I’d be honored if you joined me.

The Context of Focus

A few months ago, a received a compliment that totally floored me.

I was told I had a great ability to focus.

I was caught off guard by this comment, because this was a trait I didn’t quite see in myself.

I’m notoriously self-critical, and don’t like to dwell on my strengths. But I do know what they are.

Or, at least I thought I knew what they were.

Now, I’m reconsidering.

You see, I’ve long bemoaned my lack of focus, more than anything. I’ve considered my struggles reading books or maintaining attention when watching TV at home. And I’ve dwelled on the trouble I’ve had conversing with others with a lot of noise and movement around me.

This regret has eaten away at me, like a powerful acid.

After all, focus is my goal. A laser-targeted focus could help me achieve my objectives more efficiently and effectively.

I’ve likened this idyllic focus to being early-career Tiger Woods on the golf course.

Tiger had an uncanny ability to tune out all the noise around him and hone in on the task at hand. It helped him dominate a field of the world’s best golfers and tame the toughest courses — even in the harshest of conditions.

I’ve actually experienced this sensation of hyper focus before — although not on Sunday at The Masters, with the whole world watching. And not for as prolonged a period.

No, this sensation has come when I was in what some psychologists call a flow state. That’s a period where all distractions and time melt away. A period where one can truly hone on what needs to be done, and then execute upon it.

As a control enthusiast and intensely task-motivated person, I consider flow states to be pure gold. They are the essence of my greatest productivity.

But they’re also highly elusive. I can’t just snap into one on command.

And that constraint has darkened my entire outlook on the subject of focus.

It’s led to consternation when I’ve struggled to get more than a chapter into a book. It’s caused queasiness every time I’ve found myself paying more attention to the conversations around me than the task at hand. And it evoked dismay and disappointment when the writing of this very article spilled into a second day.

In short, it’s what’s led me to consider focus a personal liability for many years.

But now I wonder, do I have it all wrong?

Perhaps the young lady who lauded my ability to focus was right. For, in certain scenarios, I clearly can stay locked in. I certainly can execute on my objectives with ruthless efficiency in those moments.

I’ve demonstrated this many times throughout my life. And I most assuredly wouldn’t be where I am today if I hadn’t.

But truth be told, I’m not the only one with these abilities. Surely, we each have our moments of focused brilliance, just as Tiger Woods once did on the links.

The key word here is moments. For focus is context-specific.

None of us can stay hyper-focused all the time. If we did, we wouldn’t be human.

So instead, we operate in waves. Of productivity and aloofness. Of efficiency and inefficiency. Of good days and bad ones.

This is the natural balance of our lives. And the sooner we get accustomed to it, the better.

There’s no point in trying to own every moment. It sets the bar far above what’s realistically achievable and only sets us up for disappointment. I know this as much as anyone.

Better to own the moments that mean the most.

Focus matters. But context matters more.

Lessons from Intensity

What do you think of when you see the word intensity?

I think of aggression, stress and other unsavory traits.

I think of a crowd of commuters on a New York City subway platform. All in a hurry but with nowhere to go.

Yes, I’ve long seen intensity as a problem. A self-inflicted wound that damages our health and sabotages our relationships with others.

In my view, a laid-back attitude is ideal. It represents nature in balance.

There’s only one problem. I don’t practice what I preach.

It turns out that I am an incredibly intense person. My motor is always running at full speed.

My intensity is the fuel that drives many of my defining characteristics. It’s led me to be a control enthusiast and a chronic planner. It’s inspired me to stay active and engaged at all times. And it’s also made me incredibly self-critical.

These results are a mixed bag. Some have helped me do great things and connect with those around me. Others have been detrimental or offputting.

In the past, I’ve focused on the problems my intensity has caused. And I sought to remedy them with wholesale changes.

I tried to adapt a more laid-back lifestyle. I aspired to live more in the moment. And I devoted time to relaxing and leaving the worries of the real world behind — even if only for a little while.

It didn’t work.

It turns out I can’t change the way I’m wired. My intensity, much like my introversion, is encoded in my DNA.

I’ve had to learn to get comfortable with this fact. And to recognize that intensity doesn’t necessarily equate to pushiness or rudeness.

Yes, I’ve discovered that even the most intense people can still find a productive balance. It comes from channeling that intensity inward and exuding empathy outward.

I now strive to achieve that balance. And the results thus far have been transformative.

I push myself harder than ever. And I demand a level of perfection that I know I’ll never reach.

Yet at the same time, I aspire to treat others with care and kindness. To appreciate them for who they are, and how they are.

This might all seem a bit strange and disjointed. But I consider these opposing approaches to be connected.

The way I see it, my purpose is to make a positive difference in the lives of those around me. And by channeling my intensity inward — by demanding ever more of myself — I can live into that purpose.

It is this narrative that has provided me peace of mind, at long last, when reflecting my intensity. All while providing me something to strive for.

I believe this is a powerful lesson to carry forward. Because regardless of whether we love intensity or consider it abhorrent, we must recognize that context is everything.

We shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. There are plenty of applications of each trait we possess that are healthy and productive. And plenty of others that are dangerous or problematic.

The power is in our hands.

Our traits are our superpowers. Use them widely.