Category: Reflections

Unselfish

There’s a poignant moment from my childhood that still resonates with me.

It comes from the early 1990s. I was 5 years old at the time.

My family had returned from our first extended vacation — several weeks camping up and down the coast of Maine. My aunt and uncle were over at our home to hear the stories of our travels and look at the pictures we took.

(Yes, it’s hard to imagine now. But in a time before smartphones and social media, these types of social engagements were commonplace.)

It was a beautiful late summer day, so we soon found ourselves in the backyard. We had a new wooden playset that had been installed earlier that year, and I hopped on the single swing anchored to one end of it.

For the next several minutes I laughed exuberantly as the swing went forward and backward. I felt the breeze as I went back and forth, our home getting closer and then drifting further away.

Soon enough, my sister — who was 2 at the time — asked if she could ride on the swing. I said no; I was having too much fun to give it up.

“Now, Dylan,” my uncle said. “Don’t be selfish. How about you give your sister a turn after 10 more turns of the swing?”

I agreed, and he gave the swing a push. Suddenly, I was flying back and forth, the swing taking a much wider track on its pendulum motion. I could feel the wind under my knees, and my jubilation was reinvigorated.

Now, there was no way I was getting off the swing.

Sure enough, after the 10 back and forth turns of the swing were up, my sister asked to ride the swing again.

Actually, it might have been after 15 turns — she had not yet mastered the art of counting.

But either way, when she asked, I once again refused to give her a turn.

My uncle was disgusted. He walked away from the swing set, exclaiming “That was mean, Dylan. You’re being selfish.”

And being the 5 year old brat I was, I responded by repeating the word selfish over and over. It’s as if I treated the term as a badge of honor.

After a few moments, I noticed that my aunt, my parents and my sister had left the playset area too. I was being abandoned for my bad behavior.

I hopped off the swing and went to join them, acting as if nothing had happened. Yet, my uncle continued to admonish me for being stubborn and selfish. He insisted I apologize to my sister for not sharing the swing set.

After a few moments, I did apologize. And that was the end of the incident.

The rift was closed, and we moved on with the afternoon.

Why, then, am I writing about this story more than a quarter century later?

Because that one moment forever changed my approach to life.

 

Selflessness is one of my most prominent qualities these days.

I make this claim not from a place of aspiration or ego. I base it instead off what others have said about me.

And while I’m not preoccupied with what others think of me, I will admit it’s humbling to see one of my core values being recognized.

In my career, my business school studies and my volunteer work, I’ve striven to put others first whenever possible. I might not be shipping off to remote villages in Africa to fix world hunger, but I also don’t spend every waking second looking out for #1.

My philosophy is simple: Help others succeed, and we all benefit.

As I’ve pointed out on Words of the West before, I don’t view the world as Zero Sum. The joy and success of those I care about reinvigorates me and brings me happiness in turn. Putting myself second to help them attain these results benefits everyone.

I did not always think this way. The swing set story makes that fact self-evident.

Yet, I can point to that incident as my spark for this movement. It was the moment I learned the true power and importance of selflessness.

Growing up, I idolized my uncle. I still do today.

My uncle is a renowned surgeon and researcher. His work has helped save the lives of many cancer-stricken patients. His commitment to training and teaching will help a new generation of surgeons and researchers save countless more lives.

These are accomplishments I will forever admire him for.

But back when I young, I admired my uncle for other reasons. He was in medical school back then, and he and my aunt didn’t have any kids of their own at the time. So, whenever we’d visit them — or they visited us — my uncle would spend a lot of time with me. It was an attention-seeking kid’s dream.

My uncle was even-keeled. He was cool and collected, not exuberant. Even so, he was fun to be around.

The last thing I wanted to do was let him down.

Yet, that summer afternoon on the swing set, that’s exactly what I did.

That was one of only two times I remember my uncle being visibly disappointed in me. (The other was when I stepped on a sharp shell at the beach as a teenager and blurted out a certain four-letter word.)

It stung.

I remember asking my parents what selfish meant that evening. And why that word upset my uncle so much.

It was then that my parents taught me about the importance of sharing. To be sure, they had told me about this several times before. But this was the first time it really sank in.

And from that day forth, I started to change.

I didn’t suddenly turn into a beacon of selflessness — I only was 5 years old, after all. But any time I did something self-serving and got called out for it, I would hear a voice in my mind. It was my uncle, saying “You’re being selfish.”

Step by step, year by year, I progressed toward my present-day mantra. I gradually came to see the value of helping others succeed, and I came to espouse it.

The funny thing? Even after transforming my outlook and reorienting my life, my uncle’s words from all those years ago still guide me.

Because truth be told, I still slip up a lot. There are plenty of times I find myself on the precipice of wholly self-serving decisions.

Whether the result of fatigue, multitasking or a lapse in judgement, I often find myself preparing to take an action that benefits me disproportionately at the expense of others.

Yet, when I’m on the brink of making a selfish mistake, my uncle’s words are there to save me.

You’re being selfish. Don’t be selfish.

They force me to pause and reevaluate. They encourage me to make a better decision. And for that I am thankful.

Yes, my uncle is a great man. He’s saved many lives, and the work he’s done will save many more. And in the smallest of ways, his timely words have helped to save mine.

I believe we can all benefit be being more selfless. I believe there’s an inherent advantage to putting others first and helping our communities thrive.

It’s less glamourous than pampering ourselves and basking in self-adulation. It flies in the face of the me-first zeitgeist sweeping across mass media and social media.

Yet, it builds stronger bonds with the people around us. It provides us the catharsis of making a tangible, positive difference. And most of all, it’s just the natural thing for us to do.

We’re meant to work for a cause bigger than ourselves. To build connections with the world around us and work toward a common goal.

Like the buffalo on the Plains from days gone by, there is strength in numbers. But this collective strength is only realized we take our ego out of the question and strive for a goal bigger than ourselves.

We might not be there yet. We might be the kid who refuses to give up the swing, as I once was.

But we can change. We can work at it, day by day. We can transform ourselves to meet an ideal truly worth our aspirations.

Let’s get to it.

Don’t Be Stupid

One of my favorite stories my father tells is of the time he first met his future father-in-law — my grandfather.

This took place in my mother’s childhood home in Queens, New York. The home was under the flightpath of LaGuardia Airport, and whenever my father heard a plane overhead, he would duck instinctively.

My grandparents and mother stared at him like he was from Mars each time this happened. Years of roaring jet engines overhead had numbed them to the sound of low flying planes.

Once my father adjusted to the engine noise, the conversation began in earnest. My grandfather — a longtime New York City Public School math teacher — asked my father what he planned on doing for a living.

My father, who was finishing up college at the time, said he hoped to work in advertising.

“That sounds alright,” said my grandfather. “But you should really think about teaching instead.”

He then listed off the benefits of the profession — steady pay, long summer vacations, union protection, and so on.

Eventually, the conversation moved to a new subject. But the exchange left an impression on my father. He would later say this was the first time he experienced my grandfather’s ethos:

You can do what you want and be stupid. Or you do it my way.

 

Even though this story happened before my time, I enjoy hearing it each time it’s told. I enjoyed telling it again just now.

It’s hard not to chuckle at the thought of my father ducking every few minutes as an airplane flew overhead. Or to smile when imagining my grandfather effectively saying Don’t be stupid… in a thick New York accent.

Sure, my grandfather didn’t say those exact words. But the message was very New York — blunt, edgy and filled with tough love.

Yet, the story also gives me pause — for several reasons.

For one thing, my father did eventually become a teacher. After working in advertising for 8 years, he grew to loathe the profession. So, he got a Master’s Degree and rebooted his career as an elementary school teacher. Fast forward 25 years, and he’s still teaching — although he’s “graduated” to middle school now. My grandfather’s words proved prophetic.

But more than anything, it’s the moral of the story that gets me. That heavy-handed message of Do the smart thing. Don’t be stupid.

It’s a message that fits symbiotically with its source.

My grandfather was a great man. But he was also a stubborn man who could be overly simplistic. His perspective on life was shaped by his experience living through the Great Depression, a world war and two heart attacks. However, that perspective often led to a My way or the highway approach to differing viewpoints.

It’s a bit cavalier to classify people in this way. And calling people who take a differing viewpoint stupid is downright reckless.

Yet, my grandfather was a man of principle. He was a man who stopped watching baseball for 40 years after his beloved Brooklyn Dodgers betrayed him by moving to Los Angeles. He was a man who made his own repairs in his home, rather than paying a professional to fix the issues that sprang up.

He knew his way worked. He saw it. He lived it. He believed in it.

So, in his view, the other way must have been stupid.

My grandfather had a major influence on my life. I idolized him. I’ve written about him before, and I’m sure I will again.

Yet, in the years since my grandfather’s passing, I’ve come to recognize I’m more and more like him. I have a similar wit, a similar love of storytelling, a similar frugality when it comes to money. And I even have some similar mannerisms.

What I don’t have is a penchant for calling people stupid when they take actions I wouldn’t.

At least, that’s what I thought.

Not long ago, I was driving down the road in a suburb of Dallas. Traffic was relatively light, and I was making good time when a car slowly turned from a side street into my lane, just ahead of me.

I slowed down to adjust to the newfound obstacle in front of me. But to my dismay, the driver never sped up. I tried to pass the car, but a stream of cars, trucks and SUVs in the adjacent lane blocked my path.

So, there I was, suddenly going 10 miles under the speed limit in the left lane, stuck behind a snail. At the rate I was going, I would hit every stoplight on the way to my destination.

My commute had gone from a breeze to a chore. I was less than enthused.

But that wasn’t even the worst of it.

The car in front of me wasn’t just going slowly. Its driver seemed to be brake checking me intermittently. I found myself slamming on the brakes at random times to avoid a collision, even though there was no traffic in front of my new vehicular nemesis.

My displeasure turned to exasperation. Was this driver texting? Were they lost? And why couldn’t they pull off the road to sort themselves out?

Finally, the driver signaled to turn. But instead of gliding into the turn lane, the driver slowed down to a near stop, while still in the left lane.

I lost it.

Behind my fortress of sheet metal and glass, I screamed You are such an idiot. Why don’t you stop being stupid and learn how to drive!

That’s when it hit me.

I call people stupid when they do something I don’t agree with. Just like my grandfather once did.

To be clear, many of us would be agitated if we found ourselves in the situation I just described.

It’s hard not to be miffed when someone else blatantly disregards the flow of traffic and drives erratically in front of you.

Yet, the actions of the driver who caused this consternation were not illegal by any means. Inconsiderate, sure. But not illegal.

So why did I jump to such rash conclusions about the driver’s intelligence? Was I being as stubborn and simplistic with my perspective as my grandfather had once been?

Perhaps.

But I don’t want to take back what I blurted out behind the wheel of my SUV that day. Not one bit.

There’s an ongoing revolt against the word stupid.

It’s a small skirmish in the greater war for Political Correctness that’s overtaking our society. But for a singular battle, Operation Eradicating Intelligence Insults has raged for quite a while.

I believe it started with the release of Forrest Gump in 1994 — a movie that showed the world how those with low IQ can still live extraordinary lives. As the 90s progressed, expanding diagnoses of autism and a crackdown on bullying helped encourage a softer touch.

By the time Millennials came of age, those who didn’t meet standards were no longer stupid. They were special.

And with that shift, stupid became just another S-word. A way to swear at those we despise, but solely in the context of name-calling.

Disagree with a politician? Say they’re stupid. Frustrated that your favorite team’s quarterback threw a game-ending interception? Call him stupid.

The word is nothing more than a form of catharsis these days.

But not to me.

I wasn’t calling the driver of the car in front of me stupid just to blow off steam.

Yes, I was mad. But if I solely wanted an outlet, I had saltier language to choose from.

No, the words I chose were quite intentional.

Just like my grandfather years before, I had a definition for stupidity. And this driver’s actions fit the bill.

In my view, stupidity constitutes inconsiderate actions that put one at a disadvantage.

The driver’s lack of awareness of the flow of traffic and constant brake checking certainly put me at a disadvantage that day. The term fit.

In my grandfather’s view, a plumber or a handyman in his home put him at a financial disadvantage. Why pay their fees when he could MacGyver it himself with PVC pipe and some duct tape?

And why fully support his future son-in-law’s plan to enter the advertising world from the get-go? That field was ripe with uncertainty — uncertainty he knew would put my father at a disadvantage. Better for him to go with the sure bet of teaching.

So, yes. I guess I do empathize with my grandfather’s simplistic perspectives and brazen style. It might not be politically correct, but it isn’t entirely self-serving either.

I believe that to heal our fractured society, we must all get comfortable understanding the concept of stupidity — similar to the form in which I’ve defined it.

We must identify its sources, call it out and eradicate it.

This starts with identifying inconsiderate actions, and recognizing the disadvantages they cause downstream.

It continues when we spread the word that these behaviors are detrimental to our society, and are un welcome.

These actions, in tandem, will spur conscientious-yet-aloof offenders to change their ways. To stop acting stupidly and causing unneeded problems.

And when enough of them do, it will cause a sea change in how we interact with each other.

If this sounds ambitious, it’s because it is.

But even if the end result seems far off, starting the process is well within our grasp.

Contrary to the old adage, stupidity is a fixable problem.

It’s about time we get to work on that solution.

Go Your Own Way

If you could distill the way you live your life into a single catchphrase, what would it be?

My catchphrase would channel my inner Fleetwood Mac, in four simple words.

Go Your Own Way.

I don’t choose those four words because I have illusions of grandeur. I don’t fancy myself a rebel or a rock star.

No. I choose them because of what they represent, on a fundamental level.

Namely, the ability to be an individual. To zig where others might zag. To forge my own destiny.

I have embraced this mantra for years. The path less chosen has consistently been mine.

When my high school classmates went off to prestigious universities in the Northeast, I moved to Miami for college. Palm trees and sunshine aside, my classmates largely looked down on my choice. But I wasn’t one to follow in their footsteps. So, I went my own way.

In college, I didn’t take on “safe” vocational studies. Instead of studying finance, law or medicine, I got a degree in Communication. Sure, the job market was larger for financial analysts, lawyers and doctors. But I didn’t see myself in those fields. (I am a writer, after all.) So, I went my own way.

After college, I sought out my first full-time job as a TV news producer. But I didn’t find it in Miami, or up north. I found it in a city I hardly knew anything about — Midland, Texas. So, I moved halfway across the country for a position with a salary similar to that of the cashiers at the local Walmart. Not many people — even in the media — would go such a distance for an anonymous off-camera position. But I did. I went my own way.

After three years in the news, I was burned out. So, I left my job without a new one lined up and moved 300 miles east to Dallas — another city where I only knew a few people. Starting over is daunting. Doing so willfully, with no safety net, is borderline ridiculous. Yet, I knew in my soul that this was the best path for me to take. I went my own way.

It would be easy to say I was being bold by making these against-the-grain decisions. But that would not be accurate. Truth is, I am intensely introverted, and about the furthest thing from impulsive.

Because of my nature, the choices I made felt excruciating. Opening myself up to change, risk and doubt was not something I took on gleefully.

Yes, the moves I made came after much soul-searching and quiet deliberation. They built upon the realization that what is difficult is often what is necessary. That the road most traveled might not be the best path for me.

I share this because there is a powerful lesson we can all take away from my experience.

That lesson? That following our heart and soul might mean straying from the pack. That being true to ourselves doesn’t always mean following the well-worn path.

Indeed, it’s often when we branch out that we find ourselves.

What we’re made of. And what we can make happen.

So, when you’re considering your next move, don’t be afraid to blaze your own trail.

Go your own way.

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.