Category: Reflections

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.

The Journey to Situational Awareness

How well do you know yourself?

I mean really know yourself.

It can be relatively easy to recognize your key traits. To understand whether you’re shy or outgoing. Confident or tentative. The center of attention or the one in the shadows.

But that’s only part of the equation.

You see, for us to truly understand ourselves, we must delve deeper than our personality traits. We must layer in context.

We must consider our situational awareness.

This is one of the trickiest concepts to master. Yet, it’s one of the most critical.

For how we respond to the contextual cues around us impacts how others see us. And how they choose to interact with us.

This can open doors for us. Or shut them.

It all hinges on how we read and react to the situations we encounter in real time.

Get this right and others will speak of us glowingly. Get it wrong, and they’ll cringe at our indiscretion.

But how do we learn to read situations right? How do we prepare to have the right response at every turn?

Through trial and error.

There are simply no shortcuts. Reading the room happens in real time, and our reactions bubble to the surface in that exact moment.

It’s only by failing that we succeed. By being cringeworthy and learning from the experience.

This process requires introspection. It requires humility. And it requires a willingness to change.

This is a big ask. Many of us don’t like second-guessing ourselves. And we don’t like to embarrass ourselves.

But by taking the plunge, we set ourselves up for success. The lessons we learn can help us gain social capital. And the actions we take help us build character.

Take it from me.

Growing up, I was notoriously bad at situational awareness. I looked and felt out of place on more than one occasion. And my social life — or lack thereof — reflected my contextual blindness.

I wasn’t even tone-deaf. I was clueless.

Fortunately, as time went on, I was able to flip the script. I made friends who assessed me honestly and pointed out my situational awareness flaws. And I developed the courage to identify my mistakes and learn from them.

I’m far from perfect today. But I find myself out of place far less often. And my peers regard me a lot more highly than they did in my younger years.

This transformation started with the courage to look within. To understand my deficiencies and work to make them strengths.

The journey that ensued has helped define me.

It’s not too late for your journey to start.

Do what you can to maintain situational awareness.

Learn the cues. Have the humility to grow through your mistakes. And get to know yourself far better than you might ever have imagined.

Your social future is at stake. Make it a great one.

An Ode to Utility

Utility.

What does it mean?

On a basic level, it means usefulness. It means everything having its place, with nothing going to waste.

On a personal level, it means my life philosophy.

You see, I’m utilitarian to a fault. The idea of wasting money on resources I don’t need bothers me. And the thought of wasting the day away doing nothing makes me nauseous.

The way I see it, resources are way too strained for me to go off-script with a day or an item. Everything must have its purpose and nothing should be left to neglect.

This also means I must maintain internal discipline at all times. I can’t shut off my brain for a day or mindlessly chase a thrill now and then. My mind is always working, my joy always tempered by my sense of responsibility.

This can drive those in my inner circle crazy.

“Live a little,” they say.

But I’ve lived a lot. Long enough to know that there are no shortcuts.

All of our actions balance out in the end. Better to be cognizant of this construct throughout than to live in a boom or bust cycle.

Yes, as great as it might be to live carefree, we have many responsibilities to manage. Our possessions, our bank account and our well-being are just a few. Forgetting about these for a while means we’ll need to work extra hard to tend to them later.

I’d rather do the hard work before I commit. To stay agile and think lean.

This keeps me on task and on purpose. Which helps me live a more fulfilling life. One that’s worth the grind.

So, how do I do it? Well I start by considering the use case. Then I consider the cost.

If I can’t find a good, regular use for what I’m considering, it’s not worth getting. It will simply waste away as clutter, and my hard-earned dollars will be better spent elsewhere.

And if something is prohibitively expensive, I don’t pursue it. Utility is about living within one’s means, and budgets do matter.

Of course, there are exceptions to these rules. Gifts and family heirlooms are not always utilitarian, but they are valuable. And sometimes I feel a financial splurge is necessary, even if it stretches beyond my means.

But I balance out these moments of excess with frugality. After all, the ultimate goal is utility. And utility requires a return to my purpose-driven normal.

Now, I realize my reality is a bit extreme. Not everyone has my laser focus when encountering each decision. Many don’t want to have it.

That’s understandable.

But we would all benefit by looking at the big picture now and then.

We would all benefit by considering our footprint. Of how we use what we obtain and what value that brings us.

We would all benefit by thinking of our purpose. Of how our lives fit into our grander plans.

And we would all benefit by recognizing that the little things can make a big difference.

We are all blessed to walk this earth.

Let’s live each day with purpose. And act with utility.

Reflection on Inflection

What is your inflection point?

The point that changed everything.

Mine came about 15 years ago, in a musty community hall in Folcroft, Pennsylvania.

My family had come to town that evening for my grandfather’s retirement party. After 40 years of serving the town’s medical needs, he was leaving the practice he’d built behind.

I knew what my grandfather did for a living. I remember going by his office from time to time, helping set up EKG’s for his patients.

But none of that could have prepared me for what I was about to experience.

The room where the party was held was packed with people I’d never met. I then watched in awe as person after person spoke of how much of an impact my grandfather had on their lives.

I was floored.

Coming into that party, I was an average teenager. I wore a backwards baseball hat, sought a good time at every opportunity and found the idea of growing up to be soul-crushing.

But by the end of the night, my entire life had changed.

I saw the impact my grandfather had on his community and felt inspired.

In that moment, I found my purpose. That purpose was to positively impact the lives of others, just as my grandfather had done.

That purpose has driven all of the major decisions I’ve made in my life and career. The college degrees I’ve pursued, the jobs I’ve worked, the places I’ve lived — all have been within the framework of profoundly impacting the lives of others.

Yet, it’s almost odd that this is the moment I circle as my inflection point. After all, I experienced the horrors of 9/11 firsthand, moved halfway across the country and made a daring career switch — all by the age of 25.

Those events changed the trajectory of my life, no doubt. But they were almost too direct.

There was no getting around the changes those events brought about. Whether by God’s will or my own, the status quo no longer existed. I had to come to terms with my new reality.

I felt small in those moments. And I felt powerless.

On the other hand, my grandfather’s retirement party didn’t have to change my life. I didn’t find myself facing the abyss, the point of no return. I could have gone on living my life as I had before, and no one would have batted an eye.

But that didn’t happen. I saw the the emotions my grandfather’s life’s work evoked in his community and decided to devote my life to helping mine.

I still felt small in this moment. But this time, I felt powerful.

I knew I had the power to live into my newfound purpose. But I had to do my part to make it reality.

There was clear buy-in required. And I was all in.

I believe this buy-in is key when it comes to our inflection points. After all, the most impactful moments in our life are not those that change us. They’re the ones that inspire us to change ourselves for the better.

So, when searching for your infection point, don’t focus on the changes you’ve endured. Search instead for your earliest moments of inspiration.

The smallest moments might be more impactful than you think.

Writing It Down

Have you ever loved something, but were afraid to fully admit it?

That’s how I’ve traditionally felt about writing.

The best way to describe my relationship with the art of writing over the years is It’s complicated.

You see, I’ve always had a knack for the written word. Putting words on paper has come easily to me.

And those words have struck a chord in others. I know this because of the comments people have shared with me on my writing, and the grades I have received on written assignments in school.

Writing my greatest natural talent. It is to me as basketball is to Michael Jordan, or string theory is to an astrophysicist.

Yet for many years, I resisted the label of writer. I tried to convince others that I was no different than anyone else when it came to putting words on paper.

Why was that? What was I afraid of?

That answer too is complicated.

Quite simply, there were many elements of writing that didn’t jibe with me.

First, I viewed writing as a solitary activity. One where you’re chained to your computer screen or the pages of a notebook. Earlier in my life, I wasn’t as comfortable with that solitude as I am now. Although I’m an introvert, I still wanted to be around people all the time back then.

Second, I had a healthy dose of imposter syndrome. I’ve long known that the best writers are voracious readers. But I’ve found reading books to be a challenge. Lengthy chapters and huge chunks of text have given me anxiety. They’ve caused me to lose my place and reread the same passage over and over again.

This deterred me from reading over the years. And since I didn’t read as much as I wrote, I considered myself a writing fraud.

Third, I didn’t see a future for myself in writing. Growing up, my parents implored me to consider becoming a journalist, but the thought of writing on a deadline for a living terrified me. I was worried I’d run out of story ideas, and get fired.

And I didn’t find the published author route appealing either. I knew didn’t have the creativity of a Dan Brown or a J.K. Rowling. I recognized I was more of a structured thinker than many great novelists, and rolling the dice on a book release every year or two would be dicey.

With all this in mind, I buried my writing talents. I focused on far-fetched dreams of playing professional baseball or directing movies.

By the end of my first semester of college, I realized these dreams were fantasies. I’d already been cut from my high school baseball team a few years before. And while I went to college as a film major, I quickly discovered that directing required the very creativity I lacked.

I was lost at a very vulnerable time in my life. I didn’t know where to turn for a career, I was surrounded by the distractions of college life, and I had no one to hold me accountable.

But writing saved me.

I’d already been volunteering with the weekly sports show at the campus TV station for a semester when I hit my crossroads. I signed up with the TV station because it gave me an opportunity to be involved with sports, which was my passion. But I quickly discovered a new passion — broadcast journalism.

I loved the process of taking sports news and writing it into small blurbs that could be read on air. I thoroughly enjoyed writing to video. And I felt great satisfaction formulating 30 second highlights that could evoke emotion within TV viewers.

Because of sports and television, I was back on speaking terms with writing again.

I quickly changed my major to broadcast journalism. I started volunteering for the news show at the TV station, and set my sights on becoming a TV news producer. And I did ultimately become a producer at the ABC affiliate in Midland, TX for my first three years of my post-college life.

Sadly, my passion for TV news waned after I had to cover some emotionally scarring news stories. I switched careers and became a digital marketer, at a time when content marketing was coming into vogue.

I leaned on my writing to gain a hold in my new career. I had little confidence in my marketing abilities at first, as I had no prior experience with the discipline. But I recognized that my writing talents were my gift, and that it was my obligation to share that gift with the world.

Still, I felt something was missing. There was so much more that I wanted to share through writing that didn’t fit within my job function. That’s what led me to create Words of the West.

When I launched Words of the West, I made a commitment. I committed to write a fresh article every week. I committed to open up and share my thoughts and reflections. I committed to use my unique talents to help make a difference.

It’s all come full circle. Everything I once feared about writing I now demand of myself.

Why? Because I love writing.

It turns out my talent is my passion. It just took me a long time to realize it.

But I’m so glad I finally did.

The Plight of the Introvert

I am an introvert.

Four simple words. One simple fact.

But one that’s exceedingly difficult for me to share with the world.

Why does the prospect of explaining my personality to a room of 60 people — as I did recently — feel like a special kind of torture? Why is conveying who I am — and how I am —  so gut-wrenching?

The answer cuts to the core of what introversion is.

You see, introverts must navigate an alternate reality, one that runs counter to the social norms that define our society. In a world where we’re expected to connect with one another through sharing, we introverts tend to keep our cards close to the vest.

Our guardedness is not a symptom of skepticism. It’s more a reflection of the manner in which think.

For the mind of an introvert is hardly ever at rest. It’s constantly cranking out permutations and observations related to make sense of the world. This process plants the seeds for the innovations so many introverts create, but it also requires heavy internalization and intense solitude.

Yes, there’s a storm brewing in the mind of an introvert. But no one else can hear the thunder.

Introversion directly contradicts the key tenet of our culture, which demands that we collectively experience the noise. It’s a key reason why introverts are labeled with such dismissive terms as shy, quiet or withdrawn.

These descriptions are all wrong.

Take myself as an example. I enjoy having some time to myself. I find inspiration in silence. And I definitely have my shy moments.

But these attributes don’t define my life. The situation I’m in does.

Put me in a room full of strangers and I’ll freeze. But surround me with people I know and I’ll work the room.

The challenge of that duality is a plight the introvert must face. For while we thrive in the company of those we trust and understand, we find it difficult to build upon that base. Yet, the action of building a network is critical for success.

Overcoming this hurdle is not impossible. But it is challenging, exhausting and extremely unsettling. What seemingly comes easy to extroverts takes all an introvert has to give, and then some.

Let’s close that gap.

Let’s resolve collectively to better understand the nuances of introversion. Let’s accept these differences and build upon the common ground of empathy.

And let’s recognize that introverts must communicate their plight for others to understand it.

This is precisely why I am admitting my introversion with you today.

For once we view introversion is more than just a dismissive term, we become that much more dynamic. Once we celebrate our similarities and our differences, we become that much more powerful. And once we find common understanding, we become that much more successful.

This is the world I hope to build on and contribute to. But it’s on all of us to make that world possible. And that process starts right here, through acceptance and connection.

I am an introvert. Take me as I am.

Facing Fear

Fear is one of the most powerful and universal motivators out there.

Regardless of our environment or disposition, we actively avoid situations that terrify us. Much like the antelope running from the lion on the Serengeti, fear drives us forward.

Fear inspires us to try harder, remain vigilant and avoid situations that make us feel uncomfortable. The message: Avoid unpleasant outcomes at all costs.

It’s all stick, no carrot. But it’s plenty effective anyway.

Yet, while fear can save us from being stagnant or careless, it can also prevent us from exploring the depths of our possibilities.

After all, the world is plenty scary. And we all too often remain inside our bubble to avoid facing our fears.

But, it turns out the safe play isn’t always the smart one.

While it makes sense to lock our cars and our homes, it’s foolish to lock our minds and our hearts.

Worse still, it’s futile. Because no matter how much we try and insulate ourselves from our fears, there’s a chance we’ll still end up facing them head-on.

And when we do, we might find them to be less terrifying than we’d anticipated.

I know this firsthand. For the first four years of my professional life, I was terrified of losing my job.

So, I played it safe. I didn’t take many risks. I asked my supervisors for a second opinion on my decisions constantly. And I volunteered to help colleagues whenever possible.

I did all this to make myself indispensable. To keep from losing my job.

But it happened anyway.

My second employer — the first one to give me a chance when I switched careers — laid me off after less than ten months on the job.

It was raw and painful for me at first. I couldn’t understand why I was out of a job, even though my job performance was high.

You see, I never considered that factors beyond my control might impact my employment status. That my position might be collateral damage if my employer was struggling.

(As it turns out, the venture that let me go went bust two months later.)

No, I wasn’t considering any of that at the time. Instead, I was considering myself a failure. I remember asking myself How could I ever hope to land another job with this black mark on my resume? And how am I going to be able to afford the rent?

I quickly learned how shortsighted this thinking was.

My current employer hired me within two weeks. And all that anxiety over upcoming rent payments evaporated.

I’d faced my fears head-on, and survived.

I’ve noticed a change in myself since that time. I’m more willing to take risks now, to get outside of my comfort zone, to be bold and direct.

This has made me a more indispensable and innovative employee than I was when I obsessed over my job status.

Yes, I have the luxury of being fearless now, because I’ve already experienced my fears. And I’ve discovered they’re not quite the monsters I thought they would be.

Truth is, we all have this luxury. We just need the gumption to act on it — within reason of course. (I wouldn’t recommend diving onto jagged rocks or swatting a hornet’s nest with your bare hands, for instance.)

Facing our fears isn’t easy. Such is the nature of running at something that chases us.

But it’s most certainly worth it.

So, be bold. Be strong.

Face that fear head-on, and you’ll stand to rise above it.

Better Together

Recent weather has rocked our country to its core. Monster hurricanes recently packed a one-two punch in Texas and Florida, causing life-threatening flooding and property damage.

These images from these areas have been heartbreaking. As someone who has lived in both states, I’ve found it overwhelmingly sad to see streets turned rivers, homes turned to rubble and prosperity turned to widespread despair.

Through it all, I kept thinking one thing, “I wish there was more I could do to help.”

Turns out, I’m not alone.

You’ve probably heard the stories by now — the Cajun Navy taking to the streets of Houston to save lives of those threatened by rising waters. All the volunteers helping Florida get back on their feet. People helping people, regardless of color, creed or political affiliation.

This is how it should be. This is how we were meant to be. So why are we only this way in the wake of an Act of God?

If there’s one thing that upsets me more than seeing an image of a woman being rescued from her roof, life as she knows it permanently altered, it’s seeing that image juxtaposed against another one of Tiki-Torch bearing Neo-Nazis storming a college campus in Virginia. Both these scenes played out within weeks of each other — and that’s a bad look for America.

Yes, it certainly appears we’re embracing divisiveness over unity, and only changing our tune in times of crisis. This leaves an open question as to what type of people we really are.

Are we undercover bigots who feign a spirit of inclusivity in times of trouble to boost social acceptance? Or are we good-hearted people who lack the guts to stand up to the angry voices that threaten to tear us apart?

I hope to God the second answer is the correct one. But it doesn’t really matter.

As the saying goes, “The evil we must fear the most is the indifference of good-hearted people.”

We are all part of the problem — in part because we’re afraid to commit to being part of the solution.

As I think back 16 years ago, to blue September skies suddenly shrouded by smoke and fire in New York City, I don’t just think of the horrific scenes of those towers falling. I don’t just think of those images of people jumping from 79th story windows, of people running from a cloud of rubble 200 feet high.

No, I think of what came after. Of the President addressing first responders through a bullhorn with the words, “The nation sends its love and compassion to all of you.” Of the country rallying to boost the spirits of New York and Washington — both of which had lost so much to an act of evil. Of strangers treating strangers with kindness and compassion, no matter their differences.

I wish to God that 9/11 had never happened. It will haunt me for the rest of my life.

But I also wish that spirit I saw in the months that followed would have stuck around.

After all, we’ve proven time and again that we can rally for each other when its needed most. But truthfully, unity always needed.

We owe it to those lost to 9/11, Katrina, Harvey, Irma —we owe it to all of them to be better. To put aside our differences and be as one, even after the smoke has cleared and the water recedes.

Most of all, we owe it to ourselves, and to our collective future. For it’s how we act between the storms, when the world isn’t watching, that will truly define our destiny.

So, let’s write that narrative. Together.