Category: Thoughts

Looking Up

My father placed a blanket on the grass. As we parked ourselves on it, he encouraged me to look up at the night sky.

I glanced upwards. It didn’t look like much to me at first.

But then my father started pointing at the little specks illuminating the darkness.

See that? It’s Orion’s belt. And over there is the big dipper.

I stared on, struggling to see the patterns in the stars. I was only four years old, more prone to aimless daydreaming than structured visualization.

Yet, I still recognized how special this moment was. I idolized my father, but I didn’t get to spend as much time as I wanted to with him.

Now, here we were. Our backs to the ground, our eyes fixed on the vastness of space. It was quiet. It was comfortable. It was mesmerizing.

And I never wanted to stop looking up.

A few years later, I was in the middle of a school day when my mother showed up to sign me out of class.

She explained that my father had gotten injured on his way to work. He had slipped on some ice and fractured a couple vertebrae in his back during the ensuing fall.

My mother had scooped me from school early so that we could help look after him.

My father would ultimately be OK. But through his arduous recovery, my father kept reminiscing on one moment from his injury.

As he lay prone on the sidewalk, my father remembered looking up. He saw the pale blue of the morning sky. He saw the tops of the tree branches. He saw a few rogue birds who hadn’t migrated south for the winter.

It was as if my father was back staring up at the stars again. Indeed, the world around him faded away in that moment. My father felt no pain and sensed no panic.

He was at peace. And that sense of peace helped carry him through.

Looking up will do that.

Roughly a decade after all this, I went to Italy on a family vacation. A few days into the trip, I found myself inside the Sistine Chapel.

I was a teenager by now, full of confidence and oblivious to the lessons of my past. So, I was equal parts annoyed and perplexed when I was urged to glance upwards to the frescos on the ceiling.

Why were those painted all the way up there? I asked my parents as we left the vestibule. It makes no sense.

My parents offered up an answer that I can’t recall. And we moved on through the Vatican.

These days, I realize how misguided my question was. Indeed, the placement of the art was part of what made it so special — and what continues to spark amazement to this day.

Michaelangelo defied death to paint the elaborate scenes. After all, there were no automated bucket lifts in the 16th century, only wooden scaffolds.

The artist took this risk willingly to create a masterpiece. And he dared us to cast our gaze upwards to take it in.

We’ve done so in the Sistine Chapel — for centuries.

But it has become the exception, not the rule.

I had just finished a set of sit ups at the gym when I lay back on the workout bench.

There were two more sets to go, but I needed a moment to recover.

As I lay there, feeling the burning in my abs and thighs, I studied the ceiling. The banks of recessed florescent lights. The electrical conduit covers. The flat, even surface denoting the top of the room. And the white coat of paint covering it all.

It looked so blasé, so ordinary, so sterile. And I felt a bit wrong for staring up at it.

I might wax poetic about looking up at the stars, the tree branches, or the frescos. But staring in that direction has fallen out of favor. Indeed, we’re more likely to glance horizontally at our surroundings, or hunch over to read the smartphones in our hands.

Looking up is reserved for the compromised moments. When we’re counting sheep in bed, or to recover our muscles for the next set of reps. The vertical view is but temporary, and hardly worthy of illustration. So, we don’t bother to make that view notable.

But perhaps we should.

You see, our fixation with horizontal vistas has its limits. There is a sense of awe that comes with looking toward the horizon. And there’s a sense of adventure in heading off to see what’s beyond it.

Still, the truth of the matter is that nearly every accessible corner of this planet has been explored. Someone else has been to where we’re going. Someone else has uncovered the mysteries in our midst.

Looking up has no such baggage. The law of gravity proves that few have headed to where we now stare, and we’re unlikely to head there ourselves.

It’s our imagination that must run wild when staring at the vast expanses above us. The stars, the birds, the tree branches — they all provide a launching point. The rest of the journey lies between our ears.

Of course, we can’t always be out in the open. Many times, we find ourselves with a roof over our heads.

Such structures can block our view of the vast expanses above us. But they needn’t stymie our imaginations as well.

Michaelangelo was onto something when he wandered onto that scaffold with his paintbrush. He recognized that a ceiling is more than a protective edifice. It can be a canvas to what lies beyond — if we care to provide the inspiration.

It’s time that we follow his lead. That we view the act of looking up as more than a novelty case or a last resort. And that we prime ourselves to make such a view worth our while —regardless of where we take it in.

Looking up can yield some powerful perceptions. It’s time that we unlock them.

The Imitators

The image is iconic.

Beyonce, dressed to the nines and looking bewildered.

The fodder for endless memes and GIFs across the Internet originated at the Grammy Awards. The iconic performing artist had tried her hand at a country album — Cowboy Carter. And Cowboy Carter had just been named Country Album of the Year.

Beyonce might have been stunned by her rapid ascent to the pinnacle of a new segment. But she shouldn’t have been.

From Post Malone to Shaboozey, and Chappell Roan to Bon Jovi, plenty of artists have crossed over to country music in recent years. While all of them found success, none have the pedigree of Beyonce — an international cultural icon with Texas roots.

So, while a Grammy award wasn’t predestined, it wasn’t exactly unexpected either.

And yet, when the moment arrived, many shared Beyonce’s reaction. For something had fundamentally changed. Something that could no longer be ignored.

After a moment of reflection, Beyonce took the stage to deliver her acceptance speech.

Humble as ever, Beyonce thanked God and expressed her surprise in winning. But she quickly pivoted into something more profound – the why behind Cowboy Carter.

I think sometimes genre is a code word to keep us in our place as artists. And I just want to encourage people to do what they’re passionate about, and to stay persistent.

With these words, Beyonce was seeking to sidestep the label of Imitator. She was hoping to reframe Cowboy Carter as art – no more, no less.

But this would prove to be a tough sell.

You see, I’m a longtime country music fan. And I listened to the songs on Cowboy Carter.

I thought they were good – really good. I thought they were creative and innovative. But I didn’t think they were particularly deep.

Sure, there are references to Americana, to poker, to outlaws and Levi’s jeans and cheating scoundrels. But those lyrics seemed disjointed and somewhat superficial to me.

The work seemed to lack the depth displayed by Martina McBride and Reba McEntire. It seemed to avoid the edginess conveyed by Miranda Lambert or Kacey Musgraves. It somehow seemed absent of the flair shown by Carrie Underwood and Lainey Wilson.

It was, in my view, an imitation. A tasteful, acclaimed imitation. But an imitation, nonetheless.

And I’m certain I’m not the only one who viewed the album this way.

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

This axiom aims to take the sting out of mimicry. And rightfully so.

Artists like Beyonce mean no malice by trying their hand in a new genre. They are expressing their artistic freedom — and seeking to expand the genre in the process.

That’s noble. But the shift behind it is troubling.

You see, a wave of imitation requires a lifting mechanism. Something to set the scene and provide the imitator license to proceed.

In the case of country music, that launchpad has been slow to develop. But that extended timeline has only broadened the impact of the imitators.

A few decades ago, country music was in a far different place than today. Songs were full of depth and dripping with authenticity. But the audience hearing them was somewhat limited – mostly to rural areas across the heartland.

That started to change in the 1990s, as more artists went mainstream. I remember hearing music from Faith Hill, LeAnn Rimes, and Shania Twain over the intercom at suburban grocery stores back then. Those encounters were my first foray into country music.

As the mainstream shift continued, the songs coming from Nashville changed. The hyper-specific ballads of love and loss made way for fantasies of partying on truck beds in an open field. Bubblegum country took over.

The trend only accelerated as the years went by. Streaming shows like Yellowstone led to a surge in interest for everything rural. And the larger audience, combined with watered down country lyrics, made conditions ripe for imitators.

It’s no wonder then that Beyonce could win a Grammy for a country album. It’s no wonder that Amazon founder Jeff Bezos would sit for a Vogue cover shoot in an old truck, sporting a cowboy hat. It’s no wonder that honky tonks from coast to coast have become twice as busy as they were two decades ago.

The illusion is real. But how real is the illusion?

As I write this, I’ve lived in Texas for the better part of 15 years.

I’ve spent a fair bit of this time in boots and Wranglers, with pearl snaps adorning my shirts. I’ve sported this look to the office from time to time, and to countless rodeos and concerts.

Such a look is not out of place in the Lone Star State. But every now and then, someone will see it and ask if I’m playing cowboy.

When they do, I’m obliged to remind them that I’ve rode horses before. That I’ve milked cows, cleaned stalls, cleared mud from hooves, and fetched eggs from the chicken coop.

I may not be a cowboy, but I’m more than an imitator.

These bona fides matter to me. Because authenticity matters.

You see, I’ve viewed myself as a Texan from my earliest days living here. But the stigma of being non-native – of growing up beyond the state’s borders – it looms large.

I’ve long known that my zeal for Texas could be miscast as imitation if I wasn’t authentic. And being authentic meant leaning into any prior experience I had with the state’s cultural hallmarks, while becoming a student of the rest.

So yes, I’ve taken steps to assimilate. To make this place a part of me, and myself a part of it.

The same can’t always be said of other non-natives. They might treat the place like an eastern annex of California. Or wear their cowboy hat comically wrong. Or appear like they’re recreating the cover of Varsity Blues, as Bezos did.

When this happens, Texans will grumble and mock the imitators. The natives and the assimilated transplants alike.

For this is not a good look — for any of us. The state’s cultural code must be adhered to for true acceptance to be gained.

I think the same reckoning is needed in country music. So long as bubblegum country rules the roost, the genre will be a shadow of its former glory. And the bar to clear for imitators will be exceptionally low.

Put standards for depth and meaning back into country music, and only the best imitators will cross over. For doing so will require more than a catchy hook and a few superficial lyrics. It will require an immersion — an immersion that yields a more authentic product.

This is worth striving for. Let’s make it real.

Right Move, Wrong Moment

The call came in from a number that looked somewhat familiar. I rushed to take it.

My SUV was at the dealership for repairs, and I figured my service advisor was calling with an update.

I was partially right.

The call was from the dealership. But it came from the sales department.

Sir, I see that your vehicle is in for service. What would it take for us to buy it off you and get you in a new one?

I hadn’t considered the idea. My mind was consumed with fixing what ailed my vehicle, and hopefully not going broke in the process.

I told the sales representative as much, hoping that would end the conversation. But he countered by asking when I might feel differently.

I don’t know, I replied. Maybe when my registration renewal is due in the spring.

Sure enough, when springtime rolled around, I was got a call from the same representative. He was polite, but persistent. Persistent in coaxing me to follow through on the swap he’d proposed.

I wasn’t taking the bait. I politely told the sales representative to leave me alone.

Several years have passed since this encounter. But it remains top of mind for me.

These days, when I drop my vehicle off for service, I expect a call like this. So, I save my service advisor’s phone number in my contact list. And I don’t pick up calls from similar looking numbers.

I know too well who’s on the other end of the line. And I have no interest in playing that game.

There may well be a time when I feel the need to replace my vehicle. Perhaps it will become inoperable, or the repair bills for it will get too high.

But when that day comes, I’d like to be the one initiating the buying process. The same way I did when I purchased my current vehicle.

As far as I’m concerned, a proactive sales motion will always be a case of right move, wrong moment.

Place and time.

They make for odd bedfellows.

One is a physical reality. The other a mental construct.

There are nearly 200 million square miles of places on this earth. Some are inhabitable, others less so. But the forensic proof of their existence is irrefutable.

Time offers a different challenge. Yes, we have clocks and calendars to mark its passage. And nature has its sunrises, sunsets, leaf falls and snowfalls. But even with all that, when is more open to interpretation than where.

Perhaps this is why mastering the moment is so challenging.

We know better than to wander into a burning building on our own accord. But avoiding a building that’s likely to ignite? That’s a trickier proposition.

I learned this principle early on.

During a childhood vacation in Maine, my family ventured across a sandbar from Bar Harbor to a small island.

My parents checked their watches as we ventured across the wet sand. Their behavior seemed curious, but I didn’t question it.

By the time we’d reached the island, I’d all but forgotten about the watches. There were new trails to hike, and new sights to see. I was full of excitement.

My explorations would soon be cut short though, thanks to a warning from my father.

We have to head back now. If we don’t, we’ll be stuck here until tomorrow.

You see, the tide was coming back in, and the sandbar we’d crossed would soon be submerged. Our only route back to shore was evaporating.

So, we hustled our way back across the sandbar. But once we emerged in Bar Harbor, I was forever changed.

No longer would I be ignorant of the moment. I would be sure to factor in the when along with the where.

Even if others failed to do the same.

In 2017, a Yale law student named Lina Khan wrote an article that gained national acclaim.

Khan argued that the traditional markers of antitrust regulation were outdated and needed reframing.

You see, in previous generations, business monopolies had largely focused on pricing power. As the only game in town for the goods they offered, they could charge as much as they want. And consumers were forced to part with bigger and bigger portions of their budget to get by – at least until antitrust regulators stepped in in.

But now, companies like Amazon were managing to stifle competition while keeping prices low. Such were the advantages of the internet era, where volume alone could yield value.

Consumers were all too happy to feed Amazon’s monopolistic engine. The goods they used to trek to stores for were now even more affordable. And they didn’t need to leave home to get them.

But while consumers were thriving and prices were low, Amazon’s competitors were suffering. Khan saw this as a problem – for commerce and for capitalism. And she argued that antitrust practices needed to shift.

So began a meteoric rise for Khan’s career. The newly minted Juris Doctor soon found work in think tanks, academia, and government. By 2021, she had risen to the top post at the Federal Trade Commission.

Khan wasted no time getting to work. The FTC quickly objected to a series of corporate mergers. And the agency got involved in several high-profile investigations of Amazon and other technology giants.

The FTC notched some major wins during this time. It blocked the merger of grocery chains Albertsons and Kroger. And it helped derail several consolidation attempts for budget airlines.

But such victories often proved hollow.

You see, Khan’s crusade came in the wake of major economic headwinds. A dissipating pandemic, a global supply chain snarl, and a bout of inflation had made life difficult for businesses and consumers alike.

Instead of lining their pockets through mergers, many businesses were seeking consolidation simply to survive. And when the FTC blocked their path, they fell apart.

Albertsons and Kroger have closed many locations since their merger went up in smoke. Spirit Airlines – one of the budget airlines the FTC helped thwart – has since gone bankrupt. And these developments have left consumers with fewer options and persistently higher prices.

Khan’s effort to stiffen antitrust enforcement might have been the right move. But it was executed at the wrong moment. And America suffered for it.

Place and time mean everything.

Some years back, I was at an arcade when my friends goaded me into trying out the fighter jet simulator.

I had never operated one of those before, and I had no idea what I was doing. But I concocted a plan anyway.

The button under my left thumb controlled the jet’s gun, while the button under my right thumb launched missiles.

I knew that each weapon could represent the right move. But only at the right moment.

So, as the simulator reached “cruising altitude,” I’d look for enemy aircraft in the area. If they appeared close, I’d fire the gun a time or two. And if they seemed to be further away, I’d launch a missile.

By the time the ride was over, I’d maintained a respectable score.

Here in the ride of life, it’s critical that we all follow similar guidance. That we avoid succumbing to rigidity and stubborn ideology. That we consider the when as much as the what.

The right move only works when deployed at the right moment.

Let us not forsake one for the other.

Means to an End

As I made my way into the starting corral, I started to shiver.

It was a frigid morning, reinforced by a fierce north wind. And I was hardly dressed for it.

As I leaned down to stretch, I noticed the contradiction. I was wearing shorts and an athletic t-shirt, while everyone else around me was decked out in sweatpants and jackets.

Most of these outerwear items appeared ragged and mismatched. But that was beside the point. Those sporting them seemed warm, while I was burning precious energy trying to keep from freezing.

As I pondered my predicament, I heard an announcement over the loudspeakers.

5 minutes until the starting gun.

Almost in unison, I saw the fellow runners around me shed their outer layers and tossed them aside. Piles of sweatpants accumulated on the edges of the corral. Scores of jackets cascaded over the perimeter fencing.

The finish line for this race was located several blocks away from here. We wouldn’t be coming back, and there would be no opportunity to retrieve these items. The other runners were effectively throwing them away.

But no one seemed worried about that. After all, there was a race to run.

A few weeks after I crossed the finish line, I stepped onto a running track near my home before sunrise.

It was Track Tuesday, and I had a workout planned on the circuit. But first I needed to warm up.

So, I joined a group of fellow runners who were jogging a few laps on the track.

I knew these runners well enough to expect a conversation topic to dominate our warmup. But this morning’s topic caught me off guard.

Throwaway clothes.

This was the accepted term for the sweatpants and jackets I’d seen littering the corral at my recent race. It represented warmup gear that was intentionally abandoned.

My fellow runners explained that throwaway clothes were best purchased on the cheap at thrift stores or Walmart. The look and fit didn’t matter, because you wouldn’t have those items on you for long anyway.

Essentially, throwaway clothes were a means to an end. Much like the carbohydrate gel packs runners kept in the pockets of their shorts, or the water cups at the aid stations on the racecourse, they were meant to be used once and quickly disposed of.

No looking back. No remorse. No regret. The clothes did their job so that we could do ours.

I struggled to accept this concept. For it clashed heavily with my ethos.

I had become accustomed to looking stylish while exercising. I was convinced that mismatched shorts and shirts were for hobby joggers. As a competitive distance runner, I aimed to appear professional.

On top of that, I was beholden my late grandfather’s golden rule. Never throw anything away if you can get more use from it.

Now, I was being advised to violate both principles. All in the service of a greater goal.

Fortunately, I had time to adjust. Winter was nearing its end as we bantered on the track, and warmup gear was already becoming a moot point.

I would soon be showing up at the starting lines my usual garb. And so would everyone else. No sweatpants or jackets to be found in the corral.

Still, I knew I needed a plan for the cooler mornings ahead. If I was to race well in the fall, I needed to avoid freezing in the corral again.

So, I began to get my throwaway gear plan in order. But fate kept me from rolling it out.

I sustained an injury while training in the summer. I recovered, only to retain another series of injuries and undergo ankle surgery.

I never did make to the starting line of another race. And I never did end up purchasing throwaway clothes.

The end I was working towards had evaporated. And so had the means to get there.

I am proud of what I achieved in my racing career, abbreviated as it was.

The race times I posted still astonish me. The hardware I collected adorns a wall in my home. The talented people I trained with remain dear friends.

Still, it’s hard not to wince when reminiscing on it all. For even without throwaway clothes, the means to an end perspective percolates through my competitive running odyssey.

Each training block I tackled was designed to get me through the next race. Each race time I posted was the bar to clear for the next one.

I was on a long-distance journey, but each milestone was disposable.

Perhaps I should have paid more attention to where I was, instead of where I was going. Perhaps I should have soaked up the moment a bit more.

But it’s hard to blame myself. After all, I’m hardly the only one to make this type of error – both in the running community and outside of it.

Indeed, means to an end describes a great portion of our society. So much of what we do, what we consume, and what we expose ourselves to is devoid of cultural relevance.

It’s what those actions, those goods, and those experiences can lead us to that’s deemed important. The rest is simply the price of admission.

Yet, we struggle to accept that reality.

For we are wired to find meaning in utility, to seek purpose in the journey. The narrative arc is not just the domain of Disney movies; it’s the cornerstone of our lives.

Furthermore, we are appalled by the notion that we might be means to an end. That we could be viewed as interchangeable, non-essential, or otherwise lacking in unique value.

So, we fight the good fight. We strive to prove how essential each stone along our path is. And we take each rebuke as an affront to our self-worth.

In essence, we set ourselves up for misery – day in, day out. And we suffer accordingly.

How do we get out of this rut?

How do we accept the transactional, the interchangeable – all without losing our soul in the process?

It starts between the ears.

Fighting against society’s gravitational pull is like shouting at a brick wall. It’s a lot of effort that yields few results.

It’s far better to work on our own narrative. To take stock of what we feel is essential and what we deem disposable. And to separate those sentiments from the prevailing winds.

Such defined dissonance requires discipline. It requires focus. It requires grit.

It’s a hard bargain. But for the sake of our sanity, it’s worthwhile.

So, let’s get after it.

The Culture Flub

I got the text in the middle of the night.

Bro, I thought this was a joke.

The “joke” my friend was referring to was encapsulated in another alert on my phone. The Dallas Mavericks had traded away their superstar point guard Luka Doncic.

I sat up in bed and reread the alert. There had been no indication this was coming. But then again, there was no reason it couldn’t happen.

Yes, Doncic was one of the best basketball players in the world, in the prime of his career. But even those elite players had a price – usually another superstar and a boatload of draft picks.

But glancing over the alert a third time, I found no indication of such a return. Yes, there was another superstar coming back to Dallas – an older one with a lower ceiling. But the rest of the return was a role player and a solitary draft pick.

The value exchange seemed nowhere near even. For all intents and purposes, the Mavericks had given away a generational player.

Roughly 12 hours later, Mavericks General Manager Nico Harrison sat in front of reporters, attempting to explain the move he’d just made.

Harrison spoke about the team’s desire to win a championship, after having fallen short several months earlier. And he emphasized the importance of bringing in players who could add to the team’s culture.

It was quite the theory. But it was already clear that most Mavericks fans weren’t buying it.

Many had already spewed vitriol online. Others had staged a mock funeral for Doncic’s Dallas tenure – complete with a casket – on the plaza outside the team’s arena. A memorial shrine to the superstar had blossomed nearby.

One of the reporters highlighted this to Harrison, who replied that the fans would come around once the team won a championship.

And if they didn’t win one in the next few years?

Well, they’ll bury me then, Harrison replied.

He was wrong. They already had.

I’ve lived in the Dallas area for many years. And I still find myself amazed by the misconceptions the region contends with.

There are still the lingering stereotypes of Big Hair and Trophy Wives from the 1980s. There are still the Land of Steakhouses and Strip Clubs claims. And there are the reductive barbs about the region being filled with a sea of snobs in their Mercedes.

But the one that gets me riled up the most is the claim that Dallas is a winner’s town.

Now, this reductive claim holds true across most large southern cities. While all of America is captivated by success, there seems to be a more ruthless demand for it in the Sunbelt – particularly when it comes to professional sports. If a team struggles to win in Atlanta, Tampa, Miami, Houston, Phoenix, or Charlotte, there’s a good chance fans will stop packing the stands.

On the face of it, this can appear true in Dallas too. When the Texas Rangers and the Dallas Stars struggled in baseball and hockey, respectively, it wasn’t hard to spot empty seats around the ballpark or the arena.

But that hasn’t proved true at all for the Dallas Mavericks. For a generation, fans have packed the stands for each game. And they’ve proudly worn their replica basketball jerseys around town.

Some of this can be attributed to sustained success on the court. The Mavericks made the postseason in 20 of the first 25 seasons of this millennium, winning a championship in one of those seasons.

But the city’s lovefest with the Mavericks has more to do with two names – Dirk Nowitzki and Luka Doncic.

Each arrived in Texas from Europe to play basketball for the club — 20 years apart. And as each developed into a superstar on the court, they came of age off it — in the same community that filled the stands at the arena.

Nowitzki and Doncic only shared the court for one season. But that year felt like a passing of a torch.

Doncic saw how Dallas embraced Nowitzki wholeheartedly — how the city viewed him as a key strand of their fabric, rather than just a great basketball star. And he took strides to follow in those footsteps.

Indeed, Luka Doncic was core to the culture of Dallas. He was in rap songs and on billboards. He enthusiastically gave his time and energy to community service around town. He willingly mingled at local establishments with the masses who picked the stands at his games.

He was a man of the city. He was the city.

Until Harrison shipped him away in the dead of the night.

In the business world, there’s plenty of discussion about culture.

Maintaining a strong corporate culture is paramount. So is understanding the culture of consumers.

If either process is broken, a company will leak oil. Progress will be halted, and viability will become a concern.

Nico Harrison knows this well. He previously was an executive at Nike — a company lauded for harnessing both sides of the equation.

And yet, he somehow failed to follow those principles in Dallas.

Perhaps, yes, the Dallas Mavericks internal culture could be improved by a personnel shakeup. For all his greatness, Doncic did have deficiencies on defense. And he complained to the referees far too often.

But by ignoring the effects such a move would have on the associated consumer culture, Harrison failed. He failed himself, he failed the Mavericks, and he failed the city of Dallas.

And when Harrison inferred that local fans embrace championship rings more than the players who earn them, he made himself an eternal pariah.

All of this has far-reaching consequences.

There’s no doubt that the Mavericks’ brand has been degraded by this culture flub, and its connection to the city is in tatters. Harrison himself has unfortunately faced death threats, and the coffee shop where he started the clandestine trade talks has become terra non grata.

There are still chapters to be written, of course. Maybe the new players connect with the Dallas community and become part of its culture – all while delivering a title to the city. Maybe a new hope rises – Star Wars style – and becomes the next Nowitzki or Doncic.

But regardless of what transpires, a cloud will remain over the Mavericks organization.

The franchise got the city of Dallas wrong. They got the rules of culture wrong.

And that won’t ever be forgotten.

Moral Hazard

I had only been on the highway for a minute when I saw the flashing lights behind me.

I looked down at my speedometer. It read 80 miles per hour.

My hands started to tremble.

I was still in high school and had only been driving for a couple months. Yet, I’d already gotten myself into trouble.

I slowed down and pulled to the side of the road. As I waited for the officer to get out of his vehicle, I stared at my reflection in the rearview mirror.

I was in formal attire and my hair was neatly trimmed. Was I presentable enough to escape with a warning?

I saw the officer approaching. I was about to get my answer.

License and registration please.

I handed the documents over to the officer. His expression did not change.

I clocked you going 82 miles per hour back there under that bridge. You do realize that this is a work zone, don’t you? The speed limit is 45.

I had not realized that. Sure, there were orange cones sitting in the grassy median beside my vehicle. But I hadn’t seen any in the road. And I hadn’t seen a single construction vehicle either.

Still, it didn’t matter. I was getting written up.

The officer went back to his car to print out the citation. With the excessive speed violation and the work zone violation, I was on the hook for more than $1,000.

As I let the numbers on the ticket sink in, the officer gave two parting words of advice.

Slow down.

I drove home in a daze. I had no idea how I was going to pay the citation.

I broke the unhappy news to my parents as soon as I walked in the front door. They were justifiably furious.

Still, after a few moments, cooler heads prevailed. My father offered to cover the fine if I attended defensive driving classes.

I’d essentially be getting a clean slate.

I quickly accepted the terms. A couple of weeks later, I spent a morning in a hotel conference room watching presentations about how to check blind spots and safely pass vehicles. And soon after that, I was back on the road.

It was as if nothing had changed. And that was a problem.

Moral hazard.

This term is a hallmark of risk management circles.

It explains the behavior of those who act with impunity. Free of consequences for their actions, these individuals throw caution to the wind. And everyone else is saddled with the ensuing mess.

This was my experience after my father covered my hefty speeding ticket. I drove nearly as unburdened as I had before, leaving other drivers with little peace of mind.

On its face, Moral Hazard seems both reprehensible and avoidable. But the truth is far more complicated.

You see, institutional forces are out there to buffer us from risk’s implications. Not everyone has a father who will cover a $1,000 speeding ticket. But most drivers have insurance policies to cover the liability they might cause to other vehicles – and the people inside them – while behind the wheel.

The same principle has long held true for houses across our nation. Home insurance would offer financial protection against a variety of maladies. And until recently, this encouraged people to put down roots wherever they fancied.

And the business world? It’s littered with Moral Hazard too. Remember when the United States government bailed out major banks in 2008, and regional bank depositors in 2023? Those actions hardly deterred the risky behavior that preceded them.

The carte blanche – the blank slate – it’s meant to help us boldly plod ahead without being crippled by a one-off event.

But if it leaves us too bold for our own good, what’s the point?

Several months after my speeding ticket, I graduated from high school.

As I prepared to head off to college, I left the car behind. My father stated that I’d need to earn the right to drive around campus. The best way to achieve that right, he said, was with a few semesters of stellar grades.

About 18 months later, it was evident that I’d earned those stellar marks. So, at the end of winter break, my father accompanied me on the 1,300-mile journey to school.

Throughout that two-day trek, my father raved about how much I’d matured in college. He stated that I was ready for the responsibility of having a car.

But behind the wheel, I’d experienced little of that growth. The shadow of my speeding ticket had faded away, aided by the check my father had written. Bad habits were everywhere.

Moral Hazard had become entrenched. I was living on borrowed time.

And eventually, my luck ran out.

During my senior year of college, I totaled my car in a wreck on the highway. It was a humbling experience – and it left me without the means to get from my rental home to campus each day.

A few weeks later, my father surprised me once again. He’d be bringing one of the family sedans down to school that coming weekend and handing me the keys.

My graduation gift was arriving early. There was only one condition.

If I totaled this car, I’d be on my own.

I thought about how hard the past few weeks had been. I’d spend hours walking around campus with heavy textbooks turning my backpack into a boulder. And at the end of the day, I practically needed to beg friends for a ride home.

I thought about my time at the assessor’s lot a couple of days after the wreck. An insurance claims representative took one look at my mangled car and wrote me a paltry check. One that could never make me whole.

I thought about the accident itself. Of seeing the airbags deploy. Of that terrifying moment when I wasn’t sure if my friend in the passenger seat was alright.

I had seen the consequences of my actions. And I never wanted to experience them again.

So, I pledged to become a safer driver. And I’ve held true to that promise ever since.

Moral Hazard has no quarter here anymore.

Back in the 1980s, Nancy Reagan launched a crusade against drugs.

The First Lady sat in front of a camera in the White House and addressed the nation’s youth. She encouraged them to Just say no when illicit substances were bandied their way.

It’s tempting to view Moral Hazard in this way. If we reject it out of hand, we’ll act more responsibly.

But such temptations are nothing more than delusions. Moral Hazard is too embedded in our subconscious to be rooted out that easily.

It takes something more.

Ridding ourselves of this scourge requires a thought experiment. It demands that we actively consider the contours of the safety net around us – who builds it and who funds it. Then, it implores us to consider what would happen if that safety net wasn’t around – and to act accordingly.

These considerations consume plenty of mental bandwidth. They’re unpleasant. But they’re also necessary.

So, let’s take the initiative to open our eyes. To go the extra mile to banish our bad tendencies. And to lean into the responsibility that comes with risk.

We’ll all be better for it.

The Craft

I opened a fresh document on my computer as I prepared to start writing an article. This article.

But instead of seeing the usual blank page on my Microsoft Word interface, I saw a light gray icon and text near the top.

The text encouraged me to select the icon or tap a few keys to draft with Copilot.

Copilot is Microsoft’s Artificial Intelligence engine. When enabled, it writes from scratch on the user’s behalf – a process known as Generative AI.

This whole idea of computers writing for humans is somewhat novel. But it’s already made scores of Microsoft users more productive – saving them time while increasing their output.

It would have been useful for me too. It had been a busy few days, and the thought of typing out some fresh thoughts seemed daunting.

But I wasn’t ceding the pen that easily.

I typed my first words onto the page. And I watched the gray icon and text disappear.

10,000 hours.

That’s the amount of practice time it takes to master a craft.

Psychologist K. Anders Ericsson published this finding in a research paper in 1993, referring to it as Deliberate Practice. Acclaimed author Malcolm Gladwell later highlighted Ericsson’s work in a bestselling book, leading many readers to consciously adopt Deliberate Practice.

A 10,000 hour commitment is no picnic. If someone were to spend 4 hours of their day – every single day – practicing a task, it would take them nearly 7 years to attain “world class mastery” of it. Factor in the days skipped for holidays, illnesses, and other commitments, and that timeline is likely to stretch beyond a decade.

And yet, many of those who have accepted the challenge have seen its rewards. James Earl Jones went from being a man with a stutter to a versatile actor with a booming voice. Mike Piazza went from being a 62nd round draft pick to a Hall of Fame baseball catcher.

Commitment can change our destiny, transforming the impossible into the probable. Persistence pays off.

But only if we let it.

On February 6, 2005, the New England Patriots took on the Philadelphia Eagles in the Super Bowl.

Just a few years earlier, such a matchup in the championship game of American football would have been improbable. The Patriots and Eagles spent most of the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s as also-rans.

But fortunes had shifted with the turn of the millennium. Philadelphia had a creative head coach and an up-and-coming quarterback. And New England had Bill Belichick and Tom Brady.

Belichick was a football lifer – a champion assistant coach who had fumbled in a prior head coaching stint in Cleveland. But his fortunes had changed in Massachusetts. He took his spot on the sidelines seeking a third championship in a four-season span.

Brady was Belichick’s quarterback through that entire run of success – but an unlikely one in that. New England had selected him in the 6th round of the draft some years back, hoping he would serve as a backup signal caller. But an injury to the starter had vaulted Brady to the top spot early on, and he never relinquished the role.

Both Belichick and Brady appeared to be Deliberate Practice success stories. And yet, they somehow made the business of winning high-profile football games look easy.

Perhaps that’s why a certain commercial – shown to millions of viewers during a break in the action – seemed to fit like a glove.

The commercial was for Staples, then a dominant office supplies store. It showed a student, a rancher, a young parent, and a surgeon – all facing challenging situations. Each of them pressed a red button that read Easy on it, presumably offering a resolution.

The message was straightforward. Life could be challenging, but procuring office supplies didn’t have to be. Staples made it look as easy as New England Patriots did while winning championships.

In the months after the Super Bowl, Staples started making replicas of the Easy button. Americans put them next to their computer keyboards, leaning into the mantra.

The Easy button craze was upon us.

Two decades have passed since that iconic Super Bowl ad. But the more I hear about Generative AI – and the more I see people flocking to it – the more I’m brought back to the Easy button craze it yielded.

Having someone else tackle the difficult and the monotonous is a shared dream. It reduces friction and leaves more room for joy.

Still, there are clear dangers to this approach.

For one thing, the resource we hand off to might not prove trustworthy. This has proven true at times with Generative AI, which has committed some notable blunders.

But beyond that, ceding tasks to the machines jeopardizes deliberate practice.

Generative AI, you see, can unlock enhanced performance in a fraction of the 10,000 hours it takes us. But in doing so, it robs us of opportunities to work through problems, prove our resilience, and hone our craft.

And that’s hardly insignificant.

You’re a good writer.

My mother told me this repeatedly back in 2005.

I was in high school back then, trying to figure out my future. Getting accepted to college was the immediate goal, but then what? I had no idea what I wanted to study there, let alone what I would want to do for a vocation afterward.

My mother left those decisions to me. But she kept dropping hints about my writing prowess.

I didn’t understand the praise. Writing always felt arduous to me. And my grades on essay assignments were never exemplary.

Still, I ended up focusing on writing in college – initially as a film major and later as a journalism student. That led to three years in the news media and several more in the realm of content marketing.

As the years passed by, it was getting harder to dismiss my writing abilities. After all, that skill was now putting a roof over my head and food on my table.

Yet, I still felt the urge to perfect my craft. To practice, iterate, and grow on my own terms.

That’s what led me to launch what is now Ember Trace nearly a decade ago. It gave me a forum to share my thoughts and reflections. But it also allowed me to practice my craft, week in and week out.

This process hasn’t always been peachy. But I’m a better writer and a stronger person for it.

And that’s why I didn’t even consider clicking on that gray button in Microsoft Word and letting Copilot do the work.

Not this time. Not any time.

There’s value in honing our craft. In sticking to it and doing the dirty work.

I’m committed to that pursuit. Let’s hope that I’m not alone.

The Familiar

The air was cold, and the wind was whipping. I shivered a bit as I stared at a row of pine trees.

I must have been 4 years old, maybe 5. And I was tagging along with my godmother and godfather as they shopped for a Christmas tree.

My godparents didn’t have kids of their own yet, so they were extra keen on involving me in the process.

Which tree do you think is best for us to bring home? my godmother asked.

My reply was filled with fear and panic.

I…I don’t know. They just look like trees. And I’m cold.

My godfather must have been cold as well. Or else he’d seen enough.

He and my godmother quickly conferred, before summoning over the attendant.

They pointed to their top choice. And the attendant prepared it for the long car journey to come.

We had taken two vehicles to this Christmas Tree Farm out in rural Connecticut.

My parents, my sister, and I were in one. My godparents and the tree in the other.

And on the long drive back to the big city, I peppered my parents with questions.

We didn’t have a Christmas tree at home, you see. All I knew was that we’d go to my godparents’ house late in December, and there would be an elaborately decorated tree in the living room. Then, the next time we visited, the tree would be gone.

I was too young to connect the dots. After all, I had no frame of reference.

So, my father spelled it out for me. He explained that Christmas trees were generally grown out in the country – preferably somewhere dry and hilly.

As fall set in, many got cut down and shipped to the big city. That way, the trees would be easier for urbanites to buy, set up, and decorate.

But not all trees got an early axe. Sometimes, as the air got chilly, people would come straight to the farm to select their tree and haul it back home. The experience was more authentic that way. And the tree would likely stay fresh throughout the holiday season.

Wait, so there are people who just grow Christmas trees? I asked.

Yes, my father replied. They prepare all year for one day. But that day is so big that they do quite well for themselves.

This was a lot for me to take in. So, I changed the subject. And never thought of it again.

Until now.

Where does America grow its Christmas trees?

It’s not really a question that’s top of mind. Even though hundreds of millions of people from coast to coast add a tree to their home each December, the where from hardly seems relevant to many.

But not to me. I looked it up.

It seems that thousands of small farms like that one in Connecticut still do grow Christmas trees these days. But the bulk of America’s holiday décor comes from two locations – the forests of Oregon and the mountains of North Carolina.

In a normal year, each region produces about 2 million Christmas trees.

But this is not a normal year.

I’m writing this column roughly three months after a hurricane trudged through the Smoky Mountains. The unprecedented weather event flooded Western North Carolina, leading to widespread death and destruction.

And that hurricane also disrupted the Christmas tree supply chain.

Fortunately, the short-term impacts of this particular development haven’t been too severe. There haven’t been widespread reports of Christmas trees being sold out or broadly unavailable. Oregon and the other growing locations have picked up the slack.

But this is only one year. It’s hard to forecast what the long-term implications of this devastating storm.

Will the Christmas tree farmers of Western North Carolina be able to rebuild and regrow? Will children in the Southeast still trek to the mountains with their parents and help pick out the perfect tree? Will another hurricane roll in and wipe the slate clean again?

It’s all up in the air.

The Christmas tree is not the end-all-be-all of the holiday season. The gifts under the tree and the people around it matter more.

Still, it’s far from insignificant.

In fact, I’d argue that the Christmas tree is one of the three most prominent symbols of the season, along with Santa hats and multicolored lights.

The tree is universally familiar. And that familiarity brings us a sense of inner peace.

That’s why so many people go through the motions of hauling a tree into their living rooms each winter. That’s why they decorate those trees with lights and ornaments. And that’s why public trees – such as the gigantic one in New York’s Rockefeller Center – become tourist attractions as the season’s chill sets in.

There are many staples we’ve let go of over the years. We no longer send faxes or travel by horse and buggy.

But the Christmas tree tradition? I can’t envision a shift away from that. Not now, not ever.

It needs to work. But how far will we go to ensure it does?

There was a time once when a large swath of us lived off the land.

Farming, hunting, ranching, coal mining — those were a means of sustenance. Both in terms of goods sold and consumed.

A bad year meant more than a light piggy bank back then. It meant going hungry through the fall or shivering through the winter.

Christmas trees were a staple back then too. But rural settlers were far more likely to cut down the nearest fresh pine themselves. And as such, they understood what it took to bring the joy of the holiday through their front doors.

Society has shifted since those days. Most of us are city dwellers or suburbanites now. We’re more likely to buy our supplies from a store or an Internet browser. And we rarely give a second thought as to how those goods arrived on our doorstep.

Oftentimes, this approach is sensible. We already have plenty to concern ourselves with. The intricacies of supply chains needn’t be added to the list.

But in this case, at this moment, it might be wise to reconsider.

The profound joy that we experience this time of year – it doesn’t just emerge out of thin air. There are plenty of people working hard to provide it to us.

We owe it to them – and to ourselves – to take a closer look. To drive out to a tree farm to pick our prize. To support a farmer waylaid by Mother Nature. Or to otherwise honor the regions of our great nation that help make our holidays merry and bright.

The familiar matters this time of year. Let’s show how much it does.

The Boolean Trap

I got into my SUV and turned the ignition.

But before I threw it into reverse, I tapped a button on my smartphone.

The phone was sitting in the one of the cupholders beside me. But thanks to the magic of Bluetooth technology, it could stream music or podcasts straight through the car speakers.

I could be my own DJ. And I often was.

But not today.

The Bluetooth, you see, was not connecting properly. Sure, the little screen on the center console of my vehicle said it was connected, but no audio was streaming.

I set my sights on fixing the issue.

I toggled the Bluetooth switch on my phone’s settings off and on. I turned off the SUV and refired the ignition. I rebooted my phone.

By now, I’d wasted enough time troubleshooting that I was late for work. So, I put the vehicle in reverse and made the drive in silence.

That evening, I picked the thread up anew.

Sitting at my dining room table, I fired up my laptop, headed to the automaker’s support website and searched for help documentation.

It took a few minutes of dogged searching even to find my entertainment system on the site. The automaker had moved to a different system in newer vehicles, and most articles were for that system.

And the few support documents for my system were useless. They encouraged me to try what I’d already attempted. Plus, they site provided no way of reporting any issues that hadn’t been covered.

It felt as if the automaker was thumbing its nose at me. All the possible issues with this entertainment system are on this page. And if you find something else, you’re the issue.

I felt offended. I was enraged. I screamed into the void.

I had now wasted countless hours on this issue. I’d searched and toggled and stressed myself into oblivion — all to find a resolution to something that was working just a day earlier.

And yet, there was one thing I hadn’t attempted — resetting my car’s entertainment system.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. I’d gone through the settings menu on the console extensively. I’d combed those support documents until I had them memorized. No master reset option seemed to exist.

So, the next morning, I called the closest dealership and made a service appointment.

When I brought my SUV in, I explained the issue in full. The service tech listened intently. But he furrowed his brow when I mentioned the words console reset.

There’s not really a simple way to do that, he explained. I could unplug the battery for 10 to 15 seconds, and then reconnect it. That’s a hard reset. But I can’t guarantee it will fix the issue.

It was worth a shot. I gave the tech the go-ahead to try. He took my keys and drove the vehicle over to a service bay.

A short time later, I got the SUV back. Sitting in the dealership parking lot, I tried to connect my phone via Bluetooth. The connection went through.

My nightmare was over.

As children, we learn about prominent innovative thinkers. People whose innovations and discoveries have direct impacts on our lives.

Albert Einstein is synonymous with defining the mass-energy equivalence. Sir Isaac Newton is acclaimed for conveying the laws of gravity. Thomas Edison is renowned for inventing the light bulb. And Henry Ford is feted for revolutionizing the automobile.

George Boole doesn’t sit on this Mount Rushmore. But perhaps he should.

Boole was a 19th century English mathematician who didn’t even get to celebrate his 50th birthday. But in his short lifespan, he unfurled something that has come to underpin all corners of western society — Boolean logic.

Boolean logic is an algebraic system that contains two variables – true and false. It judges mathematical expressions by their attributes and classifies them accordingly.

If the expression contains a desired element, it gets coded as a 1. If it doesn’t, it gets coded as a 0.

That series of 1’s and 0’s can blaze a trail through complicated equations, getting to a final answer step-by-step.

If you think 1’s and 0’s sound like computer source code, you’re onto something. Computer systems have been built on Boolean logic since the 1930s, and the associated if-then logic is now synonymous with that technology.

Perhaps that’s why we don’t give George Boole his due. Or perhaps the century between his discovery and the computer age caused us to lose the thread.

Regardless, we are fully immersed in the Boolean world today. We’re accustomed to navigating true-false strings and if-then statements to troubleshoot just about anything, from our health to the strange noise coming from the refrigerator.

This works well. Until it doesn’t.

In the early 2000s, a technology journalist named Chris Anderson introduced a new theory to the world

Anderson saw how the computer age and the growth of the Internet had democratized the decisions consumers could make. In the Golden Era of network television, Americans had three options of what to watch on a given evening. But now, people around the globe could enter any search query they wanted into Google.

These searches tended to fall into a normal distribution, or a Bell Curve pattern. A small number of search terms got most of the volume.

But those low frequency searches at the ends of the curve, they mattered too. Search engines still returned results for them. And savvy businesses had ample opportunities to serve these audiences as well.

Anderson’s theory came to be known as The Long Tail. He wrote a WIRED article and a book about it. And many business professionals came to treat it with reverence.

Including me.

Early in my marketing career, I used long tail theories to create content for my clients’ websites. I was working at a startup agency at the time, supporting several small home remodeling firms.

A few years earlier, those businesses would have relied on the Yellow Pages and word of mouth referrals to stay viable. But thanks to The Long Tail and digital marketing, they now had a sustainable path to growth.

Long tail theory succeeded in filling the gaps of Boolean logic. It acknowledged that the world is messier than if-then statements can count for. And it resolved to clean up the mess.

But as technology has evolved and the economy has fluctuated, long tail theory has faded into the background. Innovators have favored tightening the Boolean engine over sweeping up the bits it misses.

This is what led to my odyssey to get my vehicle’s entertainment system fixed. There was no roadmap for me to follow because if-then logic didn’t account for the issue.

Out of sight, out of mind. Until it wasn’t.

You can’t fit a square peg into a round hole.

This proverbial wisdom has held for generations. And despite the attempts of innovators, streamliners, and futurists, it’s sure to endure for many more.

You see, ceding all infrastructure to Boolean theory is not a viable solution. It’s a trap.

Long tail concerns will not evaporate when swept under the rug. They will fester, agitate, and afflict. They will drive us to frustration, trust loss — or worse.

This corrosion has gone on far too long already. And it’s imperative that we keep the rot from settling in further.

It’s time that we give an audience to the edge cases once again. It’s time to inject independent judgement into the fringes of the logic machine. It’s time to account for all the outcomes we can imagine and consider solutions for the ones we can’t.

This process will be clunky and inefficient. It won’t provide the two true outcomes we’ve grown so accustomed to seeing in our systems.

But it will remove the daylight between our lived experience and the systems we rely on. It will allow us to optimize our outcomes at every turn.

And shouldn’t that be what matters?

Boolean logic is a great thing. But it needn’t be the only thing.

Let’s go for better.

Learning Experiences

It was a simple dish.

Eggs, sliced potatoes, and onions – all bonded together and cooked in a skillet. Kind of like a quiche without the cheese.

The delicacy was known as Tortilla Española. I’d sampled it at restaurants across Madrid as a teenager. Now, as an adult, I wanted to prepare it in my own kitchen.

I recalled my father making the dish from scratch a few times after my return from Spain. So, I asked him for the recipe. Then I gathered the requisite and ingredients.

I peeled the potatoes and cut them proportionally. I diced the onions. I scrambled some eggs in a bowl.

I added olive oil to a cast iron skillet and fired up the stove. I poured the ingredients into the skillet and let them settle.

I took another glance at my father’s recipe. The next task was to flip the tortilla over, so that it could cook evenly.

But how?

I had a glass lid on the skillet, but it wasn’t stable enough to stand on its own while inverted. And I didn’t have a similar-sized pan to flip the tortilla.

The sizzling sound from the skillet reminded me that there was no time to run to the store for supplies. I was going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.

I took the silicone spatula and dug into the bottom of the tortilla. I lifted it up, rotated my wrist…and caused a mess all over the stovetop.

Perhaps the tortilla wasn’t quite set enough. Perhaps my wrist flick wasn’t all that precise.

Regardless, the solid disk had disintegrated into an incongruous pile of egg and potato bits, with some onions mixed in. Most of it was still in the skillet, but some had landed around it.

My dish was ruined.

I did my best to salvage what was left – letting the eggs cook through and then consuming some of it. The rest went into Pyrex containers stashed in the refrigerator.

I’d be having my failure for dinner for nights to come.

Not long after, I told my father what happened.

Did you consider flipping the tortilla onto a plate? he asked.

I hadn’t.

I’d made a multi-meal mess and wasted hours of prep work. All because I didn’t pull a plate out from the cabinet during the moment of truth.

I was filled with regret at first. But then I remembered another of my father’s axioms.

You can make a mistake. Just don’t make the same one twice.

This was not a failure. It was a learning experience.

It was on me to grow from the experience. To do better next time around.

As it turns out, next time looked a bit different. I never did make Tortilla Española in my kitchen again. But my cooking habits for similarly complex dishes were vastly improved

No longer was I blinded by the mouth-watering outcomes of my craft. I instead devoted extra effort to preparation.

That way, I wouldn’t panic when the burners were on. And I’d be better able to adapt.

I don’t believe I would have been able to lean into that approach if everything hadn’t happened the way it did.

The botched flip. The meals upon meals of messed up results. My father’s introduction of a ready alternative. All helped me to internalize the lesson and rise from the ashes of disaster.

The story still has its scars. I cringed a bit while writing it just now.

But I have no regrets.

What is school for?

Marketing guru asked this question at the onset of a TEDx talk some years back.

Godin went on to explain how the modern iteration of American education came about.

Public school districts and standardized tests were not the natural evolutions of one-room classrooms and reclusive boarding academies. They were the vehicles of industrialist ambition, meant to confer obedience and consistency across the youth population.

The modern system of schooling seemed sensible in the early 20th century, when scores of pupils parlayed their diplomas into factory jobs. It also served its purpose in the middle of that century, when vigilance in the face of nuclear war was paramount.

But obedience and consistency seem antiquated these days, in an era where college dropouts can create trillion-dollar companies and financial strategists tend to think outside the box.

Yet, the top-down, cookie-cutter educational experience continues to proliferate. Children are expected to maintain excellence from as early as Kindergarten. There is no other option.

It’s all a bit difficult for me to comprehend.

You see, my own youth is merely decades in the rearview. But it might as well have been in the Stone Age compared to the present reality.

My teachers gave me a fair amount of free reign in the classroom and the recess yard through elementary school. I was supervised, sure – even graded on homework I turned in. But I wasn’t restrained.

The goal was to let me stumble upon knowledge organically, and therefore absorb it fully. This meant literal stumbles were accepted, not shunned.

So, I made mistakes. Lots of mistakes. Both in the classroom and out of it.

But by feeling the consequences of these missteps, I was able to move beyond them. I was able to learn, grow, and adapt. And I was able to keep the sting of regret holding me back.

It’s a throughline that carried directly to adulthood. It drove my response to the Great Tortilla Española Disaster in my kitchen, and countless other setbacks.

And it’s becoming a novelty.

What happens when the leash is too short?

We don’t need to imagine the answer. Examples are all around us.

Many of my peers now have children of their own. And in talking with them, I get a distinct sense that they’re under a microscope.

They’re expected to provide the best experience for their kids at all times – or else risk the branding of bad parent. And they’re expected to short circuit any signs of failure in their offspring.

Failure, you see, represents divergence. It puts daylight between a child and their peers. It forges a gap between expected marks and mandated ones when it comes to reading, arithmetic, and reasoning. It’s the first skid down a slippery slope.

Modern parents don’t intuitively believe this, of course. None of them hold their infants and muse They better not screw anything up in 65 months from now, or they’re toast.

No, this edict is foisted upon parents by their children’s schools, which are chock full of militant rigor and ongoing assessment.

Add in the societal pressure to bring these values home, and parents find themselves in an impossible position. It’s as if they’re meant to choreograph their children’s lives, rather than provide sturdy guardrails for growth.

This might all seem mundane. But the long-term effects could be catastrophic.

Indeed, what happens if an entire generation is shielded from the consequences of failure? How will they develop resilience?

I shudder to think about how the next generation might handle a kitchen mishap down the road – let alone anything more substantial.

Adversity is a great teacher. It’s the only real instructor for moments like these. Moments that we will inevitably encounter in our lifetimes.

And yet, adversity is being kept out of reach. Left on the top shelf of the cabinet until it’s too late for us to locate it.

Let’s change that.

Let’s stop being so allergic to failure and shackled by regret. Let’s start reframing our missteps as learning experiences instead. And let’s teach future generations to do the same.

Sometimes wrong is the first step to right. Commit to the journey.