Category: Thoughts

The Reality of Hope

As I sat in the hot tub on a steamy Florida night, I pondered my future.

Hours earlier, I’d walked across the stage at my college graduation. My family then celebrated the occasion with dinner at one of the ritziest restaurants in town.

But now, the ceremonies were over. We had retreated to my family’s hotel near the airport.

And now, submerged in warm waters flanked by the not-so-distant roar of jet engines, we commiserated.

The conversation quickly turned to what was next. And as it did, my triumph faded into a sense of failing.

For I didn’t have a job lined up. I didn’t even have any interviews pending.

In the throes of a brutal recession, I would need to move back in with my parents until I could launch my career.

My family assured me this was no big deal. I’d earned myself a break, they said.

But had I?

To me, college was not a four-year party. It was a proving ground for professional life.

And without the first step in my career imminent, I felt I had failed. I had wasted my time and countless dollars of tuition.

Fortunately, this despondence didn’t last long. I soon landed some job interviews, followed by a job offer. Two months and a day after my college graduation, I reported to my new role as a news producer in West Texas.

And while I’ve long ago left that position — and that career — behind, I’ve remained self-sufficient throughout adulthood.

My story had a satisfying conclusion. My quest for a career launch was simply deferred, rather than denied.

Some of that had to do with the industry I was seeking to join. Some had to do with the economic realities of the moment I was in. Much of it had to do with sheer luck.

I never gave up hope throughout this process. Even in those dour moments on the evening of my college graduation, I retained faith that things would work out.

But attributing the outcome to me sense of hope is a fool’s errand.

Many of my peers faced the same circumstances as I did as they walked the stage at commencements across America that spring. Despite some despondence over their lack of immediate job prospects, they remained hopeful.

And yet, despite sterling credentials and supreme self-belief, that faith was not rewarded.

Many of my peers ended up waiting tables for months on end, just to be able to pay the bills. Some were forced to give up their career hopes entirely after years of rejection.

It was cruel and unfair. But it was reality.

A reality that was out of touch with a prevailing narrative.

You see, we tend to view hope as a self-fulfilling prophecy. This principle is central in Hollywood scripts and other narrative arcs.

Cinderella is in a desperate condition when the Fairy Godmother first encounters her. Yet, even in her darkest hours, she retains a semblance of hope — one that pays off in spades once it’s time to try on the glass slipper.

Similarly, the Rebel Alliance retains hope against long odds at the start of Star Wars. The Galactic Empire has a decided advantage. And the Jedi equipped to counter the Empire’s brutal reign are seemingly nowhere to be found.

That hope that sustains the Rebel Alliance from the first scene becomes the fabric of the franchise, interspersed into dialogue, story arcs, and even film names. (Once sequels hit the big screen, that original Star Wars film was rebranded Star Wars Episode IV – A New Hope.)

Given these prominent examples, it’s all too easy to believe that a little faith and determination are all guaranteed to provide a favorable outcome.

And so, we go all in on hope. We treat the fairy tale ending as manifest destiny. And we suppress the narratives where satisfaction doesn’t arrive.

This does us no favors.

As I write this, we’ve had a rough go of it.

In recent years, we’ve dealt with a global pandemic, a teetering economy, and societal polarization.

Through it all, we’ve followed a familiar playbook. We’ve tried to stay the course, clinging to the prospect of better days ahead.

We’ve clung to the promise of hope.

This might seem sensible at first. Looking across the long arc of history, things tend to even out. And Star Wars and Cinderella show that a little faith can pay big dividends. So why not bask in the glory of tomorrow?

But I’m not so sure that a bright future is imminent. There’s no guarantee that things will get better just because we hit a rough patch. And if the past is precedent, they might continue to get worse.

It’s easy to overlook how spoiled we’ve been spoiled in recent decades. Sure, things weren’t always ideal. But we’ve recovered rather swiftly from the adverse events we did face — be they the 9/11 attacks or the 2008 Financial Crisis.

This near-instant resilience was a blessing. For in prior generations, the route back was far more treacherous.

The Great Depression lasted a full decade, and it was followed almost immediately by World War II. One catastrophic event followed another, with devastation touching all corners of our nation.

America did emerge from the Allied victory in World War II with a robust economy and improved global standing. But people weren’t entirely jubilant. Instead, they were hiding under desks during air raid drills, terrified about the prospect of Soviet missiles bringing nuclear winter.

It’s only in the past few decades — with the Cold War over and the tech boom bringing unprecedented innovation — that we’ve seen hope blossom into true prosperity. And that prosperity has deluded us from the truth.

Indeed, the reality of hope is messy. It carries no promise of returns, let alone instant ones.

There are costs to shunning hope, as complete despair can leave us without the will to seize opportunities. But its benefits are minimal, at best.

This isn’t the message we want to hear. It’s not the tidy narrative that leaves us feeling fulfilled. It’s not the bright carrot that motivates us to keep moving forward.

But it is the message we need to hear. It’s the one we should heed.

Yes, hope is beautiful. It’s inspiring. It’s uplifting.

But it is not a crystal ball.

We cannot count on it to provide us opportunities. We can’t expect it to help us seize them.

Much of that power belongs to circumstance. The rest belongs to us.

Act accordingly.

The Thing to Do

As I strutted back to the car, iced coffee in hand, I noticed them.

Three sets of Cornhole boards, all neatly arranged on the patio of the bar next to the coffee shop.

They sat vacant for the moment. It was far too early in the day for the bar to be open.

But I knew that as morning turned to afternoon, and afternoon to evening, this little piece of territory would be hotly contested.

Scores of friends and acquaintances would converge on the area. They would split into teams and stand by the rows of Cornhole boards. Then they’d try to toss beanbags — underhand — through the holes near the top of the board directly across from them.

There are a few ground rules for the game, and there’s a point system to keep score. But the premise of the game remains simple — toss beanbags through a hole on a board.

I’ve played Cornhole a few times before. And I’ve generally found it pointless.

There’s simply not much intriguing about soft tossing a beanbag over and over. The talent required is minimal, and the skill has little functional purpose.

To me, Cornhole is akin to throwing balled-up tinfoil into the trash can. I want to hit the target on the first try, of course.

But I won’t go nuts if I achieve that objective. And I won’t be devastated if I don’t.

(To be clear, I am not a litterer; after a missed trash toss, I do dispose of the item properly.)

I’m sure I’m not the only one to feel this way.

And yet, Cornhole is everywhere these days. Many bars dedicate part of their establishments to the game, and many people have their own Cornhole sets. Those tired of playing sure do seem to keep their mouths shut.

So why the discrepancy? Why has Cornhole become ever more prevalent, even if it does so little to inspire?

The answer is unlikely to satisfy.

When I was young, my family used to make 90-minute treks to visit a great aunt and great uncle.

I thoroughly enjoyed these trips.

My great aunt and great uncle had a swimming pool in their backyard — a luxury we didn’t have in ours. And in the basement, they had a fancy pool table — the kind with a ball return system connected to all the pockets.

I was fascinated by this table. Paying no attention to the row of billiards cues on the wall, I’d roll the pool balls into the pockets with my hands. I’d watch them slide down the metal guideway to a storage bin. Then, I’d do it again and again.

Fast forward to high school, and I was heading to pool halls regularly with friends. I was playing properly this time — racking the table, using billiards cues, and knowing the actual rules. Still, I wasn’t all that good at the game, and I didn’t find it that enjoyable.

By the time I graduated to frequenting bars, pool tables were an unwelcome sight. And yet, they were everywhere I looked — along with Shuffleboard and Darts. (The Cornhole craze hadn’t taken off yet.)

I found myself roped into game after game. I found no joy in the process, even after numbing myself with alcohol.

When I had the nerve to ask why we were all passing the time this way — drinking like fish, playing ubiquitous bar games — I always encountered the same answer.

It’s the thing to do.

I was incredulous. I still am.

Our recreation time is best spent doing things we enjoy. And yet, we seem to gravitate toward someone else’s idea of fun while out on the town. All without knowing who that someone else was.

Eventually, I addressed this issue by dropping out of the bar scene. Giving up alcohol aided in that endeavor.

But friends still invite me to play pool or Cornhole these days at parties and gatherings. And I find myself with a tough choice.

Do I acquiesce and attempt to bury my disdain? These games are the thing to do after all.

Or do I stand my ground — forcing myself to answer for being so disagreeable?

The scales are tipping.

Baseball has long been a game of numbers.

Henry Chadwick invented the box score roughly 160 years ago. And we’ve obsessed about baseball statistics seemingly ever since.

I am no exception. I struggled with arithmetic when I was growing up. But I could tell you who was leading the league in batting.

So, when I heard about fantasy baseball, I was all in.

The premise seemed perfect. Draft a virtual team comprised of real Major League Baseball players. Their collective performance in real games would determine how your virtual team did.

I was decent at this endeavor at first. And I enjoyed it so much that I branched out into fantasy football as well.

But a few developments changed the calculus.

One of them, strangely, happened in the pages of a book.

Michael Lewis’ Moneyball was published in 2003. The book outlined how one team — the Oakland Athletics — found success in the early 2000s despite a small budget.

The Athletics valued different statistics than the baseball establishment did. And this unconventional thinking helped them find hidden gems that proved integral in the team’s success.

In the wake of Moneyball, the baseball universe took these revelations to the next level. Teams started using advanced analytics to assess players, position them in the field, and shift their approach while batting.

Fantasy baseball too became more complicated, as a flurry of new statistical markers entered the fold. It was difficult to keep up with.

But more than that, the premise of the endeavor had changed. Fantasy baseball was no longer a hypothetical exercise for nerdy fans. It was ever more an extension of what Major League Baseball teams themselves were doing. The two worlds were converging.

That alone was nearly enough to drive me from fantasy sports. But there was another development that set me over the edge.

As fantasy sports gained popularity, fandom changed. No longer was it sufficient to root for one’s favorite teams. No, fans demanded that all contests up and down the league play out in a particular way — just so that they could win their fantasy matchup.

A statistical anomaly or a quick hook from a coach — each immaterial to a team’s outcome — might be enough to make a fan hopping mad if it cost them their fantasy matchup. These selfish pursuits seem so pithy, but they’re all too real.

I grew tired of both these developments rather quickly, and I dropped out of fantasy sports some years ago. Friends and acquaintances struggled to process my decision.

Fantasy sports were the thing to do, after all. Wouldn’t I miss it?

The answer has been an unequivocal no.

Sure, I’ve deprived myself a key source of connection. And yes, it can be exhausting rebuffing requests to review someone’s fantasy team or provide draft advice. (I do neither these days.)

But I feel happier without the albatross of fantasy sports around my neck.

Others might take on tasks they don’t fully enjoy because it’s the thing to do. But I refuse to make that sacrifice any longer.

Our society is multifaceted.

From coast to coast, there are hundreds of millions of people who harbor different interests. And there are plenty of opportunities to engage with these interests.

As Americans, we can head to a concert, or a sports event, or a theme park if we so desire. We can go hike in a national park, hit the lake, or just sit out on the porch in the fresh air.

The choice is ours, free of compulsion or prejudice. And that is a great thing.

But we need to rethink the social baseline. We need to reevaluate what the thing to do means.

If we overhype an activity that only some enjoy, we water down our collective potential. We cause many people to go along to get along in our complex social labyrinth. And we prioritize groupthink over true zeal and engagement.

This has been our fate for far too long. But it needn’t be our future.

So, let’s stop using the thing to do as an excuse for group social activities. Let’s think critically and make room for people to walk different paths. And let’s not judge one another for abstaining from the popular choice.

It’s the best path forward.

Shades of Similarity

The plane turned onto the runway. And in an instant, we were off.

The outer boroughs of New York City appeared out the airplane window, followed by the towns of northern New Jersey.

Looking out at the expanse of suburbia before me, I was struck by its ubiquity.

There were houses with lush, green yards. There were residential roads winding through neighborhoods. There were shopping centers.

And there were schools. Plenty of schools.

The school buildings were mostly nondescript from 10,000 feet in the air. But they were still easy to spot. For abutting them were football fields encircled by running tracks.

A few hours later, the plane descended upon the Dallas area. I stared out the window, relishing the rare opportunity to view my home from the sky.

Yet, what I saw was strikingly similar. Homes with large yards. Residential roads winding through neighborhoods. Shopping centers.

And plenty of schools, abutted by football fields and running tracks.

Now, the scene wasn’t entirely identical. Stifling summer heat had turned the grass from green to a yellowish brown. And those football fields were surrounded by large grandstands — a testament to the Texan passion for Friday Night Lights.

Still, on the whole of it, the scene in suburban Texas wasn’t all that different from the one in suburban New Jersey.

And that similarity — it resonated.

It’s no secret that we live in a polarized society.

We seem inclined to disagreement. And the bickering we take part in can quickly spiral out of control.

As part of this behavior pattern, we tend to divvy up territory. We take the old trope of Red States and Blue States to the max, treating the places that house those with conflicting viewpoints as dens of heathens.

I am no stranger to this principle. Growing up an ardent sports fan, I despised the Boston Red Sox in pro baseball and the Florida State Seminoles in college football. I particularly loathed the fans of these teams, often arguing with them vociferously in person and online.

As the vitriol intensified, I started to shun the cities these teams played in — Boston and Tallahassee. The way I saw it, these locales were saturated with these despicable fans — so they were inherently inferior to my own stomping grounds.

Fortunately, such closed-mindedness didn’t last all that long. Late in my high school days, I visited a cousin who had moved to Boston. To my surprise, I discovered a charming, vibrant city on the bank of the Charles River — a far cry from the hellhole I’d expected.

Then in college, I traveled to Tallahassee to see my favorite team take on the Seminoles in their stadium. Florida’s capital was less charming than Massachusetts’ was, but it still seemed like a pleasant enough southern town.

Surprisingly, I even hit it off with some Florida State fans while tailgating. We shared brews and snacks, if not allegiances.

The experience was enlightening, and it dampened my zeal to judge territory outside my own backyard. Yet, the principle of us versus them never quite went away.

After moving to Texas, I found myself othering the area I’d come from. While I wasn’t a native Texan, I was fully committed to my new home. As such, I felt obligated to prove that I wasn’t a carpetbagger.

Family and friends back north howled at this development. Yet, many of them had questioned my decision to move to Texas in the first place. They had viewed it as a tacit approval for the Lone Star State’s most extreme stereotypes. And this had left a chip on my shoulder.

Over time, I softened my stance. But the environment around me went in the other direction.

Polarization intensified, spurred on by the isolating effects of a global pandemic. Botched responses to extreme weather turned a critical eye on Texas’ infrastructure. And the state’s conservative leaning political decision turned downright radical.

With all these developments, it was hard not to see other corners of the country as different. Sure, I could get food from the same chain restaurants in the Northeast or Midwest that I could in Texas. And people spoke the same language in Denver as they did in Dallas. But how much else was really in common?

It took that airplane flight, and the revelation about high school football fields, for me to realize just how similar we all still are.

It’s a realization that could use a broader audience.

North of the border, the drivers travel at NASCAR speeds. Distances between cities are longer, people are shorter, and temperatures that make shiver leave the locals sweltering.

None of this is true, of course. At least not as written.

You see, Canada uses the Metric system, while that United States does not. And that leads to some novel forms of measurement.

Kilometers take the place of miles. Meters take the place of feet. And Celsius takes the place of Fahrenheit.

People aren’t really shorter, or driving faster, or wilting around in frigid conditions in Canada. It just seems that way if we take Metric measurements at American standards.

We must do some math to reconcile these discrepancies. And yet, millions of Americans have visited our neighbors up north over the years. And relatively few of them have gotten completely waylaid due to the Metric system.

If we can fare so well in a land where the distance markers — and much more — vary from our norms, why can’t we find the shades of similarity in our own nation?

Instead of pitting Texas against New Jersey, for instance, we can note that high schoolers in both states play football on the same sized gridiron.

This shift in focus won’t wipe away our differences. They’re still out there, and they’re too prominent to paint over.

But it can help us avert the toxic spiral of divisiveness. It can keep hyper-partisanship in check. It can take the teeth out of othering.

These are outcomes we should yearn for. More than that, they’re outcomes our society needs.

So, let’s tamp down the rhetoric. Let’s respect our differences. And let’s shift the spotlight to shades of similarity.

It starts with us.

The Legend of Fortune

The card deck.

On the surface, it seems basic and ubiquitous. A set of 52 cards adorned with numbers, letters, and symbols.

The card deck is easy to use. It’s simple to transport. And it’s an easy party favor.

And yet, few who use such an item would define it as trivial.

Indeed, we tend to view card decks as vessels. As purveyors of fortune. As tickets to destiny.

This vision leaves us mesmerized by magic tricks. And it draws us into many card games – particularly ones where money is on the line.

We’re hooked by the notion of riding a hot streak and reaping the rewards. And we focus attention on yielding favorable outcomes, time and again. Even as a basic probability primer can illustrate how foolish this thinking is.

Yes, are all-in on a legend. One that says fortune is in our hands. But is that legend anything more than an illusion?

If card decks are vessels for fortune, luck is the construct that ties it all together.

While we find great value in hard work and grit, we also aspire to be lucky. We subscribe to superstitions and other tricks to improve our fortunes. We gravitate toward those for whom everything seems to go right, hoping that their good luck will rub off on us. And we turn away from those we deem to be unlucky.

This obsession with luck – it’s a powerful force in our society. One that’s devoid of even a shred of reality.

There is no such thing as a lucky card or a cursed one. Those are simply labels that we put on the ecosystem around us.

Our own experience drives these perceptions. So do the views of our community. And these twin forces converge to make the labels stick.

But no matter how much we invest in this house of cards, it still sits on a nonexistent foundation. A gust of wind is all that it takes to send everything crashing down.

As I write this, I’m amid what many would consider a roller coaster year.

The start was promising. I thrived in my job, acting on the vision I’d set for my nascent role. I traveled around the country – for work and for pleasure – garnering several first-class flight upgrades in the process. And I took on my first three half-marathons, posting better finishing times than I could have ever imagined in each.

Things were clicking for me. And when I won entry to the New York City Marathon – through a lottery system with a roughly 10% acceptance rate — it started to feel like a dream.

Others noticed my preponderance of good news. They started commenting about how lucky I was.

I didn’t buy into the hype, though. The way I saw it, I was bound for a regression.

Sure enough, that regression arrived fast and furious. I returned from a work conference slowed by a virus. Weeks later, I had a vacation upended by flight cancellations. Then, I suffered a running injury. That injury lingered for months, ultimately forcing my withdrawal from the New York City Marathon.

In the wake of these outcomes, the conversation around me started to change. My luck had turned, others around me pointed out. Some even stated that it just wasn’t my year.

I refused to buy into this narrative.

Yes, I’ve experienced a lot in the months before writing this column. Some of those experiences might have seemed more enjoyable than others. But ultimately, they weren’t good or bad. They were just…experiences.

The labels have no teeth. Fortune hasn’t smiled on me or turned away from my presence. I’m neither lucky nor unlucky for having run the gauntlet I did.

At the end of the day, things are as they were before. I continue to exist.

This description of my recent adventures might not win any popularity contests. After all, we’re looking to grow and excel, rather than merely exist.

But this assessment both accurate and insulating.

Stripping undue meaning from life’s adventures removes semblances of entitlement or worthlessness. It keeps us grounded, leaving wild emotional swings at bay. And it forces us to focus on what we can control, rather than what we can’t.

This is a challenging shift to make. But it’s a necessary one.

So, I’m leaning in.

Rather than wallowing in self-pity or waiting for the winds to change, I’m clinging to all that’s firmly in my grasp. Namely, my effort and my attitude.

Mastery of these attributes doesn’t guarantee me much in terms of outcomes. But that’s precisely the point.

Why share these adventures with you, dear reader?

For like it or not, we’re all swimming in the same ocean.

Remember that virus that I said I was afflicted with? It’s already wreaked havoc on all of us, whether we’ve caught it or not. It caused our whole world to shut down for a time, and it destroyed any assumptions of what we though we knew.

Yes, we’ve gone through an unprecedented period — one where normalcy was shifted on its head and many of our comforts and traditions were snatched from our grasp.

Many have called this period the worst of our lifetimes. Others have claimed that their fortunes turned in the eye of the storm.

But such descriptors are foolhardy.

No, we haven’t been unlucky. And we’re not necessarily on the brink of a change in fortune. We’ve simply lived through an experience that we hadn’t before.

It’s time that we reckon with that fact. Fully and completely.

That means ceding claims to ownership over affairs beyond our influence. It means doubling down on what we can control. And it means backing away from the allure of fortune.

Indeed, the more we remove these labels from our narrative, the less we’ll be whiplashed by the corresponding emotions. And the more steadfast and resilient we’ll be at navigating the uncertainty of life.

This shift might not be appealing, but it’s for our own good.

Cards are just laminated paper. Events are just dots on a timeline. And fortune is a legend, devoid of reality.

Act accordingly.

The Productivity Paradox

For 17 seasons, he was a Major League Baseball starting pitcher. He won a world championship and was a two-time All-Star. All after escaping his home nation to get a shot at the big leagues.

The story, the accolades — they’re all impressive. But unless you’re a hardcore baseball fan, you probably won’t recognize Livan Hernandez’s name.

You might be forgiven for this omission. Hernandez was a competent pitcher who could field his position well and even hold his own in the batter’s box. But he didn’t have the dominant pitching makeup that some of the leading hurlers of his era did.

No, Hernandez’s greatest ability was his availability. Every fifth day for a generation, he took the ball for his team. He put his cleats on the pitching rubber, wound up, and fired that ball to home plate. Then he did it again, and again, and again – only yielding his perch in the late stages of the game.

Hernandez was what was known as a workhorse. A pitcher who could be counted on to last deep into ballgames, time and again. For three years in a row, Hernandez led the National League in innings pitched. In two of those years, he led all big-league pitchers in the category.

He gave his all. But he got a raw deal for those efforts.

Indeed, as some pitchers with lower inning counts got notoriety, awards, and Hall of Fame inductions, Hernandez is now relegated to obscurity.

It hardly seems right.

A hard day’s work.

It’s a hallmark of our society. A source of pride. A badge of honor.

We honor perspiration. We laud effort. We believe in determination.

Such values have inspired generation after generation to follow the script. So, we tend not to cut corners. We put in a consistent effort, time and again. We lift ourselves up by our bootstraps.

And yet, the rewards don’t always follow. Much like Livan Hernandez, we often find ourselves overlooked in the wake of productivity. And sometimes, the outcome of our exertion is even bleaker.

Overuse injuries are all too common in the world of athletics. Pitchers can blow out their arms by throwing the ball too many times. Runners can break down by taking on too many miles too quickly.

Manual labor carries similar risks. The miner, the mechanic, the factory machinist – they can all suffer crippling injuries as a byproduct of the work they put in.

Even in less physically taxing endeavors, we can suffer maladies. Our reward for performing at a high level in the business world is all too often burnout and stress. And there are countless other areas where getting after it carries a heavy toll.

It’s a cruel irony, this Productivity Paradox. The attribute that should be driving our success is instead dragging us down.

It’s hard not to feel as if we’re somehow being chastised for desirable habits. That irrational punishment stalls our momentum. And it makes the journey forward that much more treacherous.

A hard day’s work? It’s way more than we bargained for.

You should take a break.

I’ve gotten this advice often.

Those who know me well will often laud my work ethic. But they worry that the flame that fuels me will also consume me.

And so, they encourage me to shut it down. To take a weeklong trip to a beach somewhere and to recharge.

To them, such a solution seems like paradise. To me, it sounds like a death sentence.

For I am an active person. Active mind. Active body. Active spirit. I thrive when the wheels are turning.

Yet, I am also an introvert. And so, much of the activity that I crave comes in the form of routines.

Imploring me to give all this up — the activity, the routines — it spikes my anxiety. Even if I know such advice is coming from a good place.

And so, I attack the Productivity Paradox head-on. I charge full speed ahead, consequences be damned.

I’ve generally had good fortune in these endeavors. I’ve sustained only moderate cases of burnout at work. I’ve rarely lost motivation to write for this column. And until recently, I’ve been able to run competitively, free of significant injuries.

Still, the setbacks I’ve faced from my approach have been difficult to unwrap. I still struggle with the notion that good habits lead to adverse outcomes. And the lack of clear takeaways from these experiences still baffles me.

I’m in no man’s land. A purgatory of my own creation. And it’s a special type of torture.

I was just starting out in a new role when a co-worker gave provided three words of advice.

Embrace the gray.

I knew what this implied. Much of what I was to encounter would be ambiguous, foggy, murky. I would need to use discretion to succeed in my role.

In that moment, I felt chills creeping up my spine. Because discretion wasn’t something I did well.

I had traditionally thrived on consistency. I had depended upon clarity. I had relied on learning the ground rules acting accordingly.

This choose-your-own-adventure idea — it frightened me.

Yet, over time, I got more proficient at it. Instead of relying on external expectations, I let my internal compass be my guide. And I found myself thriving.

Perhaps I can carry forward the lessons from that experience. Perhaps we all can.

After all, the road to prosperity is not always a straight line. We will face setbacks from time to time, even if we follow a winning script.

Such is the way of the world. Machines can break down after frequent use. And so can we.

When faced with this reality, we can bury our heads in the sand. We can let ourselves languish. Or we can stay the course, adjusting for feel.

We owe it to ourselves to take that last approach. To see the Productivity Paradox for what it is — a random flaw — instead of overstating its importance.

The circumstances we contend with might not always make sense. But we can still act sensibly.

Let’s make sure we do.

Everything’s Changed

They put up a plant where we used to park. That old drive-in’s a new Walmart.

So go a few lines from Everything’s Changed by Lonestar. A 90’s country song about how love endures, even as a town transforms.

For years, this song seemed ubiquitous to many others from that genre and era. Catchy, comfortable, and shallow.

But such descriptors are hardly adequate these days.

After all the disruptions of recent years, it’s hard not to relate Everything’s Changed to the world we live in. With so much transformation around us, we strain to find the reference markers that haven’t changed.

Those through lines are key to our identity. They prove that while we might evolve, our core remains consistent.

Such a rationale might seem sensible. But is it wise?

An ancient Greek parable — the Ship of Theseus — dives to the heart of this dilemma.

In the parable, Theseus’ ship sets off to sea with an original set of parts and a crew. Upon its return to port, none of the vessel’s parts are the same. The crew has meticulously rebuilt the ship, piece by piece, while at sea.

The question posed from this scenario: Has Theseus returned on the same ship he embarked on?

It’s an open debate. One that has enraptured philosophers for centuries.

But if you asked a bunch of people on the street, most would likely say Theseus was not on the same ship.

Our behavior dictates this response. Time and again, we long for connections to the past. We scratch and claw for any through lines that can persevere through the winds of change.

Such adherence to consistency has some benefits, driving an air of nostalgia and boosting our reliability. But they can also make us stubbornly rigid, ill-equipped for the encroaching tsunami of change.

I know this feeling as much as anyone. As a control enthusiast, routine and familiarity are my friends. I’ve historically struggled to lean into change. And even when I did make a shift, I struggled to reconcile it with my sense of identity.

I couldn’t be Theseus’ ship. A wholesale swap would not — could not — jibe with my narrative.

But now, everything’s changed.

Several years ago, I met my father at a baggage claim carousel in the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport.

We were meeting in the Twin Cities to embark on a road trip across the Upper Midwest. Along the way, we’d go to two Major League Baseball games — one in Minneapolis and another in Milwaukee.

We would meet up for trips like these occasionally, as I worked toward my now-completed goal of watching a baseball game in all 30 Major League stadiums. It was a great way to see the country and spend some time with my father, who lived halfway across the country.

Minnesota was in a heatwave when we arrived, and the steamy weather cut our sightseeing time short. But I was intrigued by the Twin Cities and vowed to return.

I was less impressed with Milwaukee. The city seemed sleepy and oddly arranged. The baseball stadium felt dull and cavernous. And even the lakefront seemed to pale in comparison with Chicago’s, 90 miles down shore.

We were in Milwaukee for less than 24 hours on that trip. But I was excited to get out of there and figured I wouldn’t come back.

Boy was I wrong.

As fate would have it, my best friend from high school got engaged to a Wisconsin native a few years later. The wedding took place at the Milwaukee Art Museum, and I found myself back in town. Wandering down the Milwaukee River Walk, through the Third Ward and across Walker’s Point in my spare time, I noticed the charm of the Cream City.

I realized that my initial snap judgment of Milwaukee was off base, and I regretted my error. Still, as I boarded my flight back to Texas, I once again thought it was a one-way trip.

My life and my job were in the Dallas area. And as far as I saw it, they would continue to be for years to come.

But then, the ground under my feet shifted.

The COVID-19 pandemic hit a couple years later, redefining the boundaries around me.

As my world shrank to the contours of a computer screen, it ironically expanded my horizons well beyond North Texas. The contours of physical presence evaporated as the virtual world went mainstream.

Several months into this new scenario, I was hit with another bombshell. My employer was acquired by a larger company — one that was based in Milwaukee. I landed a job on the parent company’s marketing team — a role that would represent a step up in my career trajectory.

And yet, as I prepared to begin my new role, I was whallopped with an identity crisis. I had built my professional existence as a Texan, working alongside members of my community. Now, I would be working with colleagues hundreds of miles away — many of whom lived in a region I was lukewarm toward.

I had two choices. I could withdraw, diving fully into my work and hiding behind my computer screen. Or I could lean in.

I chose the second approach, making a concerted effort to learn more about my colleagues and nuances of Wisconsin culture. And whenever I had an opportunity to make the trek north to Milwaukee for an onsite, I jumped at it.

Through the process, I made friends and earned the respect of my team. And I also grew fonder of the city so many of them called home.

I’ve fully accepted this shift for what it is. An unabashed about-face.

For regardless of the twists and turns along the way, I’m here now. Just like Theseus, I’ve made it back to shore. And unlike that Lonestar song, I’m not looking backward.

I’m fulfilled. I’m happy. And I could give a darn if such blessings align with my prior narratives.

We can all be a bit more like Theseus.

Instead of holding on to rotten boards for posterity’s sake, we can tinker. We can replace, renew, and refresh.

We can dive into change where prudent, without holding back for self-permission. We can be bold, and we can be brave — all while retaining our sensibility.

This potential remains within arm’s length. But it’s our responsibility to reach out and grab it. To stop tethering ourselves to the past and to instead embrace our potential.

The choice is ours. What move will we make?

Going Uphill

I headed into Monday with an air of determination. For there was plenty on my plate.

There were the usual work tasks, of course. The litany of meetings and assignments to keep me on my toes.

And there were the weekly out of work responsibilities. The errands to attend to, the meals to cook.

But this week, there was even more on my plate. All of which would require my health insurance card.

There was an allergy appointment and a dentist visit on my calendar. And I also needed to schedule an MRI and find a chiropractor.

As I started down this gauntlet of to-dos, I immediately hit several snags. The allergist called to cancel my appointment at the last minute. The doctor refused to order an MRI without an office visit. The chiropractor I booked an appointment with was out of my insurer’s network.

I had to change up my schedule on the fly — moving around work meetings for the rest of the week, calling doctor’s offices and filling out paperwork.

By the end of the day, I was thoroughly exhausted. My calendar had swapped out about twenty times. And I still hadn’t gotten my MRI scheduled.

Getting medical care shouldn’t have been so hard. And yet, it was.

About a month before my medical ordeal, I took a short vacation to visit my family halfway across the country. I packed my suitcase, put my Out of Office message on my work email and prepared to leave home behind for a few days.

But just as I was about to head off to the airport, I got the most unwelcome of messages.

Your flight has been canceled.

I scrambled to find a new travel option, only to find that the airline had already booked a new one for me. It seemed convenient – until I saw the words Overnight Connection in small print.

Yes, my new flight itinerary would require me to spend the night in the Kansas City airport before continuing my journey the next day.

I much preferred sleeping in my own bad to spreading out on a dingy airport carpet. But I couldn’t change the itinerary online, since the airline had finalized it.

So, I spent two hours on the phone trying to reach a reservations agent. By the time I finally did, my only option was to fly out the next morning.

I cut my losses and accepted reality. Nearly 18 hours after I was originally supposed to leave town, my plane finally took off.

As the trip neared its nadir, my return flight was canceled. Once again, I had to rebook for a flight the following day — this time cancelling work meetings in the process.

Fortunately, my trip itself was successful and enjoyable. But getting there and back was an abject disaster.

Traveling shouldn’t have been so hard. And yet, it was.

My medical and travel ordeals were distressing. But sadly, they weren’t all that out of the ordinary.

Indeed, it seems like things are harder than ever these days.

Of course, complaints about how difficult life is are as old as time itself. According the old cliché, our ancestors had to trudge uphill both ways in the snow to get to school.

But there is something more to this particular version of the complaint.

Everything from financing a car to buying furniture has gotten more challenging in recent years. There are many reasons for this — such as a volatile economy and strained supply chains. But the primary culprit is our on-demand world itself.

These days, we seemingly have every option we would ever want at our fingertips. And yet, those options remain just beyond our grasp – leaving us suffer in solitude.

In today’s world, I can request a same-day medical exam or board a nonstop flight to anywhere in the country. I can order custom shoes and a new sofa without setting foot out of my front door.

These are all capabilities my ancestors could only dream of.

But seeing those requests fulfilled — that’s a different story. A tale that’s as maddening as it is sad.

For there are complex mechanisms powering the wonder that is our infinite choice world. And when those mechanisms break down, so does the entire system.

There is no master maintenance log for systems that are supposed to “just work.” So, we are forced to fill the gap.

We expend far too much energy troubleshooting these issues. And as we do, our exasperation crescendos.

Add it all up, and we find ourselves on a road to nowhere. One that we can’t divert from.

Or can we?

Restaurant chains.

They’re an American staple. Many families and friend groups celebrate special occasions at these establishments. And many adults get their start in the professional world there.

Working at a chain restaurant has an air of ubiquity to it. This couldn’t be further from the truth.

A server at the Cheesecake Factory has a much more challenging job than one at Chipotle, for instance.

The Cheesecake Factory server must memorize a 15-page menu and ace a test on it as part of training. Once they’re trained, they must spend hours taking orders from entire tables and bringing the finished products back to the dining area.

By contrast, the Chipotle server stands behind a pane of glass under a menu board with only four items on it. They take one order at a time and build it into a basic dish, before handing the finished product across the counter to the customer.

The Cheesecake Factory model offers more variety. But the Chipotle model offers better reliability.

And in a world where Murphy’s Law lurks around every corner, reliability is something we could use more of.

So, let’s do what we can to make the processes in our lives more Chipotle and less Cheesecake Factory. Let’s opt for simplicity where possible, even if it forces us to settle for second best.

This won’t smooth over every process we encounter. (There’s no simple way to buy a home these days, for instance.) But it can certainly reduce the bruising we take from the gauntlet we run.

Life is an uphill climb. Let’s do what we can to make it a little less steep.

Do No Harm

The Hippocratic Oath.

It’s the bedrock of medicine.

Tracing back to ancient Greece, its principles are still followed by doctors today. The text sets a baseline of ethical practices for treating patients.

When translated into modern English, the Hippocratic Oath is 377 words long. But just three of those words seem to garner outsize attention.

Do no harm.

The implication of these words is that physicians must weigh risks and opportunities. The benefit of a particular version of a treatment or intervention might not be worth the costs. Anything that risks harming a patient — even in the service of healing — should be avoided.

Doctors use this heuristic in their everyday practice. So do many other arms of the industry, such as pharmaceutical developers and even regulatory entities in Washington.

There’s a good reason why medical research takes so long to deliver greenlighted treatments.  And there’s a good reason why doctors ask us a litany of questions before making a diagnosis.

Do no harm is that reason.

The Hippocratic Oath has built quite a reputation. But it might have become a victim of its own success.

The oath has worked such wonders in the medical field that other industries have sought to adopt it as well.

Do no harm is now part of the fabric of many types of companies. For instance, Google had the words Don’t be evil within its corporate credo for many years.

The rationale behind this shift is sensible enough. Companies are most effective and efficient when growth charts point up and to the right. Harm threatens that reality.

But in practice, it’s hardly ever that simple.

You see, in the medical field, results live on one axis — that of the patient. Physicians, pharmaceutical firms, and others aim to help the patient recover and function optimally.

This objective is inherently self-contained. Except for cases of infectious disease, the patient’s ailments don’t directly impact the community. So, those in the field can focus on the patient, free of competing interests.

There can be complications, of course — insurance billing quandaries, the price of treatments. But even those purveyors are grounded by a common North Star — the outcome of the patient.

If the patient doesn’t improve, the cost to the insurer skyrockets, and the legitimacy of the pharmaceutical treatment plummets. Neither outcome is good for business, so improved outcomes are critical.

Other industries are not set up with this alignment. The stakeholders operate on different axes and often compete for prominence.

Industry leaders must often walk a tightrope, balancing these interests in search of the most harmonious solution. Much like a blanket that’s too small to cover an entire bed, these solutions rarely make everyone happy.

Given this context, do no harm seems idealistic and nearly impossible outside the medical sphere.

Someone is going to get hurt. The question is who, and how badly.

When you think of famous figures in business, who comes to mind?

Warren Buffet, maybe. Or Henry Ford. Or maybe even John D. Rockefeller.

I doubt Milton Friedman will top that list.

But perhaps he should.

The late economist had an outsized impact on the world of modern business. Friedman’s accolades are vast, including a Nobel Prize. But one piece of his work stands above the rest — a 1970 New York Times article that introduced what came to be known as The Friedman Doctrine.

The Friedman Doctrine states that one priority stands out above the rest for corporations — to maximize return for shareholders. This philosophy — known as Shareholder Theory — posits that profit stands above all other corporate objectives.

In the half-century since this article was published, companies have taken Shareholder Theory to heart. Valuations have soared, innovation has skyrocketed, and many have gotten rich.

Shareholder theory has proven to be a worthy North Star for big business, and our entire economy.

But the gains of this philosophy haven’t been universal. Indeed, many parties have been harmed by Shareholder Theory.

Workers for one. Employees could once expect job security in exchange for performing their duties. But if those duties don’t lead to strong company stock results, those employees can find themselves replaced.

Sustainability is another victim. To maximize profits, companies tend to cut costs. And the cheapest option can often harm the environments of communities along the supply chain.

And social causes also find themselves maimed. Where a company stands on these issues has no import, according to the Shareholder Theory doctrine. Stock performance is where the bread is buttered.

With so many downsides at play, it should come as no surprise that some have vehemently opposed the Friedman Doctrine. And as this activism has picked up steam recently, it’s set up a dilemma for corporate leaders: Do what’s right for the community or do what’s best for shareholders.

Do no harm is out of the equation. Pick your poison has taken its place.

It’s tempting to shrug off the example of the business quandary. It might seem like a dilemma for executives in power suits to decide, rather than something that impacts our own lives.

Yet, we ignore this example at our own risk.

For we are living under the guise of a fantasy. One that tells us we can get what we want without anyone getting hurt.

This is simply not true.

In just about every aspect of our polarized society, our win is another’s loss. The burden of harm gets lobbed back and forth like a ping pong ball, depending on who’s in power and which way the wind is blowing.

Harm is unfortunate, but it can’t be fully avoided.

The sooner we accept this reality, the better. For it will allow us to mend fences with those who’ve been hurt by something that’s helped us, softening the blow for them as much as possible.

This fence mending should be our objective. It’s a North Star that provides some benefits to all, while staying in touch with reality.

So, let’s leave the Hippocratic Oath in the space where it belongs.

Do no harm is a noble ideal. But reduce harm is a goal we can attain.

The Contingency

Break glass in case of emergency.

This directive encases several safety items. Fire extinguishers, first aid kits and train emergency brake, to name a few.

Such an arrangement might seem a bit strange at first. If these items are essential, why enclose them in glass?

It seems like a design bug, but it’s a feature.

For the fire extinguisher, the first aid kit, the emergency brake — these are contingency plans. In an ideal world, they’re never used at all. The barrier between us and them makes that clear.

But does putting the backup plan out of sight leave it too far out of mind?

Not long ago, my parents and I met up down in Houston.

It was our first time traveling together in a while, and it seemed promising. But less than a week before our travels, my mother informed me that a longstanding knee injury had flared up. She would still be making the trip, but in a wheelchair.

This threw everything for a loop. We had arranged for activities — the Houston Rodeo, the NASA space center, and more — without wheelchair accessibility in mind. Now, we had to make sure everything would work out.

As I brought up these concerns, I seemed more worried about them then my mother did. Normally the consummate overplanner, she let go of the reins and fell back on the same refrain.

They’ll accommodate us.

I was incensed.

Sure, Houston follows the requirements of the Americans with Disabilities Act — making ramps and elevators available for wheelchair-bound people. But we hadn’t followed those same requirements.

We had made decidedly inaccessible reservations, and the impetus was on us to pivot to wheelchair-friendly ones.

Yet, in the midst of all this, my mother was punting. It was simply infuriating.

Eventually, my parents and I were able to rally. We made some phone calls and ensured that my mother could access all venues without hassle. But for weeks after the trip, I remained annoyed at how everything had initially gone down.

I realize now what was going on. My mother was overwhelmed by her situation, and she simply shut down. She stared blankly at the glass-encased fire extinguisher, even as the room started filling with smoke.

But the result this inaction — making the contingency plan on the fly — might not have been so bad after all.

I am an avid runner.

On most mornings, I can be found striding down local roads or getting some speedwork in on the track. As I write this, I’ve already run more than 1,200 miles and three half-marathons this calendar year. And there’s still about half a year to go.

Through all those miles and races, I heard a warning from fellow runners.

Be smart. Listen to your body. Don’t get yourself injured.

I knew the danger they spoke of. Running is a full-body exercise — a synchronized harmony of motions, repeated hundreds of times a minute. The chances of all those movements landing flawlessly are scant.

Injuries are almost inevitable. And while I did my best to follow my fellow runners’ advice — to train intelligently and remain attuned to my body — I knew that I would have to reckon with the boogeyman eventually.

That reckoning came in the form of lower left leg discomfort. I tried to run through it at first. But when the pain persisted throughout the day, I sought medical attention.

I was ordered to stop running for at least a week, and to start icing my leg frequently.

I followed the instructions diligently at first. Doctor’s orders are doctor’s orders after all.

But after a couple days, I was losing my mind.

I missed the endorphin high, the feeling of constant motion, the camaraderie of my running buddies — all of it.

I had not adequately prepared for this moment. Just like my mother with the wheelchair, I had remained in willful denial about this scenario — hoping it would never come to fruition.

But now, my nightmare situation was all too real. And the next move was mine to make.

So, I put together a contingency plan on the fly. I headed to the gym at the crack of dawn each day and spent an hour on the stationary bike. I tried on the sports headphones that had sat unused on my dresser for weeks. I made sure my fueling and hydration supplies were sufficient.

I stayed productive, even as I was down for the count.

Fortunately, my time on the shelf turned out to be short lived. But the lessons from my injury will endure.

What exactly are those lessons I’ll take from my injury experience?

Plenty of them involve the leg I hurt. Load management, treatment, and recovery are all much more top of mind for me now than they were before.

But the most critical lessons involve my mind.

Not having a contingency plan was a mistake — one that nearly left me in a spiral of misery when I was torn away from the activity I love.

And yet, having a fully-fledged plan might also have ended up fruitless.

After all, there is much about an adverse situation that must be experienced to be understood. Left and right turns that can’t possibly be accounted for ahead of time. Happy little accidents uncovered on the road back to normalcy.

If I had encased the fire extinguisher in glass ahead of time, I might have found it to be inadequate. Sure, it would have quelled the immediate crisis. But what about the aftershocks?

I would have needed to improvise either way. So perhaps, the tact I took wasn’t so bad.

The truth is that it’s best to split the difference. To have a plan for when things turn south. And to be ready to rip up that plan when it proves inadequate.

Sure, building something not fit for use might seem like wasted effort at first. But consider that initial contingency plan to be an investment. A baseline to set us up for the on-the-fly version that follows.

This will set us up for success, even in the shadow of setbacks.

So, let’s get to work.

On Redemption

The date was August 15, 2004.

I was sitting in a restaurant in Upstate New York, staring intently at an Olympic basketball game on the big screen TV.

The game — USA vs. Puerto Rico — was taking place halfway across the world in Greece. It was supposed to be a cakewalk for the Americans, but it turned out to be anything but.

The Puerto Ricans showed up to play. Meanwhile, the US squad looked disengaged and disjointed. Players seemed to prefer going it alone to playing as a team.

The results of this selfishness were evident. Ill-advised drives to the hoop. Hurried three-pointers. And a general lack of passing or defense.

By the time the final horn sounded, Puerto Rico had shellacked the US squad by 19 points — the team’s worst-ever Olympic loss.

It was an utter embarrassment. One that foreshadowed the team’s eventual Bronze Medal finish.

Third place would be considered an accomplishment by many nations. But in America, it rang hollow with disappointment.

So, when the Olympics returned four years later, the United States pulled out all the stops. Our nation’s top basketball players and coaches headed to China for the games, and they leveraged advanced scouting and practice techniques.

Those moves certainly helped put the team in a better position to compete. But so did the moniker the team adopted.

The Redeem Team.

A spin on the Dream Team nickname used by the 1992 USA basketball squad, the Redeem Team label made clear what the players were there for. The foibles of the 2004 squad would not be repeated. A gold medal was the only acceptable outcome.

And so, some of the greatest players of the 2000s put it all on the line. They checked their egos at the door and committed to playing as a unit. And they did all of this with a chip on their shoulder.

Other nations had drastically improved at basketball since 2004, and the Olympic competition was steep. But those other squads no match for the United States.

The Redeem Team stormed through the tournament and reclaimed the gold. And they haven’t relinquished it since.

I’ve long been fascinated by the story of the Redeem Team. For it’s one of the most tangible examples of what redemption looks like.

We all too often misunderstand redemption, confusing it with resilience. While both concepts can lead us to rise from the ashes like a phoenix, the comparisons end there.

Resilience demonstrates how we respond to adversity. It looks at how we react to the curveballs life invariably throws at us, regardless of our objectives.

Redemption speaks to how we rebound from a mess we’ve created. It looks at how we react to botched plans, lackluster efforts, and other hallmarks of poor performance.

The Redeem Team sought to pick up the pieces left by that 2004 USA basketball squad.

Most members of the Redeem Team weren’t directly responsible for that disaster, as they weren’t on the squad in Greece. Still, as stewards for the reputation of USA Basketball, the Redeem Team was saddled with the burden of righting the wrongs of others.

They owned that unwelcome responsibility, and they rose to the occasion.

It’s an example we can all learn from.

Roughly two months before the USA Basketball team got embarrassed by Puerto Rico, I was in California on a family vacation.

We started our trek in Los Angeles and Orange County — the first time I’d ever been to Southern California. Then, we trekked south to San Diego.

I was excited as we made our way down The 5, ocean vistas on one side of the freeway and mountains on the other. I’d heard great things about San Diego. My grandparents had even considered moving there, way back when.

But once we got to town, our trip unraveled.

My family went to a San Diego Padres baseball game — only to find our view of the action blocked by a Sherpa with a tall hat, who was sitting right in front of us. My sister caught a virus and vomited all over the rental car as we drove down the Silver Strand. And my mother and I visited Tijuana, Mexico — only to realize upon our return to the US that we’d brought my father and sister’s passports, instead of our own.

By the time we left town, I was about done with San Diego. The sunshine was nice, and the city was beautiful, but I only had bad associations with it.

More than a decade later, my cousin moved to San Diego and invited me to visit. I agreed and booked a plane ticket. But as the trip approached, I started to get cold feet.

This was unusual. I’d always been eager to travel. But the memories of that 2004 trip seemed to override that eagerness.

So, I reframed the conversation. I decided I would treat this trip to San Diego as The Redemption Tour and take a mulligan on many of the activities that had gone so wrong previously.

This rebranding worked wonders. I had an amazing weekend visiting my cousin — replete with another Padres game, a drive along the Silver Strand, a walk along the coastline in La Jolla, and much more.

The curse was broken. Redemption was mine.

There’s a lot of regret in the air these days. A collective dwelling on missed opportunities.

This is only natural. With so much uncertainty baked into this era, squandered chances have an air of finality to them.

Still, it’s important for us to shift our thinking. We must go from fatalistic to opportunistic.

For second chances will come. They might not be exactly what we expect, but they will be there.

If we approach them with a mindset of redemption, we could see improved results.

So, let’s lean in. Let’s embrace our second chances, with a focus on redemption.

We just might wash the bad taste of our prior missteps out of our mouths. And we just might find the satisfaction we’re yearning for.