Category: Thoughts

Inputs and Outputs

I worked two jobs in college.

Chances are, we’ve heard this phrase before.

We might have even lived it.

I can claim that as true. Sort of.

You see, I did work two jobs to help me with such month-to-month expenses as food and gasoline. But not at the same time.

The first job was with my university’s admissions department. But it was from a heady position.

My role was to digitize prospective students’ college application documents. That meant splaying the packets of materials out on my desk, removing the staples, running each page through a scanner, and then stapling the packets back together.

It was boring work, yet somehow still tedious.

I was terrified of getting a paper cut, stapling my fingers, or accidentally mixing up documents from the applicants. And so, I came back to the dorms mentally exhausted each evening — just in time to start on my homework.

I can’t remember if I lasted a few days or a few weeks in that job. But at some point, I quit.

By the time the next school year came around, I had a new job. This time, I was an administrative assistant for a tutoring program for underprivileged youth.

The program took place at the university, so its offices were on-campus. My job was to check program attendance, file papers, gather the mail, and do a host of other menial tasks.

My tenure there lasted three years, severed only by my graduation from the university.

So yes, I worked two jobs in college. But the mileage varied.

What was behind the differing outcomes in my collegiate job history?

After all, both jobs were of similar administrative ilk. They both paid about the same and required the same hours.

Yet, I ran for the hills from one and stuck around for another. Why was that?

I believe the answer comes from three words: Inputs and Outputs.

You see, most jobs involve these. But some apply them more dynamically than others.

In the college admissions support role, the inputs were a set of paper documents. The outputs were the digitized files, plus the paper backups.

My job was to transform those inputs into outputs. But it relied wholeheartedly on both aspects.

If the inputs weren’t there, I had nothing to work on. That would leave me without any outputs — and without pay.

And so, I yearned for that stack of unprocessed papers on my desk to be as tall as possible. All while dreading the repetitive task of going through it.

With the admin assistant job, the inputs varied. There was always something to help with, but it wasn’t always the same thing.

I was able to practice creativity, to a degree. Efficiency wasn’t just about doing one task faster and more accurately. It was about providing as many outputs to my employer as possible.

And even for a fresh-faced college student like me, that was enlightening.

Over the past two centuries, there have been two dominant paradigms for work in the western world.

One is the Assembly Line Model. The other is the Innovator Model.

The Assembly Line Model was made famous by Henry Ford. His factory workers would each focus on one specialized task, repeating it as quickly and accurately as possible. When these tasks were performed in parallel, they’d yield a finished product in record time.

The Innovator Model is almost entirely the opposite. Tasks would vary widely, all in the context of a challenging end goal.

It’s easy to put each role into buckets. To relegate the Assembly Line Model to manufacturing and the Innovator Model to high-tech software.

But that would be a grave mistake.

Industries and salaries don’t determine which bucket each of our job functions falls into. Only one question does.

Is there a predetermined input?

In the case of my administrative assistant roles in college, the answer to that question was clear. Only the admissions job had such an input. The other role was far more varied.

But oftentimes, the situation is much murkier. We might have some base inputs. But we’re not solely wedded to them.

In these scenarios, our choices tend to diverge along three paths.

Some of us will stick to the inputs we’re given, sacrificing opportunity for reliability.

Others will shun the inputs, going rouge to make their own way to success.

And still others will split the difference, iterating off inputs in hopes of maximizing outputs.

I have taken this third path in my professional life after graduation.

As a TV news producer, I relied on the stories my assignment editors and reporters uncovered. But I also scrounged for material to round out the newscasts. Material that helped balance the needs to inform, inspire, and entertain my station’s viewer base.

As a marketer, I’ve relied on several things — technology, revenue targets, and product development, to name a few. But I’ve proactively viewed my work from a consumer perspective, identifying and filling the gaps I identified.

Through it all, I’ve strived to be transparent, compassionate, and collaborative. I’ve sought to provide unique value to my employers, but in a manner where my contributions could be replicated by others. I tried to be invaluable, yet not entirely irreplaceable.

It’s a blueprint that’s worked wonders for me. But I needn’t be the alone in reaping the benefits.

Business news these days is bleak.

Week after week, tales of stock market downturns, interest rate increases, and stubbornly high costs seem to take center stage. And this has led to a spate of layoffs.

Tech companies are reducing staff at levels not seen in two decades. Other employers are cutting their workforces at rates not seen since the Great Recession.

This has all led to a lot of heartache. Tens of thousands of workers have suddenly found themselves without a livelihood, searching for new roles in an unsteady economy.

It’s a sobering moment, to be sure. But this inflection point also provides a unique opportunity.

We now have the chance to reinvent the way we approach work. To be more than a connector between inputs and outputs. To be scrappy and fill the gaps that existing systems and processes yield. To propel our role, our employer, our industry forward.

Such attributes will not guarantee security or success. But they’ll put us in a far better position to get where we want to be.

Yet, even in this moment, many of us are still yearning for reliable inputs. Whether we’re hanging onto our roles or looking to land a new one, we have little appetite for being transformational. It just seems too risky.

I understand the sentiment. But it’s sorely misplaced.

The more we settle for turning the same tired inputs into outputs, the more we make ourselves forgettable. The more we depend on others, without providing unique value in return. The more we put ourselves in jeopardy of becoming redundant.

Hiding in plain sight isn’t the safe play. Not in a game that awards extra points to the bold and the determined.

So, let’s switch tactics. Let’s put our stamp on the work we do.

Let’s take agency. Let’s be transformational. Let’s dare to make vision reality.

Inputs needn’t define our destiny. That responsibility can, should, must fall on us.

It’s time to grab the reins.

Survive and Advance

They were a juggernaut.

The 2014-2015 Kentucky Wildcats men’s basketball team had top-end talent up and down the roster. Led by a legendary coach, the team had elite-level prowess, talent, and competitive drive. And this made them a nightmare to compete against.

The Wildcats could beat you with offensive skill. They could smother you defensively. And they could outlast you with superior depth.

The college basketball season is a grind, and even the best teams end up with a few blemishes along the way. But not Kentucky.

The Wildcats finished off the regular slate with a 31-0 record. Only 7 of those games were decided by less than 10 points.

As they entered postseason play, a sense of inevitability reigned.

All Kentucky had to do was win 9 more games. That would make them the first men’s team to go 40-0 in a season.

The Wildcats rolled through their conference tournament and the early rounds of the national tournament. But once they reached the Final Four (the national semifinals), something strange happened.

Kentucky’s opponent — the Wisconsin Badgers — matched the Wildcats blow for blow, before pulling away in the final minute.

The Badgers won by 7 points. And just like that, Kentucky’s season was over.

There would be no national championship. No coronation as the best team ever. Kentucky’s ballyhooed players would watch the title game along with the rest of us.

The Wildcats had played 1,574 minutes of masterful basketball that season. But the 1,575th minute cost them everything.

College basketball is full of peculiarities.

Pro basketball has evolved into a spectacle, with elite players competing in modern arenas blaring hip-hop beats.

But college ball remains rugged and antiquated. Games take place in old-school fieldhouses, with cheerleaders and pep bands providing the soundtrack. Jump ball confrontations are replaced by an alternating possession arrow. And, in certain circumstances, players must make one free throw to get a chance at a second. (The dreaded 1 and 1.)

These oddities are widely forgiven, though. For the college basketball season ends with perhaps the most iconic tournament in sports.

The NCAA Tournament — widely known as March Madness — pits the top 68 teams in the country against each other. Teams face off against each other, with the winners moving on and the losers going home. This continues until there is one team left standing.

In theory, March Madness is not all that different than other postseason tournaments. Both the college and professional versions of American football have a single-elimination tournament at the end of their seasons. Part of the World Cup in soccer uses the same format.

But none of these tournaments have the size or scope of the NCAA Tournament. And none are as inherently cruel to elite teams as March Madness.

You see, to win it all, college basketball teams must win 6 games in a row. Those 6 wins must come against other great teams, under the brightest of lights.

This requires a mindset shift. It requires teams to embrace three simple words.

Survive and advance.

Indeed, it’s the most scrappy and desperate teams that have the edge in March. This has led to all manner of surprises over the years — with “Cinderella” teams knocking out more highly-regarded opponents.

Kentucky was able to avoid such an upset in the early rounds of the 2015 tournament. But the sand ran out in the Final Four.

Wisconsin proved to be scrappier than the Wildcats with the game on the line.

The Badgers survived. They advanced.

I often think about the 2014-2015 Kentucky Wildcats. The team that had it all yet walked away with nothing.

It’s tough to know what to make of them.

Generations of evidence show that The Two T’s — talent and teamwork — provide a winning combination. Darwin’s theory of evolution states that the stronger species survives, adapting to adversity more deftly than its foes.

Yet, the loss to Wisconsin defies both trends. The Badgers were no slouch that season, but they weren’t at Kentucky’s level. If both teams were firing on all cylinders, Wisconsin would seemingly be toast.

But they weren’t. The Badgers took the Wildcats’ best shot and prevailed.

In the wake of this outcome, what should we do?

Should we cast off Darwin and The Two T’s, declaring them false prophets? Absolutely not. That would be as foolish as denying the existence of gravity because a party balloon floated toward the ceiling.

Should we shrug our shoulders and chalk this all up to an anomaly? Perhaps. But it doesn’t help us make heads or tails of what happened.

No, the best course of action is to consider what the Kentucky Wildcats could have done better. And then to avoid those same pitfalls in our own life.

The answer to that is clear.

For whatever reason, the Kentucky Wildcats failed to take stock. They failed to consider what they had, and what would be needed to protect it.

This led them to get outscrapped at the worst possible time.

We must not follow suit.

As I write this, another college basketball season is in full swing.

Some teams have risen to the top. Others have stumbled but have some time to right themselves.

Indeed, March Madness is months away for college basketball. But for the rest of us, Selection Sunday is upon us.

We’re heading into a new year rife with uncertainty. Persistent inflation and accelerating layoffs are all over the headlines. The long tail of a pandemic and societal divisiveness each linger beneath the surface.

For quite a while now, we’ve relied on our attributes to thrive. The parallel rise of the tech and venture funding industries has provided ample growth opportunities. When it came to our lives, our careers, and our financial futures, we had leverage.

But now, the tables are turning.

Those around us are battening down the hatches. Growth is turning to maintenance. Excess opportunities are drying up.

In the wake of all this, we need to do what the Kentucky Wildcats didn’t. We need to adapt.

Instead of deciding which options best maximize our talents, we should consider how we can hang on to what we have.

We must be scrappy. We must be gritty.

We must survive and advance.

I’m ready to rise to the moment. Are you?

The Time Shift Fallacy

As I entered the arena, I was in for a surprise.

I knew that I was there for a pro hockey game. And I knew that my favorite team would be wearing modified throwback jerseys.

But what I didn’t know was that nearly the entire game experience would be retrofitted.

The sound system blared 1990s music. The scoreboard showed TV commercials for such bygone brands as Kay Bee Toys and Circuit City. The Zamboni drivers wore Zumba pants.

For a moment, I was transfixed. My mind had traveled back to the days when Wayne Gretzky and Mario Lemieux were on the ice. My body seemed to follow suit.

But then, reality snapped me back.

That star player who scored a hat trick (three goals) that night, leading to a cascade of hats from the stands? He was a baby in the late 1990s.

Those high-powered smartphones we were using to check the game stats? They were years from being invented back in that decade.

And the arena I was sitting in? Well, the team didn’t even start playing there until the early 2000s.

Yes, I was in an alternate reality. One that capitalized on nostalgia without sacrificing the comforts of modernity.

For a night, it worked. But when the clock struck 12, the experience turned into a pumpkin.

And an uncomfortable reality lingered.

Retro night at the hockey game isn’t the only time we’ve thrown it back.

Indeed, remnants of the past are all over our present.

Fashion from the 1990s has been back in style recently. And several cultural figures from that era have had a renaissance.

This should come as no surprise. Generational revitalizations are like clockwork in our society.

Styles from the 1980s re-emerged in the 2010s. And figures from the 1970s found new life in the 2000s.

Still, this is the first time I’ve experienced both the original and the remix. And the nostalgia has brought both glee and alarm.

At first glance, there’s not much to airbrush from the 1990s. The Cold War had ended. The American economy was humming. Aside from the O.J. Simpson trial and the Monica Lewinsky affair, there was not much to wring our hands about.

But dig a bit deeper, and the story is less tidy.

You see, the 1990s introduced the world to a film called Forrest Gump. The movie follows the title character on an accidental journey through many key moments in 20th century America.

In one such scene, Gump is trying to go to class at the University of Alabama when he finds a crowd gathered outside a building on campus. It turns out the commotion is over the racial integration of the university. Several Black students are heading to class, protected by the National Guard. And the crowd, while calm, is hostile to their cause.

During the commotion — including grandstanding by the segregationist governor George Wallace — Gump can be seen on his tiptoes, staring in on what’s going on. He later picks up a book that one of the students inadvertently dropped and hands it back to her.

In the moment, the scene seemed quaint. A relic from a moment in American history.

But recently, real-life imagery of another pivotal moment has seen some new light. The moment was the integration of North Little Rock High School in Arkansas. The era was the 1950s. And the peering onlooker was Jerry Jones.

Jones was an awkward teenager back then. But today, he’s the billionaire owner of the Dallas Cowboys — one of the world’s most famous sports teams. That makes him plenty visible.

As such, the response has not been kind. Instead of viewing the image as quaint, many have directed ire at Jones. Why was he there? And why didn’t he do more to help the bullied Black students?

The answers matter. But the questions are even more significant.

History is written by the victors.

So goes an adage that’s attributed – often controversially – to Winston Churchill.

For decades, we took such commentary at face value. But these days, we’re adding a new twist.

You see, there are now two dominant positions when it comes to historical artifacts. There are those who seek to amplify the flaws of those who came before us. And there are those who seek to wipe those blemishes away.

Thanks to this, turning points in our history — such as desegregation — are no longer taken at face value. They’ve become flashpoints.

Never mind the foolishness of viewing 20th century actions with a 21st century lens. The outcome is set in stone.

Those in the photos, recordings, and writings of yesteryear are sure to be canceled one way or another. They are certain to be construed as villains or heroes, even if they went through those eras as bystanders.

This principle is evident when it comes to Jerry Jones and that photo from Little Rock. But what about that scene from Forrest Gump?

If the movie was being made today, would that plot point have been altered? Might it have been cut?

The answer would most likely Yes.

Indeed, plenty of comedy routines from the 1990s are now considered “over the line.” A prominent 1980s song spoke of asking a doctor for a woman’s gynecological photos. A classic 1970s movie featured an Italian American saying the N-word.

None of that would fly today.

This is the reason the cultural staples of the present are so carefully varnished. And it’s the reason why we curate our trips down memory lane, through such experiences as retro night at a hockey game.

It seems sensible. It seems safe.

But it’s not working.

Back at the arena, I took in the sights and sounds of retro night with wonder.

But down the row from me, a young girl was perplexed.

The girl didn’t understand all the 1990s references. And her mother was struggling to describe them to her.

I couldn’t blame either of them.

The girl was born years after 90s mania had subsided. Like a Soviet defector encountering McDonalds for the first time, she had no ability to generate the warm fuzzies others did.

And her mother experienced that mania in real time. She was processing the Disney World version of the 1990s at the same time she was trying to explain it. That proved too tall a task to master.

This one example explains the time shift fallacy.

All our varnishing, cleansing, and massaging of the past can’t substitute for the real thing. Those of us who lived through it know better than to be bamboozled. And those who didn’t are in no position to understand, appreciate, or judge.

It’s fair to question the faults of the past using the glare of a modern lens. Such enlightenment is necessary. And efforts to avoid such inquiries are corrosively reckless.

Yet, it’s not fair to categorically dismiss all those who committed such faults. Dictators and madmen deserve our scorn for their atrocities, to be sure. But teenage onlookers captured in photos from yesteryear might not.

We might find movies reprehensible for racist dialogue. We might find songs offensive for sexist content. And indeed, we might think twice before sharing these bygone staples in contemporary settings.

But it must end there.

We mustn’t have the gall to think we can time shift, even for a moment. We mustn’t have the hubris to think we can sanitize the past. And we mustn’t categorically mistake the sins of ignorance for malice.

Yesterday is gone. The window for changing it has closed.

Let’s make today great instead.

The Extension Trap

The images were horrifying.

In the heart of Chicago, railroad tracks were on fire.

This seemed to be disastrous for America’s third-largest city. Track fires would jam up rail traffic, disrupting commuters and putting a halt to freight deliveries. And the flames could easily threaten nearby structures — a possibility that had literally burned Chicago before.

But appearances can be deceiving.

Indeed, the flames were no accident. Maintenance crews had intentionally set the tracks ablaze to preserve them.

An arctic blast had hit Illinois, sending temperatures well below 0. And in those conditions, exposed metal can shrink.

Narrower tracks cannot properly hold train wheels. They make derailments likely.

Setting the tracks on fire caused the metal to expand, canceling out the damage from the biting cold. The trains kept running, and life kept churning.

Those blazing railroad tracks kept everything in equilibrium.

Several years later, another picture of fiery metal made the rounds.

This time, a metal dumpster was on fire. And the image of it was all over the Internet.

Now, an inferno of a trash receptacle doesn’t mean much on its own. Burning trash is still trash.

But what those bins represented? That certainly struck a chord.

The dumpster fire images were referencing WeWork, a once ballyhooed company that had hit a rough patch.

WeWork had started as an office co-working company — one of the first of its kind. It was a darling of the start-up world and a tempting target for venture funding.

The ingredients for success were there. And the company began to scale.

But once WeWork announced plans to incorporate as a publicly traded company, the wheels fell off.

Investors started diffing into WeWork’s finances, and they didn’t like what they saw.

The company appeared to be spending far more money than it brought in, and there seemed to be no end in sight for this pattern.

WeWork’s CEO and co-founder dismissed these concerns, stating that the company was doing far more than running a business. It was sparking a movement — a physical social network that replaced Me with We.

To this end, WeWork had already created a co-living brand called WeLive and an education concept called WeGrow. There were plans for banks, shipping, and airlines as well.

Venture investors had long looked beyond these red flags of excess. But public investors were less easily mesmerized. They wanted a return on their investment, and they saw right through the house of cards.

The fallout was brutal. WeWork saw its valuation plummet, canceled its Initial Public Offering, and laid off thousands of its workers. WeLive and WeGrow were put on ice. And the CEO was forced to resign.

There are plenty of reasons for WeWork’s collapse. Case studies and TV dramas will likely cover them for years to come. But I’d like to focus on just one.

WeWork’s failed, in part, because the burgeoning company fell into The Extension Trap.

WeWork expanded too fast, without a plan for sustaining such growth. Worse still, it pitched itself as a lifestyle movement before ensuring its core business was viable.

There was only one way out of this trap. WeWork was forced to shrink like those Chicago rail tracks, simply to get to where it should have been at all along.

The company does still exists today, and it’s now publicly traded. But that damage from its foray into The Extension Trap? It’s likely to linger for years.

The WeWork dumpster fire and the Chicago track fire have each been on my mind recently.

For as I write this, winter is setting in. And as the temperatures plummet, the world around us gets visibly smaller.

Indeed, signs of withering are everywhere. The economy is teetering, with high interest rates and higher inflation spooking off investors. And several companies have started to lay off many of their workers.

As the cold, hard reality of these cuts sinks in, the rationale remains consistent. We expanded too fast, and now the winds have changed.

On its face, such an explanation makes sense. This is the way modern markets work; investors and businesses are simply operating within those parameters.

But, come on.

Is this really the way we want to live? Are these really the values we want to espouse?

I would say not.

When it comes to eating, a cycle of binging and purging is labeled a disorder. It’s a problem — one not to be practiced or written off as trivial.

So why do we give a free pass for this behavior more broadly? Why do we keep taking the bait when we clearly know better?

Its maddening. But it doesn’t have to be inevitable.

The start of winter, with its shorter days and location at the tail end of the calendar, can seem like the lean times.

Paradoxically, it’s also the season of excess.

This is the time of the year where we overextend ourselves. Where we fill our calendars with gatherings. Where we indulge ourselves with sweets. Where we empty the coffers while shopping for gifts.

For several weeks, we lure ourselves into The Extension Trap, in the name of holiday spirit.

Of course, we can’t sustain this behavior. So once the holiday lights dim and the ornaments go back into storage, we adjust back to our regular patterns. And we do our best to ignore the pain this readjustment causes us.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

We can resolve to stop this madness. To say No more often. To choose not to overextend ourselves.

It’s a singular action, a drop in the bucket in the grand scheme of things. But as more and more of us head that direction, that ripple can become a wave. And perhaps, these expectations of overextension will go away.

And it doesn’t have to stop there.

Investors are people. So are members of the C-Suite. They too have lives outside of the office. They too have families and social circles.

If our movement crosses the tipping point, it can influence their decisions. And it can shift the contours in which we operate.

That would truly be a paradigm shift. But it can’t happen unless we make the first move.

So, let’s be bold. Let’s be brave. Let’s be smart.

Let’s practice moderation and steer clear of The Extension Trap.

It’s our best path forward.

Playing it Back

As I picked up the cup, I felt it slide.

My grip seemed strong, and my focus was top-notch. Yet, gravity was inclined to foil my efforts.

My reflexes took over, clutching the cup tighter. My hands trembled momentarily, but I was able to steady myself.

Crisis averted, I thought. Or maybe not.

I looked down at my custom football jersey, now splashed with beer. When my hands had trembled, some of the liquid had left the cup — and ended up on one of my most expensive pieces of clothing.

It was the cruelest of ironies. I don’t drink; I was bringing the beer to my mother, sitting at a table nearby. And yet, I’d paid the price for chivalry.

Back at the table, with the beer now handed off, my mind began racing. I was counting the seconds until I could get home and carefully place the jersey in the wash. And I was reliving my quasi-disaster, playing it back over and over to see where things went wrong.

I was stuck on a road to nowhere.

If I could turn back time.

This is more than a famous Cher song. It’s a common lament. A wish with no chance of being granted.

For time moves in but one direction — forward. Attempting to re-litigate the past is foolhardy.

And yet, we continue to try.

There’s a reason why time travel movies are so popular. There’s a reason fashion trends cycle every few decades. There’s a reason why songs about regret — including that Cher tune — persist.

We are obsessed with playing it back. We are consumed by the thought of one tweak yielding a different outcome.

We’d rather not look at the spilled beer on our cherished jersey. We’d rather not sweep up the shattered glass from the kitchen floor. We’d rather not face the conundrum we find ourselves in.

Far better to picture an entirely different reality.

Even if conjuring such illusions amounts to little more than wasted energy.

I sat in the classroom, staring at the whiteboard.

My business school professor was introducing the concept of decision trees, and I was mesmerized.

Not by the myriad probabilities and the complicated math. All of that was over my head.

No, the concept itself had me enthralled.

You see, I had long dreamed of seeing all the possibilities in front of me and choosing the optimal one. For I had obsessed over the moments that caused bad outcomes, imagining how they could have gone better.

I tended to do this more with the little things in my life than the big ones. I rarely played back my decision to move to a new state or to jump to a new vocation.

But that trek down a muddy path that got my shoes dirty? That money I wasted because I forgot to use a discount code? I’d chew on those missteps for months.

Now, I had a visual aid for this fixation. I could draw the branches and vividly explore the alternatives.

I could make the imperfect art of playing it back a bit smoother.

And so, my games of what if intensified. What was once an arcane exercise turned into a data driven endeavor. One whose futility was masked by ferocity.

Nothing could deter me from this sorry crusade. At least not until the day I spilled some beer on my cherished football jersey.

For my mother caught me in this sad spiral. And she would have none of it.

Stop reliving it, she scolded me. We’ll get the jersey clean and move on.

It wasn’t exactly earth-shattering advice. But it changed my approach entirely.

For my mother’s words exposed an underlying truth. This obsession with playing it back, with decision trees, with alternatives — it wasn’t about hiding in the past for me. No, I kept going to the tape as a means of control.

If I could find the root cause of bad outcomes, I could avoid them in the future. At least that was the thought.

But things happen, regardless of my attempts to avoid them. It would be far better for me to focus on my response than to keep digging for the root cause.

With that ethos in tow, I find myself playing it less often.

In September 2008, the Miami Dolphins and the New England Patriots met for a football game in Massachusetts.

The game was billed as a massive mismatch. New England had won 21 straight games in the regular season, had dominated the division both teams played in, and had played in the most recent Super Bowl. While the Patriots were missing their injured star quarterback, they still had Bill Belichick — the best head coach in the National Football League.

In the days leading up to the game, Belichick prepared meticulously. He watched hours of game film, noting the Dolphins’ patterns and tendencies. And he formed a game plan to exploit those tendencies.

But once the game started, it was Belichick who was exploited.

The Dolphins rolled out a new offensive formation. The running back would line up where the quarterback normally did, taking the snap directly. He would then rush to the outside behind a convoy of blockers. Or he might zip it to a nearby wide receiver if the defense left that receiver open.

Miami hadn’t used this formation — the Wildcat — in any of its prior games. Belichick hadn’t prepared for it, and neither had the New England defense.

The Dolphins ran roughshod over the Patriots, earning the victory on the way to a division title. New England ended up missing the playoffs.

This game showed how playing it back has its limits.

Video footage has revolutionized football, taking coaching, scouting, and player safety to the next level. But it can’t tell all.

There’s always a surprise looming that the tape can’t find. A Wildcat formation, if you will.

How teams react to that sudden adversity makes all the difference. The players, coaches and staff who can steady themselves through the fog tend to be the ones who claim victory. Those attached to the past find themselves weighed down by it.

The same dichotomy awaits us. Memory is a potent tool. But it’s not all-powerful.

Past doesn’t always make prologue. And dwelling on what’s written can lower the horizons of what we’ve yet to write.

So, let’s move away from playing it back. Let’s get off the what if carousel. Let’s swap out the rehash for the response.

We’ll be better for it.

Against The Grain

Just say no.

If you turned on your television back in the 1980s, you likely heard those three words.

They came from First Lady Nancy Reagan. And they were part of the War on Drugs campaign.

The United States was in plenty of shadow conflicts at the time. The Cold War was ever present. The War on Poverty appeared to be a lost cause. The War on Inflation had yielded a brutal recession.

But the War on Drugs was getting plenty of outsize attention. Because the future of our kids was at stake.

Now, the future of our kids was at stake plenty of times before. Teenagers tend to be rebellious, after all. And those signs of rebellion – rock and roll music, dancing, roller blading — those have traditionally come under fire by buttoned-up older generations.

But this was different. This time, the offender was a public health hazard. One that we’d turned a blind eye to for far too long.

So, our nation took dead aim. Arrests for possession accelerated. Sentence lengths for dealing skyrocketed. And the crisis abated.

Or at least that was what we told ourselves.

For we were already onto the next frontier — big tobacco. Over the course of the 1990s, the sight of teenagers smoking went from normal to noteworthy.

Advertising for cigarettes declined — per government degree — and buying a pack became much more tedious. As a result, fewer young people gave it a try.

This seemed like a massive success. But there was no time to celebrate. For once again, it was on to the next challenge.

The new enemy arose around the time I reached my teenage years. This one wasn’t a pill, a powder, or a cigarette. It was online poker — a game my peers were flocking to, despite not having the money to back their bids.

Legislators had long dealt with this problem by restricting access to gambling venues, through licensing and age minimums. But the Internet opened a gateway for teens to walk through. And walk through, they did.

So, the authorities cracked down. They started going after the owners of poker websites, while putting out Public Service Announcements about the dangers of gambling.

It didn’t work out as intended.

For it turned out that the online poker fiasco was just the tip of the iceberg. Technology was opening a Pandora’s Box of issues for adolescents — including new ways to access drugs and inhale nicotine.

Fending off those myriad issues turned into a giant game of whack-a-mole. Those leading the charges were a step behind.

Just say no wasn’t quote as straightforward as it seemed.

Why did Nancy Reagan’s initiative go so awry?

Was it the messaging? The tactics? The inability to anticipate the whims of youth?

All these issues likely played a role. But I believe the biggest fault lies at the root.

Just say no trivialized the concept of abstinence. It made quitting seem as trivial as flipping a light switch — a simple task with instant results.

But it’s never quite that simple.

It turns out that abstinence campaigns are asking a lot of us. They’re demanding that we break with habit and go against the grain. All while ignoring the related challenges that are sure to arise along the way.

And those challenges are doubly prominent with adolescents. After all, teenagers are naturally primed to go against the grain. That’s the impetus behind the rule bending and troublemaking that gives older generations such distress.

Asking teenagers to rebel against their rebelliousness on a dime can be straight up delusional. Yet, this is precisely what we tried with Just say no.

No wonder it flopped.

How can I help?

These four words were meant to be my compass.

So said the internship coordinator at CBS News on my first day there.

I was meant to be continually useful, searching for projects to assist with whenever I had a free moment. Saying no was not an option.

I was barely beyond my own adolescence at this point. Fresh off rebellious years that proved to be anything but, I was keen to answer the call.

So, I set up green screen backdrops. I reordered archive tapes. I watched arcane news clips until I knew them by memory.

It wasn’t a glamorous role, but it fulfilled the mission. It proved I was helpful, useful, and perhaps worthy of a future job opportunity.

Still, I finished those eight weeks unsettled. For it seemed to me that finding a footing in TV news — or any other industry — meant never saying no to anything.

It didn’t matter if the pay was too low, the risk was too great, or life was getting in the way. Declining an opportunity might slam the door on your career before it could even get established.

This mentality is now pervasive in our society. Openness and flexibility are cornerstones of our culture.

That’s often a good thing. But not always.

You see, agreeableness requires sacrifice. We put aside our own needs to cater to the demands of others.

The benefits of this trade — acceptance, opportunity, prosperity — make it palatable. But we can only truly flourish if we look out for ourselves as voraciously as we do for others. And sometimes that means going against the grain.

It means just saying no.

Several years back, I got an invite to a fancy gala.

It had all the fixings. Black tie. Hors d’oeuvres. And a guest list that featured several friends.

I had every reason to go. I would get to dress up and live it up with people I cared about.

There was only one problem: I didn’t want to go. At all.

So, I went against the grain. I declined the invite, without providing an alibi. And I didn’t regret it.

That gala was the first time in a while that I remember actively saying no to something. But it wouldn’t be the last.

Indeed, I’ve declined all manner of invites and requests in subsequent years. I’m selective when I do this — I don’t want to jeopardize my career or my friendships. But the days of me being an automatic Yes have long passed.

And I have flourished as a result.

Perhaps this is the Just say no that we can get behind. One where our own compass guides the way, rather than one foisted upon us from others.

This method won’t be perfect. But it holds the promise of being better than the status quo.

Going against the grain is never easy. But sometimes it’s needed.

When it is, let’s do it right.

The Downshift

I hit the homestretch with a head of steam.

I was carving a path through the icy ski slope, out of control, and trying to avoid a wipeout at 20 miles per hour.

Deft skiers would manage this task with ease. But I was a beginner.

So, I took wide turns. I weaved around other skiers. I widened my skis into that pizza shape they teach 4-year-olds to make. Then I widened them more.

Nothing seemed to slow me down enough.

The slope mercifully ended. But now, I was flying through the straightaway like a car with malfunctioning brakes. I crossed the snowy apron like a bowling ball, chugging toward the parking lot.

The laws of physics dictated that I would either run out of velocity or I would crash into a parked car. I prayed for the first option, and I got it — narrowly.

I was alive. I was intact. And no humans, ski equipment, or vehicles were damaged.

But as I made my way back to the apron, two cold truths hit me like an avalanche.

I needed ski lessons, desperately. And momentum is hard to stop.

A few years after my ski fiasco, I once again tangled with the power of momentum.

I was working as a news producer in Midland, Texas. A week before Thanksgiving, the police scanner on my desk buzzed, warning of a “possible train accident” in town.

It turns out that a freight train had collided with a parade float full of Purple Hearts. Men who had courageously served in Iraq and Afghanistan ended up perishing at an event in their honor.

I broke the story on our newscast, and it quickly got picked up nationally. It was a career-making moment, but I was in no mood to celebrate.

For one thing, I was devastated by what had happened. I wished that this tragedy hadn’t hit my home city.

But I was also busy. For the National Transportation Safety Board had converged upon West Texas to investigate the incident. And each day, I would air highlights from the myriad press conferences the NTSB held.

Those press conferences now blur together, but there is one moment I remember clearly. An NTSB representative was discussing whether railroad signals two miles from the accident were working properly on that fateful day. Suddenly, he paused for emphasis.

“This is all important,” he stated. “Because it takes a mile to stop a train.”

It takes a mile to stop a train.

I had never considered that point before. Neither had many viewers of my newscast, who wondered openly why the train engineer couldn’t have just slammed the brakes a bit harder.

But upon reflection, it made perfect sense.

The power of a freight train can be a great asset for the transportation industry. It can help ferry goods across our nation with great speed.

But all that momentum can’t just be halted on a dime. The train needs to downshift first. And it needs plenty of track to gradually slow to a halt.

As it turns out, my career was on a similar trajectory to that train. My big break had broken me, and I now saw no path forward. I sought to switch tracks to a new career — immediately.

This proved impossible.

For my entire resume read TV news, and employers outside of the media were wary of giving me a chance. I would need to fully downshift out of my old vocation before I could pick up a new venture.

It took more than half a year for me to fully make a career transition. And I had to move to a new city and spend several months unemployed along the way.

Momentum is a powerful thing. But sometimes, it can be a crutch.

If you had one word to describe the world as it exists these days, what would you use?

Unpredictable? Unsettling? Divisive?

It’s no secret the past several years have upset the apple cart.

A global pandemic, widening polarization, and economic strife have all shaken the foundations of what we thought we once knew. They’ve forced us to adapt in real time.

Some of these adaptations will likely have staying power. We’ve gone from remote work novices to aficionados in short order, for instance.

Others probably won’t last. Say goodbye to wide-scale remote learning.

I have my thoughts on these specific adaptations, as we all do. But I’m more fascinated with the wider picture.

For there is a narrative behind these changes. There is a not-so-silent expectation of us.

This narrative, this expectation — it demands that we stop on a dime and reverse field. It insists that we throw away everything we’re accustomed to so that we can meet the moment.

Such thinking might seem prudent when staring down an acute emergency, such as a blossoming pandemic. It might seem excessive when the risk is opaque, as is the case with climate change.

But either way, it’s primed for blowback.

For much like a freight train or a novice skier, we are not built for a quick pause. We need to downshift, to lose steam, to exhaust that mile of runway before we can rightfully blaze that new trail.

Expecting anything more of us is unrealistic. And yet, we continue to raise that bar.

Many of us called other people killers when they dared to go out in public early in the pandemic. What was so recently run-of-the-mill behavior was now considered accessory to murder.

And many people who eat meat or shun electric cars have been branded planet destroyers. The endless hurdles of sustainability are ignored in favor of shaming the status quo.

These demands carry a chilling effect, driving a wedge between the judgmental and the judged. They often provoke a nasty response, stoking the flames of polarizing vitriol.

But worse than that, they close doors to opportunities.

For many of those we shame for not being committed to the cause are actually on their way there. They just need that mile of track to downshift before changing course.

Ostracizing these people in such a fragile moment is foolhardy. It causes many of them to abort the mission, and to double down on old habits. For if they’re going to get yelled at either way, it’s better for them to stick with the familiar. At least that’s the common refrain.

Ignoring the physics of momentum does us no good. No good at all.

So, let’s try something new.

Let’s favor grace over judgment. Let’s give others the time to adapt to the realities of an ever-changing world. And let’s give ourselves that gift too.

The downshift requires planning, anticipation, and a mile worth of track. But there is no substitute for this if we want to avoid catastrophe.

And that’s certainly a goal worth striving for.

Pulling the Plug

As I walked to the starting line, I felt tentative.

Pre-race jitters played a part in that, sure. But they didn’t tell the whole story.

My left leg was aching a bit. It had for weeks. And I wasn’t sure it would hold up.

I had taken all the normal precautions. I’d stopped running for a week. I’d gotten x-rays, which had come back negative.

All was supposedly well. But it didn’t exactly seem that way, even after my warmup jog.

Still, when the horn sounded, my legs got moving. Adrenaline took over, and all discomfort faded away. I raced, and I raced hard.

I crossed the finish line with a personal best for the 10K distance, placing me in a Top 15 position. I was elated with the result, and just as thrilled to find that my leg wasn’t aching anymore.

I was fine. Or so it seemed.

A week later, the discomfort returned, and it intensified rapidly. An MRI proved what I’d already feared – I had a significant injury.

I had to take two months off from running. As a result, I pulled out of a marathon I had been training for.

Going all out in that race had proved quite costly.

Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.

Those words are now the legacy of Jim Valvano.

Valvano was a championship-caliber college basketball coach. But few remember him for his accolades on the court.

Instead, they recall an iconic speech he gave at the 1993 ESPY Awards. A speech that included those seven words.

Valvano was battling cancer at the time — a battle that would tragically end weeks later. But during his time at the podium, Valvano made an impassioned plea for cancer research resources. Resources that were shockingly scant at that time.

After noting that these efforts would more likely save his children’s lives than his own, Valvano announced the launch of The V Foundation for Cancer Research. The foundation’s motto would be those seven words: Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.

That speech, and that motto, resonated with many. If this man remained so committed, even on death’s doorstep, how could we even think of quitting?

I found myself influenced by seduced by this same message. In fact, I can count on one hand the times I’ve pulled the plug on something.

This applies to everything – my career, my hobbies, even the shows I stream. When I’m in, I’m all in.

Such a mentality can have its virtues, of course. Stick-to-it-iveness is an American hallmark.

But the downsides can be significant. Wasted time. Misaligned energy. And even the potential for shattered dreams.

It’s far better to add some nuance. To know when to stay in the fight, and when to pull the plug.

You’ll know when it’s time.

Just about every former athlete has shared this wisdom when discussing the best time to hang it up.

Many pro athletes have stuck the landing when it came time to pull the plug. Peyton Manning walked away from football with a Super Bowl victory. Ray Borque lifted the Stanley Cup and hung up his skates. The late, great Kobe Bryant dropped 60 points in his final pro basketball game.

But then there are those who hung on too long. Wayne Gretzky’s unparalleled hockey career ended with three modest seasons where he sported New York Rangers sweater. Michael Jordan unretired from basketball (a second time) to slog through two mediocre years with the Washington Wizards. Tom Brady reneged on retirement, losing football games and his marriage in the process.

Michael Jordan, Tom Brady, and Wayne Gretzky are widely considered the best to ever lace ‘em up in their respective sports. Kobe Bryant, Peyton Manning, and Ray Borque — for all their greatness — are a rung below.

But when it comes to a graceful landing, those three left the all-timers in the dust. They had the mental fortitude to pull the plug at a moment of jubilation. To resist the urge to just get one more. To repel the temptation to defy Father Time yet again.

That’s not an easy choice for a pro athlete to make. Especially when those athletes have spent decades following the advice of Jim Valvano.

I may never attain the athleticism of Michael Jordan, the poise of Tom Brady, or the grace of Wayne Gretzky. But as I walked to the starting line of my fateful 10K race, I felt the same competitive spirit they did.

Instead of embracing the process of recovery, I was visualizing my comeback.

I was playing with fire. And I got burned.

You gotta know when to hold em. And know when to fold em…

Many of us know the words to Kenny Rogers’ hit The Gambler by heart. But few of us have followed them with precision.

One exception? Champion Poker players.

You see, walking away is a key strategy in Poker. For there are times when you just don’t have the cards.

In those moments, doubling down on a bluff can prove costly. Better to cut your losses and live to fight another day.

Annie Duke understands this. As one of the greatest professional poker players of all time, Duke has long been renowned for making the right choice at the table. And sometimes the right choice was to walk away.

Duke has compiled that knowledge in several acclaimed books on decision making. One of those is called Quit: The Power in Knowing When to Walk Away.

As I write this, I still haven’t gotten my hands on the book. But I probably could have used its counsel recently.

I had returned from my injury and set my eyes on competing once again. But my will was ahead of my legs, and I kept suffering setbacks.

I had two significant races coming up — a half-marathon and a full one. Both required several weeks of dedicated training. And now, I had to decide whether to proceed.

The competitor in me was daring to soldier on. I had already missed so much time for something more significant. Surely, I wouldn’t be felled by this.

But the pragmatist in me was screaming to pull the plug. It remembered what happened when I ran that ill-advised race. And when I continued to train on that bad leg.

For days, I agonized over what to do.

For there was no smoking gun this time. No MRI report to peruse. No doctor’s orders keeping me out of the race.

The decision would be mine, and mine alone.

Ultimately, I did withdraw from both races. It was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make. But I’m confident it was the right one — and one that will pay dividends long term.

So no, the story hasn’t ended happily for me. At least not this chapter.

But perhaps there’s something we can all learn from my saga, and from all the examples that somehow influenced it.

Pulling the plug is not an automatic marker of weakness. In the right context, it can be a powerful weapon.

Let that context be your compass, and my loss be your lesson. And you may yet find the seas of life to be a bit less treacherous.

Godspeed.

Ingrata Terra

Way up on the overpass, you can see the marks. Silt-laden smudges leaving a permanent tattoo on the concrete.

They’re the marks you might expect to see on the bottom of a Mississippi River barge. Or perhaps on a bayfront causeway.

But this overpass was neither of those things. Instead, it was part of a highway intersection in Houston, Texas.

Now, Houston isn’t exactly the desert. There are plenty of bayous, streams, and lakes around town.

But this intersection wasn’t near any of those. And that made the silt markings even more jarring.

Indeed, those rust-colored imprints are a reminder. A reminder of a time when the water flowed into places normally high and dry.

I’m talking, of course, about Hurricane Harvey — the thousand-year storm that inundated Southeast Texas in 2017.

Houston had dealt with flooding events before, and it had been decked by the occasional hurricane. But it had never seen anything to this magnitude.

Days of heavy rain saturated the area. Roads turned to rivers, and inundated homeowners awaited rescue as the rising waters destroyed their possessions. Power and supplies dwindled as desperation soared.

By the time it was over, Hurricane Harvey had killed more than 100 people and caused $125 billion in damage. As Americans looked on in horror, a question started percolating.

Why would anyone want to live in a place like Houston?

The irony was palpable.

For the Houston metro area — the nation’s fifth largest — had once been lauded for its livability.

There were ample jobs in multiple industries, bountiful entertainment options, and plenty of large homes to choose from. Most of the country was a three-hour flight away. And there was no state income tax.

Sure, the summers could be swampy, and the traffic could be miserable. But idea of setting down roots in Southeast Texas was considered more boon than burden.

Harvey changed that. And now — long after the floodwaters have receded — Houston is viewed by many as Ingrata Terra, or unwelcome land.

To outsiders, those silt marks on the concrete are more than scars of a past trauma. They’re indicators of a cursed destiny.

Dropping anchor in the shadow of such symbols would be foolhardy. Better to choose somewhere safer.

The Ingrata Terra argument is gaining steam these days. And not just in Texas.

A spate of wildfires in California has sparked a backlash against development in the WUI — or Wildland Urban Interface. That’s the spot where human development intrudes upon nature.

In Florida, a deadly condo collapse has left many reconsidering the prospect of living on the beach. Between erosion and storm concerns, the risk certainly seems to outweigh the reward.

And in the Rust Belt, the decline of once-dominant industries has led many to claim some once-prominent cities dead. The supposed demise of Detroit, Cleveland, and Buffalo is a well-known tale these days — even if it’s being penned by those living several states away.

Yes, the glass house effect is in full force. We throw stones at locations that have weathered these storms, propping up our unblemished locales in comparison.

Such actions are foolish, for multiple reasons.

First, nowhere is truly safe from calamity. Disasters are getting more unpredictable by the year. Places that have been unscathed by them thus far are likely sitting ducks.

Second, Ingrata Terra assumes that cities can’t rebound. It posits that a metro area can’t better prepare itself for the next catastrophe. It presumes that the region’s eulogy is part and parcel with the initial crisis.

This thinking is simply not true. And there’s ample proof as to why.

Back when I was in middle school, I visited New Orleans with my family.

It was February, and the Crescent City was in the Mardi Gras spirit. I was amazed by the atmosphere, I was mesmerized by the food, and I couldn’t get enough of the warm weather. I couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t want to live down the Bayou.

Some years later, New Orleans got pummeled by Hurricane Katrina. The levees failed, the city got flooded, and many residents lost everything.

In the wake of this disaster, a new debate arose. Was the Crescent City worth rebuilding?

Many argued that it wasn’t. After all, New Orleans sat at sea level, surrounded by swamps, lakes, and rivers. With its Gulf Coast location, it would likely be in the path of many other hurricanes. And counting on the levees for salvation seemed like a fool’s errand, given what had just occurred.

Still, the city did rebuild, revitalizing the levee system in the process. The criticism was fast and furious, but New Orleans tuned out the noise and churned ahead.

Many years later, Hurricane Ida took fresh aim at the Louisiana Bayou. Once again, prognosticators called for catastrophe as the storm bore down on the Crescent City.

But the levee system did its job. New Orleans didn’t fill like a bathtub this time. It survived the worst of Ida mostly intact.

More than 1,000 miles away in New York, people weren’t quite as fortunate.

After churning its way through the Deep South and Appalachia, Ida’s remnants buzzed right across the Big Apple. Nearly a foot of rain fell in less than an hour, inundated many streets and homes. Several residents drowned in flooded basements.

The sense of irony was tragic.

Many calls for the abandonment of New Orleans post-Katrina had come from the New York area. The land of a million pundits was supposedly a more stable location for development than the lower Mississippi Delta.

But now, it was New York reeling in the wake of a storm. A storm that had decked Louisiana with all its fury but could not bring the Bayou to its knees.

Ingrata Terra? It’s pure folly.

Some years back, archeologists found the remains of an English king.

Such a discovery normally would not raise eyebrows. This is what archeologists do, after all.

Nevertheless, the discovery led to international news coverage. Mostly on account of where the remains were found.

You see, the dig site wasn’t some remote stretch of land, or the fringes of an old church. No, King Richard III was found beneath a parking lot.

This saga demonstrates a great many traits about humanity — including our knack for adaptability.

At the time of King Richard III’s burial, no commoner would dared have left his horse above his regal remains. But over the centuries, society adapted. Memories faded, areas were rezoned, and a parking lot cropped up on hallowed ground.

Indeed, the world is what we make of it. We’ve built cities in the desert, carved our likenesses into the mountains, and harnessed the energy of the wind and the sun.

Nature might strike back from time to time, but it’s hardly enough to slow our roll.

Ingrata terra might have applied centuries ago. But these days, it’s hardly a factor.

So maybe it’s time to look at those Houston overpasses in a new light. Those rusty marks are not harbingers of doom. They’re a reminder of all that we’ve overcome.

Ingrata terra can’t be found here.

On Neediness

Meow! Meow! Meow!

The sound reverberated through the house, piercing the serenity of Christmas morning.

My friends and I all made our way to the living room, looking like Zombies. The cat stared at us and meowed some more.

We all desired something at that moment. The cat yearned for food, the humans for sleep.

Only one of the species would get what we wanted. The one with paws, fur, and an enviable sense of dexterity.

Indeed, moments later, the cat was working his way through a newly filled bowl. The meowing had ceased.

Meanwhile, we were all still awake and groggy as heck.

It was to be a joyous day ahead. Perhaps the most joyous one on the calendar. But at this moment, that spirit was sorely lacking.

Anything I say before coffee cannot be used against me.

On its face, this adage is straightforward. We’re often not at our best in the early morning light. That little pick-me-up works wonders.

But it also speaks wonders about our neediness.

We need coffee to feel sufficiently energized. And we need to feel “with it” as early in the day as possible.

These needs have defined cultural norms. They’ve also helped fuel an $85 billion industry in the United States.

I can’t say I was thinking about all this on that Christmas morning, as I fired up my friends’ Keurig machine for a cup of liquid inspiration. But as I stared over at the cat, now contented, it dawned on me just how needy we all are.

Not just the young or old or disabled.

All of us.

In September 1992, a hunter in the Alaskan bush came upon the remains of Chris McCandless.

McCandless had made his way into the wilderness of The Last Frontier hoping to live off the land, free of wants. But that land had devoured him whole.

The McCandless tragedy has been turned into a book and feature film, both called Into the Wild. For years, many of those who encountered the tale have found themselves debating his actions and motivations.

But to me, such arguments are beside the point. For Chris McCandless is just the tip of the iceberg.

You see, there have been plenty of others who undertook a similar quest, with similar reasoning, and suffered a similar fate. Only in their case, there was no hunter to come upon their remains while they were still recognizable.

Yes, the headline of this sad saga should have nothing to do with adventure or determinism. Instead, it should pinpoint a simple fact.

There is nowhere we can go to escape neediness.

This is an uncomfortable thought. A taboo one even in our society, where a central tenet is self-sufficiency.

But all that baggage can’t block out the truth.

We all need a lot — whether we’re off the grid or on it.

When I was growing up, my family went on several road trips.

On the highway, my parents had only one rule.

If we came across a rest stop, we would all need to at least try to use the restroom.

For the open road represented a significant challenge. As we crossed miles upon miles of blacktop, there were few opportunities for us to satisfy some of our most basic biological needs. Forcing the issue at a highway rest stop was our best bet.

On its face, I realize how ridiculous this whole charade was. As a runner, I will confess to stopping at far less glamorous locales than highway rest stops to relieve myself. It comes with the territory when putting in the miles.

But just because it’s possible to take care of business anywhere doesn’t make it acceptable. Anyone who’s ever read a travel horror story thread knows that cleanliness is paramount while traveling.

Whether we’re 5 or 55, we need a climate-controlled location with indoor plumbing, toilet paper and liquid soap for our pit stops. Nothing less will do.

Of course, those can’t be found at every mile marker or exit. So, we need to take seize the rest stop opportunities we do come across. That’s the only way we can meet both our needs and society’s demands of us.

Looking back now, my parents weren’t setting the rules by pulling off the highway at every rest stop. They were abiding by them.

And these days, I find myself doing the same.

Not long ago, I headed into the office to get some work done.

This statement would hardly have been worth writing a few years back. But in an era of hybrid and remote work, it’s almost an oddity.

Indeed, only one other person was in the massive office suite that day. All around me, rows of cubicles sat vacant. The silence was deafening.

It was clear that this space — my company’s regional headquarters — wasn’t needed anymore in its current form. Indeed, the company has plans to decommission it.

But I need something like it.

You see, my home is many things. But an office is not one of them.

There is no built-in space for a desk and external monitors. So, I end up working from a laptop on my dining room table when I’m not in the office.

It’s a woefully inadequate setup. And my work from it is subpar as well.

So, even in an office-less future for my region, I will need office space.

In my quest for such a space, I’ve tried to keep things simple.

A private room with an internet connection and a stand for my webcam and external monitors would suffice. After all, that’s what’s technically required for me to deliver my work on time and hold virtual meetings with discretion.

But I soon realized that wouldn’t be enough.

I needed a large enough desk to eat my lunch at. I needed access to a clean and well-maintained restroom. I needed climate control and somewhere to park my car.

Oh, and coffee. I needed plenty of coffee.

These requirements would seem like novelties to construction workers, oilfield roughnecks and ranchers. And yet, like many so-called knowledge workers, I couldn’t imagine doing my best work without them readily available.

Am I that needy? Are we all?

It certainly appears so. But there’s nothing wrong with that.

Why did the cat dampen Christmas spirits? Why did Chris McCandless wander off into the wild? Why did I roll my eyes at those forced road trip pit stops and then nearly forget to add a restroom — a restroom — to the list of my office essentials?

It’s because of the stigma around having needs.

Yes, we treat neediness as a sign of weakness. It’s a black mark. A strain on others. A crutch.

With this in mind, we do our best to suppress our needs. We put ourselves through strife to avoid appearing vulnerable.

But no one wins at the end of this process. In fact, we all lose.

It’s time to do away with that misguided machismo. It’s time to say sayonara to the mirage of wanting for nothing.

We all need plenty for ourselves and from each other. The steps we take and the structures we build to satisfy those needs — those are the lifeblood of our society.

So, let’s give ourselves a break, and give neediness its due.

We wouldn’t be here today without it, and we won’t realize the promise of tomorrow unless we accept it.