Category: Thoughts

So Strange

Text me when you land.

For years, these were the final five words my mother told me before I got on an airplane.

They always annoyed me.

Sure, I knew air travel wasn’t 100% safe. But neither was driving. Or walking down the street. Or even sitting at home.

Inherent risks were everywhere. And yet, the odds were still pretty good that I would arrive safely.

Plus, I was already an adult. I craved autonomy. And I didn’t like the thought of reporting to my parents, even if it just meant texting the word Landed.

Nevertheless, I tended to comply — even when I was embarking on a trip that didn’t involve my parents in any way.

Then, one year, my mother surprised me with a new question.

What’s your flight number? I’ll use it to track you on FlightAware.

I gave her the flight information, and that was that. No more demands for an I’ve landed text message. My mother already knew I’d made it by the time I reached the gate.

I was a curious as I was relieved, so I checked out FlightAware for myself.

Not only did the website have the times of takeoffs and landings, but it also had a boatload of other information. Route maps. Speed charts. Altitude graphs.

Enthralled by all this, I started a new habit.

Once my own flights landed, I would spend some time reliving the journey I’d just taken. It gave me closure to know that the city I saw out the window while en route was indeed Memphis, or that the previous day’s version of the flight had also gotten in late.

I would look at the previous legs the aircraft had flown. Was the plane based out of Dallas, or Charlotte? Did it ferry people domestically, or take up routes to other countries?

In an instant, I’d become a FlightAware addict.

And that was not normal.

You’re such a dork.

A friend used to tell me this regularly, back in college. And it always rankled me.

I had a clear picture of what a dork looked like and how one acted. Kind of like the character Milton Waddams in Office Space. And I didn’t want any part of that.

I wanted to be cool, to be stylish, to be normal. Even though I had enough quirkiness to make such a wish nothing more than a pipe dream.

My friend was simply calling it like it was. And yet, I resented her insinuation.

But now, I’m more comfortable in my own skin.

I recognize that such oddities are part of my ethos. And, in a strange way, part of my appeal. As such, I might as well lean into them.

So, I am unapologetic about my FlightAware obsession. I make no secret of my disdain for the word very. (Take good note of it, dear reader, as you likely won’t see it in this publication again.) And I proudly wear blue jeans and black tennis shoes, even in the sweltering heat of a Southern summer.

It is all so strange. And yet, I’m here for it.

On Wednesdays, we wear pink.

This is perhaps the enduring line from the movie Mean Girls.

Meant to describe the rules of the road of an infamous clique, it speaks to our collective love of normalcy.

When given the opportunity to diversify, we instead seek to consolidate. To find the path of least resistance, and to demand adherence to it.

So many of our societal systems are built upon this principle. School and fashion, just to name a couple.

We make it seem as if there is no alternative to being part of the in crowd. And in the process, individuality is cast aside.

In a vacuum, this might seem like an innocent gripe. But this regression to the mean can have insidious consequences.

As a shy, reclusive child, I continually felt as if there was something wrong with me. I felt the need to change my ways, and to conform to the social expectations that surrounded me.

It took me until adulthood to learn that my introversion was a personality type, and not a flaw. Such a discovery has helped me thrive. But I often wonder what would have happened had I felt the freedom to be myself earlier in life.

I’m sure plenty of others feel the same way as I once did — forced off their mark in the name of normalcy. And I feel for them.

But fortunately, things are moving in the right direction.

There is more of an appetite to celebrate our individuality at all levels these days. The peer pressure and cliques remain. But they’re no longer quite as dominant as they once were.

The challenge is no longer finding the pockets of society that welcome our authentic expression. The challenge is now leaning into it.

Don’t do that. It might invite questions.

This is an adage I’ve heard plenty.

The insinuation is that silence is golden. Questions lead to judgment. And judgment lead us to be cast out into the darkness.

When I recoiled at being labeled a dork, I was following this adage to a T.

I wanted to be normal. And I feared inviting unwanted questions.

But every step of my adult journey has taken me away from this pattern.

There was the move to Texas. The decision to pursue a TV news career, and then pivot to marketing. And the fact that I did all this while remaining single and living on my own.

All of it elicited questions. It still does today.

Yet, over time, I’ve gotten more comfortable at answering these questions.

For there is no shame in sharing the truth. And there are no real adverse consequences to my doing so.

The benefits of staying true to myself far outweigh the risks.

So, I will keep my fashion style intact. I will cling tightly to certain grammatical rules. I will nerd out on FlightAware data.

I will do all this unapologetically. And so should we all.

We can all lean into our uniqueness. Our individuality. Anything and everything that makes us so strange.

We can stay true to ourselves, rather than conforming to society’s dominant narrative.

We will be better for this. And so will the communities we’re a part of.

The only thing stopping us from this reality — is us. Let’s change that.

On Consistency

Baseball is a timeless sport.

Games are decided by the passage of innings, rather than the countdown of the clock. And a passion for the game is passed down through the generations.

Yes, much of baseball transcends eras. Including some of the names of the game’s greats.

Babe Ruth. Willie Mays. Nolan Ryan. Sandy Koufax. Ted Williams. And countless others.

Few would willingly put Eddie Guardado on that list. But perhaps they should reconsider.

The legends listed above are Hall of Famers – players known for their greatness. Yet, Guardado is also legendary, thanks to his reliability.

Over an eight-year span from 1996 through 2003, Guardado pitched in at least 60 games each season for the Minnesota Twins.

Appearing in more than a third of a team’s games, year after year, is a rarity for pitchers, whose arms can tire quickly. But Guardado bucked the trend, improving over his years of high workloads. Guardado went from being a middle reliever to Minnesota’s star closer, giving up fewer runs on average with each passing year and becoming a two-time All-Star in the process.

He didn’t throw the nastiest pitches or intimidate hitters with his presence on the mound. But for Everyday Eddie, consistency paid dividends.

The curious case of Eddie Guardado speaks volumes about our mismatched desires.

All too often, we focus on flash and pizazz. These attributes captivate our imagination and unleash our sense of wonder.

But what we really want is consistency. We crave the ability for things to remain the same, time after time.

Our desire for this is mostly visible in absentia. When we run across patches of volatility, we long for a sense of stability that is out of reach. Consistency, therefore, becomes a silent expectation – one that is falsely taken for granted.

To be fair, the field coaches and managers in Minnesota did not make this error with Guardado. They kept turning to him, game in and game out. As the years went on, they even elevated Guardado’s role, giving him the ball in the critical 9th inning of ball games.

But management was not on the same page. When Guardado’s contract expired, the Twins ownership wasn’t willing to pay a premium for a reliable homegrown hurler. Guardado moved on to the Seattle Mariners instead.

Everyday Eddie was integral to Minnesota’s success on the diamond. But his value was all too invisible when compared with a Twins starting pitcher with a wipeout slider or a batter who could hit the ball halfway to St. Paul.

Those guys had the Wow factor, even if their overall performance was uneven. And as a result, those guys were the ones who got paid.

I often think of Eddie Guardado as I go about my everyday life.

After all, one of my core attributes is consistency. I show up each day and give it my all.

I demand such an approach from myself. The thought of varying my effort agitates me so much that I just don’t try it.

But I get few rewards or accolades for my steadiness. At best, this attribute is ignored. At worst, it’s taken advantage of by others.

I sometimes wonder if I’m selling myself short. If I’m limiting my potential by giving others the qualities they deserve, but not the ones they’re clamoring for.

I could follow Guardado’s lead, and head to greener pastures where my reliability will be more readily rewarded. But that would require me to uproot and break with consistency in the service of a new normal.

Why should I be the one who must change? Why must I be punished with a crucible just for going about things the right way?

I can’t stomach that. So, my story has diverged from Guardado’s. I’ve stayed the course.

It’s a rugged path. But things might be turning around.

The past few years have been incredibly disruptive.

There was the onset of a global pandemic, followed by economic volatility, and supply chain failures.

All these issues impacted multiple industries. But few took as direct a hit as the airlines.

As the nation locked down in the early days of the pandemic, air travel dried up. When it rebounded, divisive arguments over safety protocols quickly grabbed headlines — all while the airlines struggled to bring back furloughed staff.

These issues have led to a breaking point, with many flights canceled due to inadequate staffing. With the costs of airline tickets skyrocketing and few empty seats to be found, these cancellations have become logistical nightmares for travelers.

This whole ordeal has exposed the airline industry. The major air carriers spent years hawking premium perks and charging passengers for the pleasure of enjoying them. But through it all, they seemed to forget about what consumers were looking for.

Air travel turned into a spectacle of pizazz, all while basic consistency disintegrated in the background. And when the veil on this stunt was lifted, airlines were left with a black eye.

But the brands with their logos on the airplanes weren’t the only ones to take a hit during this fiasco. What we value as travelers has also faced a reckoning.

While we once might have overlooked reliability as a factor we treasured, we no longer can. We’ve seen a world of travel without consistency, and we don’t like it one bit.

In an instant, we’ve gone from lauding Babe Ruth and Willie Mays to singing the praises of Eddie Guardado. We’ve made availability our most treasured ability.

This shift might seem subtle, but it’s a game-changer. One that the airlines can only ignore at their own peril.

But why stop with air travel? This shift toward consistency could revolutionize other industries we frequent as well. It could improve outcomes while enhancing our experience. It could be the answer we need.

We can start this movement. We have the collective might to shift our society away from flash and toward reliability.

But it’s on us to make that first move. To draw a line in the sand and make clear what we stand for.

It’s important work. Let’s get to it.

To The Limit

I could barely walk.

Felled by some bad hummus, I struggled to get up the stairs to my apartment.

I fumbled for my keys and unlocked the door, my face flushed and my body shaking from chills.

Once inside, I went straight to bed. But my sickly slumber was quickly interrupted by an ear-splitting headache.

My condition had suppressed my appetite, and now my body was revolting from the malnourishment.

So, I wearily headed to the kitchen and boiled some hot dogs. Those five minutes of cooking time felt like hours. But eventually, I was able to devour the hot dogs before stumbling back to bed.

At some point in the night, my fever broke. Although drenched in sweat, I felt a modicum of relief.

The next morning, I felt right as rain — albeit a bit depleted. I wasn’t about to have hummus again anytime soon, but at least I’d taken care of myself properly while down for the count.

I had a roadmap for the future. But following it would prove to be a challenge.

Know your limits.

This phrase is ubiquitous.

Most often, it refers to a vice — drinking, gambling, or the like — that can destroy us if not followed in moderation.

But it can apply to a much broader set of contexts as well.

I knew my limits that evening I was holed up sick. But there are plenty of times before and after where I thought I knew my limits, only to discover that I was sorely mistaken.

Sometimes, the consequences of this blunder were made plainly evident. I once ended up in the Emergency Room after passing out from heat exhaustion, for instance.

Other times, blunders are only evident in hindsight. Bad decisions that didn’t truly burn me, but easily could have.

In either case, learning my limits has helped me avoid pressing them. When I feel I’m getting relatively close to the edge, I dial back.

Better to live to fight another day than to go too far, is my thinking.

But such a concept comes with its own opportunity costs. Namely, the ability to grow my potential.

No, it might not be smart to test our limits while ill, while inebriated, or while out in the scorching hot sun.

But there are plenty of other times when it’s beneficial to push ourselves. When the challenges in our midst are nothing more than hurdles to clear.

Sure, we might feel some resistance as we level up. And giving in to that resistance might seem natural.

But if we shut it down in those moments, we’ll forever be restricted to what’s comfortable.

It’s far better to embrace what the psychologist Carol Dweck has deemed The Growth Mindset. That is, the willingness to develop our talents and capabilities through hard work, good strategies, and input from others.

Growth mindset means pushing our boundaries, but with an end in mind. And that’s something my limit avoidance strategy fails to account for.

On a sultry summer morning, I joined a group of people for a run.

I was only planning on going three miles, but the group was going 10. I’d never run that far in my life, and I didn’t feel prepared to change that fact on this day. But I didn’t want to lose face either.

And so, I hatched a plan. I would run with the group for a couple of miles, intentionally make a wrong turn, and then backtrack once everyone was out of sight. No harm, no foul.

For a while, my plan seemed ingenious. But then, several runners in front of me made the same wrong turn I was planning on.

Now, there was no losing the group. Worse still, I’d need to hustle to follow the runners who’d strayed from the route with me. If I faded, I’d lose face once again.

I ended up running the full 10 miles that day, fighting through side stitches during the home stretch. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, but it wasn’t a disaster either.

When I recounted the story at a pool party later that day, a friend urged me to sign up for a half marathon.

You’ve already run 10 miles, he said. What’s 3.1 more?

And just like that, my running adventures were underway.

I’ve since completed three half marathons, improving my finishing time in each. I’ve picked up a ton of speed, topping my age bracket in most races I enter and even finishing Top 3 overall for a few. And I’ve made plenty of friends along the way.

None of this would have happened if my plan to ditch that 10-mile run that day had panned out. Fate got in the way of my tentative nature, with the best of results.

I think about this sometimes while running. My stamina has gone way up since that first day. But there’s still a certain point on long training runs where I fade spectacularly. I go from feeling awesome to feeling awful in an instant. And I dial back.

Is this action a reflection of my own prudence? A willingness to pull back before I suffer the consequences of overexertion.

Or is it a mental block I must overcome? Is my body capable of doing far more than I give it credit for?

I believe it’s the latter. But I still haven’t tested that hypothesis.

That’s on me.

It’s time for us to delineate the limits we set. To differentiate the limits that are real from the ones that exist wholly in our minds.

This requires us to take a step back and truly assess the risks of going too far. And then, to consider how likely those are to occur.

If the chances of an adverse outcome are low, we should push ahead — regardless how scary that potential outcome might be. If not, we should be prudent and dial back.

This is not an easy adjustment to make. I know this as much as anyone.

But hard work is still worth doing, and our future depends on it getting done.

So, let’s get to it.

At Our Disposal

I stared at the menu intensely.

My eyes scanned the text over and over, searching for two words.

Mole enchiladas.

I knew this establishment made this savory dish. After all, I’d ordered it darn near every time I’d come here.

Maybe it had moved to a different spot on the menu. Maybe they’d given it a different name.

But as I searched for the twentieth time, I found no respite.

Finally, I gave in and asked the server for help.

We don’t offer the mole enchiladas anymore, he replied. We changed up our menu.

I scanned the offerings once again, looking for an alternative. And as I did, my mood soured.

Please make a selection.

It’s a simple command. But not always a simple ask.

You see, those four words give us what we want. But not always what we truly desire.

There might be too few options. Or too many.

In either case, the Goldilocks Problem can rear its ugly head. We’re unable to find that option that fits just right.

Such is the quagmire of decision-making. What we’re looking for often fades into the background, usurped by what we have at our disposal.

We go from thriving to settling in an instant. And cognitive dissonance sinks in.

This discomfort permeates our lives. We make more than 35,000 decisions a day, and we likely consider a fair amount of them to be suboptimal.

And yet, we can’t afford to punt on them entirely. No decision is still a choice. And it’s generally the worst one.

So, how do we navigate this quagmire, and somehow get the most out of it? It’s a question that people on all sides of the decision-making process are trying to figure out.

Sheena Iyengar and Mark Lepper are not household names.

If they walked past us on the street, it wouldn’t cause a commotion. And they’re unlikely to be the topics of watercooler discussions.

But perhaps they should. Particularly for one bit of their work.

Back in 2000, Iyengar and Lepper — both acclaimed psychologists — published an academic paper. Its text was dry and dense, but the concept it described was irresistibly juicy.

The paper summarized an experiment the psychologists ran at a grocery store.

Researchers set up a table near the jam aisle at the store. On that table, they put up a sign with a basic offer.

Try a jam sample and get a coupon to save on jam.

This offer was no different than what we might see at our local Costco. Try something and save on buying it.

The mundane sample setup was intentional. But it came with a twist.

On one day, shoppers saw 24 different jam samples on the table. On another, they saw only six.

This change in sample sizes had an impact. People were more likely to take a sample when there were 24 to choose from. But they were far less likely to buy any jam bottle when presented with that many samples. Even the discount coupon was mostly worthless in that case.

What was going on here? Why were people more inclined to try than to buy?

The answer can be found in what academics have called The Paradox of Choice. Essentially, we want infinite options, but can only handle a finite few when making a decision.

The findings of The Jam Experiment, as it came to be called, have reverberated throughout our lives. Most notably, we’ve seen everything from restaurant menus to tech bundles streamlined into a few options.

This is ostensibly for everyone’s benefit. We won’t freeze like a deer in the headlights when faced with infinite options. And because of that, businesses can serve us more efficiently.

Yet, it does lead to a strange dynamic, as both sides of an interaction operate with their hands tied. All too often, our desired choice isn’t on that streamlined list, forcing us to settle. And with this dynamic at play, it’s hard for businesses to get our loyalty.

Several years ago, Elon Musk made a big claim.

Someday, human-driven cars would be outlawed.

In a vacuum, it seemed like a sensible statement. After all, driving is a dangerous activity that can carry deadly consequences.

And yet, it left me in a rage. For I love to drive, and I loathe the thought of such a right being snatched away from me.

I’ve held a grudge against Musk ever since that moment. Regardless of his successes with the electric vehicle giant Tesla or the other ways he’s benefitted society, he’s persona non grata to me.

Of course, there are plenty of others who bristle at Musk’s vision. Oil executives, legacy carmakers, and gearheads — just to name a few.

This diverse group sees everything Musk stands for as a threat to their existence. They’re preordained to be the yin to his yang.

I, on the other hand, am not.

For I am in the middle of the vehicle divide. I can foresee a day when I might drive an electric vehicle. If it’s as practical for me then as driving a gas-powered SUV is now, I’ll make the switch.

But regardless what’s fueling the engine, I want to be able to jam on the gas pedal or hit the brakes. I want that option to be at my disposal.

My anxiety over this matter is real. After all, I’ve seen plenty of other forums where that middle lane has been taken away.

Moderate politicians are practically an endangered species these days. Tales of the everyman have faded from Hollywood and our streaming entertainment. The market for quick-serve eateries has stagnated.

The lessons from The Jam Experiment are at play. The Paradox of Choice has been mitigated, and our decision set has been optimized.

But it’s all gone too far. The options at our disposal no longer suit us. And our only heuristic is which choice we loathe slightly less.

All the while, our selections validate a set of increasingly polarized options. And the fissures in our societal fabric follow.

It’s time to end this viscous cycle. It’s time for the powers that be to lean into the middle ground, and to put better options on the table.

These options might not be glamorous. But they will be representative of our needs and desires. They’ll allow us to stop settling and start loving our choices again.

And in the end, isn’t that what truly matters?

Going to the Well

On the afternoon of July 13, 2002, the door to the visiting bullpen swung open at Jacobs Field in Cleveland, Ohio. Through that door trotted Mariano Rivera.

Rivera had one mission: Pitch a clean inning to lock up the game for the New York Yankees.

But that would prove to be quite the challenge.

For the Cleveland batters Rivera would face had already picked up on something from prior games. All of Rivera’s pitches — his signature cut fastballs — were ending up in the same spot, just off home plate.

As the inning progressed, a litany of lefthanded hitters trudged to the plate and dug their heels into the back edge of the batter’s box.

The batters were too far back to reach pitches on the opposite side of home plate. But it didn’t matter. They knew Rivera’s wouldn’t throw anything out there. All they’d see is the cut fastball on their half of the plate. And they’d be primed to hit it.

Soon enough, Cleveland had loaded the bases. With his team trailing by one run, journeyman Bill Selby strode to the plate.

Selby took aim at several cut fastballs, driving them into the stands in foul territory. It was clear he had Rivera’s cutter timed up.

If Rivera had thrown just one pitch to the other side of the plate, Selby would have been toast. But instead, Rivera kept throwing the cutter, harder and harder.

Ultimately, Selby’s persistence paid off. He lined a cut fastball over the right-field wall for a game-winning grand slam. The Yankees trudged off the field in disbelief while Cleveland fans and players celebrated.

Rivera had gone to the well one too many times.

Mariano Rivera had already built a name for himself before that fateful day in Cleveland.

He had guided the Yankees to four world titles, won a World Series MVP award, and been selected to five All-Star teams.

But after that defeat, he seemed to get even better.

For Rivera started to mix a straight fastball into his arsenal. A pitch he could splash over the other side of home plate if batters tried to cheat on his cut fastball.

Soon, it was virtually impossible to beat Rivera.

By the time he retired in 2013, Rivera had saved 652 games — with about two-thirds of those saves coming after the Cleveland debacle. He was elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame unanimously the first year he was eligible. And he’s widely considered the greatest closer of all time.

Still, even with all that sustained excellence, the great Mariano Rivera had to learn to adapt. For if he’d kept going to the well — firing that cut fastball to the same spot, game after game — eventually other teams would have ambushed him the way Cleveland did. His performance would have declined, and his legacy would have been incomplete.

The fact that Rivera had the open-mindedness to change his approach while at the peak of his game says as much about him as any of the accolades that he racked up. It transformed him from a ballplayer into an example worth following.

Why keep going to the well?

Why keep reverting to the same old pattern, over and over?

It doesn’t make much sense.

After all, we know that perfection is unattainable. If one of the greatest baseball players ever can come up short now and then, why do we expect any better of a fate in our endeavors?

And if insanity is doing the same thing over and over, our affinity for routine might be nothing short of a self-fulfilling prophecy.

So, why do we ignore these inexorable truths? Blame two F’s — fear and familiarity.

We fear making a critical error by venturing into the unknown. So, we stick to the familiar, expecting predictably cozy results.

The irony is palpable.

For not only do we often find such assuredness lacking when we follow this approach. But we also are left unprepared when things inevitably go off-script.

This is bad enough when it befalls us individually. But if the issue is societal, it can be downright disastrous.

Recent history is littered with instances of slow and clunky responses to an emergent threat. A blossoming pandemic and a spiraling inflation crisis are but two examples of this.

We went to the well of familiar approaches in each case, only to watch the threat linger and intensify, strangling us slowly like a boa constrictor.

As this has occurred, fear has set in. Certainty has faded away. And a sustainable path forward has proven harder to reach.

The old well has gone dry. It’s time to change things up.

About a year into my news career, a new face joined our newsroom.

Like me, the new hire worked behind the scenes, in an off-air role. Unlike me, he had plenty of big-city news experience.

Things started off amicable but quickly deteriorated.

For the new hire wanted our small, local news operation to focus coverage on developments in the Middle East. And I wanted to cover every arrest and car wreck in the metro area.

The best solution would probably have been a compromise — a mix of Middle East coverage from the network feed and local reporting from our journalists in-house.

But I was too hard-headed to acquiesce to such an agreement. Instead, I kept going back to the well, demanding that local news stay local.

A power struggle ensued, and I emerged victorious. The new hire eventually left the station, and I continued building the nightly newscasts the way I always had.

Looking back, I’m not filled with satisfaction at this development. I’m overcome by shame.

I wish that I had handled the situation better. That I’d been open-minded enough to listen to what my erstwhile co-worker was saying. That I’d leaned in to calls for change in an industry that was all about the unexpected.

Instead, I went back to the well. I demanded to do things the way they had been done before. And all that left me with was a divided newsroom and burned bridges.

In the years since that incident, I’ve tried to be more open-minded. When I’ve found myself going to the well, I’ve asked myself why I was doing so. And if I don’t have a solid answer, I’ve shifted my approach.

There’s nothing preventing us all from doing this. Nothing but ourselves.

So, let’s resolve to be better. To be shrewder. To be more open-minded.

Let’s not allow the tried-and-true to tie us in knots.

It’s time to lean into a fresh approach, and the wonders it unlocks.

Leading From Behind

On a cold day in November 1928, the Notre Dame Fighting Irish football team huddled in a locker room at Yankee Stadium.

The Irish were in the midst of a lackluster season, and the first half of this contest against the undefeated Army Cadets was going no better. Both teams had battled to a 0-0 tie, and morale on the Notre Dame sideline seemed low.

In the silence of the locker room, coach Knute Rockne spoke up. Instead of discussing strategy or tactics, Rockne evoked the memory of a former player — the All-American George Gipp. Gipp had died eight years earlier, and Rockne recalled Gipp’s final words to him:

Sometimes, when the team is up against it – and the breaks are beating the boys – tell them to go out there with all they’ve got and win just one for the Gipper.

The players responded to Rockne’s call with vigor, roaring back to beat Army. Notre Dame would go on to win national titles in the two subsequent years.

Rockne was already a legend before he urged his team to Win one for the Gipper. He had won 85 football games at Notre Dame to that point and helped popularize the forward pass.

But the halftime speech took his legend to new heights. It showed that coaches could do more than plot out X’s and O’s on a blackboard. They could lead from the front.

They could inspire with their words, command with their charisma, and blaze a trail through the boldness of their conviction.

Leading from the front was not a new concept when Rockne evoked it. It had long existed in politics, with its premium on oration and debate. But it was relatively nascent elsewhere.

Now, it no longer is.

Indeed, in the near century since Rockne’s speech, leading from the front has become the norm — in sports, in business, and in life.

Coaches are expected to say the right words to their teams at the right times. Bold keynote presentations are now expected of CEOs. And charisma is demanded of the rest of us.

The implication is clear. By taking charge and demonstrating a plan for success, leaders can inspire others to action. They can spark a movement and leave their mark on the world.

This approach has paid dividends, on and off the field. But it’s not the only way forward.

I grew up with sports.

Watching them. Playing them. And appreciating all the lessons they brought.

Throughout all that time as an aspiring youth athlete, I only remember one speech that made a difference to me. It came from my middle school baseball coach during a practice. And while it impacted my life, it didn’t raise my team’s performance on the field.

No, I didn’t rely on my baseball coaches for inspiration. My motivation came from watching pro baseball players. Not the flashy, hard-nosed ones. The quiet and consistent types.

I recognized from an early age that the best baseball teams had more than big sluggers or lights-out pitchers. They had glue guys — seemingly ordinary players who did all the little things right.

Oftentimes, their attention to detail would cause others to follow suit. And if those with the greatest athletic abilities were also attending to the details of the game — well, that made the team nearly unbeatable.

There’s a name for this quiet leadership. It’s called leading from behind. And I’ve been fascinated with it ever since those boyhood days on the diamond.

For leading from behind is hard. It requires us to show up each day and do our best.

There are no shortcuts to success. And no glamour to be found in the process.

When leading from behind, our best hope is for the steady drip of our actions to inspire others. Our best wish is to serve as a north star, illuminating the road ahead for our team. And our best reward is to garner the respect of those around us.

Embracing this mentality can be a tough adjustment, especially in a society that lionizes towering personalities. But the journey can prove worthwhile.

After all, those who lead from the front tend to have big egos. And egos can be mighty polarizing.

Yes, for all his glory and accolades, Michael Jordan wasn’t exactly beloved by his teammates. Despite his visionary leadership, Steve Jobs might be best remembered as a vindictive jerk. And Stanley Kubrick was as tough to work for as he was brilliant.

These character flaws might seem immaterial. But the dissent they spawned diluted the leadership abilities of these great men and tarnished their legacies.

Those leading from behind don’t face these problems. Their actions speak volumes all their own.

When I was in college, I decided I wanted to work in television news.

But my self-determined role in this industry was a strange one.

Instead of reporting from the field or sitting behind an anchor desk with the bright studio lights upon me, I wanted to produce the nightly newscasts. I yearned to compile stories, write scripts, wrangle footages, and – yes – manage the egos of news personalities. And I pined to do this behind the scenes, far from the discerning eyes of the viewing audience.

I knew that I’d get little acclaim for doing this. I wouldn’t be recognized when I walked down the street. Heck, I might not even be feted in my own newsroom.

And yet, I knew the value of the producer role. Without it, the newscast would be a rudderless ship, short on information and full of chaos.

Producing the nightly newscasts would provide me a great opportunity — the opportunity to lead from behind.

I seized that opportunity for nearly three years, making friends and garnering respect along the way. And when I left the news media, I didn’t abandon those principles.

As I’ve built a career in marketing, I’ve led from behind. I’ve put in the work, deflected credit, and sought to elevate my team at every turn.

This strategy certainly has its risks. There was always the chance that I’d be overlooked for a promotion or a similar opportunity.

But the benefits have far outweighed the risks. I’ve earned the respect of colleagues, made new friends, and helped accomplish far more than I would have if I had gone it alone.

But I’m not unique. Many others could reap these same benefits by shifting their conceptions of leadership.

We don’t need to be up front to make a difference. There’s plenty of merit in leading from behind.

It’s high time we explored it.

Wheels Keep Turning

I was a mess.

Groggy and incoherent, I stumbled out of bed at the sound of my alarm.

Immediately, I was greeted by two things. Intense discomfort in my gut. And a smartwatch alert about heart rate dipping below 40 beats per minute while I slept.

These two notifications — one biological, one technological — had a common thread.

Both showed that my body was still working, even as I lay unconscious in slumber. In fact, it was chugging along less efficiently than it should have been.

Yes, the pause I experience while recharging — it’s far from a complete one. Even while at rest, the wheels keep turning.

Look at a run-of-the-mill office suite around 10 PM on a weeknight, and it might seem like a ghost town.

Overhead lights off. Workstations powered down. The sound of silence resonating.

Business is on hibernation until the following day. But make no mistake, work is still going on.

Servers are storing the company’s files. Security programs are keeping business assets safe. And software is queueing after-hours transactions.

Even in the dead of night, the wheels keep turning.

No, the business world is not set up to stop and start on a dime. It’s more akin to a freight train — one full of inertia that can only be sped up or slowed down.

Our bodies have similar traits. This is what makes the words Cardiac Arrest so devastating.

And yet, we’ve been tempted to pull the emergency brake on this centrifugal force. For decades, there’s been talk of cryogenically freezing ourselves. And much of our economy recently did get shut down, as we reckoned with a deadly pandemic.

The thinking behind the shutdown was straightforward. A virus was blossoming; restricting interpersonal contact was thought to be the best way to stop its spread. And with most people holed up in their homes, business as we knew it needed to take a break.

This philosophy is what led to the eeriness of silent city streets and darkened storefronts. It’s what spurred the rallying cry We’re all in this together as we waited for the storm to pass.

But lost in that gesture of goodwill was a disturbing fact. We were more resilient than the corporate ecosystem we were abandoning.

While major companies had prepared for oodles of contingency plans, a complete shutdown was not one of them. For in the ranks of industry, such a move is tantamount to a death blow.

As the once unthinkable became a reality, our economy cratered. Millions were laid off from their jobs. Supply chains seized up. And many suffered.

Fortunately, we got the economy humming again. As the stay-at-home orders lifted and remote work blossomed, people got back to work, and the business boomed. But scar tissue from the ordeal has caused lingering issues — including supply chain disruptions and skyrocketing inflation.

It might be a while before things are back on the rails again. And until we reach that point, we’ll keep suffering the consequences of our recent economic catastrophe.

You need a vacation.

I’ve heard this advice time and again.

For I go hard at everything. Whether it’s work, exercise, cooking, or writing — I approach what’s on my schedule with meticulous focus and high intensity.

Those around me worry that I’ll burn up or burn out. So, they implore me to clear my schedule, hop on a cruise ship, or park myself at a faraway beach. I’ll return rejuvenated, they say.

I doubt it.

For I know my abilities and my inabilities. Powering down will only fill me with anxiety. And I’ll feel disoriented, rather than refreshed, upon my return.

So, I politely decline the calls for an extended vacation. I maintain my high-octane lifestyle.

Yes, I recognize that my own wheels must keep turning. Maybe not at warp speed all the time, but at least enough to maintain intertia.

Many of us share this sentiment, whether we’re acutely aware of it or not. It’s why we talk about needing a vacation from our vacation, or to stay in sync.

Idle hands are truly the devil’s handiwork. We need those wheels to keep turning.

The great reset.

This is a phrase I’ve heard bandied about in recent months.

As we emerge from a tumultuous time in our collective existence, we are tempted to take stock of our own lives. We yearn to change course and find meaning in what we do.

Such sentiments can be useful. But we’ve been robbing banks all these years, it might not be the best idea to make a clean break with the past.

For while our old habits and routines might no longer be our cup of tea, they did get us to this point. All that we learned along the way — it’s far from worthless.

Far better to incorporate such experience into our future than to bury it with our past. We’ll be stronger and more resilient for it.

I’ve seen this firsthand.

There are plenty of opportunities I’ve seized well into adulthood. New hobbies have found their way into my life. Healthier habits have sunk in. And a renewed sense of purpose has pervaded my life.

These developments are a blessing, and I’m filled with gratitude for them. But sometimes, I lament all the wasted years that have preceded my good fortune.

I think back to the days when I would stay out at the bar until closing time, downing cheap drinks with my friends, and complaining about my job. I recall the days when I scrolled endlessly through social media because I had no other vessel for my free time. I reminisce on that feeling that I was stuck in neutral, living month-to-month with no sense of greater direction.

I’m not proud of this version of myself, and I often wish the contemporary edition was around back then. But such desires are a fool’s errand.

If anything, I should give my past self a modicum of credit. For even in the depth of my doldrums, my wheels kept turning.

Yes, I might have yearned for a solution on a silver platter. But I kept doing the little things to help seize that platter if it came about.

This mindset is what laid the groundwork for the more bountiful future I would ultimately build for myself. My prosperity is not the dividend of a reset. It’s the culmination of all I’ve encountered on life’s journey to date.

So, let’s turn away from this discussion of pauses and resets. A better future is certainly worth pursuing. But we’re more likely to reach it with the help of our own inertia.

In good times and bad, through challenges and triumphs, let’s make sure those wheels keep turning.

The Broken Chain

The back seat was unassuming.

Basic cloth seats that stayed wet long after the rain clouds moved away. Seat belt buckles that would scorch the skin during a hot summer day. Manual window cranks and door locks.

Nothing fancy, yet still quite memorable.

For I grew up in that back seat. It was part of my parents’ sedan.

I rode to school in the back seat. I headed on grocery runs in it. I spent hours back there on family road trips.

My only entertainment during these treks? The radio, the view out the windows, and a Rand McNally atlas in the seat pocket.

It was a spartan existence. But I survived.

Today, I’m in the driver’s seat of my own SUV. The seats are comfier, there are power windows, and the seat belt no longer burns me. All my entertainment needs can come from my mobile phone, which syncs to a display on the center console.

But even with all these frills, I’m drawn to those old three standbys. I listen to the radio while on the road — albeit the satellite variety. I plan out my route before setting foot in the vehicle. And I check out the scenery as much as I safely can while behind the wheel.

Old habits die hard. But that might not be a bad thing.

Screen time.

It wasn’t a buzzword when during my youth, but it sure is now.

Smartphones and tablets are now ubiquitous. With supercomputers in our hands and entertainment just one tap away, we can stare at screens for hours — regardless of where our day takes us.

These days, kids will pass the time on road trips by playing video games on their tablets. Teenagers will spend hours scrolling social media on their phones. And adults will stream their favorite shows whenever their schedule allows.

This has led to an odd dichotomy.

We are all much more in the loop than we once were. It’s never been easier to stay informed and up to date on anything trendy or buzzworthy.

And yet, we are more isolated than ever before. Even in the center of a bustling metropolis, we are interacting with our screens, oblivious to all that’s going on around us.

Add in the shadow of a devastating pandemic — one which required months of social isolation — and the problem compounds.

We might be dominant at Mario Kart, looped in with the latest on Ted Lasso, or masters of online trivia. But we’ve forgotten how to act while at the dinner table, in the line at Starbucks, or even while walking our dog at the park.

Basic decorum is sorely lacking. And given the hyper-partisan state of our society, this problem seems particularly intractable.

Like many, I’m concerned about our present, and what it might mean for our future. But I refuse to be fatalistic.

All is far from lost.

I walked into the classroom, shaking like a leaf.

It was my first day of third grade, at a brand-new school. And I was terrified.

My teacher extended out her right arm and asked me what my name was. I replied softly, my eyes staring off at a classroom wall as my right hand crumpled under the force of my teacher’s firm handshake.

Within seconds, the encounter was over. But my adventure was just beginning.

For my third-grade teacher, bless her soul, refused to acquiesce to my timid nature. She could tell that change was particularly hard on me. But she wouldn’t let me bypass social customs because of it.

Over the course of months, she coached me to look others in the eye while speaking with them. She taught me how to give a firm handshake. She convinced me to stand tall, listen intently, and be bold.

And I was.

I walked out of third grade a fundamentally different boy than I was entering it.

Sure, I still had a lot of growing up to do. But my days of tiptoeing on eggshells were over.

For the first time, I fully engaged with my peers. I tried new things and made mistakes. And I suffered the consequences of those mistakes.

But with each step — forward or backward — I learned a little more about social norms. I became more proficient in the nuanced language of our culture and our society.

Yes, third grade was a game-changer for me. But now, we’re all about ready to forfeit.

Not long ago, I boarded an airplane for a business trip.

As I took my seat, I noticed the man sitting closest to the window in my row had the plastic shade pulled down. Oblivious to my stares, he gazed intently at his smartphone as it played the next episode of who knows what — the sound percolating into his ears through noise-canceling headphones.

As the plane taxied and took off, the man was oblivious. His body was in an airplane seat, but his mind was somewhere else.

Meanwhile, I was out of sorts. This man’s self-serving act had deprived me of the view of the airport fading into the distance, as we glided over the city and on to our faraway destination. All I saw instead was a strip of tan plastic.

The last time I was this disoriented, I was on a school excursion. We were all blindfolded, placed on a school bus, and dropped in a remote location, with only a compass and a watch to help guide us back to the starting point.

I led the class back to base that day. While blindfolded, I had memorized the turns the bus had made, relying on the jolting I felt in my seat. Then I triangulated the sun’s position in the sky with my watch and compass. And I combined this knowledge into a successful action plan.

If this man at the window seat had been the one leading that excursion — well, God help us all.

And yet, that seems to be exactly the conundrum we’re in.

We’re all too content to stumble around in our self-contained bubbles, happily oblivious to anyone and anything in our path. We’ve punted away the hard tasks of observation, conscientiousness, and communication. And we’ve forgotten the rules of social engagement in the process.

Our tech landscape certainly plays a role here. But make no mistake, we bear much of the blame.

For there were screens back when I was in third grade too. We had Nintendo video games to distract us, and televisions to entertain us.

None of that prevented me from learning social norms. None of that kept me from abiding by them.

It’s time that we put the broken chain back together. It’s time that we stop making excuses for our antisocial behavior and commit to a code of common decency.

This doesn’t mean banning screen time. It doesn’t require us to return to the era of no-frills vehicles with cloth seats and window cranks.

But it does mean taking the time and effort to actually give a damn. And to hold ourselves accountable to that standard — the same way my third-grade teacher once held me accountable for it.

This mission is eminently attainable. Let’s get after it.

In The Way

Several years ago, my grandparents were stopped at a red light, not far from my childhood home. Two cars in front of them also waited for their moment to advance.

The light turned green. My grandfather waited patiently for the cars ahead to clear when…BOOM!

His car was rear-ended.

The impact of the collision was intense. My grandparents’ car was damaged, but fortunately, they were alright.

When my grandfather approached the driver that hit his car, that driver had a simple explanation for the carnage.

The light was green.

Forget that there were three cars between that driver and the intersection. Forget that my grandparents could have gotten seriously injured.

Green meant go. Simple as that.

The offense this driver committed was egregious. No one would deny that.

But the philosophy he tapped into, it’s one we’re all familiar with.

You see, we’re groomed to act like a bull in a China shop when it comes to the obstacles we face. We’re taught that the only path forward is through.

Now, there are certainly times when such an approach is warranted. We face plenty of barriers that are meant to be knocked down like bowling pins.

But there are countless other times when we’re far from the bowling alley. Where the obstacle ahead of us is in place for a good reason. And where we should adjust accordingly.

Much like that driver, we don’t have a playbook for such a scenario. And we all suffer for it.

There’s a new sheriff in town.

We’ve probably heard that phrase before.

This phrase signifies more than a changing of the guard. It signals that we all have but two options — get in line or get out of the way.

Such an approach was worth its weight in gold on the rugged Western frontier of yesteryear. But it’s poorly equipped for the modern era.

These days, respect isn’t meted out at the heel of a boot or the end of a gun. It’s earned by threading the needle between competition and collaboration.

Yes, sometimes it’s prudent to work with others to bypass the barriers in our midst, rather than taking dead aim at them. Sometimes it’s better to play the long game, to see the forest for the trees.

Thanks to this alternate philosophy, we see universities joining together for research efforts. Thanks to this philosophy, we see Microsoft Office software on Apple computers. Thanks to this philosophy, we have the phrase frenemy.

Yes, the past has proven that win at all costs carries a crippling toll. History has shown us that joining forces can truly yield benefits.

And yet, we fail to pay attention to the evidence. We fail to heed this guidance.

I stood behind a tall table in the middle of an expo hall floor. In front of me were assorted giveaways. Behind me was a banner featuring my employer’s logo. And off to the side were a couple of colleagues.

My job was simple — talk to whoever came by the booth and scan their conference badge.

Many times, these visitors were our potential customers. But sometimes they were representatives from businesses like ours. Not direct competitors, but service providers whose solutions complemented ours.

After these representatives listened to my sales pitch and grabbed a few branded items, they walked away. And as they did, my colleagues would utter the same phrase.

Maybe we’ll acquire their company someday.

I knew where my colleagues were coming from. Our company had been aggressive in the Mergers & Acquisitions space. Many of us in the booth had joined from an acquired company.

But after hearing it over and over, I’d had enough.

Y’all, I exclaimed. We’re not acquiring every other company out there. We can partner with some of them.

Now, partnership is not exactly a novel concept. But in this case, it seemed as if I was speaking a foreign language.

For business is Darwinism at its finest. It is dog eat dog competition.

With revenue, profit margins, and valuations ruling the roost, companies seemingly have no choice but to try and rule the jungle. In the words of Ricky Bobby, If you ain’t first, you’re last.

This ruthless competition has certainly propelled industry forward over the years. It’s sparked innovation and driven gains in efficiency.

But there is a downside to this single-minded pursuit. And that downside can best be described in two words: Customer relations.

You see, business doesn’t exist in a vacuum. To survive, companies need customers. And to succeed, companies need to retain those customers.

This process of earning and maintaining customers — it demands emotional intelligence. It requires empathy. It depends upon understanding.

And it’s simply not possible to meet those needs while acting like everything a business encounters is nothing more than an obstacle to be cleared.

This is why partnerships are important. This is why collaboration matters.

But only if we commit to it.

My grandparents were involved in that car wreck years ago.

They’ve since passed on. And so, I fear, has the era of partnership.

These days, I fear that more of us are like that offending driver. More of us are plowing through the cars ahead of us, simply because the light is green.

Partisanship is as bad as it’s ever been. Competition is everywhere and compromise is sorely lacking.

It’s all so tragically ironic.

For the more we treat each other as obstacles to clear, the less we accomplish. Our pursuit of winning at all costs ends up costing us everything.

It’s far better for us to be selectively competitive. For us to discern who is really in the way, and who isn’t. And to act accordingly.

Such an approach is not risk-free. Erstwhile partners might turn into rivals, leaving us vulnerable to serious harm.

But the risks of staying the current course are even more significant. What lies ahead for us all is even more treacherous.

So, let’s take the more sustainable path. Let’s act with thoughtful discretion, rather than reckless abandon.

We will all be better for it.

State of Emergency

The sign on the subway train was unambiguous.

If you see something, say something.

Normally, this wouldn’t raise any eyebrows. The message would be swiftly forgotten.

But nothing about this moment was normal. America had just been attacked by terrorists, and there was an ominous feeling that an aftershock was coming. Vigilance was the best defense.

So, we all read the signs. We looked around the train car for anything suspicious. And we prepared ourselves to sound the alarm on the next terror plot.

The same was true when we walked down the street. An intense focus overcame us, and any semblance of trust faded away. Such was the modus operandi that was asked of us.

We were in a State of Emergency. And we were acting accordingly.

More than two decades later, those signs are still on the subways. But many of us don’t notice them anymore.

After all, most of the terrorists who attacked our nation are either dead or behind bars. And those aftershock threats we so feared? Our intelligence services shut them down.

We are no longer in a State of Emergency. And we are acting accordingly.

Now, this is not to say the threat is quashed. Far from it.

A series of terrorist attacks have happened abroad. New terror groups have cropped up, putting our society in their crosshairs. And a series of mass shootings here at home has elevated the issue of domestic terrorism.

Yet, we don’t follow the subway signs. We no longer look around anxiously on the while on the street. And if we do happen to see something, there’s a good chance we’ll keep it to ourselves.

Some might say this indifference reflects poorly on us. That it puts us at risk.

They wouldn’t be wrong for saying this. But it was always going to end up this way.

State of Emergency.

Those three words can send chills down the spine. For they represent a dystopian shock to the system.

You see, we experience a State of Emergency when something bad happens. A devastating terror attack. A paralyzing weather event. An economic collapse.

We must uproot our routines to navigate the moment. We must embrace the uncomfortable to see our way to the other side.

This is as true collectively as it is for us individually. And that shared burden increases our distress.

But a State of Emergency is temporary. Emergencies don’t last forever.

Eventually, the storm recedes. The attack ends. The economy bounces back. And we resume our regularly scheduled programming.

And if it doesn’t? If the associated disaster carries a long tail?

Well, we resume a semblance of normalcy anyway.

We must.

For emergencies tap into a specific physiological reaction — the fight or flight response. A perceived threat automatically launches this reaction within us, guiding us on a path to survival.

The fight or flight response is powerful in small doses. But it’s not feasible in perpetuity.

There’s only so long we can fight or run before our energy gives out. And even if we build up our physical endurance, the mental toll of fight or flight is too much to overcome.

So, emergencies need to be temporary — at least within the confines of our minds.

Periods of intense disruption must not persist. Even if the embers of the threat are still out there.

As I write this, we’re not long removed from a State of Emergency.

For two years, our nation has soldiered on under a patchwork of federal, state, and local regulations. These regulations responded to the growing threat of the COVID pandemic. And they impacted how we interact, travel, and work.

This moment has certainly felt dystopian. After all, we hadn’t lived in the shadow of a deadly pandemic before. And we had never seen our society so thoroughly shuttered.

And while our vigilance to the regulations has varied over time, it was almost universally strong in the beginning. Back then, the fear of a deadly virus was great and treatment for it was nonexistent. The stakes were too high not to act with extreme caution.

But now, the State of Emergency is over. COVID is still out there, and so are many local disaster declarations. But the regulations have fallen away.

Well, all except one.

The federal government had kept a mask mandate in place for all public transportation throughout most of the pandemic. And even as other regulations have come off the books, officials have continued to extend that mandate.

These extensions have increasingly diverged from reality. Indeed, with other regulations fading away, people have been able to go to the office, to a restaurant, to a school, or to a ballgame without restrictions. But once they set foot in a train station or airport, they’ve needed to cover their mouths and noses. The inconsistency was blatant.

And the rationale for these extensions from government officials has been even more head-scratching. Instead of referencing actual data, spokespeople mentioned buying more time for researchers to consider the risks of this moment of the pandemic.

Add it all up, and you have a policy in search of an imminent threat, rather than the other way around.

The federal government has done this before. The extensive security apparatus found at every airport in this nation is a permanent remnant of that terror attack years ago. The imminent threat of terrorism has faded from air travel. Yet, the precautions remain.

We are reminded of these precautions every time we head to the boarding area. Indeed, going through the security process can be extremely unpleasant, particularly if you’re flagged for additional screening. But once we’re through the gauntlet, we can enjoy the rest of our trip in peace.

By contrast, wearing a face mask for hours on end while traveling brings unpleasantness to a new level. Especially when such marks are not required in nearly any other public setting. With society opening back up, our faith in this holdover precaution is largely wearing thin.

But now, it seems we might not need to hold our breath anymore.

A federal judge recently put an end to the madness, striking down the mask mandate. Many have welcomed the ruling, with some gleefully ripping off their masks while in flight. Others decried it, even going so far to say that maskless travelers didn’t care about those around them. The federal government, for its part, signaled its willingness to appeal the decision.

Such variance in opinion is certainly welcome in a free nation. But it’s worth noting that the proponents of continued travel mask mandates are woefully out of touch.

Wearing a mask is not, and cannot be, a normalized activity. Breathing, talking, eating, and drinking are four necessities of our daily lives. Masks constrain or prevent all these activities, by design. Expecting such a restrictive apparatus to be mandated long-term is simply inhumane, even if the risk it protects against persists in some form.

And those risks are still out there anyway. People can take off their masks to eat or drink at airports, train stations, bus stations, and in flight — increasing the risk of catching or spreading the virus. Even if they don’t uncover their faces, people can get COVID while masked. There is nowhere truly safe from the malady.

So yes, it’s time to stop shaming and blaming those who dare support the end of this mandate. Blood is not on anyone’s hands. It’s just that the State of Emergency is over.

Time to act accordingly.

There are some who will read this article and bristle with anger.

After all, COVID has claimed nearly a million lives in our nation. Those losses have left scores of devastated loved ones with scars that will never go away.

Turning our backs on heightened vigilance, on mandates, on States of Emergency — this might seem like a betrayal to those loved ones left behind. It might signal that their loss was in vain.

That couldn’t be further from the truth.

It is important to remember those lost, those disabled, and those left behind from this pandemic. I don’t want to minimize that one bit.

But there are better ways to honor a memory than to hold a State of Emergency in perpetuity. Requiring heightened vigilance for minimized risk — that’s something we just won’t go for. And it’s a standard we simply should not be held to.

So, let’s read the tea leaves. Let’s stop the madness, take a step back, and reset.

The State of Emergency is over. It’s time to act accordingly.