Category: Thoughts

The Productivity Paradox

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It hardly seems right.

A hard day’s work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You should take a break.

I’ve gotten this advice often.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Embrace the gray.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s make sure we do.

Everything’s Changed

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

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

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

But such descriptors are hardly adequate these days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But now, everything’s changed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boy was I wrong.

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

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

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

But then, the ground under my feet shifted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We can all be a bit more like Theseus.

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

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

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

The choice is ours. What move will we make?

Going Uphill

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your flight has been canceled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These are all capabilities my ancestors could only dream of.

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

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

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

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

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

Or can we?

Restaurant chains.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do No Harm

The Hippocratic Oath.

It’s the bedrock of medicine.

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

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

Do no harm.

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

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

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

Do no harm is that reason.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I doubt Milton Friedman will top that list.

But perhaps he should.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet, we ignore this example at our own risk.

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

This is simply not true.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Contingency

Break glass in case of emergency.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’ll accommodate us.

I was incensed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am an avid runner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the most critical lessons involve my mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, let’s get to work.

On Redemption

The date was August 15, 2004.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Redeem Team.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s an example we can all learn from.

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

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

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

But once we got to town, our trip unraveled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The curse was broken. Redemption was mine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?