Category: Thoughts

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.

The Caretaker Conundrum

I wasn’t feeling well.

My forehead was feverish. My knees were weak, and chills cascaded up and down my spine.

I knew the protocol. I’d need to take some Tylenol and rest. My parents would take care of me while I recovered.

Only, they wouldn’t. Not this time.

For I was a freshman in college, a thousand miles away from my home. No one was hopping on a flight to help me get back to health. I would need to take that task on myself.

As this sank in, I felt terrified.

How the heck would I take care of myself in this delicate state? And what if I couldn’t?

Fear gave way to instinct. I wasn’t going to get any better standing around in my dorm room. So, I lay down, pulled the covers over me, and dozed off.

I woke up with a clear mind, if not a clean bill of health. And with this fresh start, I was able to do what it took to recover. By the next day, I was right as rain.

This experience was transformative. I had learned how to care for myself at a point of vulnerability. And life would never be the same.

Well-being.

This term has exploded in popularity in recent years.

Getting to live another day is no longer the objective. Living in a healthy, sustained manner now is.

This thinking has helped grow lifestyle brands, expand the wellness industry, and proliferate demands for work-life balance.

All these innovations have their benefits, but they come with a dangerous assumption. Namely, that others will be our caretakers.

You see, that existential crisis I faced while I was ill in college — it’s hardly a novel one. We all yearn for TLC when we’re at our weakest. And when there’s none to be had, we can feel rattled.

Still, we persevere. Tossed into the deep end without support, we’re forced to care for ourselves. And we learn from the experience — just as I did.

But while some view this moment as a point of no return, others will yearn to recreate what was lost. They’ll look to build a caretaking ecosystem, so that they never find themselves out in the cold again.

And in doing so, they’ll set out on a road to nowhere.

The professional world looks far different today than it did generations ago.

The Internet has transformed the way we do business. Tasks that were previously handled on-site can now be done remotely. And employee turnover is the rule, not the exception.

This last development has led to a lot of hand wringing.

High turnover is a challenge for companies. While Henry Ford’s assembly line model rendered workers as interchangeable, the business world is far more complicated now. Change management is a constant headwind that business must contend with.

In a fit of frustration, some corporate leaders have yearned for the good old days, when employees would stick with a company for 40 years before retiring with a gold watch and a pension. These managers believe that the workforce was loyal back then, and they pine for a return to that stability.

Some employees share this sentiment with the C-Suite. Moving from company to company can take a heavy toll. It’s much simpler to daydream of an era when an employer would take care of you for the duration of your career. That loyalty would be much appreciated in the unpredictable modern era.

Of course, the good old days are long gone. And these desires to recreate it read like revisionist history.

The perceived stability of the bygone generation of work reflected on the era itself. Sure, the Cold War was going on. But it was much easier for companies to get a good read on the market in those days, making decisions that sidestepped turbulence along the way. Bailing on such a smooth ride would be foolish, so relatively few employees did it.

Caretaking didn’t factor into the conversation much, if at all. Companies cared about the three P’s — productivity, profitability, and potential — more than anything else. A stable workforce helped companies achieve those goals faster. But if the waters did happen to get choppy, and employees headed for the exits, companies would simply backfill the open roles.

Henry Ford’s interchangeable workers philosophy was still alive and well.

Goldilocks and the Three Bears. It’s a childhood classic.

In the fairy tale, a girl with golden hair wanders into the lair of a family of bears while they’re away. She methodically tests out everything in the house before determining what bowl of porridge to eat, and what bed to lie down on.

This step-by-step deliberation has gained wide adoption in the real world. In fact, the Goldilocks Principle is now a staple of psychology to economics.

We are all searching for just the right fit — in our business projects, in our academic exploits, and in life in general.

The Goldilocks Principle has a hand in the world of work as well. It’s what’s driven many of us to move from job to job unlike ever before.

We are looking for the right fit and balance in our professional exploits. Each twist on our journey serves as a data point — a guardrail that can help funnel us to our own nirvana.

There’s nothing wrong with any of this. But if we expect caretaking to be part of this fit and balance equation, we’re sure to be disappointed.

Employers have a more nuanced view these days than they did in the pension and gold watch ones. There’s an increased — and overdue — focus on diversity, equity, and inclusion in the working world. And such concepts as company culture and employee benefits have gone from perks to must-haves.

But make no mistake — the companies we work for are not going to serve as our caretakers. At the end of the day, it’s still all about the three P’s. And a more open relationship with employees is simply a means to an end.

It’s on us to recognize this. And it’s on us to adjust our expectations.

No one is going to unconditionally take care of us the way our parents once did. Not our employers. Not the wellness industry. Not our government. Not even our loved ones.

These people and entities will help. They’ll provide the tools to get us back to full-strength.

But it’s our responsibility to apply those tools. It’s on us to launch ourselves across the finish line.

This might not be what we desire, particularly when we’re at our most vulnerable. But it’s the hand we’re dealt.

So, let’s not fold. Let’s play our hand, and stay in the game.

Our prosperity depends on it.

The Paradox of Trust

A friendly face.

It’s a lifeline.

When we’re faced with novelty, a friendly face can make all the difference.

Friendly is familiar. And familiarity can cut through the jitters of uncertainty.

So, we seek out a friendly face at any opportunity. We seek to build a stable of people we can trust.

We believe that we’re setting ourselves up for success by doing this. But we could be booking a one-way ticket to trouble instead.

I’ve often been described as trustworthy.

Many times, I get this feedback directly. Sometimes I see it through the actions of others.

I take this accolade as an honor and a responsibility.

While it’s great to have others believe in me, I know I can’t rest on my laurels. I must work continually to validate that trust.

For trust is not a rubber stamp. It’s a contract.

If I fail to deliver on my end of that contract, it evaporates. I lose the goodwill of family, friends, and associates. And I end up hurt, perhaps irreparably.

And if I abuse the contract entirely — blatantly violating its terms for my own gain — it ignites. I lose the goodwill of family, friends, and associates when the truth comes to light. And they end up hurt, perhaps irreparably.

Yes, what builds us up can also tear us down.

And so, I am deliberate when it comes to trust. I strive to model trustworthy behavior, but I don’t overtly seek out the trust of others.

I simply put myself in a position to earn that label. And once I receive it from someone, I work extra hard to maintain it.

The stakes are too high to act otherwise.

Confidence artists.

We have a complicated relationship with them.

We love it when our favorite characters on the silver screen are putting on a ruse. But we loathe seeing such sequences play out in real life.

The gap between these two examples might seem stark. But they’re closer together than we might want to admit.

Whether it’s James Bond or Bernie Madoff, confidence artists draw from the same well — our sense of trustworthiness, and our unwillingness to question it.

And while it’s easy to trivialize those victimized by confidence schemes — labeling them as the naïve, the uber-rich, or the movie villains who had it coming — such dissonance misses the point.

All too often, we play fast and loose with the concept of trustworthiness. We hand over the keys to the Rolls Royce that is our life. And we just expect the valet in its charge not to go joyriding with it.

We hope that everyone’s better angels will shine through. But what if they don’t?

We have no contingency plan for the devil in our midst. We head out into the chaos of the world without an inch of armor. And the results are predictably tragic.

Perhaps it’s time to change the calculus.

My parents are both educators.

Ever since I was a child, they’ve been entrusted with the well-being of schoolchildren. During the busiest part of the day, they share a classroom – with no parents in sight.

This alone isn’t noteworthy. Or it shouldn’t be.

After all, the school system has been set up this way in America for two centuries. We entrust educators with our kids, no questions asked.

But recently, things have changed.

Revelations of physical abuse in the classroom by teachers have shattered any sense of trust. Schools have had to face tough questions about how they operate.

This has impacted my parents. They’re consummate professionals who have proven worthy of the trust bestowed upon them. But they now face a bevy of regulations and restrictions that impact how they teach.

There’s no question that these changes were needed. The old method of blind trust allowed predators to lie in plain sight, and plenty of lives were ruined in the balance.

Still, the current climate in classrooms isn’t exactly sustainable either. Education can’t happen in a trust vacuum, with all its mechanisms eroded away.

The solution lies somewhere in the middle, in the gray area between carte blanche and a surveillance state.

And it’s there, in the fog and the mist, where the path forward is so difficult to navigate.

Trust but verify.

Back when I worked in television news, I internalized these three words.

Speed was the name of the game. Getting the scoop, being the first to report — that meant everything.

But accuracy was the name of the game too. Putting the wrong information out there could get you in a boatload of trouble.

Choosing between these two edicts wasn’t an option. So, I went with the trust but verify approach.

Essentially, our news operation would implicitly trust the information we came across. But we’d still check with a second source to verify that intel, ensuring it was accurate.

This trust but verify approach speaks to the paradox of trust. We need it, but we can only rely on it so much.

There’s no true guidebook for this paradox. There’s no silver bullet that leverages the upside of trust without exposing us to those nasty downsides.

The best we can do is to approach the situation with eyes wide open. To lean into our vulnerability and to prepare ourselves for the worst outcomes.

We can do this by honoring the trust placed in us. Instead of taking this goodwill for granted, we can act to validate it day in and day out.

And when it comes to the trust we place in others, we can take our time. Instead of diving right in, we can verify that our faith is indeed justified.

On their own, these actions won’t mean much. Trust can still be broken. People can still get burned.

But as more and more of us follow these principles, those risks will diminish. We will bolster our faith in each other while working together to deliver the goods.

That’s a future we can all get behind. But it starts with our actions today.

So, let’s get started.

Rabbit Out of a Hat

What’s behind your ear?

The question perplexed me.

There wasn’t a thing back there. I was as sure of it as I was of anything.

And yet, my godfather seemed to believe otherwise. Why else would he ask?

So, with a healthy dose of caution, I replied Nothing.

Check again, said my godfather.

I ran my finger along the back of my ear, only to find a quarter nestled back there.

How did this happen? I thought, before realizing I’d blurted my question out loud.

Magic, my godfather replied.

Magic, I repeated to myself. Silently this time.

I should have been amazed. I should have been awestruck from the spectacle of the impossible becoming probable.

But instead, I was annoyed.

Not at my godfather. At myself.

How could I have let this happen? How could I have allowed a quarter to materialize behind my ears? How could I not be aware of my surroundings?

From then on, I was jaded. I wasn’t trying to find the secret behind the magic trick. I was attempting to avoid being the subject of it.

Still, it all looked the same to my godfather, or to anyone else I encountered seeking sorcery. My resistance, my denials — they were only inspiration to lean in harder, to create a bigger spectacle.

The tension built, and my dissatisfaction festered.

Even as I grew older, and the magicians chased after a new crowd, I remained unhinged. I once traveled to Disney World seeking to dispel the notion of Disney Magic. I scoured TV sets for trap doors and other funky shortcuts. And I built a healthy disdain for card games.

I was on a mission. Not only a mission to avoid being hoodwinked. But also a mission to end all hoodwinking, period.

As you might expect, this quest got me nowhere. I was as likely to put an end to sorcery as I was to stop the world from turning, particularly in the age of Harry Potter.

And yet, the mission wasn’t a complete waste. Far from it.

He sure pulled a rabbit out of a hat.

We’ve all likely heard that phrase a time or two — generally when something improbable has happened.

The rabbit in the hat routine is a magician’s staple. A spectacle of illusion so over-the-top that audience members can’t help but be filled with awe.

I’ve long loathed this trick. So much so that I grew a disdain for both rabbits and top hats.

But recently, all that has changed.

Not too long ago, my back was against the wall. I was hopelessly behind on assignments for work and an article for this publication. Time was short, commitments were high and the chances of me delivering were small.

My only hope was to put the hammer down and hope for the best. So, I did. And to my surprise, I got everything done ahead of the deadline.

I sure pulled a rabbit out of a hat there, I thought to myself. It’s simply amazing that I got all of that done so quickly.

That’s when it hit me. Magic is not about illusions and spells and distractions. It’s about speed.

It takes quick action to get our senses to deceive us. It takes quick action for quarters to appear behind our ears. It takes quick action for rabbits to emerge out of hats in broad daylight.

This speed is not a given. It takes talent, precision, and persistence to harness it. And those who manage to do so deserve a better fate than scorn and incredulity.

This whole time when I was hating on magic, I was missing the forest for the trees. I was blowing hot air at the grand spectacle, unaware that the real magic came from the shadows.

Yes, it’s the little things that can make the biggest difference.

As I thank back on that moment with my godfather and the quarter behind my ear, I’m filled with questions.

Not about the stunt itself. I know better than to ask a magician to divulge their tricks.

No, my questions are about my godfather himself. How was he so calm and casual while operating at warp speed?

It seemed completely out of character.

My godfather is a kind-hearted, deliberate man — someone likely to roll through a social outing with the steady rhythm of the incoming tide. But this whole turn to magic hit me like a thunderbolt.

Yes, my godfather had pulled his own rabbit out of his hat, trading out his whole demeanor in service of the illusion.

I might not have appreciated it then. But I sure appreciate it now.

Those who know me best know that I’m a fan of Malcolm Gladwell.

He’s made his living as a journalist and an author. But Gladwell made his name as one of our society’s great contrarian thinkers.

Gladwell takes what we view as gospel and flips it on its head. For instance, his renowned podcast series focuses on things overlooked and misunderstood.

Malcolm Gladwell is a master at pulling rabbits out of hats. At suspending our disbelief. At causing us to see the world just a bit differently.

And yet, it’s hardly smoke and mirrors. Rather than building an illusion, Gladwell is ripping down the curtain.

He surprises us, time and again. And through that process, we find ourselves delighted.

Perhaps more of us could take a page from Gladwell or my godfather. Perhaps we can focus on the process of pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

This doesn’t require a cape or a fancy catchphrase. It simply demands an unwavering curiosity, a willingness to sweat the small stuff, and the determination to see the task through.

In an ever-evolving world, these attributes are the keys to lasting success. But they can do so much more.

They can fill the gaps in our understanding. They can help us forge good habits. And they can make us better at all that we set out to accomplish.

So, let’s not get distracted by the bells and whistles. What lies beneath all that flash is what truly matters.

It’s time for us to harness it.

The Allotment of Time

I have all the time I the world.

This thought crossed my mind as I headed to the airport for a business trip.

The late-afternoon flight had essentially curtailed my workday. But I had time to make up the difference.

After all, my flight would take about two hours. I’d likely be at the gate for an hour more before boarding the plane. And once I landed ad my destination and made it to the hotel, I’d have an hour to tie up some last-minute work tasks. Easy peasy.

At least that’s what I thought.

But the flight was delayed. Then delayed again. Then moved to a different terminal. By the time I’d made it to my new gate, I had little time to boot up my computer and get anything substantive done. And the delay caused me to arrive at the hotel near midnight. No work nightcaps for me.

Add it all up — plus the time I had to stow my laptop for takeoff and landing — and four hours of asynchronous work time had been condensed into only one. Much of what I’d hoped to accomplish would have to wait for another day.

Time had gotten away from me.

My travel dilemma was not unique.

Indeed, there have been many other instances where I’ve misjudged how much time I’d have at my disposal.

This is not a failure of arithmetic. I have an MBA and spent three years producing evening television newscasts. I know my way around a math problem.

No, something deeper is at play here. My inability to probably allocate time is a failure of context.

You see, I consistently view time as finite. I see it as a set of 24 hourlong blocks that can be divvied up to meet the needs of the moment.

What I fail to consider are all the little complications that might eat away at that time. The moments spent walking from place to place, taking a bathroom break, or fielding an unexpected phone call.

These instances seem insignificant. And on their own, they might be.

But in aggregate, they can eat away at those blocks of time. They can wreck the most carefully laid plans.

They’ve laid waste to mine, time and again. But recently, I’ve tried to take control.

I’ve averaged out all those interruptions and run experiments from those findings. And all this work has led me to what I call the Rule of Three.

The Rule of Three dictates that I should split an open block of time into three parts. Two of those three parts should be dedicated to an inevitable slew of interruptions; I shouldn’t expect them to lead to productivity. But the third part can be devoted to completing substantive work.

This heuristic didn’t hold true when I got caught in travel limbo. I lost three quarters of my allotted time that day, not two-thirds.

But in general, it does hold water. And such knowledge has helped me navigate my day, set accurate deadlines, and even write my Words of the West articles.

Yes, the Rule of Three has been a game changer. But it doesn’t leave me feeling fulfilled.

For instead of thinking of what I accomplish during my productivity spurts, I’m left to consider the two-thirds that got away.

It’s my cross to bear.

This game I play — it’s hardly reasonable.

The clock might tick to a steady beat. The sun might rise and set at specific times each day. But few other elements of everyday life adhere to such precision.

Expecting perfection out of any aspect of life is a fool’s errand. I know this as well as anyone.

Yet, here I am, ruing any little blip that sets me off schedule. What gives?

Part of this is surely my own neurosis. My disdain for any semblance of laziness in my life causes me to account for every second of my day.

But a bigger part of this mindset is cultural. In fact, it’s a hallmark of our society.

Ever since the dawn of the industrial era, we’ve been encouraged to account for every minute. The transcontinental railroad gave us time zones and standardized clocks. Henry Ford gave us the assembly line and interchangeable parts. And the public education system gave us regimented schedules.

With each development, the message was clear. Time was not to be wasted.

Such ideals did have benefits. They helped America make the leap from a frontier nation to a superpower, and they created the playbook for a developed nation.

But the drawbacks have been just as stark. Skyrocketing instances of burnout, declines in quality control and the crushing weight of insecurity have all carried a heavy toll.

This system of extreme accountability asks more of us than we can reasonably expect to deliver on. It expects us to be machines, and to adhere to perfection. And that is something we can’t reasonably hold up to, either mentally or physiologically.

And so, we are destined to make a mess of time allotment. And we are bound to feel bad about it when it happens.

Our society wouldn’t have it any other way.

When I was a teenager, I’d often head to bed late. And in our family home, that meant one thing – I was responsible for turning off all the lights.

As I’d go through this process, I’d often find my father in his study, working under a solitary lamp.

My father – a schoolteacher – has always been a notorious procrastinator. He tends to start a dayslong project – such as grading papers or writing lesson plans – the night before it’s due.

I had no desire to follow the same path, so I played a little Jedi mind trick on myself. I would convince myself an assignment was due the day before it actually was, and then procrastinate leading up to my fake deadline.

This trick worked like a charm. I’d get my assignments in on time, every time. And my work would generally score high marks.

But now, I no longer have the same confidence in my technique. When pressed for a firm deadline on a project, I waffle.

Adulthood is complicated, with surprises at every turn. Calculating the Rule of Three on the fly is even tougher. Put both factors together, and I’m so overwhelmed that I’m tempted to shut down.

But I’m not a quitter. So, I try to overdeliver. I aim to get as much done in as little time as possible, knowing the odds are against me. And all too often, this process leaves me bitter and disappointed.

There’s a better way for me, and for all of us. So, it’s time for call it like it is.

We are human, and rigid time allocation processes are inhumane. We must give ourselves some slack to account for the variability of life. There is no other viable way forward.

So, from now on, I’m going to approach things differently. Instead of forecasting how much time I have at my disposal, I will simply strive to do my best and settle for what I accomplish.

This approach might not be sexy. But it should bring a balance of effectiveness and peace of mind.

And ultimately, that’s what matters.