Category: Thoughts

On Transition

Here I go. Turn the page.

If only life were as simple as a Bob Seger song.

Yes, transitions are often-fraught times. Change is far messier than we’d like, and slogging through that quagmire can be emotionally draining.

And yet, change is inevitable. It’s a part of our calendars, our customs, and of life itself.

So, why are we not better at dealing with it? Why, after all this time, can’t we just turn the page?

The answer is both exceedingly simple and profoundly complicated.

I despise moving.

There are few things that give me more anxiety than changing my home address. I’ve only done it a handful of times in my life. Yet, each time, the experience nauseates me.

It isn’t the process of finding a new place that stresses me out. It isn’t the prospect of having a new rent or mortgage payment I must meet each month, no questions asked.

No, what upsets me most are those days right around the move itself. Those days when the home I’m vacating becomes a staging area — a labyrinth of boxes, tape, and bubble wrap.

This setup, temporary as it might be, goes against dwelling fundamentals. Homes are not meant to be storage areas for piles of boxes. They’re designed to be lived in. And the items we keep there are meant to be used, not stowed away.

Of course, it’s impossible for most of us to uproot ourselves with a snap of our fingers. Packing, lifting, unpacking — that all takes time and coordination. So, this awkward transition period is a force of circumstance.

But that doesn’t mean I like it. As I stumble through my soon-to-be-former home, looking amongst the boxes for a toothbrush and a change of clothes, I’m as miserable as a cat in a monsoon.

Perhaps someday, I won’t look on moving day with a sense of doom. Perhaps someday, I’ll even look forward to it.

But it will take a major shift to get me there.

I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul.

The closing lines of William Ernest Henley’s Invictusare iconic. And for me, they’re a rallying cry.

For I am a control enthusiast. I believe in things being just so. I demand them to be just so.

I do all I can to stay at the helm. To steer my actions and emotions in the most structured of ways.

And yet, I realize that all this preparation is futile. For we live on a perpetually spinning sphere. Things are always in a state of flux. Even in areas we consider to be steady.

Consider school. Teachers, blackboards, backpacks, desks — it all dominates much of our early existence. It seems so monotonous at first, a model of routine and consistency.

And yet, school is full of transition. With every summer comes another step up the ladder, and another set of adventures and challenges. The pattern repeats itself until our schooling is done.

Our adult adventures are also warped by the forces of time. As we progress through our careers, we pick up bushels of experience. We don’t exit the workforce the same person we were when we entered.

As our own goalposts move, so do the mile markers around us. Our favorite athletes retire. Cutting-edge fashion fades into obscurity. Music genres get the dreaded vintage label.

We deftly steer through all this chaos. So deftly, in fact, that we sometimes forget such chaos is even unfolding. With so much in motion, keeping our eyes on what’s ahead becomes the mission. And such tunnel vision gives us the illusion of control.

But then comes that moment that grabs our attention. That fork in the road that we see coming a mile ahead. That transition we can’t blissfully ignore.

It might be a graduation. Or a wedding. Or the dawn of parenthood.

Heck, it might even be a move to a new home.

When we see the inflection point — when the change becomes real — we fall apart.

What’s going on here?

Well, I think there are two elements at play.

For one thing, transitions are control voids. We don’t have agency over our environment. Instead, it has agency over us.

Furthermore, transitions expose our vulnerability. They show the world the soft spots in our armor. And they rudely remind us of where those gaps lie.

A tailspin into vulnerability is our greatest nightmare, playing out in real life. No wonder transitions cause so many of us so much distress.

As I write this, we are in the midst of a great transition.

A changing of the guard at the highest office in the land.

Such a shift happens every four or eight years. And it’s always an anxious time.

But this transition feels particularly tense.

Not because it comes during a deadly pandemic or a crushing recession. But because it comes in the shadow of an insurrection.

Yes, the new President of the United States has just been inaugurated at what is effectively a crime scene. He has taken oath to defend the Constitution in the spot where rioters attempted a coup of the government just two weeks earlier. A riot that emerged in support of the outgoing President.

Such occurrences seem plucked from the pages of a dystopian novel or the streets of a far-off republic. But they have happened right here in America.

And now, in their wake, the anxiety is off the charts. The sense of vulnerability has hardly ever been greater. Dread has the brightest stage imaginable.

Yes, it seems bleak. But what if we flipped the script?

What if we approached a moment like this with hope? What if we traded guardedness for optimism? What if we believed in the good ahead of us, instead of the horror behind us?

Such thinking might seem foolhardy — reckless even — given all that’s happened. But that foolhardiness just might be what we need to thrive in this moment.

So, let us put on a brave face. Let us stand up tall. And let us face the winds of change with conviction and resolve.

Turning the page is inevitable. How we handle it up to us.

Double Edge

I was furious.

On my parents’ TV screen, I was watching the Ohio State Buckeyes celebrate wildly. Meanwhile, the Miami Hurricanes looked on, stunned.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

In fact, moments earlier, the Miami players were mobbing the field in jubilation. Fireworks were going off above the stadium. The game appeared to be over, with the Hurricanes victorious.

But then, in the midst of the celebration, a referee threw one of his yellow flags onto the field. He then proceeded to call a dubious penalty on a Miami player.

The game would continue. And Ohio State would come from behind to win the game and a national college football championship.

The result was bad enough. But the way it all went down left me in a rage.

I was 15 years old when this game took place. About 3 and a half years after the final whistle, I would attend the University of Miami and become a Hurricane for life. But as I watched Ohio State players celebrating on TV, I had no affiliation to the school they’d just vanquished. I was simply a fan of the Miami football team.

I shouldn’t have gotten so worked up. But I couldn’t help myself.

For years, I held a vendetta against The Ohio State University. I rooted against their football team in every game. When their basketball team played a road game in Miami, I jawed with Buckeye fans in the arena concourse. And, when my family drove through Columbus, Ohio — home to the Ohio State campus — I urged them not to stop the car.

Eventually, the anger subsided. But it was quickly replaced by shame.

For it turns out that Ohioans are kind-hearted, salt-of-the-earth people. I’ve worked with several over the years, and I don’t have a bad thing to say about any of them.

I was wrong to paint them as villains for so long, just because of the results of a football game. It was foolish, shortsighted — and strangely predictable.

Competition. It’s an American hallmark.

A nation built on the promise of an elected government and a capitalist economy relies on competition. On straining for scarce resources. On gaining an edge.

We compete for employment, for housing, for influence. We even compete for acclaim as the best spouse or parent.

Ostensibly, this makes us better. It keeps us motivated to give our best at all times. It inspires us to produce more. And it allows society to reap the benefits.

But hyper-competition is not foolproof. The edge we require can cut both ways.

Going head-to-head with others is a zero-sum game. There are winners and losers. Rising up means another gets pushed down.

When we’re in the fray, it’s hard to ignore this dynamic. And it’s tempting to denigrate the competition in order to swing the odds in our favor.

Some of these efforts can be mostly harmless. For example, athletes often trash talk each other to gain a psychological advantage. While this can be obnoxious, the hostilities normally don’t extend any further than that.

But other times, denigrating the competition does cross the line. It can lead to us othering our competition. It can cause us to act in racist or misogynistic ways.

Scenarios like these can cause lasting destruction. They can tear our society further and further apart. They can leave countless victims in their wake.

Scenarios like these beg the question: Is competition more destructive than good?

There’s an image that I’ve long struggled to reckon with.

It’s a portrait of Adolf Hitler as an infant.

I despise Hitler. I have always viewed him as the epitome of pure evil. Even writing his name here makes me feel squeamish.

And yet, he doesn’t look like the devil incarnate in this photo. With curiosity written on his face, he simply looks like a child.

This image is important to consider. For it reminds us that society’s greatest ills are not innate. They’re cultivated through the structures we encounter.

Hatred is a learned behavior. One forged by our experiences and our misconceptions.

And the kiln that turns us from respectable to rotten? It’s fueled by competition.

The very idea of duking it out for a limited resource — be it property, influence or accolades — is fraught with danger. For while the rules of chivalry help keep things respectable, it’s on each of us to abide by them.

Generally, such guidance is sufficient. But if desperation takes hold, or our emotions get the best of us, we toss aside good judgment. We revert to jungle law — to winning at all costs.

The dark side of competition gave rise to so many dark chapters in our planet’s recent history — the rise of the Nazis in Europe, the spread of terrorism in the Middle East, the advent of brutal drug cartels in Latin America.

But those are just the grim headlines. The real story lies under the surface.

The images of an angry mob of insurrectionists rushing the United States Capitol will always be chilling. But one image is doubly haunting.

It’s of a rioter darting through the capitol rotunda with a Confederate flag in tow.

Such a flag once flew in parts of America, after the southern states seceded and plunged the nation into a bloody Civil War. But even during those trying times, it never flew in the seat of the United States government.

Much has been made of that flag over the last 150 years or so. There are varying opinions on what it stands for, and even what to name it.

(While many have dubbed it the Confederate flag, southerners have often called it the Rebel flag.)

In my opinion, the Confederate flag symbolizes competition gone wrong. Of an error compounded by calcification of time.

You see, the southern states didn’t try and leave the union on a whim. They did so because they felt left behind.

The earliest decades of our nation were defined by two economic models — a northern one, teeming with cities and industry, and a southern one, dotted with rural plantations.

The southern economy was built on slave labor — on the bondage of Black people. The northern one was not.

Slavery and the plantation model were not invented in the south. But they became ingrained there. So even as the world evolved, white southerners found themselves irrationally attached to a system where hierarchy was determined by skin tone.

As the United States expanded westward, adding new states to the union, the South saw its influence shrink. Threatened, it responded with a stinging act of defiance — secession.

But the Confederacy was not long-lived. Barely four years later, the Civil War ended in a southern surrender.

Even so, the scars of the conflict would linger.

For in the wake of the bloodshed, white southerners were forced to compete with freed slaves for land and prosperity. The stakes were high and the resources were strained.

In the wake of such challenges, the disgraced southerners demonized their new competitors. They formed posses to kill young Black men. They set up a system of sharecropping to keep black families in poverty. And they codified segregationist policies in every state they inhabited.

Such abhorrence  — forged by competition — helped spawn an ugly legacy of racism that persists to this day.

And yet, the post-war South was not alone in this endeavor.

Indeed, as immigrants flooded to our shores and filled our cities, they were met with similar resentment. The newcomers — be they Irish, Italian, Chinese, Arab, or Mexican — faced resistance from the established, who abhorred the competition.

Xenophobia has a long shadow even in the most enlightened bastions of America. Add in the growth of the business sector and globalization in recent decades, and the issue has only intensified.

That is how we’ve gotten to where we are today. To a polarized America where millions of people support blatantly racist positions.

Building walls isn’t about making our nation more secure. Dissolving global trade isn’t about making our nation more prosperous. And typecasting people based on skin tone isn’t making our nation more equitable.

No, such actions are self-serving. They rig the competition so that those with a track record of prosperity remain victorious at all costs.

And in doing so, they threaten to eat America alive.

It’s time that we take a fresh look at competition.

It’s time that we more closely consider its limitations and moral dangers.

For while competition will continue to exist — Adam Smith’s invisible hand can’t exist without it — it doesn’t need to exist unfettered. It can’t exist unfettered.

Such introspection will not be easy. Rehashing our core principles never is.

But it’s a process that cannot wait.

For the next calamity lurks in the distance, and its underlying cause is already known.

It’s on us to do what needs to be done. It’s on us to put a sheath on the double edge of competition.

Let’s get to it.

Hidden Heroes

I was driving down Interstate 45, somewhere between Dallas and Houston. All around me, a vast Texas landscape unfolded — a cornucopia of rolling hills, thicketed trees, and pastures dotted with cattle.

But in the midst of all this scenery, something else appeared through my windshield — the back of an oil tanker.

The big rig was in my lane, and I was gaining on it quickly. I prepared to cut over to the left lane and whiz by the tanker. But, to my dismay, I noticed there was an 18-wheeler camped out in that lane. I would have to slow down and wait my turn.

I had been making good time on my journey, and I was none too happy about this temporary delay. The tanker seemed like nothing more than an inconvenience — a nuisance meant to foil those seeking to make the Dallas-Houston run in less than four hours.

As I waited for my opportunity to pass the tanker, my mind drifted.

Suddenly, I found myself a few years back in time. I was sitting in a 90-minute line at a North Texas gas station, waiting for the opportunity to refuel my SUV. It was hot out, and I was agitated.

In the midst of this misery, I saw an oil tanker pull into the fueling area. My mood shifted. My spirits soared.

I’d never taken much note of these vehicles before, even though I’d spent three years in West Texas oil country. Out in the patch, these vehicles were as pedestrian as they were unwieldy.

But now, this tanker represented the cavalry. It would save me from running out of gas. It would save all of us in this Godforsaken line.

The fact that there was a line at all was a sign of the times. Hurricane Harvey had recently devastated the Texas Coast, and its floodwaters had forced the refineries in Houston to shut down. Suddenly, something we all took for granted — an endless supply of gasoline — seemed anything but certain.

A full-on fuel panic ensued. People raced to the nearest fueling spots to top off their tanks. Gas station owners jacked up their prices. And some drivers even cut off their air conditioning in order to stretch their fuel range.

All of this was an overreaction. There were plenty of other refineries — in Louisiana and further inland — that were still up and running. There would be plenty of gasoline for everyone.

But the die had already been cast. Pandemonium had taken over, and gas stations were getting sucked dry.

In the midst of all this, the oil tankers crisscrossing the region got their star turn. The fuel in their tanks became our version of Manna from heaven. And the drivers of these rigs were our heroes.

How strange it must have been for those drivers. They surely didn’t take that role to save the world. They were just looking for a steady job with good pay. Anonymity came part and parcel with the role.

That anonymity had evaporated, thanks to a series of events outside these drivers’ control. Now, they were the center of attention.

But the moment would prove fleeting. Once things got back to normal, the tankers and their drivers would fade into the woodwork once again.

One would only have to look at me — trapped behind a tanker on the Interstate and muttering under my breath — to see how far the pendulum would swing in the other direction.

There are many things our nation struggles with. But honoring our heroes is not one of them.

We pay tribute to the brave men and women in our military at seemingly any opportunity. The days of veterans getting spat upon during their return home are long gone.

Now, military families are honored with parades and standing ovations at sporting events (in non-pandemic times). They’re rewarded with such perks as affordable housing and specialized insurance. They’re treated with the respect they deserve.

Other professions also get the hero’s welcome in times of crisis. Firefighters got critical acclaim in the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks. Airline pilots got applauded after Sully Sullenberger landed a compromised commercial jet on the Hudson River.

Still, such goodwill does not always stick. When the lights go down and normalcy returns, the hero arc comes to an end. These professions find themselves ignored, or even antagonized.

Just look at the New York Police Department. The NYPD has had its issues over the years, and the department has been vilified in some quarters. But as the World Trade Center lay in ruins, New Yorkers softened their tune.

Officers put it all on the line, running toward the crumbling towers to save those still inside. A total of 23 NYPD officers lost their lives in the attacks that day — a toll that wasn’t lost on anyone.

Yet, the hero turn didn’t last long. As New York rebuilt from its bleakest moment, it once again cast a critical glance at those in blue. Issues of racial profiling bubbled back to the surface.

And then, in July 2014, police choked Eric Garner to death while arresting him. At the moment anger over police brutality was spiking nationwide, the NYPD found itself on the wrong side of history. Barely a decade after its brightest moment, the department faced arguably its darkest one.

The NYPD’s saga is sobering, but it’s hardly unique.

As the saying goes: You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.

As a deadly pandemic continues to rage, we are finding new heroes to fete.

Healthcare workers. Teachers. Delivery drivers.

The men and women in these professions have done yeoman’s work, as the virus continues to turn our lives upside down. But they’d also done yeoman’s work long before the era of masks, sanitizer, and social distancing. We just never took the time to notice.

As the son of teachers, this chasm has long been apparent to me. And while I am glad to see these professions finally get their due, I worry about what comes next.

How soon will it be before we forget? How quickly will we overlook these industries and those devoting their lives to them? How long until we’re back muttering at that slow-moving oil tanker ahead of us on the highway?

Hopefully, a real long time.

Unlike our military, teachers aren’t called to put their lives on the line. Unlike our police, healthcare workers don’t have to reckon with use of force concerns. Unlike our airline pilots, delivery drivers are not confined to invisibility when times are good.

There is no reason why our applause should stop when the danger ends. There is no reason for our adulation to come with strings attached.

So now, in this moment of sustained crisis, let us make a pledge. Let us ensure that these men and women are hidden heroes never more. Let us continue to give them the due they deserve.

We owe them that.

The Clean Slate

I can be your lucky penny. You can be my four-leaf clover. Starting over.

There’s nothing more tantalizing than the prospect of a fresh start.

Whether its boots sinking into a fresh blanket of snow or the sight of a wide-open highway in front of us, the prospect of beginning again is all-powerful.

There might be nothing like the first time, but the second go is still pretty special. For we have both the memories of the first experience to guide us and the residual novelty to excite us.

The fresh start keeps us plowing forward. It revitalizes our sense of wonder. It unveils the potential for a brighter future.

We bask in its majesty. We revel in its opportunity. And each year, as the calendar turns over, we pay homage.

We dress up and stay up late. We eat fancy foods and drink high-class libations. We dream of the new people we’ll be when the clock strikes 12 and the year begins again.

I’ve long railed against this tradition. It all seems so arbitrary and fake to me.

I don’t feel any different on January 1st than I did on December 31st. I never have, and I likely never will.

Yes, we do grow over time. But this process happens gradually, not in an instant.

So, while everyone else is partying it up, I’m playing it down. I’m treating my evolution like a marathon, not a sprint.

This is how I’ve operated for years.

But it might be time to take a fresh look at that stance.

Constants.

These are critical elements in what is known as STEM fields — science, technology, engineering, and mathematics.

Those in the STEM industries solve some of our biggest problems. They’re responsible for many of the innovations that we take for granted these days — such as connected devices, reliable roads, and advanced pharmaceuticals.

Such features have made our world better, and we’ve greatly benefited from them. But they’re all built on a foundation of constants.

Essentially, the scientists and engineers who come up with these solutions base their work on a simple question: Keeping everything else the same, what happens if I make this one change?

By framing the question this way, STEM professionals are controlling the environment. They’re doing what they can to establish a clear cause-and-effect relationship.

That relationship will help turn their question into action. It will transform their experimentation into products, patents, and other tangible solutions.

This is a powerful, proven process. But it does have a catch.

By relying on constants — by only changing one item at a time — we only allow for incremental change. There is no room for flashy wholesale disruptions. There is only tinkering with the status quo.

Wholesale changes are just too volatile, too messy, too difficult to explain. And so, STEM professionals generally try to avoid them. The risk is not worth the reward.

Constants matter. This should be evident now more than ever.

What happens when the ground quakes? When the wave crests? When the world as we knew it ceases to be relevant?

We start grasping, clutching, straining for the familiar. We search in vain for something that is no longer there.

It’s disorienting. Confusing. Terrifying.

We all recognize that feeling now. Whether we live in California or Chattanooga, Florida, or Fargo. We know what it’s like to see our lives turned upside down.

Such is the nature of pandemics. They pack the sweeping force of a tsunami and the destructive aftershocks of an earthquake.

Pandemics force us to abruptly abandon our plans, our dreams, and our objectives. They force us to acknowledge that the goalposts have changed.

For in the eye of the storm, nothing is constant. Everything is fluid — meaning we must adjust in order to survive.

And so, we do what is necessary to make it through.

At first, we are filled with adrenaline. We are compelled to rise to the occasion. We are inspired to do our part to ensure normalcy.

But eventually, the rush wears off. The bleakness of our new reality persists, and hopelessness abounds.

As the familiar fades further into the rearview, we lose a sense of ourselves. We find it harder to recognize who we were before everything crumbled around us. We struggle to recall what we’d once hoped to achieve.

As the fog grows thicker, all we want is a way out. A clean slate. A fresh start.

And the longer the darkness persists, the more we are tempted to run into the fray. To sacrifice all the gains we’ve made.

Yes, survival is an unparalleled test of the will.

It pushes our limits. It drains our resolve. And it can poison our minds if we’re not careful.

This is why it’s important for us to prepare ourselves for crisis. And that training should take place between the ears.

In 1965, Jim Stockdale’s life changed forever.

Stockdale, a Naval fighter pilot, was captured in North Vietnam after his aircraft was shot down in battle. He would spend the next 7 years as a prisoner of war, subject to torture and brutal living conditions. After his release and return to the United States, Stockdale was awarded the Medal of Honor. He retired from the Navy with the rank of Vice-Admiral.

Stockdale’s story is one of perseverance and overcoming long odds. But what piqued my interest was the heuristic Stockdale used to survive more than 2,700 days in captivity.

Stockdale recognized quickly that there was a fine line between faith and false hope. That recognizing a dire situation wasn’t the same as accepting it.

In his book Good to Great, Jim Collins describes Stockdale’s philosophy like this:

You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the end — which you can never afford to lose — with the discipline to confront the most brutal facts of your current reality, whatever they might be.

Collins famously termed this heuristic The Stockdale Paradox. It’s a pattern that many leaders of business and public service offices follow today.

But why should such gains be limited to the bigwigs? I believe we can all take a cue from Stockdale.

For we are at a point of transition. A point where the calendar flips and we are gifted with a clean slate.

It’s easy to view this as a period of endless possibilities. As a time full of hope. As a moment unburdened by the weight of the past.

But that wouldn’t be quite right, would it?

No, the events that have so deeply challenged us — the pandemic and its effects — they won’t magically disappear when the clock strikes 12 on New Year’s. That baggage will remain.

It’s important for us to recognize this. To see the brutal facts of our reality for what they are, what they have been, and what they will continue to be.

And yet, it’s also crucial for us to accept the gift of our clean slate. To see the possibilities that lie ahead, and to have faith in our ability to attain them.

So, I’m giving this ritual of turning the calendar over another chance.

For the traditions and customs might be tacky and overblown. But there’s still a lot of good that can be gleaned from this moment.

And it is our obligation to soak it up.

Sparking Joy

It’s the most wonderful time of the year.

How often have you heard these words? Probably quite a bit.

There’s a good reason for this. As the weather gets colder and the daylight gets shorter, a sense of wonder overcomes us.

It doesn’t matter which hardships we’ve faced, or what challenges still lie ahead. Almost by instinct, we are filled with bliss as the calendar reaches its nadir.

There are gifts to purchase, light displays to peruse, and loved ones to share the time with. Our hearts are full, and our gripes are forgotten.

At least that’s the way it’s traditionally been. But now, everything is different.

Or is it?

For many, the holiday season has long been the most miserable time of the year.

There can be a physiological explanation for this sense of misery. After all, the winter chill cuts to the bone, causing us to shiver in discomfort. And the lack of sunlight can drag down our mood — a condition known as Seasonal Affectiveness Disorder.

But there are other causes for the pall that many reckon with during this period.

One key cause is depression. This is a condition that has long been stigmatized in our society. And so, those afflicted with it feel compelled to suffer in silence.

Dealing with depression is challenging enough throughout the year. But in a time where marketers, media figures, neighbors, and our loved ones are all doubling down on happiness, those battling darker emotions often feel even more marginalized.

The choices are stark. Suffer silently in the shadows or put on a fake smile and join the revelry.

Neither is helpful for those facing an existential crisis.

So yes, it would seem that even the best of traditions — a time of the year when we spread kindness — has a dark side to it.

And these days, more of us are discovering this dark side. The worst health crisis of our lifetimes is like a slow-motion car wreck. The death tolls and economic hardship cast a long shadow that we can’t just turn away from once Frosty the Snowman starts showing up on TV.

Perhaps the most insidious part of this virus is the way it affects our social connections. Gathering together is a hallmark of our society. It’s how we find prosperity and fulfillment. It’s how we grow our influence and gain protection.

But with a lethal virus spreading like wildfire, such actions lead to outsize danger. And so, we avoid them at all costs.

Now, this is not to say all is lost. Technology has helped fill the gap, allowing us to socialize, seek entertainment, and shop in a virtual setting. But some societal aspects can’t be as seamlessly adjusted to a digital screen. And holiday traditions are prime among those.

Even as we reimagine those traditions for a world where the act of gathering in person is taboo, these measures ring hollow.

The most wonderful time of the year seems anything but.

Find what sparks joy.

It seems like a simple edict. But it can be mesmerizingly frustrating to pull off.

This is why Marie Kondo is such a popular figure in our society. Her ability to tap into the zeitgeist of sparking joy is not a trivial matter. Neither is her penchant for finding a productive outlet for this pursuit — decluttering our homes.

Marie Kondo helps give language to something we feel deeply but struggle to describe. She makes our lives better by making this treasured sensation relatable.

It’s an impressive feat. But not an unprecedented one.

For plenty of household names have cut their teeth at the root of joy.

Coca-Cola’s motto has long been Open Happiness. This branding is as effective as it is simple. (Think about it. Have you ever been miserable drinking a Coke?)

Meanwhile, Nike has helped people find a different kind of bliss. Matching style, athletic performance, and the tagline Just Do It, Nike has inspired millions to kindle the joy of achievement.

And then there is the master of all joy sparkers — Disney. What started with uplifting movies featuring fairy tales and a gregarious mouse has turned into a full-on dopamine factory. There’s merchandise galore to buy. There are TV channels and streaming services available day and night. And there’s a sprawling theme park dubbed The Happiest Place On Earth.

Scoff at all this if you’d like. But the talents of Disney, Nike, Coca-Cola, and Marie Kondo are undeniable. The truckloads of money we throw their way underscore this fact.

When it comes to sparking joy, we trust these brands and personalities more than we trust ourselves.

But it doesn’t have to be this way.

When I was a child, I was scared of the dark.

Terrified, really.

My parents were well aware of this. So, they plugged a night light into my bedroom wall socket. That night light would cast a faded glow on the four corners of the room, letting me know that everything was still there.

This solution quickly yielded new problems. I used to pitch a fit whenever we’d take an overnight trip since it meant I might sleep somewhere without a night light.

It was a valid concern. For while some hosts — like my grandparents — kept a night light in their guest rooms, others — like the Red Roof Inn off the highway — did not.

Fortunately, this phase did not last forever. It was an arduous process, but I eventually learned to accept the practice of sleeping in the dark.

I let go of my inhibitions. I embraced the silence of the abyss. I even found joy in it.

I see some similarities between my journey back then and the moment we face now. For, while the world might seem unfathomably dark, we are adaptable. With enough practice and persistence, we can reckon with the curveballs thrown our way. We might even find the slivers of joy within it.

For joy may seem like a grandiose emotion. But it starts in small places.

So, as we settle into new routines, let’s remain optimistic. Let’s search for signs of delight and wonder. And let’s use those to spark joy at a time when it’s so badly needed.

The power is in our hands. Let’s make this a wonderful time of the year once again.

Wealth vs. Fame

Absolute power corrupts absolutely.

How often have we heard this phrase?

And yet, we seem to have misconceptions about what it truly means.

On its face, this message is an edict that success is double-edged. It states that making it big means selling our soul. It tells us that who we are and who we want to be are forever incompatible.

Because once we attain a position of influence, our vantage point shifts. We conveniently forget what life was like before the climb.

All we see is our position on the summit. And we are determined to hold on to that spot.

We are immensely powerful. And we are thoroughly corrupted.

The prophecy fulfills itself.

And yet, the prophecy is a myth.

Across America, there is an uneasy divide.

This divide is Red States versus Blue States. It’s farmers in overalls versus Wall Street bankers in fancy suits. It’s bright city lights versus one-horse towns.

We have many ways to explain what forms this chasm. Political ideologies. Education systems. Community surroundings.

But I think there’s a better explanation.

I believe the fault lines form between those who aspire for influence and those who repel its grip.

For we are all aware of the perils of power. And we are cognizant of the unsavory ways it can transform us.

We’ve read the slogans. We’ve heard the cautionary tales.

And yet, some of us find ourselves drawn to power’s radiant glow, much like moths to a flame. All while others avoid it like the plague.

This explanation might seem crude. Rudimentary even. But it incorporates the great American X-factor: Mobility. It explains the rush of people heading to the big city to make their fortune. And it defines the counter-rush of city-dwellers heading to the suburbs for simpler living.

Our relationship to power flows both ways.

This leads to another question: What exactly is power?

It seems like a simple query at first. And yet, answers are lacking.

For power is an abstract concept, devoid of visualization.

There is no universal symbol, such as a sunburst for light or a heart for love. There are just the cultural vessels we have defined — in particular, wealth and fame.

Each of these vessels seem to fit the mold at first. Those who accumulate vast sums of money have plenty of options on how to spend it. Those bestowed with fame can bend fawning followers to their will.

And yet, one of them has proven far more corrosive than the other.

Greed is good.

This is the most iconic line from the 1987 movie Wall Street.

The film — and its antihero, Gordon Gecko — serves as a stark portrait of the ills of capitalism, wealth and fortune.

The implication is straightforward. Those who accumulate money will seek to double their returns at all costs, transforming from full-fledged members of society into sociopaths.

Sometimes, this portrait comes to life in horrifying detail. But not always.

There are more than 600 billionaires in the United States. Some of these names you know. But a bunch of others you probably don’t.

Why is that?

Could it be that our brains can only process so much information at once? Maybe.

But I think there’s more to it than that.

You see, some brash billionaires do put their name out there, letting their wallet or their ambitions inflate their ego. But many others resist such temptation. They try and live as anonymously as those with fewer commas on their balance sheets.

Sure, their clothes might be fancier than ours. And they might never know the struggle of living paycheck to paycheck. But they are far from the embodiment of Gordon Gecko.

In their case, greed is not good. In fact, greed is not part of the equation.

Fortune might not change everyone it touches.

But fame? Fame most certainly will.

We can lurk in the shadows, even with loads of cash in the bank. But once everyone knows our name, our lives are destined to profoundly change.

For fame is elusive. It can overtake us in an instant. But it doesn’t last for long.

The easy in, easy out nature of notoriety comes from our fragile attention spans. Humans are stimulated by novelty, and we seek it at every turn. Something that captivated us yesterday thoroughly bores us today.

These forces are wonderful news for those seeking to have their name in lights. They can help accelerate the rise to notoriety.

But once those people reach the pinnacle of fame, they’ll find those same forces working against them. The tide is rolling in. And the next big thing is charging full speed at them, ready to bury them alive.

No one who’s achieved such glamour wants to feel the humility of irrelevance. No one in this spot wants to see their star burn out.

And so, the newly-gilded fame-erati do what they can to hang on to their notoriety. They become belligerent. They pander. They toss aside rules of decorum.

And in the process, they lose every sense of who they were before the bright lights found them. They find themselves corrupted to the core.

One can still find balance when bestowed with great wealth. But fame? There is no redemption for fame.

I don’t aspire for wealth or fame.

Having enough to get by is sufficient for me. The virtues I espouse and the company I keep matter far more than any power or influence I might attain.

Yet, I feel confident that if I were to come into wealth, I would handle it appropriately. I would remain true to myself and to my values. I wouldn’t let my new net worth change my outlook.

Wealth isn’t enough to corrode the life I’ve built. But fame most certainly is.

I don’t feel like I’m all that different from others in this sense. I feel that most of us could take the mantle of fortune without evolving into monsters.

So, it’s time to dismantle the myth tethering power and corruption.

Notoriety might be doomed to the status of poison pill. But prosperity needn’t suffer the same fate.

Gratitude Through Adversity

Counting our blessings.

It’s something we’re quite good at.

Perhaps it’s because we’re naturally introspective. Or perhaps it’s because we’re obsessed with keeping score.

Either way, we don’t pass up an opportunity to enumerate all that we’ve been given. Instead, we stockpile our gratitude, as if it’s a pile of gold coins in our dragon lair.

This pattern gains gravitas as the leaves fall from the trees and the winter chill sets in. It becomes unavoidable as a holiday designated for this purpose beckons.

So, we dive deep into gratefulness. We obsess over what we’ve been blessed with over the past year. And we go into overdrive to show our appreciation.

In most times, this is a harmless exercise. A healthy one, even.

But in extraordinary times, that foundation can shift.

It’s OK to not be OK.

This refrain has gained popularity in recent years, as our society has taken a fresh look at mental health.

Generally, this message is intended for those who’ve suffered psychological trauma. It’s for anyone who might be reckoning with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder — or PTSD.

Perhaps these PTSD victims witnessed a horrifying event, such as a car crash or the 9/11 attacks. Or perhaps they had been deployed to a combat zone and ended up bringing those horrors home. Either way, their realities were likely filled with dark thoughts.

The idea behind It’s OK to not be OK is that fitting in needn’t be a primary objective. Mainstream society might have its norms and expectations. But most people who make up that society don’t have the harrowing perspective that PTSD victims do. By forcing those victims to bury their emotions and conform with society, we are placing an undue burden upon them.

I’ve long recognized the importance of this idea. And yet, I can’t fully square with it.

For I haven’t experienced enough trauma firsthand for it to apply to me. And while I’ve faced many challenges throughout my life, I’ve been reluctant to apply such a mantra to them.

These bumps in the road have been setbacks, not traumas. And I’ve long maintained that the best way to respond to a setback is to plow ahead with conviction.

So, I’ve buried my discontent at the challenges I’ve faced. I’ve shaken off my disappointments. I’ve moved on.

Many others in this position have done the same. After all, America is the land of hard knocks. It is the heartland of perseverance through challenges.

This spirit goes back to the nation’s earliest years — when settlers faced lethal dangers on their journey west. It gained steam as immigrants flowed into Ellis Island, arriving destitute and devoid of protection. And it continues today, as the entrepreneurial movement reaches a fever pitch.

Picking ourselves up and dusting ourselves off has been the American way for eons.

And yet, it might be time to rethink all of that.

As I write these words, America is enduring a moment without comparison.

In less than 10 months, the nation has confronted a pandemic, a recession, a racial justice reckoning, a contentious Presidential election, and a swath of natural disasters. All of these events have hit this nation in years past. But they’ve never struck simultaneously.

In the wake of all this turmoil, a new narrative has taken hold. One that splits our society between the fortunate and the snakebit.

The idea comes from the fact that many have lost something in all of this. Loved ones, jobs, homes, dignity, sense of identity — all of these have been ripped away in an instant.

And yet, these horrors haven’t been evenly distributed. For some, the biggest departure from “normal life” has been the requirement that they wear face masks when outside their homes.

This group has kept their incomes, their health, and their joie de vivre. If not for a few visuals — such as those masks — it might seem as if nothing had changed from the days before the virus reached our shores.

Under normal Rules of Engagement for Americana, the next steps should be clear. Those ravaged by the moment should dust themselves off and get back on the horse. Those unaffected by it should proceed with business as usual.

But these are not normal times. The prospect of a socially distanced holiday season should make that painfully clear.

It’s time we recognize the cloud hanging over us all. And it’s time we throw out the old playbook.

In the eye of the storm, gratitude can seem irrelevant.

As we batten down the hatches, we’ve got little time to savor the ride. Survival is paramount.

But we’ve been riding the storm for months now. And as the season of reflection and renewal fast approaches, it’s time to face the truths we’ve long been avoiding.

First, this ordeal is affecting all of us, whether we want to admit it or not. Yes, the harm is not evenly distributed — and for some, the shadow of this moment will linger eternally. But no one is free and clear from the blast. We all have the right to remove the cloak of invincibility and be human.

Second, we have much to appreciate. The world might look drastically different, but the hallmarks of community and grace remain. Even in the darkest and most uncertain of times, we find the strength and ingenuity to pull each other through. That should not be taken for granted.

And third, gratefulness is not a competitive sport. We shouldn’t feel pressure to wear on our sleeves the blessings we feel in our hearts. Life is messy and emotions are complicated. It’s best if we leave some runway for each of us to deal with such complexity in the manner that best suits us. Judgment gets us nowhere.

If we can come to terms with these truths, we might encounter some levity. We might rekindle the spirit that generally dominates the tail-end of the calendar. We just might find ourselves again.

Times may be tough, and joy might be in short supply. But all is not lost.

Let us never forget that.

Shovel In The Road

I was driving down a Texas highway when a shovel suddenly appeared in the roadway in front of me.

This shovel was no pithy digging tool. It was a monster of forged metal. And it was a problem.

I had no idea why it was there. All I knew was it was in my way, and I was running out of time to avoid disaster.

My first instinct was to swerve. But I quickly remembered that veering out of my lane too quickly could cause the car to flip over. So, I made a more gradual shift to the highway shoulder on my right.

The maneuver went well — at first. In an instant, the solid white line marking the right edge of the highway was in front of me. Then, the concrete shoulder appeared, with no shovel in sight.

But a split-second later, I saw something else through the windshield. Green grass.

I had overshot the shoulder, and my car was now careening down an embankment.

I tried frantically to turn back to the road and to avoid getting stuck in the ditch. I tugged the wheel to the left. I pressed harder and harder on the brakes. But gravity and momentum were not cooperating.

When the car finally did come to a stop, it was at the bottom of the embankment. It was facing the wrong way, mere feet from the retaining wall.

I unbuckled my seat belt, opened the door, and did a walkaround, looking for any sign of damage. It looked like I had done one of those NASCAR burnouts, with semicircular tire track patterns in the embankment and green blades of grass sticking to the sides of my car. But somehow, the vehicle was intact.

I wandered up toward the highway to get a better view of what I had just endured. The shovel was quite a distance up the road from where I had ended up. That meant I was out of the line of fire, even if the hunk of metal was to go flying.

I started thinking about how that shovel ended up in the road.

There were a couple of possibilities.

I had been driving behind a pickup stocked with landscaping tools. Maybe those tools hadn’t been properly secured, and the shovel had slid off the back.

Or maybe the workers in the left lane, protected by orange construction cones, had been careless. Maybe a lapse in judgment had sent the shovel from their workstation into traffic.

Either answer seems far-fetched in hindsight. But at the moment of truth, each seemed likely. And I was in no mood to let them go unaddressed.

The landscaping truck was two miles down the road by now. It was too late to track it down.

But the construction crew? All that separated me from them was the highway blacktop.

I glared in their direction.

Hey! I yelled at the workers. Y’all left a shovel in the lane over there! Y’all could have gotten me killed!

The crewmembers stared at me in bewilderment for a moment. Then they got back to work. My attempt to give them a piece of my mind had come up empty.

Dejected, I got back in my car and drove up the embankment. But as I got back onto the highway, I felt a strange sensation.

Irony.

I am a completionist.

I believe that nothing is worth celebrating unless it’s finished. And that a work in progress is nothing more than a jumbled mess.

Some may confuse these sentiments with perfectionism. But there are some key differences.

Perfectionists worry about whether a job is done flawlessly. Completionists worry if the job is done, period.

There are issues with both philosophies. Perfect can be the enemy of done. And done can be the enemy of satisfactory — if the urge to clear our to-do lists supersedes common sense.

Even so, I err on the side of completionism. The chaos of a project in process leaves a sour taste in my mouth — even though I recognize that the mess of change is often drawn-out by necessity.

I want to avoid this outcome at all costs. So, I use my discomfort as fuel to get the job done.

This ethos is what’s stoked my intense work ethic. It’s why I log extra hours to make sure assignments don’t bleed into the next day. It’s why I tune out the noise and focus religiously on the task at hand.

Others have asked why I drive myself into the ground like this, day after day. And I’ve generally responded to these inquiries with a proverb.

Don’t leave a shovel in the road.

For years, this had been nothing more than a figure of speech. But not anymore.

Now, I had gotten up close and personal with an actual shovel in the road.

I had seen the dangers. I had felt the risk.

And I didn’t like it one bit.

Half-measures are having a moment like never before.

As the world reckons with everything from pandemics to natural disasters, less and less feels guaranteed.

And with tomorrow more uncertain than ever before, we are putting less effort into sorting out today.

The urge to finish what we started seems to be waning. For what good is the feeling of a job well done when our lives are upside down? Better to do only what’s needed to get through the day, the week, the month. And then to clean up the mess once the dust settles.

At least that’s the way that many see our present predicament.

I understand this sentiment. I too have sometimes struggled to maintain motivation at a time when normal is becoming a faded memory.

But we need to fight through our malaise.

For danger lies beneath the fog of the moment. The danger that leaving a mess can bring.

And we’d really rather not come face-to-face with it.

We don’t want to relive my nightmare from that Texas highway. We don’t want to end up careening down the embankment, veering from one near-disaster to another.

So, we have an obligation not to leave the shovel in the road. We have a responsibility to tidy up.

In both good times and bad, we must be good stewards for ourselves and our neighbors. We must do our part to make the world a safer and more vibrant place.

Let’s keep our eyes on the prize. Let’s finish what we started.

Let’s get that shovel out of the road.

On Sacrifice

He was 17 years old.

He had never been on an airplane — or even a long train ride — before. All he knew of the world beyond the horizon came from newspaper columns, radio bulletins, and the names on the visiting team’s baseball jerseys.

But despite all that, my grandfather felt compelled. Compelled to sacrifice the only existence he had ever known, in order to protect his country.

It was 1945. The world had been at war for 6 years. The United States was avenging the Japanese attacks on Pearl Harbor, all while rebuking the atrocities of fascism in Europe.

My grandfather was a boy when the conflict started. But as he neared adulthood, the casualties were still mounting and the outcome of the war was still uncertain. So, he thrust himself into the fray and volunteered for the United States Navy.

His service obligations would take him westward, to Illinois and California. And while a freak injury kept him from combat in the Pacific theater, my grandfather still had to adapt to a new reality.

In the service, my grandfather’s clothes consisted of his Naval uniform. His bed was a simple bunk. Rules of decorum were paramount — salute senior officers, follow orders, and defend the base at all times.

Later in life, my grandfather would speak fondly of those days. Life in the Navy wasn’t always as vibrant and free as civilian life. But he never doubted his decision to join its ranks.

In his mind, the sacrifice was justified.

My grandfather’s tale of sacrifice is hardly unique. Similar tales have been told throughout our nation’s history.

In the earliest days, farmers abandoned their fields to take up arms against the Redcoats — even as capture meant certain death. Decades later, as a Civil War enveloped the country, entire communities rushed to the battlefields and the carnage that awaited them there.

Even in modern times, scores of young Americans have voluntarily uprooted themselves — trading the familiar lifestyle of their hometown for a tour of duty in a faraway conflict. It’s a calling as sacred today as it was centuries ago.

As a nation, we give lip service to these sacrifices. We honor active duty service members with standing ovations at sports events, and with discounts on cars and homes. We have a holiday each November for our veterans, along with myriad parades in their honor.

But many of us don’t understand the totality of the sacrifices these brave men and women make.

How could we? We have no reference point for the experience.

Or at least we haven’t thus far.

As I write these words, a pandemic is afflicting the world.

The pandemic is not a war. At least not in a traditional sense.

The objective of this struggle is not to kill each other or claim territory. Instead, we are trying to repel a common enemy. A microscopic virus that has claimed more than a million lives worldwide in less than a year.

In different corners of the globe, the fight has taken different shapes. Some nations have imposed harsh lockdowns. Others have restricted activities that help spread the virus. And still others have abdicated responsibility entirely.

The United States has been hardest hit by the pandemic, with nearly 10 percent of global cases and one-fifth of all deaths. Early initiatives to fend off the threat have given way to partisanship, impatience and anger. And while we’ve bickered, the virus has continued spread devastation.

We are in crisis. And in the midst of the crisis, we find ourselves making profound sacrifices.

We have no choice in the matter. Even if we want to live our lives as normal — pretending the pandemic isn’t raging all around us — we cannot. The businesses we rely on look different, with reduced capacities and mask mandates in place. Many schools are closed, and many jobs are furloughed.

There are many drivers behind these shifts — health safety, economic reality, and buffers against litigation. Regardless of the reason, they’ve required us to change our ways.

This has not been easy to deal with. Many of us cherished the life we had before the virus ripped it from us. Even if we didn’t, the pandemic hasn’t exactly provided us a rosier alternative.

For we are social beings, stimulated by interaction and anchored in tradition. The virus has threatened these pillars of our existence, and pivoting away from them is difficult.

The longer this drags on, the more we come to understand the sacrifices of our military. We might not face the acute risks of combat. But we are now well-versed with the sensation of being far from home.

Thank you.

These are two simple words. But they can speak volumes.

Whenever I speak with a military member — whether active duty or veteran — I show my appreciation. I know that they are making profound sacrifices to protect our nation, and everything it stands for. And I am grateful for it.

I am not alone in this sentiment. But it hasn’t always been this way.

In the time between my grandfather’s Naval service and my own existence, many Americans turned on the military. Veterans of the Vietnam War found themselves spat upon and branded as baby killers upon their return home. And that sentiment was never fully extinguished.

I’ve never quite understood this vitriol. I’ve never quite reconciled the desire to demonize those who protect us.

Perhaps this is true because I grew up in the shadow of the Cold War. Or perhaps it’s the case because I vividly remember the 9/11 attacks. But either way, I could never imagine turning on those who serve. It’s a bridge too far.

So now, I wonder if this pandemic experience will change us for the better. I wonder if this prolonged period of sacrifice has opened our eyes to what others have for so long given up. And I wonder if we can look upon those choices with dignity, rather than disdain. With empathy rather than anger.

I certainly hope that is the case.

Those who sacrifice on our behalf deserve the formal recognition, the holidays, the pomp and circumstance. But most of all, they deserve our respect and gratitude. They deserve to be told that what they do matters.

So, let’s honor their sacrifices. Today and forever.

Enfranchised

I stood in line, outside of a palm-lined church.

It was early in the morning, on a Tuesday in Florida. And I was preparing to take part in an election.

As I waited for the opportunity to cast my ballot, a strange feeling came over me.

I was a first-time voter. I hadn’t been old enough to vote in prior federal elections, so I had never experienced any of this firsthand.

Now, I was about to make a consequential decision. One of the most consequential of my life to date.

I was about to have my say over who would be the next President of the United States.

The line started to move. Moments later, I was handing a poll worker my voter registration card. And then I was in a booth, my ballot in front of me, and the moment of truth at hand.

What would my next move be?

I am a planner.

Like an expert chess player, I am always thinking two or three steps ahead. I am always seeking to avoid surprises.

So, as I embarked on my first voting journey, I had already done my homework.

I had followed the news coverage of the race. I had checked out the candidates’ websites. And I’d attended rallies for each of them — one of the benefits of attending college in a major city in a swing state.

Yet, none of it made the decision any less clear to me.

With the incumbent U.S. President facing term limits, each candidate would be new to the role. Plus, they would be taking the helm during the worst economic recession in a generation.

I found each intriguing in different ways. But I wondered how well their campaign slogans would hold up in the face of our nation’s bleak reality.

There were no easy answers. And so, as I stood in the voting booth that November morning, I agonized over my decision.

What if I made the wrong choice? What would that decision say about me?

I could feel the gravity of the moment crushing me. But as the pressure mounted, a voice in my head urged me to take a step back. To lift my gaze from the names on the paper and to think of the bigger picture.

For this moment was special.

Never again would I have the luxury of making a choice like this with no track record. Never again would I be free to decide without the crushing weight of precedent. Never again would I be a blank slate.

Remember this moment, I told myself. Cherish it.

After a few moments of hemming and hawing, I made my choice. I filled out the remainder of the ballot, submitted it, and left the polling place.

On the short walk home, I kept replaying the prior moments in my mind. How would I explain my choice to others who asked about it?

I didn’t have to wait long to find the answers.

Once I made it back to the house, I fixed up some breakfast. As I did, one of my housemates walked into the kitchen. He noticed my I voted sticker and asked me who I chose to be the next President.

I gave my answer, and he followed up with another question: Why?

I like the platform the other guy was running on, I replied. I do. But I just don’t trust him to get it done.

My housemate listened intently. He was not an American citizen, and thus would not be voting. This interaction would be the closest he got to the election.

He was the perfect person to spill the beans to regarding my choice. He had no skin in the game and no prejudice.

The conversation loosened me up. Whether my ideology was being fossilized or cognitive dissonance was setting in, I don’t know. But I felt more confident in my decision than ever. I knew I had made the right choice.

Later that evening, I stared at the television in disbelief. “The other guy” — the one who I thought was too ambitious to succeed — had won the White House.

My vote had come up short.

I stared at the image on the screen, the one that read President-Elect Barack Obama. It didn’t seem real.

But as I mused about what the months and years ahead would look like, I didn’t sulk or despair. I remained hopeful.

Change was coming. And while I might not have selected the particular brand of change, it was still an electrifying moment.

Then, there was the lineage aspect. Barack Obama would be the first Black president in United States history.

I thought immediately of my grandfather. He was likely sitting in his easy chair, about 1300 miles north of me, at that moment.

My grandfather had seen a lot in his eight decades of life. But while he had voted in 14 elections before, he had never experienced development like this. It was as new for him as it was for me.

My sense of shock was replaced by one of awe. A simple process — standing in line and casting a ballot — had consequences that were truly profound.

There are few more precious rights in America than that of the franchise.

Our nation operates under the charter of freedom. Of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

And central to that charter is the ability to choose. We can decide where to live. We can decide how to earn our keep. And we can decide who can represent us in government.

Of course, not all of us have had this ability over the years. Women and ethnic minorities have infamously only had the power of the vote for about a century or less. But these days, the biggest thing stopping us from voting is ourselves.

Politics have roiled us, divided us, and stigmatized us in recent years. We’ve come to view political parties as if they were rival football teams, instead of two components of a common goal. And those stakes have made Election Day more frightening to many than the Halloween holiday that precedes it.

But while our cultural fragmentations have made elections fraught, they are still critical. The mandate of our charter of freedom is still intact. And it’s up to us to fight through the angst and fulfill our obligations.

Doing what is uncomfortable is never easy. But perhaps, a change of perspective can help. By taking our mind off the consequences of the task at hand — and instead, taking a wider view — we might find all the motivation we need to get the job done.

So, let’s recapture the wonder of voting. Let’s harken back to that feeling we had the first time we stood at the polling place.

The awe. The power. The goosebumps. Let’s summon those once again.

The act of voting matters as much as the choices we make. Let’s make sure it matters to us.