Category: Thoughts

Self-Monitor

How well do you understand yourself?

Probably not as well as you think.

This statement is not meant to be an insult. It’s more a recognition of inherent blind spots in our own understanding.

For there are three components to our existence: Which values we hold internally, how we project those values externally and how others receive those projections.

All too often, when we claim self-actualization, we only have a grasp on the first two of these components. Or perhaps only the first one.

Calibrating our internal compass is important. It shields us from a self-fulfilling destiny of falsehoods and inconsistency. Having that True North reminds us of who we are and what we stand for, so that we may live our life consistent with those principles.

Yet, we do not live our lives in a vacuum. We rely on others for community and companionship. And as such, we must be vigilant when expressing our core tenets to those around us.

If we maintain consistency of purpose, clarity of vision and an unwavering commitment to our North Star, we can evoke clarity. We can engender trust. We can build connection.

The act of projecting our values doesn’t have to be flashy. But it should remain within character at all times.

Some of us might consider ourselves proficient at pulling this off. Others of us might not. Still others couldn’t care less.

Regardless of how we feel, the honest truth is the same: We likely have no clue about our ability to show the world who we are.

That’s because it’s not entirely up to us. It’s also up to those who receive our message and make their own assessment of it.

The opinion of others matters. It can open the door to opportunities or bar us from them. It can secure us a golden legacy or one of infamy.

We’ve traditionally downplayed this aspect of self-understanding. After all, other people can be unpredictable; gaining their acceptance can quickly devolve into a high-stakes guessing game. And pandering to the crowd could cause us to sacrifice our long-term values for short-term acceptance.

None of this is desirable.

So, we resolve to stay true to ourselves and focus on staying on a righteous path. The idea being that if we do this, everything else will fall into place.

It’s a nice thought. A utopian thought. And a deeply flawed thought.

That flaw in this idea? Our own humanity.

We are not perfect. Far from it.

And our bias blinds us to the truth.

Even if we believe we’re on the right path, there could be all manner of mistakes to stealthily sabotage our mission. There could be all sorts of blind spots to trip us up.

Workplaces have started to recognize this issue in recent years. That’s one reason why 360 degree assessments have taken over an increasing share of performance reviews.

Seeing how employees view themselves compared to how others view them provides a clearer picture. Aggregating these responses allows for more actionable feedback.

Yet, while this system has been helpful inside office walls, much of our life exists outside of them. And there are no scheduled performance reviews in the Real World.

So, how can we make sure we’re staying on track? How can we better understand the whole picture?

We can self-monitor.

Self-monitoring involves discovering our latent flawed tendencies and taking proactive steps to eradicate them. Much like a 360 feedback session, it requires us to step outside of our common perspective and view ourselves in a new light.

But this time, it’s not a supervisor initiating the cross-examination process. We’re running the show.

That means the right mindset is critical.

Self-monitoring requires humility, vulnerability and flexibility. It demands that we keep our eyes open, as well as our minds.

We must get comfortable with these traits, even if they make us squirm at first. For it is only by encountering our weaknesses that we can find our true strength.

Once we’ve bought into the self-monitoring mindset, we can commit ourselves to observation. We can see to how others react to us and follow up with subtly probing questions to get more context.

A self-critical perspective is crucial here. If we take on this task convinced of our own greatness, we won’t give these subtle cues from others their due process. We’ll consider them to be a nuisance at best, and an affront at worst — ignoring the critical role they might play in our identity.

A contrarian view provides for an open mind. And an open mind can lead to greater success.

After our period of observation, we should take some time to reflect.

What insights can we draw from the reactions we’ve seen? Are there situations where we’re viewed more favorably than others? Are there times when we act out of character?

This period of reflection can alert us to our unsavory tendencies — particularly those tied to a particular state of mind.

Perhaps we snap at others under stress. Or, we freeze when we unexpectedly find ourselves in the middle of a crisis.

If we hadn’t self-monitored, we likely wouldn’t have unearthed inconsistencies like these. But now that we’ve discovered them, we can work on replacing them with habits that better reflect our values.

We can come up with action plans for these new habits and practice them until they become muscle memory. Until the old tendencies are fully wiped away by the new ones.

Then, we can repeat the entire self-monitoring process. We can make new observations, find new insights and break new ground in ridding ourselves of inconsistencies and bad habits.

We can repeat the process, over and over — improving ourselves with each cycle.

This will make us well-rounded. And it can curry favor among those who once quietly disapproved of some aspect of our persona.

We still won’t be perfect, but we’ll be less flawed.

All of this is only possible when we surrender to a deeper level of introspection. And that’s only possible if we take the time to self-monitor.

So, let’s stop hiding in the safe havens of our own perspective. Let’s do the heavy lifting to truly understand ourselves. And to elevate ourselves to be the best we can be.

Accomplishments and Stepping Stones

Celebrate good times. Come on!

If you’ve been to any party or other social gathering with a boombox, you’ve likely heard this song.

And you probably saw someone too old, too overweight or too uncoordinated — or maybe all three — gleefully letting loose on the dance floor to Kool and the Gang’s upbeat rhythms.

It’s an odd mixture. Big smiles, cringeworthy dance moves and a song we rarely listen to on any other occasion.

Yet, it’s as much a part of our culture as Apple Pie and Fireworks on the Fourth of July.

For we are wired to go all-out to recognize accomplishments. To rent out that hotel ballroom, put on our formal wear, hire the expensive DJ and invite all our family and friends to come join us.

We do this for weddings, birthdays and graduations. For anniversaries and reunions. If there’s an accomplishment to be had, it will be celebrated with glamour and gusto.

At first glance, it all seems innocuous enough. After all, what’s so wrong about one night of fun?

A lot, it turns out.

There is a phrase making the rounds. One still riding the embers of the afterglow, a decade after it went viral.

That phrase? Start With Why.

Simon Sinek introduced the phrase to the world through a TEDx Talk and a bestselling book. And many of us have been finding our Why ever since.

On the whole, this is a good thing. We operate better — as people, corporations and social systems — when we have a clear North Star.

Purpose drives passion. Passion drives productivity. And productivity drives results.

But the Start With Why model is not a panacea. It’s a finite resource, meant to be used in moderation. And we’ve spread it way too thin.

Consider this. Many 5-year-olds these days will have a Pre-K Graduation. They’ll put on a miniature cap and gown and pose for pictures. All in front of their beaming parents.

What is the Why behind this celebration? Those kids in the caps and gowns haven’t even gone to school yet. The experience of sitting in those tiny desks, reading what the teacher is writing on the whiteboard — it’s all foreign to them.

No, these Pre-K graduations are all for the parents. It’s another photo opportunity, another chance for a social media status update showcasing their child’s latest accomplishment. Even if that accomplishment is simply being at a daycare center 45 hours a week, while their parents are at the office.

The celebration does not match the occasion.

Compare this with my Kindergarten graduation. My class had a barbecue on an early summer evening with our teachers in the school’s recess yard. Our parents weren’t allowed to attend.

I remember being nervous at first. I had hardly ever been away from my parents or grandparents after dark at that point in my life, and I didn’t know what to expect. But after several hours of running around outside, eating burgers and toasting marshmallows on a campfire, I was actually bummed when my parents came to pick me up. I wanted to stay longer.

The barbecue was a celebration. But it was very down to earth.

I don’t remember feeling as if I had accomplished anything in particular. I just remember having fun hanging out with my friends and teachers.

And for a shy, introverted kid, that was sufficient.

Our daily lives are full of accomplishments these days.

If you participate in a 5K race, you’ll get a finisher medal. Even if it takes you an hour and a half to walk the course.

If you’re a teenage girl, you get to sport a fancy evening gown and ride in a limo. Simply for turning sixteen.

And if you’re done with daycare, you get that Pre-K graduation.

These disparate celebrations have one thing in common. They’re really all about showing up.

About making your way to the 5K course. About waking up on your sixteenth birthday. About being at that daycare program day after day — even if you’re too young to have anywhere else to go anyway.

Is this really how we want to define accomplishment? As the moments we reach by default?

I certainly hope not.

For accomplishments are not about the end of a chapter. They’re not about the changing of a calendar field. Or adding another year to our age.

Those are arbitrary occurrences that occur without our direct influence.

No, accomplishments — true accomplishments — are that which we attain through transformation. They’re markers of the change we either initiate or manage. They’re our reflection after we get to the other side of that tunnel.

When it comes to our personal lives, marriage is an accomplishment. So is the advent of parenthood.

On the work side of the equation, earning a promotion to a new position can be an accomplishment. And if your work leads to a positive change in society, that’s an accomplishment as well.

Simply showing up is not sufficient. To realize an accomplishment, you have to give something more.

As I write this, I am not far removed from my MBA graduation.

Not long ago, I put on a cap, gown and decorative hood. I walked across a stage in a basketball arena, and was handed a diploma cover. I posed for endless pictures, holding my smile in place until my face hurt.

In the weeks after this occasion, dozens of people offered congratulations. They talked about what a significant achievement this was, and asked me what I had planned to do next.

The thing is, I’m actually not done with my business school classes yet.

My MBA program actually holds ceremonies for summer graduates three months before the completion date of our classes. So, the inside of that diploma cover is empty. All of those well-wishes premature.

Some of my classmates speak of how odd the whole situation has been. Of how the graduation ceremony felt like a tease.

Yet, I do not share these laments.

I am still not sure what we were celebrating in the first place. Because I don’t view the act of completing an MBA program as an accomplishment.

Now, I’m sure some of my dear readers might consider this statement to be crazy. Perhaps most of them do.

After all, business school is no day at the beach. It’s challenging, stressful and transformative.

But if you boil it all down, an MBA program is a service. A service I paid for and have, at the time of this writing, nearly completely attained.

An MBA can open doors. But, as with any university degree, it alone guarantees me nothing.

So, from that perspective, considering my graduation an accomplishment is akin to getting a trophy for showing up. Not my cup of tea.

This is not to say that such celebrations as an MBA graduation are worthless.

For while I feel the near-completion of a business school regimen is not significant on its own, the opportunities it can unlock certainly are.

Those opportunities, when realized, represent the true accomplishments from this endeavor.

But they’re only possible if you go through the ringer first. If you show up and don’t give up. If you do the seemingly ordinary things that lead you to sport a cap and gown. The very things that lead to a disproportionate of well-wishes from onlookers.

Society considers the aggregation of these mundane moments as accomplishments. I prefer to call them stepping stones.

Such a term represents the long game, not the endgame. It illustrates a fluid state of affairs — one where each seminal moment leads to the next challenge.

The stepping stone analogy taps into the power of connection.

Of the ties that bind between our experiences.

Of how, in the words of Semisonic, Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.

There is something blissfully pure about that concept.

I find strength in it. I’m sure you can as well.

Sure, it’s not quite as fun as throwing a party for the next milestone. And it might demand more introspection than we’re comfortable with.

But that dash of perspective keeps us aligned. It inspires us to keep climbing, keep aspiring, keep achieving.

That’s a great gift to give ourselves and those around us. 

Let’s give it.

Order of Operations

PEMDAS.

I still remember the day I first saw those strange letters on the whiteboard. I couldn’t have been more than 12 years old, and I was fully perplexed.

There I was, sitting in a middle school Algebra class, and there was no math. Just a bunch of letters — letters that didn’t even spell out a real word.

What on earth was going on?

Moments later, my teacher decoded the mystery. PEMDAS was simply an acronym for the mathematical Order of Operations.

When faced with a complicated math problem, we should solve the area in Parentheses first, the teacher explained. Then, we should resolve the Exponents. After that, we should take care of anything that needs to be Multiplied and Divided. And finally, we should handle everything that must be Added or Subtracted.

The teacher then wrote a jumbled math problem on the board, making quick work of the tangled mess to show us how to use the power of PEMDAS to our advantage.

“This is critical,” the teacher exclaimed. “You will need to know this principle to solve the problems in this class.”

My confusion turned to righteous indignation.

Up to this point, math class had consisted of conquering straightforward tasks. What’s 150 divided by 3? What’s 4 to the third power? I did what was asked of me to the best of my abilities, and that was that.

But now? Now I was expected to just do all this work on my own, just to make a problem solvable.

It didn’t seem fair to me. Why was I being asked to jump through all these hoops? To understand and apply these obscure rules about what to do when?

This is so pointless, I fumed inwardly. I’ll never have to use this in real life.

Oh how wrong I was.

It was not just another work day.

I was cooking lunch with several colleagues at the Ronald McDonald House — part of my employer’s volunteer initiatives.

As lunchtime approached, I took my place on the serving line. My task was to open a sandwich bun, put it on a plate, fill it with meatballs and pass it to a colleague — who would help fulfill the next part of the meal.

With sanitary gloves covering both of my hands, I prepared for the mass of people entering the dining room.

I quickly developed a routine for making sandwiches. My left hand would pry the bun open, while my right one would add the fillings.

While I did this, several other colleagues cooked more food behind me. This way, we made sure we fully covered the lunch rush.

Things were going smoothly at first. But once the new batch of food was integrated into the serving line, everything went haywire.

Suddenly, my rhythm was off. My hands no longer instinctively knew what role to play. And I lost track of what I was doing.

At one point, instead of filling a sandwich bun, I handed the empty bun to the person I was serving.

My colleague quickly stepped in and filled the order. But she gave me a hard time about it for the rest of the day.

As I reflected on what went wrong, my mind drifted to somewhere I hadn’t expected. It went back to PEMDAS.

For my experience on the food line was like a math problem. My hands were the operators and the plated sandwich was the output.

It was a simple equation, until the new batch of food was introduced. Suddenly, there was more information than I could process in real-time.

With a line of hungry patrons, I couldn’t just call Timeout to solve the suddenly more complicated math problem. So I powered through — and made some boneheaded errors.

My words from decades earlier had come back to haunt me. Order of Operations was indeed quite present for me in real life.

My serving mishap story is not unique.

Order of Operations is critical in nearly everything we do.

We rely on a proven routine, both for survival and for cultural acceptance. There is a sequence to things — a pattern we’re inclined to follow. And there are consequences for severing ties with that sequence.

This is not only true on the assembly line. It’s true in all corners of life.

If we don’t shower and brush our teeth each morning, we grace our loved ones, friends and co-workers with a foul stench. If we don’t properly prep our meals before cooking them, we waste a perfectly fine dish. If we take items from the shelves at the store without rendering payment on the way out, we break the law. And if we get intimate with someone without consent, we break the law and obliterate trust.

Whether we’re creatures of routine or change artists, we must remain vigilant to the power that Order of Operations holds. We must do what we can to avoid utter chaos.

For the costs of chaos can be fatal — either literally or through social exclusion. To survive and thrive, we must find some order in a world that’s naturally frayed.

Order defines the boundaries of connection. And connection allows us to achieve far more together than we can alone.

Even as technological advances break down established barriers — from processes to communication challenges — this principle remains as true as ever. While the tech systems we rely upon today are more efficient and expansive than ever before, there is an established protocol to each of them — both for coding them and for using them.

Order of Operations reigns supreme.

As it turns out, the day I saw the word PEMDAS on the whiteboard might have been the most consequential of my scholastic life.

It opened my eyes to a critical framework. One that could help me for the rest of my life.

Yet, I believe it could have a similar effect on all of us.

The more we are aware of the invisible processes that drive our habits and routines, the more we can use them to our advantage.

This selective mindfulness can keep us centered, coherent and consistent. These qualities can help us provide even greater value to those we impact.

So don’t mock PEMDAS.

It might be a clunky acronym, but it’s also the key to something profound.

On Heroes

Heroes.

From our earliest days, we’re wired to have them.

As kids, we sleep in Superman or Wonder Woman pajamas, dress up as astronauts for Halloween, and dream of becoming firefighters.

Heroes provide us with a guiding light. They give us something to aspire to and an example to follow. All at a time when we’re at our most impressionable.

But even in our early days, the types of heroes we choose can vary.

Take me as an example.

My childhood hero was Bernie Williams, the centerfielder for the New York Yankees.

Growing up in New York during a time when the Yankees won four world championships, this might have seemed like a natural choice for me to idolize one of their players. But there weren’t a ton of other kids who looked up to Bernie the way I did.

Bernie Williams was an excellent player, to be sure. He won a batting title, and the statistics on the back of his baseball card always looked solid.

But he wasn’t flashy. He wasn’t loud. And he wasn’t self-aggrandizing.

He went about his business quietly and with class. Both on and off the field.

While others didn’t find these traits exciting, they intrigued me. I tried to follow his example as much as possible.

Yet, something strange happened when I had an opportunity to meet him.

I was in high school at the time, and was at an awards ceremony. The ceremony was being held in a large hotel ballroom, and I was told Bernie Williams was on the other side of the room.

This was actually not that unusual. On top of being a phenomenal baseball player, Bernie Williams has long been a standout classical guitarist. He would often perform at various events around the New York area — unannounced — during the off-season. And he was supposedly going to do just that at this event.

Coaxed on by my friends and acquaintances, I started walking across the room to meet the man I idolized. But with each step, my mind was racing.

Am I bothering Bernie by ambushing him at his table? I wondered. And even if not, how could I possibly express all he had meant to me throughout my childhood?

I must have gotten halfway across the room before I changed my mind. I walked back to my table and sat back down.

I don’t look back on this incident proudly. But it does carry weight for me. For it inadvertently marked a turning point in how I viewed the concept of heroes.

Bernie Williams had an outsized impact on my early life. But I didn’t directly know him at all. Everything I espoused and emulated came from what I saw of him on television, or what I read about him in books or newspapers.

There were some degrees of separation between me and my idol. So, it was difficult to reconcile just how much of my image of him was real. And that, as much as my shyness, made me terrified in the moment of truth — the moment when I could finally come face to face with him.

Now, I do believe that what I had seen and read about Bernie Williams was accurate. I believe he was, and is, the person I have always believed him to be. But when I talked myself out of an introduction in that hotel ballroom, I ceded the opportunity to find out for sure.

My loss. Or potentially my gain.

For as I reflected on the incident, I came to realize there were others I could look up to. Others who impacted my life in a positive way, but who I wouldn’t be so sheepish about approaching.

As I pondered who these might be, two people came to mind — one from each side of my family. They were my grandfather and my uncle.

I’ve written about both of them before.

My late grandfather — my mother’s father — was a World War II Navy veteran, who later became a math teacher in the New York City public school system. After he retired, he spent more than 30 years as a volunteer for the Museum of Modern Art. He spent all the time I knew him enriching the lives of others.

My uncle — my father’s brother — is a renowned cancer surgeon and researcher in Philadelphia. He’s spent all the time I’ve known him saving the lives of others.

But it’s far more than accolades that inspired me.

My grandfather was not just a veteran and a teacher. He was the best storyteller I ever knew, with an intrinsic knack for captivating an audience. My passion for writing and storytelling came from him.

My uncle is not just a defender against cancer. He sets a great example outside of his work on being selfless, staying even-keeled, and valuing the importance of family. I espouse many of these traits because of him.

And on top of that, both my grandfather and my uncle were approachable. I knew them well, and they knew me. This meant I was comfortable asking them for advice or letting them know I was following their example.

I might not have recognized it initially, but these were my real childhood heroes. These were the ones who played an outsized role in shaping me into the man I am.

I don’t think my experience is unique. I believe many of us are more inspired by those we know well than those who we see on TV screens or in comic books.

Sure, it may be flashier to idolize a famous person or character. It provides an easier point of reference when we share that information with friends and acquaintances.

But if the spirit of having heroes is to emulate their behavior, there’s no substitute for familiarity. I believe that with all my heart.

We must be able to ask questions, iterate and grow. And it’s hard to get to that point if we’re too far removed from our idols.

So, it’s time for us, as a society, to reevaluate who we prop up as heroes. It’s time for us to reconsider who should be wearing that crown.

For in this endeavor, notoriety only goes so far. It’s the closest ties that count the most.

Getting Deep

If you’ve ever heard professional athletes discuss their craft, you’ve likely heard a variation of the same phrase.

Getting deep.

Batters in baseball talk about letting the ball get deep before they swing at it. Hockey players talk about getting pucks deep in the opposing team’s zone. Basketball players allude to the topic when they talk about splitting the defense. Football players do the same when they talk about penetrating the defensive or offensive line.

The phrasing might be different, but the central theme is the same. Success is tied to depth of attack.

It’s remarkable how prevalent this theme is. It transcends sports played on different surfaces and under different rules.

So, if you believe in the If there’s smoke there’s fire version of proof, a bevy of athletes preaching the gospel of getting deep speaks volumes.

Part of this commonality is tactical. As is the case in military strategy, getting past your opponent’s first line of defense in sports makes you dangerous — and makes them vulnerable. This is as true if you’re running up the middle in football as it is if you’re seeing the ball all the way to the plate in baseball. You dictate the terms.

Yet, tactical soundness doesn’t fully explain why a football player from Texas, a baseball player from Venezuela and a hockey player from Norway speak of the same concept. Growing up on three different continents, they likely learned their respective sports in different ways. Tactical proficiency might not have been part of the lesson until they got to the pros.

No, there is something deeper that ties so many athletes to the gospel of getting deep.

You see, getting deep in sports isn’t quite as seamless as rolling out of bed in the morning. Unless your opponent is overmatched, they will execute an organized resistance to your efforts. And since the highest levels of professional sports are filled with the most elite athletes, such airtight resistance should be expected. When it comes to getting deep, brute force simply won’t get it done.

How do these elite athletes get around this obstacle? Through the three P’s — preparation, pivots and perseverance.

The most successful athletes prepare. They look at how their opponents prepare for them, and then they formulate a plan to disrupt that strategy. They build advanced scouting into their routines before they enter competition.

The most successful athletes pivot. They use skills of observation to identify what opponents are doing in the moment. Then they make real-time adjustments to stay one step ahead.

And the most successful athletes persevere. They try again and again to get deep, knowing that sometimes they might not succeed. But they don’t let those failings stand in the way of success. They keep going at it.

It is when preparation, pivoting and perseverance collide that the rubber meets the road. Athletes that attain this holy trinity become difficult for their opponents to defend against. And if an entire team buys in to this methodology, that team can quickly rise to elite status in its league.

In many ways, getting deep is the secret sauce of sports. At the highest level of competition, it’s what separates the wheat from the chaff.

Yet, I believe the concept extends off the field as well.

We all have the ability to get deep. To prepare for what lies ahead of us. To pivot based on what we see and experience. To persevere in the face of obstacles, keeping at it until we see the desired results.

Yet, more often than not, we fail to take the steps needed to harness this ability.

There are several reasons why. Perhaps life is going well and we don’t have major obstacles to overcome. Perhaps we’re looking for the path of least resistance, and don’t want to put in the effort to prepare in advance or pivot in the moment. Perhaps the thought of failing demoralizes us, rather than inspiring us to get back at it.

In any case, avoiding the process of getting deep does us no favors.

For when we get deep — when we prepare, pivot and persevere — we attain the most contextual information at the point of action.

This context provides a major benefit. Instead of reacting impulsively at the first sign of resistance — and potentially sabotaging our own efforts — we can use it to make a more levelheaded decision.

Getting deep allows us to think long-term, instead of just in the moment. It helps us focus on making the most sustainable decisions in the face of adversity.

Having these abilities is a gift. But it’s a gift we give ourselves through commitment to a process.

We must work to build a base of experience before we can truly succeed at getting deep. All that time preparing, pivoting and persevering early on provides us this experience. Experience that can be invaluable later on as we face down important decisions in times of turmoil.

Much like professional athletes early in their careers, we must take our lumps early on in order to build this experience. We must put a lot of effort into preparing, pivoting and persevering — all without necessarily seeing tangible results.

This can prove to be a bitter pill to swallow. But it’s an important one to take nonetheless.

For it unlocks potential that can’t be replicated. Potential to make informed and impactful decisions. Potential to read subtle patterns that have big impacts, and leverage them properly. Potential to have a steady hand, even in times of uncertainty.

Harnessing this potential empowers us. It makes more effective as leaders, professionals and members of society.

And we can only get there by making the commitment to get deep.

Make no mistake. Getting deep is more than just a sports philosophy.

It’s a gamechanger.

Use it to your advantage.

Let It Ride

Going with the flow.

It can be a treasured trait.

There are many who aspire to wake up each morning and see where the day takes them. Each occurrence representing a new adventure, or a new slew of possibilities.

I must admit I do not subscribe to this theory.

My life is far more measured. I crave control and loathe surprises.

The more prepared I am, the better off I’ll be. That’s what I’ve been saying for years.

This mindset has helped me get ahead.

It’s encouraged me to keep my eyes open. It’s helped me to keep learning. And, to a great degree, it’s prevented me from making the same mistake twice.

Yet, I’ve found it’s not a great life philosophy to espouse.

For if there’s one predictable trait in life, it’s unpredictability.

Fresh surprises await around every corner, and the best laid plans often go to waste.

When they do, the key is to not rue our misfortune. Indeed, we are better off adapting to the hand we’ve been dealt and moving forward.

We are better off letting it ride.

In recent years, I’ve slowly started to accept this edict. As I’ve added more and more to my plate — including business school classes and a volunteer leadership position — I’ve come to realize my expectations for how things should go are akin to guesses.

With a jam-packed schedule, I have to be on top of my game for everything to go off without a hitch. But there are plenty of curveballs out there to ruin my carefully choreographed plan. Poor health, bad weather and exhaustion are three that come to mind.

These issues aren’t new, of course. I’ve been wrangling with them all my life to some degree. But with less free time on my calendar and more responsibilities on my plate, their presence has provided me bigger problems than ever before.

Initially, I lamented the opportunities these issues cost me. I shook my fist at the sky after outdoor events I’d planned got rained out. I wondered why that nasty cold had to show up on the week I had plans. I beat myself up over not staying up even later to study for that exam — even if a lack of sleep was what led to my poor marks.

But gradually, I came to realize that carrying this baggage did me no good.

What had happened, had happened. Whether or not I had expected it, there was no use in rehashing the past.

The best I could do was to move forward. To let it ride.

So, I did. And that change had a drastic impact.

First, I noticed that most of what I had previously pined over was immaterial — or, at best, minor. Sure, getting sauce stains on my white shirt was not ideal. Neither was sleeping in and missing my morning workout. But, aside from looking like a slob in the moment or being out of sync with my routine, there were no lingering effects. Better not to waste time and energy on it.

Second, I was better able to think procedurally. When I came across an unexpected occurrence, I was able to think about next steps instead of ruing my lack of foresight. Timeliness was important in these instances. I was wasting far less time paralyzed by the question of what happened and instead spending more of it on the question of what to do next.

And third, my control-centric nature was able to find some inner peace. While it would seem that my lack of concern as to what had already happened would upset my controlling nature, the truth is I couldn’t control what happened if I tried. It was already written, but I had far more control over what came next.

In short, my energy was devoted to the right places. And because of that, I was able to be more productive.

I am not the only one who can benefit from this shift. We all can reap the rewards of letting it ride from time to time.

The key is discretion.

After all, it does us no good to let it ride all the time. If we just leave everything up to fate, we cede the change to determine our own destiny. Worse still, we’ll appear unmotivated and unreliable.

Yet, micromanaging the past is a fool’s errand as well. It does us no use to cry over spilled milk. The past is past.

It’s finding the balance between these extremes that’s the trickiest. Knowing when to let it ride and when to take charge.

It can be tricky finding this sweet spot. But that quest is worthwhile.

So, fight through the discomfort. Take time to determine what to hang on to and what to let go.

And when the situation is right, let it ride.

Juggling to Achieve Balance

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a juggler.

OK, not the juggler you probably are thinking of.

I haven’t tossed balls in the air, let alone swords. And I’ve never breathed any fire.

The type of juggling I’ve mastered hasn’t helped me bustle on the street corners. It hasn’t made me the life of the party.

But it has helped me navigate the complexities of life.

What have I juggled? Responsibilities and priorities. Confidence and doubt. And solitude and community.

Managing this elaborate juggling act hasn’t been easy. But the struggle has made me stronger.

To understand why, it’s important to look at the mechanics of juggling.

While we are often mesmerized by the shiny optics of juggling — the objects pirouetting through the air, the hands deftly negotiating the process of catching an object and tossing it back in the air — it is something that which we cannot readily see that drives the action.

Time.

Time is both stubborn and relentless. It moves at the same rate, never expanding or reducing itself to our needs. In a world full of uncertainty, it’s the one constant we refer back to.

These characteristics make time both finite and universal. And it leaves us with a choice. We must either use time to our advantage, or watch it become our detriment.

Juggling requires us to look these brutal facts square in the face, and not back down. For if we fail to master time, we are toast.

In the case of the street juggler, this means the objects come crashing to the ground. The show is over. The opportunity to win hearts and minds (and dollars) vanishes into thin air.

In a more general sense, failing to use time to our advantage means racking up opportunity costs. It means wondering What if?

In either case, time demands a rhythm. We cannot add a 25th hour to the day, just as the street juggler can’t make the objects they’re tossing freeze in midair.

We must do what we can to make the most of the limited time we have — whether for spectacle or for survival.

I had to come to terms with this reality when I started business school.

My life was already busy at the time I enrolled. I was balancing a demanding full-time job, a tri-weekly exercise regimen and my weekly Words of the West articles. I was also heavily involved in my alma mater’s local alumni chapter, and I tended to cook dinner from scratch. If I had any time left over, I’d spend it with friends.

Suddenly, I had a new set of obligations — classes, homework, group projects — to fit into my existing day-to-day. And time wasn’t about to stand still.

So, I made some tough decisions. I cut out most homecooked meals — a prudent decision, as I was in class several evenings a week anyway. I dedicated specific nights for writing Words of the West articles, instead of waiting for inspiration to strike me. And I moved my workouts from late afternoon to the crack of dawn.

But even with my meticulous planning, I found myself in a rut. For I had failed to recognize a key fact — daily life is far from uniform.

Some weeks were more challenging than others at work. Some weeks had more assignments or exams than other at school. And some mornings my workouts took longer than others, because I was too exhausted to go any faster.

These sound like simple concepts, but I had not planned for them. How could I? After all, there was no slack in my schedule when things were going well.

Still, I needed to get everything done. No matter how crazy a particular week got, work and school were non-negotiable. And I needed those workouts to stay in shape physically and stay sane mentally. Cutting any of these items out of my routine was out of the question.

So, I started juggling. I got up earlier, stayed up later and immersed myself in whatever task was at hand. I renewed my commitment to efficiency, scrapping any spare moments where I might daydream or otherwise catch my breath.

This was challenging. It was stressful. But in the end, it was worth it.

For as my juggling act became routine, something unexpected happened. I started to find balance.

The three pillars of my life started to settle into an even foundation, each taking up an equivalent portion of my time and energy.

None of those pillars could take undue influence, since I had no more resources available to give. And strangely, that fact gave me peace of mind.

A situation that not long before had felt like scaling a cliff face transformed into a run up a steep hill — still strenuous, but overtly manageable.

Simply put, my commitment to juggling my priorities helped me find the balance I needed to thrive.

Now, I realize this is an extreme example. Not everyone will put themselves into the scenario I did. And if they do find themselves in that spot, they might make the hard choice I didn’t — by cutting out exercise or only giving 70% effort at school.

But even when the margins aren’t quite so thin, event when the heat is off, juggling our priorities can be useful.

For it can boost our discipline. It can invigorate our focus. And, in doing so, it can help us find the balance in our lives that would otherwise elude us.

So, regardless which priorities take up your attention, consider applying the rules of juggling to them.

It might seem like a thankless task. But you’ll be grateful for it in the end.

The Double Edge of Reliability

How important is reliability to you?

Well, it’s pretty darn important to me.

I’ve hung my hat on being reliable throughout much of my life. I saw to it that others could expect me to show up  — both physically and mentally — and put in a full effort. Every time.

My life motto has reflected this ethos. Be present. Be informed. Be better.

My willingness to show up and dive in has helped boost my reputation as someone who could be counted on. Someone who could be considered steady. Someone who could do the little things needed to help propel the greater cause.

These traits are treasured in our society. They’re viewed as the building blocks of success — a perspective that has often proved as true in practice at it has in theory.

This is one reason why a proud to espouse the value of reliability. Why it’s ingrained in my mind as surely is it is in my soul.

Yes, reliability is a gift in our society. But to those who espouse it, it can also be a curse.

 

Nearly a century ago, a politician rose to head of state in Europe.

The ashes of World War I were still smoldering on the continent. Financial and political turmoil abounded. And into this void stepped this new leader.

The politician’s name was Benito Mussolini. The country was Italy.

Those well-versed in history know the rest. Mussolini was a fascist dictator. Il duce’s totalitarian reign resembled at times resembled a police state for his two-decade rule. As World War II brewed, Mussolini got in bed with Adolf Hitler and the Axis powers, ultimately sealing his demise.

Benito Mussolini was a terrible leader. A tyrant. If not for the mass atrocities committed by Hitler to the north, Mussolini might have been the name we referred to when speaking of evil and infamy.

Yet, look at Mussolini’s reign from a different angle, and another word describes il duce quite well.

Reliable.

Mussolini came to power after years of factionalism had fractured Italy. Although the country was a monarchy prior to World War I, regionalism dominated over a national identity. The gap between rich and poor was striking — so striking that many Italians had moved to America in hopes of a better life. And the Mafia corrupted power at the local level, spreading fear and exacerbating inequality.

In short, the nation was unstable.

After Mussolini’s March on Rome, Italy became reliable. Factionalism was wiped out, often by brute force. The Mafia was stripped of its teeth. And things were so efficient that a joke started making the rounds: Mussolini makes the trains run on time.

The lesson here is stark. Reliability without context is not always a good thing.

Here in America, we despise fascism. More than 70 years after Mussolini’s execution, we speak of the dangers of his ideology. In a land built on liberty, there is no room for a My Way Or The Highway edict of rule.

No, reliability is more of an underhanded concept here. One enforced by the weight of expectation rather than the barrel of a gun.

Reliability is subtly woven into the narrative of the American dream. The narrative that exclaims Show up, work hard and good things will happen.

Yet, that narrative is more mirage than reality.

For our society is one transfixed more by flash than by substance. We notice what is exceptional more than what is reliable.

Many of our most powerful leaders — of industry, policy and influence — got to their destination by being outstanding in their field in some capacity. They didn’t get there simply by being reliable.

In fact, reliability is often a flaw for the most powerful. Disciplined, unrelenting consistency in all facets of their role is often lacking.

This is why there is so much turnover at the top of corporate ladder. This is why politicians are so mistrusted. This is why even elite athletes see their fair share of struggles in the limelight.

We see signs of this delicate balance throughout our culture. Go see a superhero movie, for instance, and you’ll likely find the main character has flaws that equal their exceptional talents.

The message is clear. Exceptionalism can take you the extra mile, warts and all.

This is a problem for those who strive for reliability rather than cultivating exceptional talents. And it’s a disaster for those who have all the intangibles, but nothing to make heads turn.

Those who bank on being reliable might not see their deposit guaranteed. They could find themselves taken for granted by those with more power and influence. Or exploited by those who embark on their self-serving quests for stardom — quests that can go a lot further when there’s someone else doing the dirty work of consistency.

In fact, it could be said that a focus on reliability in our society benefits others at the expense of ourselves. Our family, friends, colleagues and supervisors can count on us, and that gives them peace of mind. Yet, we are confined to our promise of consistency, with no mercy from those same stakeholders if we break that bond.

The pressure ratchets up. The burden gets heavier. And soon we find ourselves confined to a prison of our own making.

I have seen this in my life and in my career.

There have been times when colleagues have taken advantage of my reliability to further their own objectives. There have been times when those around me have capitalized on my team-first attitude to avoid putting in their fair share. And there have been times when my perception as The Reliable Choice has barred me from access to new opportunities.

Each and every time, I found myself left behind as others got ahead through achievement or omission. Each and every time, the burden upon me grew, with no sign of relief on the horizon.

Others have not always taken these actions with malice. Most of the time, they ‘ve subconsciously used me as a crutch — my ethos to show up and put in the work acting as a security blanket for their needs.

Yet, regardless of intent, I still ended up with the short end of the stick.

I am not bitter or vengeful about these incidents. But as I’ve matured, I’ve learned to be transparent about them — for self-preservation purposes, if nothing else.

For I’ve learned that positioning oneself as reliable is as destructive as it is altruistic. That providing such a latent value makes it all the more convenient to get passed over.

I now know that I must provide value elsewhere, either by exposing my differentiating talents or finding new ones to cultivate.

This is one of the reasons I started Words of the West. As someone who’s long taken to writing the way ducks take to water, I craved somewhere to hone my talents in a manner that benefits those around me. This forum provided the outlet I needed for this mission.

I stuck to my trademark reliability — I’ve shared a weekly fresh article here for nearly 200 weeks in a row. But Words of the West is about the meanings conveyed in my writing more than the schedule of when they’re released.

Or perhaps it’s a little bit of both. The gravitas of the written word can be a gift. When that gift can be both anticipated and enjoyed, it can become a delight.

A delight for me as a writer. And — I hope — a delight for you, the reader who has so graciously taken the time to hear what I have to say.

This is how we can win with reliability. By layering it beneath something of greater notoriety. By making it the foundation for something that commands attention.

The ability to turn heads is a feat of strength in today’s world. The ability to turn heads consistently is a superpower.

When we make ourselves reliably extraordinary, we can soar.

What are we waiting for?

What We Know And What We Discover

Knowledge.

It’s all powerful. And all essential.

We can’t get far without knowing much of anything.

But just how far we do go does not necessarily depend on how much knowledge we accrue.

Yes, knowledge is a paradox. Its importance can only be measured through its applicability.

In other words, what we know is far less important that what we do with that knowledge.

Several years ago, I took an online assessment.

Much like the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator, it measured my personal traits and classified them. But unlike the Myers-Briggs test, it only focused on strengths.

After the assessment was complete, I analyzed the results. Two stuck out — Input and Learner.

I was confused at first. Weren’t both of those terms the same thing?

But the more I thought about it, the more this bifurcation made sense.

You see, it’s one thing to rack up oodles of facts and figures. It’s another to use that knowledge to make the world a better place. And to make our own lives more fulfilling at the same time.

In other words, the process of learning is a more applicably useful skill than the process of absorption. All things being equal, it’s better to have the skills of a learner than to simply make one’s brain a pure input mechanism of the world’s amassed knowledge.

This is not an absolute rule, of course. There are notable exceptions.

Jeopardy contestants can make a fortune simply by amassing a wealth of data within their brains, and withdrawing from that memory bank instantaneously when prompted. Baseball statisticians have had a prominent place within the realms of TV telecasts and newspaper box scores for years. And now, their data is being used to impact the strategy of the game.

Still, each of these examples required more than pure recall. Each, in its own way, required application.

The Jeopardy contestants had to know the steps to take and people to contact to make it to the show’s auditions in the first place. They had to adapt their knowledge recall skills to the rules of the game instantaneously in those auditions, simply to show up on our TV screens and smartphones.

Baseball statisticians had to get to know the whims of sports media members — the newspaper writers, radio hosts and TV commentators who asked for the data statisticians had at hand. These media members were focused on telling stories to a captive audience, not reading lists of facts. The statisticians had to learn to serve up the data in a manner that fit into those narratives as seamlessly as Cinderella’s foot fit into the glass slipper.

Yes, even in the environments primed for pure retention and recall, learning is essential.

The Input vs. Learner split is not a matter of opinion. It has its roots in Information Theory.

Information Theory conveys how we build our knowledge repositories. Yet, perhaps most critically, it describes how we organize it.

According to a prevalent Information Theory framework, all that we know can be split into three terms: Data, Information and Knowledge.

Data are the bits and bytes of raw information. Think of data as the Excel spreadsheet you’ve yet to open. In other words, data on their own are unintelligible — aside from our recognition of their existence.

Information is a surprise. The unexpected nature of the information shakes us from our routine. The shock to our system makes us hyper-aware of what’s been thrown at us. It aids our ability to remember.

And Knowledge is simply the repository of information we’ve accumulated over time. The novelty is long gone. Yet, it remains in our memory banks, ready for recall when needed.

This framework favors what’s new over what’s known. It states that we feed off of novelty, and that our yearning for that sensation fuels our growth.

This is bad news for those whose brains are configured for Knowledge Input — as I am. Most of the time, our talents are as useless as the wings on a penguin.

Yet, I believe this framework is spot on. From the time we are young, pushing our boundaries stimulates us. Novelty drives us to take our first steps and say our first words. It helps us overcome Stranger Danger and grow into independent personalities. It keeps us engaged through more than a decade of schooling — even as our bodies and our interactions with our peers evolve.

Even after adolescence, novelty reigns supreme. It’s what convinces us to apply to that job, to go on that date, to take the plunge and get hitched, to buy that house, to adopt that pet or to have kids of our own. With each step, we learn and grow — by necessity, if not by sheer willpower.

Discovery is second nature to us. It’s been passed intuitively from generation to generation for eons. From Eve’s first bite of the forbidden apple all the way to modern day, we’ve put a premium on discovery over knowledge.

Our world is built around this paradigm. How could it not be?

Everything from financial markets to academic research is about finding that new bit of insight. About getting that adrenaline rush from the pure bliss of novelty. About going where we haven’t been before.

We speak glowingly of the dreamers, marvel at the innovators and laud the risk-takers. In a world primed for discovery, these brave souls do more than inspire us. They light the way.

Knowledge is just the base in this construct. It’s the foundation from which new discoveries can be made.

Knowledge certainly has value. Why else would we mourn the burning of the library at Alexandria, more than 2,000 years after the blaze turned the great repository of knowledge to ash?

Yet, the value of knowledge is not infinite. In the societies we’ve built, facts and figures can only get us so far.

The implication is simple.

To grow our potential, we must expand our perspective.

We must be open to discovery, to novelty. To learning what’s possible and making it reality — even if it takes us away from the cocoon of what we already know.

Of course, in practice, it’s not that simple.

It’s a challenge for us to keep pushing the envelope. To motivate ourselves to keep finding what’s new and surprising. To embrace the continuum of change.
It’s all too easy to get comfortable. To settle into familiar patterns. To ease off the throttle.

There’s less resistance this way. Life is more of a breeze and less of a grind.

The siren song is calling. Calling for us to circle the wagons around what we know and call it a day.

We must not heed these cries. We must push forward.

Our growth depends on it. So do the betterment of ourselves and the world around us.

There is no time to take a shortcut on this mission. Not yesterday. Not today. Not tomorrow.

The next chapter in our journey awaits. And what we know is just the start.

Discover on.

Failing vs. Failure

What does it mean to fail?

Probably not as much as you think.

There is a stigma out there against failing. A common narrative that those who fail are not worthy of our praise and attention.

This stigma makes it seem as if there is only one viable option in life — succeeding. That failing is the worst thing that can happen to us.

It’s a silly proposition, really. All you need to do is crack open a history book to see that some of the world greatest success stories failed repeatedly before finding their glory.

Thomas Edison might be renowned for inventing the light bulb. But he also spearheaded a bunch of other inventions that didn’t make it.

Michael Jordan redefined professional basketball. But before that, he got cut from his varsity team in high school.

Even Abraham Lincoln — the honest, even-keeled man who led America through some of its most tumultuous years — lost his first political election.

Failing early on did not derail these legendary figures of history. If anything, it helped fuel their later success.

Why? Because they knew the difference between failing and being a failure.

 

It’s a seemingly minor difference. A shift of three little letters. But the gap between failing and failure is anything but inconsequential.

One term defines the experience of missing the mark. The other lets that experience define you.

The shift from failing to failure has nothing to do with our innate skills. It has nothing to do with our finely-tuned talents. It has nothing to do with our ability to execute.

But it has everything to do with what lies between our ears.

You see, to err is human. Even as we doggedly chase perfection, we recognize it’s more nirvana than reality.

We fall on our face dozens of times as we learn how to walk. We strike out our fair share in Little League as we learn to knock it over the fence. We get questions wrong in class as we learn what exactly it is we do not yet know of.

These failings are part of an iterative process. They’re the journey to an uncertain destination, the steps to a yet unknown summit.

But only if we allow them to be.

We might not be able to control the outcome. But we can surely control our outlook.

As a noted control enthusiast in a chaotic world, I’ve long maintained that we have control over exactly two things — our attitude and our effort.

Managing this properly is key to succeeding after failing.

Many of the world’s greatest success stories took their failings and owned them. But they didn’t let missing the mark define them.

No, they had the confidence to be resilient in the face of adversity. They had the courage to try a little harder, dig a little deeper and dream a little bigger.

This process took them to new heights. It can even be said that failing helped drive their ultimate triumph.

So, it certainly appears that failing is not quite as awful as we make it seem.

Failure? Well, that’s a different story.

I am afraid of many irrational things. Chief among them is mud. (It’s a long story.)

But one of the most rational fears I have is a fear of failure.

I say this not because of my perfectionist tendencies or introverted nature. For despite those traits, I do not shy away from the opportunity to fail.

No, my fear of failure lies at a deeper level. It indicates that I’ve thrown in the towel, and given up on myself.

I don’t want to see that ever happen. Not once.

For accepting failure at face value is like closing a jailhouse door. It confines us and limits our potential.

This is far worse than failing, time and again. Branding ourselves as failures is like putting the final nails in our own coffin.

Branding ourselves a failure goes beyond being risk-averse. It means barricading ourselves from any avenue toward future success. It means sitting in the corner and feeling sorry for ourselves for eternity. It means simply taking up space, instead of making a difference in the world.

I don’t want to face this fate. That’s why I’m driven to give my all each and every day.

It’s why I continue to make bold moves where it’s pertinent. It’s why I remain encouraged by my small failings now and then — knowing that the bitter pill of today will only serve to make tomorrow sweeter.

Yes, my failure sustains me. It drives me and keeps me humble. It inspires me and balances me.

It’s a gift bestowed upon me. One that I am oh so thankful for.

If recognition is half the battle, let these words serve as a wake-up call.

It’s time we differentiate between failing and failure. And that we stop stigmatizing the former in accordance with the latter.

For while they may sound about the same, these terms are light years apart.

One is a powerful tool in our development. And another is the architect of our own demise.

We are foolish and shortsighted to paint these concepts with such a broad brush. By doing so, we limit our contributions to the world. We become sheep not lions.

We’re better than this. Deep down we know it.

Now, it’s time to show it.

Let’s embrace failing. But let us not accept failure.