Category: Thoughts

The Limits of Openness

The Library of Alexandria.

It was one of the first great wonders of the world.

An impressive structure overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, the library housed a great deal of the world’s written knowledge – all accumulated in the shadow of Alexander the Great’s empire.

For roughly two centuries, hundreds of thousands of works sat within its walls. But then, the Romans besieged Alexandria. And during the mayhem, the library burned to the ground.

All those works were lost forever.

The burning of the Library of Alexandra occurred more than 2000 years ago. And yet, the event still stirs up vivid responses.

Many mourn the loss of knowledge. Others lament the brutality of humankind. Still others daydream about loading up Doc Brown’s DeLorean from Back to the Future, just to ferry all those papyrus scrolls to safety.

And then there’s me. I wonder if the loss of those ancient texts wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

Now, to be clear, I would not classify myself as closed-minded. Quite the opposite.

I know that the burning of the Library of Alexandria was, at best, an unfortunate event. And I understand the implications as well as anyone.

You see, I’ve always been passionate about accumulating information. When I was a toddler, I memorized the various models of cars on the road, reciting my knowledge for all who would listen. When I was a teenager in the pre-Google Maps era, people would call me to ask for directions. And now, as an adult, friends love to tap into my knowledge of sports statistics.

My brain is its own library. And with the Internet era in full force, I can add a new wing to the collection with just a few clicks.

And yet, there are some downsides to this scenario. With so much new information to absorb, and such an eagerness to learn, it’s all too easy for me to get overwhelmed. It’s possible for me to attempt to take in everything — and end up gaining nothing in the process.

This has happened to me before. I’ve gone down research rabbit holes until my brain hurt and I couldn’t see straight. I’ve forgotten to eat, to go to bed, or to get outside and live a bit.

And the inverse has afflicted me as well. I’ve filled bookshelves and digital queues with unviewed materials. All as I’ve waited for there to be enough free time in my life to consume them.

Time provides the limits to my openness. There is only so much of it to go around. And it’s continually getting depleted.

These constraints force me to take in knowledge at a measured pace. And any time I seek to game the system, I find myself paying the price.

Time is undefeated.

This paradox also afflicted the scholars of Alexandria. They too were human. Meaning they too were constrained in terms of information capture.

They didn’t have the capacity to store all the library’s works in their brains. If they had, they could have rebuild the library from the ashes, drafting new papyrus scrolls from memory.

And that, of course, did not happen.

So yes, it’s easy to long for life without the fire. It’s easy to imagine all that information from the Library of Alexandria stored digitally, in the modern day, on some remote server somewhere.

But how much of it would truly be absorbed by the masses? That answer is sure to underwhelm.

I’m writing this article in the heyday of Artificial Intelligence.

In just a few short years, AI buzz has shifted from Predictive Analytics to Machine Learning to Assistants to Agents.

The world’s information has never been easier to access. And for the first time, a significant share of it has been generated by the machines themselves.

(But not this article. Ember Trace is an AI-free column.)

Many have marveled about the possibilities the AI era unlocks. The ability to democratize knowledge and boost productivity — all with reduced effort — seems like something out of a science fiction novel from yesteryear.

And yet, underneath all that hype lies a sobering reality.

You see, for all their power and prowess, machines are built to serve us. Their origin stories are intertwined with our needs. And their outputs are effectively restricted by the boundaries of our comprehension.

There’s only so much that we can take in before the hourglass runs out of sand. And that means there are only so many ways we can make use of our virtual knowledge warriors.

Despite our best efforts to manifest infinite possibilities, we are no less constrained than before.

The limits of openness. They strike again.

Intellectual curiosity.

It’s a mouthful. But one that carries plenty of promise.

Those eager to soak up knowledge, those willing to question the status quo — they’ve changed the world. These renegades have built nations, harnessed new technologies, and inspired many.

Including me.

And the heart of my information capture inclinations lies a passion for intellectual curiosity. I yearn to keep my mind as fit as my body.

Year after year, I’ve remained steadfast in this pursuit. And year after year, I’ve cursed the boundaries of time that got in the way.

But lately, I’ve started to change my tune.

For I now recognize that those boundaries are more like guardrails than straitjackets. They’re meant to protect, rather than restrict.

These limits of openness force me to choose which knowledge to absorb. And they demand that I prioritize information that can be turned to action.

This tradeoff has made me functionally wise. It’s forced me to consider the implications of all I’ve learned. And those implications have benefited those around me.

This is the silver lining the fire of Alexandria. As the great library turned to soot, so did the notion that knowledge could be hoarded and stored in a single location.

Those learnings would need to be socialized instead. They’d need to be dispersed among the populace and put to practical use.

I’m honored to carry on that tradition. And yet, I hope I’m not the only disciple.

An eagerness to learn is a gift. But the limits of openness are a blessing.

Heed both.

When Words Don’t Suffice

Our family dog cowered in the corner of the living room.

It was a warm summer day, with sunshine streaming through the bay windows. But to look at the dog, you’d think a thunderstorm was brewing outside. She seemed distant and out of sorts.

Zephyr, I called over to her. Come here, Zephyr.

She didn’t move.

Undeterred, I made my way across the room to check on her.

I noticed that Zephyr’s breathing was heavy. As I touched her nose with my left hand, I noticed it was hot.

I knew instantly that something was terribly wrong.

Moments later, the dog was on the way to the veterinary Emergency Room.

The vet said Zephyr had an enlarged heart. My parents had no choice but to put her down.

I was 9 years old at the time, and I’d never encountered death before. Realizing that I would never see our beloved family dog again was as strange as it was devastating.

The house just seemed too silent without Zephyr’s presence. Neighborhood walks just seemed too foreign without her sniffing all the bushes and tugging on the leash.

My parents sensed my discomfort, and that of my sister. So, they encouraged us to write down our memories of Zephyr.

We did so dutifully.

A few days later, the family gathered in the backyard. My sister and I shared our memories of Zephyr. My grandparents did the same, followed by my parents.

Once all the speeches were complete, we went over to the flowerbeds along the fence line and scattered her ashes.

The loss was still raw. The wounds were still present. But words had lightened the load just a bit.

On a sunny morning a little more than four years later, I was sitting in my 8th grade history class. As my teacher scribbled on the whiteboard, I heard a plane fly overhead.

Moments later, that plane hit one of the towers of the World Trade Center in New York City. And my life changed forever.

I’ve written plenty about September 11th before. On what a surreal day that was. And on the shadow it’s cast over me for years.

Those are the natural byproducts of such a profoundly traumatic event.

But there was something more to the grief I was feeling than what I’d encountered with Zephyr’s passing. The eeriness of silence.

You see, as my father gathered me from school and shepherded me home, quiet overcame him. He had nothing to share that would ease the anxiety or make things seem normal again.

The same was true once we’d gotten off the island of Manhattan and reunited with my mother and sister. You could have heard a pin drop on the ride to the suburbs.

And even the comforts of home brought little in terms of solace. As I parked myself in from of the television, I noticed that CNN was reporting diligently on what they could see – mostly fallen buildings and rescue efforts. But none of the network’s anchors or reporters could make much sense of what had happened.

9/11 was my first exposure to a new kind of tragedy. One where no words suffice to explain its horror. One where the collective silence tells its own story.

It’s uncomfortable. It’s unnerving. But unfortunately, it’s a staple of our existence.

Not long before I sat down to write this article, tragedy struck my home state of Texas.

Heavy rains turned a river into a wall of water in the middle of the night. In an instant, retirees, vacationers, and children at sleepaway camps were swept away by the floodwaters. More than 100 people died, including more than 20 young girls at one of those camps.

I live hundreds of miles from the tragedy, and I don’t know any of the victims personally. Yet, this incident has still rocked me to my core.

It’s not just the concept of children perishing that haunts me. It’s not just the concept of my state’s serene natural resources becoming a lethal weapon that gets me. It’s the eerie silence of it all, once again.

We can try our best to put the devastation into words. But no words suffice.

And so, we’re stuck with that hollow, isolating feeling. We’re left with our hearts in our throats. With pits in our stomachs. And with no prospects for a reprieve.

It’s sickening.

When I was three years old, I got separated from my mother at the playground.

I had just gone down a slide and I ran toward another one – without checking if my mother was following me. When I turned around, I didn’t see her.

I frantically retraced my steps, running back to the slide I’d just been on, the swing set, the monkey bars. I searched every corner of the playground without avail.

She was gone.

I stared across the playground, looking for something – anything – to protect me from the terror I now felt. But park benches and playground equipment don’t have much to say. And the silence only freaked me out even more.

Panic gave way to despair. I started to cry.

Soon enough, another child’s mother saw me and took me by the hand.

We’re going to find your mom, she told me as we wandered around the playground and then along the park pathways.

Moments later, we did. And a tearful embrace ensued.

It turned out that my mother had left the playground with my sister, thinking I was right behind her. When she realized I wasn’t, she’d doubled back. But because I was wandering the playground looking for her, we somehow missed each other.

This was a minor, traumatic blip in an otherwise happy childhood. But it’s stayed with me.

Why? Because during that brief moment when I was lost, I saw how callous the world really was. Park benches weren’t going to ease my despair. Neither were swing sets or tree trunks.

Indeed, nothing around me was going to make everything feel alright.

That somber sense of isolation, of vulnerability, it compounds over time. It slowly takes over our minds and our souls, leaving us distant and empty inside.

It’s on us to rebuild the buffer that was taken from us. Collectively. As a community.

It’s on us to be present. To be empathetic. To provide a modicum of comfort, even when no words can suffice to aid our mission.

That’s what I did in the aftermath of September 11th. I visited the memorial. I prayed. And I tried my hardest to connect with the community.

It wouldn’t bring the twin towers back – or all who were lost in the rubble. But it ensured that I would live a life that honored those taken.

Through that process, I eventually found the words to say. I found the strength to heal. And I found a path forward with promise.

Now, as the rushing water on the ground in Texas gives way to the tears in our eyes, I hope that we all can find the strength to repeat the feat.

Words don’t suffice right now. But actions certainly do.

The Boundaries of Freedom

You’re going to Disney World.

Sheer joy washed over my face as I heard those five magical words.

I was 12 years old, and I was finally heading to sunny Florida to experience the happiest place on earth. But there was more to it than that.

You see, my paternal grandparents would be the ones taking me and my sister down to Orlando. So, my parents left us with an assignment.

We were to look through a kid-friendly Disney World guidebook they provided us. Then we were to compile a list of our favorite rides at each of the resort’s four theme parks. That list would eventually be shared with our grandparents.

My sister and I dove into this project. And a few days later, we reported back with a list. One that nearly every ride.

Our parents cringed.

You kids do realize you won’t get to all these rides, right? they asked rhetorically. There will be long lines for some of them, and the parks are only open so late. Plus, your grandparents aren’t spring chickens, and you’ll need to go at their pace.

A few weeks later, we were in the land of Mickey Mouse. And it was just as my parents had predicted.

We got to some of the rides we’d earmarked. But we were nowhere close to completing the list.

It would take several more visits over decades for me to get to everything I wanted to experience at Disney World. And I’m not sure my sister ever crossed off all the items on her list.

Freedom has its boundaries.

As I write this, our nation is on the cusp of celebration.

The sun is out. The heat is on. And Independence Day is around the corner.

The Fourth of July is always full of extravagance. Bountiful burgers and hot dogs. Star spangled attire. Fireworks shows that light up the July night.

But above all, it’s a celebration of freedom. A reminder of the moment when America decided to go its own way, creating a nation on a foundation of liberty.

Freedom can mean a lot of things to a lot of people. But recently, one interpretation has taken the fore.

Yes, many across the nation now consider freedom to be the right to do whatever I want, in any circumstance. It’s something I call absolute freedom.

Much like my younger self at Disney World, the proponents of absolute freedom expect to have it all. But unlike my younger self, they seek to bulldoze any limitations to that expectation.

It’s why we see grown men throwing toddler-like tantrums in public forums. It’s why we see lawsuits aimed at even the most minor of inhibitions. It’s why we see such rudeness and cruelty in many interpersonal interactions.

Absolute freedom is having a moment. And it’s absolutely un-American.

Let’s wind the clock back to the year 1787.

America had declared its independence 11 years prior. It had spent much of the intervening decade in a war with the British to preserve its sovereignty.

Once that war had been won, America had taken an initial stab at governing itself. It didn’t go well.

The initial governing charter of this nation – the Articles of Confederation – was too weak, decentralized, and ambiguous to stand on its own. Indeed, a farmer’s rebellion in Massachusetts had already proven the impotence of the agreement.

So, our fledgling nation’s leading figures met in Philadelphia to hammer out a new, all-encompassing charter. One that would become known as the United States Constitution.

At its core, the Constitution was – and still is – a mix of rights and responsibilities. It outlined the rights of Americans and set up a federal government to protect such rights. But it also assigned responsibilities to each party.

These responsibilities defined the contours of the newly minted freedoms. For instance, all individuals maintained a right to free speech. But they had a responsibility not to slander or defame others. And the government was split into three branches, each with distinct mandates for aspects of governance.

This setup provided a roadmap to prosperity. Individuals had the liberty to thrive, so long as that prosperity didn’t come at the expense of the society they inhabited.

This covenant that was widely accepted for the better part of two centuries. Indeed, most of the arguments during that time regarded access to constitutional protections themselves — the rights of Black people, women, and so on.

But now, the absolute freedom movement is gaining steam like a menacing thunder cloud. It’s claiming that the good of society is secondary to the prosperity of individuals. And it’s offloading the burden of responsibility entirely.

Our founding fathers are likely turning over in their graves at this development. It violates the spirit of the Constitution they drafted.

And yet, they are partially to blame.

You see, the language in our Constitution is broad and ambiguous. Such wording was designed to make it applicable beyond the lifespan of its authors. But it’s also made it all too easy to poke holes in its principles.

That’s what’s happened recently. And we’re all worse off because of it.

There’s a scene in the TV show 1883 that still gets to me.

Legendary rancher Charles Goodnight is commiserating with wagon train leader Shea Brennan on the plains of what is now western Oklahoma. Goodnight mentions the advent of barbed wire fencing and laments how it will change the region he calls home.

Within that statement, Goodnight seems to be grappling with the meaning of freedom itself. He loves the principles of the open range, with its promises for prosperity. And yet, he recognizes that boundaries will make life tougher for the dregs of the region – namely, bandits and cattle rustlers.

A future with such boundaries would be both sustainable and inevitable. Even the earliest titan of the region could see that.

Barbed wire fencing didn’t end up taming the west on its own. But it certainly helped matters.

Indeed, the frontier of yesteryear has generally been stable and prosperous for the better part of a century.

Let’s not undo this principle.

Not in the west. Not in the north. Not in the east. And not in the south.

Freedom is a blessing. One of the greatest ones we have access to.

But it’s not unlimited.

Respect the boundaries. Respect each other. And respect this great place that we call home.

We’ll all be better for it.

Karma’s False Promise

Why is this guy on my tail?

My father’s voice conveyed equal parts concern and annoyance.

We were cruising down the Florida Turnpike somewhere south of Orlando in a Nissan 350Z rental. Orange groves were flying by us on the sides of the highway as we traveled well over the posted speed limit.

And yet, no matter how fast we went, a Jeep was effectively on our rear fender. The Jeep’s driver was practically demanding us to go even faster. He was threatening to run us off the road.

Finally, the driver decided to leave us alone. The Jeep cut into the next lane and passed our rental sports car. As it did, my father and I glanced into the vehicle, trying to put a face to what had menaced us.

The speed demon looked no older than 20. Neither did his passengers.

College kids, my dad remarked. Figures.

I felt a bit conflicted by my father’s agitation. I was a senior in high school and would soon be a college kid myself. I was all about having fun and playing loose with the rules.

But this seemed excessive and dangerous. I got where my father was coming from.

No longer fearing for our safety, we let the conversation drift to a new topic.

But about 15 miles down the road, we saw some flashing lights up ahead. We slowed to the speed limit as the Florida Highway Patrol cruiser came into view on the shoulder.

Just ahead of the cruiser, the Jeep that had pestered us was now at a standstill. A state trooper was leaning into the open driver’s side window, likely to hand out a speeding ticket.

My father smiled.

Karma, he remarked to me, Karma.

Do the right thing.

That mantra has been lived rent free in the back of my mind for years.

Whenever the temptation has arisen to act inappropriately, those four words have emerged. And I’ve maintained proper decorum.

Many have complimented me on this trait over the years. But I’ve always demurred.

I’ve given credit to my parents for how they raised me. Or I’ve explained that I didn’t have the heart to stray from the righteous path.

But neither of those explanations are quite correct.

Indeed, it’s that experience on the Florida Turnpike that has defined my actions to date. Seeing karma delivered so swiftly on that highway that day I was meaningful.

I was convinced that those who did the right thing would enjoy the sunshine of good fortune. And those who did the wrong thing would meet swift justice.

How wrong I was.

Nearly a decade later – and 300 miles up the road – a college student was getting national attention.

Jameis Winston was a freshman quarterback for Florida State University. In his first season of college football, Winston led the Seminoles to an undefeated season and a national championship. Along the way, he claimed the coveted Heisman Trophy as the sport’s top player.

As I saw this all unfold, I seethed.

I was already an alum of the University of Miami by this point. During my college years, I’d watched holier-than-thou Tim Tebow lead the rival Florida Gators to two championships. Now, the hated Florida State Seminoles had one too. My nightmare was playing out in slow motion.

But the next season, the tide started to turn.

Winston kept getting into trouble. First, he yelled something demeaning to women from the center of campus. Then he was accused of sexual assault in a separate incident. And in the midst of all this, he got caught shoplifting crab legs from a local supermarket.

Meanwhile, on the field, Winston wasn’t as masterful as he’d once been. He had resorted to playing hero ball – tossing the ball up for grabs down the field without checking to see if his receivers were open first. Many times, the opposing team would snag the football instead. That team would then put up points – leaving the Seminoles with big deficits.

I became giddy – even gleeful – as these twin catastrophes enveloped Winston and Florida State. It seemed that karma was around the corner. Order would soon be restored.

And yet, the other shoe never dropped. The Seminoles kept winning football games, earning a bid to the new four team playoff in the process. And Winston avoided any significant consequences for his off the field shenanigans.

Florida State got humiliated in their first playoff game, ending their season. But Winston entered the National Football League draft and got selected first overall. The Tampa Bay Buccaneers gave him a $23 million dollar contract and made him the face of their franchise.

Winston was hardly worth the investment. In five years in Tampa, the team lost 60% of the games he played in. He threw nearly as many interceptions as touchdowns. And the team never sniffed the playoffs, let alone a Super Bowl.

Off the field, the controversies continued. Winston was accused of groping a rideshare driver. And he continued to make zany comments whenever a microphone was placed near him.

Yet, Winston never faced real consequences for any of this. He continued to earn his millions as one of 32 starting quarterbacks in the NFL. When the Buccaneers eventually replaced him with Tom Brady – the game’s greatest signal caller – Winston found spots on teams in New Orleans, Cleveland, and New York. And as time passed, people came to celebrate his shenanigans, rather than simply ignoring them.

Karma wasn’t coming for Jameis Winston. And that meant he had no incentive to do the right thing.

He wasn’t alone.

These days, society seems to be filled with Jameis Winstons.

That’s not to say that there are plenty of people whose occupation is Pro Football Quarterback. Or that there are scores of folks stealing crab legs from local supermarkets.

But from coast to coast, there are plenty of people who do the wrong thing, time and again. And they keep getting away with it.

Karma, it seems, is not the great equalizer I once thought it was. It’s filled with false promise.

This lack of a boogeyman leaves us with a choice.

Do we continue to do the right thing, the decent thing, the selfless thing – even if the universe doesn’t seem to require it? Or do we push the endless bounds of what we can get away with?

Many might choose the second path. But not me.

The memories of that Jeep on the Florida Turnpike are too fresh, even decades later. And beyond that, my sense of right and wrong is too strong.

So, I make sacrifices. I put up with the boorish behavior around me, while refusing to acquiesce to it myself.

I know I might not get rewarded for following this path. And I know that others might not follow in my footsteps.

But I can hope.

I can hope that the shadow of karma isn’t the only motivation people will follow. I can hope that right and wrong still matters.

That hope matters. It’s my North Star.

And I’ll continue to follow it.

On Illumination

As I wandered out into the ocean, I noticed something had changed.

The cool water still felt refreshing. The breakers were still formidable. But there was a contrast to this body of water that hadn’t existed a few hours earlier.

Sunlight was no longer exploding off the whitecaps, preventing me from seeing more than two feet in any direction. Instead, a mosaic of moving water splayed out as far as my eyes could see. A mix of cobalt blue, frothy white, and dark gray.

The tidal pull had something to do with this shift. Earlier, the ocean had enveloped half the beach. But now the tide had gone out. Instead of advancing forward into the waves, I had walked gradually downhill to submerge myself.

But the tides couldn’t explain the refreshed color palette in the sea. That had everything to do with the position of the sun.

Earlier, it had been directly overhead. But now, it was practically positioned behind the beach.

That new angle brought definition to the seascape. Shadows and highlights emerged, forming an elaborate contrast that left me mesmerized.

Illumination means everything.

Many years ago, I went to a Colorado Rockies game with a friend.

Our seats were down the left field line, a few rows from the field. It was prime territory to snag a foul ball, so all the fans around us stayed focused on the game.

But around the fourth inning, our section thinned out considerably. I joked that everyone must have had a hankering for a hot dog at the same time.

Oh, no, my friend replied. They’re heading to the concourse to see the sunset.

It turns out that the Rockies ballpark had a unique feature. Namely, a gap in the left field corner between the hulking upper deck and the massive outfield scoreboard. In this particular corner, the lower concourse was the highest feature in the stadium.

We’d walked by this area on the way to our seats, but I didn’t think twice about it. Sure, you could see the Rocky Mountains from there. But this was Colorado. You could always see the mountains off in the distance.

But now, in the fourth inning, the sun was setting over those same mountains. A rich palette of color was taking center stage in the left field corner. And for many, priorities had changed accordingly.

The ballgame was no longer the main event. The sunset in the distance had become appointment viewing.

Illumination means everything.

To get that view of the sun setting over the Rocky Mountains, one only needed to buy a ticket to the Rockies game. And to get that rich view of the ocean in the late afternoon, one only needed to head to a public beach.

But such vistas rarely come so cheaply.

Indeed, most beachfront, lakefront, and mountain views are already accounted for. They’re wrapped up in private property, valued at a premium.

Many finance types have pointed out that these investments are far from worthwhile. Between the purchase price and the insurance bills, they carry a cost that’s far from rational.

For most the day, the naysayers would be right. But then the sun hits that spot in the sky, and the vista beyond the property transforms itself. And it’s as if the wonders of the world are performing to an exclusive audience.

That’s what keeps the whole thing going. That’s why the well-off keep hold of these overpriced properties. And that’s why the rest of us search for a public beach or buy a ticket to a ballgame to do the same.

Illumination means everything.

There’s something fascinating about this whole dynamic.

First off, this setup shatters the whole concept of permanence. Mountains don’t move, and the sea continually stretches to the horizon. But at a certain time of day, it seems like we’re transported to an entirely different place, without moving an inch. The position of the sun can be just that powerful.

And such power cannot be controlled. We can do our best to corner the market on viewpoints. But no money in the world will allow us to view a sunset from the deck at 11 AM, or the rich blue of the ocean on an overcast afternoon. We are captivated by nature’s beauty, but we are powerless to conjure such majesty on our terms.

This whole dynamic defines our existence. And I’d argue that it enriches it as well.

You see, when we yearn for an experience we can’t control, it forces us to level up. We must become masters of patience and prioritization. We must strive to be richer in the illustrative pictures we paint on the canvas, on the page, or through the spoken word.

If the late day sun didn’t bring out such defined colors in the ocean, I wouldn’t have reached into the depths of my writing abilities to convey them. Such efforts only come from captivation, from awe, and from inspiration. Fading light on the water provides that.

And if that sunset view from the Rockies ballpark hadn’t captivated its first viewer just so, they wouldn’t have gone on to share that wonder with their friends and acquaintances. And those friends and acquaintances wouldn’t have gone on to tell their friends and acquaintances. And the fourth inning tradition wouldn’t have come to be.

This is the power of the world’s wonders. Of limited-time engagements. Of all that is too inspiring to be kept to oneself or patently ignored.

Illumination means everything.

Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

Ferris Bueller wasn’t heading to the beach, catching the sunset, or otherwise capturing nature’s essence when he uttered these lines at the start of the movie Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. But we could stand to gain plenty from this advice nonetheless.

Let’s turn off autopilot, remove the blinders, and take note of what’s around us. How it all looks at this moment, and how that vista might differ once this moment has passed.

This activity might seem counterintuitive in an on-demand world. But it fills a gap that modernity has created. A gap that was once filled by wonder.

Let’s bring that attribute back into our lives. Let’s fill our souls with awe. And let’s endeavor to share that feeling with others through any means that best suit us.

We’ll be better for the experience. Those around us will as well.

Illumination means everything.

Certainty of Outcomes

On June 12, 2009, the New York Mets and New York Yankees faced off in a baseball game.

The teams had played each other plenty over the years. But this was the first matchup in the Yankees’ new home ballpark.

Plenty of mayhem ensued. Home runs, bases loaded walks, and lead changes aplenty.

But as the 9th inning approached, the Mets held an 8-7 lead. As their closer took the mound, things looked bleak for the Yankees.

The home side did manage to get two runners on base, but they also made two outs. Their final hope for salvation was struggling superstar Alex Rodriguez.

Rodriguez took a mighty swing — and popped the ball high up in the air. He slammed his bat down in frustration as Mets second baseman Luis Castillo – an elite defender – drifted toward the edge of the outfield grass.

As Castillo waited for the ball to come out of the sky, everyone in the stadium thought the same thing.

This game is over. The Mets have won it.

But then, a strange thing happened. Castillo dropped the ball. Flustered, he threw the ball toward second base – even though both baserunners were already rounding third base. Another infielder quickly shuttled the ball to home plate, but it was too late.

Both runners scored. The Yankees won.

As the home fans roared, one thing was evident.

The sure thing wasn’t that sure at all.

In the years since Castillo’s infamous flub, three trends have enveloped sports.

First, advanced analytics have entered the field. Everything from the angle of Rodriguez’s pop up to the speed of Castillo’s frantic throw to second base would be tracked in the modern day.

Second, wagering has gone from taboo to mainstream. Fans don’t need to travel to a Las Vegas sportsbook to post a legal bet on sports action anymore. These days, they can even wager on little slices of a game – such as a single at-bat.

Add those two trends together, and you find the third trend. Sports broadcasters now track Win Probability within games. Indeed, there are graphs throughout the action showing the likelihood that one team will go on to win the game. Those graphs fluctuate due to factors like time remaining, score, and situational elements (runners on base, field position, penalties, and so on).

If that Mets-Yankees matchup took place 15 years later than it did, the Mets would likely have held a 97% Win Probability when Rodriguez strode to the plate. Yes, the Yankees had the tying and winning runs on base, but they only had one out left to work with. The chances of making that one opportunity count were slim.

The Mets’ Win Probability would have dropped a bit — perhaps to 95% — by the time Rodriguez took his fateful swing. He was in a favorable batting count at that point, with the Mets pitcher virtually assured of dealing him something hittable.

But as soon as the ball went into the air, and Rodriguez’s bat slammed to the ground, the Mets’ Win Probability would have spiked back to 99%. Even the analytics would have agreed the game was in the bag for them.

And yet, the 1% chance of failure became reality. The Yankees would have literally defied the odds.

This type of narrative happens frequently now. If a basketball team overcomes a 20-point deficit in the fourth quarter, or a football team wins a game they trailed by 17 points in the second half, pundits will cite Win Probabilities to show how unlikely the comeback was. The word miracle — once reserved for a famous Olympic hockey match — is now a commonplace sports descriptor.

But it’s a misnomer. In sports and in life more generally.

Several years ago, I attended an all-company meeting on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving.

It was several months after the COVID pandemic had broken out, so the meeting was held via videoconference. Unease was in the air due to the impending holiday devoid of its usual large gatherings.

The meeting started as they always did – with the head of our company reading out the organization’s mission statement.

But the next slide contained a bombshell. The company was getting acquired.

The Chief Executive Officer of the acquiring company then joined the meeting to explain the situation further. He made sure to mention that while the deal hadn’t formally closed, it would take “a meteor hitting the earth for it to not happen.”

As I took in the news, I couldn’t get past that statement.

What a stupid thing to say, I thought. There’s no certainty until the final papers are signed.

I would know.

Over the years, I’d seen my fair share of sure things fall through. I’d been stood up on dates, rejected from job opportunities after final round interviews, and seen family outings get canceled. I knew better than to consider anything the real deal before it came true.

Pen did eventually meet paper, and the deal went through. But it did nothing to quell my unease.

For this was but one example of preemptive certainty of outcomes. Indeed, our society seems fixated on calling the race before the first contestant crosses the finish line.

In some ways, this trend was inevitable. Americans have never been known for patience, and the smartphone era has vanquished the last frontier of our restraint.

But that doesn’t make it right.

For life can be cruel and irrational. Even if we’re a foot from the front gate with a 30 mile per hour wind at our back, there’s still a chance for nature to bar us entry.

That’s just the way of the world. And we need to come to terms with it.

Numbers are the universal language.

I can’t recall who imparted this wisdom on me. But I’ve never forgotten the advice itself.

So much of our lives remains up for interpretation. What we see. What we say. What we write. It can vary from culture to culture, or region to region.

But the rules of numbers are finite. 1 + 1 will always equal 2. And a 95% chance is better than a 5% one.

It’s time we reacquaint ourselves with this practice. That we stop equating a 98% chance with a 100% one. That we stop proclaiming false certainty of outcomes.

Sure, this might take the wind out of our sails a bit. And yes, it will make the journey seem a bit nervier.

But we’ll spare ourselves the egg on our face if we save the celebration for the destination. We’ll find the security we seek, and we’ll become less vulnerable to last second plot twists.

It’s a high reward, low-cost proposition.

Let’s make it a reality.

Learning to Wait

The calendar looked like a warped tic-tac-toe board.

A series of X’s covered various date boxes, with the marks accelerating toward one date that was circled.

My sister was relying on this system as she waited for our parents to return.

They were across the ocean, enjoying a European vacation. Our grandparents were looking after us in their stead.

I didn’t mind this arrangement. But my sister did.

She was maybe 4 or 5 years old. She couldn’t fathom why our parents would abandon us like this. And she wanted the whole episode to end, immediately.

So, after enduring a night of my sister’s hysterics, my grandmother suggested the calendar technique. It wouldn’t make our parents come home faster. But it would help make their impending return more tangible.

The activity transformed my sister. A new sense of determination overtook her. Despair gave way to excitement, which built with each passing day.

Learning to wait was paying dividends.

Patience is a virtue.

You’ve likely heard that proverb a time or three. And for good reason.

Waiting, you see, is the natural order of things. Plants take time to blossom. Structures take time to complete. And opportunities take time to emerge.

And yet, we’re not wired to wait. From our earliest days, we demand instant gratification. A bottle. A blanket. A toy.

To paraphrase Queen, we want it all and we want it now.

This central tension requires a metamorphosis. To reap the fruits of the world around us, we must learn to live by its rules. And that requires a crash course in patience.

My grandmother taught that course to my sister with that calendar exercise. And I went through similar crucibles as I learned to wait.

These lessons were annoying, frustrating, and bewildering at the time. But looking back now, I’m grateful for them.

For much of my life has developed gradually. Professional opportunities have often been slow to emerge. Social connections have ebbed and flowed. Earning power has arrived relatively late to the party.

If I hadn’t learned patience, I wouldn’t have achieved much. I’d have thrown in the towel years ago — resigning myself to a future of bitterness and diminished potential.

Patience was one of the greatest gifts of my childhood.

But I wonder if I’m among its final recipients.

My middle school years were a whirlwind.

I was attending a new school — one which I was commuting to on my own. To cut down on the risk, my parents bought me a cell phone.

Back home, my parents had added cable TV, a PlayStation 2, and a DSL internet line. Instead of spending my evenings ensconced in boredom, I could now watch a show, play a video game, or browse the web.

Instant gratification had been dropped into my midst like supplies from a rescue helicopter. Life had fundamentally changed.

But not entirely.

You see, much of this technology was primitive by modern standards. Smartphones and streaming were still years away. And the options contained in these digital devices were far from limitless.

Plus, I’d already become well-versed in the virtue of patience. So, I tended to treat instant gratification more like snack than a full meal.

The landscape is far different for kids today.

By the time they get to middle school, many have been playing with smartphones and tablets for years. They’ve streamed bottomless catalogs of shows on big screen TVs. They’ve played hosts of video games online, facing off against peers hundreds of miles away.

This setup provides ample opportunities for the newest generations. Opportunities my younger self could have never dreamed of.

And yet, it brings up some disconcerting questions.

It’s safe to say that today’s children won’t need resort to cross off dates on their calendars or counting the tiles on the kitchen backsplash. There are more dynamic entertainment options at their disposal.

But how will these generations learn how to practice patience? That lesson no longer seems to be required in the era of instant gratification. And I worry about what that means down the line.

On a June night in Florida, a group of hockey players took turns skating around an ice rink in a sports arena.

The players had just won the Stanley Cup. And each was taking a victory lap with the most prestigious trophy in sports – cheered on by thousands of delirious fans.

Standing among the players on the ice was a middle-aged man in a suit. He was the team’s coach. A hard-charging hockey lifer who had never won the big one before.

As a TV reporter interviewed the coach, one of the players skated up to the coach with the Stanley Cup. He abruptly paused the interview and hoisted the trophy high above his head, letting out a roar.

It was fitting.

Paul Maurice had coached 26 seasons in the National Hockey League. He had spent time behind the bench for four different franchises, winning 900 games in the process.

But he’d never reached the pinnacle of his profession before.

He’d come close at times. Twice, he’d watched an opposing team hoist the cup at his team’s expense. But he’d also been fired twice and forced to resign once.

It had been a long road to glory. In the face of so much heartbreak and heartache, Maurice needed to practice patience. To learn to wait for his opportunity, and to capture it when it arrived.

That opportunity came at the end of his second season coaching the Florida Panthers. Patience paid off in a moment of instant gratification.

It sounds ironic. But it’s par for the course.

You see, hockey coaching jobs have become a revolving door in recent years. Few bench bosses last more than a few seasons with any team. Instead, experienced coaches move around the league in an elaborate game of musical chairs.

As I write this, only three coaches across the league have been in their posts for four seasons. Yet at least nine have track records comparable to Maurice’s.

It seems that team executives have impulse-itis. They crave instant gratification and accept nothing less. Even though the absurdity of that quest is self-evident.

This disconnect is what awaits our entire society if we don’t learn to wait. People will jump ship from their responsibilities at the first moment of difficulty. Those offering opportunities will cut bait at the first sign of underperformance.

There will be no runway for us to evolve, to grow, to let things develop. Life will be a series of hollow moments in time, with precious few of them fulfilling.

This is not a path worth following. So, let’s re-blaze an old one.

Let’s put boundaries around the instant gratification in our midst. Let’s re-introduce mid and long-term goals back to our lives. And let’s evangelize patience as a strength, not a weakness.

Going back to the future like this will surely have its challenges. But it will unlock untold opportunities for all of us to meet the challenges of tomorrow.

And that’s an outcome worth waiting for.

Wear on the Tires

The scene was horrific.

A beachside condominium in ruins, with residents trapped beneath the rubble.

It seemed like something out of a movie. But back in June 2021, it was all too real for the residents of Surfside, Florida.

A wing of the Champlain Towers complex abruptly collapsed in the middle of the night, killing 98 people and injuring plenty more.

No hurricane or fire or other acute disaster brought the building down. And there were no warning signs to alert inhabitants to the structure’s demise. Indeed, the randomness of the incident made it so terrifying.

How could a building that had been through the rigors of the tropics suddenly give out like this on a clear, calm night? And would others suffer the same fate?

The answers are disconcerting. But they require our investigation.

I remember the day I first felt it.

A hollow pain on the inside of my lower leg.

I was on a morning run, and I’d just crossed a busy street. I grimaced for a second. But I gave no thought to stopping.

After all, running is about endurance. About continuing, even when it’s uncomfortable. I wasn’t about to break with that mantra here.

Besides, it was hot and humid out. Maybe I was just cramping up.

When I reached a water fountain a mile later, I took a healthy swig. But the blast of hydration and a quick stretch of the legs did little to quell the discomfort. And nothing else I tried in the ensuing days helped.

So, I went to the doctor, who ordered an X-ray. When that came back clean, I went through acres of red tape to get an MRI scheduled.

That image contained the smoking gun. A hairline fracture in my left tibia.

I was ordered to stop running for 12 weeks, and to drop out of the race I’d been training for. My body needed to heal.

I was devastated by this news. All the work I’d done to train for that race had gone up in smoke. The five stages of grief were all that remained.

Still, I tried to find the silver lining in it all.

I’d put more than 1,000 miles of running on my legs over the prior year. Perhaps they’d feel fresher after a reset. Perhaps I would as well.

Yet, I found the return to running challenging. When I hit the streets a few months later, my endurance just wasn’t there.

It would take a couple months to get my stamina to return. Meanwhile, my top-end speed never quite did come back.

Plus, I kept sustaining new injuries, including one that required surgery. Those setbacks robbed me of any semblance of rhythm. I was effectively in a rolling rehab cycle for two years.

Eventually, I found the culprit for my woes. I was diagnosed with a degenerative bone condition — one that left me particularly susceptible to injury. Genetic misfortune had done me in more than anything else.

I could have taken this tidy explanation at face value. Indeed, perhaps I should have. But instead, I kept pulling at the thread of my athletic demise.

Perhaps my own delusions had done me in more than my bone chemistry ever could. Maybe the mantra that time would heal all wounds was misguided.

It all required further investigation.

When you get your driver’s license, you learn a host of new skills.

There are the core driving functions, of course. How to accelerate, brake, and steer. How to check mirrors and blind spots. How to merge into traffic or pull into a parking spot.

But then there’s the maintenance acumen. How to fill the gas tank. How to read warning lights on the dashboard. And how to check tire tread.

That last task is critically important. And yet, it’s easily overlooked.

We tend to forget about the circles of rubber connecting our vehicles to the road until that connection becomes faulty. At which point, we’re in deep trouble.

Fortunately, there’s an easy heuristic for checking tire health. If we insert an upside-down penny into the tread and see the entirety of Abraham Lincoln’s head showing, the tire is worn down — or bald.

There is no remedy for a bald tire. Our only option is to replace it with a newer, fresher model. And this happens relatively frequently.

I’ve primarily driven three vehicles in my lifetime. But I’ve had at least six sets of tires — combined — on those vehicles.

So, I find myself perplexed when I hear the term wear on the tires bandied about as a complement in social settings. It seems woefully out of place.

The analogy is meant to be a compliment. It indicates that someone has plenty of experience. And that a little recuperation is all that’s needed for that individual to share the fruits of all that experience.

It’s an appealing sentiment. But it’s also a delusional one.

You see, time moves in but one direction. And once we stop growing, we start degrading.

This is as true for our bodies as it is for the clothing we put on them or the tools we operate with them. Everything gets worn down until it’s worn out. There is no magic reset button.

I should have considered this when I saw that hairline fracture on my MRI results. I grasped onto the delusion of coming back better than ever. But I would have been better off acknowledging that the worn tread on my legs would never return.

It’s a sobering reality. But accepting it would have helped me move forward.

In the middle of Spain lies a small city named Segovia. And in the middle of Segovia sits a giant stone aqueduct.

The aqueduct was built by the Romans nearly 2,000 years ago to ferry water across a steep valley in what’s now the city center. And it still stands intact today.

It’s safe to say there’s been plenty of wear on the “tires” of this structure over the years. The granite is no longer pristine, and the mortar is no longer quite as smooth.

But the leaders of Segovia have done a remarkable job keeping the structure maintained. Over the years, they’ve repaired some of the arches and replaced some more. They’ve checked the integrity of the structure and fortified it as needed.

They’ve let the aqueduct age both gracefully and safely.

Contrast that approach with the one taken by the proprietors of the Champlain Towers in Surfside, Florida. Instead of working with the lost tire tread, they effectively let the building rest. And 30 years into its lifespan, it gave out.

These two structures – and their fates – represent paths of destiny. We just need to choose which one we follow.

Do we cling to delusion, believing that a little time off our feet will reverse the wear on our tires? Or do we work with the degradation, and build a smooth path to tomorrow?

The answer should be clear. Let’s go with it.

The Next Frontier

On July 20, 1969, Neil Armstrong set foot on the surface of the moon.

Moments later, the American astronaut turned on his radio and made an eleven-word address.

That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.

Back on earth, my father was watching all of this from a TV set. He was days away from his 9th birthday. And he was transfixed.

The next frontier had been reached. For the first time, a human had left footprints somewhere beyond this planet. Life had fundamentally changed.

This sense of wonder has remained with my father for decades.

While he didn’t seek to become an astronaut himself, my father has remained amazed by the night sky. As an adult, he traveled to the upper reaches of Sweden to view the northern lights. And when the signature frontiers of my generation – wireless Internet and the smartphone – were released, my father was one of the earliest adopters of each.

I was a teenager when those technological advances took hold. I should have been as eager as my father to traverse the next frontier.

But I wasn’t.

I had little trust of wireless connections, preferring the familiarity of the Ethernet cords that had sustained my browsing habits for years. And I saw little point for a smartphone when I my flip phone fit neatly in my pocket.

It was clear that my next frontier would not match my father’s.

In 1804, Meriwether Lewis and William Clark set out on a grand expedition.

The fledgling United States had just purchased nearly a million square miles of land from the French. But neither party had set foot in much of it. So, the U.S. government commissioned Lewis and Clark’s expedition to learn more about what it had purchased.

The men convened a traveling party, which headed up the Missouri River from its mouth to its headwaters. Then the group crossed through the mountains of present-day Montana and Idaho before following the Columbia River to the Pacific Ocean. After a winter on what’s presently the Oregon coast, Lewis and Clark returned east to report their findings to the government.

The Lewis and Clark Expedition quickly became the stuff of legend. At the time of the journey, Kentucky and Ohio were considered the American frontier. But Lewis and Clark proved that the next frontier — a vaster, more stunning stretch of land — was out there for the claiming. And in the ensuing decades, thousands of pioneers set out to do just that.

Soon enough, settlers dotted the land from coast to coast. Farms, ranches, roads, and towns filled the wilderness. The frontier became the mainstream.

And once it did, we set our collective sights on frontiers elsewhere. First to territories in the middle of the ocean or up by the Arctic Circle. Then to the moon and stars. And then finally to the wonders of technology.

Putting a stake in the ground became the American ethos. And Lewis and Clark made it all possible.

Still, there’s an alternative explanation for the expedition that started it all. Perhaps Lewis and Clark were not visionary. Maybe they were just beneficiaries of good fortune.

You see, this expedition was not exactly a prudent one. A group of 40 people blindly headed off into a wilderness fraught with untold dangers.

Unpredictable weather, wild animals, and legions of native tribes dotted the land they were traversing. There was no way to fully anticipate encounters with any of them, and there was no way to tell when those encounters might lead to death.

Incredibly, Lewis and Clark only lost one member of their party over the course of the expedition – and that loss was caused by a medical emergency. But it’s nearly impossible to chalk the low casualty account up to anything but luck.

This point has resonated with me ever since I learned about the Lewis and Clark expedition in school. While others are captivated by the new horizons the quest unlocked, I find myself wondering what could have gone wrong along the way.

Risk reduction, you see, is my preferred frontier. Much like an insurance advisor, I’m passionate about reducing as many bad outcomes as possible.

I’m the one looking for a handrail at the vista point. I’m the one who buckles my seat belt as I readjust my SUV in a parking spot. I’m the one who obsesses over my posture as the plane takes off and lands.

So no, I wouldn’t be cut out for a trek through the wilderness. Or a trip to the moon.

I wouldn’t be keen on connecting to an early-stage Wi-Fi signal. Or purchasing the first few models of the iPhone.

From where I sit, it just wouldn’t be sensible.

Yet, there are still frontiers I yearn to explore.

They’re just on a different dimension.

Do you drink a lot of soda?

The comment from my dental hygienist seemed innocuous enough. I nodded affirmatively.

I can tell, she replied. It might be having an impact on your teeth.

My mind immediately went to the worst-case scenarios. Were a host of cavity fillings in my future? Root canals? Implants?

I was determined to avoid these fates. So, drastic changes were needed.

I’d given up most fast food a year earlier and suffered no ill effects. Maybe I could do the same with beverages.

So, I cut bait with all sugary drinks. I said goodbye to Dr Pepper and sweet tea. I started taking my coffee black and turning down offers for lemonade.

And I felt the difference almost immediately.

I dropped 10 pounds in a matter of weeks. I was no longer feeling bloated or jittery. And the dental hygienist stopped giving me grief.

Risk reduction was transforming my life.

I repeated the trick a few years later. One day in early January, I gave up alcohol for good.

At the time, I was in business school – an environment with its share of boozy social functions. I knew that flipping the switch would be difficult in this season of life. And that abstaining could even be costly to my post-graduation prospects.

But I remembered the effect the sugary drink ban had on my health. Wouldn’t an alcohol ban also work wonders?

It has. And I remain sober to this day.

These cutbacks have defined my personal frontier. Removing McDonalds, Coca-Cola, and Jack Daniels from my life has transformed my body and detoxed my mind. Although I’m making my world of indulgences smaller, I’m truly better for the changes.

And yet, I’m left with a question each time I make a cutback. What’s my next frontier?

Until recently, it was caffeine. Even without soda in my arsenal, I still spent many mornings hopped up on black coffee or iced tea. But I’ve succeeded in kicking that habit as well.

So, now what? Do I eliminate sweets? Swearing? Something else?

I’m running out of vices to rid myself of. And that’s problematic.

It seems that frontiers are not infinite. Whether we’re expanding our horizons or reducing our holdings, there’s only so far to go.

I suppose I’ll need to make peace with that. Someday, when I’ve rid myself of the cupcakes and the dirty words, I’ll need to find acceptance with where I am. Just as others did after taming the wilderness, walking on the moon, or unveiling the iPhone.

Perhaps this represents our next frontier. Maybe our destiny is to be where our feet are, once we’re we done looking at what’s outward and inward.

I welcome this exploration – in a bit.

I have a few more vices to knock out first.

Outside Noise

A man rides up to the front lines of a makeshift army.

His hair is long. Half his face is painted blue. And he’s dripping with confidence.

As he parades back and forth upon his horse, he addresses the masses before him.

Sons of Scotland. I am William Wallace.

The troops are nonplussed.

William Wallace is seven feet tall! one calls out.

Wallace takes it all in stride.

Yes, I’ve heard. Kills men by the hundreds. And if he were here, he’d consume the English with fireballs from his eyes and bolts of lightning from his arse.

The troops chuckle. But Wallace quickly assures them that he is indeed William Wallace. And he reminds them why they have assembled on the battlefield. He ends his remarks with a warning to the English opponents across the battlefield.

They may take our lives. But they will never take our freedom!

It’s the signature scene from the movie Braveheart, and one of the great battle speeches of all time.

But it only occurs thanks to a dose of self-awareness.

Wallace hears the skepticism as he introduces himself. And he plays along with it to earn their trust.

It’s a master class in persuasion. One that’s as needed in the real world as it is on the silver screen.

We don’t listen to the outside noise.

This type of line is seemingly everywhere in the sporting universe.

Ask a coach or a player about what others are saying about their chances, and they’ll shrug it off. Fans, media pundits, and oddsmakers can speak all they want. But they ain’t hearing any of it.

Belief within the locker room is all that matters to these players and coaches. So long as that exists, the sky is the limit.

It’s a tidy theory, one tailor made for an environment dictated by scheduled competitions. Athletes have the freedom to shut out the world and just go play.

But for the rest of us? It’s not so easy.

We don’t have the luxury of built-in trust. We can’t ignore the narrative that surrounds us.

Much like William Wallace, we must pander to the crowd to get what we want out of life.

And that can get complicated.

My high school didn’t have a uniform policy.

Teenagers were allowed to wear whatever they wanted, provided it wasn’t profane or overly revealing.

Many of my classmates took advantage of this freedom to sport the latest from Abercrombie & Fitch or American Eagle. But I went a different route.

Most days, I’d show up to class in an oversized football or basketball jersey. My close-cropped hair was hidden under a backwards baseball hat. It was a set of attire unbecoming of a school setting. But it was my look.

Surely, I got some sideways stares in the hallways. And my classmates likely talked about me behind my back.

But I didn’t care enough to pay attention to any of it.

What did it matter what others thought? I had a right to live my life the way I saw fit. The outside noise hardly mattered.

But fast forward five years, and my viewpoint was quite different.

I was in my last semester of college. And I was spending my evenings applying for jobs across the southern tier of the country.

Bakersfield, California. Waco, Texas. Macon, Georgia. And so on.

I had no connections to Bakersfield, Waco, or Macon. I just knew that TV stations in those cities were looking for a news producer. A role I’d spent four years studying to step into.

While I did land phone interviews with some of those stations, none of them offered me a job.

So, I walked across the stage at graduation and into unemployment. I moved back in with my parents. And I sank into a pit of despair.

I still believed in myself. But I was starting to realize that wasn’t enough.

If I hoped to land a job, someone else would need to believe in me. They’d need to look at my resume, listen to my interview responses, and decide I was worthy of their trust.

I needed this outcome to financially sustain myself, to validate my studies, and succeed in adulthood.

The outside noise meant everything. It guarded the door to opportunity. It blazed the path to my future. It was inevitable.

So, I cleaned up my act.

I ditched my college wardrobe of t-shirts and shorts in favor of business casual attire. (I’d long since graduated from jerseys and baseball hats.) I woke up earlier each morning and forced myself to be more productive each day. I started doing mock interviews, considering my answers from the interviewer’s point of view.

And shortly thereafter, I landed my first job.

Be your authentic self.

This advice was everywhere early in my professional career.

Individualism was having a moment. Instead fitting in, people were actively trying to fit out.

I admired the pluck of this movement. But I was hesitant to play along.

For I knew the situation I was in. I was 2,000 miles from my family, providing the nightly news to a metro area of 250,000 people.

I’d earned the trust of my boss to do my job. I’d earned the trust of local TV viewers to serve the community. And I’d earned the trust of friends I’d made since I’d arrived in town.

But I knew that trust could easily be broken.

If I paid no heed to the outside noise, I might have found myself with no job, no friends, and no spot in the community. I would have been stranded on the high plains with nowhere to turn.

What others thought of me was existentially important. So, I paid attention to those perceptions. And I did my best to influence them.

This process has continued throughout my adult life. As I’ve moved to a new city, adopted a new career, went back to school, and picked up new hobbies, I’ve continued to pay attention to the outside noise.

Often, this has led to frustration. I’ve occasionally seen my goals thwarted by external skepticism. And more than once, doors have slammed in my face as a result.

Still, tuning into the feedback has helped me move forward. Instead of rebelling against adverse perceptions, I can iterate off them. And in doing so, I can increase my chances of getting the next opportunity — all while remaining true to who I am.

If trust is a bridge to opportunity, I’m building the pilings and approaches to that bridge from my side of the divide. And I’m making it easier for the other party to follow suit.

But all this is only possible because I recognize that the divide exists. And because I can see the merit in its inevitability.

We all can find value in this approach. We all would be better served acting like William Wallace in front of his troops than an athlete dismissing the media members in the locker room.

So, let’s get to it.

The outside noise matters. Use it well.