Category: Thoughts

Going Hard and Going Smart

The gun went off, and I took off.

I felt my feet glide over the crushed gravel. I felt the air rushing by my ears. And I saw the pack of runners behind me.

It was my first Cross Country race in high school. And for a moment, I thought I might win it.

But then I felt my breath get heavy and my brow get sweaty. And I saw the hills up ahead.

There was no way I was going to keep this pace up.

I tried to fight the inevitable for a bit. But then a cramp emerged under my right rib. So, I slowed down and watched the pack whiz by me.

Now, I was on my own, plodding my way through the hills in a slow jog. It was a miserable, helpless feeling.

But then, something dawned on me. I’d run this course several times in practice. And I knew it better than my competitors.

I remembered that the circuit ended with a downhill, followed by a long straightaway. If I could take off on the downhill and maintain that momentum, I’d likely catch some of those runners who had just left me in the dust.

I followed this plan to perfection, passing startled runner after startled runner down the stretch.

And while I didn’t finish the race first — not by a longshot — I found myself beaming.

I had made something out of nothing.

I earned something valuable that day. Namely, a primer in race strategy.

You see, I had started the race thinking that effort was my key to success. But as I crossed the finish line, I realized that discretion mattered more.

I only had so much energy to give. If I kept going for it all at the start, I’d run out of steam before I reached my destination.

But if I conserved effort early on, and throttled down later, I’d be in good shape. I’d get the most out of my energy reserves, making it to the finish line in one piece. And I’d likely score a decent placement.

So, I started replicating my race strategy in subsequent contests. I would wait until the downhill to let it fly. And I’d use that momentum to pick off runners down the straightaway.

I never tired of seeing the panicked look on runners’ faces as I sped by them with the finish line in sight. It became my sole race motivation.

Eventually, this approach led to hardware. I medaled in the state championships.

But that turned out to be my final Cross Country race. I didn’t rejoin the team the next year. And I stopped running entirely for a time.

By the time I returned to the sport, I was a seasoned adult. I had gained much in maturity and wisdom. But I’d lost my grasp on strategy.

I would go into races with maximum effort and try to hang on for 3, 6 or 13 miles.

Surprisingly, I got away with it for a time. But eventually, my performance plateaued.

By this point, I was training with experienced runners. Many of them had coaches or had coached others. So, as big races approached, strategy conversations would percolate on our group runs.

I took these conversations to heart. I reconsidered how to race, how to pace my training runs, how to fuel, and how to recover. All of it would impact when I crossed the finish line.

Yes, going smart was better than going hard. It was just as it had been during my high school days.

But this time I was primed to remember the lesson. Maybe.

Most of my mornings start the same way.

I wake up and head out for a pre-dawn run.

Where I run from and how long I run for can vary. But my approach never does.

The days of me taking off like a racehorse are over. Even in training, I commit to going smart.

But something strange happens when I head home after my workout.

I shower, change clothes, and head to work. And in the process, I forget everything I’ve just practiced.

Yes, I approach my job, my errands, and other aspects of my day-to-day with an unrelenting tenacity.

I am dogged. I am determined. I only believe in going hard.

This ethos has paid dividends. It’s helped me build a career — twice — and live a fulfilling life.

But it’s also worn me down. It’s caused mental and physical fatigue. And sometimes, it’s led me to spiral.

All of this is tragically inevitable.

You see, going hard is an asset in certain situations. When we’re making a name for ourselves, we don’t get to choose when to give our best.

It’s full throttle all the time. It has to be.

But at some point, our ticket to the summit betrays us. That all-out grit becomes our undoing, sending us sliding down the mountaintop.

It’s our responsibility to see this demise coming. And it’s our obligation to change tactics to protect ourselves.

For our own preservation, we must switch from going hard to going smart.

I’ve figured this out in my competitive running career — twice. But in the world outside of running, I’ve missed the boat. Repeatedly.

I’m afraid I’m not the only one in this predicament. But it needn’t become manifest destiny.

Early in the COVID pandemic, I did something incredibly common.

I went online and ordered an outdoor furniture set.

I envisioned this furniture sitting on my patio someday. But what I didn’t envision was how I was going to put the set together.

So, when some boxes arrived at my door — filled with parts and a page of instructions — I knew I was in trouble.

At first, I tried to solve this problem by going hard. I followed the instructions the best I could, putting more and more effort into the project.

But I quickly realized I was in over my head. I didn’t have power tools and had no concept as to whether I was doing this right.

Flustered, I pivoted.

I hired a handyman, who put the furniture together in less than two hours. His work remains intact on my patio to this day.

I hadn’t thought much about that situation until I sat down to write this article. But it proves the value of going smart.

If I had doubled down on going hard, I might have gotten that furniture put together. But I likely would have injured myself or melted down in rage during the process.

The toll of going all-in would have been heftier than the benefits.

Fortunately, I never faced that toll. I made the smart move instead.

I can take something from this experience. We all can.

There are times when it makes sense to take a step back. To consider other options than Try Harder. And to calibrate our efforts accordingly.

Navigating this nuance won’t be easy. But it will be beneficial.

Much like runners, we’ll conserve our energy. We’ll maximize our performance. And we’ll likely be happier than we otherwise would have been.

Going hard is a means to an end. Going smart is a path to sustained success.

Let’s follow it.

Who We Need to Be

All I have I would have given gladly not to be standing here today.

Those were some of the first words Lyndon B. Johnson uttered on November 27, 1963.

Johnson had just ascended to the highest office in the land — the United States Presidency. It was a role he had long aspired toward. But now, in a speech to Congress, he seemed to yearn to give it all back.

In a vacuum, such desires might have seemed odd — even alarming. A reluctant leader of the free world would be a major liability.

But at this moment, those words were a torniquet for a wounded nation.

You see, just four days earlier, Johnson had taken the oath of office aboard Air Force One. President John F. Kennedy had just been assassinated during a parade in downtown Dallas. And Johnson needed to assume Kennedy’s office immediately.

The shock and horror of that event had rattled everyone. The worst had happened — in Johnson’s home state of Texas, no less — and now the nation was reeling. This surely was not how Johnson had envisioned his ascension.

Johnson had a reputation as a bulldog, a politician who could achieve objectives through sheer will and resolve. He was as tough as they came, and he could be emphatically persuasive.

But those were not the qualities the American people needed to see at a time like this. So, in that initial address to Congress, Johnson took far more somber tone.

An assassin’s bullet has thrust upon me the awesome burden of the Presidency. I am here today to say I need your help; I cannot bear this burden alone.

Johnson would later speak of the need for strength, and his obligation to honor Kennedy’s legacy by seeing through his initiatives.

But make no mistake. This was not a bold and fiery address. It was quite the opposite.

In a moment of turmoil, the normally tough-minded Texan had become exactly who the nation needed him to be.

About three months before Johnson took the dais in the United States Capitol, another man stepped up to a microphone on the far end of the National Mall.

Staring toward the Washington Monument, that man spoke of his dreams. Dreams of a future of improved racial relations, of civil rights, of hope.

That man, of course, was Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. And those words would go on to change history.

But they almost didn’t happen.

Indeed, if you were to peek at Dr. King’s script on that August day in 1963, the words I have a dream would not be on there. The reverend was planning to speak of reality, rather than visions.

This straightforward approach had been Dr. King’s hallmark. He took a plainspoken tone during the Montgomery Bus Boycotts and in his Letter from Birmingham Jail.

The objectives were to call out injustice and spur action. And this style of leadership had helped achieve both thus far.

But as he stared out from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, Dr. King realized the crowd assembled before him needed something more. They needed hope.

And in that moment, Dr. King became who he needed to be to deliver it.

There’s no doubt that Lyndon B. Johnson heard about that speech. After all, the White House is roughly a mile from where Dr. King delivered it.

So, when it was his turn to speak to an aggrieved nation, Johnson had a blueprint. A shining example of how to speak from the heart. A case study in being what his audience needed him to be.

Johnson followed that blueprint and met the moment.

But his words ended up guiding us into the wilderness.

History has proven unkind to Lyndon Johnson.

An escalating war abroad and civil unrest at home ultimately did his presidency in. The fiasco redrew political lines in permanent marker, setting the precursor for a modern-day divided America.

Perhaps that’s why few point to Johnson’s address to Congress as exemplary leadership these days. Maybe they feel that discretion seems the better part of valor.

That could well be the case. But I think something deeper is at play.

You see, there is a popular leadership standard called The Steady Hand. This approach prioritizes consistency in all situations. And prominent examples of it are everywhere.

There’s Winston Churchill’s steely defiance, which remained intact through the ups and downs of World War II. There’s Derek Jeter’s quiet confidence, a metronome that steered the New York Yankees through years of baseball dominance. There’s even Steve Jobs’ petulance, which might not have been desirable, but still yielded consistent innovation.

These examples — and others — have helped The Steady Hand take on a life of its own. So much so that it’s become the de facto playbook for leadership.

Those who follow it are lauded. Those who eschew it are critiqued — through shouts or in whispers.

That’s what happened to President Lyndon B. Johnson. It’s even what happened to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Each is remembered for how their moment in the limelight ended. One a pariah, the other a martyr.

Such focus is a reflection on their malleability and their vulnerability. It’s a statement on the price to paid by those who buck the Steady Hand trend.

Yet, these broad doses of rug sweeping do us no good. It doesn’t cover up the inherent flaws in the Steady Hand approach.

Indeed, there are times when this approach is not enough. There are times when we need to see our reflection in the eyes of those who inspire us. There are times when we need our heroes to be human.

And in those moments, the best leaders become exactly who we need them to be.

We seem to have forgotten this lesson. But it’s not too late to change course.

There’s a concept out there called Active Listening.

Rather than just opening their ears, active listeners open their minds. They absorb the speakers’ words rather than jumping at ready responses. They try to understand what the speaker is thinking and take that context into account.

I learned of this concept in business school and was smitten with it instantly. It’s changed how I communicate and how I live.

There’s more nuance to my personal and professional relationships now. I better understand where friends, family and co-workers are coming from when they speak with me. And I’m more adept at meeting the moment and being who they need me to be.

It’s worked wonders for me. And I’m certain it could have a similar effect for others.

You see, we could all use some active listening. We could all use some malleability in our approach. We could all use some practice in being who we need to be.

So, let’s put away our stubborn pride. Let’s stop standing on ceremony. And let’s get to work.

A world of good awaits us. Let’s unlock it.

The Talent Load Fallacy

On a summer night in 2010, all eyes were on a Boys and Girls Club in Connecticut.

The gym there was filled with TV cameras. Studio lights aimed their glare on two chairs in the center of the room.

On one chair sat veteran sports reporter Jim Gray. On the other sat LeBron James.

James was a transcendent talent. Dubbed “The Chosen One” on a Sports Illustrated cover as a high school junior, he had made the leap to the National Basketball Association as a teenager. And he had become the face of basketball before he could even legally drink alcohol.

By the time he set foot in that Boys and Girls Club, James had already claimed a league scoring title, been named an All Star six times, and won two Most Valuable Player awards. Pundits were starting to compare him to Michael Jordan — who was widely considered the best basketball player of all time.

But Jordan had something James did not. Championship rings.

Jordan had been to the NBA Finals six times in his career. His Chicago Bulls had hoisted the championship trophy after each appearance, and Jordan had claimed Finals Most Valuable Player.

James had only been to the championship series once. And his Cleveland Cavaliers failed to win a single Finals game.

Now, LeBron James was a free agent, with the option to sign a lucrative contract wherever he pleased. Would he stay loyal to Cleveland? Or would he set off for greener pastures?

That’s what this TV special — dubbed The Decision — was about. After much speculation, James would finally spill the beans.

Sporting a lavender and white dress shirt, James turned to the TV cameras and announced his intent.

In the fall, I’m going to take my talents to South Beach and join the Miami Heat.

And with those words, the sporting landscape changed.

For not only was James heading to Miami, but he had left some money on the table to do so. By signing a contract below the market rate, James enabled the Heat to sign even more top-end talent.

Miami used that money to lure another star player from the Toronto Raptors, and to re-sign their best player. Their roster was now loaded.

With great fanfare, James had coordinated the launch of a superteam.

Days after The Decision, the Miami Heat hosted a buzzy event at their arena to introduce their new signees. James took the mic and told attendees that the Heat would win Not one, not two, not three, not four, not five, not six championships. The crowd roared.

The implication was clear. James had moved to Miami for one reason — to clear the last hurdle between him and Michael Jordan. If he could win the next seven championships, he’d be considered the greatest ever. That was all he was chasing.

Perhaps the man nicknamed King James thought his moves that summer would be enough. The hard part was over, the titles and accolades would come rolling in, and he’d be revered in all corners.

That’s not what happened.

Back in Ohio, fans revolted at his betrayal. Many burned their Cavaliers jerseys with James’ name on it, and videos of the infernos appeared on the internet. When the Heat traveled to Cleveland, the response was so hostile that the arena needed extra security.

And many NBA fans — and longtime Michael Jordan fans — actively rooted against James, hoping his perceived shortcut to accolades would fail.

The doubters got their wish the following summer. The Heat did make the NBA Finals, but they lost to the Dallas Mavericks. James was thoroughly outplayed by Dallas’ Dirk Nowitzki in that series, and he faced intense ridicule afterward.

It appeared that The Decision had backfired bigtime.

As I write this, I’ve been a professional for the better part of 12 years.

I don’t play basketball, and I don’t find myself in front of the cameras. But I’ve worked in multiple industries for various employers.

These companies have all had homegrown talent. They’ve hired unproven commodities like me and let us grow into our roles. They’ve often promoted from within, giving new responsibilities to those already familiar with their operations and culture.

But every now and then, I’ve caught wind of a splashy hire or two. Someone with a star-studded resume, newly arrived from a big-name company.

I welcome these developments. But not unconditionally.

For I remember the story of LeBron James and the Miami Heat. I know that assembling a superteam, Avengers style, doesn’t always guarantee success.

Indeed, recent corporate history is littered with missteps like these. JC Penney, Bed Bath and Beyond, and Twitter — among others — have recently faltered under the watch of ballyhooed executives.

I don’t rejoice in such carnage. But I am aware of what it represents. And I hope that those within my orbit are as well.

You see, the mixed returns of the Talent Load strategy represent more than luck. They demonstrate the folly of a prevalent myth.

Talent is not finite. It’s not zero sum. And it is far from guaranteed.

Indeed, talent is more like the yeast starter for a loaf of bread. When it’s given time to cultivate and mesh with its surrounding environment, it can grow into something special. But it needs that time and space to thrive.

This is a self-evident truth. But it’s an inconvenient one for our modern world — where the demand for instant results is high.

So, we keep going to the well. We rely on the abilities of a proven few. And, in doing so, we ignore the potential of many others.

That does no one any good.

There’s an old episode of Family Guy where the show’s protagonist — Peter Griffin — buys volcano insurance from a traveling salesman.

The whole thing was a gag. It was proof Griffin was so dim-witted that he’d throw his money at just about anything.

But the bit only works because of some common knowledge. Namely, that there is insurance coverage for just about anything.

One of those just about anything coverages is called Key Man Insurance. It’s meant to protect a company financially if one of its core employees is incapacitated.

In a sense, this coverage seems prudent. If top talent is taken out, a business might lose its edge — financially and otherwise. Insurance protection could be a worthy hedge against that risk.

But this line of thought can corrode an entire organization. It can give top executives a God complex, inflating their sense of self-importance. And it can create a de facto glass ceiling for everyone in the organization with a lower title.

Whether these employees are mid-level managers or entry level associates, they seemingly don’t matter. They’re the worker bees. The talent is upstairs, out of reach.

This might not be entirely true, of course. But actions can feed perceptions. And every move to quickly assemble a superteam and encase it in Key Man Insurance protection — well, it tells a story.

It’s a bleak narrative. But not an inevitable one.

Indeed, corporate leaders can flip the script. They can view their workforce as diamonds in the rough, rather than cogs in a wheel. They can commit to development and build a pipeline to the top.

And those in that workforce can showcase their potential. They can advocate for themselves, lead by example, and shine radiantly when the lights are brightest. Through will and determination, they can douse cold water on the myth of finite talent.

These are small changes, with minimal impact on their own. But once combined, they can turn the Talent Load fallacy on its head. They can forge a more equitable and promising future for all.

That’s what we’re all after. So, let’s go get it.

Thoughtful Idiocy

As the sun set on an October day in Texas, anticipation rose.

The Texas Rangers were about to take the field for their first home playoff game in three years. With a win, they’d advance to the next round of baseball’s postseason.

The ballpark was filled with 50,000 fans, all waving red and white rally towels. And I was one of them.

I’d scored my seat thanks to some good fortune. There had been a lottery for the opportunity to buy playoff tickets, and my name had been selected. All around me, fans who had come by their tickets the same way were remarking how fortunate they felt.

The game started. The roar of the crowd was deafening. And the view from down the third base line was honestly not all that bad.

But then, in the second inning, a beer vendor started walking up and down the aisles. He was directly in my line of sight as I looked out toward home plate where the action was.

I craned my neck to look around him, knowing he’d be gone in a moment.

But then a fan approached him in the aisle and ordered two beers. The fan, wearing the opposing team’s jersey, stood there while the vendor tried to serve him.

It was as if the fan was in the concession stand line. But he wasn’t. He was blocking the view of hundreds of Rangers fans. Fans who hadn’t paid hundreds of dollars to stare at him buying beer.

Eventually, some of those Rangers fans had enough. They asked the opposing fan to crouch down while he waited, so that they could watch the game.

The opposing fan replied by threatening to drop his pants. He then verbally abused all of the Rangers fans in the section, oblivious to the fact that he was vastly outnumbered.

It was all so childish, so comically immature. But it left an impact.

I’d paid top dollar to see playoff baseball. But my enduring memory of that experience are the actions of an idiot.

What were you thinking?

These words fill me with dread.

When I hear them uttered, it means that someone has just done something idiotic. And they’re getting raked over the coals for it.

You see, the answer to this phrase is self-evident. The target of wrath couldn’t possibly have been thinking. If they had, they wouldn’t have done something this dumb.

This critique itself doesn’t make me cringe. But what it symbolizes does.

It means there’s already been collateral damage from the idiot’s actions. It’s the ballpark fiasco all over again.

I feel for all those impacted by this self-absorbed behavior. Those who are essentially victimized by thoughtlessness.

And I seek to never be that thoughtless person. I yearn to never find myself rightfully called to the carpet.

Still, such plans are far from foolproof.

Back at the ballpark, behind that obnoxious fan in the aisle, a duel was going on.

Well, more like a series of them.

Each time a player strode to home plate and dug their cleats into the dirt, a new confrontation would begin. A high stakes battle between the batter and the pitcher.

The batter was looking for a pitch he could hit hard. And the pitcher was looking to make the batter miss.

Occasionally, one of these combatants would make the other one look foolish. The batter would drive a pitch over the heart of home plate to the outfield wall, 400 feet away. The pitcher would fool the batter into swinging at a ball in the dirt. Both of those things happened in this playoff game.

But sometimes, the pitcher or batter would do exactly what they wanted — and end up with nothing to show for it.

That was ultimately how the game got away from the Rangers.

In the sixth inning, with his team down by a 2-0 score, Texas starting pitcher Martin Perez returned to the pitching mound. He gave up base hits to the first two batters — both on pitches below the batter’s knees.

The ball was thrown where he wanted it each time. But it didn’t yield the desired outcome.

Perez was pulled from the game. Both batters he gave up hits to would ultimately come around to score when his replacement gave up a home run.

As I write this, Perez has yet to start another postseason game. Surely, he must think back on that night and wonder how it got away from him.

Truth be told, Perez pitched decently well in that game. His intensity, focus, and effort were where they needed to be.

But the results belied his best intentions. And for years, that disconnect cast a shadow over his career.

There’s a term that defines Perez’s predicament that October evening.

Thoughtful idiocy.

Perez was seeking to command the game. But he still ended up sinking his team’s chances.

Thoughtful idiocy is a bitter pill to swallow. It’s insidious, as it takes a good thing and turns it bad.

We are primed to be the opposite of that fan waiting for beer in the middle of the aisle. We’re supposed to be selfless, conscientious, and committed to the cause.

It’s tantalizing to tie outcomes to these attributes. Act absent-minded and suffer the consequences. Operate with thoughtfulness and reap the benefits.

But that’s not how it works in practice.

In truth, we can try too hard. We can push too far. We can get beat at our own game.

Sometimes this looks like Martin Perez on the pitching mound that October night. Minimal mistakes yield lopsided results — with thousands watching in disappointment.

Other times, it can be a bit more subtle. It might mean pushing ahead on a work project without getting the requisite sign-off. It might mean ramping up a workout regimen faster than your body can handle. It might mean trying a bit too hard to reconnect with long-lost acquaintances.

I know all these mistakes. For I have made them before.

That my heart was in the right place mattered little. The results told the story.

I was an idiot. Not for doing too little. But for doing too much, without even considering a sanity check.

You’ve got to be part strategist, part psychologist.

This is the unofficial job description for a baseball manager.

It’s only fitting. In a sport where 9 players take the field each night for six months, it’s a requisite skill. Especially when you consider how difficult it is to hit a baseball.

Yes, great baseball managers have mastered the art of nuance. They get their teams in the right tactical positions to win. But they also get their players in the right headspace to thrive.

The best managers must remain active without overacting. The must be thoughtful without overthinking.

Such skills are not relegated to baseball. Many coaches in other sports display similar nuance. So do many supervisors in office settings. And many parents in households across America.

Nuanced thought and measured action can help just about anyone thrive at their role. They can avoid the polarizing extremes of absent mindedness and of taking things too far. They can avoid both supreme dumbness and thoughtful idiocy.

But we can’t get to this point right out of the gates. Experience is an unrivaled teacher in this endeavor. And blunders sometimes provide the most vivid lessons.

When I recount my moments of thoughtful idiocy, I first feel humiliated. How could I have been so foolish? How could I have gotten things so wrong?

But then, I remember to give myself some grace. To treat the incident as a building block. To show the same level of dedication next time, but with a bit more restraint.

This is the roadmap to a better tomorrow. For me. For all of us.

But we must commit to it.

We must not bury our thoughtful idiocy. We must instead have the courage to address it and iterate off it.

There’s nothing dumb about that.

Out of the Shadows

It was a beautiful afternoon.

Outside my window, sunlight radiated through blue skies. The branches of the trees barely budged in the light breeze.

It was one of those mid-winter days in Texas that just begged everyone to get outside. To enjoy the temperate conditions before they gave way to the muggy slog of spring and the searing heat of summer.

But on this day, I was not heeding the call. On this day, I remained indoors.

I was recuperating from a recent ankle surgery. And I had been ordered to wear a protective boot whenever I was away from home.

Getting that boot on my foot was quite a challenge. Walking in that boot was another. And cleaning that boot was no picnic, either.

It seemed prudent to avoid all of this when possible. So, I tended to stay indoors — even on beautiful days like these.

Although I craved the light, I remained in the shadows.

That protective boot now sits in my closet, collecting dust.

But my memory doesn’t.

I might have recovered from my injury. But all around me, I see plenty of others amid their own tribulations.

At the ballgame, the grocery store, and the airport, I see the marks of recuperation. People are sporting slings, crutches, and protective boots. And I feel for them.

This is not a Baader-Meinhof situation. That happened when I purchased my SUV, and then suddenly noticed dozens of others like it.

No, I had noticed people with disabilities before. But where I’d once gotten out of the way of them, I now did what I could to help.

I would hold a door open for them or give up my seat to them. All with a knowing nod.

I understood their plight. And I wanted to lessen the burden.

In late 1989, the Berlin Wall came down.

For a generation, the treacherous concrete barrier had defined the divide between East and West, between communism and democracy. But now, it was gone. And the USSR would soon follow.

The Cold War was over.

I was playing with Matchbox cars and watching Sesame Street when this occurred. I understood little of what was going on.

But now, as an adult, I frame my life story around this event. I was born during the Cold War but grew up after it.

This narrative is factual. But it omits another seismic event from that time.

In mid 1990, the United States Congress passed the Americans with Disabilities Act. The legislation afforded protections to anyone facing an impairment.

In one fell swoop, it brought those with disabilities out of the shadows and into the light.

Remnants of this legislation were everywhere during my youth. Public facilities were being retrofitted to comply with the law. Public announcements were educating the masses on the accommodations.

And yet, I couldn’t quite relate. I was able-bodied and had no reason to believe I wouldn’t be. This wasn’t my fight.

So, I continued to ignore the narrative around me. I would pay no mind to the revolution at home, and instead wax poetic about events that occurred far afield.

It would take three decades for me to change my tune.

When the COVID pandemic hit in 2020, we got a glimpse of the shadows. Confined by lockdowns, business closures, and mask mandates, we all got to see how the 26 percent of Americans with disabilities live.

Like many, I loathed this experience. I did my best to get some distance from it as the pandemic receded.

But I could never fully escape.

About two years after the COVID shutdowns, I was to meet my family in Houston for a vacation. A few days before the trip, my mother informed me that she would be showing up in the Bayou City in a wheelchair.

I knew my mother had been dealing with some knee issues. But I was still caught off-guard by this announcement.

As a longtime Texan, I knew my state wasn’t the easiest to navigate by wheelchair. And I spent hours ticking through contingency plans.

What if we needed to change up our seating at the rodeo? What if the Johnson Space Center had exhibits that were only accessible by stairs?

Everything ended up working out just fine. But I remained hyper-aware of the challenges facing those with disabilities.

Then I went under the knife and experienced those challenges firsthand.

As I navigated that time in the shadows, post-procedure, I was introspective. I was ashamed of how badly I’d overlooked those with disabilities for so much of my life. And I was determined to do better.

I’ve lived by that creed ever since.

I’m determined to show compassion to those with disabilities, helping them emerge from the shadows. And I’m hoping my actions inspire others to do the same.

This might seem like a noble quest. But it has its challenges. And perhaps not the ones you might think.

The Washington Post has employed a slew of high-profile journalists over the years. Perhaps the most recent of these is Taylor Lorenz.

Before joining the Post, Lorenz made her name writing about internet culture for the New York Times. As the online world has evolved in hyper speed, Lorenz has covered every bit of it — garnering both acclaim and outrage along the way.

If you follow Lorenz on social media though, you’ll find something else. Namely, a long-running critique of loosened COVID pandemic restrictions.

In much of American society, this point is a non-starter. The worst of the pandemic has passed, medical interventions are now available, and a yearning for normalcy percolate.

But Lorenz is either immunocompromised or carrying the flag of those who are. She will not stop criticizing the world for “moving on.”

I can see where Lorenz is coming from, to a degree. There are some similarities between being injured and immunocompromised — particularly when it comes to societal isolation.

It was frustrating when I found myself alone in the shadows. Still, I never once expected others to stay inside during my recuperation, just because I was deprived the outdoors. That would have been an unreasonable request.

It’s no more feasible for the immunocompromised to demand that the world remain perpetually locked down. It’s several bridges too far.

So yes, Lorenz’s advocacy should remain off the table here. But so should the status quo.

It’s time for us to embrace the spirit of the Americans with Disabilities Act. It’s time to provide reasonable accommodation to those we’ve banished to the shadows.

That means awareness. It means compassion.

It means giving a hand up, but not necessarily a handout.

Making this compromise might seem daunting. But those with disabilities are making compromises of their own too.

We owe it to them to meet them halfway.

Manufactured Rebellion

Silicon Valley.

The string of suburbs nestled toward the bottom of the San Francisco Bay is where the titans of computing, the Internet, and social media are based. It’s where a glut of venture capital and private equity firms have set up shop.

It might seem this sun-speckled stretch of California paradise has always been the epicenter of technology. But back in the early 1980s, the seat of power was 3,000 miles east.

You see, back then, Steve Jobs wasn’t a household name. Elon Musk was a secondary school student in South Africa. Mark Zuckerberg wasn’t even born yet.

Business computing was king. And there was but one behemoth in business computing — IBM.

The sleepy suburban enclave of Armonk — some 35 miles north of New York City — was the heart of IBM’s corporate functions. It’s where the accountants maintained their balance sheets. It’s where the financial analysts did their modeling. It’s where executives maintained their cushy offices.

But not all of IBM’s operations were based there. Some 1,300 miles south in Boca Raton, another unit was hard at work.

These employees paid little attention to the details of what was going on up in Armonk. And the bigwigs at headquarters had precious little line of sight into what was happening down in Florida.

This was all by design.

The Boca unit was IBM’s skunkworks. It was the space where IBM-ers could innovate, free of the constraints of the IBM brand banner. It was where IBM could attempt to disrupt its own business.

IBM wasn’t the first company to try its hand at skunkworks.

Lockheed Martin introduced the concept as it developed weapons in secrecy during World War II. Over the years, other companies followed its lead.

However, IBM had a novel use for its skunkworks setup — Manufactured Rebellion.

Yes, the team in Boca was made up of IBM employees aiming to disrupt IBM’s business.

The company knew that its stronghold was far from assured over time. Technology changes. Consumption patterns shift.

If IBM were to wait before reacting to these changes, it would be too late. The only shot at longevity would be to stay on the cutting edge. To diversify the company portfolio to include the innovations of tomorrow and the strategic strengths of today.

That’s what Manufactured Rebellion was all about. And it yielded the Personal Computer for IBM.

We might overlook that point these days, with Apple and Microsoft dominating the PC market. But the skunkworks likely helped IBM stay relevant for far longer than the company otherwise would have been.

And thanks to a Harvard Business Review writeup, the IBM skunkworks continues to cast a long shadow.

Indeed, Manufactured Rebellion is all the rage in the technology world. Companies left and right are trying to disrupt themselves, even as they reach the pinnacle of success.

This is how Apple ended up making smartphones. It’s what got Netflix into streaming. It’s why Google’s parent company has a division called “other bets,” fueled by an incubator called X.

It’s also the reason companies in other industries — automaking, hospitality, and finance — are rebranding themselves as tech companies.

Manufactured Rebellion is all around us. And to some degree, within us.

You see, these companies have an outsize influence on our behavior. Consider it the halo effect.

Starbucks once convinced us to pay $4 for a cup of coffee. Disney persuaded us that happily ever after was inevitable. And Apple, Google, and Netflix have directed us to shake up today in favor of tomorrow.

So, we seek to disrupt ourselves.

We cast off old routines. We reinvent our style. We shake up our professional identity.

We do all this for the same reason as IBM. To stay ahead of the curve.

But are we getting more than we bargained for?

Early in the film Catch Me If You Can, FBI agent Carl Hanratty enters a French prison, seeking to take custody of a prisoner there.

The prisoner — Frank Abagnale, Jr. — had pulled off a string of confidence crimes. Hanratty’s mission was to bring him back to the United States to face charges.

Abagnale had been a confident and quick-witted man throughout his crime spree. But in the dark confines of a jail cell, he appeared young and frightened.

After making a feeble attempt at an escape, he made a frail request to Hanratty.

Take me home, Carl.

Abagnale had brought all kinds of Manufactured Rebellion into his life. He had posed as a lawyer and an airline pilot. He had forged millions of dollars worth of checks. And he had stayed one step ahead of the law throughout most of these escapades.

But now, he had been stripped of all that. Reacquainted with his real identity, all he wanted to do was go home.

Most of us are not confidence artists like Abagnale. Our journey probably won’t include a stop in a French jail.

But we can relate to him a bit too viscerally.

You see, our penchant for self-disruption has its benefits.

Switching jobs yields increased earning power. Moving homes yields enhanced surroundings. Changing diets yields improved health.

But Manufactured Rebellion also has its costs.

If we keep changing for change’s sake, we start chasing ghosts. We’re always in pursuit. Never comfortable. Never satisfied.

We lose sight of who we are on the quest to find out who we could be.

This is a basic fact. And yet, it always seems to catch us off guard — just as it did Abagnale.

It shouldn’t.

For despite its bravado, Manufactured Rebellion often fails to deliver. For every Netflix stream or iPhone, there are dozens of failed corporate pivots. Heck, even the flagship PC from IBM’s skunkworks ultimately fell short.

We can’t expect our success rate to be any better. For we are human.

Unlike billion-dollar corporations, we bear the brunt of disruption. We feel every bit of the ups and downs.

And while brand irrelevance is disastrous for any company, the loss of our identity can be downright tragic.

So, let’s turn this ship around. Let’s stop needlessly putting ourselves in jeopardy. And let’s be more thoughtful about when and where we change things up.

This might not give us the sugar rush of Manufactured Rebellion. But it spares us the inevitable crash that follows.

And that’s not nothing.

Risk Reduction

I sat on the snowy ground and tried to regain my bearings.

I had just fallen for the umpteenth time while trying to grab onto a T-Bar ski lift. Frustration was mounting, and I needed a minute.

So, I sat there, staring out at what lay ahead.

It was late June. Back home, it was beach weather. But here on the border of Chile and Argentina, snowy peaks surrounded an alpine lake — their wintery reflection reflected immaculately in the frigid water.

This view, this place — it was any American skier’s dream. But not mine.

You see, I had never skied before. And I hadn’t harbored a strong desire to, either.

But I’d ventured to South America for a study abroad program. And my classmates — all avid skiers — had begged me to join them on a weekend excursion to the Andes.

So, here I was, giving this new experience a go. And struggling mightily.

Getting on the lift was just one issue. Making it down the bunny slope was another. And stopping my momentum before plunging into the lake was a third.

For much of the day, I was miserable. Not only was I flustered, but I was also terrified of injuring myself.

Finally, I started to make some progress. I stayed on my skis all the way down the slope, feeling the wind rush by my face. My form was still a work in progress, but the misery was gone.

Sadly, so was my energy — and daylight.

I made my way back to the lodge to turn in my rental skis. But I pledged to give it another go when I was back in the United States.

For a while, I made good on my promise. I’d hit the slopes about once a year. Despite some misadventures, I did get better at skiing. And I found the experience of gliding down a snowy slope uniquely exhilarating.

But eventually, I stopped trekking up to the mountains.

My demurral from skiing wasn’t driven by its costs or the travel distances to the slopes — although both were significant.

The cause? Risk reduction.

My family tree is marked by community influence.

Both my parents are educators. So too were my maternal grandparents.

My paternal grandfather is a doctor. My uncle is a renowned surgeon.

If there’s one commonality among my relatives, it’s a devotion to helping others be better, safer, and healthier. And that means reducing risks.

When I was growing up, my parents would encourage me not to make the same mistake twice. And my grandfather would often share the most basic doctorly advice in the book.

If it hurts to move your leg like that, don’t move your leg like that.

I was primed to steer clear of recklessness from the start. And I’ve followed that North Star into adulthood.

These days, I make a living in the insurance technology industry. So those risk reduction edicts have only further solidified.

Now, this hasn’t turned me into a frightened recluse. I don’t spend my days assuming everything will go wrong.

But I do imagine what could go sideways. And I try to avoid that outcome as much as possible.

This ethos has underpinned many of the choices I’ve made over the years. It spurred my decision to stop eating dairy and fast food. It led me to quit drinking alcohol.

And it led me to stop skiing.

You see, I was never fully in control on skis. I took turns too wide and still struggled to stop on a dime when I got into trouble. I feared that my shaky form would lead me directly into a tree — and a broken leg.

I’d also taken up running during this time — first for exercise and eventually as a competitive endeavor. As my devotion to running deepened, the costs of a ski run gone awry started to seem as steep as a Black Diamond slope. It just wasn’t worth trying.

Now, this decision was not exactly a prevalent one in the athletic community. I know of several runners who have won distance races weeks after a ski vacation.

But for me, the potential costs were too high. Getting to the starting line healthy was paramount. Nothing that could jeopardize that mission was worth engaging in.

This line of thought constitutes Risk Reduction 101. And it’s worked as expected for me.

Or has it?

As I write this, it’s been a decade since I went skiing. And it’s been four months since I went for a run.

A high-speed crash on a snowy slope hasn’t paused my running career. But I’ve come across some significant injuries, nonetheless.

There hasn’t been a single cause for these setbacks. Some were due to overtraining. Some were due to chronic physiological issues. Some were simply due to bad luck.

But regardless, I’ve paid the price.

I’ve lost four months of an activity I love. I’ve dropped out of five races, forfeiting hundreds of dollars in the process. I’ve gone through surgery and an arduous rehab process.

If I had a skiing mishap, I’d likely have missed about the same amount of time while healing. My rehab process would likely have been somewhat similar.

Taking all this into account, my decision to cut out skiing doesn’t look all that stellar. After all, those risks I was trying to avoid found me anyway.

I might as well have lived with reckless abandon. I might as well have let the chips fall where they may.

This is a tantalizing argument. Yet, I don’t buy it for a second.

Sure, I’ve encountered a bit of a rough patch lately. I’d even call it the nadir of my running career.

But such an outcome can’t be viewed in a vacuum.

The odds of what happened to me without skiing are lower than they would have been if I kept hitting the slopes.

No, I might not have avoided fate. But I didn’t actively invite it either.

This is an important distinction.

All too often, we view risk as binary. We either aim for total avoidance or throw caution to the wind.

Neither approach truly steels us for a bad outcome.

In one case, we’re forced to reckon with our recklessness in the most brutal of fashions. In another, we’re left wondering why we threw away the chance at adventure — only to encounter its bitter toll.

The best way around this is to take the middle path. To accept small risks and shun outsized ones.

This requires judgment without clear guardrails. It requires a feel for the odds. And it requires us to embrace the gray.

Put it all together, and we’re left with an incredibly high bar to clear.

But with some discipline and devotion, we can clear it. I am proof positive of that.

So, let’s take this journey together.

Let’s resolve to feel the rush of the wind without getting in over our skis. Let’s be mindful of risk, but not paralyzed by it.

We might not always win this way. But we’ll surely lose less.

On Autopilot

As I made my way down the highway, my frustration mounted.

It was rush hour, and the road was packed with vehicles. Stop-and-go traffic made things unpredictable. You never quite knew when you’d be able to speed up or would need to slow down.

I’m no rookie when it comes to the rush hour slog. So, I followed protocols, intently watching the brake lights of the car in front of me.

But that vehicle – a Tesla – proved erratic. Its brake lights would come on suddenly and intensely. And I would need to slam on the brakes to avoid a collision.

Teslas are notoriously tall cars, and I struggled to see beyond it. But as traffic in the other lanes started outpacing ours, I figured out what was going on.

There was plenty of blacktop in front of the Tesla. But the vehicle was not filling that gap. Instead, the driver was braking early and often, leaving me in a bind for no good reason.

After a few agonizing miles, I seized an opportunity to move into an adjoining lane and pass the Tesla. As I did, I peeked over – and immediately discovered what had caused me so much agony.

The driver had one hand on the wheel, and the other on a smartphone. Much of her attention was on that device, rather than the road.

It was a reckless decision. And I, the driver behind her, had borne the brunt of it.

My blood boiled. But my rage extended far beyond the woman sitting inside that metal box.

When I was a new driver, I despised Lexus vehicles.

The sedans and SUVs with that stylized chrome L on their hoods were fine enough. But the people who owned them were not.

I loathed the entitled jerks who tailgated me at high speeds or cut me off on the road. Most of the time, these drivers were piloting a Lexus. And as I connected the dots, my disdain for the luxury car label grew.

I began to see the brand as an enabler, allowing drivers to violate the rules of the road without consequences. It seemed like the outrageously high price tags for Lexus vehicles came with a superiority complex – one that drivers asserted at every turn. And poor chumps like me were left to clean up the mess.

As I’ve grown older, my vitriol for Lexus has turned to indifference. But that’s mostly because there’s a new clubhouse leader in despised car brands.

Tesla.

Now, to be clear, I have a healthy respect for the automaker with the stylized T on its hood. Disrupting the entrenched United States market as an outsider is daunting enough. Yet, Tesla has managed to break through while changing the way the industry develops cars.

When I bought my Ford SUV, most models were gas-powered. By the time I buy my next one, Ford might also have several electric options for me to consider. Tesla has everything to do with that shift.

But Tesla has also taken The Lexus Problem to new heights. The company is helmed by the bombastic Elon Musk, who once infamously expressed his desire for human driving to be outlawed.

Tesla has moved toward this goal by developing autonomous modes in its vehicles. But the self-driving features have been imperfect, and even deadly at times.

The company has tried to fix these mishaps with software updates. And it’s taken steps to remind drivers to stay alert when the car is on autopilot, in the event they need to take over.

But that message only goes so far.

Indeed, Musk’s bold claims have caused something of a halo effect. Many Tesla customers believe the car can drive itself and slack off on the fundamentals.

Whether they have autonomous mode engaged or not, Tesla drivers can act like the one I was stuck behind on the highway — checking their phones more intently than the road. In their minds, the high-tech car itself absolves them of responsibility.

So now, instead of battling aggressive Lexus drivers, I’m forced to reckon with passive Tesla drivers. The behavior might be different, but the entitlement complex is the same.

These drivers claim superiority on the road. And the rest of us are forced to reckon with them.

I’ll never forget the first time I tried cruise control as a driver.

I was on a road trip with my father, and he encouraged me to engage the feature for the miles ahead.

I set my speed, using the controls next to the steering wheel. I took my foot off the gas pedal and gripped the steering wheel.

The car zipped along as seamlessly as before. I was amazed.

Soon, I saw a slower vehicle ahead of me. I checked my mirrors, engaged my blinker, and turned the steering wheel slightly, gliding into the passing lane. Once I cleared the slower vehicle, I glided back into my original lane.

I was taking to cruise control quickly. But I wasn’t comfortable.

And so, I tapped the brake and pressed my foot back onto the gas pedal. This disengaged all the cruise control settings, putting me fully in charge.

My father looked over at me incredulously, an implied question in his silent stare. I replied assertively.

I just don’t like being on autopilot.

And that was that.

Now, cruise control was a far cry from today’s autonomous modes. You still had to pay attention to the road, even without a foot on the gas.

Even so, I didn’t enjoy the partial lack of control. Too much could go wrong, and I didn’t trust myself to snap back into it before it did.

Such perspectives are basically unheard of these days. People seem to enjoy going on autopilot — both in the car and outside it. With cutting-edge technology at our fingertips, it’s easier than ever to fill the gaps in our day-to-day. And we’re all too eager to do so.

This by itself is not a concern. Efficiency is a desirable attribute. Boredom is not.

Still, going on autopilot does come with some strings attached. We must pay attention to our surroundings. And we must be ready to spring into action if need be.

All too often, we willfully ignore these requirements. Or we deprecate their importance.

In doing so, we end up like that Tesla driver on the highway. We prefer what’s on our smartphones to the task at hand.

Sure, that driver wasn’t using Tesla’s autonomous mode. (Don’t worry. I looked.) But that’s beside the point.

You see, the autopilot mentality is pervasive. We use it to abdicate responsibility at every turn — whether we have the system engaged or not.

And this mindset can be disastrously corrosive.

Without accountability, standards degrade. Without accountability, people get hurt. Without accountability, justice goes unserved.

How can avert major mistakes if we’re not engaged? How can we learn from the mishaps that we encounter if we’re not involved? And how can we make the world a safer place if we’re checked out?

We can’t.

Autopilot is a tool. Going on autopilot is a poison pill.

It’s time for us to stop taking it.

Loading It Up

All I wanted was an iced coffee.

Coffee and ice cubes in a plastic cup. No more. No less.

I walked up to the counter and gave my order to the barista — only to be startled by her reply.

So, you don’t want any Classic Syrup in it?

No, I most certainly did not. I stated as much to the barista — and I got my syrup-less iced coffee a few minutes later.

It looked fine. It tasted fine. And it was what I’d ordered. Crisis averted.

Still, I was bewildered.

How had something so simple become so complicated? And was I always going to need to exert this much effort just to get an iced coffee?

I am not alone in my bewilderment.

All over America, people wander into coffee shops looking for a basic cup of joe. And all too often, their quest gets waylaid.

Dark, caffeinated liquid no longer flows freely into cups at these establishments. Instead, it is mixed with milk, syrup, and whipped cream until it’s unrecognizable.

Such is the mandate — both from consumers and café management. Consumers hope to get a morning jolt without even a hint of coffee’s natural bitterness. Proprietors are looking to upcharge for the fillers and sweeteners that help bury such hints.

These are the rules of engagement for procuring a modern-day brew. These are the terms for taking the field.

And because of this, black coffee drinkers find themselves sidelined.

Baristas will often delay fulfillment of their orders, opting to prepare more customized concoctions first. Or worse, those baristas will mistakenly add milk, syrup, or sugar to the cups — simply by force of habit.

As a capitalist and a marketer, I understand where coffee shop proprietors are coming from. The restaurant industry has teetered on razor-thin profit margins for generations. Any opportunity to get more cash from consumers must be taken.

But I must confess, I’m perplexed by modern-day coffee consumers. This obsession with customizations and over-the-top flavors seems like a classic case of having it both ways.

People want the benefits of coffee without any tradeoffs. Loading it up might seem to them like a great way to get there.

It’s not.

Several years ago, I quit drinking alcohol.

Shortly thereafter, a new category of booze skyrocketed in popularity. It was a fizzy concoction known as Hard Seltzer.

I know nothing about how hard seltzer tastes. But I would imagine it’s the successor to Smirnoff Ice. That’s the flavored vodka drink that I used to get for girls when we ventured to the beach in college.

Hard Seltzer, Smirnoff Ice, and crude cocktails — such as Frozen Margaritas — offer the same promise. Those who consume them can get drunk without ever encountering alcohol’s signature burn.

These drinks are the boozy equivalents of modern coffee. All the benefits, but with none of the drawbacks.

Or so it seems.

It turns out there are drawbacks to these concoctions. Most are loaded with sugar and artificial flavorings. Many don’t sit well in digestive tracts. And all of them can lead to overindulgence.

Add it all up, and these drinks can cause plenty of issues to those who consume them.

Yes, alcohol’s repulsive natural flavor is an advantage. It’s a visceral check against the binge mentality.

It forces us to reckon with what we’re doing as we drink. Even as our memory blurs and our inhibitions float away, we retain a sense of what we’re doing. And our case for deniability evaporates.

We likely won’t hold ourselves accountable for our actions if everything we drink tastes like fruit punch. But if those drinks have an aftertaste resembling lighter fluid? Well, that unpleasant memory is primed to linger. And so might our sense of guilt over what we’ve wrought.

The stakes for coffee are decidedly lower than alcohol. We’re less likely to crash our car or heave on someone’s carpet after downing some wake-up juice.

And yet, loading it up still comes with a personal cost.

The excess sugar and cream fill us with empty calories to burn off. And it likely wipes out many of the coffee’s purported health benefits.

Compound this over time and our fitness might lag. Our tooth enamel might decay. And our digestive system might crash.

Our bodies are not primed to take in dessert for breakfast each day. But that’s essentially what we’ve turned modern-day coffee into.

If having it both ways seems too good to be true, it’s because it is.

I am an avid runner.

For me, there’s nothing like getting outside and feeling my shoes hit the pavement. The wind whizzes by my ears, the fresh air fills my lungs, and I feel alive.

I love running. But to be honest, it’s not always pleasant.

I’ve gotten a side stitch on the run before. I’ve felt my legs turn to jelly. I’ve gotten flush in the face and sweated profusely.

These experiences have been miserable. But they haven’t weakened my resolve to keep getting out there.

This point has baffled the non-runners I’ve encountered. Many of them have avoided the hobby because it can be unpleasant. And yet, I persevere in spite of that unpleasantness.

For I understand the broader picture. I recognize that I can’t have it both ways.

If I want to experience the benefits of running — the peak fitness, the graceful strides, the breezy race splits — I also must reckon with the misery that this sport carries with it.

So, there is no loading it up for me. I take my running the way I take my coffee — straight-up and uncompromised.

Fortunately, I’m not alone in this endeavor. The running community is full of people of a similar mentality to my own.

This is logical. After all, you can’t really thrive in an endurance sport without, well, enduring.

Still, I’d say the same is true of coffee, of alcohol, and of all the other things we systematically exploit.

If we understood them in their truest form, we’d gain some needed context. And if we stopped loading them up by default, we’d be better off.

Yes, this would lead to some visceral unpleasantness. And yes, this would require some behavior change on our end. It’s a big ask, and not one we’re likely to take on with enthusiasm.

Still, it’s a change we should make. For the status quo is doing us no favors.

It’s time to stop loading it up. And it’s time to face reality.

Let’s get to it.

On The Fly

It started as a murmur.

On the police scanner, there was some chatter about an incident on the far side of town.

Seconds later, the newsroom phone rang. I picked it up, recognizing our resident tipster’s voice instantly.

Hey. There’s something going on across town. Might be worth checking out.

I assured the tipster I was on it. But that wasn’t entirely true.

You see, I’d danced this waltz plenty in my nine weeks on the job. Each day, as I compiled my newscasts, the police radio would buzz about some incident. The tipster would hear the chatter on his scanner. Then he’d call me — the evening producer — and ask me to look into it.

Initially, I did. I’d send a news photographer all over the area, following up on the cryptic words of a dispatch officer.

But those photographers rarely found anything of note at the scene. So lately, I’d stopped calling them each time the scanner buzzed.

Such was the case on this afternoon. Instead of redirecting a news photographer, called a police spokesperson. That spokesman had little to update me on, so I carried on with my work.

It only took a half hour to discover I’d made the wrong choice.

A rival station cut into daytime TV coverage, announcing that there was a standoff on the edge of town. Shots had been fired, law enforcement was involved, and that station’s news crews were on scene.

In an instant, our News Director appeared at my desk.

You see that? We need to be out there.

I sensed the intensity in his eyes, and I panicked. I nervously told him I’d call the news photographer.

The News Director was not having it.

No, no! We need to send a reporter there now. And we need to find a way to go live.

Oh yes, I’d forgotten that detail. Our station’s live truck had been out of service for weeks. It hadn’t been an issue before. But now our competitor was reporting from the scene of a standoff, and we couldn’t do the same.

I was up a creek without a paddle. I just didn’t know how far.

I ultimately did get a reporter to the scene. And we got a live report on our evening newscast via telephone.

But it was too little, too late.

It was the first breaking news event of my career. And I’d blown it.

For weeks after this blunder, I found it hard to sleep.

I’d lie in bed and stare at the ceiling for hours. I’d replay everything I did and didn’t do. And I’d grapple for answers.

I had to be better at breaking news if I wanted a career as a news producer. I knew that.

But I also tended to freeze each time I was caught off-guard. That trait was paralyzing my breaking news response. And it would continue to sabotage my goals if I let it.

How could I turn hesitancy into action? How could I become selectively impulsive?

I’d think. I’d pine. I’d strategize. But it all got me nowhere.

Then, one night, I remembered I’d faced this paradox before. I encountered it as I was learning to drive.

Most teenagers couldn’t wait to get their license and tool around town on their own accord. But not me.

I was so terrified of the unpredictable open road that I resisted getting a learner’s permit or signing up for Driver’s Education classes.

You see, I’d ridden in enough vehicles to know that sticky situations could arise suddenly on the road. Other drivers could stop short with no warning. Pedestrians and bikers might dart in front of moving traffic.

Most drivers reacted quickly to this mayhem. But I figured I’d freeze up and crash into another car. Or worse, I might run someone over.

Eventually, I did get that permit and those driving lessons. Still leery of the unknown, I tried to prepare for every road hazard ahead of time. Yet, despite my best efforts, a couple of those hazards did sneak up on me.

As I faced these situations, I could feel myself starting to freeze up. But I never actually did.

Instead, my foot hit the brake. Or my hands turned the wheel to avoid danger.

These were reflexive responses. My instincts were guiding my reactions more than my brain was.

I realized that if I harnessed those instincts while anticipating road hazards, I’d turn into a proficient driver.

I’d worked hard at that over the years. And as I lay in bed on this sleepless night, I recognized that I’d become that proficient driver.

Maybe I try the same thing for breaking news situations.

I could plot out my thought process ahead of time. And I could coax my instincts to come alive on the fly when needed.

This revelation changed everything.

I reported to work the next day with a new mindset. Instead of praying for normalcy, I embraced chaos.

There was still no inkling of when the next breaking news event might hit. But whenever it did, I’d be prepared to react.

Over the ensuing years, my plan did come to fruition. Breaking news events occasionally popped up, and they still caught me off-guard. But I got better and better at responding to them. And I gained more and more confidence throughout.

Eventually, I broke a story that gained national attention. A freight train collided with a parade float downtown, killing four people and injuring 16 more.

As soon as the scanner buzzed with word of a Possible train accident, I leaped into action. I was making calls, coordinating coverage, and updating text on the station’s website even before I’d personally processed the gravity of the event. I was acting on the fly.

This was all critical in getting the story out first. And it helped my station share new developments in real time.

I’d come a long way. The days of dropping the ball were over.

As I write this, I’ve been out of the news business for nearly a decade.

Those frantic breaking news events are distant memories to me now. But the protocols for handling such chaos are not.

It turns out those skills are as useful outside the walls of a TV station as they are within them.

Indeed, there have been plenty of times in my second career when I was caught off guard. The same goes for my personal life.

My employer might shift priorities for my segment, put the kibosh on a major project I was working on, or even lay me off. All have happened to me in my time in the business world.

And outside of work, I might get a concerning medical diagnosis, hear something worrisome from a friend, or learn of the death of a loved one.

Each of these scenarios is a jolt to the system. And we tend to respond to them in one of two ways — stunned silence or a wave of emotion.

But that’s not quite true for me anymore.

Now, I spring into action.

I ask follow-up questions. I coordinate logistics. I think on the fly.

I’ve already done the legwork to respond in this way. I’ve taken little for granted in my life. And I’ve imagined what it would look like if what I cherish was taken from me.

I haven’t done all this to soften the blow. I’ve done it to sharpen my instincts and to hasten my response.

It might sound calculated or cold. But it’s effective.

Not just for me. But for all of us.

Yes, it’s important for all of us to consider this approach.

For there is a time to process the information that knocks us to our knees. To pause. To grieve. To absorb the emotional blow.

But there is also a time to respond. To take the tactical steps needed to move forward.

If we insist on acting in sequence — in processing everything before taking our next steps — we’ll be left behind. We’ll remain a shell of ourselves as we attempt to pick up the pieces. We might not recover at all.

It’s imperative that we not let shock preclude us from action. That we prime our instincts to work, even when our mind is overrun. That we maintain our ability to respond on the fly.

It’s not a desired assignment. But it’s a needed one.

Let’s heed the call.