They put up a plant where we used to park. That old drive-in’s a new Walmart.
So go a few lines from Everything’s Changed by Lonestar. A 90’s country song about how love endures, even as a town transforms.
For years, this song seemed ubiquitous to many others from that genre and era. Catchy, comfortable, and shallow.
But such descriptors are hardly adequate these days.
After all the disruptions of recent years, it’s hard not to relate Everything’s Changed to the world we live in. With so much transformation around us, we strain to find the reference markers that haven’t changed.
Those through lines are key to our identity. They prove that while we might evolve, our core remains consistent.
Such a rationale might seem sensible. But is it wise?
An ancient Greek parable — the Ship of Theseus — dives to the heart of this dilemma.
In the parable, Theseus’ ship sets off to sea with an original set of parts and a crew. Upon its return to port, none of the vessel’s parts are the same. The crew has meticulously rebuilt the ship, piece by piece, while at sea.
The question posed from this scenario: Has Theseus returned on the same ship he embarked on?
It’s an open debate. One that has enraptured philosophers for centuries.
But if you asked a bunch of people on the street, most would likely say Theseus was not on the same ship.
Our behavior dictates this response. Time and again, we long for connections to the past. We scratch and claw for any through lines that can persevere through the winds of change.
Such adherence to consistency has some benefits, driving an air of nostalgia and boosting our reliability. But they can also make us stubbornly rigid, ill-equipped for the encroaching tsunami of change.
I know this feeling as much as anyone. As a control enthusiast, routine and familiarity are my friends. I’ve historically struggled to lean into change. And even when I did make a shift, I struggled to reconcile it with my sense of identity.
I couldn’t be Theseus’ ship. A wholesale swap would not — could not — jibe with my narrative.
But now, everything’s changed.
Several years ago, I met my father at a baggage claim carousel in the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport.
We were meeting in the Twin Cities to embark on a road trip across the Upper Midwest. Along the way, we’d go to two Major League Baseball games — one in Minneapolis and another in Milwaukee.
We would meet up for trips like these occasionally, as I worked toward my now-completed goal of watching a baseball game in all 30 Major League stadiums. It was a great way to see the country and spend some time with my father, who lived halfway across the country.
Minnesota was in a heatwave when we arrived, and the steamy weather cut our sightseeing time short. But I was intrigued by the Twin Cities and vowed to return.
I was less impressed with Milwaukee. The city seemed sleepy and oddly arranged. The baseball stadium felt dull and cavernous. And even the lakefront seemed to pale in comparison with Chicago’s, 90 miles down shore.
We were in Milwaukee for less than 24 hours on that trip. But I was excited to get out of there and figured I wouldn’t come back.
Boy was I wrong.
As fate would have it, my best friend from high school got engaged to a Wisconsin native a few years later. The wedding took place at the Milwaukee Art Museum, and I found myself back in town. Wandering down the Milwaukee River Walk, through the Third Ward and across Walker’s Point in my spare time, I noticed the charm of the Cream City.
I realized that my initial snap judgment of Milwaukee was off base, and I regretted my error. Still, as I boarded my flight back to Texas, I once again thought it was a one-way trip.
My life and my job were in the Dallas area. And as far as I saw it, they would continue to be for years to come.
But then, the ground under my feet shifted.
The COVID-19 pandemic hit a couple years later, redefining the boundaries around me.
As my world shrank to the contours of a computer screen, it ironically expanded my horizons well beyond North Texas. The contours of physical presence evaporated as the virtual world went mainstream.
Several months into this new scenario, I was hit with another bombshell. My employer was acquired by a larger company — one that was based in Milwaukee. I landed a job on the parent company’s marketing team — a role that would represent a step up in my career trajectory.
And yet, as I prepared to begin my new role, I was whallopped with an identity crisis. I had built my professional existence as a Texan, working alongside members of my community. Now, I would be working with colleagues hundreds of miles away — many of whom lived in a region I was lukewarm toward.
I had two choices. I could withdraw, diving fully into my work and hiding behind my computer screen. Or I could lean in.
I chose the second approach, making a concerted effort to learn more about my colleagues and nuances of Wisconsin culture. And whenever I had an opportunity to make the trek north to Milwaukee for an onsite, I jumped at it.
Through the process, I made friends and earned the respect of my team. And I also grew fonder of the city so many of them called home.
I’ve fully accepted this shift for what it is. An unabashed about-face.
For regardless of the twists and turns along the way, I’m here now. Just like Theseus, I’ve made it back to shore. And unlike that Lonestar song, I’m not looking backward.
I’m fulfilled. I’m happy. And I could give a darn if such blessings align with my prior narratives.
We can all be a bit more like Theseus.
Instead of holding on to rotten boards for posterity’s sake, we can tinker. We can replace, renew, and refresh.
We can dive into change where prudent, without holding back for self-permission. We can be bold, and we can be brave — all while retaining our sensibility.
This potential remains within arm’s length. But it’s our responsibility to reach out and grab it. To stop tethering ourselves to the past and to instead embrace our potential.
The choice is ours. What move will we make?