Playing it Back

As I picked up the cup, I felt it slide.

My grip seemed strong, and my focus was top-notch. Yet, gravity was inclined to foil my efforts.

My reflexes took over, clutching the cup tighter. My hands trembled momentarily, but I was able to steady myself.

Crisis averted, I thought. Or maybe not.

I looked down at my custom football jersey, now splashed with beer. When my hands had trembled, some of the liquid had left the cup — and ended up on one of my most expensive pieces of clothing.

It was the cruelest of ironies. I don’t drink; I was bringing the beer to my mother, sitting at a table nearby. And yet, I’d paid the price for chivalry.

Back at the table, with the beer now handed off, my mind began racing. I was counting the seconds until I could get home and carefully place the jersey in the wash. And I was reliving my quasi-disaster, playing it back over and over to see where things went wrong.

I was stuck on a road to nowhere.

If I could turn back time.

This is more than a famous Cher song. It’s a common lament. A wish with no chance of being granted.

For time moves in but one direction — forward. Attempting to re-litigate the past is foolhardy.

And yet, we continue to try.

There’s a reason why time travel movies are so popular. There’s a reason fashion trends cycle every few decades. There’s a reason why songs about regret — including that Cher tune — persist.

We are obsessed with playing it back. We are consumed by the thought of one tweak yielding a different outcome.

We’d rather not look at the spilled beer on our cherished jersey. We’d rather not sweep up the shattered glass from the kitchen floor. We’d rather not face the conundrum we find ourselves in.

Far better to picture an entirely different reality.

Even if conjuring such illusions amounts to little more than wasted energy.

I sat in the classroom, staring at the whiteboard.

My business school professor was introducing the concept of decision trees, and I was mesmerized.

Not by the myriad probabilities and the complicated math. All of that was over my head.

No, the concept itself had me enthralled.

You see, I had long dreamed of seeing all the possibilities in front of me and choosing the optimal one. For I had obsessed over the moments that caused bad outcomes, imagining how they could have gone better.

I tended to do this more with the little things in my life than the big ones. I rarely played back my decision to move to a new state or to jump to a new vocation.

But that trek down a muddy path that got my shoes dirty? That money I wasted because I forgot to use a discount code? I’d chew on those missteps for months.

Now, I had a visual aid for this fixation. I could draw the branches and vividly explore the alternatives.

I could make the imperfect art of playing it back a bit smoother.

And so, my games of what if intensified. What was once an arcane exercise turned into a data driven endeavor. One whose futility was masked by ferocity.

Nothing could deter me from this sorry crusade. At least not until the day I spilled some beer on my cherished football jersey.

For my mother caught me in this sad spiral. And she would have none of it.

Stop reliving it, she scolded me. We’ll get the jersey clean and move on.

It wasn’t exactly earth-shattering advice. But it changed my approach entirely.

For my mother’s words exposed an underlying truth. This obsession with playing it back, with decision trees, with alternatives — it wasn’t about hiding in the past for me. No, I kept going to the tape as a means of control.

If I could find the root cause of bad outcomes, I could avoid them in the future. At least that was the thought.

But things happen, regardless of my attempts to avoid them. It would be far better for me to focus on my response than to keep digging for the root cause.

With that ethos in tow, I find myself playing it less often.

In September 2008, the Miami Dolphins and the New England Patriots met for a football game in Massachusetts.

The game was billed as a massive mismatch. New England had won 21 straight games in the regular season, had dominated the division both teams played in, and had played in the most recent Super Bowl. While the Patriots were missing their injured star quarterback, they still had Bill Belichick — the best head coach in the National Football League.

In the days leading up to the game, Belichick prepared meticulously. He watched hours of game film, noting the Dolphins’ patterns and tendencies. And he formed a game plan to exploit those tendencies.

But once the game started, it was Belichick who was exploited.

The Dolphins rolled out a new offensive formation. The running back would line up where the quarterback normally did, taking the snap directly. He would then rush to the outside behind a convoy of blockers. Or he might zip it to a nearby wide receiver if the defense left that receiver open.

Miami hadn’t used this formation — the Wildcat — in any of its prior games. Belichick hadn’t prepared for it, and neither had the New England defense.

The Dolphins ran roughshod over the Patriots, earning the victory on the way to a division title. New England ended up missing the playoffs.

This game showed how playing it back has its limits.

Video footage has revolutionized football, taking coaching, scouting, and player safety to the next level. But it can’t tell all.

There’s always a surprise looming that the tape can’t find. A Wildcat formation, if you will.

How teams react to that sudden adversity makes all the difference. The players, coaches and staff who can steady themselves through the fog tend to be the ones who claim victory. Those attached to the past find themselves weighed down by it.

The same dichotomy awaits us. Memory is a potent tool. But it’s not all-powerful.

Past doesn’t always make prologue. And dwelling on what’s written can lower the horizons of what we’ve yet to write.

So, let’s move away from playing it back. Let’s get off the what if carousel. Let’s swap out the rehash for the response.

We’ll be better for it.

Against The Grain

Just say no.

If you turned on your television back in the 1980s, you likely heard those three words.

They came from First Lady Nancy Reagan. And they were part of the War on Drugs campaign.

The United States was in plenty of shadow conflicts at the time. The Cold War was ever present. The War on Poverty appeared to be a lost cause. The War on Inflation had yielded a brutal recession.

But the War on Drugs was getting plenty of outsize attention. Because the future of our kids was at stake.

Now, the future of our kids was at stake plenty of times before. Teenagers tend to be rebellious, after all. And those signs of rebellion – rock and roll music, dancing, roller blading — those have traditionally come under fire by buttoned-up older generations.

But this was different. This time, the offender was a public health hazard. One that we’d turned a blind eye to for far too long.

So, our nation took dead aim. Arrests for possession accelerated. Sentence lengths for dealing skyrocketed. And the crisis abated.

Or at least that was what we told ourselves.

For we were already onto the next frontier — big tobacco. Over the course of the 1990s, the sight of teenagers smoking went from normal to noteworthy.

Advertising for cigarettes declined — per government degree — and buying a pack became much more tedious. As a result, fewer young people gave it a try.

This seemed like a massive success. But there was no time to celebrate. For once again, it was on to the next challenge.

The new enemy arose around the time I reached my teenage years. This one wasn’t a pill, a powder, or a cigarette. It was online poker — a game my peers were flocking to, despite not having the money to back their bids.

Legislators had long dealt with this problem by restricting access to gambling venues, through licensing and age minimums. But the Internet opened a gateway for teens to walk through. And walk through, they did.

So, the authorities cracked down. They started going after the owners of poker websites, while putting out Public Service Announcements about the dangers of gambling.

It didn’t work out as intended.

For it turned out that the online poker fiasco was just the tip of the iceberg. Technology was opening a Pandora’s Box of issues for adolescents — including new ways to access drugs and inhale nicotine.

Fending off those myriad issues turned into a giant game of whack-a-mole. Those leading the charges were a step behind.

Just say no wasn’t quote as straightforward as it seemed.

Why did Nancy Reagan’s initiative go so awry?

Was it the messaging? The tactics? The inability to anticipate the whims of youth?

All these issues likely played a role. But I believe the biggest fault lies at the root.

Just say no trivialized the concept of abstinence. It made quitting seem as trivial as flipping a light switch — a simple task with instant results.

But it’s never quite that simple.

It turns out that abstinence campaigns are asking a lot of us. They’re demanding that we break with habit and go against the grain. All while ignoring the related challenges that are sure to arise along the way.

And those challenges are doubly prominent with adolescents. After all, teenagers are naturally primed to go against the grain. That’s the impetus behind the rule bending and troublemaking that gives older generations such distress.

Asking teenagers to rebel against their rebelliousness on a dime can be straight up delusional. Yet, this is precisely what we tried with Just say no.

No wonder it flopped.

How can I help?

These four words were meant to be my compass.

So said the internship coordinator at CBS News on my first day there.

I was meant to be continually useful, searching for projects to assist with whenever I had a free moment. Saying no was not an option.

I was barely beyond my own adolescence at this point. Fresh off rebellious years that proved to be anything but, I was keen to answer the call.

So, I set up green screen backdrops. I reordered archive tapes. I watched arcane news clips until I knew them by memory.

It wasn’t a glamorous role, but it fulfilled the mission. It proved I was helpful, useful, and perhaps worthy of a future job opportunity.

Still, I finished those eight weeks unsettled. For it seemed to me that finding a footing in TV news — or any other industry — meant never saying no to anything.

It didn’t matter if the pay was too low, the risk was too great, or life was getting in the way. Declining an opportunity might slam the door on your career before it could even get established.

This mentality is now pervasive in our society. Openness and flexibility are cornerstones of our culture.

That’s often a good thing. But not always.

You see, agreeableness requires sacrifice. We put aside our own needs to cater to the demands of others.

The benefits of this trade — acceptance, opportunity, prosperity — make it palatable. But we can only truly flourish if we look out for ourselves as voraciously as we do for others. And sometimes that means going against the grain.

It means just saying no.

Several years back, I got an invite to a fancy gala.

It had all the fixings. Black tie. Hors d’oeuvres. And a guest list that featured several friends.

I had every reason to go. I would get to dress up and live it up with people I cared about.

There was only one problem: I didn’t want to go. At all.

So, I went against the grain. I declined the invite, without providing an alibi. And I didn’t regret it.

That gala was the first time in a while that I remember actively saying no to something. But it wouldn’t be the last.

Indeed, I’ve declined all manner of invites and requests in subsequent years. I’m selective when I do this — I don’t want to jeopardize my career or my friendships. But the days of me being an automatic Yes have long passed.

And I have flourished as a result.

Perhaps this is the Just say no that we can get behind. One where our own compass guides the way, rather than one foisted upon us from others.

This method won’t be perfect. But it holds the promise of being better than the status quo.

Going against the grain is never easy. But sometimes it’s needed.

When it is, let’s do it right.

A Winning Hand

You gotta know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em.

Kenny Rogers’ The Gambler is famously hokey. It amounts to three and a half minutes of non-advice about how to find a winning hand — both in card games and in life.

The song was well past its peak when I was a teenager. You’d hear it now and then out in public, but not frequently enough.

Truth be told, we could have used a bit more Kenny Rogers back then. For plenty of us were in big trouble.

You see, poker was gaining popularity nationally. And online poker was becoming prevalent. Many of my teenage peers were caught up in the craze, mesmerized by the allure of massive payouts.

Yet, most of these teens had little experience managing money. And when the winning hands dwindled — when the bluffing and bravado went up in smoke — some ended up deep in the hole to entities determined to collect.

It was a real problem. One that threatened to haunt my generation for years to come.

I didn’t get swept up by the online poker craze as a teenager. And I didn’t end up with a mountain of debt.

There were two factors guarding me from such a fate. I was extremely risk averse. And I was bad at poker.

I played the game now and then — mostly at family game nights or gatherings with friends. I knew what a Royal Flush and a Full House were. And I could usually identify a winning hand.

But when I didn’t have that hand, I was toast.

Yes, I was proficient at playing the cards I was dealt. But when it came to reading the table, I was a novice.

I never bluffed. And wouldn’t dare call out others for doing so.

I didn’t win much this way. But I didn’t lose big either.

All this was extremely on brand for my life at the time.

I tried to shy away from false pretense as a teenager. Sure, my fashion sense and musical taste were less than authentic. But when it came to items of substance, I focused on the tasks directly in front of me. This ethos made me a solid student and a reliable friend.

Yet, as I grew older, I began to stray from this path. I started dreaming big, making grand plans, and racking up assumptions.

And just like those amateur teenage poker players, I got burned.

2.0 in 2020.

That was the name of my now-infamous plan to take my life to the next level.

It had already been quite the ride for me in early adulthood. I’d moved to faraway West Texas to work in TV news, only to ultimately leave that industry and move east to Dallas.

I’d landed on my feet and built a stable career in digital marketing. But I feared that I’d plateaued, and I saw few advancement opportunities out there.

Rather than play the cards I was dealt, I yearned to build myself a winning hand.

So, I bet big. I enrolled in business school, while still working full time. And as I neared the finish line of my Masters of Business Administration studies, I set objectives for myself.

Getting a new job was paramount. But not just any job. I needed an “MBA job” in marketing at a major company in the area. And it had to happen not long after graduation, while my degree was still “fresh.”

By my estimations, this metamorphosis needed to be in full swing by the time 2020 rolled around. Hence, the 2.0 in 2020 moniker.

At first, things looked promising. I made it all the way to a final round of interviews with a prominent global brand. I had some other promising prospects as well.

But then, things dried up. The interview requests dwindled, and I got snubbed for an internal promotion.

As my self-imposed deadline of 2020 approached, I felt as if I was holding anything but a winning hand.

Then, a global pandemic arrived.

With the world shutting down, I felt compelled to hang on to what I had. My home, my friends, and my job.

This feeling only intensified when my employer was acquired. The future of my position was shaky, and I prayed that my income would continue to come in.

2.0 in 2020 had gone up in flames spectacularly. I had retreated into my shell in response, waiting in vain for the firestorm to abate.

But I grew bored after a time. And I got bold.

I landed a role on my new employer’s marketing team — finally getting that MBA job I’d yearned for. I joined some local running groups and started medaling in races. I trekked around the country more than I had in years.

Like a phoenix, I’d risen from the ashes. I was making my own luck, and I was thriving.

But a big part of me wondered how much of all this was real. And I feared that I’d become Icarus, flying too close to the sun.

My fears were soon realized.

I got sick on a work trip and then hit a few bumpy patches at work. I got injured, putting an abrupt pause to my running exploits. I faded away from friends and family, losing confidence in myself throughout the ordeal.

I was frustrated. I was dispirited. I was lost.

The ghost of 2.0 in 2020 had burned me once again.

What is a winning hand?

I asked this rhetorically one night, as I stared aimlessly at the living room wall.

Through all the ups and downs, my North Star had remained constant. But it was evident that I had no idea what that star was.

It seemed best to get back to basics. To stop waffling between honest play and the bluff. To stop looking at the cards altogether.

The planning hadn’t led to the payoff. The house got the last laugh every time.

It would be far better for me to take things one day at a time. To look at what’s in right front of me and to react accordingly.

I’ve started taking this approach a bit more. And thus far, I’m happy with the results.

There’s a poignant lesson in here for all of us.

While we might desire to upgrade our hand through bluster and bravado to find success, we might have all we need already. It’s likely been there the whole time. We just hadn’t bothered to look for it before.

Success can be found in stillness. In simplicity. In the six inches in front of our face.

It’s our job — our obligation — to open our eyes to it. Let’s do so.

The Downshift

I hit the homestretch with a head of steam.

I was carving a path through the icy ski slope, out of control, and trying to avoid a wipeout at 20 miles per hour.

Deft skiers would manage this task with ease. But I was a beginner.

So, I took wide turns. I weaved around other skiers. I widened my skis into that pizza shape they teach 4-year-olds to make. Then I widened them more.

Nothing seemed to slow me down enough.

The slope mercifully ended. But now, I was flying through the straightaway like a car with malfunctioning brakes. I crossed the snowy apron like a bowling ball, chugging toward the parking lot.

The laws of physics dictated that I would either run out of velocity or I would crash into a parked car. I prayed for the first option, and I got it — narrowly.

I was alive. I was intact. And no humans, ski equipment, or vehicles were damaged.

But as I made my way back to the apron, two cold truths hit me like an avalanche.

I needed ski lessons, desperately. And momentum is hard to stop.

A few years after my ski fiasco, I once again tangled with the power of momentum.

I was working as a news producer in Midland, Texas. A week before Thanksgiving, the police scanner on my desk buzzed, warning of a “possible train accident” in town.

It turns out that a freight train had collided with a parade float full of Purple Hearts. Men who had courageously served in Iraq and Afghanistan ended up perishing at an event in their honor.

I broke the story on our newscast, and it quickly got picked up nationally. It was a career-making moment, but I was in no mood to celebrate.

For one thing, I was devastated by what had happened. I wished that this tragedy hadn’t hit my home city.

But I was also busy. For the National Transportation Safety Board had converged upon West Texas to investigate the incident. And each day, I would air highlights from the myriad press conferences the NTSB held.

Those press conferences now blur together, but there is one moment I remember clearly. An NTSB representative was discussing whether railroad signals two miles from the accident were working properly on that fateful day. Suddenly, he paused for emphasis.

“This is all important,” he stated. “Because it takes a mile to stop a train.”

It takes a mile to stop a train.

I had never considered that point before. Neither had many viewers of my newscast, who wondered openly why the train engineer couldn’t have just slammed the brakes a bit harder.

But upon reflection, it made perfect sense.

The power of a freight train can be a great asset for the transportation industry. It can help ferry goods across our nation with great speed.

But all that momentum can’t just be halted on a dime. The train needs to downshift first. And it needs plenty of track to gradually slow to a halt.

As it turns out, my career was on a similar trajectory to that train. My big break had broken me, and I now saw no path forward. I sought to switch tracks to a new career — immediately.

This proved impossible.

For my entire resume read TV news, and employers outside of the media were wary of giving me a chance. I would need to fully downshift out of my old vocation before I could pick up a new venture.

It took more than half a year for me to fully make a career transition. And I had to move to a new city and spend several months unemployed along the way.

Momentum is a powerful thing. But sometimes, it can be a crutch.

If you had one word to describe the world as it exists these days, what would you use?

Unpredictable? Unsettling? Divisive?

It’s no secret the past several years have upset the apple cart.

A global pandemic, widening polarization, and economic strife have all shaken the foundations of what we thought we once knew. They’ve forced us to adapt in real time.

Some of these adaptations will likely have staying power. We’ve gone from remote work novices to aficionados in short order, for instance.

Others probably won’t last. Say goodbye to wide-scale remote learning.

I have my thoughts on these specific adaptations, as we all do. But I’m more fascinated with the wider picture.

For there is a narrative behind these changes. There is a not-so-silent expectation of us.

This narrative, this expectation — it demands that we stop on a dime and reverse field. It insists that we throw away everything we’re accustomed to so that we can meet the moment.

Such thinking might seem prudent when staring down an acute emergency, such as a blossoming pandemic. It might seem excessive when the risk is opaque, as is the case with climate change.

But either way, it’s primed for blowback.

For much like a freight train or a novice skier, we are not built for a quick pause. We need to downshift, to lose steam, to exhaust that mile of runway before we can rightfully blaze that new trail.

Expecting anything more of us is unrealistic. And yet, we continue to raise that bar.

Many of us called other people killers when they dared to go out in public early in the pandemic. What was so recently run-of-the-mill behavior was now considered accessory to murder.

And many people who eat meat or shun electric cars have been branded planet destroyers. The endless hurdles of sustainability are ignored in favor of shaming the status quo.

These demands carry a chilling effect, driving a wedge between the judgmental and the judged. They often provoke a nasty response, stoking the flames of polarizing vitriol.

But worse than that, they close doors to opportunities.

For many of those we shame for not being committed to the cause are actually on their way there. They just need that mile of track to downshift before changing course.

Ostracizing these people in such a fragile moment is foolhardy. It causes many of them to abort the mission, and to double down on old habits. For if they’re going to get yelled at either way, it’s better for them to stick with the familiar. At least that’s the common refrain.

Ignoring the physics of momentum does us no good. No good at all.

So, let’s try something new.

Let’s favor grace over judgment. Let’s give others the time to adapt to the realities of an ever-changing world. And let’s give ourselves that gift too.

The downshift requires planning, anticipation, and a mile worth of track. But there is no substitute for this if we want to avoid catastrophe.

And that’s certainly a goal worth striving for.

Pulling the Plug

As I walked to the starting line, I felt tentative.

Pre-race jitters played a part in that, sure. But they didn’t tell the whole story.

My left leg was aching a bit. It had for weeks. And I wasn’t sure it would hold up.

I had taken all the normal precautions. I’d stopped running for a week. I’d gotten x-rays, which had come back negative.

All was supposedly well. But it didn’t exactly seem that way, even after my warmup jog.

Still, when the horn sounded, my legs got moving. Adrenaline took over, and all discomfort faded away. I raced, and I raced hard.

I crossed the finish line with a personal best for the 10K distance, placing me in a Top 15 position. I was elated with the result, and just as thrilled to find that my leg wasn’t aching anymore.

I was fine. Or so it seemed.

A week later, the discomfort returned, and it intensified rapidly. An MRI proved what I’d already feared – I had a significant injury.

I had to take two months off from running. As a result, I pulled out of a marathon I had been training for.

Going all out in that race had proved quite costly.

Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.

Those words are now the legacy of Jim Valvano.

Valvano was a championship-caliber college basketball coach. But few remember him for his accolades on the court.

Instead, they recall an iconic speech he gave at the 1993 ESPY Awards. A speech that included those seven words.

Valvano was battling cancer at the time — a battle that would tragically end weeks later. But during his time at the podium, Valvano made an impassioned plea for cancer research resources. Resources that were shockingly scant at that time.

After noting that these efforts would more likely save his children’s lives than his own, Valvano announced the launch of The V Foundation for Cancer Research. The foundation’s motto would be those seven words: Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.

That speech, and that motto, resonated with many. If this man remained so committed, even on death’s doorstep, how could we even think of quitting?

I found myself influenced by seduced by this same message. In fact, I can count on one hand the times I’ve pulled the plug on something.

This applies to everything – my career, my hobbies, even the shows I stream. When I’m in, I’m all in.

Such a mentality can have its virtues, of course. Stick-to-it-iveness is an American hallmark.

But the downsides can be significant. Wasted time. Misaligned energy. And even the potential for shattered dreams.

It’s far better to add some nuance. To know when to stay in the fight, and when to pull the plug.

You’ll know when it’s time.

Just about every former athlete has shared this wisdom when discussing the best time to hang it up.

Many pro athletes have stuck the landing when it came time to pull the plug. Peyton Manning walked away from football with a Super Bowl victory. Ray Borque lifted the Stanley Cup and hung up his skates. The late, great Kobe Bryant dropped 60 points in his final pro basketball game.

But then there are those who hung on too long. Wayne Gretzky’s unparalleled hockey career ended with three modest seasons where he sported New York Rangers sweater. Michael Jordan unretired from basketball (a second time) to slog through two mediocre years with the Washington Wizards. Tom Brady reneged on retirement, losing football games and his marriage in the process.

Michael Jordan, Tom Brady, and Wayne Gretzky are widely considered the best to ever lace ‘em up in their respective sports. Kobe Bryant, Peyton Manning, and Ray Borque — for all their greatness — are a rung below.

But when it comes to a graceful landing, those three left the all-timers in the dust. They had the mental fortitude to pull the plug at a moment of jubilation. To resist the urge to just get one more. To repel the temptation to defy Father Time yet again.

That’s not an easy choice for a pro athlete to make. Especially when those athletes have spent decades following the advice of Jim Valvano.

I may never attain the athleticism of Michael Jordan, the poise of Tom Brady, or the grace of Wayne Gretzky. But as I walked to the starting line of my fateful 10K race, I felt the same competitive spirit they did.

Instead of embracing the process of recovery, I was visualizing my comeback.

I was playing with fire. And I got burned.

You gotta know when to hold em. And know when to fold em…

Many of us know the words to Kenny Rogers’ hit The Gambler by heart. But few of us have followed them with precision.

One exception? Champion Poker players.

You see, walking away is a key strategy in Poker. For there are times when you just don’t have the cards.

In those moments, doubling down on a bluff can prove costly. Better to cut your losses and live to fight another day.

Annie Duke understands this. As one of the greatest professional poker players of all time, Duke has long been renowned for making the right choice at the table. And sometimes the right choice was to walk away.

Duke has compiled that knowledge in several acclaimed books on decision making. One of those is called Quit: The Power in Knowing When to Walk Away.

As I write this, I still haven’t gotten my hands on the book. But I probably could have used its counsel recently.

I had returned from my injury and set my eyes on competing once again. But my will was ahead of my legs, and I kept suffering setbacks.

I had two significant races coming up — a half-marathon and a full one. Both required several weeks of dedicated training. And now, I had to decide whether to proceed.

The competitor in me was daring to soldier on. I had already missed so much time for something more significant. Surely, I wouldn’t be felled by this.

But the pragmatist in me was screaming to pull the plug. It remembered what happened when I ran that ill-advised race. And when I continued to train on that bad leg.

For days, I agonized over what to do.

For there was no smoking gun this time. No MRI report to peruse. No doctor’s orders keeping me out of the race.

The decision would be mine, and mine alone.

Ultimately, I did withdraw from both races. It was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make. But I’m confident it was the right one — and one that will pay dividends long term.

So no, the story hasn’t ended happily for me. At least not this chapter.

But perhaps there’s something we can all learn from my saga, and from all the examples that somehow influenced it.

Pulling the plug is not an automatic marker of weakness. In the right context, it can be a powerful weapon.

Let that context be your compass, and my loss be your lesson. And you may yet find the seas of life to be a bit less treacherous.

Godspeed.

Ingrata Terra

Way up on the overpass, you can see the marks. Silt-laden smudges leaving a permanent tattoo on the concrete.

They’re the marks you might expect to see on the bottom of a Mississippi River barge. Or perhaps on a bayfront causeway.

But this overpass was neither of those things. Instead, it was part of a highway intersection in Houston, Texas.

Now, Houston isn’t exactly the desert. There are plenty of bayous, streams, and lakes around town.

But this intersection wasn’t near any of those. And that made the silt markings even more jarring.

Indeed, those rust-colored imprints are a reminder. A reminder of a time when the water flowed into places normally high and dry.

I’m talking, of course, about Hurricane Harvey — the thousand-year storm that inundated Southeast Texas in 2017.

Houston had dealt with flooding events before, and it had been decked by the occasional hurricane. But it had never seen anything to this magnitude.

Days of heavy rain saturated the area. Roads turned to rivers, and inundated homeowners awaited rescue as the rising waters destroyed their possessions. Power and supplies dwindled as desperation soared.

By the time it was over, Hurricane Harvey had killed more than 100 people and caused $125 billion in damage. As Americans looked on in horror, a question started percolating.

Why would anyone want to live in a place like Houston?

The irony was palpable.

For the Houston metro area — the nation’s fifth largest — had once been lauded for its livability.

There were ample jobs in multiple industries, bountiful entertainment options, and plenty of large homes to choose from. Most of the country was a three-hour flight away. And there was no state income tax.

Sure, the summers could be swampy, and the traffic could be miserable. But idea of setting down roots in Southeast Texas was considered more boon than burden.

Harvey changed that. And now — long after the floodwaters have receded — Houston is viewed by many as Ingrata Terra, or unwelcome land.

To outsiders, those silt marks on the concrete are more than scars of a past trauma. They’re indicators of a cursed destiny.

Dropping anchor in the shadow of such symbols would be foolhardy. Better to choose somewhere safer.

The Ingrata Terra argument is gaining steam these days. And not just in Texas.

A spate of wildfires in California has sparked a backlash against development in the WUI — or Wildland Urban Interface. That’s the spot where human development intrudes upon nature.

In Florida, a deadly condo collapse has left many reconsidering the prospect of living on the beach. Between erosion and storm concerns, the risk certainly seems to outweigh the reward.

And in the Rust Belt, the decline of once-dominant industries has led many to claim some once-prominent cities dead. The supposed demise of Detroit, Cleveland, and Buffalo is a well-known tale these days — even if it’s being penned by those living several states away.

Yes, the glass house effect is in full force. We throw stones at locations that have weathered these storms, propping up our unblemished locales in comparison.

Such actions are foolish, for multiple reasons.

First, nowhere is truly safe from calamity. Disasters are getting more unpredictable by the year. Places that have been unscathed by them thus far are likely sitting ducks.

Second, Ingrata Terra assumes that cities can’t rebound. It posits that a metro area can’t better prepare itself for the next catastrophe. It presumes that the region’s eulogy is part and parcel with the initial crisis.

This thinking is simply not true. And there’s ample proof as to why.

Back when I was in middle school, I visited New Orleans with my family.

It was February, and the Crescent City was in the Mardi Gras spirit. I was amazed by the atmosphere, I was mesmerized by the food, and I couldn’t get enough of the warm weather. I couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t want to live down the Bayou.

Some years later, New Orleans got pummeled by Hurricane Katrina. The levees failed, the city got flooded, and many residents lost everything.

In the wake of this disaster, a new debate arose. Was the Crescent City worth rebuilding?

Many argued that it wasn’t. After all, New Orleans sat at sea level, surrounded by swamps, lakes, and rivers. With its Gulf Coast location, it would likely be in the path of many other hurricanes. And counting on the levees for salvation seemed like a fool’s errand, given what had just occurred.

Still, the city did rebuild, revitalizing the levee system in the process. The criticism was fast and furious, but New Orleans tuned out the noise and churned ahead.

Many years later, Hurricane Ida took fresh aim at the Louisiana Bayou. Once again, prognosticators called for catastrophe as the storm bore down on the Crescent City.

But the levee system did its job. New Orleans didn’t fill like a bathtub this time. It survived the worst of Ida mostly intact.

More than 1,000 miles away in New York, people weren’t quite as fortunate.

After churning its way through the Deep South and Appalachia, Ida’s remnants buzzed right across the Big Apple. Nearly a foot of rain fell in less than an hour, inundated many streets and homes. Several residents drowned in flooded basements.

The sense of irony was tragic.

Many calls for the abandonment of New Orleans post-Katrina had come from the New York area. The land of a million pundits was supposedly a more stable location for development than the lower Mississippi Delta.

But now, it was New York reeling in the wake of a storm. A storm that had decked Louisiana with all its fury but could not bring the Bayou to its knees.

Ingrata Terra? It’s pure folly.

Some years back, archeologists found the remains of an English king.

Such a discovery normally would not raise eyebrows. This is what archeologists do, after all.

Nevertheless, the discovery led to international news coverage. Mostly on account of where the remains were found.

You see, the dig site wasn’t some remote stretch of land, or the fringes of an old church. No, King Richard III was found beneath a parking lot.

This saga demonstrates a great many traits about humanity — including our knack for adaptability.

At the time of King Richard III’s burial, no commoner would dared have left his horse above his regal remains. But over the centuries, society adapted. Memories faded, areas were rezoned, and a parking lot cropped up on hallowed ground.

Indeed, the world is what we make of it. We’ve built cities in the desert, carved our likenesses into the mountains, and harnessed the energy of the wind and the sun.

Nature might strike back from time to time, but it’s hardly enough to slow our roll.

Ingrata terra might have applied centuries ago. But these days, it’s hardly a factor.

So maybe it’s time to look at those Houston overpasses in a new light. Those rusty marks are not harbingers of doom. They’re a reminder of all that we’ve overcome.

Ingrata terra can’t be found here.

On Neediness

Meow! Meow! Meow!

The sound reverberated through the house, piercing the serenity of Christmas morning.

My friends and I all made our way to the living room, looking like Zombies. The cat stared at us and meowed some more.

We all desired something at that moment. The cat yearned for food, the humans for sleep.

Only one of the species would get what we wanted. The one with paws, fur, and an enviable sense of dexterity.

Indeed, moments later, the cat was working his way through a newly filled bowl. The meowing had ceased.

Meanwhile, we were all still awake and groggy as heck.

It was to be a joyous day ahead. Perhaps the most joyous one on the calendar. But at this moment, that spirit was sorely lacking.

Anything I say before coffee cannot be used against me.

On its face, this adage is straightforward. We’re often not at our best in the early morning light. That little pick-me-up works wonders.

But it also speaks wonders about our neediness.

We need coffee to feel sufficiently energized. And we need to feel “with it” as early in the day as possible.

These needs have defined cultural norms. They’ve also helped fuel an $85 billion industry in the United States.

I can’t say I was thinking about all this on that Christmas morning, as I fired up my friends’ Keurig machine for a cup of liquid inspiration. But as I stared over at the cat, now contented, it dawned on me just how needy we all are.

Not just the young or old or disabled.

All of us.

In September 1992, a hunter in the Alaskan bush came upon the remains of Chris McCandless.

McCandless had made his way into the wilderness of The Last Frontier hoping to live off the land, free of wants. But that land had devoured him whole.

The McCandless tragedy has been turned into a book and feature film, both called Into the Wild. For years, many of those who encountered the tale have found themselves debating his actions and motivations.

But to me, such arguments are beside the point. For Chris McCandless is just the tip of the iceberg.

You see, there have been plenty of others who undertook a similar quest, with similar reasoning, and suffered a similar fate. Only in their case, there was no hunter to come upon their remains while they were still recognizable.

Yes, the headline of this sad saga should have nothing to do with adventure or determinism. Instead, it should pinpoint a simple fact.

There is nowhere we can go to escape neediness.

This is an uncomfortable thought. A taboo one even in our society, where a central tenet is self-sufficiency.

But all that baggage can’t block out the truth.

We all need a lot — whether we’re off the grid or on it.

When I was growing up, my family went on several road trips.

On the highway, my parents had only one rule.

If we came across a rest stop, we would all need to at least try to use the restroom.

For the open road represented a significant challenge. As we crossed miles upon miles of blacktop, there were few opportunities for us to satisfy some of our most basic biological needs. Forcing the issue at a highway rest stop was our best bet.

On its face, I realize how ridiculous this whole charade was. As a runner, I will confess to stopping at far less glamorous locales than highway rest stops to relieve myself. It comes with the territory when putting in the miles.

But just because it’s possible to take care of business anywhere doesn’t make it acceptable. Anyone who’s ever read a travel horror story thread knows that cleanliness is paramount while traveling.

Whether we’re 5 or 55, we need a climate-controlled location with indoor plumbing, toilet paper and liquid soap for our pit stops. Nothing less will do.

Of course, those can’t be found at every mile marker or exit. So, we need to take seize the rest stop opportunities we do come across. That’s the only way we can meet both our needs and society’s demands of us.

Looking back now, my parents weren’t setting the rules by pulling off the highway at every rest stop. They were abiding by them.

And these days, I find myself doing the same.

Not long ago, I headed into the office to get some work done.

This statement would hardly have been worth writing a few years back. But in an era of hybrid and remote work, it’s almost an oddity.

Indeed, only one other person was in the massive office suite that day. All around me, rows of cubicles sat vacant. The silence was deafening.

It was clear that this space — my company’s regional headquarters — wasn’t needed anymore in its current form. Indeed, the company has plans to decommission it.

But I need something like it.

You see, my home is many things. But an office is not one of them.

There is no built-in space for a desk and external monitors. So, I end up working from a laptop on my dining room table when I’m not in the office.

It’s a woefully inadequate setup. And my work from it is subpar as well.

So, even in an office-less future for my region, I will need office space.

In my quest for such a space, I’ve tried to keep things simple.

A private room with an internet connection and a stand for my webcam and external monitors would suffice. After all, that’s what’s technically required for me to deliver my work on time and hold virtual meetings with discretion.

But I soon realized that wouldn’t be enough.

I needed a large enough desk to eat my lunch at. I needed access to a clean and well-maintained restroom. I needed climate control and somewhere to park my car.

Oh, and coffee. I needed plenty of coffee.

These requirements would seem like novelties to construction workers, oilfield roughnecks and ranchers. And yet, like many so-called knowledge workers, I couldn’t imagine doing my best work without them readily available.

Am I that needy? Are we all?

It certainly appears so. But there’s nothing wrong with that.

Why did the cat dampen Christmas spirits? Why did Chris McCandless wander off into the wild? Why did I roll my eyes at those forced road trip pit stops and then nearly forget to add a restroom — a restroom — to the list of my office essentials?

It’s because of the stigma around having needs.

Yes, we treat neediness as a sign of weakness. It’s a black mark. A strain on others. A crutch.

With this in mind, we do our best to suppress our needs. We put ourselves through strife to avoid appearing vulnerable.

But no one wins at the end of this process. In fact, we all lose.

It’s time to do away with that misguided machismo. It’s time to say sayonara to the mirage of wanting for nothing.

We all need plenty for ourselves and from each other. The steps we take and the structures we build to satisfy those needs — those are the lifeblood of our society.

So, let’s give ourselves a break, and give neediness its due.

We wouldn’t be here today without it, and we won’t realize the promise of tomorrow unless we accept it.

On the Chin

Keep your right hand up.

So directed my grandfather as he taught my sister and I some boxing moves.

He wasn’t grooming us to be prizefighters. But he wanted us to have the skills to defend ourselves. And the first order of business was getting that right hand in position to protect our faces.

I was incredulous at first. Wasn’t fighting about aggression? Wouldn’t the objective be to throw some powerful left hooks? And if it was, wouldn’t it be harder to land them with my right hand blocking my view?

My grandfather drove the point home as clearly as he knew how.

If you don’t keep your right hand up, you’ll end up like me.

He pointed to his nose, permanently broken after a sparring incident in his youth. And the message landed with gusto.

Failing to protect myself would mean a blow to the nose, or maybe taking one on the chin. Neither outcome was desirable, and it was my duty to avoid them.

I stopped protesting and put my right hand in front of my face.

Some years later, I attended a boxing match.

The action was frenetic at times, boring at others. But only one moment really stuck with me.

It occurred during the undercard – the fight before the main event.

One of the boxers threw a punch that missed wildly and — crucially — failed to get his right hand anywhere near his face. His opponent then landed two punches in quick succession.

One smashed into the boxer’s forehead. The other bashed his chin.

The battered boxer dropped like a rock, while the crowd gasped in horror.

Moments later, medical staff carried him away from the ring. The silence was deafening.

I don’t know if that boxer’s career ended with those blows, or even if he survived the night. I don’t know his name, and I don’t care to know it.

What I do know is what taking it on the chin looks like. And given the choice, I want no part of it.

Prediction? Pain.

So utters boxer Clubber Lang in the movie Rocky III, when a reporter asks him about his prediction for an upcoming fight.

It’s a basic line, almost commonly so. But it leaves a mark.

With all our glorifying of conflict, from the schoolyard to the battlefield to the silver screen, we seem to forget what it feels like to bear the brunt of aggression.

The force of a big hit hurts in unproductive ways. Pain in this context is not weakness leaving the body; it’s the body telling us something is dangerously wrong. And crowd support for the assailant is like an aftershock rattling our psyche.

Are we supposed to override the alarm bells of our body, and simply endure this damage? Are we not worthy of protection, concern, or grace?

In Wild West duels, no one paid all that much attention to the gunslinger that took the bullet. The lifeless body simply lay in the street until someone saw fit to drag it away. And all these years later, the same principle reigns supreme.

I think about this while watching football or similar activities with physical contact. But I also consider it in other contexts.

For Taking it on the chin has long been associated with situations where no punches were thrown, and no bullets were fired. It resonates for those who have been deliberately denied opportunities or left footing hefty economic bills.

This second example is particularly resonant these days.

As I write this, the world is in a precarious position. The global economy is out of whack, inflation is far too high, and a financial recession seems imminent.

How all this unfold and how this adversity can be mitigated are each up for debate. But if past is precedent, one thing is certain. Many everyday people — in America and elsewhere — are about to take it on the chin.

This could be in the form of layoffs and unemployment. It could be in the form of paying crippling prices for food, clothing, and shelter. It could be in the form of disappearing retirement savings. It could even be all these things in tandem.

There is no alternative.

You see, economies are but constructs, filled with entities that serve people. Businesses, government agencies, financial institutions — they’re all instruments that facilitate commerce. They can’t take on water to cushion the blow. They can only succeed or fail.

At the end of the day, it’s ordinary people who take it on the chin when things go haywire. It’s ordinary people who experience significant pain — often for no fault of their own.

And yet, this struggle is shrugged off, ignored, forgotten. Much like that prone boxer who was carried out of the ring, our strife becomes out of sight, out of mind.

It’s nauseating.

Several years ago, I saw Man of Steel in a movie theater.

My friends raved about the storyline, the acting, and the special effects. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the collateral damage.

Many of the battles between Superman and Zod’s army level entire city blocks. Instead of protecting his environment, the Man of Steel cuts through it like a buzzsaw on his way to take out the bad guys.

I found myself asking follow-up questions. Were those buildings cleared of people before they were toppled? And even if they were, wouldn’t the tenants now be destitute?

No one seemed to care about the answers. For those victims who took it on the chin had little impact on the plot. They were out of sight, out of mind.

And that’s precisely the problem.

We must cease this cruel business of trivializing suffering. We must stop ignoring, justifying, and glorifying the pain of others.

Strife in the service of the greater good is still a detriment. There is no gain great enough to wipe away what was lost entirely.

The more we normalize taking it on the chin, the more the fissures in our society build. Divisiveness simmers until it boils over, leading to even deeper ruptures.

It’s on us to rein in the high-level rhetoric. It’s on us to let our humanity show instead.

Indeed, we should kind and compassionate to those suffering. And we should resolve to help them out where we can.

This work might not keep some of us from taking it on the chin from time to time. But it can soften the blow.

That’s a step in the right direction. And one that we should not hesitate to take.

Let us begin.

Adaptability and Availability

This was a dumb idea.

That was the first thought to cross my mind as I lay prone on the sidewalk, my outerwear and shoes covered in a coating of ice.

I had decided to go for a midday run in a cold rain, before the temperatures dropped further and the roads froze over. But I’d failed to consider that the sidewalks were already dotted with patches of black ice. And I ended up wiping out on one of those patches.

I landed on my side, with my quad making first impact with the ground. I was fortunate to not have been badly injured. But at that moment, I was too bewildered to recognize how lucky I was.

I looked up to see a pickup truck stopped nearby. The driver rolled down the window and hollered, You OK?

I’m fine, I replied. I’m just an idiot.

The driver nodded and drove away. I got back on my feet and gingerly started the trek back home.

On that 1.5-mile journey, I realized I still had some of my workout left to complete. So, after a pit stop at home, I trudged over to the gym to knock out a few miles on the treadmill.

As I ran in place for a while, free of the elements, I wondered why I hadn’t just headed to the treadmill in the first place. Why had I risked the treachery of wet roads and icy sidewalks.

Of course, I knew the answer to that. My stubbornness and machismo had gotten in the way of sensibility.

I had believed that a consistent routine of outdoor running held the key to my success. If I was to achieve my goals for races and fitness, nothing else would do.

But this mindset had almost cost me bigtime. I would need to be adaptable moving forward.

We’ve all grappled with the dueling forces of adaptability and availability in recent years.

Much of this reckoning was driven by a global pandemic. The health crisis disrupted all the familiar patterns we relied on.

Work, school, and other community locations went from being safe spaces to unavailable ones in an instant. And we were forced to adapt.

Our quick pivot to survival mode drew praise. But once the initial shock wore off, we lost patience.

We had no appetite for adaptability. We yearned for the reliability of all we had ever known before the plague came to our door.

I was well-aware of this sentiment. For I was living it myself.

At the start of 2020, I made myself a promise. I swore that I would run or walk at least a mile outside every day.

The burgeoning pandemic soon threatened to upend all that. I went from commuting to a busy office every weekday to spending 90 straight days away from anyone I knew. I barely shopped, barely drove, and never traveled more than five miles from home during that time.

Still, I held firm to my promise. Even amidst the scare tactics and misguided stories of those days — no, you didn’t need to wipe down your groceries to stay alive — I made sure to step outside and tackle a mile of movement each day. At a time when nothing seemed worth the risk, my availability certainly was.

As the months went on, this commitment only intensified. I started running more often, and for longer miles. Then I joined running groups and took up racing.

My commitment to running had quickly become an obsession. No matter how I felt, or what the weather was, I was going to let my feet hit the pavement.

Availability was a rallying cry. Adaptability was an afterthought.

I had chosen poorly. But not in the way you might expect.

Disrupt yourself before someone disrupts you.

This is a proven maxim in the world of modern business. And we see proof of it everywhere.

General Motors is going all in on electric vehicles. Sonic Drive-In is selling hard seltzer at convenience stores. And Time Magazine is offering vintage editions of its publication as Non-Fungible Tokens, or NFTs.

These businesses are trying to avoid the fate of Blockbuster Video and Kodak. Both of those companies failed to anticipate the ripples of disruption around them until it was too late.

But by undertaking such drastic pivots, these legacy companies are making a point. Adaptability does more than unlock new revenue streams or keep competitors at bay. It also keeps the prospect of availability on the table.

Yes, the world is consistently inconsistent. Weather strikes and recedes, dynasties rise and fall, fads emerge and are cast aside.

Those who treat this delicate two-step as a straight-line sprint finds themselves on a path to nowhere. It’s only by embracing adaptability that one can maintain availability.

This principle has proven itself with Words of the West, which is now seven years old. For 365 straight weeks, a fresh piece of material has been available on the website.

Adding a new article each week is quite a feat. But it’s also a testament to the power of adaptability.

Indeed, some of those articles were written from the road. Others only saw the light of day after some technical issues were resolved.

I needed to be adaptable to achieve the mission. Much like those legacy businesses, I needed to adapt to stay available.

The decision between one factor and the other is nonexistent. The only option is both.

As I write this, I’m working my way back from a running injury.

This injury wasn’t related to my fall on that icy sidewalk. But it did leave me sidelined for eight weeks.

While working my way back, I’ve resolved to be smarter. I’ve stopped tacking on extra mileage for posterity’s sake. I’ve taken rest days when my body yearned for them. And I’ve even moved some of my workouts to the treadmill.

In short, I’ve been adaptable, so that I can continue to be available.

We all can follow this path when it comes to adaptability. In fact, I believe we must follow it.

It’s our only way to keep pace with a changing world. It’s our only recourse for relevance. It’s our only true means of survival.

The days of relying on what got us here are over. We must adapt to move forward.

Let’s get to it.

The Safety Net Vice

I was starving.

All around me, options abounded to quell my hunger. Just about any cuisine I would possibly desire — all available within my hotel complex.

I started perusing menus and checking wait times. But I quickly realized there was a significant problem.

For I was in Las Vegas — the land of $50 steaks and $25 burgers. And those options wouldn’t fit within the contours of my Per Diem.

For those uninitiated with business travel, the Per Diem is a daily flat rate for meals. It’s set by the United States government but paid out by companies to their employees.

The Per Diem is meant to level the playing field. It aims to set a benchmark for how much companies should expect to reimburse.

Normally, the Per Diem is a relatively fair proxy for meal costs. Maybe not a one-to-one match. But at least in the ballpark.

Yet, this was not the case in Las Vegas.

And so, I was left to determine the value of my starvation. Was it worth paying a bunch of my own money for the privilege of my nourishment? Or should I go without, in hopes of being made whole financially?

I chose the second option.

There’s no such thing as a free lunch.

This advice is practically gospel. For it’s the truth.

I experienced this truth firsthand during my misadventures in the desert. Unsatiated hunger has a strange way of driving home hard lessons.

But the no free lunch principle goes much deeper than my own foibles. It strikes at the heart of the Per Diem system itself.

Yes, it’s hard to find anyone who’s truly a fan of the Per Diem as it exists today. Many feel that it should be increased, or that companies should cover expenses on top of the set limits.

Such sentiments are understandable. Who wouldn’t want to avoid the mental gymnastics I went through in Las Vegas?

But this desire for a kinder Per Diem system misinterprets its purpose.

After all, the Per Diem is not a government handout. And even if it were, we would pay into that handout in the form of hefty taxes.

By contrast, the Per Diem is motivational tool. It’s something that incentivizes us to take our work on the road — and incur related costs — by recouping some of that spending.

The Per Diem isn’t designed to help us live high on the hog. It’s meant to help us work with what we’ve got.

But in doing so, it opens a whole other can of worms.

Many Texans know the legend of Judge Roy Bean.

The 19th century saloon keeper also served as the Justice of the Peace in Val Verde County. He branded himself as The Only Law West of the Pecos [River], often adjudicating from his saloon.

Val Verde County was part of the Texas frontier back then. And the law in that part of the world was open to some degree of interpretation. Judge Roy Bean espoused his flavor of it, and his work became Wild West legend.

Judge Roy Bean is long gone. And so is the world he lived in.

Indeed, modern-day Texas is governed by a series of uniform laws. Legislative codes that look the same in Mentone (population 22) as they do in Houston (population 2.3 million).

And perhaps the most notorious of these laws are the state’s liquor regulations.

For those uninitiated, Texans can only buy packaged hard liquor — such as bourbon or rum — from liquor stores. Those liquor stores must remain closed on Sundays. And on all other days, they cannot open earlier than 10 AM or close after 9 PM.

Liquor stores could keep even shorter hours, of course. But in all my years traversing the Lone Star State, I’ve yet to find one that wasn’t open from 10 to 9, Monday to Saturday.

There are some valid reasons for this conformity.

You see, operating a liquor store is challenging in Texas. Many counties are dry, banning packaged alcohol outright. Even in wet counties, some cities will ban liquor sales, but allow stores to sell beer and wine.

After navigating this labyrinth just to open their doors, liquor store proprietors generally yearn to keep them open as much as possible. And if they don’t, they’re wary of competitors. Competitors who could take a bite from their customer share if they opened late or closed early.

In essence, Texas’ liquor sales laws have put proprietors in a bind. They don’t directly mandate a 10 AM to 9 PM schedule, six days a week. But they make it nearly impossible to operate any other way.

This principle can be found in countless other corners of our society.

Sales tax rates tend to stay in a basic range from town to town and state to state. Banks generally refuse to guarantee anything above the $250,000 limit covered by the Federal Deposit Insurance Commission. And of course, companies tend to stay within the guidelines of the Per Diem.

By setting an artificial floor in our capitalistic system, the U.S. government has also lowered the ceiling. Any chance at variety is crushed, leaving us all with immobile, undesirable options.

It’s a phenomenon I call The Safety Net Vice.

The Safety Net Vice might seem like a force of nature. But we’re not powerless against it.

How can this be? Well, let’s consider the factors.

On one side, there is legislative action of some kind. Tax codes, deposit guarantees, and Per Diem guidelines are all influenced by government entities.

We have few means to influence this factor. While we do vote our representatives into office, we have little impact on what they will do once they’re in place.

Indeed, it’s the other side of the equation that is key. The demands of the free market impact our behavior, all too often giving that legislation its vice grip.

This is the area where we can drive change. By tweaking the ways we spend our money, we can flip economic patterns on their heads. The status quo will no longer be tenable, and institutions will have an impetus to offer guarantees above safety net levels.

The road to this outcome is sure to be long and arduous. But the longer we delay the journey, the more treacherous it gets.

So, let’s break free of the Safety Net Vice. Let’s stop starving ourselves in the desert. And let’s seek out a path that works better for everyone.

The time is now.