Good Fences

Like the wind, she was off.

Freshly released from her leash, our family dog went bounding down the hill and straight into the yard of the house next door.

She was free and exuberant – and a frightening sight to the neighbors.

My father ambled his way into their yard, apologizing profusely as he shepherded the dog back onto our property.

I was young at the time, and I don’t recall much more of this incident. But it’s hard not to recall what was in our backyard the next time I set foot there. Namely, a tall wooden privacy fence hugging the property line.

The days of our dog making a jailbreak were over. And so was the world as I knew it.

Good fences make good neighbors.

That’s about as American a phrase as there is.

We’re a society obsessed with security, with boundaries, with marked territory. We boldly place our stake in the ground, proclaiming to the world what we claim as ours. Then we set up blinds to keep that same world at bay.

There’s no way to fend off all risk, of course. But a good fence can sure help.

There are consequences to all this, of course. When our horizon consists of walls and warnings, we stop engaging with all that lies beyond it.

We see our neighbors less. We rely on them less. We trust them less.

This happened to my family when that wooden fence cropped up on the edge of our yard. The neighbors became ghosts.

So close, yet so far away. It was jarring.

Over time though, I came to embrace this arrangement. I found sanctuary in the quarter-acre of turf my family claimed – and the mechanisms that kept it in place.

Our property. Our land. Our home.

The exclusivity was everything.

The whispers filled the hallways.

Rumors. Gossip. Innuendo about someone conveniently absent from the conversation.

Such were the realities of high school.

But about halfway through my tour of duty, something changed. Websites with names like MySpace and Facebook appeared. And we all flocked to them.

Suddenly, the whispers were old news. Living out in the open on the wild frontier of the Internet, that was the way to go.

We posted too much of our lives there in those early days, and I was no exception. I didn’t always share what was on my mind. But just about everything else had a digital timestamp.

Personal photos. Status updates. Conversations with my social circle.

As I moved off to college and found a new social circle, I was an open book. Literally.

But soon, I found myself pulling back. I posted less, and I carried an air of suspicion about me.

Some of this instinct was literal. I’d caught two young men trying to steal my laptop from my dorm room one day, when I’d left it unattended.

I chased the would-be thieves away empty-handed. But I felt exposed, nonetheless. Exposed in a manner that lingers for the long haul.

Still, this incident only partially explains my decision to fade into the background. There were other factors at play.

Truth be told, I’d come to feel a yearning. A longing in my soul to withdraw. I desired to add mystery to the whispers about me – until there weren’t any whispers at all.

Such was the credo of my introversion. And I was done ignoring it.

So, I steadied the barriers around me. And I piled them higher with each passing day.

These tendencies have only proliferated over time. I remain fiercely independent and loathe to share too much of my journey all that widely. Ember Trace is about as far as I’ll open my book.

Good fences are my companion.

Fences are a hot button issue these days.

Some want them built up — both literally on our nation’s borders, and figuratively around the enclaves that lie within them. Others want to take a bulldozer to barriers, bringing more of us out in the open.

It’s a dueling agenda that’s caused a giant mess.

I don’t profess to have answers for a feasible immigration policy or a more equitable society. But I just might have something for the mess.

The way I see it, this turmoil comes not from the balance of issues themselves. But rather, our interpretation of them.

You see, we tend to pick sides in these grave matters, and countless others. This is our right in a free society, and it shouldn’t raise alarms on its own.

But we fail to put proper boundaries around the positions we take. Instead, we charge into the yard next door with them. We proselytize our views. And we condemn those that don’t conform – sparking divisiveness.

The solution to this conundrum is some good fences. Barriers delineating where our individuality ends, and where another’s begins.

If we erect these structures and abide by them, the vitriol should die down. We might still abhor each other’s views, but we’ll at least be able to share a respectful nod as we pass each other on the street.

And that’s light years from where we are now.

Some years ago, my family ceded my childhood home.

My parents put the property up for sale. They packed up their possessions and moved into a condo in the city.

I had moved away years before. I didn’t pay the decision much mind.

But from time to time, I’ve thought about that wooden fence at the edge of the backyard. And about the incident that led to its existence.

Our first family dog was a bearded collie, full of joy and energy. When we walked her around the neighborhood, she’d tug on the leash with the force of an unruly steer. When winter came, she’d bound through the snow like an antelope.

Still, I’d never seen her run more freely than when she made that run for the yard next door. She was like a wild horse darting across the plains, unbridled and undeterred.

This is the image we seek when we express our individuality. We aim to make the world our oyster, free from the reins of conformity.

But that freedom is a mirage. When we step out from the pack, we must fight for every inch – all while defending ourselves against other doing the same.

Wild horses might run free, but they also must find sustenance and ward off predators. Runaway dogs might find the same challenges and dangers – or worse – as they navigate the jungle of urbanized society.

And we will surely find the same unsavory realities if we don’t mind our fences. We will find ourselves scrapping for survival, with no lane to sustain what we truly desire.

Such are the tradeoffs of individuality. Our views, our goals, and our spoils have limits. Divisiveness is the price we pay for exceeding those limits.

Sturdy barriers can shield us from this fate. They can keep us from crossing the line and sabotaging our own desires. They’re a godsend if we establish them for the right reasons.

Good fences make good neighbors. Let’s mind ours accordingly.

On Serenity

The instructions were clear.

Don’t leave your computer station for any reason. If you get to a break in the proceedings and need to stretch your legs or use the restroom, raise your hand. A test proctor will see it and head your way. Then they’ll escort you to where you need to go.

Such were the rules of standardized test centers. Elaborate cheating schemes needed to be stamped out aggressively. I understood that.

But as I sat down to take the GMAT, those rules were hardly of significance. For I was prepared.

I’d completed some practice exams. I’d gotten a good night’s sleep. I’d drank a lot of water, just like my prep course instructor told me to.

I had everything I needed to excel. Or so I thought.

As I neared the end of the exam’s second section, I was struck with a familiar sensation. My bladder suddenly felt as heavy as a boulder. I would need to relieve myself in short order.

Fortunately, a scheduled break was coming up. And those familiar instructions were still fresh in my mind.

So, when the break arrived, I raised my hand and waited patiently. But no help arrived.

I turned my head to the testing center surveillance booth, encased in glass. A proctor was sitting in there, mindlessly checking her smartphone. She was twenty feet and a world away.

The timer on my computer kept ticking down. By now half of the break had expired. Even if I did get the proctor’s attention, I wouldn’t be able to get to the restroom and back in time.

So, I audibled. I clicked the End Break button and got started on the next section of the exam.

That section was the quantitative one – a hybrid of math and logic. I struggled with these types of test questions under normal conditions. And now, with my body under siege, I was in dire straits.

This situation drained my focus, strained my memory, and left me with little time to deliberate between possible answers. So, I powered through as quickly as I could, submitting answers off first instinct.

Mercifully, I reached another break. I raised my hand again – and once again my gesture was met with no response.

Desperate, I walked over to the booth and tapped on the glass. When the proctor looked up, I mouthed the words Bathroom Break. A moment later, I was on the way to my salvation.

But the damage had been done. My GMAT results were subpar – especially in the quantitative section. I had wasted a day off work for this result, and now my business school prospects had dimmed.

I was mad. Mad at the proctor for her failure to acknowledge me in my time of need. Mad at myself for drinking all that water beforehand. Mad at all of it.

It didn’t really matter who I was angry at, I told myself at the time. But that was far from the truth.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

So goes The Serenity Prayer – my favorite bit of scripture.

Those 27 words have long had an association with Alcoholics Anonymous. By sheer coincidence, I quit the bottle some years ago. Which has left some to label my affinity for these words as a cry for help.

It’s not.

Truth be told, you don’t need to be afflicted with anything for these words to have meaning. All of us can find some solace in them.

You see, we’re tested day in and day out. Not necessarily on a 100-point scale like those school exams. Or on a pass-fail grade like an engine diagnostic. But more in the form of stimulus-response.

The universe is continually in flux, and we feel the impacts in our tiny corner of it. Things happen to us – good, bad, or a mix of both – and we’re forced to respond to them.

That response is all too often predicated on control. On optimizing the outcome, on limiting the fallout, and on preparing ourselves for greater success moving forward. This is particularly true then the test in question leaves poor marks on our ledger, or a bad taste in our mouth.

We’re inclined to lament the entirety of the incident – both the obstacles thrown in our midst and our erroneous moves that dug us in deeper. And we’re determined to engineer both out of the equation next time around.

The Serenity Prayer stops us in our tracks.

It reminds us that much is beyond our grasp. And that any efforts to reel in the unreachable amount to wasted energy.

If I were following the Serenity Prayer in the wake of my GMAT fiasco, I’d have known better than to let my anger over the test proctor’s inaction linger. Her dereliction of duty was wrong, no doubt. But it was firmly beyond my control.

In fact, the proctor’s negligence was only an issue because I consumed more water than my body could handle. That decision was firmly under my control. And while it was well-intentioned, it backfired spectacularly.

I would need the courage to change course the next time around. Even without the Serenity Prayer on my mind back then, I recognized that. And on my next go at the GMAT, I did change my approach.

Less water. No bathroom breaks. And results that ultimately helped me earn business school admission.

What’s your next move?

This is often the reply I get when I share how things are going in my life. Particularly if the news is less than rosy.

It’s understandable.

We’re a fix-it society. A culture full of pluck and innovation.

Anything wrong can be righted. Any challenge can be put behind us.

Except, not all of them can.

Indeed, there a great many obstacles for which there is no easy fix. Where the scars linger and the mess proliferates.

These occurrences could be as basic as my GMAT experience. Or they could be more substantial – such as a catastrophic situation at work or the revelation of some grim medical news.

Regardless, our first step should not be to put on our superhero cape. Our first step should be to triage. To accept the things we cannot change before summoning the courage to fix that which we can.

Serenity matters more than we care to admit. Let’s give it the respect it deserves.

We’ll be better for it.

On Betrayal

They were a juggernaut.

The Dallas Cowboys strode onto their home field with an air of confidence. All around them, 90,000 fans waved rally towels and roared.

Why wouldn’t they? The Cowboys had been straight-up dominant on this field for the better part of two years. They’d won 16 home games in a row, often by lopsided margins. Surely, another great performance was in the offing.

The game kicked off. And the Cowboys proceeded to get whooped.

The opposing team – the Green Bay Packers – found the end zone early and often. Meanwhile, the Cowboys offense appeared stuck in neutral.

Soon Packers players were taunting Cowboys cheerleaders, bragging into the lenses of TV cameras, and celebrating gleefully with the smattering of Green Bay fans in the stands. The Packers quarterback even mimicked a thunderbolt with his arms while standing on the iconic blue star at midfield.

Sitting at home in front of the TV, my expression was likely the same as the blue-and-white clad fans in the stadium. Steely eyed. Despondent. Stunned.

This team had shown so much more each week it had set foot on this field. And now, with the postseason upon us, this?!

We felt betrayed. And that stung most of all.

Et tu Brute?

These were supposedly among the final words of Julius Caesar before he was stabbed to death. Or at least William Shakespeare’s believed they were.

Brutus – or Brute, in Latin – was Caesar’s confidant. And when he saw his friend among the ranks of his assassins, the horror was palpable.

Caesar had not only failed to insulate himself from an imminent death. He had fallen victim to betrayal along the way.

And that hurt as much as any deep puncture to the ribs soon would.

Caesar’s experience was not unique, of course. Jesus was famously betrayed before his crucifixion. Benedict Arnold betrayed his fledgling country in the American Revolution. Even Bill Belichick once betrayed the New York Jets by showing up to his introductory news conference as the team’s head coach and instead announcing his resignation.

Such is the power of this emotion, that it’s written in the annals of history and widely recounted.

Betrayal, you see, has two elements that fuel its potency. It shatters the trust we’ve so carefully built in those around us. And it’s impossible to prevent.

Sure, we can put ourselves in position to avoid such an outcome. But the control lies in the hands of those we trust to protect our interests. And those hands can falter.

Ambition, stress, external pressure — these factors can compromise even the most trusted associates. In an unpredictable world, they can come and go with the wind. And in an instant, even those with the purest of intentions can find themselves gripping the dagger of darkness.

But building up our walls won’t do us much good either. Trusting no one lowers the odds that we’ll be turned on. But it also leaves us more vulnerable to the myriad dangers of the world around us.

It’s a brutal Catch-22. One we have no choice but to wrangle with.

It began with a broken bone.

My grandmother ended up in the hospital with a shattered hip. But unlike many her age with this injury, my grandmother hadn’t fallen to sustain it. And that left doctors suspicious.

Some follow-up testing brought the grim news to bear. My grandmother had cancer. Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, to be precise.

My grandmother’s cells were attacking her body from the inside – turning her bones to Swiss cheese. She would need to undergo chemotherapy.

I was 12 years old as all this occurred. And I remember being befuddled.

How could someone’s own body act like this? It all seemed so cruel and unfair.

Fortunately, my grandmother survived the treatment. She went into remission and remained in that state for the last 16 years of her life.

Controlling What We Don’t Understand

The wind was whipping.

Fierce and determined, it swirled from left to right above our heads as we lined up to field fly balls.

One by one, we took our place in center field. One by one, we saw the ball hit our coach’s bat and head our direction. And one by one, we watched helplessly as the wind took hold of the ball, rocketing it toward left field.

It was frustrating seeing baseball after baseball hit the outfield grass, out of our reach. So, my teammates and I got desperate.

Some of us lined up a bit further to the right. Others ran toward left field at the crack of the bat, hoping to intercept the ball in flight. Still others attempted diving catches while on the run.

It was no use. The wind thwarted us at every turn.

We were trying to control what we couldn’t understand. Why should we have expected anything other than failure?

I am an American.

I’m proud of that fact. I’m grateful to wake up each morning in the land of the free. I’m humbled to live in the home of the brave.

America has long represented the greatest of civilization. It’s stood as the West’s great superpower for generations. It’s scaled innovation. It’s sparked an entertainment ecosystem with global cultural reach.

Yet, America is fortunate to exist as a standalone country at all.

You see, this great country’s roots are tied to a civil rebellion. It originated with a Declaration of Independence, drafted and signed by representatives of 13 British colonies. A formal statement disavowing allegiance to a faraway monarch.

Britain, unsurprisingly, failed to recognize this arrangement. And it sent soldiers across the Atlantic Ocean to restore order.

The impending war seemed like a mismatch on paper. Britain employed an experienced and well-trained fighting force. The Americans employed a ragtag group of rebels, armed with crude weaponry.

And yet, the Americans knew the terrain and the art of disruption. They disappeared from battlefields like ghosts. They hid in the brush, picking off British soldiers one by one. They launched a surprise attack the morning after Christmas.

The American Revolutionary War quickly turned into an elaborate cat and mouse game. And after years of chasing, the British forces eventually walked into a catastrophic trap. A trap that cost them the war and ensured America’s independence.

These events have largely been glorified on our shores for centuries. But the heroics of the ragtag American army were eclipsed by Britain’s colossal failure. Its failure in controlling what it didn’t understand.

Perhaps if the British forces had understood their opponent, they’d have been better prepared for guerilla warfare. Perhaps they would have anticipated the trudges across rugged terrain, the sneak attacks, and the deception. Perhaps they would have gotten the outcome they were looking for.

But they didn’t. And that doomed them.

The British army made its critical error on post-colonial soil more than 200 years ago. Yet the legacy of this error persists today.

America and Britain are now longstanding allies. And their imperial eras are mostly behind them. Still, each nation maintains a testy relationship with immigrants within its respective borders.

The reasoning for this tension varies. The United States has been dealing with a longstanding surge of illegal immigration at its Mexican border. Britain has been contending with the effects of legal immigration from faraway lands it once colonized.

But the underlying threat remains the same in both countries. Namely, the threat of other cultures taking root within the high walls of their societal gardens.

The results of this tension are widespread ostracism and intense governmental policy. The othering of Hispanic and East Asian immigrants is as fierce in America as the othering of Middle Eastern and South Asian immigrants in Britain. America started building a physical wall at the Mexican border. Britain erected a metaphorical one, through its Brexit split with mainland Europe.

These are brazen attempts by American and British leaders to control what they don’t understand. To enforce compliance with their respective nations’ dominant cultures. Or even to deny the opportunity for some to comply with it.

No one is declaring victory in these endeavors. The continued gripes about broken borders and rallying cries for vigilance make that abundantly clear.

But, just as critically, no one is declaring defeat. And that’s just keeping the spiral going.

The 100 Day Plan.

It’s a hallmark of leadership.

From the corporate boardroom to the halls of government, newly minted leaders start with an action plan. A set of predetermined initiatives intended to assert control.

I’ve long maintained a leader’s mindset – and even held some volunteer leadership positions over the years. Yet, I’ve never followed the 100 Day Plan.

When I’ve taken on a new venture, I’ve placed a premium on understanding. Understanding what I’m getting into, who’s involved, and what their perspectives are.

This requires a lot of learning, and a lot of listening. It demands that I humble myself before I even think of asserting control.

It can be a frustrating process in the short term. But it pays off in spades.

For once I do finally clear my throat to speak, my commands will be neither blind nor reckless. My assertions will be grounded in context, and more likely to hit the mark.

I believe a great many of us can learn from this example. I believe that we can follow a more pragmatic path than tilting at windmills.

We can make a better attempt to understand the forces around us. And we can adapt our commands to match that understanding.

If that means reading the wind, and adapting baseball drills accordingly, so be it. If that means acknowledging the cultural realities of outsiders before attempting to box them out, let’s do it. If that means replacing our 100 Day Plans with de-facto focus groups, let’s make it happen.

Control is fragile enough as it is. Better to not shatter it entirely by pairing it with delusion.

Ghosts of Youthful Indiscretion

The dentist walked into the room. After examining my teeth for a moment, he came to a swift conclusion.

Invisalign treatments were needed. The sooner the better.

Sooner was not going to happen. Not until I scrounged up the money and checked what – if anything – my insurance would cover.

I shared this information with the hygienist. But she shocked me with her reply.

You had braces once, didn’t you? Maybe put your old retainer back in at night for the time being. Every little bit helps.

My old retainer. I hadn’t thought about it in years.

That oversight was probably the reason I was in this mess. Maybe if I’d worn the darned thing for more than a week after getting my braces off, things would have been different.

But that wiry metal mouthpiece was unsightly and uncomfortable. It cut into my cheeks as I slept. It was a nightmare to clean. It represented the opposite of freedom.

And so, in a fit of teenage defiance, I stashed the retainer in its case and hid it in a dresser drawer. As I left my childhood home for college, the retainer remained. And when I later moved halfway across the country to start my adult life, the retainer did not move with me.

At some point between then and now, it ended up in a dumpster. And my teeth drifted out of alignment.

So now, I was staring down corrective treatment. Treatment that would both be time-intensive and expensive. Treatment that was deemed obligatory for my health.

The ghosts of youthful indiscretion had caught up with me.

I backed into my career.

Longtime Ember Trace readers are likely familiar with the story. Burned out after three years in the television news media, I up and moved to a new city without a job lined up.

All my professional credibility was tied to writing back then. And content marketing was having a moment.

There was a fit for me, and I desperately needed a living wage. So, I ended up as a marketer.

These days, I do precious little writing for work. My current position is more strategic than operational. It pays far better than the job I entered the industry with. It’s more stable than that initial role. And it turns more heads at networking functions.

But getting from then to now has required a bountiful helping of humble pie. Marketing is not a profession that offers up the benefit of the doubt. A mix of persistence, patience, and self-investment is needed to prove oneself.

I had all of this in spades. And ultimately, it helped me break through.

I don’t take this achievement lightly. Yet, the opportunity cost of my journey isn’t lost on me.

You see, there are plenty of other marketers who got their start on-time. They majored in business in college. They gained footholds with major companies straight out of school. And they proceeded to climb the ladder in those structured, corporate environments.

I did none of this. So, I’ve found success later in life than many of my professional peers. And I’ve endured years of struggle that they haven’t.

The ghosts of youthful indiscretion have haunted the road I’ve traveled. And there’s nothing I can do to shake them.

Or is there?

When I was born, my uncle was still a teenager.

Even in early days, this narrow age difference wasn’t lost on me. I might not have known how to count, but I realized that I could play Tonka trucks with my uncle. I understood that we could watch Sesame Street together.

What I didn’t know was how unique my uncle was. Unlike many young men his age, my uncle had a clear vision of what he wanted to do in life. And he was well on his way to achieving it.

As early as high school, my uncle aspired to become a doctor. By the time I was in the picture, he was on a pre-med track in college. Through my youth and early adulthood, I witnessed his rise from medical school to residency to becoming an acclaimed surgeon. He now oversees an entire surgery department at a prestigious hospital.

My uncle was certainly “on-time” for attaining these accolades. But that required a remarkable clarity of vision during his teenage years. And that fact, more than anything, has left me awestruck.

Why? Because my teenage years were a complete mess. I wasn’t running afoul of the law or partying until 4 AM each night. But despite my best intentions, I wasn’t doing anything to set myself up for long-term success either.

I waffled over which profession to pursue. I stopped wearing my retainer. I couldn’t manage my own finances properly.

These decisions – and more – would haunt me for years to come. They left costly holes for me to dig out of before I could know what it was like to thrive.

It’s easy now to vilify my teenage self for not having it all together. But if I put myself back in those years, it’s not hard to see why I made the choices I did.

Adolescence, you see, is a confounding time. As we get our first taste of independence, we’re filled with both confidence and uncertainty.

I was sure I was making the right decisions back then, given the information I had at the time. But that information was short on experience and introspection. Only the passage of time would eventually add that seasoning to my prefrontal cortex.

In short, I couldn’t have expected any better of my younger self. I need to give myself some grace.

But then there’s the issue of the ghosts of my youthful indiscretion. Do I let them linger, or do I put in the extra effort to exorcise them?

For a while, I tried the former. But those ghosts cast a heavy shadow on my present and future.

So, I’ve gone all-in. I’ve made the investment – in time, money, and effort – to rectify the results of my flawed choices. I’ve willingly sacrificed my newfound prosperity to dispel the echoes of What if?

I suspect I’m not the only one at this crossroads. A great many of us are surely haunted by the effects of choices made long ago, when we lacked wisdom and maturity.

There is no shame in that conundrum. After all, it shows that we’ve grown into more discerning, conscientious people.

But we’re also left with a weighty decision. A decision on how to handle the albatross in our midst.

I’ve made my choice. What’s yours?

The Burden of Ignorance

In January of 1995, two men strode into some Pittsburgh-area banks and robbed them at gunpoint.

The robbers made off with roughly $10,000 in cash. But they weren’t exactly modern-day members of the Dillinger Gang.

Neither man concealed his face during the crime spree. Instead, each doused themselves in lemon juice – believing it to render them invisible.

They weren’t, of course.

Bank security cameras offered up clear images of the criminals in action. And they soon found themselves behind bars.

In the interrogation room, one of the robbers – McArthur Wheeler – offered up the following excuse to bemused detectives.

But I wore the lemon juice! I wore the lemon juice!

Wheeler’s explanation, absurd as it was, became Exhibit A for a newfound psychological phenomenon – The Dunning-Kruger Effect.

As I’ve written before, The Dunning-Kruger Effect proclaims that those who are the most confident in their performance are all too often overconfident.

It leads to people making idiotic decisions with delusions of genius. And those decisions – like covering oneself in lemon juice and robbing a bank – can turn into amusing stories.

But the collateral damage behind the headline? That’s no laughing matter.

When you’re dead, you do not know you are dead. It is only painful for others. The same applies when you are stupid.

Ricky Gervais uttered these lines as a joke. But he was onto something.

Wheeler and his accomplice were certainly stupid when they robbed those banks while doused in lemon juice. And they got what they had coming to them – namely, years in prison.

But the collateral damage was not so neat and tidy.

Anyone in those banks that day likely felt traumatized by the brazen robberies. Anyone outside of the banks felt obligated to look around for the suspects, after their faces popped up on a Crimestoppers poster. And ultimately, the criminal justice system felt strained by the plea deals and sentences the incident required.

This is the burden of ignorance. When it bursts into the open, blind stupidity can cause an unwieldy mess. And others are saddled with the mop and bucket.

This pattern can be insidious.

The accused might grasp that they’ve done something wrong. But if they’re too ignorant to understand why their actions sparked catastrophe, they stand little chance of making better decisions moving forward.

They’ll keep stepping in it, again and again. After all, it’s hard to avoid what you don’t understand.

All the while, those affected by these transgressions seethe in their discontent. They ostracize the ignorant to put distance between themselves and the next disaster.

Fissures grow through this process. Polarization and resentment fester.

And we find ourselves on a road to nowhere.

Intelligence is a gift. But it’s also a skill.

I know this as well as anyone.

Growing up, I knew I was a smart kid. I got good grades in school. I easily recited statistics from memory. I read books in my spare time.

Yet, I was ignorant about using my gift. I struggled with social nuances and with other everyday activities.

It was only through experience that I was able to hone my intelligence. To apply it to life’s intricacies. And to thrive.

This journey took years to crystallize. But once it did, it spurred my ethos.

Be present. Be informed. Be better.

I’ve committed to following these three principles for quite some time. But I realize they contain a massive blind spot.

These principles, you see, say little about how to deal with others. Particularly those who might unwittingly throw a banana peel in my path.

My instinct has long been to wall them off. To protect myself from bearing the burden of ignorance whenever possible.

But such a strategy does me little good. It leads me to elevate myself over the ignorant, and to judge them with disdain. All while remaining at risk of their shenanigans.

My circle gets smaller through this process. And as exclusivity grows, so does disassociation.

Eventually, I’m the one who’s ignorant. Not for a lack of intelligence, but for a lack of real-world context.

It would be far better for me to extend an olive branch to those I seek to avoid. To teach, to coach, to mentor. To lead both with the context of example and with a vocalized compassion.

Such actions would provide the misguided the same opportunity once afforded to me. An opportunity to grow beyond naivete, and to avoid disastrous missteps.

There’s no guarantee that everyone would see the light. But if I keep the door closed, no one will.

So, I’m pledging to do better going forward. But such a commitment can only go so far.

Don’t bring me problems. Bring me solutions.

Some version of this phrase has been uttered by just about every executive in the history of business.

The implication is simple – airing problems without antidotes only causes them to proliferate. It wastes time, it strains resources, and it stifles productivity.

With all this in mind, we hesitate before airing professional grievances. We ensure we have a proposed solution in tow before sounding the alarm.

Shift the setting outside the office walls though, and it’s far different. We openly gripe about ignorance, without offering up any strategies to combat it. And we grow agitated as history repeats itself.

Why do we expect anything different? Ignorance can’t fix itself, after all. That’s the whole premise of the Dunning-Kruger Effect.

No, to flip the script, we need to take command. We need to lift the torch high and shine a light for the wayward to follow.

We must serve as a guide, not a gate. We must meet the ignorant where they are, and shepherd them to where they ought to be.

Such a shift requires humility on our end. It requires conscientiousness. It requires virtue.

This is no small ask. But the benefits far outweigh the costs.

So, let’s do our part. Let’s help cast off the burden of ignorance. And let’s lift our society into a more enlightened future.

It’s our move. Let’s make it.

Lessons of Bitter Medicine

I stood in the backyard practicing my batting stance.

I steadied the wooden near my shoulder. Then, I took a practice hack – and clobbered my sister in the face on the backswing.

Startled, my sister started to cry. Then she ran into the house to let our father know what happened.

It was an honest childhood mistake. My sister had stood too close to me. I hadn’t checked my surroundings before swinging the bat.

But I still got in trouble.

Some years later, the two of us were standing in the same spot in the yard of our childhood home. I had just demonstrated how to swing a golf club. Now, my sister was giving it a try.

She took a practice swing — and clobbered me in the face. Karma couldn’t have been more complete.

My father ran out of the house, concern washed over his face. He was frantic, speaking a mile a minute.

Are you alright? Are you bruised? Are you bleeding?

I was in my late teens by this point and well-conditioned to take a blow like this. So, I found his over-the-top reaction amusing.

I’ll be fine, I chuckled. I’m just an idiot. But I guess we’ve all learned our lessons about standing too close.

Indeed, we had. All too well.

That’s a bitter pill to swallow.

This adage has transcended the generations.

It’s been years – decades really – since the days of bitter-tasting medicine. These days, many pills are coated in sugar, mixed into gummies, or otherwise made to seem bland.

Yet, the phrase remains transcendent. Why is that?

I believe this has everything to do with the underlying message. We may have solved the Bitter Medicine Taste problem. But we haven’t found a way to avert unpleasantness itself.

This might not be as dire a concern as it seems.

After all, discomfort is an important part of our life experience. A strange rite of passage. A feature, not a bug.

Old school medicine carried the promise of healing if you could get through the bitterness first. Perhaps swallowing those new school bitter pills – accepting discomfort – can bring us the promise of some invaluable lessons as well.

I am proof positive of this idea.

I would not have understood the danger of black ice if I hadn’t once slipped on it and taken a spill. I would not have appreciated the value of sunscreen if I hadn’t once gotten sunburned. Such knowledge was embedded in the bitter pill I swallowed each time.

Now, this theory is far from absolute. When discomfort becomes habitual or continuous, its lessons wash away. Suffering is all that remains.

This is why teaching someone a lesson with a fist or a belt is a fool’s errand. Beyond being immoral – and in many cases, illegal – this act does little beside inflict vengeful damage upon its victims. It’s also why intentional self-harm – in all its forms – is nothing short of disastrous.

But, when we allow ourselves to spontaneously encounter discomfort, we often come out of the experience wiser. When we step out of our cocoons – accepting the risk of unpleasantness in the process – we tend to reap the benefits.

The pain of the bitter medicine is temporary. But the lessons are forever.

This is why I don’t regret taking that golf club to the face (although I still feel guilty for accidentally hitting my sister years earlier). The experience taught me what I would never have otherwise learned.

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

As I write these words, we are nearing the end of another year.

The holiday spirit is in full swing. And we’re preparing to flip the calendar over once again.

A year is just a construct. One I don’t take all that much stock in celebrating.

Yet, this trip around the sun has been quite the journey.

I started the year by undergoing ankle surgery. The procedure relieved some lower leg discomfort that had turned into suffering. But it left me with a grueling rehab.

I learned much from this ordeal. I became familiar with the tribulations of disability. And through the process, I found out just what I was made of.

But even after I got my range of motion back, I wasn’t out of the woods. I was able to walk unencumbered once again, and I would soon be back to running.

But the injuries kept coming. A lower back bruise. Right knee tendonitis. A stress fracture in my left leg. An intercostal strain. A right hip flexor strain.

Some of these injuries were exercise-related. Others were the product of bad luck. All caused me more than a modicum of discomfort – leaving me wondering when I’d ever be back to “normal.”

But licking my wounds and ruing misfortune was getting me nowhere. So, I embarked on a new approach.

I started thinking of all these injuries as bitter medicine. As ordeals I’d need to endure to learn more about myself.

For years, I’d neglected this task. I’d focused on brain health, on expanding knowledge, and on honing decision-making. I’d also focused on heart health, making a concerted effort to stay in shape.

But the rest of me? I often took that for granted.

Who cared how my joints operated, how my bones replenished themselves, or how my muscles interconnected? I hardly noticed them when I was healthy. So, I felt little need to maintain their function.

It was only when things went wrong that I started to see the whole picture. That experience taught me how to properly take care of myself from head to toe.

So yes, this year has been unpleasant at times. In the most physical, visceral of ways. But I wouldn’t trade this ride I’ve been on for the world.

For more than half a century, families have made a pilgrimage to the middle of Florida.

Their destination? A 27,000-square-acre oasis called Walt Disney World.

Walt Disney World has long been billed as The Happiest Place on Earth. And as a four-time visitor, I can verify that elation does radiate there like the tropical sunshine that illuminates the grounds.

Yet, this billing has an unspoken downside. For once families, leave the oasis – once they reach Interstate 4 or the Orlando International Airport – they return to reality. A reality that, by definition, is less happy and less pleasant than the place they’ve just visited.

This is an unsettling fact. One that we’re determined to dispel.

We try ever harder to protect our children from unpleasantness and to delude ourselves from its existence. We wall ourselves off inside convenient fantasies and put our risk-aversion senses on overdrive. We encase the pills of our life experience in a mountain of sugar, consequences be damned.

But such attempts are far from ironclad. Now and then, unpleasantness overwhelms our defenses, washing away our defenses.

Maybe this unpleasantness is an unconscionable terror attack on our shores. Or a financial meltdown in our markets. Or even a pandemic infesting our atmosphere.

Our pleasantness at all costs crusade leaves us ill-equipped to handle such stark reality. So, we stumble through the fallout, feeling lost and betrayed. And all the while, we wish the experience had never happened.

Perhaps we can follow a more productive path. Instead of relying on dreams of revisionist history to restore our fantasy, perhaps we can build off our ordeal. To take the lessons of bitter medicine, internalize them, and be better for it.

I’ve embarked on this journey, this past year especially. But my experience – and my mindset – should be anything but extraordinary. It should be but one case of millions – millions who accept unpleasantness as a vessel toward improvement, rather than a scourge to eradicate.

Let’s make it so.

The Cost of Free Choice

As we sat down at a table at a Mexican restaurant, my friends gave some advice.

Don’t worry. You won’t even have to look at the menu. They only serve nachos, enchiladas, and fajitas. Simple enough.

Simple enough. But also, kind of complicated.

The nachos, you see, were smothered with cheese – an ingredient I could not digest. The enchiladas were smothered in sauce, making a mess inevitable. (Oh, they also had cheese, for good measure.) And the fajitas required extra effort to assemble.

Where were the steak tacos I was craving? Or, to that end, the tamales or flautas?

Not at this restaurant. And so, my options were crude.

Order the fajita platter I didn’t want. Or go hungry – and explain to my friends why.

In essence, there was only one choice. So, when the waiter turned to me, I blurted out Beef fajitas, please, without a hint of hesitation.

My friends were right. I didn’t even have to look at the menu.

There are many reasons why this restaurant kept its menu so tidy.

Convenience. Simplicity. Tradition.

But also cost.

Mexican food, you see, often draws upon common ingredients. Corn tortillas. Flour tortillas. Salsa. Grilled steak. Grilled chicken. Peppers. Onions. Spiced rice. Refried beans. Cheese.

It’s the way that these items are assembled that comprises a menu. It’s what makes tacos different from enchiladas or burritos or chimichangas.

This interoperability makes ingredient costs a minor concern. Everything except the meat is generally affordable – no small detail in an industry with tight margins.

But preparation costs? That’s a different matter entirely.

It takes more work to, say, season grill a carne asada to perfection than it does to roll some shredded chicken in tortillas and smother the whole plate in sauce. It takes more work to assemble grilled skirt steak into tacos than it does to bring it to the table wholesale as fajitas.

This restaurant we were visiting was known for running a streamlined kitchen. Minimizing preparation costs were the ethos of its menu.

It’s a menu the restaurant has long mastered, to critical acclaim. But for someone like me, it took the words free choice off the table.

Literally.

Being saddled with one undesirable option at a restaurant might seem like a first world problem. And indeed, it is.

But this frustrating moment represents the tip of an iceberg. An iceberg sabotaging the fundamentals of our society.

We claim to live a land with liberty and justice for all. And for the most part, we do. We are free to vote, work, and entertain ourselves as we see fit.

But the options we have when exercising that free choice? Those have a cost.

Consider governance. As a representative democracy, we elect leaders to run our country’s affairs on our behalf. Those elections are open to nearly every American adult, free of charge. And myriad efforts to restrict these rights have been quashed over time.

But the choices on our ballots? Those are not nearly as open as our right to choose from them.

Not just anyone can make a serious run for office. To be viable, you need sterling credentials, a semblance of name recognition, and money. A lot of money.

You don’t rise from nothing to become President in America. You just don’t.

The earliest occupants of the office – our Founding Fathers – were wealthy plantation owners. Despite humble origins, Abraham Lincoln gained acclaim as a lawyer before pursuing the White House.

Even modern-day outsider candidates — Barack Obama and Ronald Reagan — had a leg up over everyday Americans. Obama earned a law degree from Harvard University, while Reagan earned acclaim as an actor. Each amassed a small fortune before even turning to politics, let alone pursuing the highest office in the land.

Make no mistake. Politics is awash in money. Money provided by special interest groups, by mega-donors, and by the politicians themselves. There’s a reason why the size of a candidate’s war chest matters as much as their poll numbers.

This creates a contradiction.

When we step into that voting booth, we exercise free choice. Free choice among options who paid to play.

The people whose names are on that ballot don’t seem much like us or relate to our lived experience. If we were to draft a list of who would best represent us, they likely wouldn’t make our Top 10.

And yet, here we are, left to choose between them. To decide whether Option 11 or Option 14 should be our Number 1.

We might want tacos, but we’re offered enchiladas or fajitas.

Free choice carries quite the cost. Make no mistake about that.

That’s just the way it is. Some things will never change. That’s just the way it is. Yeah, but don’t you believe them.

Bruce Hornsby and the Range rose to the top of the Billboard Hot 100 chart on the strength of those lyrics nearly four decades ago. Hornsby and his band found acclaim. And yes, they earned quite a bit of money in the process.

The central premise of those lyrics remains a work in progress. We are still working at breaking barriers, eliminating preconceptions, and defining what’s possible.

I believe in that work, and the mission underpinning it. But I also believe it’s critical for all of us to be clear-eyed about something fundamental.

We may have been bestowed the right of free choice. But the power contained within that right is minimal.

Sure, we can help determine who sits in the Oval Office. Sure, we can help determine which automaker sells the most vehicles.

But there are other forces — capitalist forces — that put those options on the table for us in the first place. And it’s within those forces where the true power lies.

It’s my sincere hope that someday, that process will be more accessible. That we’ll be able to determine what makes the menu, not just what we want to order from it.

But that’s a long way off.

In the meanwhile, maximizing the power of our free choice means getting comfortable with three words:

Follow the money.

I am. Are you?

What’s Productive

The car on the left goes first.

This mantra played in my head as my car idled at a red light.

I was 18 years old, and I had only held a driver’s license for a short time. Yet, I knew that the intersection I was waiting at was trouble.

A double turn lane merged onto a single lane road. And a race from the turn lanes to that single lane road would surely end up in a demolition derby.

The rules of the road stood paramount. The car on the left goes first.

On this day, I was the car in the leftmost turn lane. But the car on my right had tinted windows and was blasting loud music.

These weren’t the trappings of a rule follower. But I still trusted the rule. And I expected them to carry the day.

When the light turned green, I bolted through intersection — only to find the other vehicle in my way.

Suddenly, I was getting pushed across the double yellow line toward oncoming traffic. I had no choice but to back off.

After a few moments, the road widened back into two lanes. Fuming, I cut into the new lane, speeding past the car that had just cut me off. On the way by, I flashed my middle finger at the driver.

I’d gotten the last word. Or so I thought.

It turned out there was a red light up ahead. And as I brought my car to a stop, the other car pulled up beside me.

The driver rolled down his window and motioned for me to lower mine. As I did, I noticed his tattoos and his chains.

This guy was from the streets. I was a feeble teenager.

I was no match. Still, I was indignant.

So, when the other driver shouted What’s your problem? at me, I shot back with aplomb.

You can’t do that. I had the right-of-way. You could’ve gotten me killed.

Shut up! the other responded, adding some profanities for emphasis. Then the light turned green, and he drove off.

By the time I got home, I was in a rage. How could this other driver do the wrong thing and then yell at me about it? Was there any justice in this world?

Still, as I recounted this tale to my parents, they looked concerned. I was lucky to be alive, they said. And I should’ve been more careful with my indignation.

This wasn’t about right or wrong, they stated. It was about what was productive.

Getting in a shouting match over blame would not yield a better outcome. If anything, it would cause further problems.

It would be better to focus on what could propel me forward.

It’s been half my life since I got that pep talk. And while I occasionally get a bit hot under the collar while behind the wheel, I’ve tended to avoid altercations. I know now that it does no one any good.

Yet, I’m far too alone in this thinking.

The Monday Morning Quarterback.

It’s an well-worn phrase in our society.

The day after a football game, onlookers will give their unsolicited opinion. They’ll state which playcalls were wrong, which throws should have gone to a different target, which rush attempts should have been executed differently.

Such punditry means to illustrate a point. If the team were to make the right decisions, it would see better results. This point would hold true regardless of the competition it was facing or the game scenarios it was up against.

This, of course, is all ludicrous. Hindsight is 20/20, and it’s often colored by the outcomes we observe. When the game is going on, that script is still being written. The options we see clearly in the morning light are fogged over in the heat of the moment.

But that hasn’t stopped Monday Morning Quarterbacking from catching fire. There are more than a dozen football games in each pro or college football season. And pundits will spend about 60 additional days reimagining the action.

Worse still, the Monday Morning Quarterback effect has spread to other facets of life. Many companies feature post-mortems to replay ventures gone sour. Congressional committees skewer officials from myriad industries about decisions gone wrong. Wall Street investors get spooked by isolated incidents, causing stock devaluations.

There’s a primal instinct behind these actions. An instinct to apportion blame and administer punishment.

Once those elements are doled out, we’ll theoretically be set. The pain of our loss will be alleviated. Justice will be served.

But something goes missing when we keep looking backward like this. Namely, a path forward.

Yes, Monday Morning Quarterbacking – of all types – is like my altercation with that street-hardened driver years ago. It’s anything but productive.

And it needs to change.

What’s next?

It’s a question we ask often when things are going right.

There’s always the next mountain to climb, the next challenge to embrace, the next puzzle to solve.

Such thinking keeps us productive. It diverts us from complacenty. It helps us strive toward better.

But it’s also created something of a double standard. One where improvement is exclusive to those who have their house in order.

We don’t ask What’s next? when things are going off the rails. Not initially, anyway.

We’re compelled to Monday Morning Quarterback the situation first. And the quest for blame and punishment only takes us further off-course. So much so that we rarely have the energy to pursue a path forward.

This is a problem. A problem that must be fixed.

It’s time to flip the order of operations. To put the What’s next? question front and center in every conversation and every circumstance. And to leave all the rest in the background.

Such a shift might not yield ready solutions. But it will get us in a mindset to properly pursue them. And it will keep us from mindlessly playing the blame game.

In other words, it will allocate our energy in the right places.

So, let’s reconsider our approach. Let’s make what’s productive paramount. And let’s see what impact this ethos has on our lives.

It surely will be a good one.

The Middle

Why don’t you meet me in the middle? I’m losing my mind just a little.

A song featuring those lyrics rocketed up the charts a few years back.

The tune is catchy. So catchy, in fact, that the words within it can easily get lost.

But anyone who does pay attention to those lyrics gets a clear call to action. A call to find common ground and restore peace.

That’s what the middle has become about. Compromise and sacrifice in the interest of the common good. Sensible solutions to our most divisive problems.

It sounds too good to be true. And indeed, it is.

The one thing we seem to agree on these days is to avoid the middle at all costs. To make the cookie into a donut.

That’s a problem. A bigger problem than we might even realize.

The bell curve.

It’s an iconic sight. One that many of us have seen in math classes or business meetings.

The bell curve resembles a mountain. It’s a line that starts flat and then quickly rises before falling back to earth.

This symmetrical graph is the gold standard of statistical modeling. It shows the normal distribution of data. An arrangement with the highest amount of records in the middle.

This is not a hack to make mathematicians’ lives easier. The normal distribution is a real phenomenon, backed by science and human nature.

The middle is built to carry the weight. It’s the sturdiest portion of any unit. It provides balance and a semblance of security.

The edges, by contrast, are the most exposed to the risks of the surrounding world. And clustering at those edges can cause an imbalance of critical mass. It could send the whole unit flying into danger.

With this knowledge in hand, we’ve long complied with the rules of statistics. We’ve traditionally clustered in the middle.

Our political views would trend moderate. Our religious zeal would remain understated. Our fashion would be anything but excessive.

We wouldn’t have it all this way. But we would have enough to get by with a degree of comfort.

Recently, that has changed. Emerging technologies have allowed fringe viewpoints to proliferate. New megaphones have allowed fringe thinkers to influence without reproach. And a decay in decorum has lessened the impact moderation.

The incentives for staying in the middle have gone away. And we’ve abandoned that space accordingly.
But I don’t think the hallmarks of polarization are totally to blame for this development.

There’s a bigger culprit in the mix.

Fifty-seven channels and nothin’ on.

That was the title of a Bruce Springsteen song from the early 1990s.

In less than a decade, cable TV had gone from a novelty to a joke. And now, The Boss was nailing the punch line.

The ridicule was warranted. These were the earliest days of modern entertainment. And the experience was clunky at best.

Yet, the cause of this shift is as real now as it was then. And it can be summed up in one word.

Boredom.

America has long had a problem with the center of its bell curve. That peak of the graph is commonly known as the middle class. Its members tend to have a comfortable life, steering clear of trouble and strife.

Still, it’s a boring existence in the middle. And that boredom carries a long shadow.
Our society, you see, has long been built on stories. On heroes and villains. On adversity and triumph. On rags and riches.

These stories enthrall us. So much so that we seek to emulate them.

But it’s hard to do that in the middle.

It’s not that the center-cut life lacks the themes of a good narrative. It’s just that those themes are watered-down.

Adversity is not existential. Power is not boundless. And attempts to trumpet these themes come off as trite.

And so, those in the middle must make a choice. Carry on with their monotonous lives. Or hurl themselves toward the edges.

All too often, they choose the latter.

This is the thinking that spurred cable television. This is the thinking that subsequently caused the Internet to proliferate. This is the thinking that ultimately propelled social media into orbit.

It’s what’s led extremes to become mainstream.

Boredom is the enemy. And the middle is untenable.

My roots lie in the middle.

I had a middle-class upbringing, marked by comfort but not excess. My family was moderate in every sense of the word.

There wasn’t much to write home about. Home itself was seemingly enough.

The middle offered plenty of opportunities, and I availed myself of them. But once I graduated college, my journey took a sharp turn.

Like many, I’d been captivated by the American narrative. Of self-sufficiency, of initiative, of perseverance. And I thrust myself toward the edges on a Quixotic quest to attain it.

This quest brought me to Texas, and to a career that barely paid above minimum wage. Adjusting to my new reality was jarring, but I eventually found my way.

Not long after this I went back to the drawing board. I moved to a new city and pursued a new career.
Starting over would prove to be right move. But it put me at the bottom of a new totem pole, forcing me to climb the ladder.

I initially took on that task with aplomb. But eventually, that changed.

I came to realize that I don’t need to be top dog. I came to recognize that the reward is offset by the grind it takes to get to the top.

The middle is fine enough. Idyllic really. There’s no need to yearn for anything more.

And so, I’ve been living that mantra ever since.

I think we all can find value in my journey, and my subsequent epiphany. The grass is not always greener on the other side. Sometimes the middle turns out to be what we needed all along.

Might such realizations cure our polarized vitriol? Might they stabilize our society?

I’m not sure. But I do know that a shift inward would provide a start.

Why don’t you just meet me in the middle? There’s much to be achieved there.