Sharing and Sacrifice

Can I have the TV room for a bit?

The question was innocent enough. But it made my blood curdle.

After all, I had been entrenched. Posted up on the couch, watching television. And now, I was getting booted from my perch, just so that my sister could watch her dumb show?

No way, no how. I refused.

My sister stomped off, quickly returning with my parents in tow. They explained that I had to share the TV room, and that meant ceding it in this instance. It was the decent thing to do, and the only thing to do.

I grumbled and stomped off to my room. The day was ruined.

Our society is of two minds.

We believe in individualism. We applaud self-sufficiency, initiative, and action.

Yet, we also believe in collectivism. In coming together to bask in the glow of our individual exploits.

I suppose this paradox mirrors that of nature. Even the most ancient of humans balanced hunting and gathering in their daily tasks.

And our own national lineage – that of settlers from faraway lands confronting a rugged terrain – also required such a shift.

But this dichotomy has not aged well.

The modern world has tipped the scales toward the individual. These days, it’s easier to strike out on our own without encountering a grizzly bear or a gang of bandits. We can get what we need and fend off danger.

Still, our collective tendencies have stuck around. More for tradition’s sake than anything else.

There are still plenty of restaurants that offer family-style meals. There are still holidays centered on mingling with loved one. There are still pressures to align ourselves with groups – whether civic, religious, or social.

The dichotomy this creates can be dizzying. We’re forced to tiptoe between two extremes — between go get it and let’s share.

It’s not easy to walk this tightrope. And the penalties for a misstep can be severe.

Be the CEO of your own life.

I can’t recall where I first heard that advice. But I’ve taken it to heart.

When it comes to my day-to-day, I take a business-like approach. I manage budgets, plan meals, and set actionable goals. I’m intentional about how I spend my time and who I share company with.

I lean on individualism to execute on all this. I put a lot on my own shoulders just to get by. But as an introvert, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Still, my quest does hit choppy waters from time to time. This is most notable when my journey barges through society’s collectivist tripwires.

Perhaps I stay in during a holiday. Perhaps I don’t eat anything at a banquet-style feast. Perhaps I duck out of a get-together before a board game is unfurled on the table.

I catch an inordinate amount of grief for these actions. I’m accused of not being a team player. I’m accosted for hurting others’ feelings. Or I’m told that no one should be alone on an occasion like this – essentially, that my own desires to do just that are invalid.

These rebukes are to be expected.

Marketing guru Seth Godin has frequently defined culture as People like us do things like this. And my actions often fly in the face of that mantra. Of course I’m going to hear about it.

The remedy to this situation might seem straightforward. I could just suck it up. I could share more, participate more, prioritize the collective over the invididual.

But it’s never that simple, is it?

I often think back to the day when I was booted from the TV room. It still gnaws at me.

Whatever I missed when I ceded the couch wasn’t all that important. And my sister was right in asking me to share the family television.

But the was a subtle demand under that ask is what bugs me.

Namely, the demand for a sacrifice.

For me to share TV access that day, I’d have to sacrifice control of the remote. This reality was unambiguous.

And this latent demand was far from unique. In fact, it underlies many other sharing scenarios we encounter.

Preparing for a long weekend? Get ready to account for who you spent your time with.

Attending a banquet? Be prepared to sacrifice your dietary preferences.

Participating in a social function? Don’t expect control over the agenda.

Sharing and sacrifice are intertwined. We might only speak to one half of the equation, but the other half is omnipresent.

This arrangement might be well-intentioned. But it’s not doing any of us any favors.

And the evidence is piling up.

In the early days of the COVID pandemic, civic officials shared a familiar refrain.

We all need to sacrifice our routines for the common good.

The specifics of the sacrifice varied by the situation. Sometimes it referred to putting on a face mask in public or staying home entirely. Other times it meant cancelling gatherings or sequestering ourselves from loved ones.

This was all to help keep a novel virus at bay. And yet, the refrain landed like a pile of bricks.

Some people still wanted to gather and to share in tradition, virus risk be damned. Others were cowering in fear of infection, and pointing the finger at anyone who didn’t share their view.

Divides widened. Trust plummeted. And we’re still dealing with the fallout, all these years later.

Scholars will likely spend years determining why this civic communication went so wrong. But I think the answer lies in the first five words of their refrain: We all need to sacrifice.

Sacrifice, you see, is a personal act. When we give something up, we feel it viscerally.

No one else can even pretend to understand that feeling. That loss is ours alone to bear.

As such, the most effective sacrifices are intrinsically driven. We feel the pull of a higher calling. And we part with something we care about to meet that calling.

Sharing is a natural biproduct of this process. But the choice to sacrifice — that comes from us.

This process can’t be reverse engineered. Telling us to sacrifice just won’t get the same buy-in. Neither will hiding such demands behind the virtues of sharing.

I’m not quite sure we fully recognize this point. And that needs to change.

It’s time for us to explicitly link sharing and sacrifice. And it’s time to make these attributes opt-in, rather than obligatory.

These actions won’t fix everything. But they’ll cauterize the wounds of our current approach. And they’ll plant the seeds for a more sustainable culture of sharing.

These are results we can stand behind. Let’s make them reality.

Break in the Chain

I ripped open the bag, pulling out a sandwich and placing it on my kitchen counter.

Instantly, I stopped in my tracks.

The bag had my name on the outside of it. But the sandwich wrapper sported someone else’s name.

I pulled away the wrapper and took a closer look.

Nope! This was definitely not my sandwich.

Suddenly, I had a dilemma on my hands.

Do I return to the sandwich shop and alert them to the mix-up? Do I eat someone else’s sandwich? Do I just throw it away and eat the cost?

I ultimately went with the first option, heading back to the shop and making a mild scene. An attendant quickly fixed the issue.

I took a seat at a table near the cash register. Then, I devoured the newly-made sandwich like a ravenous dog.

On the way back home, I checked my mailbox.

To my dismay, the package I’d ordered weeks ago still hadn’t arrived.

I walked in the front door and jumped on my computer. It was time to get to the bottom of this.

The package’s tracking number had separate two delivery services tied to it. One service was supposed to hand off the package to the other during the delivery process. But there was no proof that this had been done.

I tried to reach out to each delivery service. One didn’t allow me to fill out a contact form at all. The other sought to wipe their hands of the whole ordeal.

Eventually, I was able to fill out a missing package form. I received an automated response that my claim “would be looked into.”

I’d spent hours my evening dealing with this issue. And yet, I was seemingly back where I started.

We’re in the golden age.

How often have we heard this in recent years?

Technology has turned science fiction into reality. We can buy clothes from our home or order food delivery with a single tap on our smartphones.

New horizons of logistics have helped deliver on these promises. Streamlined fulfillment has raised the bar for what businesses can deliver, and what we can expect.

Yes, the entire process is set up to just work. There’s no need to worry about what happens when we hit that Order button. We’ll get what we’re looking for. Guaranteed.

But what if we don’t?

It’s a question that we don’t consider. But maybe we should.

Make that definitely we should.

Nothing is foolproof.

You can take those three words to the bank.

Machines glitch. Humans falter. The tightest of supply chains can get gummed up. All despite our best efforts to avoid these scenarios.

Advanced technology and logistics can aid our cause, of course. Streamlined processes can reduce the chances of bad outcomes. But those same processes can expand the ways such bad outcomes can appear.

Take my sandwich adventure as an example. The mistake was innocuous enough. An attendant simply put a sandwich in the wrong bag. But when you add an automated ordering system to the mix, the fallout only grows.

How so? Consider the following.

For decades, there have been two ways to resolve sandwich mix-ups. The recipients could swap the misdirected sandwiches on their own. Or the sandwich shop could recreate the orders and distribute them properly.

Each process would be easy to pull off, right there at sandwich shop counter. But neither was available to me.

I ordered my sandwich ahead of time through the establishment’s smartphone app. The associates fulfilled the order – incorrectly, as it turns out – placed it in a paper bag and taped it shut. Then they left it on a Mobile Order shelf.

I picked up the bag from the shelf and brought it home before I unsealed it. That proved to be a mistake on my part. But even if I’d checked the order while inside the sandwich shop, it wouldn’t have fixed the issue.

For the man whose sandwich I received placed his order through a food delivery service. He was never going to set foot in the shop, under any circumstances. So, he’d face quite the ordeal to get what he ordered into his hands.

One simple mistake yielding two complex resolution paths hardly seems efficient. But all too often, it’s the new reality.

Nothing is foolproof. Whether we care to admit it or not.

In the early 2000s, an ecommerce company was all the rage.

The company was called Zappos, and it sold a wide selection of shoes online.

There were many attributes consumers liked about Zappos. The convenience of shopping from home. The wide selection of shoe brands. The competitive prices.

But what truly made the company stand apart was its customer service.

Throughout its heyday, Zappos had a dedicated customer support hotline. The number was easily visible on its website, and it would ring through to real representatives. These representatives would occasionally stay on the line with customers for hours – all to ensure their concerns were met.

This was far from the most efficient use of support staff. Yet, the Zappos brass refused to waver from this structure.

Zappos recognized that while its ecommerce operating model was efficient, it was not foolproof. And if there was a break in the chain, it would take hard work to get back on track.

The company’s customer service model absorbed most of this burden. It provided customers peace of mind, even if they were jilted by a shipping mishap or similar malady. And over time, this commitment helped garner consumer trust.

The Zappos model no longer exists. Amazon acquired the company years ago and did away with the customer service hotline.

They weren’t alone.

Relatively few companies offer any form of live support these days. Even finding an online contact form can prove tricky. I learned this the hard way when I tried to track down my missing delivery item.

This is a problem. A major problem.

It’s bad enough for businesses to gaslight the populace, claiming all is well when the house is actually on fire. But to take consumer money without delivering the goods — that’s a rupture in a fundamental promise.

A break in the chain is no excuse for businesses to get off Scot free. Promises must be kept.

Refusing such obligations is illegal. Deflecting them is immoral. Throwing gauntlets ahead of them is unethical.

These tactics need to end. Immediately.

The Zappos model of the early 2000s may be gone. But it shouldn’t be forgotten.

Customer service matters. Now more than ever.

Our world is filled with electronic data. Information stored in encoded bits and bytes.

And most of these data – the trillions of exabytes of information – reside in the cloud.

The cloud is essentially a logistics system. A network of data servers that can send information though a wireless connection.

There are many advantages to this model – including the function of redundancies.

Yes, the cloud can store copies of our data in multiple locations. That way, if something happens to one physical server – a power outage or a natural disaster, for instance – our data doesn’t go down with the ship. It’s still available to us.

Redundancies are, by nature, inefficient. And embedding them into a system that streamlines data storage might seem contradictory at first.

But their inclusion underscores a golden rule of systems management: When there is a break in the chain, efficiency descends in priority.

Yes, the data redundancy feature is an insurance policy of sorts. A preemptive, productive response to a break in the chain. It’s a feature, not a bug.

It’s high time for the rest of our systems to adopt this thinking.

No chain is foolproof. Nothing just works.

We need better answers for the worst-case scenarios. Let’s find them, and let’s deploy them.

Sooner, not later.

What’s Left to Prove?

This is where the cowboy rides away.

I heard this verse from across the arena, and I knew what it meant.

This would be the last song of this George Strait concert. Because it was the last song of every George Strait concert.

No use demanding an encore. Best to prepare to give The King a proper sendoff.

Up on stage, Strait crooned the familiar tune. As always, he was sporting boots, Wrangler jeans, a Western shirt, and a Stetson hat.

When it was all over, Strait smiled and waved to the screaming crowd. Then he left the stage.

The cowboy really was riding away.

There’s a home décor sign that’s popular across Texas.

It reads:

Unless you’re God or George Strait, take off your boots in this home.

Yes, The King is worshipped in his native Lone Star State. And the same is true outside its borders.

Why is that?

It’s not as if George Strait revolutionized country music. Perhaps the most radical thing he’s done was cover a Mexican corrido.

No, it’s the adherence to custom that’s made The King such a superstar. George Strait brought Western traditions into the modern era and introduced them to the masses.

Everything about his presence has remained intentional. Even as other country stars now show up on stage in tank tops or trucker hats, Strait has maintained his signature look. Instead of prancing around the stage like a showman, he’s simply picked at his guitar and sang. And at the end of each show, he’s ridden off into the sunset like the Western heroes of old.

George Strait has nothing left to prove. And he couldn’t care less if you felt different.

That is the stuff of legend in Texas. And that is why George Strait is the only human allowed to keep his boots on in every Lone Star home.

When I saw George Strait in concert, I was mesmerized by his presence. All these years later, it remains the greatest concert I’ve ever attended.

Still, I couldn’t relate well with his persona. The understated confidence. The utter lack of edginess.

It was everything I wasn’t.

You see, when I set foot in that arena, my life was in turmoil. I’d left my first career behind and moved to another city. Money was low and tensions were high.

My confidence had been depleted by a prolonged job search. And the chip on my shoulder grew with every passing day.

I had something to prove to everyone — most of all myself. And there was no guarantee I’d get that opportunity.

Fortunately, my situation did improve. I ultimately landed a job and worked my way up the ladder in a new line of work. My bank account stabilized. My confidence grew.

And yet, I never quite lost my edginess. I never stopped feeling as if I had something to prove.

Until recently.

I’m an avid runner.

Passion plays a large role in my tendency to hit the pavement. As do the health benefits of exercise. But the burden of proof also looms large.

It turns out I have innate running talent. I’ve finished in the top 10 percent of all competitors in each race I’ve entered as an adult. And I’ve posted some blistering times during those competitions.

These accolades have only driven me to dig deeper and train harder. There are always higher levels of achievement I can unlock. There’s always more to prove.

At least that’s what I’ve told myself.

However, this quest has hit a snag lately, as I’ve dealt with a boatload of injuries.

The wake of these unfortunate incidents has seemed hauntingly familiar. I’ve found myself low on confidence and with plenty of work ahead. It’s all I need to put a Texas sized chip on my shoulder.

And yet, I have none.

I remain dedicated to regaining my form. But whether I ultimately exceed my prior abilities or fall short of them, I will be satisfied.

I have no desire to prove anything – to myself or those around me. That evidence is already etched in stone.

The same goes for everything outside of running. The obsession with proving myself professionally and personally has faded away. In its place lies a silent satisfaction.

This has all been a bit jarring to witness, even as I pull the strings. After all, my edginess has gotten me to this point. And now I’m willingly killing the golden goose.

Still, my running injuries have underscored the risks of the Prove It approach. By driving myself so forcefully and relentlessly, I’ve risked driving myself into the ground.

My accomplishments would be canceled out in such a scenario. My abilities would be wasted. My joie de vivre would be extinguished.

I want no part of that fate.

So, I’ve found solace in what I’ve built and accomplished. I’ve put that insatiable demand for more on the back burner.

What’s left to prove? For me, not much.

And that’s OK.

Now and then, I’ll meet with a financial professional.

These discussions are relatively standard. A recap of my medium-term goals. A review of my investments. And a discussion of my plans for retirement.

That last part always makes me squirm.

Now, retirement is in no way imminent for me. I am decades away from the big day.

And yet, I wish it was even further off.

My desire is to work as long as I live. Not for the money or the prestige. But so that I have something to do.

That old Bible verse that reads Idle hands are the devils workshop? I feel it in my soul.

There is always more to accomplish. More to offer. More to prove.

But perhaps my recent shift in perspective can challenge this maxim. Perhaps it can help me take a more productive path forward. Both with my far-off retirement, and with everything that comes before it.

Such a shift would certainly impact my life. But it needn’t be exclusive.

That’s why I’m sharing it here.

The chip on our shoulder can sharpen our edge. But that blade can cut both ways.

The insatiable drive to prove ourselves can drag us down just as quickly as it lifts us up. It can make our lives seem like empty vessels. It can shatter our confidence, break our will, and lay waste to hope.

It’s our obligation to get off this train before it jumps the tracks. To determine what well enough is. And to leave well enough alone.

This approach does more than benefit us. It benefits everyone in our orbit. And that’s an outcome worth striving for.

I’m proud to have made this shift. Will you join me?

The Second Chance Mirage

On a late October night in 2011, I watched a baseball game from a TV news studio.

The evening newscast I’d worked on had just wrapped up. But the World Series game that was airing on a different channel had not.

One of the teams in that World Series was the Texas Rangers. They were the “local” team – as the city I was in didn’t have a big-league squad. They were also my favorite team.

The game was nearly over, and the Rangers had a lead. A win would mean the team’s first-ever championship.

And so, I watched intently on a flatscreen next to the anchor podium. My colleagues gathered around me, ready to celebrate.

The Rangers got to within one pitch of sealing the win. But the opposing batter swung at that pitch and drove the ball to the outfield.

It looked like Texas’ outfielder might catch the ball to win the title. But it eluded his glove and rolled to the outfield wall. Two runners scored. The game was tied.

The Texas Rangers would go on to lose the game, and ultimately the World Series. It was a gut punch, but I refused to hang my head.

It’s alright, I told myself. They’ll be back real soon, and these guys will get it done.

How wrong I was.

The mulligan.

It’s a time-honored tradition.

Golfers have long requested a mulligan – essentially a do-over – if one of their shots went awry. And that practice has extended beyond the course in recent years.

A second chance provides hope. Hope for a better outcome. Hope for redemption.

But winning strategies are not built on hope. And they shouldn’t be built on second chances either.

Opportunities, you see, are not governed by our control. We can put ourselves in position to seize them should they arise. But there’s no guarantee they will.

This is doubly true for second opportunities. To get another bite of the apple, we need everything to align just right. And that rarely happens.

We can talk about doing better next time. But expecting there to be a next time is foolhardy.

The randomness of all this can be cruel. There are surely some who seize their third, fourth, even fifth chances. All while others are left with the memories of the one that got away.

But such is life.

Don’t be fooled. The mulligan is anything but an inevitability.

When I was in college, I wrecked my car.

Like so many accidents, the specifics of this crash were complicated. But the state of my vehicle was unambiguous. It was totaled.

In the days after the wreck, I called in favors to get from my house to campus and back. But I knew this wasn’t a strategy that would last long-term. And I was way too poor to buy a new car.

Just as panic started to cloud my mind, my parents called. They had recently bought a new sedan. And they’d had planned on surprising me with their old one as a graduation gift. But given the recent events, they’d decided to move that timeline up.

My father told me he’d bring the car down to me on one condition. This would be the only car gifted to me. If I wrecked it, I’d be on my own.

It would have been all too easy to ignore this warning. After all, second chances were all around me.

The federal government had recently bailed out the banking system and major automakers. Many of my classes allowed me to drop my lowest test score to boost my grade.

Still, I knew my father wasn’t kidding. So, I took his words as gospel. And I made the most of my opportunity.

I consistently played it safe behind the wheel. I drove defensively and strove to avoid risks. By the time I traded in the car six years later, it had nary a scratch on it.

By then, I was a full-fledged adult, with a steady income and an unwavering sense of responsibility. I’d come to recognize that second chances didn’t grow on trees. While I could make some minor mistakes, I could not blow the opportunities I was given.

For if I did, there’d be few chances at redemption.

Not long before this article was posted, the Texas Rangers broke through.

The team returned to the World Series and claimed its first championship.

Jubilation abounded. The Rangers had made the most of their second chance.

But had they really?

If you ran a quick check, you’d find exactly zero players from that 2011 team on the championship roster. Only one coach was on both squads.

Those guys who I thought would get back to the World Series and get it done — well, they never did. An entirely different group broke through. One unencumbered by the past.

Yes, this was the first opportunity on the big stage for many players. Others had succeeded under the bright lights before. Hardly any needed redemption.

It was the rest of us — the owners, the field staff, the broadcasters, and the fans — who yearned for another opportunity. But we didn’t swing a bat or throw a pitch. We never crossed the chalk lines into the field of play.

Our contribution was passionate, but it was ultimately passive.

Such is the nature of the second chance mirage. Lightning might strike twice, but it will rarely incinerate the same dirt both times.

We are more transitory than the structures we build. That makes it challenging for the moment to find us again. And that causes second chances to go up in smoke.

Yes, counting on mulligans is like wishing on stars. The return on our investment is low.

It’s far better for us to focus on seizing the moment at hand. On making the most of our opportunity the first time around. And on turning the page should things fail to work out.

This is sustainable. This is realistic. This is the most prudent way forward.

I’m ready to make this shift. Are you?

This, Not That

I stepped into the simulator bay and set a golf ball down on the turf. With a deep breath and a mighty swing, I sent it skyward.

The ball’s rising arc was quickly interrupted by the simulator’s backdrop. The screen took over from there, projecting it partway down an imaginary fairway. The ball – now virtual – took a hop and rolled for a bit before coming to a stop.

As I paused to admire my handiwork, I heard a voice from behind me.

That’s a good start. But try not to let your hips fly open. And make sure your arms don’t drift backward.

I took another hack, trying to internalize what I’d just heard. But the swing resulted in a dead duck.

The ball squirted feebly ahead for a few yards, barely gracing the backdrop with its presence.

OK, let’s try this, the voice responded, now close to my right ear. I turned to see my golf instructor pointing to the inside of my right arm.

See your triceps there? Imagine there’s a magnet connecting it to your side. As you swing, make sure you don’t lose that connection.

I took a deep breath and readied myself for another hack. And as I swung, everything was different.

The ball rose majestically off my club face, soaring much further down the virtual fairway than before. My instructor seemed satisfied.

Better. Much better.

I learned a couple things on that afternoon.

How to swing a golf club competently. But also, how best to internalize instruction.

Yes, it turned out that I did much better when I was told what to do, than what not to do.

When I was instructed about what to avoid, I’d tense up. I’d be tentative and get in my own way.

But when I was told what to focus on, I’d zone in. I’d incorporate improvements effortlessly, and I’d iterate my technique with fluidity. Results would inevitably follow.

This realization was a game changer.

On subsequent trips to the driving range or the golf course, my swing would occasionally get out of whack. But when it did, I wouldn’t get flustered. I’d calmly tell myself Keep that triceps connected. And I’d get back on track.

The same rule applied to life away from a golf club. If I was given a roadmap forward, I’d fare far better than I would with an edict of avoidance.

Do this resonated far better than not that.

Carrots and sticks.

It’s become a trope for leadership.

As best I can tell, this phrase originated in the horseback era. An angry owner might have flogged his steed as punishment for poor performance. But if the horse acted as expected, that same owner might have rewarded it with a carrot.

Horses, of course, are no longer a primary means of transportation. But in the realm of power wielding, the carrots and sticks debate persists.

Some of the powerful assert their influence through deterrence. Others inspire a following through benevolence.

Each has proven effective in certain group settings. But when it comes to individual improvement, the carrot stands apart.

Growth, you see, cannot be spurred by the heel of a boot or the buckle of a belt. Fear of suffering will not speed up evolution. It will only clutter our mind and make us hesitant.

To know the way, we must be shown it. And as we follow down that path, the reinforcement can help fortify us.

We can become more self-assured. We can build muscle memory. And we can see the full picture.

Then, and only then, can we focus on erasing the stray brush strokes. On eschewing what doesn’t fit in favor of what does.

The carrot must precede the stick. Do this must come before not that.

I made plenty of mistakes during my childhood.

Nothing critical, mind you. Just a large dose of youthful indiscretion.

When I erred, I’d often turn toward my father with my shoulders slumped. I’d fess up to what I’d done and prepare to face the music.

Each time though, his response would be the same.

What will you do differently next time?

This would inevitably catch me off guard. And I wouldn’t always have a response.

But the question was less a test than an invitation. An invitation to dialogue.

My father would coach me up. He’d remind me that I’d likely come across the same scenario in the future. And he’d help me formulate a sound game plan for that eventuality.

Then he would end the conversation with a warning.

Don’t make the same mistake twice.

I’d be lying if I understood this method in the moment. Truth be told, I thought I was getting away with my mess-ups.

I’d heard so many stories of friends and classmates getting grounded for their mistakes — or worse. Hadn’t I deserved that fate too?

But now, I recognize what my father was doing. As a longtime teacher, he was using his professional and parenting skills to help me grow. All while keeping me accountable.

Now, there is no one-size-fits-all manual for parenting, managing, or mentorship. Our experiences and styles diverge. But I do think that the pattern my father displayed has broad potential. Potential that is all too often left uncovered.

You see, we are overly obsessed with mistakes. They’re unfortunate, unsightly, and can cause downstream effects.

But mishaps, flaws, errors — they don’t occur in a vacuum. There’s so much more below the surface that can precipitate a wrong step. So much that will remain if we simply kill the visible part with fire.

We can’t adequately address the root cause that way. Removing all that’s wrong won’t necessarily lead us to what’s right.

It’s simply not that intuitive.

We need new seeds to supplant the unruly weeds of our garden. We need a torch to illuminate our path through the wilderness.

We need a guide for our journey. A guide who can help us find our own way.

We need do this before not that.

So, lets change our approach. Let’s reset our focus.

Let’s put ourselves on the best possible path to sustained success.

An Ode to Incrementalism

As I made my way through the cavern, I felt something hit my left shoulder.

It was cold, wet, and gray. And it was now sitting on my favorite shirt.

With an exasperated sigh, I moved to rid myself of the moisture. But as I did, my father cautioned me.

Don’t be so quick to wipe it away. That’s history in the making.

Indeed, the cavern we were traversing was formed by actions like this. The slow drip by drip of water eating away at a limestone core — over millions of years.

This all happened out of sight and out of mind. That is, until an intrepid explorer discovered the cavern this process had created.

That nearly finished product was what we were now witnessing. Its promise had lured us off the highway and compelled us to pay an exorbitant entrance fee. Its grandiosity was the selling point.

The methodical path the cavern took to this moment was hardly worth noting.

But perhaps it should have been.

On January 9, 2007, Steve Jobs stepped onto the stage at the MacWorld Conference in San Francisco.

The Apple co-founder quickly rattled through some of the company’s greatest innovations – the Macintosh and the iPod. Then, roughly two minutes later, he introduced the iPhone.

Some have called this moment transformative. They’ve framed it as a moment where the world as we knew it ceased, and better future entered the fray. A future driven by a breakthrough piece of technology.

There is some truth undergirding these claims. Smartphones have changed the ways we work, shop, socialize, and interact. And the iPhone will always be considered the original smartphone.

But make no mistake. Its launch was no moonshot. It was a master class in incrementalism.

Long before Jobs took the stage, iPhone components were in our hands. Plenty of people had cell phones. Many had portable music players as well. And Internet on the go wasn’t exactly scarce — assuming you had a laptop computer.

Some devices — like the Palm Pilot and the Blackberry — had already brought a couple of these features together. No one had offered the full enchilada, but the groundwork was certainly there.

The iPhone, then, was a next step in the cycle. A sleek, fancy next step. But a next step, nonetheless.

Jobs’ own presentation made mention of this. He first told the audience that Apple would be unveiling three products – a widescreen iPod, a mobile phone, and an Internet browser. Then, he mentioned that those three products would actually be one product.

This is how the iPhone made its debut. As incrementalism defined.

We’ve come a long way since the launch of the iPhone.

Technology has evolved. Apple has grown. Steve Jobs has left us.

And yet, we continue to delude ourselves.

We remain fascinated by the mirage of sudden breakthroughs. And we willfully ignore the incremental work that makes them happen.

The instant gratification, the quick fix, the answered prayer — they’re all big parts our lexicon. The gradual build-up is not.

This baffles me.

It’s no secret that the world around is evolving, just as our bodies and our minds are evolving. Why are we so tempted to hit Pause and Fast Forward on that process? Why can’t we let the process play out as it is?

Are we lazy? Fearful of boredom? Overwhelmed by the magnitude of it all?

I don’t know. But it’s time we say goodbye to this nonsense. It’s time to give incrementalism its due.

On the second day of my professional life, I strutted into the newsroom at a West Texas television station.

Day 1 had been a whirlwind, filled with onboarding and training. But now, it was Go Time.

Hopped up on adrenaline, I was ready to spend hours putting together the 5 PM newscast.

But it was a summer Friday in a small town. Action was light, and the newscast was fully assembled within 40 minutes. There’d be plenty of time to kill before 5 PM rolled around.

My co-workers started talking about their weekend plans. As the new guy in town, I had none. So, I started daydreaming about my future.

I thought about where I’d be in a month and in a year. I imagined that one day between now and then, everything would just click. The hard times would be over, and the fear buried beneath my bravado would evaporate.

It’s been close to 15 years since that moment. And none of what I imagined has come to pass.

I’ve made a ton of progress — both professionally and personally. I’ve established myself in a different career and put myself on a footing to live comfortably. I’ve made new friends, mastered new hobbies, and gained new competencies.

But none of this happened overnight. There was no breakthrough moment when everything just fell into place.

There was just a long, slow march.

Incrementalism has been the drumbeat of my life. And I’m better for it.

For it has allowed me to build, to grow, to iterate. It’s kept my gains from being unsustainable. It’s kept my mistakes from being catastrophic.

Accepting this subtlety has been critical. It’s helped me commit to better without obsessing over the goalposts. It’s allowed me to embrace the journey even more than the destination.

The future is uncertain, and anxiety is inherent in uncertainty. But incrementalism has gotten me here. And I’m confident it will help drive me forward.

Eight years ago this week, I did something bold.

I established the publication now known as Ember Trace. And I published my first article.

This was as close to a breakthrough moment as I’ve had in my life. Ember Trace seemingly appeared on the Internet out of thin air. (In reality, I took some steps behind the scenes to make it happen.)

And that first article — that first time shipping my words to the world — that was indeed a cathartic moment for me.

But every week since then, I’ve made a commitment. A commitment to share fresh words, fresh ideas, and fresh thoughts. Whether my week has been good or bad, slow or busy, I’ve taken the time to add a fresh article — for 418 weeks now.

This exercise in incrementalism has built Ember Trace into a bona fide publication. And it’s built me up as well.

There’s no question that the words shared here are crisper, deeper, and more polished than they were eight years ago. I have grown as a thinker and a writer. You, my dear audience, have grown as readers as well.

What a testament to the power of incrementalism this is. Week by week, we’ve built this structure together. It’s stronger and more profound that it’s ever been. And it only stands to get even stronger over time.

I am grateful for your support, for your time, and for your subtle embrace of the incremental. Let’s see what more we can build together, brick by brick.

Load Management

Have you heard the news?

My colleague spoke in hushed tones, alarm palpable in her voice.

I wondered what this news could be. I was about to head to my first Milwaukee Bucks game, so it was probably basketball related.

Did the Bucks trade a player away? Did someone get hurt during practice? I brimmed with anticipation.

Giannis Antetokounmpo is sitting the game out, my colleague replied. So is Khris Middleton. Load management.

Antetokounmpo and Middleton were Milwaukee’s two best players. They weren’t hurt, but they were sitting out anyway – all part of a ploy by Milwaukee coaches to keep them fresh.

The upshot was that I’d still be going to the Bucks game, but not getting the full experience. What I would later witness was a narrow victory over an inferior opponent.

I did my best to take this in stride. I was only in town for a few days for work. There was no option to go to a different Bucks game.

Yet, something about the situation didn’t sit right with me. It still doesn’t.

More than a decade before that game in Milwaukee, a friend and I boarded a coach bus bound for a snowy parking lot in New Jersey. We were headed to see the Los Angeles Lakers play the New Jersey Nets.

The Nets were historically bad that year, and tickets were historically affordable. My friend and I weren’t going to miss our chance to see Kobe Bryant play in person for the first time.

Kobe did indeed suit up in the Lakers vaunted purple and gold uniforms. From the upper deck, we watched him pour in 29 points to lead Los Angeles to a road victory.

It was never in doubt.

And yet, if that game had taken place a decade later, it wouldn’t have been such a sure thing. With a winter storm raging outside the arena, an overmatched opponent across the court, and six days to go until a Christmas showdown on national television, maybe Kobe would have been held out of action.

Our tickets would have been devalued. The opportunity to see an all-time great stolen away from us.

This hypothetical is reality these days, as my Milwaukee experience showed. Load management is as much a part of basketball as the pick and roll.

The movement is driven primarily by math.

With half of all National Basketball Association teams making the playoffs each year, the regular season has become a formality. The teams who can rattle off 16 wins in the postseason get all the glory — no matter how many victories they racked up in the preceding six months.

Health and energy are paramount for this quest. And a challenging schedule — featuring several games on back-to-back days and long flights to faraway cities — threatens to deplete star players before the spring hits full swing.

So, teams turn the tide by sitting star players now and then. They hope the rest rejuvenates these key contributors without leaving them rusty upon their return.

The practice has enveloped pro basketball, and it’s shifted to other sports as well.

This pattern seems to map to those of corporate America. Employees in that world are encouraged to take time off ahead of busy season. That way, they’re rejuvenated for crunch time.

But corporate workers don’t perform their duties in front of thousands of paying fans. Their desks are not broadcast to the world. And their bosses are the only ones scrutinizing their off time.

The comparison is apples and oranges. But it all might be moot.

Back in 2007, the Dallas Cowboys had a dominant season.

Dallas won 13 of its first 15 games, wrapping up prime positioning for the postseason, including an automatic bye through the first round of games. With little to play for in the regular season finale, the Cowboys held out most of their star players — effectively giving them two weeks off.

Two weeks later, the Dallas Cowboys returned to their home field against the rival New York Giants, who they’d beaten twice during the fall. But the third time was the charm for New York, who looked sharper and more desperate.

The Giants took the game. The Cowboys were left with nothing.

In the days after Dallas’ playoff loss, the tabloids were buzzing. During the off week, quarterback Tony Romo had traveled to a resort in Mexico with his then-girlfriend — pop star Jessica Simpson — and two of his teammates. The ill-timed vacation had quashed the Cowboys intensity, dooming the season. Or so the pundits said.

It all sounded sensational. But this might not have been too far off track.

You see, for all the “conventional wisdom” about employees taking some time away before crunch time, there’s little evidence of its effectiveness. In fact, many employees return to the fray out of sync. They’re a step behind heading into a critical moment in their professional life.

Why should we expect this to be any different for professional athletes, who face off against elite competition week after week?

We shouldn’t. And the 2007 Cowboys show us why.

This is why I can’t get on board with load management. It’s not just the coddling of multimillionaire athletes that rubs me the wrong way. It’s also the ineptitude of the mission itself.

Sports leagues are finally starting to crack down on load management. They’re drafting new protocols for player rest, hoping the restrictions allow fans to witness the feats of stars in-person.

But why rely on a set of rules to set everyone straight? Karma itself is a powerful teacher.

The 2007 Dallas Cowboys are but one example of a top-billed team stumbling after a bout of load management. It’s happened at least seven more times in pro football since then, and three times in baseball.

And load management ultimately did in the Milwaukee Bucks. Not two months after I saw their “B Squad” in action, the “A Team” fell in the second round of the playoffs.

These are the outcomes we know about, of course. How many similar flameouts have taken place in corporate offices, after load management efforts went awry? Likely hundreds.

Have we not seen enough?

It’s time to recognize that rest vs. rust is a fallacy. It’s time to accept that load management is self-sabotage. And it’s time to chart a better course of action.

Whether we perform under the lights or far away from the glare, the world expects much of us. And it’s on us to deliver.

There are no shortcuts to success. Act accordingly.

The Motivation Play

It’s a scene that’s hard to forget.

Midway through the 2013 film The Wolf of Wall Street, the main character – Jordan Belfort – stands in front of a set of office windows, facing dozens of his employees. Belfort – played by Leonardo DiCaprio – is sporting a fancy suit and has a microphone in his hands.

In a raucous speech that would make football coaches blush, Belfort extolls the trappings of wealth status. Then he implores the stockbrokers assembled before him to pick up the phone and start dialing.

The brokers roar voraciously, and then they get to work. They relentlessly push the stock of a fledgling shoe company on their clients.

The brokerage firm – Stratton Oakmont – makes a hefty profit on the inflated shares. The brokers get the trappings of wealth status. And their clients? They’re left in the cold when the smoke clears and the share price drops.

This might all seem like a cautionary tale. Perpetrating securities fraud rarely ends well — and it didn’t for Stratton Oakmont.

But while the tactics in the film have largely been shunned, the speech at the center of it all has not.

And that’s a problem.

Every few months or so, I tune into an all-company meeting on my work laptop.

The core of this meeting has become familiar. There are financial results. There’s a refresher on the company’s core values. There are updates from key business units.

And there’s always a motivational speech from leadership wrapping the proceedings.

Yes, this tenet from The Wolf of Wall Street has made its way to my company. We might not be trading in penny stocks — or profanity — like Stratton Oakmont. But the messaging is directionally similar.

You see, Jordan Belfort was onto something. He might not have held a fancy business degree or consulting accolades before starting his brokerage. But he knew that motivation was key to boosting business productivity.

Job titles and paychecks could only do so much to unlock achievement within Stratton Oakmont’s workforce. To get the most out of his employees, Belfort would need to inspire them, to cajole them, and to fire them up.

This understanding is what built the template for the motivation play that so many companies use today — mine included. By boosting the promise of productivity, the quarterly pump-up speech seems to be an all-around win for businesses.

But looks can be deceiving.

There was a time when work was primarily a transactional pursuit.

Employees would put in their 40 hours each week. And the company would reward them with a paycheck. If the employee stuck around for long enough, they’d get a gold watch at retirement and collect a posh pension.

Those days are long gone. Now, employees are looking for more than pay and stability from their vocation. They’re committed to making the most out of their work.

Many employees enter the workforce intrinsically motivated. They’re driven to make a difference, and they’re committed to maximizing their effort to satiate their desire.

The motivation play from companies would seem to pair well with this ethos. By adding extrinsic motivation to the mix, business leaders could inspire employees to believe in the collective mission at hand. Execute on that, and inspired employees could feel compelled to run through fire for the company.

Motivation proliferates. Productivity soars. Success abounds.

Read between the lines, though, and the implied picture is darker. By motivating their workforce to give more, company leaders are also saying they’re not currently doing enough.

Perhaps that would be a needed kick in the pants if employees weren’t trying their hardest. But in the new world of work, that’s rarely an issue.

And telling the intrinsically motivated to crank it up more can be problematic.

You see, contrary to popular belief, there is an upper bound on effort. We can only give so much before we give out.

The fruits of that effort can certainly accelerate. But such improvements take time to manifest.

So, telling a group of intrinsically motivated achievers to try harder and do more can be counterproductive. Slamming a hammer more vigorously into a concrete bunker wall will only do damage to the hammer.

Worse still, such directives can foster resentment. For while some of those giving these edicts rose through the ranks of their company to reach leadership, many did not.

That dissonance can degrade trust. So, when an outsider drops mandates on their adopted workforce, it can seem elitist — and lead to blowback.

Yes, the motivational play has plenty of cracks under the surface. And if they’re left to fester, those fissures can swallow a company whole.

How can I help you?

This is more than an opening prompt from a chatbot. It’s a core question on many company’s performance review forms.

I’ve encountered this question, or something like it, while filling out dozens of these reviews over the years. And while others might have called for higher pay, more guidance, or more perks, my response has remained consistent.

Provide me the tools to perform my role to the best of my ability.

This response is illustrative. Both of what the intrinsically motivated are looking for and of what their employers are loathe to provide.

Resources, you see, are costly. Software licenses, physical tools, and seminar registrations carry costs for a business — costs that might not directly correlate to increased revenue. It’s a losing financial equation that’s all too easy to nix.

The motivation play, on the other hand, is free. Firing up the troops unlocks the potential for more business, without the company spending a dime.

But the hidden costs are far from trivial. Broken trust and burnout in the wake of these initiatives can fuel attrition. And the endless clamor for more can lead achievers to ration their efforts; that way, they have that extra 5 percent to devote to the next motivation play.

I’d argue that these costs are plenty high. Likely steeper than those incurred while preparing employees for success in their roles.

It’s time for companies to realize this. To understand that motivation is not a commodity for them to peddle. And that the carrots and sticks can only go so far.

Workers are not racehorses, subject to the edicts of their trainers and jockeys. No, employees are free willed thinkers. Achievers who are often driven by intrinsic motivation.

They deserve better than raucous speeches. They deserve more than pleas to work harder. They deserve to be given the benefit of the doubt.

Let’s provide it.

On Anticipation

The doctor made small talk as he procured his rubber hammer.

The chattiness was part of his bedside manner. A way to get through all the awkward tests that were part of a physical exam. All while keeping the patient relaxed and at ease.

I was playing along, to a degree. But I was also on guard.

So, as the doctor flashed the hammer in my direction, I jolted my right knee backward. The hammer hit nothing but air.

Impressive reflexes, the doctor remarked. But much like his hammer, he hadn’t quite hit the mark.

This wasn’t about reflexes. Not by a long shot.

It’s long been known that humans have five senses.

Sight, smell, sound, taste, and touch are each critical. They shape how we perceive the world. And they serve as guardians of our survival.

However, I believe there’s a sixth sense out there. Not in an M. Night Shyamalan movie sort of way. Rather, something more tangible and impactful.

I’m talking about anticipation.

Anticipation is more than a gift or an attribute. It’s an acute sense — with a twist.

You see, anticipation takes our traditional five senses to a new level. It mixes their recorded inputs with situational awareness. All in a manner that can prime prediction.

Anticipation puts us on the front foot. It allows us to think a step ahead, and to act accordingly.

This is more than a nice-to-have. In a world full of lethality, the signals of danger often arrive too late for us to avert them. We need to see the flames, smell the smoke, and feel the burn before first spark ignites. That way, our fight-or-flight response can activate in time to save our skin.

We need anticipation, plain and simple.

And like a fine wine, anticipation gets better with time. With more data in our brains, and more experience in our bones, our power proliferates. We’re less likely to be caught off-guard, and more likely to jump into the fray in a flash.

This was the case when my knee jolted at the doctor’s office. After all, I’d been through a physical or two before.

I understood what that rubber hammer meant. I knew how it would feel when it slammed against my kneecap. And I wasn’t inclined to sit around and let it happen again.

It was a display of anticipation. One by design.

He’s playing 4D chess.

We’ve heard a phrase like this plenty before. Often when a master tactician, such as a military leader or a football coach, takes strategic execution to another level.

The implication is that these masterminds have unique ability. They’re able to think several steps ahead and process dozens of hypotheticals in real time.

In other words, they have uncanny senses of anticipation.

How did this come about? Were these hallowed leaders born this way?

No. In their earliest days, these feted geniuses were just as feeble as the rest of us.

But as they grew up, their paths began to diverge from ours.

They put their minds to the test, time and again. They paid meticulous attention to detail. And they set themselves up to seize opportunities before they happened.

Make no mistake. Anticipatory dominance is built, not bequeathed. It’s forged with tools available to all of us.

I don’t believe enough of us realize this fact. I sure didn’t.

For years, I drifted through the roaring rapids of reality. I was never quite prepared for the jagged rocks, the dips and drops in my path. I would react to life after it happened.

This pattern continued into early adulthood — a time when I could least afford it.

I had just started my career as a TV news producer. It was a position built on elite anticipation and quick decisions. But I had neither in my arsenal.

The results were predictable. News broke across town late one night, and I was slow to react. My station’s coverage was subpar. The competition wiped the floor with us.

This colossal meltdown wasn’t all my fault. But it wasn’t a good look. And I took this failing hard.

I knew I couldn’t let my colleagues and my viewers down like that again. I needed to be ready for the next big story — which could break at any time.

This was the inflection point. It’s what spurred me to hone my focus, to stretch the limits of my senses, to sharpen my resolve.

It’s what taught me how to anticipate.

These days, anticipation is my most treasured attribute. I relish the opportunity to initiate the action. To remain prepared and to put myself in position for success.

It took a while to get to this point. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Several years ago, I attended a boxing match.

A headline bout hogged the marquee. But several undercard brawls led up to it.

On one of those undercards, a fighter connected on a vicious cross — his oversized glove battering the top of his opponent’s head. He followed up that blow with a hook to the jaw.

The one-two punch was too much for the other fighter to absorb. He dropped like a rock. The fight was over.

The crowd gasped in horror, stunned by the flash of brutality they’d just witnessed. But I was less stunned than perplexed.

How was the stricken fighter so unprepared for what felled him? Why did he not have his hand up to protect his face?

This was a basic tenet of self-defense that even I knew about. Yet, it had gone begging.

The lack of anticipation carried a brutal toll for this brawler. But the cost is steep for us as well.

Make no mistake. Anticipation is not a nice to have. It’s a need to have.

We cannot expect to get ahead in life by waiting for the action to reach our doorstep. Heck, we can’t even get by that way.

We need to steel ourselves for what lies ahead. To synthesize our past and predict our future. To make moves before the picture comes fully into focus.

This is hard work. It’s uncomfortable work. But it’s necessary work.

Sustainable success is within our range. Let’s prepare ourselves to grasp it.

The Poison Hook

On a summer night in 2008, a left-handed batter won over the crowd at Yankee Stadium.

With mighty swing after mighty swing, the slugger sent baseballs flying deep into the bleachers. Some threatened to leave the stadium altogether. It was a sight to behold.

This man wasn’t wearing the pinstriped uniform of the hometown New York Yankees. And the bold AMERICAN across his chest did little to hide his status as the budding star of a league rival — the Texas Rangers.

But that mattered little to the New York masses.

As Josh Hamilton shattered the record for first-round tallies in the Home Run Derby, a chant cascaded from the stands.

HAM-IL-TON! HAM-IL-TON!

Hamilton didn’t win the derby on that summer evening. But he certainly won the night.

Not just because of his power prowess. But because of his story.

Hamilton, you see, had been a top baseball prospect a decade earlier. As a teenager, he’d appeared on magazine covers and was touted as the future of the game.

But after sustaining injuries in a car crash, Hamilton turned to alcohol and cocaine. And he soon became addicted to both.

The substance abuse sent his career spiraling. And he quickly found himself booted out of baseball.

Hamilton ultimately made his way back from this nadir, getting clean and returning to the sport. The journey eventually took him big leagues for the first time. Then found his way into the hearts of the New York faithful on that magical night at Yankee Stadium.

Hamilton followed that up by winning a batting title and a Most Valuable Player award. He powered the Rangers to their first two World Series appearances.

That mighty potential had been realized. Hamilton’s redemption seemed complete.

It wasn’t.

Hamilton relapsed, and everything fell apart. He started struggling at the plate and in the field. He took potshots at the Texas fans while departing for a division rival. And his marriage disintegrated.

It was a sad ending to a promising story.

The poison hook had the last word.

I was once a fan of Josh Hamilton.

I was in the stands that night he won over New York. And I proudly sported a Texas Rangers t-shirt with his name and number on the back for years.

But when things went south, I soured on him.

I was deeply hurt by Hamilton calling out fans like me. And I was frustrated with his inability to kick addiction.

So, I cut bait. I gave those T-shirts to Goodwill. And when Hamilton returned to Texas to close out his career, I refused to cheer for him.

This all might seem heartless. But given all I’d been through at that time, it made perfect sense.

Not long before Hamilton’s second fall from grace, I had tried to help some alcoholic friends. I’d bent over backward to keep them from hurting themselves or others. But when their demons returned, I was left holding the bag.

I ultimately cut ties with these friends, recognizing that my abandonment could lead to dire circumstances. It hurt my soul knowing that my choice increased the odds of a drunk driving crash or some other tragedy. But I had to protect myself.

This ordeal led me to form a dim view of addiction. I saw it as a lack of mental fortitude, rather than a powerful disease.

I hadn’t been in my erstwhile friends’ shoes, let alone Josh Hamilton’s. Yet, I felt that I had.

You see, I had picked up my own bad habits over the years. Nothing as illicit as drug abuse or alcoholism. But still nothing that would be considered healthy.

Month after month, year after year, I let these bad habits fester. Instead of doing what was sensible, I settled for what was comfortable.

At some point, I saw the light. I realized that better habits would yield better outcomes. And I sprang into action.

One by one, I kicked my bad habits. I learned to treat old tendencies as the enemy. And I fought like hell to keep from falling back into them.

I succeeded, over and over. And my life improved as a result.

This accomplishment was noteworthy. But it made me overly judgmental.

I believed that if I could overcome my vices through sheer will, others could just as easily conquer their demons.

How wrong I was.

When I returned to competitive running after a long hiatus, other runners would often ask me the same question.

What brought you back? Was it the runner’s high?

I had heard about the runner’s high before. But I wasn’t lacing up my shoes to capture any endorphin-fueled euphoria.

So, I replied truthfully. Running was a task, not a calling for me. It helped me stay in shape and I’d shown some prowess at it. There was nothing more drawing me in.

Yet, as the months passed, my relationship with running began to change. I was hitting the streets more often, and for longer mileage. Not by grudging obligation, but by willful compulsion.

I knew I was taking on more than my body could handle. But I found it impossible to stop.

What happened next was utterly predictable. An injury forced a full shutdown, and a marathon withdrawal. I was devastated and lost, unsure of how to start my day without pounding the pavement.

I poured my despair into injury rehab, determined to come back with a vengeance. But once I was cleared to run again, I did too much, too fast. I got hurt again, with this newest injury requiring surgery. I was on the sidelines for months.

As I worked my way back from the brink, I remained dedicated. But one day, during a grueling physical therapy session, I paused to ask myself a simple question.

Why?

Why was I putting myself through hell for a sport that had broken my heart, and my body, twice?

What kept drawing me back to running, against every ounce of common sense?

As the answer dawned on me, I turned pale as a ghost.

It was addiction.

I was addicted to running. Its poison hook had an impermeable grip on my soul.

I wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. The act of running – as frequently as possible and as long as I could – was an involuntary compulsion

I’d keep thrusting myself into the fire, no matter how badly it burned.

This revelation shook me to my core. I realized that I was no better than those I’d cast off. Despite all my false bravado, I never really knew them at all.

Shame on me.

I still haven’t forgiven Josh Hamilton.

The man who lost his baseball career to addiction — twice — would later plead guilty for savagely beating his daughter. And that’s something I can’t abide by, demons or not.

Still, I wish I’d shown him a bit more grace back when he was playing ball and trying desperately to stay clean. I wish I’d done the same with those friends I turned my back on.

Their compulsions were certainly more unsavory than my running habit. But they deserved better than harsh judgment as they grappled with it.

The poison hook of addiction is insidious. It’s a powerful riptide we have little chance of swimming away from. The best we can do is try and keep our heads above water.

I recognize that now. And I’m committed to be better. To give those afflicted with addiction a second look. To provide more support, without prejudice.

May we all.