Tag: acceptance

Deep in the Heart

It was hard to miss.

As I drove by the pasture on the way to work, an irrigator was hard at work dampening the sod.

An industrial-strength spigot fired blasts of water 10 feet in the air, before gravity and the wind took over. The water would fall to the ground in a thick mist, allowing one pump to bring water to several square feet of land.

Then the fixture would rotate a bit. It would reload, firing a blast of hydration to fall on an adjoining patch of ground.

This pattern continued until the circle was complete. Then the cycle would start again.

The morning sunlight made all this quite a spectacle. The water appeared as a transparent curtain as it fell back to earth. A million tiny bubbles were transfixed in the air.

It was a sight reminiscent of an exotic destination. A waterfall secluded in the jungle, perhaps. Or the craggy cliff face where the frothy sea collided with the land.

And yet, this location was anything but.

No, this water was falling on land as flat as a pancake. Across the pasture, some longhorn steers grazed. And behind the thick mist was the asphalt of a highway and the glass façade of an office tower.

This was Texas personified. And I couldn’t imagine myself anywhere else.

Every fall, pictures of massive corsages proliferate through social media.

The floral displays are up to three feet high. And they often adorn the fronts of dresses that high school girls wear to the homecoming dance.

Or so I’m told.

You see, the spectacle of mums at the homecoming dance is a distinctly Texan tradition. It exemplifies the school-age experience in the Lone Star State — an experience I never had.

I was 20 years old when I first set foot in Texas, and 22 when I formally made it my home.

I still had some maturing to do in those days of early adulthood. But there was no doubt that I’d grown up elsewhere.

This dichotomy has dogged me a bit.

Sure, I chose to dig my boots into Lone Star soil at my earliest adult opportunity. But I can never claim to be a Texas Native.

The region I can claim native status in – the Northeastern United States – well, I left it at my earliest opportunity. I was a high school graduate, a teenager who realized that many of his happiest moments were found on vacations far from home.

I yearned to follow the thread of that intuition, to try out somewhere new for size. And college offered the perfect opportunity to do just that.

So, I moved from New York to Miami. And I spent my undergraduate years under the warm South Florida sun.

The experiment had mixed results. I was grateful to be out of the Northeast, harboring no real desire to return for the long haul. And I thrived in school, ultimately graduating with honors.

But as that graduation date approached, I was overcome by a certain feeling. A feeling that Florida could not be my forever home.

I belonged somewhere else. But where?

I was sorting through that question when I got a job offer in West Texas. I accepted without hesitation. And not long after moving west, I recognized that I’d found my answer.

This is where I was meant to be all along.

Growing up in America’s oldest and most populated region meant making several assumptions.

The winters would be cold. The summers would be sticky. And no matter the weather, the traffic would be awful.

From an early age, I recognized that my family’s suburban home had a modest backyard and no garage. But at least we had a yard and a car. I know plenty of people without either.

I never did ask why we all signed up for this. I didn’t have to.

Even as a child, I understood that the Northeast was a vanguard of culture and a beacon of professional opportunity. That’s why most of my family had made their home in the region. And why the families of my friends had done the same.

I respected that tradition, even as I moved to defy it. But the reactions I got for doing so caught me off guard.

Family and friends would lampoon my new home, evoking the most outlandish stereotypes. They’d rail against politics in Texas. Or they’d derisively refer to the state as The Flyover Zone.

I brought this on myself to some degree. On my first trip north after my move, I sported boots, Wrangler jeans, and a belt buckle – in the middle of summer.

But as the years flew by — and it became clear that I wasn’t moving back — the derision continued. It was as if my choice to swap zip codes was a betrayal. A wayward trek that flaunted an invisible boundary.

This rankled me.

The winding road had finally led me home. Yet, I was still the only one to accept it.

The pasture was now in my rearview mirror.

As the shadow of the office tower hovered over me, my mind began to wander.

I saw beauty all around me. In the rustic cattle patch bathed in sunlight. In the curtain of mechanical mist dampening it. And in the modern marvels – the highway and the office building – providing a backdrop.

Maybe that vista wasn’t everyone else’s cup of tea. But it sure was mine.

I suppose this is a prime reason why I’ve remained steadfast in my devotion to the Lone Star State. Perhaps it’s why I’ve grudgingly endured the underhandedness from those who reside far beyond the Pine Curtain.

Texas is deep in the heart of me. I’ve found beauty in both its grandeur and its monotony. I’ve found grace in the kindness of its populace. I’ve found grit through its tradition of resilience.

I’ve found myself through it all.

Others might not see what I see here. And ultimately, they don’t have to.

I just hope that they respect my decision. My right to put a stake in Lone Star ground. And to find peace on the Southern Plains.

Home is where the heart is. Mine resides here.

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.

The Plight of the Introvert

I am an introvert.

Four simple words. One simple fact.

But one that’s exceedingly difficult for me to share with the world.

Why does the prospect of explaining my personality to a room of 60 people — as I did recently — feel like a special kind of torture? Why is conveying who I am — and how I am —  so gut-wrenching?

The answer cuts to the core of what introversion is.

You see, introverts must navigate an alternate reality, one that runs counter to the social norms that define our society. In a world where we’re expected to connect with one another through sharing, we introverts tend to keep our cards close to the vest.

Our guardedness is not a symptom of skepticism. It’s more a reflection of the manner in which think.

For the mind of an introvert is hardly ever at rest. It’s constantly cranking out permutations and observations related to make sense of the world. This process plants the seeds for the innovations so many introverts create, but it also requires heavy internalization and intense solitude.

Yes, there’s a storm brewing in the mind of an introvert. But no one else can hear the thunder.

Introversion directly contradicts the key tenet of our culture, which demands that we collectively experience the noise. It’s a key reason why introverts are labeled with such dismissive terms as shy, quiet or withdrawn.

These descriptions are all wrong.

Take myself as an example. I enjoy having some time to myself. I find inspiration in silence. And I definitely have my shy moments.

But these attributes don’t define my life. The situation I’m in does.

Put me in a room full of strangers and I’ll freeze. But surround me with people I know and I’ll work the room.

The challenge of that duality is a plight the introvert must face. For while we thrive in the company of those we trust and understand, we find it difficult to build upon that base. Yet, the action of building a network is critical for success.

Overcoming this hurdle is not impossible. But it is challenging, exhausting and extremely unsettling. What seemingly comes easy to extroverts takes all an introvert has to give, and then some.

Let’s close that gap.

Let’s resolve collectively to better understand the nuances of introversion. Let’s accept these differences and build upon the common ground of empathy.

And let’s recognize that introverts must communicate their plight for others to understand it.

This is precisely why I am admitting my introversion with you today.

For once we view introversion is more than just a dismissive term, we become that much more dynamic. Once we celebrate our similarities and our differences, we become that much more powerful. And once we find common understanding, we become that much more successful.

This is the world I hope to build on and contribute to. But it’s on all of us to make that world possible. And that process starts right here, through acceptance and connection.

I am an introvert. Take me as I am.

Holding Back

There’s this thing that Seth Godin does nearly every time he delivers a keynote.

At some point, he’ll ask the everyone in the audience to raise their right hand, as high as they can.

When everyone has complied, he asks the following:

“Now raise it higher.”

Invariably, most of the audience will lift their arm another inch or so in the air. This leads Godin to muse, “Mmm, what’s that about?”

Of course, that’s the point. The exercise serves as visual proof of our propensity to hold a little bit back.

But while Godin goes on to explain how this thinking is a remnant of industrialized society — where we’re taught to leave a bit in reserve in the event someone asks us for more — I think our tentative tendencies go even further.

I think we hold a bit back as a means of self-preservation.

You see, for as much as we idolize those who “go all out,” we’re inherently fearful of the potential dangers that are unlocked by a full effort.

Sure, I could run as fast and as hard as I could, all the time, but then I might blow out my Achilles tendon. And if that happens, how will I get down the stairs? How will I get to work? How will I drive to the supermarket to pick up groceries?

Better to play it safe by holding back.

And this is not just a physical phenomenon. We hold a little back when formulating ideas or supporting causes, all because of the chance we might fail. What we champion might not work or be fully accepted — and if that happens, we better have an exit strategy if we want any chance of saving face.

So yes, holding back is a crucial construct for acceptance and protection. It’s as essential as the governor in a car or the blowout preventer on an oil rig; it shields us from the dangers of flying too close to the sun.

But while there might be valid reasons for avoiding full throttle, must we hold back so much? Protecting ourselves from grave danger is one thing. Insulating ourselves from any sign of disappointment is another.

While we might not like it when things don’t go our way, we must be willing to take some chances. We must summon the courage to give a little more, to devote ourselves something that might not work out.

We shouldn’t be reckless, of course. But we shouldn’t short-circuit our potential on account of our fears either.

After all, life is defined by experiences. And shielding ourselves in a bubble is not living.

So, let’s not permit “What if” block us from exploring “What is.” Let’s open our hearts and our minds to the world.

It’s time to stop holding back.