Tag: behavior

The Insecurity of Power

On August 8, 1974, Richard Nixon addressed the American people.

As White House cameras rolled, Nixon announced that he would be vacating his presidential term the following day.

It was a painfully ironic moment.

Nixon was seemingly at the height of his powers. He had already implemented much of his campaign agenda, and he’d won re-election in a landslide almost two years prior. But now, he was stepping away from it all.

For Nixon had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Dogged reporting had uncovered Nixon’s role in a break-in at the Democratic headquarters two years prior. And in the face of a congressional inquiry, Nixon had tried to cover up his involvement in the whole affair.

These revelations were more than an embarrassment. They constituted a crisis.

And so, facing public pressure and the threat of impeachment, Nixon relinquished his post. He gave up the most powerful position on the planet. And he slunk into obscurity for the rest of his life.

It was a sad ending to Nixon’s story. An ending that was all too predictable.

When I was in school, English class wasn’t my jam.

I didn’t geek out on arcane grammatical exercises or enjoy reading about faded romances in the passages of Jane Eyre. I much preferred history class, or Spanish class, or even photography class.

And yet, when my English teacher assigned the class Macbeth, I found myself captivated by it.

William Shakespeare’s play had all the necessary elements to capture an adolescent’s attention. Ambition. Betrayal. Suspense. Murder. Comedy.

Macbeth was a fun read, no doubt. But it would take me years to internalize its underlying message.

Namely, that absolute power corrupts absolutely.

You see, when we first meet the title character, he is an upstanding and loyal member of the Scottish nobility. But once he’s given a prophecy of greatness by three witches, the shine of his character starts to fade.

This obsession leads Macbeth to slay the Scottish king and cover up his involvement in the dirty deed. The ploy vaults him to the throne. But it also sends his paranoia into overdrive.

Macbeth starts killing off his friends and associates to keep them from taking the crown from him. He becomes obsessed with legacy and succession. And he generally becomes insufferable.

These traits eventually lead Macbeth to overconfidence, which portends his downfall. And that downfall transcends Macbeth into a cautionary tale.

Be careful in how you attain power, the conventional wisdom reads. And be even more careful in how you wield it.

If only it were that simple.

In recent years, there’s been plenty of grumbling about powerful figures in our society. Particularly the well-heeled ones.

The excesses of the billionaire class have been thoroughly documented. And their moves to consolidate power have led to vehement protests.

To those with less than 10 columns of numbers on their net worth statements, these billionaires seem unconscionable. They seemingly have it all, and yet they seem to be squeezing society for even more. It’s a practice that seems wholly unnecessary.

Or is it?

You see, if we put ourselves in the ornate shoes of these elites, we might find them in the same dilemma as Macbeth.

No, they likely don’t have a bloody dagger lying about. And they aren’t channeling their inner Nixon to bury the evidence.

But those same sensations of insecurity are omnipresent within them. In fact, they’re inherent.

For these elites had but two paths to their station in life. They either climbed the ladder from obscurity – as such titans as Jeff Bezos did – or they were born into familial wealth – as it the case with the Waltons, Murdochs, and Hunts.

In each situation, the pressure to maintain is immense. Jeff Bezos and his kind don’t want to lose what they’ve worked so hard to accrue. And the scions of silver spoon families don’t want to waste away multi-generational legacies.

This pressure begets insecurity. That insecurity begets paranoia. And that paranoia leads to sequestration.

Elites build barriers to protect their treasure troves. Then they expand those barriers outward, trampling those below them in the process.

It’s cruelty spurred by caution. A toxic cocktail.

Back when I first learned about Nixon’s foibles and Macbeth’s misdeeds, I had but one reaction.

If I were in that position, I’d be better than that.

It was easy for me to say. I was a good kid who stayed out of trouble. Perjury and murder seemed beyond the pale of my capabilities.

But as I grew older, I realized how wrong that statement was.

Truth be told, if I ascended to such power, I would likely act similarly to those disgraced figures – or the modern-day aristocracy. For I would be afflicted with an insecurity-laden dissonance.

This revelation altered my approach to life.

I still strove to enhance my station and to challenge myself at every turn. But I no longer kept the penthouse in my crosshairs.

It wasn’t a distaste for whitewashed mansions or haggis that kept me from the express escalator.

No. It was an urge to maintain my essence that kept me in check. By failing to chase power, I’d instead find maximal peace. I wouldn’t hear the footsteps. I’d maintain my best qualities and personality traits.

To be clear, such an outcome might still have been possible with full power. Jeff Bezos’ ex-wife Mackenzie Scott, for instance, has remained both well-heeled and well-regarded through the years. She’s kept her head – and a semblance of relatability – through a tireless devotion to philanthropy. And she’s earned plaudits from Time and Forbes magazines in the process.

Still, Scott’s path is a narrow one. It’s a tightrope act that few can traverse.

Indeed, the surest way to avoid the fall from grace is to avoid the pull of power. To leave such dark callings to others, and to entrench oneself in the proletariat.

That is what I believe. That is the path I follow.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Karma’s False Promise

Why is this guy on my tail?

My father’s voice conveyed equal parts concern and annoyance.

We were cruising down the Florida Turnpike somewhere south of Orlando in a Nissan 350Z rental. Orange groves were flying by us on the sides of the highway as we traveled well over the posted speed limit.

And yet, no matter how fast we went, a Jeep was effectively on our rear fender. The Jeep’s driver was practically demanding us to go even faster. He was threatening to run us off the road.

Finally, the driver decided to leave us alone. The Jeep cut into the next lane and passed our rental sports car. As it did, my father and I glanced into the vehicle, trying to put a face to what had menaced us.

The speed demon looked no older than 20. Neither did his passengers.

College kids, my dad remarked. Figures.

I felt a bit conflicted by my father’s agitation. I was a senior in high school and would soon be a college kid myself. I was all about having fun and playing loose with the rules.

But this seemed excessive and dangerous. I got where my father was coming from.

No longer fearing for our safety, we let the conversation drift to a new topic.

But about 15 miles down the road, we saw some flashing lights up ahead. We slowed to the speed limit as the Florida Highway Patrol cruiser came into view on the shoulder.

Just ahead of the cruiser, the Jeep that had pestered us was now at a standstill. A state trooper was leaning into the open driver’s side window, likely to hand out a speeding ticket.

My father smiled.

Karma, he remarked to me, Karma.

Do the right thing.

That mantra has been lived rent free in the back of my mind for years.

Whenever the temptation has arisen to act inappropriately, those four words have emerged. And I’ve maintained proper decorum.

Many have complimented me on this trait over the years. But I’ve always demurred.

I’ve given credit to my parents for how they raised me. Or I’ve explained that I didn’t have the heart to stray from the righteous path.

But neither of those explanations are quite correct.

Indeed, it’s that experience on the Florida Turnpike that has defined my actions to date. Seeing karma delivered so swiftly on that highway that day I was meaningful.

I was convinced that those who did the right thing would enjoy the sunshine of good fortune. And those who did the wrong thing would meet swift justice.

How wrong I was.

Nearly a decade later – and 300 miles up the road – a college student was getting national attention.

Jameis Winston was a freshman quarterback for Florida State University. In his first season of college football, Winston led the Seminoles to an undefeated season and a national championship. Along the way, he claimed the coveted Heisman Trophy as the sport’s top player.

As I saw this all unfold, I seethed.

I was already an alum of the University of Miami by this point. During my college years, I’d watched holier-than-thou Tim Tebow lead the rival Florida Gators to two championships. Now, the hated Florida State Seminoles had one too. My nightmare was playing out in slow motion.

But the next season, the tide started to turn.

Winston kept getting into trouble. First, he yelled something demeaning to women from the center of campus. Then he was accused of sexual assault in a separate incident. And in the midst of all this, he got caught shoplifting crab legs from a local supermarket.

Meanwhile, on the field, Winston wasn’t as masterful as he’d once been. He had resorted to playing hero ball – tossing the ball up for grabs down the field without checking to see if his receivers were open first. Many times, the opposing team would snag the football instead. That team would then put up points – leaving the Seminoles with big deficits.

I became giddy – even gleeful – as these twin catastrophes enveloped Winston and Florida State. It seemed that karma was around the corner. Order would soon be restored.

And yet, the other shoe never dropped. The Seminoles kept winning football games, earning a bid to the new four team playoff in the process. And Winston avoided any significant consequences for his off the field shenanigans.

Florida State got humiliated in their first playoff game, ending their season. But Winston entered the National Football League draft and got selected first overall. The Tampa Bay Buccaneers gave him a $23 million dollar contract and made him the face of their franchise.

Winston was hardly worth the investment. In five years in Tampa, the team lost 60% of the games he played in. He threw nearly as many interceptions as touchdowns. And the team never sniffed the playoffs, let alone a Super Bowl.

Off the field, the controversies continued. Winston was accused of groping a rideshare driver. And he continued to make zany comments whenever a microphone was placed near him.

Yet, Winston never faced real consequences for any of this. He continued to earn his millions as one of 32 starting quarterbacks in the NFL. When the Buccaneers eventually replaced him with Tom Brady – the game’s greatest signal caller – Winston found spots on teams in New Orleans, Cleveland, and New York. And as time passed, people came to celebrate his shenanigans, rather than simply ignoring them.

Karma wasn’t coming for Jameis Winston. And that meant he had no incentive to do the right thing.

He wasn’t alone.

These days, society seems to be filled with Jameis Winstons.

That’s not to say that there are plenty of people whose occupation is Pro Football Quarterback. Or that there are scores of folks stealing crab legs from local supermarkets.

But from coast to coast, there are plenty of people who do the wrong thing, time and again. And they keep getting away with it.

Karma, it seems, is not the great equalizer I once thought it was. It’s filled with false promise.

This lack of a boogeyman leaves us with a choice.

Do we continue to do the right thing, the decent thing, the selfless thing – even if the universe doesn’t seem to require it? Or do we push the endless bounds of what we can get away with?

Many might choose the second path. But not me.

The memories of that Jeep on the Florida Turnpike are too fresh, even decades later. And beyond that, my sense of right and wrong is too strong.

So, I make sacrifices. I put up with the boorish behavior around me, while refusing to acquiesce to it myself.

I know I might not get rewarded for following this path. And I know that others might not follow in my footsteps.

But I can hope.

I can hope that the shadow of karma isn’t the only motivation people will follow. I can hope that right and wrong still matters.

That hope matters. It’s my North Star.

And I’ll continue to follow it.

The Rationality Trap

The email got straight to the point.

Unfortunately, we have made the difficult decision to close your nearest TGI Fridays location.

The email went on to list the location that would be shuttered. I was then encouraged to visit another TGI Fridays in the future.

That wouldn’t be happening.

This was the third Fridays location to close near me. Each of them had been within range of the brand’s headquarters – also a short drive from my home. And now, they were shuttered.

If I were to follow the prompt from the email, I’d need to travel 40 miles round trip to go to Fridays. And few meals were worth that.

I shared the news with my sister. We had grown up on Fridays, enjoying many family meals there after the Red Robin location we had frequented closed its doors. We loved the brand, the food, even the flair on the restaurant walls that was lampooned in the movie Office Space.

We were both despondent. But I was cleareyed.

I’d seen all the pivots the Fridays brand had made. The restaurant had tried to upscale its image, and it had recently added sushi to the menu. Yet, its restaurants remained mostly vacant – even as rival chain Chili’s was bustling.

I explained all this to my sister, sprinkling in some tidbits from a Wall Street Journal article I’d read. That feature detailed the steps Chili’s had taken to return to success – including streamlining its menu, making its restaurant kitchens more efficient, and consolidating its discount offerings into a single $10.99 value meal.

Fridays had done none of these things, at least not overtly. There seemed to be no plan to make the financials add up in the notoriously challenging restaurant industry. The brand was dying on the vine instead.

My sister said she understood. But she chided me for taking the rational view and parting so easily with restaurant nostalgia.

It was an innocuous comment. But it touched on something substantial.

The Reasonable Person Standard.

If you’ve ever been impaneled for jury selection, you’re likely familiar with this concept. The Reasonable Person Standard is the lens through which the jury views the accused’s alleged actions. It’s a critical part of the judgement equation.

Jurors must not only assess if the defendant did what they’re accused of. They must also determine if a reasonable person would have done the same in an identical situation.

In some cases, the answer to this is obvious. A reasonable person would not murder anyone, for instance. Such action is not only against the law. It’s also one of the Thou Shalt Nots in the Ten Commandments of the Bible.

But in other scenarios, the Reasonable Person Standard is far more difficult to discern. Jurors must put themselves in the accused’s shoes – all while considering the norms of society. A society that’s decidedly irrational.

This reality can make deliberations fraught. It’s nearly impossible to fit the chaos of the human mind into a tidy box. Yet, that’s something juries across America are tasked with each week.

And they’re not alone.

Step out of the courthouse and head to the office tower down the street. High up there in the boardroom or a corner office, you’ll likely find the Reasonable Person Standard at play.

Why? Because business relies on returns. Returns on investments, returns to scale, and returns of revenue.

The steadier those returns are, the more sustainable a company is. It’s hard to get outside financing, to improve operations, or to even make payroll if there’s turbulence with the money coming in.

So, businesses strive to make their products and services regularly desirable, so that a reasonable person will buy from them again and again.

This is the theory behind the revamp of Chili’s – the menu makeover, the streamlined kitchens, and the $10.99 value meal. More generally, it’s the fulcrum of the famous 4 P’s of marketing – Product, Price, Place, and Promotion. And zooming out even further, it’s the backbone of the federal economic projections that drive monetary policy.

The evidence is everywhere. Our society relies on the premise of reasonable people acting rationally.

But that narrative is nothing more than fantasy.

In the early days of the global COVID pandemic, one activity saw its popularity skyrocket.

Namely, viewings of the movie Contagion.

The film had been released nearly a decade before COVID emerged. Yet, as the world shut down, many people started streaming the movie in their homes.

Many of those viewers were stunned by what they saw, for varying reasons.

Some couldn’t imagine a world as deadly and dystopian as the one portrayed in Contagion. (Remember, these were still the early days of the pandemic.) Others were horrified about how similar the portrayal already was to reality.

No one had any idea how much worse things would get. The mask showdowns, the verbal attacks on public health officials, the incessant shaming of others – those ugly scenes would soon become our reality.

We did our best to write off that behavior in the moment. To blame an unhinged few for

for setting a horrendous example.

But more of us were acting horrendously than not at the time – myself included.

Stress and uncertainty had ripped away our carefully crafted veneer. Rationality had left the equation. The Reasonable Person was nowhere to be found.

This was the environment that our institutions contended with as the pandemic receded. Courts deluged with cases after a spike in crime. Corporations riding the roller coaster of consumer demand. Once-thriving restaurant chains now struggling to hang on.

All because a black swan event laid bare an illusion they relied on.

Those institutions are still struggling to get the upper hand, all these years later. They’re still mired in The Rationality Trap, their systems dependent on a debunked principle.

And while some have persevered better than others, such victories have proved fleeting. Our institutions remain mired in quicksand, hanging onto the edges of solid ground for dear life.

So yes, my sister was right. When it comes to restaurants – or any other institutional staple – nostalgia matters. Connection matters. The suspension of assumptions matters.

Let’s hope that we are able to heed the call. That we can free ourselves from the clutches of The Rationality Trap.

Before it’s too late.

Nature Redefined

What is the best we can be?

The question is top of mind, following an advertisement that has stirred the pot quite a bit.

In the ad, razor company Gillette challenges its own tagline The Best A Man Can Get. The company addresses examples of bullying and sexual harassment. Then it challenges men to rise above this behavior, even launching a new tagline The Best Men Can Be.

This ad really resonated with me. After all, my mantra is Be Present. Be Informed. Be Better. And the ad spoke right to that third pillar.

Yet, the clunky delivery and heavy-handed message of the ad left many incensed. In one fell swoop, a company focused heavily on men’s products seemed to be attacking masculinity. To some, it seemed like a betrayal of the highest order.

On a basic level, I can empathize with this sentiment. As a man, it’s hard not to feel vilified these days. While the Me Too movement has held prominent men accountable for their abusive behavior, it has, at times, painted with a broad brush. And when it has, it’s lumped the entire male species in with the transgressors.

This bold typecasting is one of the most effective ways of sparking the discussion needed to  effect social change. The process of cultural transformation is inherently uncomfortable, after all. It’s hard to make a difference without pushing the boundaries of what we’re collectively accustomed to first.

Yet, there’s a fine line between uncomfortable and threatening. And the Gillette ad was a bit cavalier at times when navigating that line.

As such, I understand some of the backlash. But not all of it.

Why? Because many of the angriest voices seemed to be rallying around the term Boys Will Be Boys. And that is unacceptable.

Boys Will Be Boys is the line that comes up most often when defending reprehensible male behavior. It attributes transgressions to male nature, rather than conscious immorality. And in doing so, it lets the offender go scot-free.

Boys Will Be Boys is a line that serves as a license to condone fighting, womanizing and drunken belligerence. It’s a line that serves as a license to permit a hazing and bullying to flourish systematically. It’s a line that even serves as a license to shrug off sexual assault allegations levied against Supreme Court justices — the supposed moral compasses of the land.

It’s a line that needs to go.

The more we skirt accountability as men, the more our society suffers. It doesn’t matter whether we’re 15 or 55. We must be held accountable for our actions.

This includes reining in the more garish sides of masculinity. It means eradicating behavior that make women feel inferior or unsafe — the very disparities that have sparked the Me Too movement.

Now, men are not entirely to blame for these disparities. Women have not always unified to protect their rightful sense of status or safety. In fact, the level of deceit and betrayal some women levy on other women could make the most stone-faced men blush.

But in a world where men have for too long had a monopoly of power and influence, it is men who must lead the charge to heal these transgressions. It is men who must set a new standard to help promote a world that is fairer and safer for all. It is men who must resolve to be better.

It starts with burying Boys Will Be Boys for once and for all. With understanding that nature can be redefined. With recognizing that new cultural expectations can, and must, be set.

This, I believe, is the message Gillette was trying to promote. And it’s one worth listening to.

Let’s heed the call. Let’s be the change.

Better Together

Recent weather has rocked our country to its core. Monster hurricanes recently packed a one-two punch in Texas and Florida, causing life-threatening flooding and property damage.

These images from these areas have been heartbreaking. As someone who has lived in both states, I’ve found it overwhelmingly sad to see streets turned rivers, homes turned to rubble and prosperity turned to widespread despair.

Through it all, I kept thinking one thing, “I wish there was more I could do to help.”

Turns out, I’m not alone.

You’ve probably heard the stories by now — the Cajun Navy taking to the streets of Houston to save lives of those threatened by rising waters. All the volunteers helping Florida get back on their feet. People helping people, regardless of color, creed or political affiliation.

This is how it should be. This is how we were meant to be. So why are we only this way in the wake of an Act of God?

If there’s one thing that upsets me more than seeing an image of a woman being rescued from her roof, life as she knows it permanently altered, it’s seeing that image juxtaposed against another one of Tiki-Torch bearing Neo-Nazis storming a college campus in Virginia. Both these scenes played out within weeks of each other — and that’s a bad look for America.

Yes, it certainly appears we’re embracing divisiveness over unity, and only changing our tune in times of crisis. This leaves an open question as to what type of people we really are.

Are we undercover bigots who feign a spirit of inclusivity in times of trouble to boost social acceptance? Or are we good-hearted people who lack the guts to stand up to the angry voices that threaten to tear us apart?

I hope to God the second answer is the correct one. But it doesn’t really matter.

As the saying goes, “The evil we must fear the most is the indifference of good-hearted people.”

We are all part of the problem — in part because we’re afraid to commit to being part of the solution.

As I think back 16 years ago, to blue September skies suddenly shrouded by smoke and fire in New York City, I don’t just think of the horrific scenes of those towers falling. I don’t just think of those images of people jumping from 79th story windows, of people running from a cloud of rubble 200 feet high.

No, I think of what came after. Of the President addressing first responders through a bullhorn with the words, “The nation sends its love and compassion to all of you.” Of the country rallying to boost the spirits of New York and Washington — both of which had lost so much to an act of evil. Of strangers treating strangers with kindness and compassion, no matter their differences.

I wish to God that 9/11 had never happened. It will haunt me for the rest of my life.

But I also wish that spirit I saw in the months that followed would have stuck around.

After all, we’ve proven time and again that we can rally for each other when its needed most. But truthfully, unity always needed.

We owe it to those lost to 9/11, Katrina, Harvey, Irma —we owe it to all of them to be better. To put aside our differences and be as one, even after the smoke has cleared and the water recedes.

Most of all, we owe it to ourselves, and to our collective future. For it’s how we act between the storms, when the world isn’t watching, that will truly define our destiny.

So, let’s write that narrative. Together.

Three to Four

What’s the best way to make a difference?

My answer takes all of four words:

Turn three to four.

What does that mean?

I’m talking about turning selfish into selfless. Taking those last three letters, and making them four new ones.

It’s a switch that takes less than ten seconds to make. But it’s anything but simple — and it’s far from meaningless.

You see, there are many ways to make a difference in the world, but they’re all based on one, solid foundation — our mindset. Before we can even think about imparting change, we must decide which mindset we will embrace.

In particular, we must choose between being selfish or being selfless. Between focusing on our own benefit and putting others first.

Far too often, we go with the first option.

This is understandable, of course. We have needs that must be satisfied, and we’re acutely aware of their importance; by nature, they follow us wherever we go. And when we feel taken care of, our self-esteem, confidence and ego stand to benefit.

But no one can truly make a tangible difference by being selfish.

No, this outcome requires a broader perspective —  the willingness to put others first.

It takes a lot to embrace this mindset, including:

  • Adaptability —The ability to pivot, to serve the varied needs of others.
  • Empathy — The inclination to care, to carry the emotional burden of others as one’s own.
  • Courage — The willingness to be vulnerable, to feel uncertainty but move forward just the same.

Most of all, it takes connection.

If we are to truly be selfless, then we must be willing to interact with others. To share in order to build.

This is a challenge, a threat to our self-serving nature. But it’s one worth pursuing.

For by accepting this challenge, we open our heart, broaden our mind and dare to look at change in a new light.

We’re still involved in this process — hence the self. But by changing ish to less, by turning those three letters into four, we’re allowing others to benefit too.

So, let’s all aspire to add on, to pledge to serve the world with a selfless mindset.

For turning three to four adds so much more than an extra character from the alphabet. It gives a chance to make a lasting impact the world will appreciate.

The Millennial Problem

There are few things that annoy me more than being called a Millennial. While it’s true that I was technically born at the start of what is now considered the Millennial era, I try and dissociate myself from Millennial culture as much as possible. I do this because I find that Millennial culture contradicts my values and the essence of who I am.

Why? Well, like many critics, I consider Millennial culture to promote narcissistic, entitled, self-absorbed and childish behavior. As someone who believes in building a community upon principles of selflessness and connection, I find these behaviors to be a significant roadblock in obtaining that objective.

These prototypical Millennial behaviors can be explained, of course. In the most comprehensive critique of Millennial culture I’ve seen thus far, Simon Sinek makes the point that generation-wide failures of both parenting and education have helped shaped the characteristics of Millennials.

Sinek explains that by creating a system of placation — personified in the dreaded participation trophies that are increasingly common in youth competitions — parents and teachers have failed to extoll a crucial concept within the minds of a generation of young adults. Namely, that the world is not fair, and that nothing is just given to you in adulthood.

Of course, tell this to a savvy Millennial, and they’ll point out that innovators like Mark Zuckerberg and Evan Spiegel have gotten rich before finishing their college degrees. And while not everyone will create the next Facebook or Snapchat — social networks that have only accelerated the development of Millennial behavior — there’s no doubt that the age of technological disruption has made it more difficult for Millennials to believe that achievements must be earned gradually over time. After all, if these young Silicon Valley bigwigs can provide instant gratification — both for themselves and for the masses, through their products — why does anyone have to “Embrace The Suck” anymore?

Therein lies the fundamental issue with Millennial culture. Not only do many Millennials, to quote Queen, Want it all and want it now, but they also seem unwilling to accept the possibility that something must be earned, built or cultivated over time. In their mind, there’s always another “Life Hack” — or shortcut — out there to provide instant gratification. And if there isn’t one, there soon will be.

Quite simply, many Millennials believe there’s no need to draw upon the way it was. The way it is and will be is all that matters.

This break from tradition helps explain the unsavory narrative heaped upon Millennials by older generations — one that conveys them as lazy and petulant. And while I don’t fully agree with this narrative, I do have major issues with the Millennial perspective.

As the son of a history teacher, I believe that ignoring the lessons of the past is dangerous. As someone who has worked hard to earn a foothold in two different careers — instead of demanding the corner office and three months’ vacation on Day 1 — I find demands for instant gratification within social constructs to be deeply offensive.

Our life, our career, our friendships and relationships — each is a process. And it should be that way.

Each step in this process gives us an opportunity to learn and grow. And by holistically building trust and value over time, we’re able to contribute to our communities in ways that resonate.

So, while many critics ask that we kowtow to Millennial culture in order to bridge the generational divide in shared settings like the workplace — for instance, Sinek has proposed that laws and regulations be set for smartphone usage — my proposal is a lot simpler.

Stop babying Millennials.

Don’t bend over backwards every time a young adult demands instant gratification. Don’t let “me” come before “we.”

Call out behavior that can be perceived as lazy, anti-social or excessively narcissistic. Explain why some of the best things in life require patience and persistence.

Millennials are smart people, and good people. But high school is over, and it’s time to grow up. Given enough honest feedback and tough love, they will figure it out.

Are we willing to provide that guidance?

The Branding of Us

I’ll never forget my first encounter with branding.

I was about 7 years old, plodding around the playground at recess in my Converse High Tops. But all I wanted was a pair of Nikes.

My shoes were comfortable. They were functional. And, in hindsight, they were hip!

(Plus, my mother probably saved a fortune on them at Marshall’s.)

But none of that mattered. My friends had Nikes. MJ sported Nikes. All I wanted were Nikes.

A few years later, I got my coveted pair of Nikes. And, aside from one pair of cross country running shoes, every pair of sneakers I’ve ever owned since then has either had a Swoosh or a Jumpman logo on it.

Branding is real.

***

I’ve harkened back to this playground scene a lot recently. It’s been getting more and more difficult for me to find Nike shoes that meet my fashion standards and fit my wide feet. And when I do, I end up paying a fortune for a product that frankly isn’t worth the extra money.

Yet, I keep coming back, as reliably as Pavlov’s dog.

Despite my knowing better, I’m loyal to Nike. It’s my look — and that makes it my only choice, for better or for worse. When the University of Miami switched apparel providers from Nike to Adidas in 2015, I quietly mourned the decision; I’ve since significantly cut back on the amount of t-shirts I’ve bought from my alma mater.

Nike is part of how I express myself. And — though it loathes me to admit this — Nike matters to me.

***

What keeps me coming back to the Swoosh? I could list any number of marketing psychology terms, but I’ll focus on one aspect — the narrative.

Stories are a powerful component of our lives, and branding is a key part of our personal stories — although not in the way corporate branding executives aim for. (Sorry Nike, I don’t think buying a pair of your cross-trainers will make me run like Usain Bolt.)

No, branding serves as a supporting actor in the feature production that is our lives. The styles we wear, the tech we buy and the food we eat at different points in the story — these are all impacted by branding. Either we’re loyal to certain brands or we’re consciously fighting the grip that a company name can have over our lives. In each case, brand influence is a factor in our personal brand.

***

And personal branding is significant. We are constantly sending a message — actively or passively, consciously or subconsciously. How that message is perceived can impact our destiny; this is why we try and take ownership of our own brand identity.

But where should we turn for inspiration when undertaking this task? I feel the best answer to that question is actually…companies like Nike.

You see, the impact of corporate brand influence on our lives is twofold. On one hand, it can embed itself in the story we tell. On another, it can provide us a reminder of which principles to master when crafting our personal brand.

Specifically, it can demonstrate how to build connections to our hopes and dreams. It can show us that how we act, how we dress, what we say and what we do can help us attain the life we desire — whether that be the job we dream of, the family we aspire to build or the circle of friends that we seek to maintain.

The foundation of the life we strive for might already be in existence. But until we take ownership of the narrative, our story is being written on autopilot.

***

It’s time to take control of the branding of us. Whether this means strengthening the connections we already have or breaking with them to build new ones, we must take the helm in writing the narrative of our lives.

We’re obligated to take on this task, because doing so can reap benefits for so many. A properly managed personal brand can help drive us forward, and positively impact those we come across. It can allow us to speak to our community in a way that truly resonates. It can help make the world a better place.

The branding of us is within our grasp. But it’s on us to make it happen.

Strength in Adversity

There are many qualities we look at when classifying others. Social skills, personality, smarts, looks — these come to mind instantly. A far more uncommon consideration — at least outside the niche of job interviews — is resilience.

Yet, it just might be our ultimate defining quality.

Think about it.

When things are going well, we’re in control of our lifestyle. We get into our comfort zone, things work out for us, and we have the ability to project those good vibes towards others. This is the warm, fuzzy zone where the theory of Being Our Best Self comes from.

But life is more than just sunshine and rainbows. It’s storm clouds too.

There are times in all of our lives when we find ourselves in adverse situations, when things don’t go our way. And it brings up questions.

How do we respond? Which vibes do we project in these moments? What do we take from the experience?

The answers can be telling.

This is why I pay close attention to how the people I’m acquainted with handle adversity — and why I’m sure others pay close attention to how I handle tough times.

***

It takes internal fortitude to get through adversity. I recognize this much better now than I did earlier in life.

Growing up, I was resistant to change, and I didn’t respond well when things didn’t go my way. I wasn’t much of a risk-taker, and I planned things out in my mind well ahead of time; that way, life could be predictable and within my comfort zone as much as possible.

But then, things changed.

In the past decade, I’ve moved to a new city three times — each time, hardly knowing a soul in the place God had led me to. The first move was a comfortable one — I was on a college campus with a bunch of other freshmen, and I made friends quickly.

The second move was far different — out to the West Texas desert, and the real world. A world where being simply being new in the neighborhood built no bridges to the surrounding community.

I remember the afternoon my dad left town after getting me settled. I went back to my new apartment, lay down on my new futon in the living room — and slept for 10 hours. Then, I went to my bedroom and slept for 8 more.

I was so lonely and scared, I didn’t want to wake up.

In that moment of extreme adversity, I gave myself a mental pep talk.

This is not who you are. Go out and be yourself.

Those words got me out of my apartment that day. No matter how apprehensive I felt inside, I was going to prove to the world — and myself —that I was exactly the same person I always had been.

I learned a lot from that experience, which is why I keep it in the back of my mind. Those lessons have come in handy many times, including during my move to the Dallas area and subsequent career change.

***

While I don’t expect others to face so many adverse situations in their lives — or to willingly put themselves in those situations, as I did — I would advise those who come across adversity to stay consistent and true to themselves. It’s also important to use the lessons from that experience productively moving forward.

For there will always be more moments of adversity down the road. Moments when it pays to heed the following words.

Show me adversity. I’ll show you strength.

Living Unbridled

Nothing quite compares to the feeling you get riding a horse.

That sense of freedom hits you like the wind in your face as the majestic animal gallops across the prairie. There are no panels of sheet metal, glass windows or floorboards separating you from that feeling, from the sight of the landscape around you flying by under the power of thundering hooves — just your feet in the stirrups and your hands on the reins.

It’s an exhilarating, incomparable feeling. And while it’s been close to a decade since I last saddled up, it’s a feeling firmly rooted in my soul.

But life in the saddle is about more than just a spiritual destination. It’s about a journey to a different perspective.

It’s about the bond between man and horse.

***

In the days before industrialization transformed the world, a horse was a necessity. The fastest way to get from Point A to Point B was on saddleback.

But the connection between a mounted rider and his noble steed was made of more than just necessity. It was about trust — a mutual understanding built between man and domesticated beast through care and compassion.

This bond brought out the softer and more nurturing side of men, at a time when such aspects were otherwise frowned upon — especially in the American West. Men were expected to be as tough as iron in that era, but such behavior in the saddle would literally drive a horse into the ground. As such, men put a great deal of personal devotion into their primary mode of transport.

(Of course, the bond between woman and horse has always been equally strong — if you don’t believe me, head to the rodeo and check out the barrel racing competition.)

***

With the advent of the railroad, everything changed. Transportation was quickly depersonalized and commoditized, transformed into “churn and burn.” Many innovations that came after the “Iron Horse” followed the same pattern. Gradually, our softer side went from being a need-to-have to a nice-to-have.

Now, these technological changes have improved our lives, for sure. But it is a bit disconcerting to see how effortlessly they took compassion and chivalry out of our everyday routines. It’s a missing element that is evident each time we see a video of someone callously pushing people out of the way to catch a train or recklessly screaming at a flight attendant.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

It’s about time we care about the journey as much as the destination. Good manners and a caring heart should be more common and reliable than the technology we use to make our lives effortless — unlike our cars, these traits won’t break down after years of continual use.

We are all on a journey through life together. The more compassion we show towards those around us, the more trust will be built. And the better we’ll be for it.

It’s time to start living unbridled.