Tag: change

Reckoning with the Wreckage

It was a great morning for a run.

The air was crisp. The stars in the sky were bright. The humidity was low.

And as I took my first few strides, my worries faded away.

I was in my element. I felt strong. I felt free.

But I knew it wouldn’t last.

I sensed the change around the two-mile mark. I ignored the beeping of my watch, telling me how far I’d come. But I couldn’t avoid the tightness in my calf muscles, telling me I didn’t have much more left to go.

It was the same tightness I’d felt at this point – or earlier – on every run I’d been on for the past eight months. If I didn’t stop and stretch soon, my stride would start to falter. My legs would lock up, leading my feet to feel like anvils. The discomfort would prove excruciating – and potentially damage-inducing.

I managed to make it another mile this time, stopping as my watch beeped its Mile 3 warning. As I stretched, I felt the chilly air hit my body. I was shivering and sweating at the same time.

I’d never contended with this dueling sensation before. Because in autumns past, I would never have broken stride this early. On crisp mornings like this, I’d have gone six or seven miles before I even considered stopping. And by then, even the coolest air would have felt balmy.

But those days were long gone. This was my reality now.

And it wasn’t likely to change.

A friend of mine once spoke of the significance of the age of 26.

There’s nothing given to us at that age. By the time we hit 26, we can already do everything from buying a lottery ticket to renting a car.

But 26, my friend posited, is when life starts to take for the first time.

Young adults might be able to party as voraciously as they did in college without consequence. But 26 hits different. Newly minted 26-year-olds need a minute, an hour, even a whole day to recover.

I can’t speak to this all that well. By the time I’d hit my mid-twenties, my wildest days were behind me. I was hitting the gym more. I was going to bed earlier. And I had given up fast food.

But now, more than a decade later, I feel the weight of my friend’s words.

For despite my best efforts, time has caught up with me. The force of its impact has sent me hurtling to the ground. And it’s taking me longer and longer to get back up.

I’m consistently exhausted now, often irritable, and immensely perplexed. How is everything that was once so easy now so difficult?

There are no easy answers. Only more unsettling questions.

As I stood there stretching my calves, I took a moment to consider what had been.

On those autumn mornings of yesteryear, the miles flew by because I was chasing something greater.

I was a competitive runner back then. I entered in several distance races a year. And I brought back hardware in most of them.

I had the talent and the willpower to deliver excellence. But I had no idea how quickly the sand would run out of the hourglass.

When my first injury hit, I moped about it for a week. But then I thrust myself into the rehab process, determined to come back stronger than before.

My zeal backfired. I picked up two new injuries in short order, one of which required surgery. Two months in a walking boot ensured, followed by four months of physical therapy.

By now, my fiery defiance had been doused. Just getting back to running regularly would be a victory, considering how far I’d fallen.

Amazingly, I achieved that victory, and even began a race training block. But I sustained two more injuries in the ensuing months, forcing me to shelve my plans once again.

I was now in the valley of that prolonged disaster. I was a shell of my former self. And I was growing more and more certain that I’d remain in that state.

But instead of wallowing in self-pity for my present, I was full of indignation for my past.

Sure, my exploits back then had put plenty of silverware on the wall. Medals for podium finishes and age group wins. A plaque for breaking the tape in a backwoods 5K.

But those mementos represented only a fraction of my potential.

I could have done better, I told myself. I could have dreamed bigger, tried harder, achieved more.

If I had gone all-in during those peak years, maybe I wouldn’t feel so hollow. There would be no unfinished business festering as Father Time stripped my speed and stamina away.

But I hadn’t.

And now, I was out in the cold. Literally.

I was left reckoning with the wreckage of it all.

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.

The words of The Serenity Prayer are omnipresent in my mind. I’ve leaned on their wisdom countless times throughout the years.

Much is made of the middle and the end of the prayer. After all, courage and wisdom are desirable traits in our society.

But it all starts with acceptance. Which – according to the Kubler-Ross Model – is where the grieving process ends.

I don’t think this is a coincidence.

Grief is the one of the most powerful emotions we experience in life. It’s visceral, multifaceted, and inevitable. It washes over us, regardless of whether we’re ready for the force of its mighty wave.

It’s only when the tide has gone back out that we can see what’s left behind. And that we can use those odds and ends to build back up anew.

This is the evident when we lose loved ones. While we miss them dearly, we must find some way to propel ourselves forward.

Yet, it’s just as applicable when the loss is less existential — such as our youth, our ability, or our potential.

I am finding that out firsthand.

I was once a great runner. Just as I was once an emerging marketer. Just as I was once a young man.

I am none of those things anymore. Time and its companions have taken much of the shine off me.

I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. I’ve grieved it.

But now is the time to get off the mat.

Now is the time for me to accept it all. What I was. What I am. What I can still become.

And now is the time to follow that revised path.

Reckoning with the wreckage might be a solemn obligation. But it’s an obligation, nonetheless.

Mile by mile, I’m honored to take the mantle of its responsibility.

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.

Everything’s Changed

They put up a plant where we used to park. That old drive-in’s a new Walmart.

So go a few lines from Everything’s Changed by Lonestar. A 90’s country song about how love endures, even as a town transforms.

For years, this song seemed ubiquitous to many others from that genre and era. Catchy, comfortable, and shallow.

But such descriptors are hardly adequate these days.

After all the disruptions of recent years, it’s hard not to relate Everything’s Changed to the world we live in. With so much transformation around us, we strain to find the reference markers that haven’t changed.

Those through lines are key to our identity. They prove that while we might evolve, our core remains consistent.

Such a rationale might seem sensible. But is it wise?

An ancient Greek parable — the Ship of Theseus — dives to the heart of this dilemma.

In the parable, Theseus’ ship sets off to sea with an original set of parts and a crew. Upon its return to port, none of the vessel’s parts are the same. The crew has meticulously rebuilt the ship, piece by piece, while at sea.

The question posed from this scenario: Has Theseus returned on the same ship he embarked on?

It’s an open debate. One that has enraptured philosophers for centuries.

But if you asked a bunch of people on the street, most would likely say Theseus was not on the same ship.

Our behavior dictates this response. Time and again, we long for connections to the past. We scratch and claw for any through lines that can persevere through the winds of change.

Such adherence to consistency has some benefits, driving an air of nostalgia and boosting our reliability. But they can also make us stubbornly rigid, ill-equipped for the encroaching tsunami of change.

I know this feeling as much as anyone. As a control enthusiast, routine and familiarity are my friends. I’ve historically struggled to lean into change. And even when I did make a shift, I struggled to reconcile it with my sense of identity.

I couldn’t be Theseus’ ship. A wholesale swap would not — could not — jibe with my narrative.

But now, everything’s changed.

Several years ago, I met my father at a baggage claim carousel in the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport.

We were meeting in the Twin Cities to embark on a road trip across the Upper Midwest. Along the way, we’d go to two Major League Baseball games — one in Minneapolis and another in Milwaukee.

We would meet up for trips like these occasionally, as I worked toward my now-completed goal of watching a baseball game in all 30 Major League stadiums. It was a great way to see the country and spend some time with my father, who lived halfway across the country.

Minnesota was in a heatwave when we arrived, and the steamy weather cut our sightseeing time short. But I was intrigued by the Twin Cities and vowed to return.

I was less impressed with Milwaukee. The city seemed sleepy and oddly arranged. The baseball stadium felt dull and cavernous. And even the lakefront seemed to pale in comparison with Chicago’s, 90 miles down shore.

We were in Milwaukee for less than 24 hours on that trip. But I was excited to get out of there and figured I wouldn’t come back.

Boy was I wrong.

As fate would have it, my best friend from high school got engaged to a Wisconsin native a few years later. The wedding took place at the Milwaukee Art Museum, and I found myself back in town. Wandering down the Milwaukee River Walk, through the Third Ward and across Walker’s Point in my spare time, I noticed the charm of the Cream City.

I realized that my initial snap judgment of Milwaukee was off base, and I regretted my error. Still, as I boarded my flight back to Texas, I once again thought it was a one-way trip.

My life and my job were in the Dallas area. And as far as I saw it, they would continue to be for years to come.

But then, the ground under my feet shifted.

The COVID-19 pandemic hit a couple years later, redefining the boundaries around me.

As my world shrank to the contours of a computer screen, it ironically expanded my horizons well beyond North Texas. The contours of physical presence evaporated as the virtual world went mainstream.

Several months into this new scenario, I was hit with another bombshell. My employer was acquired by a larger company — one that was based in Milwaukee. I landed a job on the parent company’s marketing team — a role that would represent a step up in my career trajectory.

And yet, as I prepared to begin my new role, I was whallopped with an identity crisis. I had built my professional existence as a Texan, working alongside members of my community. Now, I would be working with colleagues hundreds of miles away — many of whom lived in a region I was lukewarm toward.

I had two choices. I could withdraw, diving fully into my work and hiding behind my computer screen. Or I could lean in.

I chose the second approach, making a concerted effort to learn more about my colleagues and nuances of Wisconsin culture. And whenever I had an opportunity to make the trek north to Milwaukee for an onsite, I jumped at it.

Through the process, I made friends and earned the respect of my team. And I also grew fonder of the city so many of them called home.

I’ve fully accepted this shift for what it is. An unabashed about-face.

For regardless of the twists and turns along the way, I’m here now. Just like Theseus, I’ve made it back to shore. And unlike that Lonestar song, I’m not looking backward.

I’m fulfilled. I’m happy. And I could give a darn if such blessings align with my prior narratives.

We can all be a bit more like Theseus.

Instead of holding on to rotten boards for posterity’s sake, we can tinker. We can replace, renew, and refresh.

We can dive into change where prudent, without holding back for self-permission. We can be bold, and we can be brave — all while retaining our sensibility.

This potential remains within arm’s length. But it’s our responsibility to reach out and grab it. To stop tethering ourselves to the past and to instead embrace our potential.

The choice is ours. What move will we make?

Retooling the Engine

I ain’t going back.

It’s a refrain uttered all too often.

We’re trained to keep our eyes forward, to focus solely on progress. Returning is a waste of time and effort.

Time only moves in one direction. And so do we, as we grow and age.

It seems pointless to fight that inertia. It seems futile to head back to a place our momentum is carrying us away from.

Yet, in some cases, it could be exactly what’s needed.

At first, there was despair.

As a deadly virus rampaged across continents and the world shut down, we were filled with dread. We feared the virus and its ghastly effects. But we also seemed leery of the interruptions to life as we knew it.

What was work going to look like without an office to go to? What would school look like without the classrooms? What would social interactions be like when we were reduced to squares on a computer screen?

It was all so abrupt. So new, strange, and unwelcome.

But as we settled into our newly remote world, something strange happened. Many of us started to like it.

Our pause was morphing into a full reset. And now, our predicament had turned on its head.

Instead of yearning for the recently departed past, many of us sought to kill it with fire. Many used the pandemic pause to reinvent themselves and to cast off old patterns.

This manifested itself in all kinds of ways.

People quit their jobs in favor of more flexible roles or entrepreneurship. The hospitality industry reeled as more people enjoyed dinner and a movie within the comfort of their own homes. High fashion found itself supplanted by loungewear. And a surge in online shopping tested the limits of both the supply chain and the monetary system.

These changes have been dizzying. And yet, many of us have been more invigorated than nauseated by them.

For these shifts optimize our lives. They remove the inconvenience and unpleasantness, leaving us with a more satisfying existence.

In short, they represent a pipe dream. But with that smoke comes mirrors.

In those early days of the COVID pandemic, my experience wasn’t all that different from everyone else’s.

Namely, I spent most of my time at home.

I handled tasks for my job from a laptop computer on my dining room table. I prepared meals in my kitchen. I read, wrote, and occasionally watched television.

I only left my home for exercise — as I went for an outdoor run or walk each day. Even then, I kept to myself.

After about a month, I’d gotten used to the remote lifestyle. But as others were leaning into it, I was seeking its expiration date.

You see, by most measures, home confinement had suited me well. I was healthy. I was safe. I was still drawing a paycheck.

But home confinement hadn’t suited me. This was not the way I wanted to live in perpetuity.

I had rather enjoyed much of what I’d given up. I liked socializing with friends. I liked going to sports arenas and movie theaters. I even liked my daily commute to the office.

Plus, I knew there was a cost to my bubbled existence. While I sheltered in safety, others risked their wellbeing to provide me that luxury. Trash collectors, grocery store clerks, and utility technicians kept showing up to work in person to support my stay-at-home tendencies. And many of my favorite hospitality venues were on the brink of collapse, suffocating from a lack of the cash flow customers like me normally provided.

I was worn down by the sacrifices I had made in the name of public health. And I was appalled by the inequities such decisions exacerbated in my own community.

And so, I changed things up.

I decided to return to old patterns but in a new way. I decided to retool the engine.

I returned to working in the office. But I stayed a safe distance away from the few co-workers who joined me there.

I started ordering from restaurants again, making a habit of getting dinner elsewhere on Tuesdays. But I mostly relied on takeout and curbside pickup.

And I began to socialize with friends again. But I was far more intentional about the activities I’d take part in with them.

These might seem like small adaptations. Yet, they made a world of difference for me.

Embracing the familiar lifted a weight off my shoulders. Doing so in a new way reduced the risk that the familiar still posed.

Yes, in the darkness of those days, I seem to have stumbled upon something significant. I’d found a torch to carry forward.

These days, things are quite different.

The virus is still here, but there are tools to fight it. More of the familiar is emerging from the woodwork. And I’m back to gathering in large groups, attending live events, and traveling domestically.

Even so, I continue to retool the engine. I remain vigilant about which group activities or live events I attend. And I’m far more efficient when it comes to traveling.

Yes, I’ve gone through a reset of sorts. But instead of rewriting my story entirely, I’m iterating on the chapters that have already been written. I’m taking the best of my pre-pandemic existence and leaving the rest.

I believe this approach is sustainable, scalable, and resilient. It allows room for growth without incurring undue turbulence. And it doesn’t require us to pick sides.

We live in a polarized society.

The fault lines that divide us are too numerous to count. But many involve the subject of change.

At any inflection point, there are those who lean wholeheartedly into change and those who resist it tooth and nail. The ground between them cracks and splinters. And soon a chasm emerges.

Our pandemic-induced reset follows this pattern. Yes, many reinvented themselves during this time, swearing off old behaviors and activities. But others demanded the unequivocal return of those same behaviors and activities. The chasm between the two groups grew and tension built.

This outcome could have been avoided if we had sought the middle ground.

If more of us had committed to retooling the engine, perhaps the future of work wouldn’t be such a hot-button issue. Perhaps the hospitality industry wouldn’t be hanging by a thread. Perhaps travel would be more convenient.

Our choices, our impulses — they’ve made this mess. But there’s still time to clean things up.

We can still improve the patterns we once espoused — rather than making them as take it or leave it propositions. We can still commit to incremental improvements, instead of just disruptive change.

Such choices might not grab a ton of attention. But they could benefit us all.

Let’s at least take the time to consider them.

The Linearity Trap

You’ve got to stand for something, or you’ll fall for anything.

So goes the chorus of an old Aaron Tippin song.

Whenever I hear it on the radio, I get fired up.

Heck yes, we should stand for something, I think. There’s no use in being wishy-washy.

I’ve taken such perspective as gospel for years. But now, I’m starting to question this mantra.

Back in 2004, John Kerry was campaigning to be the United States President.

The Massachusetts senator had an uphill battle against him. The nation was only three years removed from the 9/11 terror attacks. American combat operations in Afghanistan and Iraq were nascent. And the incumbent president — George W. Bush — continued to earn strong marks for his handling of the job.

However, Kerry — the Democratic nominee — saw a window of opportunity. As the military got entangled in conflicts in the Middle East, reporters scrutinized President Bush’s prior service in the Air National Guard.

There were rumors that President Bush had sought to avoid combat in the Vietnam War, which was escalating during his time in the Air National Guard. And there were open questions about whether the president had fulfilled his military service.

Kerry pounced on this opening. He had served as a Swift Boat captain in the United States Navy, earning a Silver Star, a Bronze Star, and three Purple Hearts for his service in Vietnam. Kerry made it a point to feature such accolades in his campaign, contrasting it to President Bush’s dubious service record.

In a country that loves stories of military valor, this strategy seemed like a slam dunk. But Kerry’s efforts quickly hit substantial headwinds.

A political organization — Swift Vets and POWs for Truth — challenged Kerry’s narrative, claiming he had misrepresented his service in Vietnam. The group also claimed that Kerry’s later criticism of the Vietnam War represented a betrayal of military trust.

Kerry tried to defend himself against these accusations, but they stuck. He became known as a flip-flopper — someone who would shift between opposing stances on a topic. He went on to lose the presidential election by a wide margin.

Swift Vets and POWs for Truth later disbanded, and the group’s claims were eventually discredited. But the damage had been done.

For many, John Kerry had defied the Aaron Tippin Edict. He had failed to fall for something. And as president, he was liable to fall for anything.

Four years after the Swift Boat scandal, I was eligible to vote in a presidential election for the first time. Kerry was not running for office in 2008, but I still scrutinized the candidates closely for inconsistencies.

Were they true to their word? I asked myself. Did anyone flip-flop?

I repeated this exercise for another decade. Linearity was the best policy, I told myself.

I should have known better.

It is not the strongest of the species that survives, not the most intelligent. It is the one that is most adaptable to change.

Those words come from Charles Darwin.

Darwin is notorious for his work with modern evolutionary theory. But the foundations of his principles continue to elude us.

Darwin saw evolution more as an arc than a straight line. As the environment changed, the process of natural selection would pick new targets. Only the most adaptable species could stay in the running each time the landscape shifted.

Evolutionary theory underpins much of our society these days. Modern capitalism, pop culture, and even the trajectory of industry all reward those who are most adaptable to the demands of a changing world.

Yet, we fail to get the memo when it comes to assessing our own viewpoints. Those Aaron Tippin lyrics fill our minds, and we feel determined to take a stand.

We refuse to admit that life is not linear. We refuse to change, even as the circumstances at hand shift drastically.

Such shortcomings have been made all too apparent during the recent pandemic. As an unknown disease spread around the globe, guidance on how to ward it off shifted.

An early focus on physical distancing and handwashing morphed into a new approach — wearing face coverings and getting inoculated. Activities that were shamed in the early days of the disease — such as small outdoor gatherings — were later deemed safe and preferable.

The shifting advice was as frustrating as it was confusing. Some defied it all together — rallying against masking, business restrictions, or vaccine adoption. Others refused to change their ways as the guidance evolved further.

These actions have led to strained social relationships, and they’ve accelerated the toll levied by the pandemic. Many have blamed the rebellious for these outcomes — pointing to their selfishness and lack of empathy.

These people do have some impact on the outcome, for sure. But our expectations are equally to blame.

For the more we follow the playbook laid out by Swift Vets and POW’s for Truth — demanding linearity above all else — the more we stand to lose.

Polarization will only go up. Discourse will only go down. And our ability to make choices that meet the moment will disintegrate.

Knowing all this, it’s hard not to turn a critical eye toward those Aaron Tippin lyrics.

Having a backbone does matter. But it might not be the panacea we think it is.

An immovable conviction may protect us from manipulation. But it can also close the door to coalition.

And to fix what ails us, a coalition is exactly what we need.

It’s my hope that we can move beyond our differences. That we can restart discourse, both in politics and broader society. That we can face the needs of an evolving world, rather than anchoring ourselves in principle.

But this work can only start if we free ourselves from the linearity trap. It can only take flight if we accept that our views might change with the times.

Yes, we do need to stand for something. But that something should be openness.

Openness to connection. Openness to information. Openness to change.

I’m ready to meet the moment. Are you?

Rebooting the Ecosystem

It was a warm summer night.

The windows were cracked, filling my bedroom with a warm breeze. Outside, cars drove by the house intermittently, while the glow of the moon illuminated the roadway.

I was keenly aware of all this because I couldn’t sleep a wink.

My insomnia was understandable. Hours earlier, I’d returned from a trip to the other side of the globe. My internal clock told me it was 1 PM, not 1 AM. This was no time for sleep.

But there was more than jet lag keeping me awake.

For I was 10 years old, and I had just traveled abroad for the first time. In particular, I’d spent three weeks in China with my family.

Vacationing in a place so radically different from the environs I’d known was jarring. By the end of the trip, the disparity was playing tricks on my mind.

I had begun to think that the existence I had before boarding that flight across the Pacific was an illusion. That the life I’d remembered in America wasn’t real.

But once I got off that return flight, everything was still there. The city lights. My grandparents. Our house. Our dog.

It was all a bit much for me to process. So, I went to my bedroom and cried. Then, I tried in vain to fall asleep.

I hadn’t thought much of this particular night until recently. But now, it’s top of mind.

For after a lost year where our world was upended by a microscopic virus, change is again in the air. Our path out of the pandemic is clearly illuminated. And a return to the familiar awaits on the other side.

No, things won’t ever really be the same. Many have lost loved ones. Businesses have gone under. And there’s plenty that we’ll still do virtually after the health emergency recedes.

But there is plenty from the “before times” that will be returning. In-person events. Family barbecues. Nights out with friends.

And as we wade back into these experiences, there’s a good chance we’ll end up overwhelmed. Just like I did the night I returned from China.

Why is re-entry so clunky? Why is it so hard to reembrace the familiar?

A lot has to do with the underlying system.

What we call the familiar is actually an elaborate social and physical ecosystem. It’s the sights, sounds, and smells around us. But it’s also the paths we traverse, the people we associate with, and the norms that we follow.

When things are going well, we take much of this for granted. There’s no need to fuss about it, or even to notice it.

But if this ecosystem is taken away from us, we suddenly realize how fragile our assumptions were. And we need to work to get our sense of stability back.

Take domestic travel as an example. For many, crisscrossing United States has long felt ubiquitous. It was easy to hop a flight from Phoenix to Pittsburgh or to road trip from Charlotte to Chicago without missing a beat. The airports looked similar, the highway signs were uniform and there were ample hotel and restaurant brands along the route that we were comfortable with.

Much of this familiarity can be tied to two pieces of legislation.

One — the National Interstate and Defense Highways Act of 1956 — built a national highway network. The other — the Airline Deregulation Act of 1978 — effectively allowed airlines to do the same in the skies.

Providing a uniform way to get from Point A to Point B changed the way we think about mobility. Assuming we had the money and the time, we could head anywhere. And we wouldn’t need to worry about poor road conditions, inadequate lodging, or having to stop at a zillion airports along the way.

For years, nothing truly threatened that sense of travel freedom. The 9/11 attacks required us to beef up airport security, and surging gas prices have at times made road trips untenable. But despite those hurdles, we had ample opportunities to continue our journey unimpeded.

It took the pandemic to shatter that stability.

Now, to be clear, the interstates never shut down during the health crisis. Neither did airports. But traveling became much more burdensome.

Several states enacted quarantine requirements for travelers. Restaurants and hotels reduced services to follow health guidelines. And stay-at-home orders strongly discouraged travel for a time.

With so little peace of mind, many of us stopped traveling. It was too risky and too burdensome. For the first time in my life, I didn’t leave my own state for a year. In fact, I only left town once during that time.

But now, with vaccinations ramping up, many are looking to hit the road again. Many others are hoping to take to the skies.

These aspiring travelers are looking for a release. They’re seeking an escape from the horrors of the recent trip around the sun. They’re requesting a return to what they once knew.

But such desires might prove elusive. At least for now.

For while the highways and airports look similar to how they once did, the communities they connect do not. Our nation is still on the path back to the familiar, and the map is dotted with communities facing that same uneasiness.

A change of scenery won’t change that fact or speed up the timeline. We need something more to get there.

As I lay awake in my bedroom that warm summer night, I tried to will myself back to normalcy.

It would take me a week to get there. A week of groggily reacclimating with the environs I’d previously known so well.

I think the same perseverance is needed now, as we seek to reclaim what was once familiar.

For ecosystems can’t re-emerge in an instant. They take time to reboot.

And the ecosystem powering our way of life is extra fragile. It’s built on trust and human connection — both of which have been under siege lately.

The responsibility to get this project off the ground falls on our shoulders.

It’s on us to be deliberate and empathetic, as we work our way out of this forced hibernation. It’s our responsibility to resist the delusions of a quick fix. And it’s our charge to roll up our sleeves and rebuild connections.

This work won’t be glamorous, and it won’t seem particularly fun. But it will make our ecosystem stronger, and it will make us more resilient.

With patience, faith, and determination, we can do more than reclaim what we once had. We can build something even better.

So, let’s get to it.

On Transition

Here I go. Turn the page.

If only life were as simple as a Bob Seger song.

Yes, transitions are often-fraught times. Change is far messier than we’d like, and slogging through that quagmire can be emotionally draining.

And yet, change is inevitable. It’s a part of our calendars, our customs, and of life itself.

So, why are we not better at dealing with it? Why, after all this time, can’t we just turn the page?

The answer is both exceedingly simple and profoundly complicated.

I despise moving.

There are few things that give me more anxiety than changing my home address. I’ve only done it a handful of times in my life. Yet, each time, the experience nauseates me.

It isn’t the process of finding a new place that stresses me out. It isn’t the prospect of having a new rent or mortgage payment I must meet each month, no questions asked.

No, what upsets me most are those days right around the move itself. Those days when the home I’m vacating becomes a staging area — a labyrinth of boxes, tape, and bubble wrap.

This setup, temporary as it might be, goes against dwelling fundamentals. Homes are not meant to be storage areas for piles of boxes. They’re designed to be lived in. And the items we keep there are meant to be used, not stowed away.

Of course, it’s impossible for most of us to uproot ourselves with a snap of our fingers. Packing, lifting, unpacking — that all takes time and coordination. So, this awkward transition period is a force of circumstance.

But that doesn’t mean I like it. As I stumble through my soon-to-be-former home, looking amongst the boxes for a toothbrush and a change of clothes, I’m as miserable as a cat in a monsoon.

Perhaps someday, I won’t look on moving day with a sense of doom. Perhaps someday, I’ll even look forward to it.

But it will take a major shift to get me there.

I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul.

The closing lines of William Ernest Henley’s Invictusare iconic. And for me, they’re a rallying cry.

For I am a control enthusiast. I believe in things being just so. I demand them to be just so.

I do all I can to stay at the helm. To steer my actions and emotions in the most structured of ways.

And yet, I realize that all this preparation is futile. For we live on a perpetually spinning sphere. Things are always in a state of flux. Even in areas we consider to be steady.

Consider school. Teachers, blackboards, backpacks, desks — it all dominates much of our early existence. It seems so monotonous at first, a model of routine and consistency.

And yet, school is full of transition. With every summer comes another step up the ladder, and another set of adventures and challenges. The pattern repeats itself until our schooling is done.

Our adult adventures are also warped by the forces of time. As we progress through our careers, we pick up bushels of experience. We don’t exit the workforce the same person we were when we entered.

As our own goalposts move, so do the mile markers around us. Our favorite athletes retire. Cutting-edge fashion fades into obscurity. Music genres get the dreaded vintage label.

We deftly steer through all this chaos. So deftly, in fact, that we sometimes forget such chaos is even unfolding. With so much in motion, keeping our eyes on what’s ahead becomes the mission. And such tunnel vision gives us the illusion of control.

But then comes that moment that grabs our attention. That fork in the road that we see coming a mile ahead. That transition we can’t blissfully ignore.

It might be a graduation. Or a wedding. Or the dawn of parenthood.

Heck, it might even be a move to a new home.

When we see the inflection point — when the change becomes real — we fall apart.

What’s going on here?

Well, I think there are two elements at play.

For one thing, transitions are control voids. We don’t have agency over our environment. Instead, it has agency over us.

Furthermore, transitions expose our vulnerability. They show the world the soft spots in our armor. And they rudely remind us of where those gaps lie.

A tailspin into vulnerability is our greatest nightmare, playing out in real life. No wonder transitions cause so many of us so much distress.

As I write this, we are in the midst of a great transition.

A changing of the guard at the highest office in the land.

Such a shift happens every four or eight years. And it’s always an anxious time.

But this transition feels particularly tense.

Not because it comes during a deadly pandemic or a crushing recession. But because it comes in the shadow of an insurrection.

Yes, the new President of the United States has just been inaugurated at what is effectively a crime scene. He has taken oath to defend the Constitution in the spot where rioters attempted a coup of the government just two weeks earlier. A riot that emerged in support of the outgoing President.

Such occurrences seem plucked from the pages of a dystopian novel or the streets of a far-off republic. But they have happened right here in America.

And now, in their wake, the anxiety is off the charts. The sense of vulnerability has hardly ever been greater. Dread has the brightest stage imaginable.

Yes, it seems bleak. But what if we flipped the script?

What if we approached a moment like this with hope? What if we traded guardedness for optimism? What if we believed in the good ahead of us, instead of the horror behind us?

Such thinking might seem foolhardy — reckless even — given all that’s happened. But that foolhardiness just might be what we need to thrive in this moment.

So, let us put on a brave face. Let us stand up tall. And let us face the winds of change with conviction and resolve.

Turning the page is inevitable. How we handle it up to us.

The Magic Eraser

If I could turn back time.

These are not just the lyrics from a Cher song. They’re a common lament.

We all have things we wish we’d done different. Or things that we wish would have gone differently.

And while it’s too late for a re-do, it’s never too late for us to fantasize about what could have been. To envision wiping out what occurred and writing a new script.

We’ve done this for centuries, with a catch. All those machinations, tweaks, changes — they were confined to the bounds of our imaginations. For there was no Magic Eraser we could turn to in real life.

But now, things are changing.

A movement has been growing in recent years.

Like a wave, it started out innocuously, shielded by the vastness of the water around it. But it relentlessly rose from its surroundings, to the point where it couldn’t be ignored any longer. And then it crashed over us with a vicious fury.

This wave is called Cancel Culture. And it first crested during the Me Too movement, when women took a stand against acts of sexual misconduct by powerful men.

Many of the perpetrators were prominent figures — entertainers, producers and business moguls. The public knew their names, but not their alleged actions. Those atrocities were shrouded behind a wall of silence.

When the dam broke, and all those secrets saw the light of day, people were outraged. While some of these men ended up facing charges in court, all of them faced harsh judgment in the court of public opinion.

Casting out these men from their jobs seemed too limiting. The public sought to expel them from good graces of culture as well.

And so, everything these fallen figures had ever touched turned to ash. Many stopped citing or sharing their work. Instead of treating these men like cornerstones of modern history, people canceled them from the text entirely.

It was a drastic move, to be sure. But for many, it was a cathartic one as well.

The rush of water had crested and crashed, washing clean the sins of recent history.

And yet, this was no rogue wave. It was the start of a tidal surge.

Indeed, Cancel Culture has continued to thrive in the wake of the Me Too movement. And in the process, it’s consumed a far wider swath of transgressions.

But now, it might be at the point of no return.

The moment we’re facing is dire.

A global pandemic has raged for months, and it shows few signs of abating. Around the world, millions have been infected and hundreds of thousands of people have died. People have been asked to avoid each other in the name of public health. And all of this has led to an economic recession and the upending of many societal traditions.

But in the midst of this crisis, another one has come to the forefront. A series of racially charged incidents in the United States have led to widespread outrage. Coast to coast, people have left their isolation bubbles to protest this injustice. And difficult discussions regarding race relations have come to the fore.

It is within this perfect storm — this mix of helplessness and rage — that Cancel Culture has surged. With so little recourse to fix the present crisis, we’ve focused our attention on the past. On just how much of it we can omit.

Now, the waves of change aren’t mere whitecaps. They’re a tsunami.

This tsunami has led to some overdue changes. Statues of confederate leaders have been removed. The offensive name of Washington’s National Football League team has been changed. And mentions of one racist United States President from a century ago have been scrubbed from Princeton University.

These changes had been debated for years, so they were a long time coming. If we want to live in a world of equality and racial justice, we should not immortalize those who led armies against such concepts. We should not promote those who spoke forcefully against it. And we should not allow anyone to profit off of it by selling team t-shirts featuring racial slurs.

Perhaps, if the changes had ended here, we’d be alright.

But a tsunami does not attack with precision. It obliterates everything in sight.

And so, we now see some people demanding that more of American history be scrubbed. That everything from the era of inequities be stricken from the record.

Those fighting for this cause might mention that George Washington owned slaves. They might exclaim that American Indians never called themselves that name. Or point out that the original Texas Rangers weren’t exactly kind to Mexicans or Blacks.

They might claim that the song Dixie was once used in minstrel shows — even though the term itself was the French translation for a 10-dollar note. They might mention that Sam Houston lived in the Antebellum South — even though aimed to keep Texas out of the Confederacy.

Never mind the context behind any of these examples. The context does not matter. At least that’s what these reformers would have us believe.

After all, they would argue that well has been poisoned. That these people and entities were the beneficiaries of a broken system.

And now, in more enlightened times, our only recourse for reckoning with this system is take out the Magic Eraser and wipe it all away. The statues. The names. The mentions. All of it.

This might seem like a compelling case to make. But it’s a fatally flawed one.

Many years ago, I stood on a steep hillside in Germany.

It was a warm summer day, but I had chills up and down my spine.

For the hill I was standing on was within the gates of the Buchenwald Concentration Camp. Decades earlier, more than 50,000 people had lost their lives at the hands of the Nazis there.

The Holocaust happened well before my time, and well before the times of many others now walking this earth. And yet, it still resonates with us in the most horrifying of ways.

It does so not because of history textbooks, documentaries or movies. Those can always be canceled away from our collective consciousness.

No, the Holocaust resonates because of sites like Buchenwald. Sites of horror that have been preserved despite our overwhelming urge to bury them from memory.

The Germans stripped the names of the Nazis from symbols of their culture. You won’t find streets named after Gestapo officers or key figures in the Reichstag.

But the Germans took great care not to wipe their history books entirely.

Cities pay homage to Gutenburg, Goethe, Schiller and other key figures who predated the Nazis. And the concentration camps remain scarring reminders of the darkest era of European history. An era that we cannot afford to let happen again.

It is this point that Cancel Culture seems to miss.

If we go overboard with the Magic Eraser, we lose track of our mistakes. We set the stage for history to repeat itself in the most brutal of ways.

Let’s avoid this trap.

Let’s treat history with a scalpel, not a machete. Let’s proceed deliberately, not emotionally. And let’s heed the words of Hippocrates — the ones imploring us to do no harm.

This will allow us to learn from bygone eras without exalting them. And it will provide us a roadmap to building a better future.

So, let’s put the Magic Eraser away. In an age where we have all the tools, that’s not one we need.

Tricks and Illusions

I woke up in a cold sweat, my heart racing.

I had just seen a vision of a dystopian world. One so horrifyingly visceral that I was convinced it was real.

As I opened my eyes and hyperventilated, I took stock of my surroundings. All was still in my darkened bedroom. Outside my window, all was quiet and calm.

Everything was normal. I had just had a bad dream.

Our minds are powerful things. They can help us solve some of life’s most profound problems. They can help us visualize new possibilities. And they can help us to get mundane tasks done.

Yet, that power can be compromised. Our minds can lure us into traps.

These traps are particularly effective when the protocols we follow are rewired. When our minds are put on the witness stand for cross-examination.

This is why we freeze when faced with tricks and illusions. This is why these mind games work.

Whether we’re observing a magic trick or falling for a joke, our minds can make us look silly at times.

We welcome this silliness because it keeps us honest. It allows us to find levity, build emotional connections and ward off burnout.

But some tricks and illusions can be more sinister. Confidence schemes can wipe out our life’s savings, leaving us destitute. And nightmares can spike our stress levels, weakening our immune systems.

It’s critical for us to avoid these outcomes. Otherwise, our survival is in grave danger.

So, we compartmentalize.

We prepare ourselves to see magic tricks by attending a magic show. We set up jokes on the first day of April, punctuating them with a warning of April Fools! We keep our guard up when we meet new people. And we do our best to be in a good mental state before we doze off.

These are not perfect solutions. But they provide us with enough control to stay afloat.

Or at least they do until a tidal wave of change hits.

Our lives are driven by emotion.

And one of the most powerful emotions out there is fear.

Fear can stop us in our tracks. It can help us avert a certain action. Or it can goad us into taking an alternative one.

Because fear has such a gravitational pull, it’s used as a tool in many societal settings. We find it in parenting techniques, in storytelling and in governance.

These applications are often for our benefit. Often, but not always.

For it turns out that fear is an illusion. It’s nothing more than a construct in our minds.

Indeed, as a common refrain goes, fear stands for False Evidence Appearing Real.

With circumspection, we can tackle these fears. We can self-triage — determining whether the outcomes that so terrify us are as likely or detrimental as we imagine them to be.

Often times, the answer to this question is No.

But there are exceptions. Exceptions like global pandemics.

In events like these, the false expectations are real. And that can be hard to fathom.

On one hand, things look normal. The sun is shining. Birds are chirping. Homes, buildings and vehicles stand intact.

But look closer.

Businesses are shuttered. People are confined to their homes. And everyone is being admonished to wash their hands, to avoid touching their faces and to stay six feet apart at all times.

Yes, the signs of normalcy are a smoke screen here. They’re an illusion.

And in these times, reality is the cruelest trick of all.

What happens when the curtain gets lifted? What transpires when the illusion becomes the status quo?

We grieve.

We go through all 5 stages of the Kübler Ross Model: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. And at the end of that process, we adjust.

Initially, we feel aggrieved. We yearn for the lifestyle we had once taken for granted. We curse the new normal.

Finding these attempts futile, we seek to bridge the gap. We try and hold on to some remnants of the past, while adjusting to the demands of the present.

This effort inevitably fails as well. A paradigm shift doesn’t allow for a soft transition. We must dive right in.

Finally, reality sets in. The loss of control yields a sense of hopelessness. We feel pangs of despair, before picking ourselves up and resolving to move forward.

This pattern is well-known for individualized shocks — such as a death in the family, a loss of a job or the breakup of a relationship. But when the entire world is turned on its head, things can get messy.

For there is no set timeline as to when all of us will make it through the gauntlet. There’s no synchronized date when we cross the threshold from one stage of grief to another.

Much like runners in a marathon, we cross the mile markers at our own pace. All as the event timer keeps ticking away.

Meanwhile, leaders wait impatiently, mired in a brutal Catch-22. They need to act quickly to properly adapt societies to the shifted landscape. But they also need consensus — which can be hard to find as individuals navigate the new normal on their own timelines.

Conundrums like these illustrate why the fascination with disruptive change in the business world is misguided. Even in the best of times, we struggle to turn on a dime.

But in crises like these — moments when our darkest illusions come to life — this tendency becomes a real liability.

So, what can we do to ease the burden?

How can we move past the paralysis of being tricked, bamboozled and floored by a world that suddenly looks much different than it once did?

We can start by letting go. By not pining for the creature comforts of the recent past, or wondering when they’ll be restored wholesale.

That ship has sailed.

We must instead focus on vigilance. On finding the right resources to follow during this period of disorientation. And on taking the appropriate actions.

This is exceedingly difficult when our world has just been rocked. For we are low on confidence, and particularly vulnerable to any tricks and illusions that persist in our new reality.

(For instance, the risk of cyberattacks is known to increase during pandemics.)

But often, what is difficult is necessary. Necessary to get us out of the quicksand of confusion. Necessary to keep us moving forward.

So, let’s recognize the circumstances. Let’s accept that illusion has become reality.

And let’s get on with finding the right light to guide the path ahead.

Our future depends on it.

The Power of Inertia

I’m in over my head.

The thought flashed through my mind, over and over, as I stood nervously on the edge of a ski run.

To the left of me was the gentle meandering trail that had gotten me here. On my map, this trail was marked green, which meant it was for beginner skiers.

Straight ahead of me was a steeper trail I had not taken. That trail was marked blue on the map, for intermediate skiers.

And to the right of me was the remainder of the run, an unrelenting slope down to the lodge, some 50 feet below. It was marked blue on the map, but the skiers on the green trail would have to take it to make it back to base.

I was not ready for what was to come. This was only my second time skiing, and I’d never taken a lesson. Plus, the sun had gone down and much of the trail had turned from powdery snow into an icy slush.

I knew that if I wasn’t careful, I could get badly injured. Yet, it would be nearly impossible to be careful while streaking down a slick slope under the black skies of a winter night.

So I stood off to the side with my skis perpendicular to the incline and my ski poles anchored into the snow. Then, I waited. And waited. And waited.

Eventually, I mustered up the courage to continue. I turned my skis to the right and began the harrowing journey down the slope.

At first, the task seemed manageable. I was zigging and zagging across the hill with precision. But as I picked up speed, my turns got wider and wider. And control quickly became an illusion.

I somehow managed to stay upright the entire way down the hill. But once I reached the bottom, I realized I had a new problem — I couldn’t stop.

I tried every technique I could to pull up. Nothing seemed to work.

I bounded around the traffic in front of me, nearly taking out a family waiting in line for a chair lift. I was quickly running out of real estate, and gripped with helplessness.

Finally, just before I reached the parking lot, I was able to slow to a stop.

My skis were at a standstill once again. But my heart was beating furiously.

I had survived.

Often times, my thoughts on this forum have a predictable pattern. One that goes something like this:

  • Point out a behavior
  • State why it’s a problem
  • Encourage everyone to stop doing it
  • Ask everyone to try something different instead

It’s a familiar formula. One used by philosophers, authors, teachers and behavioral scientists for centuries to evoke change.

Yet, this narrative pattern glosses over a significant factor. It fails to account for inertia.

Inertia is a critical component of change. One we must contend with when speeding up, slowing down or shifting course.

This force that causes friction in the face of change. It makes it hard to alter our speed or direction on a dime. We need space and resistance to counteract its force. And we need resistance to chart ourselves a different path.

I saw the power of inertia firsthand on my ski misadventure. And I’ve notice it every time a plane I’m flying on touches down on the runway. Those few moments before we reach full-stop are the most harrowing of the entire journey.

Why do we fail to factor such a critical component into our thinking and behavior? Why do we perpetuate the myth of the quick change.

Are we willful? Brash? Petulant?

Well, yes. But that’s only part of the story.

I want off this ride.

Just about all of us have had this thought from time to time.

For whether we’re a daredevil or a scaredy cat, we’ve likely had that moment where our stomach tied in knots and the room started to spin.

That feeling has seemed particularly pronounced in recent years. As society has become splintered by divisiveness, a tidal wave of angst has consumed a great many of us.

We don’t want the status quo to continue. We want a kinder, gentler reality.

So, we propose ever more radical solutions for the issues we see. We get ever more ambitious with the scope of these demands.

Our emotions are driving the show. After all, we are pained by our current quandary. And we feel compelled to find the fastest source of relief.

But while our hearts seek a quick shift, our minds should know better.

We should know that it takes some time to grind our present actions to a halt, and that it takes time to chart a course for our future ones. We should know that old habits die hard, and that new ones are hard to break in.

And because of this, we should know that change is often incremental, not disruptive.

We should know all this. But we’d rather act as if we don’t know any of it.

For that narrative is too drawn out. It’s too slow and plodding for our fast-twitch, instant gratification world.

We want off this ride now. Consequences be damned.

It would seem that our yearning for radical change is a problem. A problem that needs to be stopped in its tracks.

But by framing the issue this way, we risk falling into a trap.

For ultimately, we can’t stop anything in its tracks. That’s not how we resist inertia.

We must work toward the change we seek. Gradually, methodically and persistently.

Then, and only then, can we shift course the way the laws of nature intended. Then, and only then, can we reach our desired destination in a manner that minimizes damage.

This is a long-term gain that’s worth the short-term pain.

Indeed, in essence, that pain is just part of the process.

So, let us not stop those unsavory behaviors or actions we seek to purge. And let us not immediately enact their replacements.

Instead, let us continue.

Let us continue moving from the problems we encounter now toward the solutions that we see ahead. Let us continue challenging the status quo in hopes of a more idealized reality. And let us continue working to build a brighter future, brick by brick and day by day.

Inertia is ever powerful, and ever present. It’s best if we use it to our advantage.