Tag: decisions

Second Level Risk

Are you sure you want to do this?

The words filled me with dread. But before I could reply, the technician continued.

Because if this repair doesn’t take, we’ll be out of options. Your device is considered vintage.

I took a moment to try and unpack these words.

I struggled to comprehend how my laptop computer could be a relic. This wasn’t a dusty Remington typewriter from the 1970s. I’d gotten it — new — less than 10 years earlier.

The transaction had cost a small fortune. And I had a hard time believing the computer was now vintage.

But technology moves fast. New editions of the laptop had hit the market since I got mine. Versions with new processors, updated displays, and a completely redesigned keyboard.

This would prove to be a problem, as I desperately needed to fix some busted keys.

I could either take a leap of faith with the technician, hoping he could get the misaligned keycaps back in place. Or I could decline the repair and make do with a compromised keyboard.

It wasn’t much of a decision.

I’d like you to try to fix It, I replied. It’s not working well for me right now, so leaving it as is doesn’t seem like an option.

The technician nodded and took the laptop to a back room. After a few minutes, he returned triumphant. The keyboard was fully intact once again.

When I entrusted the technician with my computer, I was taking a risk.

This was an opportunity to make something broken whole again. But it was also a final roll of the dice.

There were no guarantees that the repair would work. And there was the possibility of inflicting further, irreversible harm to my keyboard.

Such an outcome wouldn’t be beneficial to anyone.

I would be left with a mangled computer. The technician’s reputation would be tarnished. And the manufacturer would face the potential of legal action — if I were so inclined to pursue it.

And so, the technician seemed hesitant — unwilling, even — to proceed. The risk seemed too big to ignore. And the status quo seemed more enticing.

I was decidedly not on board with this thinking.

You see, the computer technician put all risks in the same grouping. But I don’t.

Indeed, I consider the history behind the status quo when making these calls.

If everything is going well, a repair would indeed appear risky. Sure, tinkering might provide new capabilities or unlock new features. But it could also screw up something that was working just fine.

I call this type of scenario a First Level Risk. And I rarely consider it worthwhile.

But if something is already damaged or off-kilter, the risks of a repair seem less stark. Sure, another layer of damage would cause further headaches. But living with a compromised status quo is hardly palatable.

I call this scenario a Second Level Risk. And I’m more willing to take it on.

So yes, I commanded the technician to repair my computer with little hesitation. I made a similar choice regarding surgery for an injured ankle. And yet another to get some rodent-damaged wiring replaced in my vehicle.

I couldn’t imagine making do with what I had. I couldn’t imagine jumping through hoops to maneuver around the damage. (Or not jumping at all, when it came to my ankle.)

Fixing the damage seemed like the only salve. Even if that fix was far from a sure thing.

Second Level Risks were worthwhile.

When I was growing up, I would often go shopping for furniture with my parents.

The store had an As Is showroom. And we would always scour it for discounted furniture.

The As Is items changed out frequently. But they tended to have one thing in common — defects.

Many found these defects acceptable — or at least acceptable in exchange for a lower purchase price.

But to the best of my recollection, my family did not.

I was too young to have an informed opinion back then. But now, decades later, I find myself continuing my family’s legacy.

I don’t want anything of mine to be As Is. I don’t want to be hindered or compromised.

And so, I do what I can to avoid that fate. I entrust others with the task of making me whole.

Until recently, it hadn’t occurred to me how unusual such a decision is.

Indeed, many in our society will gladly take a First Level Risk. But they’ll avoid a Second Level one.

Take my late grandfather as an example.

This was a man who enlisted in the United States Navy at age 17, during the waning months of World War II. He could have stayed in high school until the summer of 1945, likely avoiding the risk of ever being drafted into the conflict. But instead, he decided to put his life on the line for his country.

Shipping off to the Navy during a global war was perhaps the most commendable of First Level Risks. But it was a substantial risk, nonetheless.

My grandfather was placing all kinds of trust in his commanding officers to make it through the ordeal. And that faith ultimately paid off.

You would think such unwavering trust would flow into other risky decisions my grandfather faced. But it didn’t.

All too often, my grandfather would try to fix household appliances himself, or leave them in a compromised state. Good enough was sufficient for him— even if neglected or MacGuyvered repairs put parts of his house in structural danger. Entrusting trained professionals with a solution was just too risky.

In hindsight, my grandfather’s allergy to Second Level Risks seems comical. But in practice, it’s all too understandable.

For America is built upon the pattern my grandfather espoused. We’re implored to take big risks to seize bigger opportunities. But we’re also indoctrinated on the value of self-sufficiency.

Embracing only Second Level risks is an affront to all of this. If we play it safe when things are going well, we’ll leave countless opportunities on the table. And if we turn to others when things are broken, we lose autonomy.

As such, many have followed my grandfather’s pattern. They’ve taken chances when it wasn’t strictly necessary. And they’ve avoided taking chances when the situation could have called for it.

While I understand the sentiment, I also find it a bit baffling.

Are we really that comfortable with spinning the wheel on those First Level Risks, with their massive opportunity costs? And if we are, shouldn’t the Second Level Risks seem doubly enticing?

The answers tend to be Yes and No, respectively. But it’s time we flip them around.

It’s time to listen to reason. It’s time to follow common sense. It’s time to manage our risk tolerance.

We have less to lose with Second Level Risks than we do with First Level ones.

So, let’s stop throwing away a good thing in pursuit of more. And let’s take the calculated risks we need to fix something that’s gone rotten.

This is the sensible way to make decisions. It’s about time we adhered to it.

Pulling the Plug

As I walked to the starting line, I felt tentative.

Pre-race jitters played a part in that, sure. But they didn’t tell the whole story.

My left leg was aching a bit. It had for weeks. And I wasn’t sure it would hold up.

I had taken all the normal precautions. I’d stopped running for a week. I’d gotten x-rays, which had come back negative.

All was supposedly well. But it didn’t exactly seem that way, even after my warmup jog.

Still, when the horn sounded, my legs got moving. Adrenaline took over, and all discomfort faded away. I raced, and I raced hard.

I crossed the finish line with a personal best for the 10K distance, placing me in a Top 15 position. I was elated with the result, and just as thrilled to find that my leg wasn’t aching anymore.

I was fine. Or so it seemed.

A week later, the discomfort returned, and it intensified rapidly. An MRI proved what I’d already feared – I had a significant injury.

I had to take two months off from running. As a result, I pulled out of a marathon I had been training for.

Going all out in that race had proved quite costly.

Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.

Those words are now the legacy of Jim Valvano.

Valvano was a championship-caliber college basketball coach. But few remember him for his accolades on the court.

Instead, they recall an iconic speech he gave at the 1993 ESPY Awards. A speech that included those seven words.

Valvano was battling cancer at the time — a battle that would tragically end weeks later. But during his time at the podium, Valvano made an impassioned plea for cancer research resources. Resources that were shockingly scant at that time.

After noting that these efforts would more likely save his children’s lives than his own, Valvano announced the launch of The V Foundation for Cancer Research. The foundation’s motto would be those seven words: Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.

That speech, and that motto, resonated with many. If this man remained so committed, even on death’s doorstep, how could we even think of quitting?

I found myself influenced by seduced by this same message. In fact, I can count on one hand the times I’ve pulled the plug on something.

This applies to everything – my career, my hobbies, even the shows I stream. When I’m in, I’m all in.

Such a mentality can have its virtues, of course. Stick-to-it-iveness is an American hallmark.

But the downsides can be significant. Wasted time. Misaligned energy. And even the potential for shattered dreams.

It’s far better to add some nuance. To know when to stay in the fight, and when to pull the plug.

You’ll know when it’s time.

Just about every former athlete has shared this wisdom when discussing the best time to hang it up.

Many pro athletes have stuck the landing when it came time to pull the plug. Peyton Manning walked away from football with a Super Bowl victory. Ray Borque lifted the Stanley Cup and hung up his skates. The late, great Kobe Bryant dropped 60 points in his final pro basketball game.

But then there are those who hung on too long. Wayne Gretzky’s unparalleled hockey career ended with three modest seasons where he sported New York Rangers sweater. Michael Jordan unretired from basketball (a second time) to slog through two mediocre years with the Washington Wizards. Tom Brady reneged on retirement, losing football games and his marriage in the process.

Michael Jordan, Tom Brady, and Wayne Gretzky are widely considered the best to ever lace ‘em up in their respective sports. Kobe Bryant, Peyton Manning, and Ray Borque — for all their greatness — are a rung below.

But when it comes to a graceful landing, those three left the all-timers in the dust. They had the mental fortitude to pull the plug at a moment of jubilation. To resist the urge to just get one more. To repel the temptation to defy Father Time yet again.

That’s not an easy choice for a pro athlete to make. Especially when those athletes have spent decades following the advice of Jim Valvano.

I may never attain the athleticism of Michael Jordan, the poise of Tom Brady, or the grace of Wayne Gretzky. But as I walked to the starting line of my fateful 10K race, I felt the same competitive spirit they did.

Instead of embracing the process of recovery, I was visualizing my comeback.

I was playing with fire. And I got burned.

You gotta know when to hold em. And know when to fold em…

Many of us know the words to Kenny Rogers’ hit The Gambler by heart. But few of us have followed them with precision.

One exception? Champion Poker players.

You see, walking away is a key strategy in Poker. For there are times when you just don’t have the cards.

In those moments, doubling down on a bluff can prove costly. Better to cut your losses and live to fight another day.

Annie Duke understands this. As one of the greatest professional poker players of all time, Duke has long been renowned for making the right choice at the table. And sometimes the right choice was to walk away.

Duke has compiled that knowledge in several acclaimed books on decision making. One of those is called Quit: The Power in Knowing When to Walk Away.

As I write this, I still haven’t gotten my hands on the book. But I probably could have used its counsel recently.

I had returned from my injury and set my eyes on competing once again. But my will was ahead of my legs, and I kept suffering setbacks.

I had two significant races coming up — a half-marathon and a full one. Both required several weeks of dedicated training. And now, I had to decide whether to proceed.

The competitor in me was daring to soldier on. I had already missed so much time for something more significant. Surely, I wouldn’t be felled by this.

But the pragmatist in me was screaming to pull the plug. It remembered what happened when I ran that ill-advised race. And when I continued to train on that bad leg.

For days, I agonized over what to do.

For there was no smoking gun this time. No MRI report to peruse. No doctor’s orders keeping me out of the race.

The decision would be mine, and mine alone.

Ultimately, I did withdraw from both races. It was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make. But I’m confident it was the right one — and one that will pay dividends long term.

So no, the story hasn’t ended happily for me. At least not this chapter.

But perhaps there’s something we can all learn from my saga, and from all the examples that somehow influenced it.

Pulling the plug is not an automatic marker of weakness. In the right context, it can be a powerful weapon.

Let that context be your compass, and my loss be your lesson. And you may yet find the seas of life to be a bit less treacherous.

Godspeed.

At Our Disposal

I stared at the menu intensely.

My eyes scanned the text over and over, searching for two words.

Mole enchiladas.

I knew this establishment made this savory dish. After all, I’d ordered it darn near every time I’d come here.

Maybe it had moved to a different spot on the menu. Maybe they’d given it a different name.

But as I searched for the twentieth time, I found no respite.

Finally, I gave in and asked the server for help.

We don’t offer the mole enchiladas anymore, he replied. We changed up our menu.

I scanned the offerings once again, looking for an alternative. And as I did, my mood soured.

Please make a selection.

It’s a simple command. But not always a simple ask.

You see, those four words give us what we want. But not always what we truly desire.

There might be too few options. Or too many.

In either case, the Goldilocks Problem can rear its ugly head. We’re unable to find that option that fits just right.

Such is the quagmire of decision-making. What we’re looking for often fades into the background, usurped by what we have at our disposal.

We go from thriving to settling in an instant. And cognitive dissonance sinks in.

This discomfort permeates our lives. We make more than 35,000 decisions a day, and we likely consider a fair amount of them to be suboptimal.

And yet, we can’t afford to punt on them entirely. No decision is still a choice. And it’s generally the worst one.

So, how do we navigate this quagmire, and somehow get the most out of it? It’s a question that people on all sides of the decision-making process are trying to figure out.

Sheena Iyengar and Mark Lepper are not household names.

If they walked past us on the street, it wouldn’t cause a commotion. And they’re unlikely to be the topics of watercooler discussions.

But perhaps they should. Particularly for one bit of their work.

Back in 2000, Iyengar and Lepper — both acclaimed psychologists — published an academic paper. Its text was dry and dense, but the concept it described was irresistibly juicy.

The paper summarized an experiment the psychologists ran at a grocery store.

Researchers set up a table near the jam aisle at the store. On that table, they put up a sign with a basic offer.

Try a jam sample and get a coupon to save on jam.

This offer was no different than what we might see at our local Costco. Try something and save on buying it.

The mundane sample setup was intentional. But it came with a twist.

On one day, shoppers saw 24 different jam samples on the table. On another, they saw only six.

This change in sample sizes had an impact. People were more likely to take a sample when there were 24 to choose from. But they were far less likely to buy any jam bottle when presented with that many samples. Even the discount coupon was mostly worthless in that case.

What was going on here? Why were people more inclined to try than to buy?

The answer can be found in what academics have called The Paradox of Choice. Essentially, we want infinite options, but can only handle a finite few when making a decision.

The findings of The Jam Experiment, as it came to be called, have reverberated throughout our lives. Most notably, we’ve seen everything from restaurant menus to tech bundles streamlined into a few options.

This is ostensibly for everyone’s benefit. We won’t freeze like a deer in the headlights when faced with infinite options. And because of that, businesses can serve us more efficiently.

Yet, it does lead to a strange dynamic, as both sides of an interaction operate with their hands tied. All too often, our desired choice isn’t on that streamlined list, forcing us to settle. And with this dynamic at play, it’s hard for businesses to get our loyalty.

Several years ago, Elon Musk made a big claim.

Someday, human-driven cars would be outlawed.

In a vacuum, it seemed like a sensible statement. After all, driving is a dangerous activity that can carry deadly consequences.

And yet, it left me in a rage. For I love to drive, and I loathe the thought of such a right being snatched away from me.

I’ve held a grudge against Musk ever since that moment. Regardless of his successes with the electric vehicle giant Tesla or the other ways he’s benefitted society, he’s persona non grata to me.

Of course, there are plenty of others who bristle at Musk’s vision. Oil executives, legacy carmakers, and gearheads — just to name a few.

This diverse group sees everything Musk stands for as a threat to their existence. They’re preordained to be the yin to his yang.

I, on the other hand, am not.

For I am in the middle of the vehicle divide. I can foresee a day when I might drive an electric vehicle. If it’s as practical for me then as driving a gas-powered SUV is now, I’ll make the switch.

But regardless what’s fueling the engine, I want to be able to jam on the gas pedal or hit the brakes. I want that option to be at my disposal.

My anxiety over this matter is real. After all, I’ve seen plenty of other forums where that middle lane has been taken away.

Moderate politicians are practically an endangered species these days. Tales of the everyman have faded from Hollywood and our streaming entertainment. The market for quick-serve eateries has stagnated.

The lessons from The Jam Experiment are at play. The Paradox of Choice has been mitigated, and our decision set has been optimized.

But it’s all gone too far. The options at our disposal no longer suit us. And our only heuristic is which choice we loathe slightly less.

All the while, our selections validate a set of increasingly polarized options. And the fissures in our societal fabric follow.

It’s time to end this viscous cycle. It’s time for the powers that be to lean into the middle ground, and to put better options on the table.

These options might not be glamorous. But they will be representative of our needs and desires. They’ll allow us to stop settling and start loving our choices again.

And in the end, isn’t that what truly matters?

The Feasibility Gap

Successful people are simply those with successful habits.

These are the words of motivational speaker Brian Tracy.

I’m not a rabid follower of Tracy, Tony Robbins, or any other motivational speakers. But these words stick with me.

I’ve attributed much of the success I’ve enjoyed in my life to the habits I’ve built. Good fortune certainly played a role in the outcome, but good habits have put me in a better condition to capitalize on those strokes of luck.

Staying physically active has improved my overall health. Harboring curiosity has helped me grow within my profession. Embracing moments of reflection has made me a better writer. And devoting myself to cooking — rather than constantly ordering in — has provided fiscal and nutritional discipline.

Still, for all the good habits I have, there are some bad ones in there too.

I get hopelessly distracted on sunny weekend days, putting off tasks for hours as I daydream. I’ll often mindlessly watch sports on TV in the evening, rather than reading a book or cleaning my home. And I don’t get enough sleep.

The first two habits are somewhat trivial. But the third one is not.

As you’ve probably heard, we’re supposed to get about 8 hours of sleep a night. (The Mayo Clinic technically recommends 7 hours or more.) I don’t hit that number – just about ever.

If true success is a three-legged stool, I’m missing one leg. The physical fitness and mental acuity? They’re sharpened like steel blades. But the ability to recharge is sorely lacking.

What gives?

In a word, time.

It takes time to exercise our physical muscles, as well as our mental ones. It takes time to see to our nutrition, balance our finances, or put words on the page.

I happily devote much of my day to this. I’ll get up well before dawn to go running, and I’ll spend much of my evenings attending to writing, cooking, and other tasks. In between these times, I’m logging productive hours on the job.

This allotment of time helps me excel. But with only 24 hours in a day, it doesn’t leave me much room for shut-eye. I generally only get 5 to 6 hours of sleep a night — both on weeknights and weekends.

I know this is a problem. There are signs all over — the amount of caffeine I consume, the occasional moments when my mind goes blank.

And yet, I also know that fixing the issues requires tradeoffs. It would require me to take time away from my morning or evening routines. And that’s a sacrifice I’m not willing to make.

In my case, there’s no feasibility for the Mayo Clinic’s sleep ideals. So, I ignore them.

I bring up this example not to gloat or to throw shade on common advice. The Mayo Clinic is a reputable medical research organization. Its recommendations speak volumes and should be followed.

No, I bring all this up to illustrate that what’s ideal is not always realistic. And we are left to manage the misalignment.

I call this contradiction The Feasibility Gap. And it’s among the trickiest situations we must navigate.

The Feasibility Gap forces us to choose. To determine which desirable elements are non-negotiable, and which ones we can do without.

There is no roadmap to pilot us through these tradeoffs, and no silver lining for the decisions we ultimately make. The consequences are real, and they can be raw.

In my case, neglecting sleep occasionally affects my ability to function during the day. Over the long haul, my lack of recharge time could be a drag on my health. But those costs pale in comparison to the perceived benefits of an active lifestyle.

There are other contexts for this conundrum too.

For example, the perceived Holy Trinity of employment is finding a job that you love, that you’re good at and that compensates you well.

While checking all three boxes is the ideal, it rarely pans out that way in real life. The labor force is too competitive, interpersonal relations are too volatile and economics are too tricky for everyone to see this dream scenario.

Instead, we must reckon with what’s feasible, by determining which factors matter more than others.

Is our salary most important? Our job satisfaction? Our ability to perform at a high level?

Such determinations can vary from person to person. They can even vary with the same person over the course of time.

For example, I once valued passion for my profession and my job ability over my paycheck. But now, I value compensation and prowess over passion.

These value tradeoffs could leave me in a job that I don’t much care for. But I’m far more willing to deal with that possibility than I am to risk being underpaid or feeling in over my head.

There are no easy answers for these tradeoffs. But I’m confident about what I value most at work, in my lifestyle, and in a great many other places. They help me sleep soundly at night.

Even if I don’t sleep nearly enough.

There’s a narrative going around our society. One lionizing the idyllic lifestyle.

Everywhere we look, we see images of happy families in beautiful houses. The parents have ideal bodies, and they work in ideal professions. The kids are sporting ideal smiles.

Look at these images for long enough and we can get deluded. We can start thinking that success should come easily to us. That it should just flow.

This is, of course, not true. A lot of hard work factors into the equation. The glamour is a byproduct of the grit and grind.

But to get where we want to go, we must do more than give our best. We often must cross The Feasibility Gap. We must navigate uncertain waters and make tough choices.

In doing this, we will weave some rewards on the table. Just as I’ve sacrificed a full night’s sleep and the notion of making my passion my profession, we will need to reckon with real opportunity costs.

But in making these tough choices, in crossing this void, we will show courage. We will demonstrate character. And we will forge successful habits.

Isn’t that the goal in the first place?

The Option Anvil

There’s a picture that used to hang on the wall in my childhood home.

I’m probably 8 years old in this photograph. I’m wearing slacks and a button-down shirt. My chin is resting in the palm of my hand as I peer over a chessboard.

My parents have long adored this picture. Its candid nature seemed reminiscent of an oil painting. And it captured my essence as a child — pensive, quiet, and conscientious.

An image like this might seem to be a prelude. It might appear to be a hint of what was to come. If I took such a calculated approach to a complicated game back then, one might think, I’ve surely grown into a master tactician by now.

But appearances can be deceiving.

Yes, I was staring at a chessboard. But there were no kings or queens or rooks atop it. In their place were nondescript circular game pieces, which were either painted black or white.

Yes, this image was of me playing checkers.

Why was I so pensive, so stoic? Why was I so indecisive while playing such a straightforward game?

It all had to do with the burden of choice in my midst.

Give me liberty or give me death!

Such were the famous words of Patrick Henry. This rallying cry, uttered during a speech at the Second Virginia Convention in 1775, helped inspire the Declaration of Independence a year later. And its legacy perseveres in our society today.

Freedom is a hallmark of our nation. The liberty to chart our own path is paramount.

But for all the time we spend defending this right, we forget one thing. The actual process of choosing between options is extremely difficult.

You see, choice introduces us to both reward and risk. If we choose properly, we find ourselves in an advantageous position. But if we don’t, we face the embers of rebuke and the sting of regret.

In the moment, it can be hard to identify which decision will lead to the right outcome. It’s as if we’re playing Let’s Make a Deal and guessing what’s behind each door.

So, we waver. We procrastinate. We do all we can to mitigate the damage of a wrong choice.

And in the process, the decision gains mass. It transforms into an option anvil, weighing us down.

Yes, it sure seems liberty comes with its own set of shackles.

Steve Jobs was a visionary. A pioneer. An empire builder.

The legacy of Apple’s founder is multifaceted. But one aspect of it is particularly poignant.

Jobs was known to wear the same outfit to work, day after day. Tennis shoes, jeans, and a black turtleneck. That look was omnipresent in the keynote addresses Jobs delivered year after year. And it became synonymous with Jobs himself.

Why would Jobs opt for such a basic wardrobe? Why wouldn’t he use some of his vast fortune on flashier styles?

It was all a matter of choice.

As the head of a leading technology company, Jobs had plenty of monumental decisions to contend with each day. He didn’t want his choice of clothes to be one of them, so he removed any ambiguity from the equation.

Eventually, others in the tech industry followed this principle. Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg was known to wear hoodies to the office each day. Disgraced Theranos founder Elizabeth Holmes tried to evoke Jobs with her own set of black turtlenecks.

This all might seem quirky and quaint, particularly to those of us far removed from Silicon Valley. But there’s something deeper at play.

Even though these tech tycoons had enormous power and influence, they still recognized the toll that decisions can exert. So, they sought to budget their energy, expending it on only the most consequential of choices. It was their way of making that option anvil just a tad lighter.

We might not have the means to get a wardrobe of black turtlenecks. But we can still emulate the Technorati in this area. And we stand to come out ahead for doing so.

It was the experiment that changed everything.

Back around the year 2000, psychologists Sheena Iyengar and Mark Lepper set up a table of jam samples at a supermarket. The jams were free to try, and shoppers even got a coupon for taking a sample.

It all seemed simple enough. But there was a catch.

The amount of jam available for sampling was not constant. On one day, shoppers saw six options at the table. On another, they saw 24.

And that difference in sample size led to differences in behavior. Far more people bought jam when they had six options to choose from than when they had 24 to consider.

These results might seem counterintuitive. In the land of Give me liberty or give me death, going with the narrower solution set seems downright unpatriotic. And yet, The Jam Study proves that abundant choice can overwhelm us. The option anvil is quite real.

There are reminders of this research all around us. For instance, modern restaurants will often model their menus after Chipotle or Five Guys, rather than The Cheesecake Factory. And many service providers have bucketed their offerings into three tiers, rather than selling individual products piecemeal.

These businesses have done their homework. To them, the cost of indecisiveness outweighs the benefits of expansive choice.

And yet, we individuals still find ourselves behind the curve. We demand all the choices, even though it’s obvious that we buckle under their weight.

It’s a grim scene. But the die is not cast.

We can still chart a more sustainable destiny. We can note the impacts of a gauntlet of decisions. And we can be intentional about which ones we should pursue.

Yes, this process gives us one more decision to navigate. And no, it doesn’t mean that we get exactly what we want all the time.

But such a tradeoff can help improve our stamina. It can make us more adaptable, focused, and resilient. It can get free us from that option anvil, for once and for all.

I believe that’s a choice worth making. Do you?

The Secondary Effect Quandary

Cause and effect.

It’s a pattern that defines our lives.

When something happens to us, it has an impact. It shakes up the status quo and forces us to adapt.

The pattern of cause and effect has led humanity to adapt over the millennia. It’s transitioned us from primitive beings to the architects of advanced societies. It’s led to the practice of analysis in business, government and other subsets of life. And it’s allowed us to consider two time dimensions at once.

Yes, as we seek to move forward, it’s critical that we understand cause and effect patterns.

And yet, we continue to miss the mark.

For three months in late 2001, the skies over the New York Harbor were obscured by an ashy haze.

It looked like a plume of smoke was coming from Wall Street. That plume was actually dust and debris from the wreckage of the World Trade Center.

Every time I saw that plume, my entire body would seize up. For a moment, I’d be motionless.

The plume of debris was a visceral reminder about what happened in September of that year. It was a chilling warning of how that day would continue to affect me.

I was supposed to be one of the lucky ones. I didn’t lose anyone I knew in the attacks. I didn’t see the planes hit the towers firsthand. I didn’t have to run for my life as an avalanche of debris encroached upon me.

When the texts are written of that dark day, my story won’t be mentioned in them. From a historian’s perspective, I wasn’t part of the effect of that event.

And yet, I’ve carried the trauma of that moment with me every day since the attacks. That baggage has been with me for more than half of my life.

I don’t share this to claim victim status. The victims of that attack are the ones who lost their lives, and the loved ones who continue to mourn their loss.

But it’s clear that the attack had a wider impact. An indelible impact on anyone nearby who, on that day, believed our life was ending. An impact on anyone who encountered a heavily armed National Guardsman, imploring them to Go! Get out of here! An impact on anyone who saw the dust plume piercing the sky like a funnel cloud.

That someone was me. But it was also millions of others.

We might have been spared the primary impacts of the disaster. But the secondary effects are still scarring.

In the wake of disruptive change, it’s natural to think of the direct effects.

The rise of digital technology spelled the end for companies like Blockbuster and Kodak. The rise of nationalist movements in several countries represent a threat to immigrants.

These effects are well known and widely shared. Case studies illuminate the fall of analog players in the digital world. Endeavoring journalists warn of the dangers populism can bring to certain segments of society.

But while it might be poignant to feature the travails of these victims, their stories are just the tip of the iceberg. There is so much more under the surface.

Indeed, many consumers struggled in the transition to digital. Those who were not tech savvy faced challenges learning new techniques. And losing brands like Blockbuster and Kodak did not make that transition any easier.

And even if nationalist movements directly impact immigrants, those who rely on those immigrants for services are also impacted.

The secondary effects matter. So why do we keep ignoring them?

At the moment I’m writing this, the world seems as bleak as ever.

A global pandemic continues to rage, causing widespread devastation. The economy is in turmoil, as industries strain to recover from a series of lockdowns.

The primary effects of all this are not hard to find. Lives lost. Jobs lost. Families torn apart by illness or financial ruin.

It’s all a crushing reality.

Our society has largely failed to protect our lives and our livelihoods. And that puts us in a tough spot — one with no path ahead that spares more carnage.

Instant answers — such as unveiling economic incentives or imposing new lockdowns — might seem tempting. In theory, these solutions would remove half of the problem — thereby making it easier to focus on the other half.

But such plans have a familiar flaw.

They ignore the secondary effects.

Economic incentives only help if there’s business to be had. So long as consumers remain skittish due to health concerns, businesses will continue to struggle.

And lockdowns come with their own closets of skeletons.

There is the isolation factor. As we spend months without seeing our loved ones or celebrating special occasions, we lose social connectivity. As this pattern drags on, it’s hard not to feel that the world has passed us by.

There is the health factor. Staying home can make us more sedentary, leading to a new set of health issues.

And there is the essentials factor. With so many people locked down, the masses turn to a select few to deliver essential items — such as food or supplies. The divide between those staying safe and those taking on exponential health risks intensifies.

These issues might seem like minor grievances. After all, they pale in comparison to the specter of death and joblessness plaguing our society.

But that doesn’t make them irrelevant. Far from it.

Indeed, if we let these concerns go unchecked, they might plague us long after the crisis subsides. Months of quiet distress can lead to years of traumatic damage.

It’s what happened in the fall of 2001, when a plume of debris over the New York sky haunted anyone who laid eyes on it.

And now, history is poised to repeat itself.

It’s time we recognize the signs.

It’s time we see the gravity of secondary effects. And it’s time we factor those effects into our decision making.

For no matter how much we might think otherwise, choices are neither tidy nor simple. Change is difficult, and its aftereffects can be messy.

Sure, the primary effects of our moves might seem clear. But it’s what lies below the surface that will ultimately define us.

Let us not ignore that. Not now. Not ever.

A rebel might be without a cause. But a fool fails to consider the effects.

Now is no time to be foolish.

The Fragility of Emotion

There have been thousands of sci-fi TV shows and movies throughout the years. But only a select few franchises have the level of popularity that Star Trek does.

Why that is remains an open-ended question.

It could be the aspirational mantra— To go where no man has gone before. It could be the fascination with all the technological flair. It could be the intrigue of the mysterious language of Klingon.

But I think the appeal of Star Trek comes from something far more fundamental — the allure of the protagonist.

The franchise primarily covers the adventures of the Starship Enterprise. The ship’s captain in the initial series — James T. Kirk — is a confident character who is not afraid to wear his emotions on his sleeve. Yet, his First Officer — Spock — is meticulously logical and comparatively emotionless.

Spock’s tendencies are biological. Spock is Vulcan on his father’s side, and Vulcans are defined by their adherence to logic. Kirk’s tendencies are also biological — as humans are often known for their bravado.

The dynamic between Kirk and Spock defines much of the narrative — both in the 1960s TV show and the 2000s reboot film series. Their interactions often demonstrate the conflict between emotion and logic.

This dramatic tension resonates. After all, logic and emotion are two core conditions of humanity. And they represent the two pillars of storytelling.

With this in mind, it’s no wonder Star Trek is so compelling. In a strange way, it’s the story of us.

Step away from the TV screen, and the view is much different.

In our everyday lives, we don’t want to explore the overlap of logic and emotion. We’d rather keep them separated.

So, we protect our emotions with vigor. We aspire to keep our mood steady. And we angrily rebuke anyone who pokes holes in our defenses.

This process takes no prisoners. Like an enraged dragon, our defenses engulf anyone who questions our decision making processes.

No one is spared when this inferno rages. Not our enemies. Not our acquaintances. And not even our loved ones.

And sometimes, entire industries feel our wrath for prodding a little too deeply. Two, in particular, get on our nerves most often — the news media and marketing.

These professions get all up in our business. They blast right through our varnished facades and expose the raw emotions within us.

We don’t like getting exposed like this. So, we brand the news media as Triggering. And we give marketers scarlet letter of Manipulative.

We sing the praises of other industries in their stead. Of professions that are more logical.

They seem like lines of work that Spock would excel in, if he wasn’t the First Officer on a famous Starship. And we aspire to be like Spock — or at least to appear to be like him.

Of course, in reality, we are not like Spock. Not even close.

Unlike half-Vulcans, we are driven by emotion. We feed off it. We rely on it.

We want to be loved, cared for and doted on. We want to experience joy, wonder and satisfaction. We want to our pulse to quicken, our heart to race, the blood to flow through our veins.

Most of all, we want to feel.

So, we lead with emotion. We let it pilot our decisions. Then we use logic to justify them.

None of this, on its face, is improper. After all, emotion is what makes us human.

Still, this approach comes with its own set of issues.

For emotion is fragile. Emotion is raw. And emotion leaves us vulnerable.

Our feelings can cloud our judgment. That means others can use them against us for nefarious purposes.

We avoid this outcome by spinning a narrative. By portraying ourselves as logic-based machines. And by rebuffing anyone who openly tries to stoke our emotions.

This is the objective we seek — this relentless homogeneity. It’s the safe play. Far safer than exposing the soft underbelly of our emotions.

But it’s also vanilla. Too vanilla for our tastes.

And that dissonance looms large.

When there’s a logjam, it’s best to cut through the clutter.

We want the stability of logic-based decision making. But we need information to feed our emotional side.

The legal and financial industries help give us what we want. They provide us the cornerstones of order and power — even as seem more detached from reality than someone hopped up on Valium.

But maligned industries like the media and marketing — they give us what we need. They call to our emotions, providing us the fodder to make choices in the manner we’re most accustomed to.

Yes, professions like these are the purest reflection of the human condition. They allow us to make profound connections. Connections that capitalize on the very fragility of emotion we so fear. Connections that build upon empathy to make the world a better place.

This is why I’ve chosen to work in both the media and marketing realms throughout my career. And it’s why it irks me to see them so callously smeared.

For there is a lot of good in these lines of work.

Indeed, unlike many “logic-based” professions, these industries are seldom zero-sum. It’s not about winners and losers, or lifting up one at the expense of another.

At their best, these industries think broader. They focus on connecting buyers and sellers, or providing knowledge to the uninformed.

These are the types of mutually-beneficial exchanges that can raise entire societies. When we have each other’s backs — when we’re focused on the same endpoint — we soar.

But we can’t get there by playing it safe. By putting distance between ourselves and those who are attempting to reach us. By deluding ourselves as to our true nature.

No, we must welcome vulnerability. We must accept the fragility of emotion. And we must recognize the potential that exists if we allow others to move us toward action.

To be sure, this is not a silver bullet. If we don’t do our due diligence, we can get badly hurt.

But it is a step in the right direction. A necessary step.

The fragility of emotion is not a bug in the human condition. It’s a feature.

Let’s get the most out of it.

Taking Decisive Action

If there are two words of advice I could provide for decision making, they would be Don’t Waffle.

Simple. To the point. And all too often ignored.

When we’re faced with an important choice we’re tempted to pause. To consider the risks and the alternatives we’re giving up in the process. And, subsequently, to get trapped between the paths forward.

Yes, it can be beneficial to be deliberate when facing a grave decision. But excessive deliberation leaves us stuck in neutral. It leaves us on the path to nowhere.

We understand this. But we fall into the same trap, time and again.

Why?

Because of our fear of imperfection. Of having to own a subpar result.

Even if we’re the only ones who know we chose the lesser option, it eats at us. Visions of what could have been serve to remind us that the grass is greener on the other side. Regrets abound.

This angst is so pronounced that we factor it into our decision-making process. Often long before we know what the results of our decision might be.

And therein lies the fatal flaw.

Most decisions are made ex ante, before the results are known. We can anticipate the results of our choice based on past results, future forecasts or our gut instincts. But there’s always a chance that things won’t go according to plan. There’s always a chance that we’ll be wrong.

There’s really no way of knowing that with certainty now. With all respect to psychics, Biblical figures and Tarot card readers, the future is unpredictable by nature.

Yet, our fear of undesirable outcomes causes us to gloss over this point. To take expected results as reality. To treat these ex ante decisions as ex post — or after the fact — ones.

It’s only at the point of no return that we realize how uncertain these outcomes are.

So, we pause. We agonize. We leave ourselves — and everyone waiting on our decision — in limbo.

This monster we create does no one any good. So, it’s best to slay the beast.

It’s best to take decisive action.

To treat our decision as a necessary step to move forward. And to commit wholeheartedly to our choice.

I’m a huge fan of the decisive action approach. It’s simple, yet all-encompassing.

Taking decisive action is about far more than just coming to a decision.

It’s about embracing the finality of our decision, regardless of how it turns out.

It’s about taking responsibility for everything that happens ex post. Including making reparations or apologies for anything that goes wrong on account of our choice.

It’s about continually learning from the results of our decisions. Using good outcomes to inform subsequent decisions.

Now, it’s not about throwing caution to the wind. It’s still critically important to prepare, so that we can make an informed decision.

But when the moment of truth is upon us, it does us no good to freeze.

So, let’s break the ice.

Let’s stop waffling. Let’s start moving forward.

Let’s take decisive action.

Character or Action?

How should we evaluate people?

This is a concern we all have.

It’s difficult to find the right attributes to benchmark others by, particularly when our heart conflicts with our head.

It’s a challenge to differentiate between character and action.

The divide between character and action is similar to that between effort and execution. We lavish praise for one, yet make important decisions based on another.

In essence, we love to talk about how great people are, and how great they make us feel. But we don’t ultimately judge them on those attributes.

Or at least we shouldn’t.

You see, far too often we hear a familiar refrain.

They haven’t been holding up their end of the bargain, but they’re such a nice person. So, I’m not going to do anything.”

Wait, what?

By relying on a person’s character when making a decision in this scenario, we do more than merely let them off the hook for inaction.

We shortchange ourselves.

Character is good. Character is important. But in a results-based society, character cannot be paramount.

Regardless how strong someone’s character might seem, it’s their actions that make the biggest impact. These actions can help us or hurt us. And we owe it to ourselves to avoid that second outcome.

On a basic level, we understand this delineation. We recognize that we must be firm and objective when evaluating options and making decisions.

But in practice, it’s hard to follow through. After all, we don’t want to appear as cold and heartless. We’d rather not rebuke the kindness we’ve received with a sharp “No thanks.”

So, we put character on a pedestal. We place the soft-skill of likability over the measurable attribute of productivity.

This makes us feel good. It makes us feel like we’re contributing to society, and that we care about others. But these sensations blind us to the damage we’re doing to ourselves.

Yes, despite what folk tale wisdom might say, leading with the heart can be very dangerous.

 

Quality character should be table stakes in our society. There’s no reason for us to treat others badly. We all deserve kindness and respect.

Sadly, not everyone demonstrates this level of character. So, it becomes an object of our desire.

This starts the vicious cycle that send our values out of whack. That prioritizes bedside manner over results.

We must correct course.

We must remember that actions speak louder than words. That character is no substitute for results.

We can continue to promote quality character, of course. To instill it in the hearts and minds of others. Making the world a better place is always worth doing.

But we must leave it there. And not forget where our priorities must lie.

Character speaks loudly. Action speaks loudest.

Analysis Paralysis

Lock it up.

We’ve likely heard those words from an early age.

Whether we’re looking to protect our property or our own wellbeing, we recognize that we need to guard it behind some sort of resistant barrier. A lock. A passcode. Even a contraceptive.

And a lifetime of closely guarding all we’ve held dear has impacted our feelings about the word lock. It represents our White Knight, our silent protector.

Yet, there are times when that word can mean nothing but doom for us. Such as when machinery we’re using locks up. Or our brains do.

That’s right, we can sabotage our own hopes and dreams by putting our brains on lockdown. I’m not talking about the infamous “Brain Freeze” here — when we seem to act with an absence of thought. I’m talking about the opposite of that.

Namely, I’m talking about the dangers of Analysis Paralysis.

***

We are, by and large, thoughtful people. Our collective exuberance for learning has helped us innovate and organize over Millennia. It’s taken us from cave paintings to computer sciences, quintupled our average lifespan and even allowed us to systemize the passing of knowledge to new generations.

Thought is the engine that’s driven much of what we’ve created, and much of what we’ve destroyed. It’s been touted, both subtly and blatantly, as the must-have attribute in our society.

But the power of thought is not unlimited. It can turn our mind into a pretzel if we’re not careful.

You see, Analysis Paralysis is not just a catchy buzzword. It’s a real, debilitating condition we subject ourselves to, far too regularly.

How do I know? Because I find myself afflicted with it time and again.

Thinking is at the heart of everything I do. I try and learn something new every day, and as my Words of the West readers know, I write at least once a week. But for every moment I ponder something existential and profound, there’s another where I can’t decide what to eat for dinner.

It’s maddening — not only to myself, but also to my friends and family.

Why? Because Analysis Paralysis brings out a vicious cycle of annoying traits.

At first, there’s indecisiveness. While I ultimately do come to a decision, I then feel compelled to back it up with a convoluted logical argument. And finally, regret over the option I didn’t choose kicks in, and I spend hours playing the “What If” game.

By the time this cycle has run its course, I’ve expended a ton of unnecessary energy on a basic decision. It my daily brainpower is a finite resource, I’ve effectively spilled a large portion of it onto the pavement.

It’s sad, even shameful. But, I reckon I’m far from the only one to ever experience this.

***

So, who’s to blame for this onslaught of Analysis Paralysis?

Is it us? Our society?

Truth be told, it’s probably a little bit of both.

You see, our societal expectations are stringent and exacting. We value innovators and thought leaders — those who go the extra mile to expand their minds and horizons.

It takes a lot of work to go that extra mile. In particular, it requires recoding our brain to gather as much pertinent information as possible before making an assessment.

And once we get there, there’s really no turning back.

For all we talk about “flipping an off switch” in our brains or “going on vacation mode,” the reality is that we’re still running all the calculations with every decision we make — no matter where we make it.

Some of us can prioritize these decisions, tuning out the white noise for the basic ones in order to keep them simple.

Others of us cannot.

But, there is hope for those of us in this predicament. Hope that starts with awareness.

  • Awareness of the varying levels of gravity of the decisions we make.
  • Awareness of the debilitating effects of chronic overthinking.
  • Awareness of the benefits of “Letting It Ride” from time to time.

If we can get to this point of conscientiousness, our brains can run a new set of calculations. One that convinces us that choosing between tacos and burgers doesn’t need to be as exacting a process as pondering the meaning of life. One that lets us use our brainpower more efficiently. And one that allows us to preserve our sanity.

We owe it to ourselves, our loved ones and our society to get to this point — to eliminate Analysis Paralysis once and for all. It will make us happier. And it will make us better citizens.

Time to slay this beast. Let’s get started.