Tag: determination

Consistency of Excellence

Pepsi Center. Denver, Colorado. March 2015.

The lights went down, and the audience buzzed with anticipation.

Spotlights aimed their beams at the haze, just as Garth Brooks emerged from it. The crowd roared.

From high in the upper level of the arena, I felt the energy pulsate through the Rocky Mountain air. Garth went through his many hits with clinical precision, and the audience ate it up.

It felt electric throughout the two hours Garth was on stage. And yet, it didn’t seem all that personal.

Sure, the crowd roared when he crooned I gotta ride in Denver tomorrow night. But that wasn’t a nod to his surroundings. It was a standard lyric that just so happened to coincide with where we all were. Garth would have sung it the same way in Detroit or Des Moines.

After the last song — and the encore — I marveled at how this performer could make something so boilerplate seem so special.

That’s when my friend reminded me that Garth had another show coming up at 10:30 that evening. He would be going through this whole routine again — with only an hour or so to recharge.

I wondered what that late show would be like. Would the audience get the same experience?

I didn’t have to muse about this for long. Other friends went to Garth’s 10:30 PM show in Dallas a few months later, and they told me he went through his set with the same energy I’d experienced at the early show in Denver.

Hearing this, I was in awe. How did Garth Brooks maintain this consistency of excellence, time after time?

Was he even human?

I try and be like Garth Brooks.

No, I don’t don a cowboy hat and sing my heart out to adoring fans night after night. But I do attempt to maintain my own consistency of excellence.

For me, this means precision regarding when I wake up, and what I do with those waking hours. It means intentionality regarding the food I put into my mouth and the language that comes out of it. It means upholding the highest standards of professionalism, whether I’m at work or off the clock.

And yet, despite my best efforts, this doesn’t always happen.

There are some days when I’m not feeling it. There are some times when I don’t have the energy or precision to act according to my standards. There are some moments when I fall short.

I wish I could say this happens rarely. But it occurs far more often than that. Once or twice a month, at minimum.

When it does, I’m ashamed of myself. I feel obligated to apologize to everyone around me. And I loathe the expression of my own humanity.

I marvel ever more at Cousin Garth, as he proves that our surname is our only commonality. (No, we are not actually related.)

I simply cannot match his consistency of excellence.

But perhaps, in these cycles of self-loathing, I should have been turning my reverence toward someone even more regal.

Not long before I sat down to write this article, the world lost a monumental figure.

Queen Elizabeth II of England passed away at the age of 96.

The Queen held dominion over the United Kingdom for 70 years — a national record. And while she didn’t control the government or the military, Her Majesty had plenty of responsibilities over those seven decades.

These responsibilities included a litany of public appearances around the globe, all governed by longstanding rules of regal decorum.

There was no respite for this activity. There was no off-season.

And with the 24/7 news cycle gaining steam during the queen’s reign, there was increasingly nowhere to hide. A series of scandals that enveloped the Royal Family made that abundantly clear.

Yet, Queen Elizabeth II was able to stay above the fray. By all accounts, she performed her duties with the utmost professionalism.

The only hint of a blemish on the queen’s record was her handling of the aftermath of the untimely death of Princess Diana, her former daughter-in-law.

The queen followed the playbook of decorum, at a time when a grieving kingdom yearned to see her humanity. Ultimately, she acquiesced, delivering a poignant address.

Queen Elizabeth II’s commitment to continual professionalism is even more striking when you realize that her role was preordained.

Garth Brooks might have chosen the life of a performer. And in doing so, he accepted the consistency of excellence that such a role demands.

Queen Elizabeth II never had such a choice. And she rose to the occasion anyway.

Indeed, two days before her passing, the queen performed one of her most important duties. She met with the premier appointee for the UK’s parliament, officially appointing her as Prime Minister.

Although she was not at full strength, Queen Elizabeth posed for a couple of photos, smiling radiantly in both.

To the end, the queen maintained a consistency of excellence.

Her aptitude should serve as a beacon.

Principles are critical in life.

They keep us centered, steadying us through the rough seas of our day-to-day adventures.

We have the freedom to choose our own principles. And mine are distinct.

Be present. Be informed. Be better.

The first two are clearly defined, forged through concrete actions and commitments. But the third one can seem ambiguous.

How does one go about bettering themselves? And what does better even mean?

Adhering to this principle can feel like a hopeless task. It can seem like boiling the ocean or corralling the wind.

Yet, being better is certainly attainable. Garth Brooks and Queen Elizabeth II prove this point clearly.

It won’t be easy. It will take all our focus. And it will require us to remain poised, even when we’re not at our best.

But it’s a quest we can strive for. One that we should strive for.

So, let’s cast away the excuses. Let’s double down on the fundamentals. And let’s seek a consistency of excellence at every turn.

Those watching our moves will be better for it. And so will we.

The Reality of Hope

As I sat in the hot tub on a steamy Florida night, I pondered my future.

Hours earlier, I’d walked across the stage at my college graduation. My family then celebrated the occasion with dinner at one of the ritziest restaurants in town.

But now, the ceremonies were over. We had retreated to my family’s hotel near the airport.

And now, submerged in warm waters flanked by the not-so-distant roar of jet engines, we commiserated.

The conversation quickly turned to what was next. And as it did, my triumph faded into a sense of failing.

For I didn’t have a job lined up. I didn’t even have any interviews pending.

In the throes of a brutal recession, I would need to move back in with my parents until I could launch my career.

My family assured me this was no big deal. I’d earned myself a break, they said.

But had I?

To me, college was not a four-year party. It was a proving ground for professional life.

And without the first step in my career imminent, I felt I had failed. I had wasted my time and countless dollars of tuition.

Fortunately, this despondence didn’t last long. I soon landed some job interviews, followed by a job offer. Two months and a day after my college graduation, I reported to my new role as a news producer in West Texas.

And while I’ve long ago left that position — and that career — behind, I’ve remained self-sufficient throughout adulthood.

My story had a satisfying conclusion. My quest for a career launch was simply deferred, rather than denied.

Some of that had to do with the industry I was seeking to join. Some had to do with the economic realities of the moment I was in. Much of it had to do with sheer luck.

I never gave up hope throughout this process. Even in those dour moments on the evening of my college graduation, I retained faith that things would work out.

But attributing the outcome to me sense of hope is a fool’s errand.

Many of my peers faced the same circumstances as I did as they walked the stage at commencements across America that spring. Despite some despondence over their lack of immediate job prospects, they remained hopeful.

And yet, despite sterling credentials and supreme self-belief, that faith was not rewarded.

Many of my peers ended up waiting tables for months on end, just to be able to pay the bills. Some were forced to give up their career hopes entirely after years of rejection.

It was cruel and unfair. But it was reality.

A reality that was out of touch with a prevailing narrative.

You see, we tend to view hope as a self-fulfilling prophecy. This principle is central in Hollywood scripts and other narrative arcs.

Cinderella is in a desperate condition when the Fairy Godmother first encounters her. Yet, even in her darkest hours, she retains a semblance of hope — one that pays off in spades once it’s time to try on the glass slipper.

Similarly, the Rebel Alliance retains hope against long odds at the start of Star Wars. The Galactic Empire has a decided advantage. And the Jedi equipped to counter the Empire’s brutal reign are seemingly nowhere to be found.

That hope that sustains the Rebel Alliance from the first scene becomes the fabric of the franchise, interspersed into dialogue, story arcs, and even film names. (Once sequels hit the big screen, that original Star Wars film was rebranded Star Wars Episode IV – A New Hope.)

Given these prominent examples, it’s all too easy to believe that a little faith and determination are all guaranteed to provide a favorable outcome.

And so, we go all in on hope. We treat the fairy tale ending as manifest destiny. And we suppress the narratives where satisfaction doesn’t arrive.

This does us no favors.

As I write this, we’ve had a rough go of it.

In recent years, we’ve dealt with a global pandemic, a teetering economy, and societal polarization.

Through it all, we’ve followed a familiar playbook. We’ve tried to stay the course, clinging to the prospect of better days ahead.

We’ve clung to the promise of hope.

This might seem sensible at first. Looking across the long arc of history, things tend to even out. And Star Wars and Cinderella show that a little faith can pay big dividends. So why not bask in the glory of tomorrow?

But I’m not so sure that a bright future is imminent. There’s no guarantee that things will get better just because we hit a rough patch. And if the past is precedent, they might continue to get worse.

It’s easy to overlook how spoiled we’ve been spoiled in recent decades. Sure, things weren’t always ideal. But we’ve recovered rather swiftly from the adverse events we did face — be they the 9/11 attacks or the 2008 Financial Crisis.

This near-instant resilience was a blessing. For in prior generations, the route back was far more treacherous.

The Great Depression lasted a full decade, and it was followed almost immediately by World War II. One catastrophic event followed another, with devastation touching all corners of our nation.

America did emerge from the Allied victory in World War II with a robust economy and improved global standing. But people weren’t entirely jubilant. Instead, they were hiding under desks during air raid drills, terrified about the prospect of Soviet missiles bringing nuclear winter.

It’s only in the past few decades — with the Cold War over and the tech boom bringing unprecedented innovation — that we’ve seen hope blossom into true prosperity. And that prosperity has deluded us from the truth.

Indeed, the reality of hope is messy. It carries no promise of returns, let alone instant ones.

There are costs to shunning hope, as complete despair can leave us without the will to seize opportunities. But its benefits are minimal, at best.

This isn’t the message we want to hear. It’s not the tidy narrative that leaves us feeling fulfilled. It’s not the bright carrot that motivates us to keep moving forward.

But it is the message we need to hear. It’s the one we should heed.

Yes, hope is beautiful. It’s inspiring. It’s uplifting.

But it is not a crystal ball.

We cannot count on it to provide us opportunities. We can’t expect it to help us seize them.

Much of that power belongs to circumstance. The rest belongs to us.

Act accordingly.

Foot off the Gas

The 200-meter dash.

It’s a spectacle of speed.

Contestants line up in starting blocks on the rounded edge of the track oval. When the gun goes off, they accelerate through the curve and then blaze their way down the straightaway.

The 200 is a forgiving race. Unlike the 100, it isn’t necessarily decided out of the blocks. The curve can equalize the field.

But the 200 can also be a defining race. So many track legends have found glory at that distance.

I’ve never run the 200 myself. After an ill-fated go at the 100 as a child, I moved on to cross-country in high school, and then distance races in adulthood.

And yet, I’ve found somewhat of a kinship with the 200 in my life. I tend to accelerate through the curve in whatever I pursue. And once I hit the straightaway, I turn on the jets.

This has been the case in multiple careers. It’s been true for me in college and graduate school. It’s even been evident with my running renaissance.

I’ve started cautiously in all these exploits, uncertain about what lay ahead. And yet, once the wheels started moving, I’ve picked up speed like a freight train.

I’ve added more and more responsibilities. I’ve filled up my schedule. And I’ve raised the level of devotion to my craft.

Such attributes are often lauded. Our society favors those who finish strong.

But what if I’m not finishing? What if the straightaway goes beyond the horizon?

Does the calculus change then?

There’s a lot of talk these days about burnout. And with good reason.

With all the changes in our world, the boundaries between our vocations and our personal lives have shifted.

If we’re being honest, there are no boundaries anymore. And this inability to recharge has effectively shut us down and boxed us in.

This is certainly a worrisome issue, worthy of our consideration. But so is its opposite number — the crash and burn.

We crash and burn when we wind ourselves up into knots. When we get out over our skis. When we set a pace we could never expect to sustain.

The crash and burn represents a cruel irony. Just when it looks like everything is firing on all cylinders, it all falls apart.

I’ve long been terrified of this outcome. My accelerant nature has made it a possibility — even a likelihood.

And yet, I’ve been unable to change course. I’ve found myself powerless to reduce the risk.

For taking my foot off the gas would welcome complacency to the equation. It would break the chain of everything I’d built. It would send me back in time, all the way to age 16.

In those days I was aimless. I was too timid to be a bad boy, but too unsure of myself to commit to excellence.

This all angered my mother, who saw my grades slipping and my motivation waning. One night, in a fit of exasperation, she called me lazy.

It could have been a label I just shook off. But, by the grace of God, I didn’t.

Being referred to as lazy lit a fire under me. A fire that’s burned for more than half my life. A fire that’s gotten me to where I am today.

There’s no way I could risk giving that up. I wouldn’t even dare give an inch.

At least that’s what I thought until recently.

It was a beautiful winter day in North Texas. One of those days you pine for during the searing heat of summer.

But I didn’t spend one-second basking in the sunshine. I stayed indoors all day, barely moving from my sofa.

Such do-nothing days are somewhat routine for many of us — particularly during a pandemic that has featured stay-at-home orders.

And yet, it was unheard of for me.

You see, for more than two years, I’d worn down my front door. Whether it was hot or cold outside, with blue skies or stormy ones, I’d walked or run at least a mile each day.

Somewhere in that process, I’d gotten a smartwatch. And I’d developed an unhealthy obsession with reaching the activity goals the device defined for me.

I’d reached them for 400 straight days when the sun came up on this winter day. And I’d decided the streak would not reach 401.

So, I sat the day out. And I took the next day — a workday — off from exercising as well.

I wish I could say that this forced siesta was relaxing. That it left me rejuvenated and prepared to take on what lay ahead.

But truth be told, I spent most of that time worrying about my first day back on the horse. Would I be able to bounce back now that I’d broken the chain?

As it turns out, my fears were unfounded. I was able to get back into the flow seamlessly after those two days off. It was as if the hiatus had never happened.

And with that revelation, two decades of my modus operandi went up in smoke.

There’s something remarkable that only the greatest basketball players possess.

It’s not the size or the freakish athleticism. It’s not their aptitude at shooting the ball while off-balance. It’s not even the ability to raise their game when the stakes are highest.

No, the greatest basketball players — from Michael Jordan to Kobe Bryant to LeBron James — they’ve been able to change speeds. They’ve had the ability to drive hard to the hoop or take things slow on the perimeter, depending on what the situation called for. Sometimes, they’ve even mixed both tactics to leave defenders in the dust.

These talents are awe-inspiring on the basketball court. But they needn’t be extraordinary off it.

As we navigate the marathon of life, we should alter our pace. We should maintain that burst as we sprint into new passions, vocations, or initiatives. But we should consider taking our foot off the gas now and then to preserve ourselves for the long haul.

This strategy is not without risks. There is a chance we could lose our momentum for good.

But the alternative is far riskier. We’re just not built for it.

So, let’s be bold, determined, and courageous. But let’s also be smart.

It will put us in a better position for success.

What You Put In

You’ve heard it before, and you’ll hear it again.

You get out what you put in.

It’s some simple wisdom that we might apply to our careers, or to motivate ourselves at the gym. But it’s really about so much more than climbing the ladder, or getting the perfect six pack.

It’s about putting a concerted, dedicated effort into everything you do, in order to see results.

This point too often gets lost among us. We all too often believe that “putting in” is something strictly associated with an unpleasant, but necessary experience. For some inexplicable reason, we expect the things that bring us joy to just happen to us, without us “putting in” to make them all that they should be.

We know better. Aside from the sun rising and setting each day, very little in this world just happens. To varying degrees, we have to make things happen.

With this in mind, it’s important to dedicate ourselves to everything we do. Everything we strive for — from being a better parent to making smarter financial decisions — comes down to commitment. Heck, how we spend our free time comes down to commitment, even if we only plan on watching golf on TV.

Why is this dedication so important? It forces us to stay engaged and goal-oriented, even at the times when the goal we’re aiming for is total relaxation. This process keeps us healthier, sharper and more in control of our actions; it saves our mind from the paralysis of indifference.

Commitment forces us to shun the sheep in favor of the lions.

We are all lions. We are all strong, proud and capable of calling the shots in our lives. The key is to step up and take charge of what matters to us.

So the next time you’re zoned in at your cubicle, or preparing for that next set of reps, bottle that feeling of devotion. Then put it into everything else you do. You’ll be surprised how much you’ll get out of it.