Tag: focus

On Autopilot

As I made my way down the highway, my frustration mounted.

It was rush hour, and the road was packed with vehicles. Stop-and-go traffic made things unpredictable. You never quite knew when you’d be able to speed up or would need to slow down.

I’m no rookie when it comes to the rush hour slog. So, I followed protocols, intently watching the brake lights of the car in front of me.

But that vehicle – a Tesla – proved erratic. Its brake lights would come on suddenly and intensely. And I would need to slam on the brakes to avoid a collision.

Teslas are notoriously tall cars, and I struggled to see beyond it. But as traffic in the other lanes started outpacing ours, I figured out what was going on.

There was plenty of blacktop in front of the Tesla. But the vehicle was not filling that gap. Instead, the driver was braking early and often, leaving me in a bind for no good reason.

After a few agonizing miles, I seized an opportunity to move into an adjoining lane and pass the Tesla. As I did, I peeked over – and immediately discovered what had caused me so much agony.

The driver had one hand on the wheel, and the other on a smartphone. Much of her attention was on that device, rather than the road.

It was a reckless decision. And I, the driver behind her, had borne the brunt of it.

My blood boiled. But my rage extended far beyond the woman sitting inside that metal box.

When I was a new driver, I despised Lexus vehicles.

The sedans and SUVs with that stylized chrome L on their hoods were fine enough. But the people who owned them were not.

I loathed the entitled jerks who tailgated me at high speeds or cut me off on the road. Most of the time, these drivers were piloting a Lexus. And as I connected the dots, my disdain for the luxury car label grew.

I began to see the brand as an enabler, allowing drivers to violate the rules of the road without consequences. It seemed like the outrageously high price tags for Lexus vehicles came with a superiority complex – one that drivers asserted at every turn. And poor chumps like me were left to clean up the mess.

As I’ve grown older, my vitriol for Lexus has turned to indifference. But that’s mostly because there’s a new clubhouse leader in despised car brands.

Tesla.

Now, to be clear, I have a healthy respect for the automaker with the stylized T on its hood. Disrupting the entrenched United States market as an outsider is daunting enough. Yet, Tesla has managed to break through while changing the way the industry develops cars.

When I bought my Ford SUV, most models were gas-powered. By the time I buy my next one, Ford might also have several electric options for me to consider. Tesla has everything to do with that shift.

But Tesla has also taken The Lexus Problem to new heights. The company is helmed by the bombastic Elon Musk, who once infamously expressed his desire for human driving to be outlawed.

Tesla has moved toward this goal by developing autonomous modes in its vehicles. But the self-driving features have been imperfect, and even deadly at times.

The company has tried to fix these mishaps with software updates. And it’s taken steps to remind drivers to stay alert when the car is on autopilot, in the event they need to take over.

But that message only goes so far.

Indeed, Musk’s bold claims have caused something of a halo effect. Many Tesla customers believe the car can drive itself and slack off on the fundamentals.

Whether they have autonomous mode engaged or not, Tesla drivers can act like the one I was stuck behind on the highway — checking their phones more intently than the road. In their minds, the high-tech car itself absolves them of responsibility.

So now, instead of battling aggressive Lexus drivers, I’m forced to reckon with passive Tesla drivers. The behavior might be different, but the entitlement complex is the same.

These drivers claim superiority on the road. And the rest of us are forced to reckon with them.

I’ll never forget the first time I tried cruise control as a driver.

I was on a road trip with my father, and he encouraged me to engage the feature for the miles ahead.

I set my speed, using the controls next to the steering wheel. I took my foot off the gas pedal and gripped the steering wheel.

The car zipped along as seamlessly as before. I was amazed.

Soon, I saw a slower vehicle ahead of me. I checked my mirrors, engaged my blinker, and turned the steering wheel slightly, gliding into the passing lane. Once I cleared the slower vehicle, I glided back into my original lane.

I was taking to cruise control quickly. But I wasn’t comfortable.

And so, I tapped the brake and pressed my foot back onto the gas pedal. This disengaged all the cruise control settings, putting me fully in charge.

My father looked over at me incredulously, an implied question in his silent stare. I replied assertively.

I just don’t like being on autopilot.

And that was that.

Now, cruise control was a far cry from today’s autonomous modes. You still had to pay attention to the road, even without a foot on the gas.

Even so, I didn’t enjoy the partial lack of control. Too much could go wrong, and I didn’t trust myself to snap back into it before it did.

Such perspectives are basically unheard of these days. People seem to enjoy going on autopilot — both in the car and outside it. With cutting-edge technology at our fingertips, it’s easier than ever to fill the gaps in our day-to-day. And we’re all too eager to do so.

This by itself is not a concern. Efficiency is a desirable attribute. Boredom is not.

Still, going on autopilot does come with some strings attached. We must pay attention to our surroundings. And we must be ready to spring into action if need be.

All too often, we willfully ignore these requirements. Or we deprecate their importance.

In doing so, we end up like that Tesla driver on the highway. We prefer what’s on our smartphones to the task at hand.

Sure, that driver wasn’t using Tesla’s autonomous mode. (Don’t worry. I looked.) But that’s beside the point.

You see, the autopilot mentality is pervasive. We use it to abdicate responsibility at every turn — whether we have the system engaged or not.

And this mindset can be disastrously corrosive.

Without accountability, standards degrade. Without accountability, people get hurt. Without accountability, justice goes unserved.

How can avert major mistakes if we’re not engaged? How can we learn from the mishaps that we encounter if we’re not involved? And how can we make the world a safer place if we’re checked out?

We can’t.

Autopilot is a tool. Going on autopilot is a poison pill.

It’s time for us to stop taking it.

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.

Flow States

I’m in the zone.

It’s a common line. A cliched line. One that’s been parodied to great effect.

We use this statement because we’re deeply familiar with it. We know what it’s like to be keyed in. We recognize just how special that feeling can be.

When everything clicks, time slows down. Distractions fade away. And productivity soars.

Psychologists call this sensation a flow state. And the rhythm it brings can be addictive.

We want it. We need it.

So, we chase flow down doggedly. And once we capture it, we try to hold onto it for as long as we can.

But all too often, this process is more fraught than roping the wind.

For more than six years, I’ve had a familiar routine.

Each week, I’ll draft and publish an article here on Words of the West. This has happened without fail.

There are plenty of other activities I’ve taken part in regularly during that time. Cooking. Running. Going to work.

But I’ve taken a weeklong vacation from work before. I’ve gone a week where I exclusively eaten out. I’ve even spent a week without hitting the pavement in my running shoes.

In a world where routines are so often broken, writing for this forum has been my only constant.

Maintaining this pattern of weekly articles has come with challenges. Finding topics hasn’t always been easy. The right words to share have often proved elusive.

But the biggest challenge has been harnessing a flow state when I write.

Sometimes, I’ll catch lightning in a bottle and draft an article in a single sitting. But generally, my writing process is a multi-day slog.

This article itself is a great example of this struggle. I’d planned on writing about flow states months ago. But despite my best efforts, I found myself lacking any sense of rhythm each week. So, I kept pushing the article back.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. Here I was trying to write about flow. And yet, flow was nowhere to be found.

This bothered me.

After all, how would anyone take me seriously if I couldn’t practice what I preached? I felt like a charlatan, an imposter.

But maybe, I was looking at this situation all wrong.

Each day, we battle against two opposing forces.

One demands excellence out of us. And the other demands consistency from us.

We can attain either one of these feats. But generally, we can’t manage both.

For we are not machines or robots. We are humans with flaws and imperfections. And so, our performance is bound to vary.

The question then, is which demand to prioritize — the standard or the schedule. Do we wait for inspiration to find us, and save our working moments for when we’re in a flow state? Or do we show up day after day, knowing that what we contribute might not always be up to par?

The choice is often made for us. We have bills to pay and mouths to feed. And our capitalist society frowns on absenteeism. Add it all up, and we’re obliged to keep showing up, for better or for worse.

But strangely, this setup also feeds our obsession with flow. For the idea of a flow state seems to bridge the gap between these forces. It seems to offer us high performance, and deliver it daily.

If only it were that easy.

In the early 2000s, a young golf phenom grabbed headlines around the world.

The phenom was named Tiger Woods. And his achievements were truly noteworthy.

Woods won 10 major golf championships before his 30th birthday, often in dominant fashion. Nothing seemed to faze him. He made an immensely challenging sport look easy.

Prognosticators kept trying to find the key to Woods’ dominance. Was it his ability on tee shots? Was it his iron game? His putting? Maybe it was his weightlifting regimen or his diet.

Ultimately, pundits did find the secret ingredient — Woods’ focus. In a sport where even the best athletes get rattled, Woods never seemed to. He was able to tune out the distractions and zero in on the task at hand, tournament after tournament.

Yes, Woods was a master at finding a flow state and harnessing it for the long haul. It seemed nothing would stop him.

Then, his father tragically passed away.

Woods took some time away from the PGA Tour to grieve. But when he returned for the U.S. Open, he didn’t look right. His flow state was broken, his focus was shoddy, and his golf shots were wayward. He didn’t qualify for the last two rounds of the tournament.

This wasn’t the end of the line for Woods. He went on to win five more major championships and scores of PGA Tour events. But the spell had been broken, and the utter dominance of his early career was gone.

It turns out that Woods was human after all. But those flaws and imperfections only made him more endearing to fans. And his willingness to keep showing up — even when he wasn’t on top of his game — became a cornerstone of his legacy.

Flow states? They were hardly the entire story.

I am not like Tiger Woods.

I’m not a groundbreaking athlete with awards and trophies to my name. I’m simply a modest writer who’s looking to connect with his audience.

And yet, I often find myself mimicking early-career Tiger when I write. I catch myself attempting to summon flow states at will and to tune out everything that makes me human. This ploy invariably fails, leaving me bitter and frustrated. And my writing suffers as well.

Maybe it’s time that I emulate late-career Tiger. Maybe it’s time that I value the ability to keep showing up, even when I’m not at my best. Maybe it’s time that I give grit a fair shake.

Such a shift in focus won’t take the shine off any moments of excellence I might still encounter. But they could help me appreciate those moments more.

And that balance of perseverance and commitment — that’s the only zone we need to be in.

Attention to Detail

It’s the little things.

We’ve all heard this phrase a time or twenty.

It might sound cliché. But it rings true.

We celebrate big dreams and grand visions. And yet, it’s the minutia that so often determines whether those dreams are realized.

This reality is not sexy or glamorous. But it’s important and worth discussing.

Quality assurance.

It’s a clunky term. One that seems like it belongs in a legal textbook.

Still, it’s one of the core principles of commerce today. Most modern businesses have a quality assurance process. Some even have an entire department committed to QA.

The goal of quality assurance is straightforward — catch and correct defects before they reach consumers. And the key to success in this venture is an unwavering attention to detail.

We tend to take quality assurance for granted — except when it fails. Stories of tainted aspirin, listeria-laden ice cream, and faulty aeronautical equipment have become infamous over the years.

These developments have given the quality assurance discipline a black eye. But it deserves better.

You see, there was a time when quality assurance was nonexistent. Items were crafted piecemeal, unbeholden to stringent production standards. If something went wrong in the manufacturing process, it was an unlucky consumer who suffered the consequences.

Then along came Henry Ford. The purveyor of the Model T automobile brought the concept of the assembly line to the mainstream. Instead of small groups of engineers building one vehicle at a time, a litany of workers mass-produced them in sequence.

Each employee was responsible for their own portion of construction. And those responsibilities included stringent attention to detail.

After all, workers on Ford’s assembly line had but one job to do. And they needed to do it with expert precision.

Thanks to the assembly line, the promise of the Model T was twofold. Not only would the vehicle be readily available for consumers, but it would also be reliable. This allowed Ford to price it affordably, spurring the world into the automotive era.

Soon, the assembly line proliferated across the industrial world. And with it came a broader adoption of quality assurance.

Through this process, attention to detail went from a nice-to-have to a silent expectation. But then, we forgot about it.

For shame.

I was in my baseball uniform, practicing catching fly balls when I heard the booming voice of my head coach.

Bring it in, he said.

I jogged toward the infield, where some of my teammates had already gathered. We knew a speech was coming.

Y’all are in middle school now, the coach began. You’re a long way from applying to college. But when you do, you’ll need to take something called the SAT. Does anyone know what that stands for?

We were silent.

Standard Aptitude Test, the coach continued. They’re measuring your aptitude — what you know.

By now, we were all confused. We were here to play baseball, not learn about a strange test that was years away. What on earth was this coach talking about?

We all need to improve our aptitude on the baseball diamond, said the coach. Sure, y’all can hit, catch, and throw. But how well do you understand the game and the different situations you’ll face? How closely do you pay attention to detail?

These words awakened something in me. Something I didn’t know was there.

I wasn’t the biggest, strongest, or most talented kid on the team. But now, I had a clear purpose — to pay attention to the details and use them to my advantage.

This process didn’t do much for my baseball exploits. I never even made it to the varsity level in high school.

Nonetheless, it had a profound impact on my life.

Sweating the small stuff gave me a semblance of control in a world that often lacked it. And as I grew older, this focus endeared me to others.

Now, attention to detail is a core component of my life. I break each day into processes, and I think about everything that belongs in each process. When something is missing or off-kilter, I take note of it. And if I have the power to fix it, I do so.

I have no doubt that my focus on the minutia has been critical to all the success I’ve seen. It’s changed the way others see me, and the way I’ve seen myself.

But while attention to detail has made a difference for me, it shouldn’t be a differentiator.

Some years back, I attended an insurance seminar. At the podium was the chief executive officer of one of Dallas’ largest brokerages.

At some point, someone asked the CEO about his thoughts on a startup company that had been making waves in the insurance industry.

Their loss ratio is 126, he flatly replied. They’re paying out $126 for every $100 they bring in. It’s bad business and it won’t last.

I reacted to this response with delight. I worked in the insurance industry, and this buzzy startup presented a significant threat to my employer. I returned to the office gleefully predicting the startup’s demise.

It never came.

The startup continued to operate like a leaky rowboat, taking on water and showing no signs of profitability. But Venture Capitalists in Silicon Valley kept pouring funding into their coffers.

I was astounded. But I shouldn’t have been.

The technology industry has long been filled with renegades. Apple captured the world’s attention with its 1984 commercial. Facebook rallied around the mantra Move fast and break things.

The message was clear. Details and protocol were irrelevant. It was all about the vision.

This ethos carried the day for quite a while. But now, it’s facing a reckoning.

Apple has seen more success after founder Steve Jobs’ passing than before it. Facebook is embroiled in perpetual scandal. Startup darlings WeWork and Uber nearly went under due to substantial gaps between their visions and their realities.

While that flashy insurance startup hasn’t met the same fate as the others, it must remain wary. That company will need more than just a visionary idea to survive long-term.

Attention to detail matters. It always has, and it always will.

It matters in technology. It matters in business. It matters in life.

We can ignore the details all we want. We can continue to focus on the flash, the buzz, the sizzle.

But we do so at our own peril.

Yes, the little things really do make a big difference.

And so, I will continue to sweat the small stuff. I will maintain my laser focus on the minutia, day in and day out.

I hope you’ll join me.

Principles and Results

I got set in the starting blocks, my heart pounding. To my left and right, 7 other runners did the same.

I was 11 years old, and this was my first track meet. There were people in the stands, coaches all around, and a slate of competitors who surely looked less green than I did.

All of this was intimidating. But at this moment, with the race impending, I was most terrified of one thing.

The starting gun.

I had issues with loud noises at this age. The flushing of industrial-strength toilets would terrify me. So would the honking of car horns and the firing of guns.

When I heard these sounds, my heart would skip a beat. I’d freeze, startled like a deer in the headlights.

Such a response would be devastating in this 100-meter race. I needed to get off the blocks quickly when called upon.

So, I tried to block out my fears. I reminded myself to be ready to run.

And when the gun went off, something unexpected happened. I reacted impeccably, rising into a sprinter’s position and taking off.

Now, I was flying down the track, outpacing the other kids by a few steps. Fear had evaporated into opportunity. I had a real chance to win this race.

Yet, as I thundered ahead, I worried that I was out of balance. My legs felt like they were leading the way, dragging my upper body along.

I knew that I needed to be in sync, so I leaned forward to compensate. But I leaned too far, and I took a tumble.

Now, the pack of competitors was far ahead of me, charging for the finish line. My legs were bloodied from the asphalt track. My hopes were dashed.

Even so, I wasn’t going to give up. I got back on my feet and charged forward with all that I had. And I crossed the finish line.

Just like that, my race was over. I was left to think about what might have been had my sprint not gone awry. That would be the narrative of this experience.

Or so I thought.

In school the next day, my teacher called me to the front of the class. She asked me to pull up my pant legs, so the class could see my scraped knees.

My teacher then explained that while I hadn’t won a medal in the 100-meter contest, I’d done something just as noteworthy. By getting back up and finishing the race, I’d shown courage, determination, and heart. And that was worthy of recognition.

Upon hearing this, my classmates applauded.

In hindsight, this seems like a special moment. A moment worth cherishing.

And indeed, I do hold this memory dear these days. But back then, I remember feeling supremely confused.

After all, I had fallen. I had failed.

There were no medals to show for my effort. No sterling race splits. There was just a row at the bottom of the results table with my name and unspectacular race time on it.

Why was I now being feted?

I didn’t know quite how to react.

There is no substitute for hard work.

So proclaimed one of America’s greatest innovators — Thomas Edison.

Edison’s inventions are widely known, but the winding journey toward such success are not. There were hundreds of challenges, setbacks, and outright failings along the way.

Many would-be innovators would have thrown in the towel in the face of such adversity. But Edison didn’t. He kept trying. And eventually, he turned those struggles into success.

Today, we laud those who have followed Edison’s lead. We single out those who try hard, and who stick with it through adversity.

Still, such positive attention ignores a key fact. Our effort doesn’t always correlate to our performance.

As I’ve explained before, effort and execution are two entirely different things.

In my 100-meter race, I had failed miserably at one of those tasks. And yet, everyone was acting as if I hadn’t done anything wrong at all.

It didn’t seem right.

There is a narrative out there claiming that America was built on hopes and dreams. But our society relies on results.

Results are how we evaluate performance in a free-market economy. It’s how businesses are valued. It’s how athletes are defined. It’s how musicians go Platinum and movies break the bank.

Even in a changing world, there is little appetite to change this model. We might squabble about providing a social safety net, but we still believe in singing for our supper.

Yes, if one was to brand an American mantra, it would likely be Deliver results.

And yet, that is not the recognition we espouse. We focus instead on principles.

Principles are how I ended up with that round of applause just for finishing a race. Principles are what drive us to recognize others for their work ethic, passion, or chivalry.

We celebrate these attributes because they’re culturally significant. We want to live in a world full of determined people who still have the presence of mind to care about their neighbors.

But if we focus too much on that side of the coin, we’re setting ourselves up for trouble.

In 1970, economist Milton Friedman wrote a New York Times Magazine article that changed the business world.

The Friedman Doctrine mandated that a public company’s only objective was to provide value to its shareholders. It tossed aside any grand sense of principle and zeroed in on the bottom line.

The Friedman Doctrine helped spur the rise of cutthroat capitalism. In the years that followed, businesses went to great lengths to drive results and increase their valuations.

Innovation soared and shareholder value exploded. But it wasn’t all rosy.

In the years following the Friedman Doctrine, corporate America abandoned its sense of humanity. Workers became more expendable than ever before, and the compensation gap soared. A focus on results for some did not provide benefits for all.

These days, there is a backlash to this pattern. Scholars and activists have demanded more from companies than an increase in stock prices. Employee empowerment and corporate social responsibility are among the items on their wish lists.

But progress in these areas has been staggered.

For while we feel strongly about principles, they don’t usurp results.

Companies must demonstrate success to stay in business. A runner must cross the finish line first to get the gold medal.

We put a lot of attention on how we can get there. But in the end, what matters is that we do get there.

So, let’s take a fresh perspective.

Let’s treat principles as table stakes, rather than exalted virtues. And let’s redirect our focus on the results they can bring.

The way we carry ourselves matters. But our achievements matter even more.

Distilling It Down

I am process-oriented.

Much like an engineer, I think in terms of previous steps and next steps. Aspects and ingredients. Time and place.

These are important components on their own. But when they’re brought together in a cohesive way, that’s where the rubber meets the road.

It takes careful coordination for many of the occurrences in our lives to take place. The right set of factors must line up just so for the end result to be memorable and noteworthy.

Sometimes, recognize this chain of events. Other times, we’re oblivious to it.

Either way, the end result gets the most attention. When things just work out, the how’s and why’s don’t seem to leave a lasting impression in our memories.

We focus on the shiny objects we see. On the warm fuzzies we feel.

We fixate on the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow more than the leprechaun that led us to it.

And yet, without all of the right elements in place, we wouldn’t be basking in the glory.

Without a firm foundation, the greatness of serendipity would never be realized.

So, I make it my mission to distill down every process I can.

To look at what the elements are. To consider what’s needed to drive success. To be aware of the circumstances that could lead to failure.

A great example of this is cooking. I love to cook, and I love the satisfaction of getting a dish just right. It awakens senses of fulfilment and satisfaction I rarely experience otherwise.

But that result hardly comes out of the blue.

Getting a meal just right requires the right elements in place. If the ingredients are subpar, the cooking apparatuses are inefficient or the timing is off, a meal can turn into a disaster.

Just one missing element can trip up a dish. While I can still salvage a meal without top-notch meat, a fully functional oven range or precise cooking times, the end result just won’t be the same.

Distilling down the process helps me find the path to success in the kitchen.

But this technique is effective in many other areas as well.

In fact, just about anything that requires a decision can be distilled down to its core elements.

For each decision is a part of a process that leads to a result. And each decision involves root factors that can be considered.

We might not want to evaluate these factors, time after time. But we should take the initiative to do so.

For looking at the minutia gives us agency. It allows us to discover what drives success. It provides us the opportunity to iterate and grow.

We owe it to all those around us to have this depth of focus and commitment to precision. Just as importantly, we owe it to ourselves.

So, continue to dream big. But think small as well.

Focus on distilling it down.

The Context of Focus

A few months ago, a received a compliment that totally floored me.

I was told I had a great ability to focus.

I was caught off guard by this comment, because this was a trait I didn’t quite see in myself.

I’m notoriously self-critical, and don’t like to dwell on my strengths. But I do know what they are.

Or, at least I thought I knew what they were.

Now, I’m reconsidering.

You see, I’ve long bemoaned my lack of focus, more than anything. I’ve considered my struggles reading books or maintaining attention when watching TV at home. And I’ve dwelled on the trouble I’ve had conversing with others with a lot of noise and movement around me.

This regret has eaten away at me, like a powerful acid.

After all, focus is my goal. A laser-targeted focus could help me achieve my objectives more efficiently and effectively.

I’ve likened this idyllic focus to being early-career Tiger Woods on the golf course.

Tiger had an uncanny ability to tune out all the noise around him and hone in on the task at hand. It helped him dominate a field of the world’s best golfers and tame the toughest courses — even in the harshest of conditions.

I’ve actually experienced this sensation of hyper focus before — although not on Sunday at The Masters, with the whole world watching. And not for as prolonged a period.

No, this sensation has come when I was in what some psychologists call a flow state. That’s a period where all distractions and time melt away. A period where one can truly hone on what needs to be done, and then execute upon it.

As a control enthusiast and intensely task-motivated person, I consider flow states to be pure gold. They are the essence of my greatest productivity.

But they’re also highly elusive. I can’t just snap into one on command.

And that constraint has darkened my entire outlook on the subject of focus.

It’s led to consternation when I’ve struggled to get more than a chapter into a book. It’s caused queasiness every time I’ve found myself paying more attention to the conversations around me than the task at hand. And it evoked dismay and disappointment when the writing of this very article spilled into a second day.

In short, it’s what’s led me to consider focus a personal liability for many years.

But now I wonder, do I have it all wrong?

Perhaps the young lady who lauded my ability to focus was right. For, in certain scenarios, I clearly can stay locked in. I certainly can execute on my objectives with ruthless efficiency in those moments.

I’ve demonstrated this many times throughout my life. And I most assuredly wouldn’t be where I am today if I hadn’t.

But truth be told, I’m not the only one with these abilities. Surely, we each have our moments of focused brilliance, just as Tiger Woods once did on the links.

The key word here is moments. For focus is context-specific.

None of us can stay hyper-focused all the time. If we did, we wouldn’t be human.

So instead, we operate in waves. Of productivity and aloofness. Of efficiency and inefficiency. Of good days and bad ones.

This is the natural balance of our lives. And the sooner we get accustomed to it, the better.

There’s no point in trying to own every moment. It sets the bar far above what’s realistically achievable and only sets us up for disappointment. I know this as much as anyone.

Better to own the moments that mean the most.

Focus matters. But context matters more.

Lessons from Intensity

What do you think of when you see the word intensity?

I think of aggression, stress and other unsavory traits.

I think of a crowd of commuters on a New York City subway platform. All in a hurry but with nowhere to go.

Yes, I’ve long seen intensity as a problem. A self-inflicted wound that damages our health and sabotages our relationships with others.

In my view, a laid-back attitude is ideal. It represents nature in balance.

There’s only one problem. I don’t practice what I preach.

It turns out that I am an incredibly intense person. My motor is always running at full speed.

My intensity is the fuel that drives many of my defining characteristics. It’s led me to be a control enthusiast and a chronic planner. It’s inspired me to stay active and engaged at all times. And it’s also made me incredibly self-critical.

These results are a mixed bag. Some have helped me do great things and connect with those around me. Others have been detrimental or offputting.

In the past, I’ve focused on the problems my intensity has caused. And I sought to remedy them with wholesale changes.

I tried to adapt a more laid-back lifestyle. I aspired to live more in the moment. And I devoted time to relaxing and leaving the worries of the real world behind — even if only for a little while.

It didn’t work.

It turns out I can’t change the way I’m wired. My intensity, much like my introversion, is encoded in my DNA.

I’ve had to learn to get comfortable with this fact. And to recognize that intensity doesn’t necessarily equate to pushiness or rudeness.

Yes, I’ve discovered that even the most intense people can still find a productive balance. It comes from channeling that intensity inward and exuding empathy outward.

I now strive to achieve that balance. And the results thus far have been transformative.

I push myself harder than ever. And I demand a level of perfection that I know I’ll never reach.

Yet at the same time, I aspire to treat others with care and kindness. To appreciate them for who they are, and how they are.

This might all seem a bit strange and disjointed. But I consider these opposing approaches to be connected.

The way I see it, my purpose is to make a positive difference in the lives of those around me. And by channeling my intensity inward — by demanding ever more of myself — I can live into that purpose.

It is this narrative that has provided me peace of mind, at long last, when reflecting my intensity. All while providing me something to strive for.

I believe this is a powerful lesson to carry forward. Because regardless of whether we love intensity or consider it abhorrent, we must recognize that context is everything.

We shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. There are plenty of applications of each trait we possess that are healthy and productive. And plenty of others that are dangerous or problematic.

The power is in our hands.

Our traits are our superpowers. Use them widely.

Building Blocks

It’s far too easy to choose looking forward over looking back.

But why not choose both?

For years, I’ve focused nearly all of my energy on the road ahead, and what I would need to put into it to make it successful. For someone who has started over as many times as I have, looking back was considered giving up.

While few have walked as winding as path as I have — or at least few have by their own volition — many have also put blinders on to what’s behind them in favor of what lies ahead.

This behavior is intentional; our society seems to demand it. After all, the desire to improve, evolve, iterate, grow — it’s instilled in us at a very early age. Settling is akin to laziness; even if we’re in a good place, there is always more than can be learned, tried and achieved.

With this perspective in mind, it shouldn’t be surprising that we’d rather think of what comes next than what came before. The past is a scar that should remain under wraps — a reminder of a time when we were younger and more immature.

But there is a danger in this path. By never taking the courage to look back, we lose sight not only about how we got here, but also what makes us unique.

This is a big reason I’ve been spending more time recently pondering my past — from my time growing up in the northeast, to my college days in Florida to my previous career in West Texas. I’ve looked back not only at the golden sun-drenched memories, but also the embarrassing mistakes I made along the way —the times I thought I knew it all but had no clue.

I’ve owned up to it — all of it — not only when reminiscing with acquaintances from those times, but also when conversing with those I’ve met more recently.

This has been difficult for me to do. I don’t consider myself vain, but I am an introvert. Sharing my story with those I don’t inherently trust is uncomfortable — scary even.

But despite my nature, I’ve come to realize the importance of being more transparent, and the benefits it can provide both myself and the world around me. It’s a major reason why I started Words of the West, and also a prime reason why I’m more apt to bring up my past in conversations these days than I once was.

For life is like a set of Legos; you can build it up into something beautiful, but only gradually. The past serves as building blocks — not only in terms of foundational structure, but also in terms of art and innovation. The past is not only what helps you build that dinosaur or French chateau, it’s what helps make it that dinosaur or chateau.

Our path ahead is marked with desires and communal expectations. But the journey we actually take is innately our own. By building off the lessons and memories of our unique past, we can build our own roadmap for the continuation of our 1 in 8 billion expedition. We don’t just live our journey, we own it.

So, we must not shun those building blocks. Instead, we must utilize them — and continue to create.

The Power of Being Present

Growing up, I watched a fair amount of college football games on fall Saturdays. Each season, my beloved Miami Hurricanes would face off against the Virginia Tech Hokies, and the broadcasters would invariably talk about The Lunch Pail — a symbol the vaunted Hokie defense rallied around time and again.

The Lunch Pail was nothing flashy — a small hard-case container painted in the signature maroon and orange colors of Virginia Tech. But that was the point. It was there, every day — a tangible symbol of persistence. Likewise, the Hokies would always be a tough opponent — what they lacked in world-class athleticism, they made up for with pure effort and heart.

While I consistently pulled for my eventual alma mater in these matchups, I gained a great deal of respect for the Virginia Tech Hokies over the years, and learned a lot about the blue collar work ethic in the process. Funny as it sounds, watching football games on ABC on weekends gave me valuable insight I couldn’t get in the classroom.

Skills are important, but so is the fortitude to be present. The will to persistently devote your time and effort to something you believe in.

Along the winding road to adulthood, my vocation, home address and interests have all changed — multiple times. But one thing has stayed consistent — my devotion to all that I pursue. This persistence has allowed me to thrive in my various career positions over the years, and to build a life.

It didn’t take magic or luck for me to get where I am now; it took the proverbial blood, sweat and tears.

That said, sometimes, I feel as if I’m a relic from the past.

Lifehacking has become a central part of Millennial culture these days — a societal quest to cut the chaff and make everything from cooking dinner to completing your job responsibilities faster and more efficient. The corporate world has embraced this mantra with open arms (ostensibly for the promise of leaner payrolls and overhead), with one search marketing superagency even adopting the mantra “Work Smarter, Not Harder.”

In a matter of years, we’ve developed an extreme allergy to the grind.

Look, I get it. If only 20 percent of our work time is productive, it makes sense to focus on our money moments. If we can cut tedium and monotony out of our personal lives, we’ll enjoy ourselves that much more.

But at what point does cutting the chaff turn into cutting corners?

Wholesome success can’t be achieved in the time it takes to order a Big Mac. It requires persistent vigilance. It requires long-term focus. It requires being there, time and again.

We can’t hack our future with one swing of the chisel. We must strategically and consistently knock away small pieces of the stone to sculpt our destiny.

Make no mistake, there is substance in that Lunch Pail. There is power in being present.

The key is not to get started, but to keep going.

Will you?