Tag: motivation

What’s Left to Prove?

This is where the cowboy rides away.

I heard this verse from across the arena, and I knew what it meant.

This would be the last song of this George Strait concert. Because it was the last song of every George Strait concert.

No use demanding an encore. Best to prepare to give The King a proper sendoff.

Up on stage, Strait crooned the familiar tune. As always, he was sporting boots, Wrangler jeans, a Western shirt, and a Stetson hat.

When it was all over, Strait smiled and waved to the screaming crowd. Then he left the stage.

The cowboy really was riding away.

There’s a home décor sign that’s popular across Texas.

It reads:

Unless you’re God or George Strait, take off your boots in this home.

Yes, The King is worshipped in his native Lone Star State. And the same is true outside its borders.

Why is that?

It’s not as if George Strait revolutionized country music. Perhaps the most radical thing he’s done was cover a Mexican corrido.

No, it’s the adherence to custom that’s made The King such a superstar. George Strait brought Western traditions into the modern era and introduced them to the masses.

Everything about his presence has remained intentional. Even as other country stars now show up on stage in tank tops or trucker hats, Strait has maintained his signature look. Instead of prancing around the stage like a showman, he’s simply picked at his guitar and sang. And at the end of each show, he’s ridden off into the sunset like the Western heroes of old.

George Strait has nothing left to prove. And he couldn’t care less if you felt different.

That is the stuff of legend in Texas. And that is why George Strait is the only human allowed to keep his boots on in every Lone Star home.

When I saw George Strait in concert, I was mesmerized by his presence. All these years later, it remains the greatest concert I’ve ever attended.

Still, I couldn’t relate well with his persona. The understated confidence. The utter lack of edginess.

It was everything I wasn’t.

You see, when I set foot in that arena, my life was in turmoil. I’d left my first career behind and moved to another city. Money was low and tensions were high.

My confidence had been depleted by a prolonged job search. And the chip on my shoulder grew with every passing day.

I had something to prove to everyone — most of all myself. And there was no guarantee I’d get that opportunity.

Fortunately, my situation did improve. I ultimately landed a job and worked my way up the ladder in a new line of work. My bank account stabilized. My confidence grew.

And yet, I never quite lost my edginess. I never stopped feeling as if I had something to prove.

Until recently.

I’m an avid runner.

Passion plays a large role in my tendency to hit the pavement. As do the health benefits of exercise. But the burden of proof also looms large.

It turns out I have innate running talent. I’ve finished in the top 10 percent of all competitors in each race I’ve entered as an adult. And I’ve posted some blistering times during those competitions.

These accolades have only driven me to dig deeper and train harder. There are always higher levels of achievement I can unlock. There’s always more to prove.

At least that’s what I’ve told myself.

However, this quest has hit a snag lately, as I’ve dealt with a boatload of injuries.

The wake of these unfortunate incidents has seemed hauntingly familiar. I’ve found myself low on confidence and with plenty of work ahead. It’s all I need to put a Texas sized chip on my shoulder.

And yet, I have none.

I remain dedicated to regaining my form. But whether I ultimately exceed my prior abilities or fall short of them, I will be satisfied.

I have no desire to prove anything – to myself or those around me. That evidence is already etched in stone.

The same goes for everything outside of running. The obsession with proving myself professionally and personally has faded away. In its place lies a silent satisfaction.

This has all been a bit jarring to witness, even as I pull the strings. After all, my edginess has gotten me to this point. And now I’m willingly killing the golden goose.

Still, my running injuries have underscored the risks of the Prove It approach. By driving myself so forcefully and relentlessly, I’ve risked driving myself into the ground.

My accomplishments would be canceled out in such a scenario. My abilities would be wasted. My joie de vivre would be extinguished.

I want no part of that fate.

So, I’ve found solace in what I’ve built and accomplished. I’ve put that insatiable demand for more on the back burner.

What’s left to prove? For me, not much.

And that’s OK.

Now and then, I’ll meet with a financial professional.

These discussions are relatively standard. A recap of my medium-term goals. A review of my investments. And a discussion of my plans for retirement.

That last part always makes me squirm.

Now, retirement is in no way imminent for me. I am decades away from the big day.

And yet, I wish it was even further off.

My desire is to work as long as I live. Not for the money or the prestige. But so that I have something to do.

That old Bible verse that reads Idle hands are the devils workshop? I feel it in my soul.

There is always more to accomplish. More to offer. More to prove.

But perhaps my recent shift in perspective can challenge this maxim. Perhaps it can help me take a more productive path forward. Both with my far-off retirement, and with everything that comes before it.

Such a shift would certainly impact my life. But it needn’t be exclusive.

That’s why I’m sharing it here.

The chip on our shoulder can sharpen our edge. But that blade can cut both ways.

The insatiable drive to prove ourselves can drag us down just as quickly as it lifts us up. It can make our lives seem like empty vessels. It can shatter our confidence, break our will, and lay waste to hope.

It’s our obligation to get off this train before it jumps the tracks. To determine what well enough is. And to leave well enough alone.

This approach does more than benefit us. It benefits everyone in our orbit. And that’s an outcome worth striving for.

I’m proud to have made this shift. Will you join me?

Keeping Receipts

What am I going to do with this?

Those were the first words out of my mouth when my father handed me an accordion folio.

It looked like one of those cabinet drawers at the local mechanic’s office, where the office manager stored invoices. Only, this one was laid out on my kitchen table.

My father explained that heretofore, I’d be keeping all my paper receipts in the folio.

This process would help me keep track of my spending. And it would provide a paper trail for tax filing.

I stashed the folio in my coat closet. It was bulky and unsightly, after all.

But each week, I’d retrieve it from its dark hiding place. And I’d proceed to fill it with that week’s paperwork.

So it went, week after week. Until eventually, more of my bills and receipts went paperless. And the folio in the closet started collecting dust.

The folio beneath my skull, though? That was another story.

An elephant never forgets.

This age-old adage is based in fact. The bulky, lumbering animal relies on its massive memory banks for survival. It’s a competitive advantage in a world filled with nimbler predators.

Humans don’t need to rely on memory for such existential reasons. But we still hold this attribute in high regard.

I know this as well as anyone.

When I was young, adults would marvel at my knowledge of car models or state capitals. It was trivial information, but the fact that I retained it was somehow considered notable.

Such is the allure of memory. It causes us to tilt at windmills, to fawn after window dressing.

Of course, there is some tangible value in memory. It helps us ace exams in school, thrive at work, and stay connected to our social circle.

But so many other applications are less than essential. Such as keeping receipts.

This is not the practice of filling up a folio with paperwork. It’s the tendency to fill our minds with all the slights volleyed in our direction.

Receipt keeping is an extrinsic motivator. It provides us a bit of edginess. It puts a chip on our shoulder.

It’s the reason why football coaches openly share negative mentions of their team with the players themselves. It’s the reason why scholars continue to seek out their next academic paper. It’s the reason why innovators turn It can’t be done into Watch me do it.

Without that virtual ledger, the spark would dim. Complacency would threaten to degrade the task at hand.

So, we endeavor to remember each slight. To file it away, and to get to work on changing the narrative.

It sure is satisfying to cash in those receipts. To prove the doubters wrong. To gain a level of redemption.

But such actions are not core to our survival. They might even prove detrimental.

I have a folder in my email platform, which I’ll often notice when checking my messages.

This folder is tied Rejections. And it has 151 items in it.

The Rejections folder had humble beginnings. I had just cannonballed into the job market after switching careers, applying to dozens of jobs each day. I needed a system to keep track of my applications.

Filing job rejection emails in a single folder uncluttered my inbox. And it allowed me to take those closed opportunities off the board.

But as the folder filled up, its purpose changed. Being told No 151 times – particularly for something that would help me put food on the table – was deeply agitating. And I started to take the rejections personally.

I was determined to prove all the doubters wrong. And even after I finally landed a job, I kept glancing at the Rejections folder.

Those who sent me the Thanks but no thanks messages knew nothing of this, of course. But I pretended that they had – and that the error of their slight had given them pause.

This all kept me deeply motivated. And I thrived in my new career as a result.

On the surface, keeping receipts had served me well. But all was not as it seemed.

The practice had made me more cantankerous, and those around me noticed the shift. Friends remarked that I’d hold grudges for months on end. Family would remind me that I had nothing left to prove.

I tried to take this feedback to heart. I yearned to change my ways and settle into my rebuilt life. But it proved difficult.

The scars of my recent job search were still there. The months of applications and interviews. The drawdown of my savings. The 151 rejections.

How could I just let that go? How could I let anything go?

There was no water to be found under the bridge. Not at that time.

Eventually, though, I did loosen up. I perused that Rejections folder less frequently — and eventually not at all. I let grudges go and leaned into forgiveness. I stopped keeping receipts.

And in doing so, I found a semblance of inner peace.

My experience with the job rejection folder is not uncommon.

Not everyone gets turned down for employment 151 times. And even if they do, they likely don’t keep those rejection emails in a folder.

But plenty of us have kept receipts in some form, only to see the exercise consume us whole.

We become chippy and vindictive. Settling scores obscures our joie de vivre.

This is not a desirable outcome. The costs outweigh the benefits.

And it’s not all that sustainable. If the outside noise quiets, the receipts dry up. And our motivation wanes.

So, it might be worthwhile to rethink our approach. To stop using those receipts as fuel. And to turn to intrinsic motivation instead.

Yes, everything we need to succeed lies between the ears. We can tap into confidence just as effectively as we can counter doubt. And the results can prove far more harmonious.

Let’s tap into that.

It may be tempting to prove others wrong. But it’s so much more rewarding to prove ourselves right.

In a Rut

It was all so mundane.

The days were nothing more than a dull drumbeat. I’d wake up in mid-morning, run some errands, eat lunch, and head to work. Sometime close to midnight, I’d return home and go to bed — only to repeat the process the next day.

The banality of my schedule was to be expected. Indeed, a hallmark of adulthood is wading through the drudgery of repeated tasks.

But I didn’t have a regular adult life. I was a TV news producer in the middle of Texas Oil Country. My job and my life were full of novelty by design. Always never the same.

And yet, months into my role, the excitement had worn off. The monotony of my schedule dominated everything. And my job performance began to stagnate.

I was in a rut.

Now, this stagnation didn’t lead to disaster. My newscasts still hit the airwaves at 5 PM and 10 PM each day.

But behind the scenes, signs of my plateau were everywhere. I refused to listen to editorial suggestions, leading to a power struggle with a colleague on the assignments desk. I ultimately prevailed, but the experience scarred the entire newsroom.

Meanwhile, my inflexibility deprived our reporters of a chance to spread their journalistic wings. They were stuck covering the same depressing news stories day after day. “Hard news” was all that I left room for in my newscast.

It was a no-win situation for everyone.

Ultimately, it took an unforced error to snap me out of my malaise. A typo on one of my news scripts made the air, and someone threatened to sue the TV station over the blunder. I nearly lost my job.

I rebounded from this near catastrophe, rediscovering the novelty in my role. But the resurgence was short-lived.

A little more than a year after the news script gaffe, I left the news media — and Texas Oil Country —behind for good. That rut I’d gone through had put an end to my first career.

Years later, I found myself in another crisis of monotony. But this time, I hadn’t signed up for it.

The onset of a global pandemic effectively shut the world down. My office was closed. Travel was banned. And even trips to the grocery store seemed dystopian.

In an instant, my world had gotten much more insular.

At first, I was OK with this. After all, there was no cure for a proliferating virus, and we were still unclear on how it spread. Sacrificing life as we knew it in the name of safety seemed prudent.

But as the weeks dragged on, my morale dipped. I was doing the same few things day after day, all within a five-mile radius of my apartment. I hadn’t seen anyone I knew in months. And I felt increasingly trapped in a self-imposed prison, unwilling to accept the risks of exposure but unable to reckon with my diminished life.

I was in a rut once again.

I responded to this realization by doubling down on my routines. I focused even more intently on the activities I’d assigned myself during lockdown — exercising, cooking, and journaling. But even as I did this, I started to consider how things would look when the world opened again.

What would be possible? And how would those possibilities improve upon what I was doing before this scourge upended my life?

While the reality of a brighter future remained frustratingly far off, these questions kept me conscientious and motivated. And they helped me avoid languishing as the pandemic droned on.

The rut disappeared into the rearview, without collateral damage in its wake.

It’s easy to connect the dots between these two situations.

The first time I was in a rut, I didn’t handle it well. But I learned from those mistakes. And I didn’t repeat them the second time around.

Still, such generalizations miss a key point. Both times, I should have seen the rut coming, but didn’t.

This is not because I was blind. It’s because I was idealistic.

After years of hearing such advice as Follow your passion and Live to the fullest, I convinced myself that ruts didn’t exist. If I was doing what I loved, and living the way I wanted to, I would stay energized and fresh. Nothing would slow that down.

This couldn’t be further from the truth. We all fall into a rut from time to time. We need to be ready for this inevitability. And we need to know how to respond.

I mention all this because I’ve occasionally run into a rut with Words of the West. I knew this was a possibility when I started this publication years ago. And indeed, I’ve been confronted with the reality of it from time to time.

Putting my thoughts and reflections on the page is one of the joys of my life. Many weeks, the words just flow. But not always.

Sometimes, inspiration just isn’t there. Topics to write about are anything but top of mind. Motivation is lacking.

In these moments, everything seems to be telling me to pack it in. To take a break. To wait until the lightning bolt of inspiration strikes.

But I resist such urges. Instead, I experiment.

I consider the blandest themes for articles. I rethink my writing format. I change the time of the week when I put my words to paper.

It’s all up for grabs, except for one rule: I must publish whatever I come up with.

These experimental writing weeks rarely lead to Rembrandts. But they rekindle my sense of wonder. And through that wonder, I find the joy that had eluded me.

This is the key to getting out of a rut. The tactics matter less than the sensation they spark.

Finding that sensation is critical, no matter how many twists and turns it takes to get there. We have full license to be our most free, even when we feel as constrained as ever.

And that freedom? It can be a beautiful thing.

So, it’s time to change our perceptions of being in a rut. It’s not a problem. It’s an opportunity.

Act accordingly.

Power by Proxy

Heavy lies the crown.

There’s a good chance you’ve heard that one before.

Having authority doesn’t come with strings attached. It comes with barbells.

We have a responsibility to use our leverage both effectively and ethically. But we must devote time and attention to make this happen. And such commitments can be a drag.

So, we try and delegate. We add proxies to do our bidding on our behalf.

It makes sense on the surface. And yet, we must wonder if such attempts are futile?

Have you ever taken a close look at a map of America?

It’s a strange sight.

States in the interior west look like blocks of a brick wall, dwarfing the size of their cousins back east. Maine protrudes into Maritime Canada. West Virginia resembles a misplaced shopping bag. And California looks like a banana.

There’s little uniformity to the boundaries of our 50 states. And yet, with some context, the divergent shapes make more sense.

Those tasked with defining these borders had to contend with topography — mountains, rivers, and lakes. The timing and circumstances of our nation’s expansion also played a part in how the map looks today

So yes, the story of our state map is a cogent narrative. You just need to think critically to find it.

By contrast, if you stare at a congressional district map, you might go cross-eyed.

Districts dot the map from coast to coast, without any sense of uniformity. Indeed, the map resembles a summer afternoon in Florida, with sunshine blanketing one side of the street and torrential downpours on the other.

What’s the rationale behind these strange boundaries?

It’s simple. They’re the expression of unchecked power.

To explain why that is, let’s brush up on some civics.

The United States Constitution states that an accurate count of everyone in the nation must be taken every 10 years. We know this decade-marking exercise as the Census.

Census data is used for many purposes, but the Constitution stipulates one in particular — apportioning Congressional delegates.

The numbers from the Census show how many seats each state can have in the House of Representatives. This ensures populous states — such as Florida or Texas — have more representation in the chamber than such less-populated states as Montana and Vermont.

This mechanism follows common sense. While the Senate allows two representatives per state, the House is meant to hold a more proportional voice. But the process of tying population to representation is only effective if the numbers are kept up to date.

And yet, the Constitution gives no guidance as to how these congressional seats are doled out. That process is left up to each state.

Our nation’s founders likely expected states to be prudent at executing this task. Yet, instead of coming up with something intuitive, many states make their maps resemble a game of Tetris.

You see, the map-drawing process — known as redistricting— normally falls to state legislatures. And that means the political party in control has influence over the results.

Politicians drawing the maps want to see members of their party inside the United States Capitol. So, they create districts that are more likely to drive that outcome.

Areas with lots of voters from their political party are split geographically into as many districts as possible. And wellsprings of support for the opposing party are clumped into a minority of districts.

Equity and common sense go out the window in a process like this. Preserving power is the only consideration.

Opponents of redistricting bias haven’t always gone quietly.

Back in 2003, dozens of Texas House members fled to Oklahoma to stall what they considered a flawed redistricting process. And more recently, the U.S. Congress has proposed legislation to address the issue.

Such tactics have largely been unsuccessful. But even if they had worked, victory would have been fleeting.

For restoring the ethics of redistricting only scratches the surface. The real issue lies at the root.

Yes, the idea of power by proxy itself is the issue here. The notion of representative democracy, while noble, is fatally flawed.

Such an arrangement emerged out of both necessity and convenience. Smarting from the injustices of monarchical rule, the founders of our fledgling nation decided to make our government by the people. But giving everyone a seat at the table was not practical. And so, the founders settled on proxy representation.

And therein lies the rub.

You see, proxies work best when they put the needs of their constituents first. For instance, parents and legal guardians tend to choose what’s in the best interest of their children.

But when the connection is less direct, proxies can go off the reservation. It’s human nature.

Politicians aren’t serving out of the kindness of their hearts. They have ambitions to satisfy.

And with such goals in mind, staying in power becomes their prime concern. The needs and wants of the electorate are barely more than an afterthought.

This is how we end up with ever more polarized political parties. This is what spawns partisan redistricting fights. And this is what ultimately leads to a democracy that’s representative in name alone.

What’s left for the rest of us?

This is a question I’ve long grappled with when it comes to representation.

At first, this seems like an odd inquiry. I am a White man. Our democracy has long been looking out for my needs, sometimes at the detriment of others.

But when it comes to ideology, I’m in the middle of the road. I’m neither far to the left, nor radically on the right. I believe in the importance of compromise and tradeoffs.

Across America, there are tens of millions of people like me. And yet, we have no one to stand for us in our representative democracy.

Moderate ideologies and commitments to compromise are not winning strategies on Capitol Hill — or in any statehouse. The ruthless ambition needed to maintain power tends to come from the fringes.

As such, politics tends to attract those with more radical viewpoints. Fundraising comes from hyper-partisan special interest groups. And the political parties themselves diverge more and more from common ground.

Sometimes an outsider shakes up the establishment. But that outsider is generally even more radical than either of the splintered factions it positions itself against.

Add it all up, and centrists like me are left out in the cold.

We have no seat at the table. Our “representative” democracy fails to represent us at all.

It’s a tragic consequence of power by proxy.

So, how do we get out of this conundrum?

How can we make power more representative?

Throwing out our existing system is not the answer. If we consolidate power, we open the door to authoritarian regimes. And if we disperse it, we only find ourselves with more voices to shout over.

Punishing proxies for their ambition is not the answer either. Without the incentive, fewer will serve in that role.

No, the best we can do is to demand more guardrails. The best we can do is to leverage peer pressure to keep proxies in line. The best we can do is speak up to ensure our voices are not silenced.

This process is not pretty, and it’s not particularly comfortable. But in an imperfect world with imperfect systems, it’s precisely what’s needed.

Power by proxy can be effective. But it’s on us to make it so.

Are you equal to the task?

Forward Motion

Take a hit and keep moving forward.

If you’ve come across challenges in your life, there’s a good chance you’ve heard this advice.

I’m not sure where the phrase comes from. But it likely found its origin in the world of sports.

You see, in football, hockey, lacrosse and a myriad of other sports, you’ll run into some physical contact on the way to your goal. You could get tackled, hit, upended or crunched into the boards by an opponent.

All of these outcomes can abruptly put a halt to your progress. But this stoppage need not be permanent.

If you can shake off the hit, get up and keep on going, there’s a good chance you’ll reach your goal – bruises and all.

All of this provides a good allegory for life as a whole.

If you can handle the adversity you face, unbroken and undeterred, you can reach that which seek.

So, it’s important not to give up when life knocks you on your hind side. It’s better to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and keep moving forward.

Of course, this is much easier said than done.

After all, getting knocked down is humiliating. Demoralizing even.

And no matter how many times we listen to that Chumbawamba song, out first instinct is likely not to get right up again.

But yet, we do.

What drives us ahead? What propels our forward motion, even at times when every fiber of our being wants to grind to a halt?

The answer varies.

Some of us are driven by persistence. By locking in on the end goal in moments of struggle and shaking off the setbacks, those of us in this boat take the long view.

Some of us are driven by retribution. By turning a no into a yes, proving the doubters wrong and showing it can be done, those of us in this boat take an adversarial tone.

And some of us are driven by necessity. By heeding the fear of being left high and dry – by recognizing that folding to all instances of adversity gives them no viable path forward – those of us in this boat rely on survival.

These are three very different approaches. But all provide the same result.

We are inspired to ride on. We are encouraged to propel ourselves toward something greater. We are driven to pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off and move forward.

And in the process, we learn, grow and experience in ways we never would if there were never those bumps in the road.

Yes, while the destination remains the same, the journey becomes ever more valuable.

So, even if we fall down seven times, we owe it to ourselves to get up eight.

Forward motion is worth the effort.

Facing Fear

Fear is one of the most powerful and universal motivators out there.

Regardless of our environment or disposition, we actively avoid situations that terrify us. Much like the antelope running from the lion on the Serengeti, fear drives us forward.

Fear inspires us to try harder, remain vigilant and avoid situations that make us feel uncomfortable. The message: Avoid unpleasant outcomes at all costs.

It’s all stick, no carrot. But it’s plenty effective anyway.

Yet, while fear can save us from being stagnant or careless, it can also prevent us from exploring the depths of our possibilities.

After all, the world is plenty scary. And we all too often remain inside our bubble to avoid facing our fears.

But, it turns out the safe play isn’t always the smart one.

While it makes sense to lock our cars and our homes, it’s foolish to lock our minds and our hearts.

Worse still, it’s futile. Because no matter how much we try and insulate ourselves from our fears, there’s a chance we’ll still end up facing them head-on.

And when we do, we might find them to be less terrifying than we’d anticipated.

I know this firsthand. For the first four years of my professional life, I was terrified of losing my job.

So, I played it safe. I didn’t take many risks. I asked my supervisors for a second opinion on my decisions constantly. And I volunteered to help colleagues whenever possible.

I did all this to make myself indispensable. To keep from losing my job.

But it happened anyway.

My second employer — the first one to give me a chance when I switched careers — laid me off after less than ten months on the job.

It was raw and painful for me at first. I couldn’t understand why I was out of a job, even though my job performance was high.

You see, I never considered that factors beyond my control might impact my employment status. That my position might be collateral damage if my employer was struggling.

(As it turns out, the venture that let me go went bust two months later.)

No, I wasn’t considering any of that at the time. Instead, I was considering myself a failure. I remember asking myself How could I ever hope to land another job with this black mark on my resume? And how am I going to be able to afford the rent?

I quickly learned how shortsighted this thinking was.

My current employer hired me within two weeks. And all that anxiety over upcoming rent payments evaporated.

I’d faced my fears head-on, and survived.

I’ve noticed a change in myself since that time. I’m more willing to take risks now, to get outside of my comfort zone, to be bold and direct.

This has made me a more indispensable and innovative employee than I was when I obsessed over my job status.

Yes, I have the luxury of being fearless now, because I’ve already experienced my fears. And I’ve discovered they’re not quite the monsters I thought they would be.

Truth is, we all have this luxury. We just need the gumption to act on it — within reason of course. (I wouldn’t recommend diving onto jagged rocks or swatting a hornet’s nest with your bare hands, for instance.)

Facing our fears isn’t easy. Such is the nature of running at something that chases us.

But it’s most certainly worth it.

So, be bold. Be strong.

Face that fear head-on, and you’ll stand to rise above it.