Tag: opportunity

The Second Chance Mirage

On a late October night in 2011, I watched a baseball game from a TV news studio.

The evening newscast I’d worked on had just wrapped up. But the World Series game that was airing on a different channel had not.

One of the teams in that World Series was the Texas Rangers. They were the “local” team – as the city I was in didn’t have a big-league squad. They were also my favorite team.

The game was nearly over, and the Rangers had a lead. A win would mean the team’s first-ever championship.

And so, I watched intently on a flatscreen next to the anchor podium. My colleagues gathered around me, ready to celebrate.

The Rangers got to within one pitch of sealing the win. But the opposing batter swung at that pitch and drove the ball to the outfield.

It looked like Texas’ outfielder might catch the ball to win the title. But it eluded his glove and rolled to the outfield wall. Two runners scored. The game was tied.

The Texas Rangers would go on to lose the game, and ultimately the World Series. It was a gut punch, but I refused to hang my head.

It’s alright, I told myself. They’ll be back real soon, and these guys will get it done.

How wrong I was.

The mulligan.

It’s a time-honored tradition.

Golfers have long requested a mulligan – essentially a do-over – if one of their shots went awry. And that practice has extended beyond the course in recent years.

A second chance provides hope. Hope for a better outcome. Hope for redemption.

But winning strategies are not built on hope. And they shouldn’t be built on second chances either.

Opportunities, you see, are not governed by our control. We can put ourselves in position to seize them should they arise. But there’s no guarantee they will.

This is doubly true for second opportunities. To get another bite of the apple, we need everything to align just right. And that rarely happens.

We can talk about doing better next time. But expecting there to be a next time is foolhardy.

The randomness of all this can be cruel. There are surely some who seize their third, fourth, even fifth chances. All while others are left with the memories of the one that got away.

But such is life.

Don’t be fooled. The mulligan is anything but an inevitability.

When I was in college, I wrecked my car.

Like so many accidents, the specifics of this crash were complicated. But the state of my vehicle was unambiguous. It was totaled.

In the days after the wreck, I called in favors to get from my house to campus and back. But I knew this wasn’t a strategy that would last long-term. And I was way too poor to buy a new car.

Just as panic started to cloud my mind, my parents called. They had recently bought a new sedan. And they’d had planned on surprising me with their old one as a graduation gift. But given the recent events, they’d decided to move that timeline up.

My father told me he’d bring the car down to me on one condition. This would be the only car gifted to me. If I wrecked it, I’d be on my own.

It would have been all too easy to ignore this warning. After all, second chances were all around me.

The federal government had recently bailed out the banking system and major automakers. Many of my classes allowed me to drop my lowest test score to boost my grade.

Still, I knew my father wasn’t kidding. So, I took his words as gospel. And I made the most of my opportunity.

I consistently played it safe behind the wheel. I drove defensively and strove to avoid risks. By the time I traded in the car six years later, it had nary a scratch on it.

By then, I was a full-fledged adult, with a steady income and an unwavering sense of responsibility. I’d come to recognize that second chances didn’t grow on trees. While I could make some minor mistakes, I could not blow the opportunities I was given.

For if I did, there’d be few chances at redemption.

Not long before this article was posted, the Texas Rangers broke through.

The team returned to the World Series and claimed its first championship.

Jubilation abounded. The Rangers had made the most of their second chance.

But had they really?

If you ran a quick check, you’d find exactly zero players from that 2011 team on the championship roster. Only one coach was on both squads.

Those guys who I thought would get back to the World Series and get it done — well, they never did. An entirely different group broke through. One unencumbered by the past.

Yes, this was the first opportunity on the big stage for many players. Others had succeeded under the bright lights before. Hardly any needed redemption.

It was the rest of us — the owners, the field staff, the broadcasters, and the fans — who yearned for another opportunity. But we didn’t swing a bat or throw a pitch. We never crossed the chalk lines into the field of play.

Our contribution was passionate, but it was ultimately passive.

Such is the nature of the second chance mirage. Lightning might strike twice, but it will rarely incinerate the same dirt both times.

We are more transitory than the structures we build. That makes it challenging for the moment to find us again. And that causes second chances to go up in smoke.

Yes, counting on mulligans is like wishing on stars. The return on our investment is low.

It’s far better for us to focus on seizing the moment at hand. On making the most of our opportunity the first time around. And on turning the page should things fail to work out.

This is sustainable. This is realistic. This is the most prudent way forward.

I’m ready to make this shift. Are you?

Calm Before the Storm

I was standing on the back deck of my uncle’s house, chatting with him while he grilled burgers and hot dogs. It was a blazing summer afternoon, with blue skies overhead.

My uncle scanned the sky. Then he turned to me and calmly stated, Once this food is done cooking, we’ll want to bring it inside. It’s going to rain soon.

I was incredulous. Sure, there were some clouds off near the horizon, but they weren’t the ominous variety that screamed Rain. There were no rumbles of thunder in the distance or flashes of lightning.

Nevertheless, I heeded his warning. And 20 minutes later, we were in the kitchen, watching the rain come down in sheets where we had previously been standing.

I was in awe of my uncle. How could he so easily tell that it was going to storm when I saw so few signs of it?

My uncle is not a meteorologist. A renowned surgeon and cancer researcher, his professional endeavors take place far from a weather center. Those skills require precision, ingenuity, and many long hours in operating rooms and labs.

And yet, in his limited spare time, my uncle seemed to have developed an uncanny ability to sense the impending danger in the skies ahead.

I was only a teenager at the time of this story, and I had no true vision for my future. Yet, this revelation hit me light a lightning bolt. If my uncle could make time to understand the weather, perhaps this was a skill I could pick up too.

So, I started studying radar maps and watching The Weather Channel. I took an introductory college meteorology course for fun, and I ended up with the top grade in the class. And when I worked as a news producer as a young adult, I would constantly pick the brains of the staff meteorologists to fill the gaps in my knowledge.

I was captivated by the idea of knowing what comes next. I was relieved to know I wouldn’t get caught off-guard by shifting weather patterns. I was confident in dressing properly for the elements.

But most of all, I was entranced by the details — particularly, the moments of change. I was mesmerized by the rush of fresh air from a cold front. I was ensconced by the smell of dew at dawn. And, of course, I was awestruck by the calm before a storm.

It became an obsession. And that obsession has persisted.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the calm before a particular storm.

This storm didn’t bring thunder, lightning, rain, or snow. In fact, it wasn’t a weather event at all. But it wreaked plenty of havoc, nonetheless.

This storm was a global pandemic.

We should have seen it coming. News of a mysterious virus plaguing China had made it around the world long before the virus itself did. But the vast distance gave many of us — particularly here in America — a false sense of security. It led us to believe that It won’t happen here.

It did, of course. And now, even with the worst of the pandemic behind us in this nation, our lives have been inexorably changed.

I am moving forward, as so many of us are. Rather than dwell on what happened, I’m picking up the pieces from a lost year.

But despite all this progress, I find myself going back to a specific time. I keep circling the weeks and months right before the pandemic brought life to an abrupt halt.

Some may think that such a focus is foolish. They might exclaim that the moment is gone now and is not worth fixating on any longer.

And yet, I see things differently.

It helps me to ask what our world looked like while we were standing on our back deck, unaware that a storm was about to blow in. It helps me to think of what we might be able to recapture from those moments.

In some ways, we were at our most idealistic then. I know I was.

In the months before the pandemic, I was battling several cross currents. I was at a career crossroads. I was ramping up programming for the local alumni chapter I headed. And I was laser-focused on getting into better shape, physically and financially.

I was living life week-to-week, but with a distant goal in mind. I’d assumed that the world would stay roughly the same over time and that I’d gradually get to where I needed to be.

All this idealism sounds ridiculous in hindsight. Catastrophes have a knack for distorting our vision in this way.

And yet, those shattered illusions might be our best guide for the road ahead.

For all its benefits in a state of emergency, living from moment to moment is not a sustainable activity. If the trauma of a pandemic — or some other crisis — causes us to give up on long-term planning, our future will be as turbulent as our present.

And yet, reverting to our old ways is no simple task. It’s a challenge to head back into the fire after we’ve been burned.

This is the crossroads we find ourselves at now, as the worst of the storm has passed. Do we take our cues from the ravaged landscape around us, or do we harness the spirit that resonated in the air before the skies turned dark?

I have chosen my path.

I’m harkening back to that moment before the chaos and reclaiming the life I’d built in those days. Some of my priorities were out of scope, for sure. That much is clear now. But even with that disclaimer, I was coming into my own back then.

I want that feeling back. I want to believe that the trauma of a pandemic year hasn’t wiped it away for good. And I will do everything in my power to make it so.

I’m sure others feel this way as well. But that feeling might be blown away by the winds of opinion. It might be crushed by the prevalent demands to build something better out of the wreckage.

I’d encourage anyone in this predicament to be still for a moment. To picture the moments before the world turned sideways. And to consider whether that setting — that life — is something worth pursuing once again.

The calm before the storm is a snapshot of doom. But it can also be a moment of opportunity.

Let’s not let it slip by.

The Double Edge of Reliability

How important is reliability to you?

Well, it’s pretty darn important to me.

I’ve hung my hat on being reliable throughout much of my life. I saw to it that others could expect me to show up  — both physically and mentally — and put in a full effort. Every time.

My life motto has reflected this ethos. Be present. Be informed. Be better.

My willingness to show up and dive in has helped boost my reputation as someone who could be counted on. Someone who could be considered steady. Someone who could do the little things needed to help propel the greater cause.

These traits are treasured in our society. They’re viewed as the building blocks of success — a perspective that has often proved as true in practice at it has in theory.

This is one reason why a proud to espouse the value of reliability. Why it’s ingrained in my mind as surely is it is in my soul.

Yes, reliability is a gift in our society. But to those who espouse it, it can also be a curse.

 

Nearly a century ago, a politician rose to head of state in Europe.

The ashes of World War I were still smoldering on the continent. Financial and political turmoil abounded. And into this void stepped this new leader.

The politician’s name was Benito Mussolini. The country was Italy.

Those well-versed in history know the rest. Mussolini was a fascist dictator. Il duce’s totalitarian reign resembled at times resembled a police state for his two-decade rule. As World War II brewed, Mussolini got in bed with Adolf Hitler and the Axis powers, ultimately sealing his demise.

Benito Mussolini was a terrible leader. A tyrant. If not for the mass atrocities committed by Hitler to the north, Mussolini might have been the name we referred to when speaking of evil and infamy.

Yet, look at Mussolini’s reign from a different angle, and another word describes il duce quite well.

Reliable.

Mussolini came to power after years of factionalism had fractured Italy. Although the country was a monarchy prior to World War I, regionalism dominated over a national identity. The gap between rich and poor was striking — so striking that many Italians had moved to America in hopes of a better life. And the Mafia corrupted power at the local level, spreading fear and exacerbating inequality.

In short, the nation was unstable.

After Mussolini’s March on Rome, Italy became reliable. Factionalism was wiped out, often by brute force. The Mafia was stripped of its teeth. And things were so efficient that a joke started making the rounds: Mussolini makes the trains run on time.

The lesson here is stark. Reliability without context is not always a good thing.

Here in America, we despise fascism. More than 70 years after Mussolini’s execution, we speak of the dangers of his ideology. In a land built on liberty, there is no room for a My Way Or The Highway edict of rule.

No, reliability is more of an underhanded concept here. One enforced by the weight of expectation rather than the barrel of a gun.

Reliability is subtly woven into the narrative of the American dream. The narrative that exclaims Show up, work hard and good things will happen.

Yet, that narrative is more mirage than reality.

For our society is one transfixed more by flash than by substance. We notice what is exceptional more than what is reliable.

Many of our most powerful leaders — of industry, policy and influence — got to their destination by being outstanding in their field in some capacity. They didn’t get there simply by being reliable.

In fact, reliability is often a flaw for the most powerful. Disciplined, unrelenting consistency in all facets of their role is often lacking.

This is why there is so much turnover at the top of corporate ladder. This is why politicians are so mistrusted. This is why even elite athletes see their fair share of struggles in the limelight.

We see signs of this delicate balance throughout our culture. Go see a superhero movie, for instance, and you’ll likely find the main character has flaws that equal their exceptional talents.

The message is clear. Exceptionalism can take you the extra mile, warts and all.

This is a problem for those who strive for reliability rather than cultivating exceptional talents. And it’s a disaster for those who have all the intangibles, but nothing to make heads turn.

Those who bank on being reliable might not see their deposit guaranteed. They could find themselves taken for granted by those with more power and influence. Or exploited by those who embark on their self-serving quests for stardom — quests that can go a lot further when there’s someone else doing the dirty work of consistency.

In fact, it could be said that a focus on reliability in our society benefits others at the expense of ourselves. Our family, friends, colleagues and supervisors can count on us, and that gives them peace of mind. Yet, we are confined to our promise of consistency, with no mercy from those same stakeholders if we break that bond.

The pressure ratchets up. The burden gets heavier. And soon we find ourselves confined to a prison of our own making.

I have seen this in my life and in my career.

There have been times when colleagues have taken advantage of my reliability to further their own objectives. There have been times when those around me have capitalized on my team-first attitude to avoid putting in their fair share. And there have been times when my perception as The Reliable Choice has barred me from access to new opportunities.

Each and every time, I found myself left behind as others got ahead through achievement or omission. Each and every time, the burden upon me grew, with no sign of relief on the horizon.

Others have not always taken these actions with malice. Most of the time, they ‘ve subconsciously used me as a crutch — my ethos to show up and put in the work acting as a security blanket for their needs.

Yet, regardless of intent, I still ended up with the short end of the stick.

I am not bitter or vengeful about these incidents. But as I’ve matured, I’ve learned to be transparent about them — for self-preservation purposes, if nothing else.

For I’ve learned that positioning oneself as reliable is as destructive as it is altruistic. That providing such a latent value makes it all the more convenient to get passed over.

I now know that I must provide value elsewhere, either by exposing my differentiating talents or finding new ones to cultivate.

This is one of the reasons I started Words of the West. As someone who’s long taken to writing the way ducks take to water, I craved somewhere to hone my talents in a manner that benefits those around me. This forum provided the outlet I needed for this mission.

I stuck to my trademark reliability — I’ve shared a weekly fresh article here for nearly 200 weeks in a row. But Words of the West is about the meanings conveyed in my writing more than the schedule of when they’re released.

Or perhaps it’s a little bit of both. The gravitas of the written word can be a gift. When that gift can be both anticipated and enjoyed, it can become a delight.

A delight for me as a writer. And — I hope — a delight for you, the reader who has so graciously taken the time to hear what I have to say.

This is how we can win with reliability. By layering it beneath something of greater notoriety. By making it the foundation for something that commands attention.

The ability to turn heads is a feat of strength in today’s world. The ability to turn heads consistently is a superpower.

When we make ourselves reliably extraordinary, we can soar.

What are we waiting for?

The Unknown Paradox

Give me a chance, and I’ll make it worth your while.

There’s a good chance we’re familiar with this line.

After all, opportunities are critical components of life. And earning opportunities requires us to cede some control.

If we’re not born into royalty or extreme wealth, our destiny isn’t handed to us on a silver platter.

Sure, our parents and our advocates in the community will put us in position to succeed — if we’re lucky. Yet, the keys to the most impactful opportunities in our lives often lie in the hands of others.

They require a leap of faith by someone newer to our narrative. Someone weighing the balance of hitching their success to ours — often without a longstanding connection with us preceding their decision.

When we ask someone out, when we pursue college or graduate school, when we apply for a job — we’re putting the fate of life changing decisions in the hands of someone new. We’re providing our flight plan to a distant acquaintance and praying that we’ll be cleared for takeoff.

Many times, we’ll get approval. Other times, we’ll be rebuffed.

Either way, our fate is not fully in our hands. We need a leap of faith to open the gate to the next adventure.

There is no such thing as the Self-Made Man. If we’re working for the man, we need an advocate who offers the employment agreement. If we’re trying to be the man — and working for ourselves — we won’t get far without the faith of consumers in our business.

After all, it’s hard to pay the bills when there’s no money coming in.

And if we’re looking for the love of our life? Well, it’s best if the person we seek finds the same quality in us. Otherwise, happily ever after for one might be a living nightmare for another.

Yes, our destiny relies on others to give us a chance. Even when familiarity is lacking.

Getting past this hurdle requires both bravado and humility. We must make the case that we’re worth choosing. We must also reconcile with the fact that we might not be chosen.

I believe this process makes us better.

I, for one, don’t believe I’d be the man I am today if the world simply rolled out the red carpet for me.

At each twist and turn of my journey, there was someone who gave me a chance.

The decision to give me a shot could not have been easy for these individuals. It was a choice peppered with risk.

But these brave men and women pushed forward anyway. They provided me the chance to go to college and graduate school. They gave me an income and a foothold in two disparate careers.

I would, quite literally, not be where I am right now if even one of those opportunities had not been granted to me.

I’m continually grateful for the chances I’ve been given. For those who put their faith in me when it wasn’t necessarily the logical decision to make. It’s something I will not forget.

Yet, while I believe this Leap of Faith system generally works — as I’ve seen it work in my own life — I’ve come to recognize it has a significant blind spot.

I call it The Unknown Paradox.

The Unknown Paradox shows up when someone seeks a 180 degree turn in their life trajectory. When they seek to jump in the deep end of the pool to reboot their narrative.

It shows up when the playboy bachelor decides to settle down and get serious. Or when the Wall Street hotshot aspires to leave the hedge fund behind to become a chef.

These changes are the fodder our favorite literature and movies are made of. They’re the embodiment of freedom of destiny. They’re encapsulations of the American dream.

Yet, in practice, they’re often an exercise in futility.

For the leap of faith needed to continue the metamorphosis is all too often lacking. No one is willing to give the person a chance to prove themselves.

The career-shifter, the reformed person — they’re too much of an unknown.

They’re a potato fresh out of the oven. Too hot to touch.

I experienced this firsthand when I left the news media.

While working in the news, I had seen several colleagues transition from journalists to corporate communications and media relations roles. So, as I prepared to make a career shift, I pursued these jobs doggedly.

I set my sights on Dallas, which had far more companies with open job positions than the cities in West Texas did. I applied to a couple of positions each day, before heading to the TV station for my shift.

At first, I scored a few phone interviews. But the interviewers seemed to consider me more of an anomaly than a legitimate candidate.

Soon, the interview opportunities dried up. Then, my apartment lease ran out, and I ended up relocating to an extended stay hotel in Fort Worth without a job lined up.

Over the next three months, I proceeded to burn up my savings and max out my credit card as I searched for that elusive opportunity. The situation got so dire that I was applying for Administrative Assistant jobs when I finally landed a full-time job.

That job was in digital marketing — something I had less experience with than the communication roles I’d been applying for. Yet, my former boss saw fit to offer me an opportunity back then, and I ran with it.

I’ve since evolved into an experienced marketer, and I continue to work at growing my knowledge of the craft.

But even though my story ended favorably, I can’t shake the memories of my difficult career transition. In particular, a question from those harrowing days continues to haunt me.

Why were so many so afraid to give me a shot?

Was I expected to be a prisoner to my resume? Was my career path anchored by my college major? Did my decision to switch roles paint me as unmotivated or unreliable?

It’s impossible to know for sure. But based off of what I experienced, I’d have to believe the answer was Yes. Or at least Maybe.

And many others stuck in The Unknown Paradox would likely say the same.

This is both ironic and problematic.

Our eligibility for opportunities should not rest on our initial choice of career path. We make those decisions when we’re teenagers — lacking in maturity, adult experience and real-world decision making expertise.

We rarely get it right the first time. Often, it’s because of that wayward experience that we gain the skills needed to get it right the second time.

Yet, gaining that second opportunity is exceedingly difficult when we’re banished to the penalty box for being off the mark with our initial career choice.

This confounding Catch-22 is bad enough. But The Unknown Paradox also sends the message that grit and initiative have little real-world value.

It’s a message that’s as confounding as it is demoralizing.

Those seeking the opportunity to make a change are likely the most motivated to bust tail if given a chance to begin anew. Freezing them out is shortsighted and counterproductive.

And, of course, this all taps into another conundrum: Gatekeepers demanding experience from opportunity-seekers without providing the opportunity to obtain said experience.

Add it all up, and the Unknown Paradox closes doors to more opportunities than risks. It’s a net negative.

It’s time to end this wasteful cycle.

It’s time to stop demanding tried and true. And to embrace energized and new in its place.

For the current system isn’t working the way we intended.

The safe bets, the reliable choices — they can end up far from extraordinary. Those great skillsets and track records can all too often disintegrate into a pool of apathy.

And the more we hitch ourselves to this decision-making model, the further our society is pulled into the quicksand of lethargy.

We need a boost. A shock to our collective system to drag us away from the abyss.

This jolt lies within those who have the courage to change. With those who have the guts to put themselves out there and risk everything for a more fulfilling future.

The people who do this might not have the proven attributes we’re looking for on paper. But they have initiative, grit and heart.

These are attributes that can’t be taught. But they can be invaluable to have on our side.

They’re worth opening a door to. They’re worth braving the fog of the unknown to find.

It’s about time we did so.

Sunken Opportunities

How much do you know about sunk costs?

Perhaps you’ve heard of the sunk cost fallacy. That’s the false belief that you must salvage any remaining value from a decision gone bad. The illusion that there’s even anything to be salvaged in that situation.

The sunk cost fallacy leads us to hang on to items we have no purpose for. It causes us to maintain subscriptions we’ve never made use of. And it compounds poor decision making with more poor decisions.

The conventional wisdom is to ignore sunk costs. To throw out the baggage weighing us down and not think about the price tag.

But as with most concepts, this advice is far more straightforward on paper than in reality.

One reason for this is emotion. It’s difficult to make a logic-based decision when you let your feelings get in the way.

Decisions that didn’t go as planned carry an emotional toll. It’s hard to throw away the sensations that went through our hearts and minds when making our initial decision. And it’s especially difficult when money is involved in those decisions.

Our finances are tied to our feelings of security. Casting away something we spent our hard-earned money on is a bitter pill to swallow.

So, our emotions can lead us to hang on. Even when we know we shouldn’t.

Another reason why we hang on to sunk costs is to avoid the implication that we erred beyond reproach. That we failed, wholly and completely.

You see, we don’t like failure. It eats at us. It terrifies us.

This is why we’re so attuned to silver linings. It’s why we believe in moral victories.

We feel that if we can take away something from a bad experience to help us down the line, then perhaps the blunders will be worth it.

Of course, casting off sunk costs flies in the face of this theory. There’s nothing to take away. Just an opportunity to cut the dead weight and head on down the trail.

The idea echoes an entrepreneurial tagline: Fail fast and move forward.

But this might not be the right approach.

I certainly understand the benefits of starting anew. I recognize the power of progressing unencumbered by the ghosts of poor decisions past.

Yet, without a process in place to learn from our mistakes, we only assure that we will repeat them.

We will stay sloppy. We will remain wasteful. And we will build a culture that casts accountability aside.

This is not the type of world we want to live in. This is not the future we want to build.

But where do we draw the line? How do we reconcile between ignoring sunk costs and keeping ourselves from iterating and improving?

Some critical judgement is needed.

We must recognize that not all sunk cost situations are the same.

Some are predominantly the result of chance, of known risk. The forces that lay your resources to waste are beyond your control.

If you invest in a grill and deck chairs, and it rains all summer long, the cruel side of chance is to blame. Same deal if you buy a warm jacket and ski boots for your vacation in Colorado, only to encounter record high temperatures all week.

There is nothing to be learned from these misfortunes. Nothing that you could or should have done differently.

Risk is omnipresent and unpredictable. We can’t plan around it, nor should we try to.

Best to cast off the sunk costs and move forward.

On the other hand, many sunk cost situations are actually efficiency opportunities in disguise. They’re decisions you can’t have back, but might rethink the next time around.

Those season tickets you bought but didn’t use? That’s one of them.

You can’t get your money back, but you sure as heck can avoid repeating that decision next year. Cast off the sunk cost with discretion.

Same goes for any golden handcuffs situation you might find yourself in. Leaving those perks behind might be gut-wrenching. But knowing what to look for next time around can spare you the ignominy of dealing with the same situation later.

The key, then, is recognition. It’s taking a close look at those sunk costs and determining which ones are purely a matter of chance, and which ones provide an opportunity for growth.

It’s understanding the difference between letting go and learning. It’s coming to terms with the duality of purpose.

Getting to know this distinction is a worthwhile mission. One that allows tomorrow to be better than today.

So, don’t despair at sunk costs. There may be sunken opportunities within them.

Challenge Or Opportunity?

My life mantra has long been: Accept the Challenge. Embrace the Process.

It’s something I live and breathe every day. It’s exemplified the winding, often difficult path I’ve taken to get here; just as importantly, it keeps me focused and driven as I turn my sights toward the road ahead.

I don’t keep the word challenge in the forefront my mind because I’m a grinder, because I like to do things the hard way. If that were the case, I’d ride bulls around the southwestern circuit for a living, or do something similarly gritty.

No, challenge is rooted in my everyday consciousness because I’m a thinker. Adversity is never comfortable, but it can be beneficial. The key is to view the situation in the right frame of mind, and build off it.

Ultimately, it comes down to this:

Where some see a challenge, I see an opportunity.

A challenge is an opportunity to learn and to grow. But it’s also an opportunity to improvise and adapt — which can help us evolve into more well-rounded, resourceful people.

This distinction is important, because challenges are all around us. The major roadblocks in the course of our lives are, of course, well documented. But those less apparent situations that force us to innovate can often be just as significant.

For example, I’ve explained at length how I love to cook. Cooking is a challenge in itself — I’m sure even world-class chefs might agree with that statement — but cooking in an apartment provides an extra degree of difficulty. Add in my health issues regarding dairy, and suddenly an ocean of culinary possibilities is whittled down to a Bayou stream.

Do I run from this adverse situation — all the way to the nearest McDonalds? Not a chance. Instead, I accept the challenge. I improvise to make up for the lack of counter space and gourmet gadgets — making do with the rudimentary range and oven I’ve been provided. I find alternative methods of cooking burgers and hot dogs in the kitchen to compensate for my lack of patio space for grilling. I even have with my own recipe for making barbeque brisket indoors without a smoker.

Where some might have seen a significant challenge in my culinary arrangement, I saw an opportunity. And through this process of situational innovation, a funny thing has happened — I’ve become a better, more well-rounded cook.

This is why it’s important to look at adverse situations not as a fight-or-flight ultimatum, but instead as an innovate and evolve moment. There’s so much to gain from this perspective, and so little to risk.

So accept the challenge. It just might be your next great opportunity.