Tag: perseverence

The Only Way to It Is Through It

I’m just out for a morning run.

Those six words rolled through my mind like a ticker on a marquee. Each time my shies hit the pavement, I thought of them.

The absurdity wasn’t lost on me. All I had to do was look down at the number pinned to my shirt, or glance at the spectators on the sidewalk to know that this was no normal morning run.

It was a race. A half marathon, specifically.

I’d never run one of these before. And the unknown filled me with anxiety.

I worried that I’d run out of steam somewhere on the course. That I wouldn’t cross the finish line. That I’d make a fool of myself.

So, I let my mantra be my guide. I treated the race like it was a casual training run – one of the many I’d completed leading up to this moment. And I kept myself from getting overzealous.

The strategy seemed to work. As the chilly morning air hit my skin, I took stride after stride with little resistance. It felt as if I was floating on air.

In reality, I was running hard. And I was passing dozens of other runners on the course.

I started to catch onto this around the Mile 3 marker. So, I instinctively glanced at my watch.

The pace it showed astounded me.

There’s no way I can hold this for 10 more miles, I told myself.

But everything still felt so effortless. So, I resolved to try.

With each mile, my confidence grew. I’d entered the starting corral with a goal to complete this race in 1 hour and 40 minutes. But now, I was on pace to finish in under 1:30:00.

As I passed the Mile 12 marker, the digital clock read 1:22:42. A 90-minute finish was within reach, if I could hold on for another 1.1 miles.

I was giddy with excitement. And totally unprepared for what was to come.

I was about 500 feet past the Mile 12 marker when I first felt it.

A sharp, stabbing pain just below the side of my ribcage.

The air rushed out of my lungs in an instant. And as I inhaled, my right oblique tightened like a vice.

I knew exactly what this was. A side stitch.

The side stitch is the bane of any runner’s existence. I’d encountered my fair share when I’d first started running regularly. But they’d faded away as I’d gained fitness. I hadn’t encountered one in months.

But now it was back – at the worst possible time.

The easiest way to resolve a side stitch is to stop for a moment and stretch. I’d done this plenty of times in those early days of training.

But stopping wasn’t an option at mile 12 of the half marathon course. Not if I wanted to break the 1:30:00 barrier.

So, while still in motion, I gave myself a pep talk through strained breaths.

The only way to it is through it. Let’s go.

I winced as the course turned left, and then right. Each step felt excruciating. And I knew it would only get worse.

I was downtown now, running in the cavernous shadows of giant skyscrapers. The morning sun was in my eyes, blinding me through my racing sunglasses.

I had no idea how much of the course was still ahead of me. A half mile? A quarter mile?

As I scanned in vain for a street sign or a mile marker, I noticed some silhouettes darting through my peripherals. Other runners, passing me by.

I started to panic. Was I fading? Was my race coming undone?

Just hang on, I told myself. You’re almost there.

I passed the Mile 13 marker. And after what felt like an eternity, the finish line came into view.

I glided my way across the line and slowed to a walk. As I hobbled over to a barrier fence to stretch my oblique, I took a look around. Those silhouettes that had just passed me were hunched over, vomiting profusely.

I stared up at the race clock, and suddenly everything made sense.

I hadn’t faded. Those runners had just outsprinted me. All so that they could finish before the clock hit 1:30:00.

I’d missed that mark by 4 seconds. But I’d also persevered, fighting through immense pain and giving myself a chance at glory.

No matter what the clock read, I could hold my head high.

Back when I was a child, my father came back from work one day looking ragged.

Grass stains were all over his jeans, and dirt specks covered his shirt like a Jackson Pollock painting.

My mother asked what happened, and my father – then an elementary school teacher – explained that it had been Field Day.

Field day, of course, is a late spring ritual in schools across the country. A day when students and teachers ditch the classroom for structured activities outdoors.

One of the activities at my father’s school was a gauntlet run. Teachers got low to the ground and ran across the grass. And as they did, students lined up on both sides would whack at them with sticks.

It was an absurd annual tradition. But there was no avoiding it.

If my father wanted to maintain the respect of his students, he was going to have to make his way across the grass – dirt stains and stick whacks and all.

The only way to it was through it.

So, my father obliged. And he wore the evidence home for his family to see.

That image has stuck with me over the years.

My father’s decision, you see, ran counter to one of the great ironies of our society. That despite our bluster about grit and toughness, we tend to detour around challenges at every opportunity. To take the path of least resistance.

Calloused hands and battle scars are yesterday’s news. We’ve found a path to glory that doesn’t involve the spilling of guts. And we’ve turned it into a six-lane highway.

Gain without pain. It’s the ultimate life hack.

Or maybe not.

No, Easy Street might not be the panacea we portray it as. Accomplishments ring hollow when they’re dislodged from the principles of perseverance and sacrifice. We know only what we’ve gotten, not what it took.

If that last mile of my half marathon had felt the same as that first dozen, I’d be in the same boat as everyone else. The finisher’s medal around my neck would have been little more than an accessory. A reward barely earned.

But that last mile proved to be its own gauntlet. One that I faced head on, just like my father before me.

And because of that, the medal will always mean more.

The only way to it is through it.

I believe those words with all my heart. And for that, I am grateful.

Sticking With It

I looked stared into the mirror, horrified at what I saw.

My reflection was there, alright. But there wasn’t much to it.

I could see my entire ribcage, bones shrouded by skin. My arms appeared meek and wiry.

I looked severely malnourished. And although I knew I wasn’t – I devoured pizza and Pepsi just as much as the next teenager – I also realized I needed to make a change.

It was a struggle helping my parents lug groceries into the house. And it would be a struggle driving baseballs into the outfield for the Junior Varsity team if I didn’t bulk up.

So, I hit the gym.

That first time in my high school weight room was an adventure. My Physical Education teacher gave me a brief tour and a primer on etiquette. Then he let me be.

I bounced from machine to machine, and free weight after free weight. I knocked out reps like I was running out of time.

It all seemed too mundane, too easy. And the sight of my ribcage in the locker room mirror afterward confirmed this feeling.

I needed to turn things up, I told myself. Maybe I’d hit the weights twice as hard the next day.

This plan seemed futile the next morning, when I woke up sore all over. All those rapid-fire reps had taken their toll.

Still, I returned to the gym to lift. That day, and the next. And the one after that.

And by the time spring arrived, that ghastly appearance in the mirror was no more.

I had notable biceps, pecs, and even abs. And that muscle mass has remained with me ever since.

The vibes are off.

I never heard this phrase growing up. But I hear it plenty now.

It seems to be a code word for young adults. A cryptic excuse for opting out of a gathering or obligation.

People will bail on parties, dinner dates, and hobbies when the vibes are off. They’ll skip out on a workday just because they aren’t feeling up to it.

This is not a new phenomenon by any means. But it’s more prevalent than ever these days.

There are valid explanations for all this. A mental health reckoning has changed the ways we address concerns of the mind. And advances in technology have reduced the essentiality of in-person interactions.

We no longer fear losing our job if we get to work 10 minutes late. We no longer feel we’ll be shamed for missing out on a social activity.

The vibes are off excuse provides legitimate protection. And it’s changed the way we operate.

Now, this shift has not always been smooth for everyone. Many businesses have had to reckon with strange demand patterns, as consumers determine whether the vibes are good or not. Many employers have been left to guess as to who will be reporting to work for them on any given day.

And all of this has led to plenty of anger and resentment. Practitioners of the vibes are off approach have been labeled as lazy, selfish, or untrustworthy.

I get it. As a proud purveyor of The Lunch Pail Mentality, I am no fan of half-measures.

But I’m not here to hurl another tomato at those exhibiting behavior.

My concern is far more existential.

Let’s return to that morning in high school when I woke up sore.

I’d encountered aching muscles and joints before. I’d spent a season on the school’s cross-country team, and I’d been floored by the flu when I younger.

But this was different. I woke up feeling like I’d been hit by a truck.

Getting to the bathroom was an adventure. Getting dressed was another one. Everything hurt like it had never hurt before.

There was no way I could lift weights in this state. I was sure of it.

So, when I got to school, I told my Physical Education teacher as much. He laughed heartily.

Oh, you can still hit the weights, he said. Fight through that soreness. It’s the only way you build muscle.

The teacher explained that no one walked out of the gym looking like Johnny Bravo. Not after a single session, anyway.

It would take repeat trips to the weight room to see results. It would take day after day of breaking down muscle and rebuilding it in bulk.

I would need to embrace the pain and endure the monotony to achieve my goals. And it started right here.

I could have walked away at that moment. I could have determined the prize wasn’t worth the process.

But I kept sticking with it. And I ended up attaining my goals.

I wonder sometimes how others might handle that same situation these days. I fear they’d walk away.

You see, there’s a 100% chance that the vibes will be off during a workout journey. Rebuilding our body after we intentionally broke it is an inherently uncomfortable process. And discomfort is something we’re now well versed in avoiding.

But the opportunity cost of this opt out is massive. Not only do we miss out on some needed muscle, but we turn down the sensation of delayed gratification.

When we pull the plug, we learn little about enduring the struggle to reap the rewards. And we don’t get to discover how much sweeter those rewards taste after the strife.

We cut ourselves off from an entire class of attainment. We limit our world of accomplishments to the low-hanging fruit.

That is the crux of my concern with this opt-out movement. It’s less about what we deny others, and more about what we deny ourselves.

Namely, the chance to grow. The opportunity to expand our horizons and diversify our knowledge.

We don’t get there by turning our back on the gauntlet. Or by burying our head in the sand.

We get there by sticking with it. By committing to the journey as part of the destination.

We get there by embracing the grind, no matter what the vibes say.

This quest starts as an individualistic one. But if enough of us follow the path, it can change the fortunes of our society.

We’ll open ourselves to greater opportunities. We’ll attain more of our potential. And we’ll all be better for it.

So, let’s commit to sticking with it. In the weight room and in countless situations outside of it. And let’s follow through on that resolution.

Our future lies in the balance.

Pulling the Plug

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was fine. Or so it seemed.

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

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

Going all out in that race had proved quite costly.

Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.

Those words are now the legacy of Jim Valvano.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ll know when it’s time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was playing with fire. And I got burned.

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

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

One exception? Champion Poker players.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For days, I agonized over what to do.

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

The decision would be mine, and mine alone.

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

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

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

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

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

Godspeed.

The Half Glass of Adversity

I couldn’t sleep.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Excitement wasn’t blocking The Sandman’s advance. Neither was anxiety.

No, what was keeping me awake was a buildup of acid on my throat. It surged up my esophagus into the back of my mouth, leaving a burning sensation in its path. Every time I tried to doze off, nausea would jolt me awake.

Antacids didn’t help. Neither did raising my pillow. There was no relief to be found.

So, after a sleepless night, I threw in the towel.

I booked a doctor’s appointment, walking out of the office with a prescription that would help keep the acid at bay. But even with relief in my clutches, the adventure was far from over.

Over the next two months, I’d undergo a litany of tests — an ultrasound, an MRI, two endoscopies. I’d spend hours away from my job and incur tens of thousands of dollars in insurance claims. And at the end of this gauntlet, I’d find myself frustratingly devoid of answers.

There was no silver bullet for what ailed me. The risk of another flare-up would always be around the corner.

I had to get used to that.

I know, dear reader, that tales of runaway stomach acid are not the most pleasant. They might even seem taboo to share in a forum like this one.

But these ordeals are my reality. And the tactics I use to avert them are my reality too. 

Living with digestive issues saddles me with rules. Rules about when to eat. Rules about what to eat. And rules about how to react if I break protocol.

It all can be overwhelming at times. And it all can be socially isolating at others.

Insisting that companions commit to an earlier dinnertime is never pleasant. Triple-checking with restaurant staff about the ingredients in a dish makes me feel like a pariah.

I wish I didn’t have to go through this dance. I wish that I could live unencumbered and carefree.

But I don’t have that option. So, I do what I need to get by.

And yet, merely calling all this survival is missing the point.

Nearly two decades ago, my life was inexorably changed.

Terrorists toppled skyscrapers mere miles from my middle school classroom. A crystal-clear September morning devolved into a day I wasn’t sure I’d survive.

For years, I was filled with anger, grief, and confusion on account of this atrocity. To a large degree, I still feel this way today.

And yet, I made it past the 9/11 attacks. I didn’t let them break me.

Many years later, I moved across Texas without a job lined up. Over the course of three months, I burned through my savings as I sought steady employment.

All of this was also traumatic. I was filled with shame and doubt for not landing on my feet quickly.

And yet, I made it past that experience as well. In the subsequent years, I’ve built a career and generally thrived.

This resurgence took a hit when a global pandemic brought the world to a halt. So much of the life I’d built succumbed to the virus’ long shadow. So many initiatives that I’d set suddenly had to be scrapped.

The darkest months of the pandemic — filled with social isolation and the tension of uncertainty — felt like misery in slow-motion. They were nothing short of excruciating.

And yet, I’ve made it past those difficult days. In a relatively short timeframe, I’ve gotten myself back on track.

Yes, resilience has been a hallmark of my life. Time after time, I’ve faced significant roadblocks. And in each instance, I’ve risen to the challenge.

I’ve chronicled many of these crises here on Words of the West. But in general, I’m loath to dwell on them.

For the memories remain bitter. The scars persist.

I don’t want adversity to define me. And yet, its imprint is unmistakable.

The trouble started with a milkshake.

I drank the beverage at a diner back when I was a teenager. I immediately regretted it.

It turned out I was lactose intolerant. Many of the dishes I’d enjoyed to that point did not appreciate me in kind.

This revelation changed things.

Eating would no longer be a thoughtless activity. It would now be a minefield to traverse.

So, I did what had to be done. I established a diet. I cooked at home more often. And I stocked my medicine cabinet with digestive aids.

Such measures were largely successful. But not universally so.

Indeed, the night I lay awake with acid churning in my throat came years after that fateful milkshake. I had done so much right, and yet it had all turned out so wrong.

In the wake of such an ordeal, it would be so easy to fall back on old habits. It would be all too tempting to call that experience — and the litany of medical tests that followed — something to survive. It would be all too natural to bury the painful memories and move on.

But I refused to do any of that.

This time, I thought of all the changes I’d made to meet my digestive challenges. And I considered the benefits those adaptations brought.

Continual meal planning, for instance, honed my anticipation skills. Instead of just penciling in the next meal on the docket, I started thinking of what plans and obligations lay ahead in my day. I started considering how I could prepare for them.

Similarly, a necessary aversion to late-night snacking made me consider my sleep patterns. If digesting a burger at 1 AM was a bad idea, then maybe staying up until 1 AM was also a poor decision.

Considerations like these might seem trivial. But they provide a significant silver lining.

These details help us see adversity as a glass half-full. They give us something to build off.

These silver linings don’t validate the strife we went through. But they show how the byproduct of that struggle can be a lasting force for good.

That’s how it’s worked out in my life, at least. But I have a feeling I’m not alone when it comes to this sentiment.

So, let’s take a fresh look at adversity. Let’s reconsider how we define it and how we quantify it.

Something vibrant can emerge from our most challenging moments. We just need to know where to look.

The Clean Slate

I can be your lucky penny. You can be my four-leaf clover. Starting over.

There’s nothing more tantalizing than the prospect of a fresh start.

Whether its boots sinking into a fresh blanket of snow or the sight of a wide-open highway in front of us, the prospect of beginning again is all-powerful.

There might be nothing like the first time, but the second go is still pretty special. For we have both the memories of the first experience to guide us and the residual novelty to excite us.

The fresh start keeps us plowing forward. It revitalizes our sense of wonder. It unveils the potential for a brighter future.

We bask in its majesty. We revel in its opportunity. And each year, as the calendar turns over, we pay homage.

We dress up and stay up late. We eat fancy foods and drink high-class libations. We dream of the new people we’ll be when the clock strikes 12 and the year begins again.

I’ve long railed against this tradition. It all seems so arbitrary and fake to me.

I don’t feel any different on January 1st than I did on December 31st. I never have, and I likely never will.

Yes, we do grow over time. But this process happens gradually, not in an instant.

So, while everyone else is partying it up, I’m playing it down. I’m treating my evolution like a marathon, not a sprint.

This is how I’ve operated for years.

But it might be time to take a fresh look at that stance.

Constants.

These are critical elements in what is known as STEM fields — science, technology, engineering, and mathematics.

Those in the STEM industries solve some of our biggest problems. They’re responsible for many of the innovations that we take for granted these days — such as connected devices, reliable roads, and advanced pharmaceuticals.

Such features have made our world better, and we’ve greatly benefited from them. But they’re all built on a foundation of constants.

Essentially, the scientists and engineers who come up with these solutions base their work on a simple question: Keeping everything else the same, what happens if I make this one change?

By framing the question this way, STEM professionals are controlling the environment. They’re doing what they can to establish a clear cause-and-effect relationship.

That relationship will help turn their question into action. It will transform their experimentation into products, patents, and other tangible solutions.

This is a powerful, proven process. But it does have a catch.

By relying on constants — by only changing one item at a time — we only allow for incremental change. There is no room for flashy wholesale disruptions. There is only tinkering with the status quo.

Wholesale changes are just too volatile, too messy, too difficult to explain. And so, STEM professionals generally try to avoid them. The risk is not worth the reward.

Constants matter. This should be evident now more than ever.

What happens when the ground quakes? When the wave crests? When the world as we knew it ceases to be relevant?

We start grasping, clutching, straining for the familiar. We search in vain for something that is no longer there.

It’s disorienting. Confusing. Terrifying.

We all recognize that feeling now. Whether we live in California or Chattanooga, Florida, or Fargo. We know what it’s like to see our lives turned upside down.

Such is the nature of pandemics. They pack the sweeping force of a tsunami and the destructive aftershocks of an earthquake.

Pandemics force us to abruptly abandon our plans, our dreams, and our objectives. They force us to acknowledge that the goalposts have changed.

For in the eye of the storm, nothing is constant. Everything is fluid — meaning we must adjust in order to survive.

And so, we do what is necessary to make it through.

At first, we are filled with adrenaline. We are compelled to rise to the occasion. We are inspired to do our part to ensure normalcy.

But eventually, the rush wears off. The bleakness of our new reality persists, and hopelessness abounds.

As the familiar fades further into the rearview, we lose a sense of ourselves. We find it harder to recognize who we were before everything crumbled around us. We struggle to recall what we’d once hoped to achieve.

As the fog grows thicker, all we want is a way out. A clean slate. A fresh start.

And the longer the darkness persists, the more we are tempted to run into the fray. To sacrifice all the gains we’ve made.

Yes, survival is an unparalleled test of the will.

It pushes our limits. It drains our resolve. And it can poison our minds if we’re not careful.

This is why it’s important for us to prepare ourselves for crisis. And that training should take place between the ears.

In 1965, Jim Stockdale’s life changed forever.

Stockdale, a Naval fighter pilot, was captured in North Vietnam after his aircraft was shot down in battle. He would spend the next 7 years as a prisoner of war, subject to torture and brutal living conditions. After his release and return to the United States, Stockdale was awarded the Medal of Honor. He retired from the Navy with the rank of Vice-Admiral.

Stockdale’s story is one of perseverance and overcoming long odds. But what piqued my interest was the heuristic Stockdale used to survive more than 2,700 days in captivity.

Stockdale recognized quickly that there was a fine line between faith and false hope. That recognizing a dire situation wasn’t the same as accepting it.

In his book Good to Great, Jim Collins describes Stockdale’s philosophy like this:

You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the end — which you can never afford to lose — with the discipline to confront the most brutal facts of your current reality, whatever they might be.

Collins famously termed this heuristic The Stockdale Paradox. It’s a pattern that many leaders of business and public service offices follow today.

But why should such gains be limited to the bigwigs? I believe we can all take a cue from Stockdale.

For we are at a point of transition. A point where the calendar flips and we are gifted with a clean slate.

It’s easy to view this as a period of endless possibilities. As a time full of hope. As a moment unburdened by the weight of the past.

But that wouldn’t be quite right, would it?

No, the events that have so deeply challenged us — the pandemic and its effects — they won’t magically disappear when the clock strikes 12 on New Year’s. That baggage will remain.

It’s important for us to recognize this. To see the brutal facts of our reality for what they are, what they have been, and what they will continue to be.

And yet, it’s also crucial for us to accept the gift of our clean slate. To see the possibilities that lie ahead, and to have faith in our ability to attain them.

So, I’m giving this ritual of turning the calendar over another chance.

For the traditions and customs might be tacky and overblown. But there’s still a lot of good that can be gleaned from this moment.

And it is our obligation to soak it up.