Tag: restart

Act 2

The house lights went down, and the crowd got quiet.

Then, with a flourish of light and of a crescendo of sound, the stage came to life.

The hour that followed was filled with plot twists, musical interludes, and intrigue. Once it was over, the entire cast of actors lined up on the stage and took a bow.

I was too stunned to applaud.

I had just witnessed the second act of a Broadway musical. One that featured far more action than what had preceded intermission. And I had struggled mightily to keep up with it all.

On the way out of the theater, my sister asked me what I thought of the performance. She had been an assistant director on the production some months prior, and she’d accompanied me to the show on this night.

The second act seemed rushed, I coarsely replied.

Well, that’s Shakespeare, my sister responded.

I stood there, puzzled. Yes, this musical was an adaptation of William Shakespeare’s work. But his plays had five acts to disperse the action. Couldn’t these writers have spread things out more evenly?

I pondered this for a moment. Then we headed out into the night.

Act 2 is an important concept in our society.

It’s the portion of our journey that leads directly to the finish line. It’s where the spotlight is brightest, and where the rewards are most tangible.

We’re primed to give our best in the second act. And we’re conditioned to do the most.

The first act simply sets the table. It’s a construct to acclimate us for the sprint to the finish.

Sports teams don’t get accolades for a hot start if they tail off down the stretch. Neither do companies who frontload revenue growth. The stain of missed potential lingers in these situations, dulling the shine of those early milestones.

Yes, Act 2 is all that truly matters. And if we want to make the most of our opportunity, we better hit the stretch run with reckless abandon.

This is the current upon which entertainment travels. It’s the reason why that Broadway musical was so backloaded.

But does this standard represent reality?

I don’t believe so.

When I was four years old, my mother gave my father an ultimatum.

Change your life or change your wife.

At that point, my father had been an advertising account executive for the better part of a decade. His passion for the job had since faded, and the long hours weighed on him.

Yet, my father was fearful of exiting the industry. The pay was comfortable enough to support a young family. And career shifts were still largely taboo in those days.

So, my father went through his work weeks with a dour disposition. As each month passed, he became more and more of a ghost. That is, until my mother’s ultimatum snapped him back to life.

My father made the wise choice. He changed his life, leaving advertising behind and becoming a teacher.

His Act 2 has lasted for decades. My father has found far more success and fulfillment in his second career than he did in his first. And he’s blazed quite the path for me to follow.

You see, I too have found far more success, fulfillment, and longevity in Act 2 than I have in Act 1. This has proven true with my profession, my hobbies, and even my efforts to build a social circle.

At a high level, this is not all that different from the societal ideal. My first act still sets the table for my second act to feast upon.

But at ground level, the differences are stark. Act 1 is setting the scene for what I should avoid, while Act 2 is establishing the alternative to move toward. And that movement should, by nature, take far longer to play out than the bungled missteps that preceded it.

My career trajectory illustrates this perfectly.

I got my start in broadcast journalism, in the high-octane world of TV news media. I lasted about three years in that industry before making a change. But those three action-packed years still feel like six to me. The strain and stress carried that much weight.

As I write this, I’ve spent a decade in my second career as a marketer. My journey from wide-eyed newbie to seasoned professional in this field has been anything but swift. And yet, I am far from dissatisfied.

The long tail of my Act 2 represents the stability I’ve long craved. It’s provided me with the satisfaction I’ve long yearned for. And it’s offered me the opportunity to grow in my discipline at a sustainable pace.

Sure, it might seem boring to outside observers. But that isn’t necessarily a bad thin

I’m currently on the cusp of another Act 2. One that I find just as significant.

After years of achievement as a competitive distance runner, my body has broken down. The medals, personal record times, and pictures standing atop race podiums have faded into an array of doctor’s visits, protective braces, and canceled race entries.

I still love running, and I love competing. But my body has given me an ultimatum. I can only choose one.

I’ve chosen the former. I’d rather run for fun than compete in something I’m less passionate about. It’s a bittersweet choice, but one I’ve made without a hint of hesitation.

Still, this decision doesn’t have to be a tradeoff. Indeed, I consider it an opportunity. An opportunity to start the second act of my running life.

I’m not quite sure what I should expect.

I’m not sure if my body will accept a steady running mileage base better than it handled the peaks and valleys of training. I’m not if my mind will stay motivated without races dotting the calendar. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to attain the same level of fitness as I did before.

My hope is that all of this does come to pass. That I stay healthy, successful, and fulfilled for years to come — even without the measuring stick of racing.

But I know that this won’t happen overnight. I might be past intermission, but there are miles and miles to go on this stretch run.

Act 2 of my running career will be a protracted journey, hopefully with more ups than downs along the way.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

All For Naught

We toiled away in the hot sun.

Our task was to build a sandcastle. And as the salty air clung to our skin and the sea breeze lingered, my sister and I were hard at work.

We would fill buckets with coarse sand. Then, we’d return to the build site and invert the buckets, molding that packed sand into a series of turrets and exterior walls.

It was an amateur operation, to be sure. But for a couple of kids under the age of 8, it wasn’t anything to be ashamed of.

My father watched us intently. He was the one who had given us our marching orders, and he was also overseeing the construction.

My father was fully qualified for the job. He didn’t have an engineering degree. But he did have a habit of fixing sink drains and rehanging picture frames whenever we visited friends and family.

The hosts wouldn’t ask my father to fix these issues. Instead, he’d insist on doing so. For it ate at him to see something askew.

Given his background, my father wasn’t going to let his kids build some flimsy sandcastle. So, when he instructed us to build a moat around the castle, we went all in. It wasn’t long before the modest castle was surrounded by a ditch so wide, it might as well have been a Bayou.

When it was complete, I stood and admired our masterpiece.

This creation will endure, I thought. It will still be standing tomorrow.

But as I envisioned all this, I felt seawater crash into my legs.

A rouge wave had invaded our moat. And just like that, our castle was gone.

My experience on that day was not unique.

Beachgoing kids the world over have similar stories to tell. Heck, the Ocean Swallows Sandcastle tale is practically a rite of passage for anyone who’s spent their summers under a sea breeze.

I was stunned at first, but I quickly got over the ordeal. There were plenty of other beach activities to take part in.

And yet, I’ve never quite forgotten the experience. Or what it stood for.

As I saw my sand creation wash away, I learned firsthand that there is no way to guard against chance. We can follow all the right procedures and still have our creations swiped from us. Our hard work can be all for naught.

That’s a difficult pill to swallow for anyone. But as we get older, the gut punch feels especially poignant.

After all, the longer the road back, the harder it is to reboot.

Fall seven times. Stand up eight.

This is an old Japanese proverb. One that Converse turned into a shoe commercial featuring basketball superstar Dwyane Wade.

This proverb resonates because it’s relatable. Many of us have been knocked down in our lives. But we’ve still found a way to pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and keep going.

Yes, resilience is a hallmark of American culture. We root for the underdogs, embrace adversity and openly share the challenges we overcome.

I’m not sure whether this zeal comes from our rugged past or our love of narrative. Either way, most American success stories seem to come in the face of resistance.

Still, these stories gloss over a critical detail. The fall we endure is relatively minor, while the climb from the depths is more sustained.

This narrative pattern fits with literary tradition. As >Kurt Vonnegut once said, people want to see the hero go from average to well above average.

We can stomach the idea of our hero falling into a hole. That stumble is just a character-building detour on our way to glory.

But the concept of a hero plummeting off a cliff? The prospect of building something up just to lose it all? That makes us queasy.

And yet, that’s the scenario we all too often face.

Like many writers, I am an introvert.

I once took an assessment for my job. On it, I scored 96 out of 100 for introversion. It was a mark that would make a hermit blush.

I embrace solitude. I am not afraid of silence.

Yet, my independent streak has its limits. I’ve lived more than a thousand miles away from my family for my entire adult life. And throughout that time, I’ve come to recognize how important it is to rely on others.

So, I’ve embraced the world beyond my door. I’ve expanded my circle of influence, making friends and gaining connections along the way. And I’ve taken some volunteer leadership positions — including the local chapter presidency for my alma mater.

I fortified my castle, stepping well out of my comfort zone to build a life the younger me would have found unfathomable. I was reaching my pinnacle. I had it all.

And then, it was taken away.

Much like that rouge wave at the beach, a deadly virus came out of nowhere to disrupt reality. It forced all of us to cut off social interactions, cancel events and avoid travel.

The initial shock proved tolerable. But as weeks turned into months, I started to see all the progress I’d made over a decade washed away.

Suddenly, I was fighting to hang on to friendships. I was parting with time-honored traditions. And I was losing my touch as a leader.

The virus hadn’t taken my life or my livelihood. But it had taken nearly everything else.

All the progress I had made over years was now all for naught.

It can be hard to reckon with the truth. To see all you’ve built dropped and scattered like the aftermath of a Jenga game.

And yet, this is the situation I found myself in, under the shadow of the virus.

I wasn’t alone.

Many of us have had something ripped from us in this ordeal. Some have lost a way of life or a sense of community. Others have lost loved ones or careers.

Coming to terms with such a loss is challenging enough. But we must also face the prospect of moving forward. Of starting that long climb back, without time and energy on our side.

We must consider all that progress that was stripped from us. Was all that effort worthwhile? Is heartbreak inevitable?

These are tough questions to face. But face them we must.

I don’t have all the answers. Heck, I am struggling with this as much as anyone.

And yet, I am hopeful.

I am hopeful that my will to plow forward will carry me. I am hopeful my desire to build from the ruins will endure. And I am hopeful that chance will be on my side this time.

Maybe hope is enough to sustain us. Maybe not. But I’m counting on it, as much as anyone.

For without hope, all is truly for naught. And that’s a state of mind we can all do without.