Tag: retrospective

What’s Productive

The car on the left goes first.

This mantra played in my head as my car idled at a red light.

I was 18 years old, and I had only held a driver’s license for a short time. Yet, I knew that the intersection I was waiting at was trouble.

A double turn lane merged onto a single lane road. And a race from the turn lanes to that single lane road would surely end up in a demolition derby.

The rules of the road stood paramount. The car on the left goes first.

On this day, I was the car in the leftmost turn lane. But the car on my right had tinted windows and was blasting loud music.

These weren’t the trappings of a rule follower. But I still trusted the rule. And I expected them to carry the day.

When the light turned green, I bolted through intersection — only to find the other vehicle in my way.

Suddenly, I was getting pushed across the double yellow line toward oncoming traffic. I had no choice but to back off.

After a few moments, the road widened back into two lanes. Fuming, I cut into the new lane, speeding past the car that had just cut me off. On the way by, I flashed my middle finger at the driver.

I’d gotten the last word. Or so I thought.

It turned out there was a red light up ahead. And as I brought my car to a stop, the other car pulled up beside me.

The driver rolled down his window and motioned for me to lower mine. As I did, I noticed his tattoos and his chains.

This guy was from the streets. I was a feeble teenager.

I was no match. Still, I was indignant.

So, when the other driver shouted What’s your problem? at me, I shot back with aplomb.

You can’t do that. I had the right-of-way. You could’ve gotten me killed.

Shut up! the other responded, adding some profanities for emphasis. Then the light turned green, and he drove off.

By the time I got home, I was in a rage. How could this other driver do the wrong thing and then yell at me about it? Was there any justice in this world?

Still, as I recounted this tale to my parents, they looked concerned. I was lucky to be alive, they said. And I should’ve been more careful with my indignation.

This wasn’t about right or wrong, they stated. It was about what was productive.

Getting in a shouting match over blame would not yield a better outcome. If anything, it would cause further problems.

It would be better to focus on what could propel me forward.

It’s been half my life since I got that pep talk. And while I occasionally get a bit hot under the collar while behind the wheel, I’ve tended to avoid altercations. I know now that it does no one any good.

Yet, I’m far too alone in this thinking.

The Monday Morning Quarterback.

It’s an well-worn phrase in our society.

The day after a football game, onlookers will give their unsolicited opinion. They’ll state which playcalls were wrong, which throws should have gone to a different target, which rush attempts should have been executed differently.

Such punditry means to illustrate a point. If the team were to make the right decisions, it would see better results. This point would hold true regardless of the competition it was facing or the game scenarios it was up against.

This, of course, is all ludicrous. Hindsight is 20/20, and it’s often colored by the outcomes we observe. When the game is going on, that script is still being written. The options we see clearly in the morning light are fogged over in the heat of the moment.

But that hasn’t stopped Monday Morning Quarterbacking from catching fire. There are more than a dozen football games in each pro or college football season. And pundits will spend about 60 additional days reimagining the action.

Worse still, the Monday Morning Quarterback effect has spread to other facets of life. Many companies feature post-mortems to replay ventures gone sour. Congressional committees skewer officials from myriad industries about decisions gone wrong. Wall Street investors get spooked by isolated incidents, causing stock devaluations.

There’s a primal instinct behind these actions. An instinct to apportion blame and administer punishment.

Once those elements are doled out, we’ll theoretically be set. The pain of our loss will be alleviated. Justice will be served.

But something goes missing when we keep looking backward like this. Namely, a path forward.

Yes, Monday Morning Quarterbacking – of all types – is like my altercation with that street-hardened driver years ago. It’s anything but productive.

And it needs to change.

What’s next?

It’s a question we ask often when things are going right.

There’s always the next mountain to climb, the next challenge to embrace, the next puzzle to solve.

Such thinking keeps us productive. It diverts us from complacenty. It helps us strive toward better.

But it’s also created something of a double standard. One where improvement is exclusive to those who have their house in order.

We don’t ask What’s next? when things are going off the rails. Not initially, anyway.

We’re compelled to Monday Morning Quarterback the situation first. And the quest for blame and punishment only takes us further off-course. So much so that we rarely have the energy to pursue a path forward.

This is a problem. A problem that must be fixed.

It’s time to flip the order of operations. To put the What’s next? question front and center in every conversation and every circumstance. And to leave all the rest in the background.

Such a shift might not yield ready solutions. But it will get us in a mindset to properly pursue them. And it will keep us from mindlessly playing the blame game.

In other words, it will allocate our energy in the right places.

So, let’s reconsider our approach. Let’s make what’s productive paramount. And let’s see what impact this ethos has on our lives.

It surely will be a good one.

If You Could See Me Now

The assignment was simple. Write a letter to your future self.

I took the instructions seriously. For I received them during a summer internship in college — when I was inclined to do anything and everything asked of me.

So, I put pen to paper. I turned that piece of paper in. And some years later, I received it back in the mail.

But instead of opening the letter and regaling in my advice from the past, I filed that envelope away.

My words of that bygone summer couldn’t possibly meet the moment of where I was now.

Through lines.

They’re a critical element in almost any plot. For they serve as the connective tissue for the story arc.

When we look at our own narrative, it’s tempting to search for these through lines. It’s commonplace to expect our past to serve as prologue. It’s tantalizing to imagine connecting the dots with Hollywood flair.

Such scenarios might seem aesthetically pleasing. But they’re out of touch with reality.

The cold, hard truth about our narrative is best summed up by a scene in The Shawshank Redemption.

In this scene, longtime prisoner Red Redding is being interviewed by a parole board. When the interviewer asks Redding if he’s sorry for the crime that landed him behind bars, he offers up the following response.

There’s not a day goes by I don’t feel regret. Not because I’m in here, or because you think I should. I look back on the way I was then, a young, stupid kid who committed that terrible crime.

I wanna talk to him. I wanna try to talk some sense to him — tell him the way things are. But I can’t. That kid’s long gone and this old man is all that’s left. I gotta live with that.

Even while locked away from the world for decades, Redding has grown. And he’s gained enough perspective to realize that this growth happened while behind bars, not before it. As much as he might want to draw a through-line, he simply cannot.

I’m not a hardened criminal who’s spent decades behind foreboding prison walls. But I understand where Redding is coming from. And as such, I’ve stopped trying to connect the dots.

The person I was when I wrote that letter to myself, that was a different person than the one I am now. Yes, my body and mind have remained intact throughout that time, but both have transformed. Any quest for through lines is an exercise in futility.

Still, it’s fun to imagine. So, I’m allowing myself that liberty here — and inviting you along for the ride.

If you could see me now.

That’s how I’d start an address to my former self. The self-assured young adult, freshly immersed into the real world. Or the bratty teenager that preceded him.

The address would read like this:

If you could see me now, you wouldn’t believe your eyes.

I’ve reached the upper limits of what you think is possible, and then ascended even higher. It might not be the way you drew it up, but the result still tastes oh so sweet.

I’ve faced the struggles you might have assumed I’d confront, as well as some challenges that no one would ever see coming. The process has been painful at times, leading me to wonder if hope was beyond reach. And even now, the scars from those experiences fester. But I’ve made it to the other side.

I’ve tried new things at every turn. Novelties you might scoff at or write off, they’ve become the fabric of my life. The change I’ve encountered hasn’t always been comfortable, and it hasn’t always worked out. But branching out beyond the familiar has opened doors and unlocked so many opportunities I would have once considered unattainable.

I’ve become a TV news producer, then a marketer. I’ve gone back to school, while working full-time, to get a business degree. I’ve parlayed that into a job that I love at a company where I’m valued.

I’ve moved cities twice and forged lifelong connections along the way. I’ve launched a weekly publication, headed up an alumni association chapter, and built myself into a competitive distance runner.

Through all these experiences, I’ve grown into the man I am today. I still have that chip on my shoulder, that drive for continued excellence. But I also have a sense of balance and fulfillment in my life, along with a quiet confidence. I’m grateful for all of it.

If you could see me now, you wouldn’t believe your eyes. But in time, you’ll find out firsthand what you are truly capable of. Think bigger.

I know every inch of these words. I wrote them, and I lived them. And yet, they still give me chills.

For the younger version of me would not have been ready for any of this.

The younger me had a fixed mindset. The younger me believed in stability. The younger me took the world at face value, rather than challenging assumptions.

I’ve proven the younger me wrong at every turn. And for many years, I’ve done this without even noticing. It’s only recently that things have changed in that regard.

Perhaps this is the hallmark of growth. A steady transformation in the shadows that unlocks our potential and expands our horizons.

I don’t know for sure. But I do know that I’m in a far different place today than I was back then.

Where will I be a decade from now?

This question is a trap door. And I refuse to fall through the bottom.

You see, I might be more self-assured these days than ever before. I may have a better sense of what I’m capable of.

But the whole picture hasn’t come into focus yet. There’s still plenty of room to grow, to evolve, and to unlock even more of my potential.

Make no mistake, I’m proud of what I’ve achieved so far. But I still believe that the best is yet to come. And that a familiar refrain will still ring true.

If you could see me now, you wouldn’t believe your eyes.

Five

It started with a tremble, and a rush.

It was October 2015, and I was about to put myself out there in a way I never had before.

I had set up a website. And now, I was ready to post my first article there, for all the world to see.

Well, not entirely ready.

I knew that once I hit Publish, there would be no turning back. Anyone could read my words. And my sense of anonymity would be gone.

That might not seem like a big deal to many. But for me, it would be a watershed moment. And I wasn’t about to rush into it.

So, I checked the site to make sure everything was perfect. I took a deep breath. And with a tremble of anticipation and a rush of adrenaline, I clicked that Publish button.

My first article on Words of the West was titled I Am Not Perfect. It was a raw ode to my own imperfection. More poetry than anything of substance.

Publishing it felt like a big first step. But that step only matters if there are more to follow.

So, I sat down that night and committed to a schedule. I’d write a new article each week moving forward, no matter what.

I’d like to say that decision changed everything. But it didn’t. At least not initially.

Indeed, there was more art than wisdom in the articles that followed. My writing remained short and punchy. Easily read and easily forgotten.

It wasn’t until my sixth article that I really wrote anything of note — Darkness In The Light, my firsthand account of the 9/11 attacks. The words flowed from my mind to my fingers and on to the keyboard. And as they did, the emotions spilled out of me.

Experiences like this were why I had taken the leap to create Words of the West. This article was something I had longed to share with the world for years. Now, I finally had the platform — and the courage — to give this story the light of day.

This was the type of writing I needed to replicate. This was my North Star.

But, there are only so many profound, emotional experiences in my life. Turning them into articles week in and week out would be an untenable challenge.

And so, less than two months into my venture, I found myself at a crossroads.

As I determined what to do next, I thought of the renowned marketing guru Seth Godin. Seth maintains a daily blog, and he has posted something fresh there each day for a number of years. Some are more profound than others. But they are there, every day.

Seth is a teacher at heart, and he is open with his writing process. Much of his modus operandi comes down to three words: Ship your work.

In other words, stick to your schedule. The doing is more important than the perfecting.

This advice was all I needed to move forward. I leaned in, and let the articles flow.

At first, this seemed like a step back. The articles that directly followed Darkness In The Light were the same vanilla material that had existed before it.

But eventually, the writing got lengthier. It got stronger. It got more nuanced.

Over time, I found my voice.

This article is coming to you exactly five years after I Am Not Perfect first appeared on this website. It is the 262nd piece of writing I am sharing with you — all in consecutive weeks.

That’s quite the streak. One that I’ve kept going despite a number of disruptions in my life over those 262 weeks.

I persevered because the streak matters. Words of the West matters. You, my dear readers, matter.

On tough weeks, you keep me motivated. On good ones, you keep me inspired. And that motivation, that inspiration — it’s what keeps me going.

The engine is always churning. There are always more thoughts to be shared. There is always more that can be written.

The words I write might not always be finely polished. The thoughts I share might not always be agreeable.

They’re raw and they’re real. And collectively, they matter.

Yes, these five years of articles are more than the conglomeration of 262 narratives. They’re the first segment of a long and fulfilling journey.

It’s fitting that I speak of journeys as Words of the West turns five.

For not long after I turned five, my family went on our first journey.

One summer day, my parents buckled my sister and I into the back seat of a sedan. They loaded the car with supplies. And they steered the car toward Maine.

Over the next few weeks, we would explore lighthouses along jagged coastlines. We would hike in the serene wilderness Acadia National Park. We would eat copious amounts of lobster. And we would camp under the stars.

Decades later, I still remember this trip in vivid detail. But the journey that came before it — the early years of my life — the memories of that are a lot blurrier.

This is understandable.

Our brains are still developing in our infancy and toddlerhood. We spend that time soaking up experience like a sponge.

It’s only after we build that database that our memory becomes sticky. Only then do we have a frame of reference to build off of.

Perhaps the same principle applies to Words of the West. After all, the world has seen a dizzying array of change over the past half-decade — from social unrest to environmental disasters to a pandemic-fueled recession. These shifts have permanently transformed us, altering our frame of reference.

Recounting all this might seem distressing. Yet, I find a strange comfort in this theory.

For it shows that everything is a work in progress — both the author’s work and the reader’s perspective. It shows that we all have room to grow. And it shows that there is still a mission to follow.

It’s my great privilege to continue that mission. And it’s my great honor to have you along for the ride.

Here’s to all that lies ahead.

Lone Star

The building was nondescript.

Single story. Concrete walls. A smooth facade near the roof painted a grayish blue.

It was just like so many shopping centers and strip malls across America.

Only this one wasn’t home to a retail store, a restaurant or a barbershop. Instead, the signage on the façade read Midland County Annex.

I walked through the front door, flanked by my father.

The inside looked like a bank, with several partitioned service counters, a number of security cameras, and a line of waiting customers. The only things missing were the plexiglass and the heavy steel vaults. There were no hordes of cash to protect here.

After a few minutes in line, we found ourselves at a counter across from a clerk named Hannah.

She was young and pretty, with brown eyes and dark hair. And unlike so many people who worked in government offices, she dressed in style.

My father and I explained that I was new in town. I would needed to get my car re-registered. I would also need to get it re-titled.

Hannah mentioned that she was new to the area as well. She had been living in one of the bigger cities across the state — Dallas, Austin, Houston, I can’t remember which — but she had moved west to help take care of an ailing family member. Suddenly the paradox of seeing a young woman like her working in the county annex made perfect sense.

A few minutes later, after exchanging some paperwork and a few personal checks, I walked out of the annex with a registration sticker and two new license plates. The plates read TEXAS across the top.

In the parking lot, my father fastened the new plates to my vehicle and added the new registration sticker.

It was all a mundane, bureaucratic exercise. But that moment, in the parking lot under the blistering heat of the midday sun, was an inflection point in my life.

It was July 9, 2010. And now, I was officially a Texan.

I wasn’t born in Texas, but I got here as fast as I could.

Those are the words of a bumper sticker that can be found on vehicles across the Lone Star State.

Many have joked that this sticker was made for me. My parents even bought me one.

But truth be told, that statement didn’t apply to me for much of my early years.

I was a suburban kid. Growing up in the Northeast, I had an affinity for the big cities. The knowledge that others were nearby gave me comfort.

When I would go on trips to the country, I would be terrified by the silence and the darkness. I worried that a predator would attack me under the cover of night. Or that I’d be stranded in the wilderness with no one to help me.

In my mind, Texas represented that wilderness. The stereotypes all painted it as vast, rustic and rural. And I wanted no part of that.

But soon enough, things started to change. When I was in middle school, my family went on a trip to the Grand Canyon. That vacation led me to fall in love with the southwest.

Then, in college, I shared an off-campus house with a friend from Houston. I visited her over spring break and went to the Houston Rodeo.

I was immediately hooked. I was in awe of how big Houston was, how friendly people were and how amazing all the food was. After that trip — my first ever trip to Texas — the Lone Star State was suddenly on my radar.

I returned to the Lone Star State twice more in the next couple of years. One was a short trip with my father and the other was for student media conference. By the end of that second trip, I started thinking of Texas as a place I might move to after college. But since I was completing a TV journalism degree, I would likely end up wherever the job opportunities led me.

That turned out to be Midland, in the heart of West Texas’ oil country. And now, a mere two months after my graduation, here I was. In the parking lot of the Midland County Annex, with two shiny new license plates on my car.

I was giddy. I was excited. But I had no idea what to expect.

That was probably for the best.

“Some folks look at me and see a certain swagger, which in Texas is called ‘Walking’.” – George W. Bush

Texas is a bold place. But if you don’t play your cards right, it can be a lonesome place too.

My early days on the dusty western plains felt desolate. I had an apartment, a TV news job and access to the services I needed. But I didn’t know a soul.

So, I would venture out on my own. I’d try the restaurants in town. I’d lounge by the pool. And I’d go to the ballgame or the rodeo.

Connecting with the culture of my new home was part of my job as a TV journalist. But I was already fond of the cuisine and recreational staples of the region. So, cultural immersion became something of a passion project. It helped me quell the feelings of isolation.

Then, one sweltering summer night, I passed out from dehydration at a Minor League baseball game. I ended up in the Emergency Room across town, getting fluids through an IV.

I had arrived at the hospital in an ambulance. So, once I was discharged, I had to walk 4 miles across town in the middle of the night to retrieve my car and head home.

As I made that walk, I realized the depths of my vulnerability. The ordeal had outlined just how tenuous my connection with my new home was. I felt both obsolete and hopeless.

Fortunately, that feeling didn’t last long. For when my colleagues found out what happened, they quickly exchanged cell phone numbers with me. Don’t ever feel you’re on your own here, they told me. We’re here to help.

Soon enough, I was hitting the town with them, and getting to know the reporters and producers at the other TV stations. Sometimes, we even went on weekend trips to other parts of the state.

After some initial stumbles, I was forming real roots in the area.

I might not have been born or raised in Texas. I might not have experienced the glory of Friday night football games or the pageantry of homecoming as a high school student. I might not have hung out at the local Dairy Queen as a teenager, because there was nothing better to do.

But even absent all of those experiences, I realized then that I had forged a deep connection. It was no longer a formality for me to call myself a Texan. Texas had become an indelible part of me.

Cause no matter how big it storms, I know I can find me a place that’s warm. The sun is shining somewhere in Texas. – Jason Boland

About three years after I first put my Texas plates on my car, I pulled into a parking space in a suburban apartment complex outside Dallas.

I climbed a flight of stairs approached the door of my new apartment. Then I turned the key.

I had made the transition from the plains of oil country to the big city. And, in doing so, I’d started over.

Once again, I was starting over in a place where I only know a scant few people. Once again, I would have to work to set down roots.

But this time, I didn’t have to grapple with what it meant to become a Texan. I already was one.

Even if my zip code had changed, this was still home. Knowing this gave me the confidence to build connections in the newest chapter of my life.

And in recent years, I’ve done just that. I’ve made a new slew of friends in greater Dallas and taken the reins of my university’s local alumni chapter. I’ve also built a marketing career and earned my MBA from a business school in Dallas.

The roots that started out west have solidified during my time in North Texas.

As I write this, I am nearing the 10 year mark as a Texan.

I generally don’t care for milestones, but this one is different.

The world has changed a lot in my first decade in Texas. I moved here in the midst of a recession. Years of prosperity followed. But now, we’re battling another recession — along with an oil bust and a global pandemic.

I’ve changed a lot in the past decade as well. I’m older, wiser and more self-assured now than I was when I first crossed the state line.

But some things haven’t changed. I still love Texas and am committed to making it my home for years to come.

I might not wear my boots quite as often these days. And I might not eat quite as much brisket or Mexican food as I once did. But Texas is still as much a part of me as ever.

I’m looking forward to the next decade here in my slice of heaven. And, God-willing, many more to come.

Texas is home. And I am oh so grateful for that.

Uncovering the Unknowns

There are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns – the ones we don’t know we don’t know.

These famous words were uttered by Donald Rumsfeld, the former United States Secretary of Defense.

The year was 2002. And barely five months after 9/11 shook America to its core, Rumsfeld was briefing the press. The topic? Whether Iraq was supplying weapons of mass destruction to terrorist groups.

Rumsfeld could have provided a boilerplate non-answer. He could have been a steel wall, hiding behind military clearances and other bureaucratic walls. He could have rattled off a bunch of jargon to throw us all of the trail.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Rumsfeld rattled off this now-iconic line.

Some ridiculed it. After all, this sound bite came off clunky and evasive. And once the U.S. did go to war in Iraq, the statement got even more scrutiny.

There were no WMDs, it turns out. Many members of our military lost their lives in a war we entered under faulty pretenses. And Rumsfeld’s line seemed to be the epitome of those pretenses.

Yet, if you strip away the politics and revisionist history surrounding the statement, you might find Rumsfeld’s words to be eerily profound.

I certainly do.

Three years ago, I started Words of the West with a purpose and a promise. The purpose was to share my truth through the power of the written word. The promise was to do so weekly.

For 156 articles, I’ve kept that promise. I’ve fulfilled that purpose.

But facts and figures doesn’t tell the complete story.

For the past three years I’ve taken heed of Rumsfeld’s words. I’ve delved into the world of unknown unknowns and made them a little less confounding.

You see, I’ve viewed every topic I’ve covered here as a chance to gain clarity. No matter what I’ve shared, I’ve learned even more through the process of putting it to paper.

For no matter how certain I seemed about a particular topic, I’d quickly learn that there was a lot I hadn’t been aware of.

There were plenty of unknown unknowns.

This was true for big idea topics. I didn’t know that the Rock Bottom paradox could be so pervasive. Or just how many challenges were that next great opportunity.

But it was just as true for retrospectives. I didn’t know that sharing my memories of 9/11 would help bring solace. Or that recounting all that went into my career switch would inspire confidence.

I didn’t know what I didn’t know. But now I do.

 

Words of the West has helped me grow. By sharing my truth, I’ve expanded my understanding of so many aspects of life. In a world that can often times be turbulent, I’ve been able to chart a steady course. One grounded in the musings I’ve shared with the world each week.

I’ve been blessed to undertake this journey. And blessed that you, the reader, have been able to take it with me.

My hope is that you’ve taken something valuable from these articles. That you’ve found some clarity. That you’ve uncovered an answer to your unknown unknowns.

I look forward to us exploring more of the unknown in the articles to come. To us making the unexplored and overlooked less confounding and more actionable. To us helping make the world a better place — even in some small way.

The journey has just begun. Come along.