Tag: values

The Anchor

The culprit was a rogue sidewalk crack.

I didn’t spot it in time while heading to our family car. And suddenly I was off my feet.

The magnetic pull of gravity sent me hurtling to the ground, skinning my knee in the process.

I yelped, and my parents rushed me back into the house.

As they cleaned, treated, and bandaged the gash on my knee, I cursed gravity.

If not for that magnetic force, my knee would still be unblemished. Stinging pain wouldn’t emanate from my leg. All would be fine.

Not long after this, I learned about space travel in school.

As I stared at pictures of astronauts floating around spaceships, I was filled with jealousy.

Why couldn’t we all be free to glide? Wouldn’t it be better this way?

I imagined life without the scab on my knee or its associated itchiness. I daydreamed about soaring near the ceiling without fear.

What I failed to consider was how I’d take a drink of water or use the restroom without causing a mess.

Yes, it seems gravity had its benefits too. Wishing it away might be more than I bargained for.

I couldn’t just throw out the bad and leave the good. I needed to consider the consequences.

My childhood adventures instilled an important lesson.

Some forces are too big to be controlled. They must simply be managed.

Gravity is one of those forces.

Surely, Sir Isaac Newton didn’t desire to get bopped on the head by an apple to experience its pull. But once he did, he understood that gravity needed to be studied further.

This recognition led Newton to derive mathematical theories that solidified the immutability of gravitational pull. And we’ve worked off that premise ever since.

No longer do we attempt to be Icarus, brazenly flying close to the sun with wax wings. We factor gravity into everything we do — whether we’re working with its leverage or counteracting it.

Yes, gravity-induced tragedies do still occur. But we’re better positioned to avoid them than we were in Newton’s day, thanks to increased measures of anticipation and prevention.

I see the value in this now, and I’ve come full circle.

Gravity might prove to be a pain now and then. Still, adapting my life around it is better than trying to navigate its absence.

Gravity might be an immutable anchor in life. But it’s not the only one.

Indeed, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve recognized the importance of three factors – where I live, what I do, and who I spend time with.

None of these are as absolute as gravity. But collectively, they keep me anchored.

Where I am defines what I can do. What I do defines the way I can live. And both help define who I spend my time with.

I’ve tinkered with these factors multiple times over the years. But I’ve rarely done a wholesale rip-and-replace operation.

Only twice, in fact.

My first defiance of gravity came right after my college graduation. I moved halfway across the country for a new job in a town where I didn’t know a soul.

I remember feeling wholly discombobulated.

I liked my new home, but I knew there was nothing tying me to it. Sure, my new furniture was arrayed throughout the place, but my only other connection to the space was a monthly rent check. If I ever couldn’t pay it, I’d be without a home address.

I felt confident with my new job, but I knew I wasn’t on solid ground there either. I was green and prone to making mistakes. And I knew a bad mistake could cost me my livelihood.

And I quickly discovered how challenging it was to meet new people. Unlike college, I wasn’t in an environment full of adolescents seeking to make connections. Many of my neighbors were older or more established. Several had families. And nearly all of them worked a different schedule than I did.

It was clear that I was beyond my depth. I’d gotten more than I’d bargained for. But I had no choice but to soldier on.

It was only after I collapsed in the Texas heat — ending up in the Emergency Room in the process — when things started to change. Alarmed by my ordeal, several co-workers urged me to add their phone numbers to my address book. A few of them invited me to socialize with them off the clock as well. I started doing just that, and my social circle started to grow.

Suddenly, my new home and job started feeling a bit less temporary. For the first time in a while, I felt the tug of the anchor beneath me.

But it wouldn’t last.

A few years after my arrival in this once-foreign town, I loaded my belongings into a moving truck.

My contract at work had expired and my lease was up. So, I headed 300 miles east to another city I barely knew. One that offered a bevy of job opportunities and housing options.

For three months, my belongings sat in a storage unit. Meanwhile, I sat in an extended-stay hotel two miles down the highway, trying to earn a job offer in a new field.

Once I signed an acceptance letter, I knew things would fall into place. I’d be able to find a new home, establish myself, and rebuild my social circle.

But in the interim, I was running out of options. There was nothing to anchor me aside from my desire and what was left of my savings. And both were getting critically low.

Ultimately, I did earn that opportunity. And everything did fall into place as anticipated.

I found a place to live. I established myself in my career. I built a larger social circle than I’d ever had before.

I located the anchor, and I set it deep in the soil.

But I never forgot all that proceeded this triumph. The fear. The uncertainty. The doubt.

And I pledged never to return to those sensations again.

I’m writing this at the tail end of a rocky half-decade.

Our society has been turned upside down by a pandemic, economic turmoil, and partisan vitriol. Much of what was taken for granted has gone up in smoke.

I’m trying my best to stay the course. To keep where I am, what I do, and who I spend time with intact.

But this is proving immensely difficult.

For one thing, the financial system has provided little assistance. The cost of living has skyrocketed in recent years, making it harder to stay where I am. The viability of what I do has been threatened by layoffs, offshoring, and corporate mergers. And these stressors have impacted my ability to maintain social connections.

On top of that, the nature of opportunities has shifted irrevocably. The most lucrative of doors have always opened to substantial risk, but Door #2, and Door #3 seem to open to profound change as well these days. Such is the reality in a world where offices have been replaced by remote work, the stock market has been usurped by cryptocurrency, and human capital has been supplanted by artificial intelligence.

With all this in mind, I might need to raise the anchor to get back to solid ground. Getting ahead might mean taking yet another quantum leap into the unknown.

But this time, I don’t know if I’m willing. It’s too unsettling. And the scars of my past travails run too deep.

And so, I will continue to resist wholesale change. To adapt one thing at a time instead — all while remaining anchored to what I know.

This will be a difficult approach to maintain. And I’m sure to suffer some more setbacks along the way.

But ultimately, I know in my heart that this journey will prove worthwhile.

I understand the cost of giving up the anchor. Of defying the rules of gravity.

And I have no designs on paying that price again.

On Complacency

The comment rankled me.

It came at a marketing meetup. I was in the audience, watching intently as a representative from Microsoft held court on stage.

Voice assistants were the emerging frontier in tech at the time. Features with names like Siri and Alexa would listen to verbal prompts on your smartphone or smart speaker and volley back answers.

Microsoft’s Cortana was in that arena too. But many consumers didn’t bother to notice.

Now the representative was turning to marketers to hype up the service, in hopes that we would evangelize it to the masses. And he was using another tech service – the Uber rideshare app – to make his point.

Think about the process of hailing an Uber, the Microsoft rep said. You open the app, look for available drivers and request a ride.

Now, what if Cortana could recognize this pattern in your schedule and hail the ride for you? Wouldn’t that be cool?

All around me, audience members gasped in amazement. But I stared daggers at a spot just behind the representative’s left shoulder.

Was tapping a button on our smartphones that much of a chore? Had we really become that complacent?

When I was 8 years old, I knew how to do several things.

I could read. I could write. I could divide 60 by 4.

But I couldn’t look people in the eye when I was talking to them. And I couldn’t offer them a firm handshake.

My third-grade teacher wasn’t having any of this. She worked tirelessly with me until I got those fundamentals down.

The lessons stuck.

I’m still mindful of where my eyes are when I’m speaking. And I take pride in a firm handshake.

For many 8-year-olds these days, eye contact and handshakes are the least of their social deficiencies. And it’s not necessarily because they’re battling developmental disorders, as I was at that age.

It has more to do with iPads, YouTube, and virtual reality games.

Many parents give their children access to these devices and services at an early age. They’re meant to entertain, to placate, and to keep parity with the kids’ peers – who likely have the same electronics in their hands.

This trend – accelerated by the effects of a global pandemic – has become a scapegoat in the decline in social skills among our youth. Some critics believe that solving this crisis simply requires shutting off screens.

But I believe the problem is much deeper.

You see, it’s the thought behind the screens that’s most insidious. It’s the concept of complacency as a childhood development strategy that has done us so wrong.

I get why this has happened. The world is more complicated and frightening than ever. Parents feel inclined to protect their kids from the unpleasantness of it all.

Those electronic devices serve as immersive extensions of the humble pacifier. They combat uncertainty by keeping children anchored in place.

Still, this shift is not without stark costs.

How will these kids learn to engage with the world around them? How will they learn to go after what they want? How will they find the courage to take some calculated risks along the way?

They won’t, and they don’t. We’ve made sure of it.

Complacency is a bad seed. And we reap what we sow.

The vision that Microsoft employee shared was the tip of the iceberg.

These days, predictive analytics and artificial intelligence have eclipsed voice assistants.

Much of our lives are managed in the background by computers. We don’t even need to say a word.

Take delivery, for instance. Once the purview of local pizzerias and Chinese restaurants with bicycle fleets, delivery services now cross cuisines and vehicle types. Some even extend to supermarkets and big box retailers.

These services are built on our complacency. They capitalize on the vision of consumers lounging in pajamas all day, and they charge us a premium for the privilege of convenience. Tack on fees and tips for couriers, and we often pay double what we would if we went to the store or restaurant ourselves.

The entire premise of all this is absurd. We’re paying a premium to stay in, and we’re paying that premium as much as we possibly can. The delivery services’ attempts to hook us into subscriptions don’t help matters. Neither do delivery-only offers from restaurants.

Complacency is entrenched in our society, even as its costs accelerate. And I struggle to understand why.

Isn’t this a nation built on hard work and determination? Isn’t improvement part of our ethos?

Not anymore, apparently.

Doing less is in vogue. And we’re worse for it.

Back when I was 8-years-old — and learning the art of a firm handshake in school — I’d spend one weekend with my grandparents each month.

They lived across town. Close enough to make this arrangement tenable, but far enough that I packed an overnight bag.

The mornings would generally start the same. I’d dart around the house, full of energy. And I’d find my grandfather sitting in his favorite chair with a pencil in his hand and the New York Times on his lap.

He was poring over the crossword puzzle.

Now and then, I’d try to help him with the puzzle clues. But I only had so many words in my vocabulary. So, I’d often resort to my favorite one: Why?

Why are you always doing this, grandpa? And why can’t you complete it sometimes?

My grandfather told me both questions had the same answer. He was hoping to stay mentally sharp by repeating this exercise, even if he couldn’t fill in every answer every day.

That lesson has stuck with me for decades. I might not pore over crossword puzzles — or Sudoku or Wordle, for that matter. But I’ve made staying sharp a habit.

This quest has taken disparate forms. Engaging in physical activity. Mastering the art of cooking. Writing this column each week.

But the ethos is constant – to build on yesterday. To get more out of myself. To unlock better.

The fire burns deep within me. And the spark of it all was my grandfather’s crossword puzzle.

Sometimes I wonder if I would have found that epiphany growing up in this era. With the way the deck is stacked, I’m tempted to say no.

And yet, the tenets of desire are still out there. We can still strive for improvement, if we’re willing to wade through the sea of complacency to get there.

It’s a difficult mission, no doubt. A path that we’re not exactly inclined to follow.

But follow it we must. For our betterment. For our future.

So, let’s put complacency in the rear-view mirror. The journey forward starts now.

Finishing the Job

On July 20, 1969, a nation watched with awe as three astronauts planted an American flag on the surface of the moon.

A month later, residents of the North Side of Chicago probably still felt like they were on the moon.

The temperate Midwest summer was still in full swing. The ivy on the brick outfield walls of Wrigley Field was lush and green. And the team playing in that venerable ballpark was having its best season in decades.

The Chicago Cubs had already won 75 games by mid-August, and the team held a 9-game lead in the division standings. The Cubs hadn’t played in the postseason in 24 years, and the team hadn’t won a World Series championship in 61 seasons. But it sure looked like the days of ineptitude were over.

They weren’t.

As August turned to September, the Chicago Cubs hit the skids. The team was suddenly losing games at an alarming rate, while the second-place New York Mets were stringing together wins.

When the two squads faced off in New York, a stray black cat ominously ran in front of the Chicago dugout. The Cubs would lose both games to the Mets and cede the top spot in the division soon after that.

The Mets would go on to win the division by 8 games, before rolling through the postseason and claiming a World Series championship. The Cubs would become a punchline.

1969 was well before my time. Still, I remain captivated by that season. My mother — a lifelong Mets fan — has said that year is what sparked her love of baseball. And the black cat incident remains an iconic moment in the sport decades later.

Still, I wonder if the 1969 Chicago Cubs deserved better than ridicule. Even with the late-season swoon, Chicago finished with a 92-70 record — by far the franchise’s best in what would ultimately become a 38-year postseason drought.

In subsequent years, 11 teams have gone on to claim World Series championships with fewer regular season wins than the 1969 Cubs. 6 more with identical records to that team have claimed titles.

But ultimately, that matters little. The Cubs failed to finish the job. And that’s how they’ll continue to be remembered.

Mama didn’t raise no quitter.

I’ve told myself this line time and again when I’ve found myself at a crossroads.

It’s not factually accurate. My mother might not have quit rooting for the New York Mets, but she’s stepped away from several ventures in her life. She also encouraged my father to leave a dead-end career for a better opportunity. And she was fully supportive of me during my youth when I stopped playing the violin or walked away from the cross-country team.

Still, the adage has resonated with me in adulthood. I’ve seen how our society treats those who don’t see a job through. And I don’t want to become one of those cautionary footnotes.

So, I’ve rarely quit at anything. And when I have, it’s come with a giant asterisk.

When I considered leaving the news media, I waited until my employment contract expired to do so. Since I was switching careers, I wasn’t beholden to that contract end date. But it provided the cleanest way to make a break.

When I gave up alcohol some years back, I didn’t consider sobriety to be quitting. Instead, I’ve treated abstinence as its own mission — one I must not ever stray from.

And even when I’ve dropped out of marathons due to injuries, it was on doctor’s orders. It took outside intervention to keep me from running through the pain.

Yes, I’ve remained steadfast in my commitment to finish the job. To be the 1969 New York Mets, and not the 1969 Chicago Cubs.

Yet, I’ve failed to consider the cost of this edict I’ve foisted upon myself.

You see, I’ve generally attributed finishing the job to consistency. If I show up day after day and give my all, I will achieve what I set out to achieve.

This is not a novel concept. It’s practically gospel in the worlds of sport and project management.

But this idea is fatally flawed.

Indeed, not much is consistent in the world around us. And the longer the timeline of an initiative, the more likely it is that we’ll face a curveball on our quest. A curveball that can’t simply be swatted away with the tenet of consistency.

This leaves us with a choice. Do we stay true to our approach, despite diminishing returns? Or do we become who we need to be to get the job done?

The answer is not as straightforward as it seems.

The Godfather is an American classic.

Both Mario Puzo’s novel and Francis Ford Coppola’s film adaptation represent storytelling at its finest.

Many consider The Godfather to be a Mafia tale. But I see something else.

In my view, The Godfather is an allegory for the challenges of finishing the job.

Consider the story structure.

Don Vito Corleone prepares his youngest son Michael for a future in the U.S. Congress, as his Mafia outfit seeks to go legitimate. But Michael leaves college to join the military in World War II. And upon his return, he draws a line between the Corleone family and himself.

The family is tough-minded, principled, and often violent. By contrast, Michael shows himself to be sophisticated, calculated, and thoughtful.

But a series of events eventually weaken the Corleone family. And Michael doubles down on Vito’s original vision of making the outfit legitimate.

This requires Michael to become ruthless and domineering while finishing the job. The metamorphosis of his character carries a heavy toll.

Time and again, Michael’s temper comes to the fore. Paranoia over potential mutinies leads Michael to cut himself off from lower-level associates. And his demeanor causes his marriage to crumble.

Yes, Michael Corleone chose both paths of the Finishing the Job Conundrum in succession. First, he walked away from the Corleone outfit so he could serve his country. Then he re-entered the fold and committed himself to finishing the job he’d previously abandoned.

That second path brought Michael Corleone the trappings of success. But he was undoubtedly happier following the first one.

I’ve been thinking about this more often, as I consider finishing the job on complex initiatives. Is following the principle worth the personal price? Perhaps not.

Mama didn’t raise no quitter. But maybe I should take a step back anyway.

When I was in high school, my family took a trip to Spain.

One of our many stops was the Sagrada Familia Basilica in Barcelona.

My parents and sister were awestruck by the ornate structure with its architectural flair. But I was preoccupied with something else.

Namely, the cranes and scaffolding hovering over the site.

The Sagrada Familia, you see, was still under construction. The groundbreaking had taken place more than a century prior, and the completion was nowhere in sight.

I wondered out loud why we were giving a construction site the time of day. My father bristled, explaining that I was looking at the site all wrong.

Sure, the Sagrada Familia was still a work in progress. But the work that had been done — all the finished accents illuminated by the Catalan sunshine — was still worth noting. It earned architect Antoni Gaudi acclaim in his lifetime. And it continued to add to his legend in the many decades since his passing.

Someday, my father explained, the Basilica would be completed. The world would marvel then at the realization of Gaudi’s vision.

But even now, there was much to celebrate. What had been done was far from nothing.

There was a profound lesson in my father’s words. One I could do a better job of heeding. One we all can.

Perhaps we shouldn’t put as much stock into finishing the job. In bringing the initiatives we’re involved in across the finish line at all costs.

For those costs could accelerate throughout the journey. And much like Michael Corleone, we could lose ourselves in a quest for what is ultimately an abstract principle.

Perhaps it’s better to take a step back sometimes and pass the torch.

We might not get feted for our early-stage accomplishments, as Gaudi has been. But we’ll still know the value of our contribution. And we won’t compromise our sense of self.

That means something. But only if we let it.

So, let’s draw a line in the sand. Let’s demonstrate that something matters more than finishing the job.

That something is us.

What’s Customary

She was strikingly tall, stunningly beautiful, and outfitted in an elaborate Deel.

There was much to be mesmerized by when this woman set foot in my family’s tent. But I was particularly curious about the large bowl in her hands.

I would soon get answers.

After a few moments, the woman turned to my father. Through a translator, she explained that the bowl was a gift for the honored guests who had traveled long distances to arrive in this place. Since this place was the Mongolian grasslands — half the world away from our family home — we were the honored guests.

It was now my father’s duty to drink from the bowl. He obliged without delay.

Hours later, I stepped out of the tent to relieve myself. As I did, I noticed my father stumbling around in the moonlight, slurring his words.

I was 10 years old, and I had never seen my father drunk before. Now I had, and it was jarring.

It turned out that bowl my father consumed was filled with Baijiu. That’s a 120 proof Barley liquor.

It was more grain alcohol than anyone could handle. A bout of drunkenness and a killer hangover were inevitable.

A few days later, I asked my father why he had willingly gone off the deep end. Couldn’t he have spared himself some pain by just saying no?

My father mentioned the importance of showing respect to our hosts and their customs. Declining the invitation was not an option for him.

I nodded in understanding. But I hoped I wouldn’t find myself in a similar position.

I made the team!

The shouts in the hallway woke me up early on a Saturday morning.

One of my floormates in my college dorm had tried out for the vaunted Miami Hurricanes football team. And he had made the cut.

His role would be far from glamorous. As a walk-on, my floormate would be on the scout team. He’d do all his work in practice, emulating opposing receivers and taking massive hits from defensive backs.

Still, my floormate wasn’t immune to the initiation traditions of the squad. So, when the team leaders demanded that he shave his wavy blonde hair, my neighbors helped him oblige.

This opened the door to more issues. My floormate got a sunburn on his scalp while practicing in the bright Florida sun. Some of the football players compared him to a cancer patient.

But this act also helped forge an intractable bond between my floormate and his teammates. He did ultimately appear in a game. When it concluded, the entire Miami Hurricanes football team carried him off the field on their shoulders. Then, they gave him the game ball.

I’m sure none of this would happen these days. There are copious safeguards in place against initiation rituals. The dignity of the individual supersedes the sanctity of customary team traditions.

Culture is no longer defined through majority rule.

While I’ve never played football at any level, I’ve seen the benefits of this shift.

I do not drink alcohol, and I have a dairy sensitivity. In prior eras, I might have found myself compelled to break with both restrictions to fit in.

But now, I can buck with precedent. I can turn down a round of shots at the bar. I can politely decline a home cooked dish if it’s laden with dairy.

There is a built-in support system for my choices and requirements.

I’m grateful for that. But I’m also aware of what I’m leaving on the table.

As I child, I viewed my father’s conundrum on the Mongolian grasslands as a cruel one.

What culture would treat poisoning its guests as a customary practice?

But in hindsight, I realize that I was looking at this scenario all wrong.

The bowl of Baijiu wasn’t the focus of the evening. It was what tied everything together.

Yes, my father was made to drink more than would seem ethical. But that was just part of a massive celebration speckled with dancing and traditional garb. A celebration in honor of him — the visitor from far away.

By downing the bowl of barley liquor, my father was sharing in the celebration. He was forging a connection with his hosts that could transcend distance and language barriers.

It was worth the ensuing drunkenness and hangover.

This is the notion behind so many customary traditions. Weddings are particularly grand because they encourage two families to connect. French wine and charcuterie boards allow for bonding through cuisine. Holi provides an opportunity to find common ground through color —even if it means ruining our clothes in the process.

Even if we’re unfamiliar with these traditions, we benefit by leaning into them. By taking ourselves out of our comfort zone, we create lasting memories that can transcend cultures.

This is what’s missing in our shift toward individuality.

We might not be forced by our teammates to shave our heads. We might not be prodded by family members to eat something that we can’t digest. We might not be egged on to drink something that makes us incoherent.

Those are net benefits, for sure. But they come with costs. Costs that can’t be brushed away.

The excursion to the grasslands was part of my first trip abroad. A three-week odyssey across China.

In the subsequent decade, I’d get my passport stamped several more times.

But then, the journeys through customs ceased.

As I write these words, it’s been nearly 15 years since I left the United States. I haven’t even ventured to Canada or Mexico.

There are many reasons why I’ve stayed home. But one of them has to do with customary traditions.

I don’t want to put myself in a situation where I get myself sick — either from consuming dairy or alcohol. And I know from my prior travels that I might well be entrapped in these scenarios.

For years, I treated this credo as a validation. Now, I’m not as convinced.

I’ve spared myself a lot of potential misfortune by playing it safe. But I’ve also missed out on numerous chances for cultural connection.

And that does give me pause.

Perhaps the customary traditions of others aren’t a threat to our sensibilities. Perhaps they’re a test of our courageousness.

My father and my floormate in my college dorm each passed this test. I have yet to face it.

And that is a problem.

Moving forward, I resolve to be more open-minded. I will still hold true to my values and lifestyle choices. But I will view the customary traditions that fly in the face of them as something other than an unvarnished threat.

I will view them opportunities. Opportunities I might not take, but at least should consider.

May we all find the gumption to do the same.

On Consistency

Baseball is a timeless sport.

Games are decided by the passage of innings, rather than the countdown of the clock. And a passion for the game is passed down through the generations.

Yes, much of baseball transcends eras. Including some of the names of the game’s greats.

Babe Ruth. Willie Mays. Nolan Ryan. Sandy Koufax. Ted Williams. And countless others.

Few would willingly put Eddie Guardado on that list. But perhaps they should reconsider.

The legends listed above are Hall of Famers – players known for their greatness. Yet, Guardado is also legendary, thanks to his reliability.

Over an eight-year span from 1996 through 2003, Guardado pitched in at least 60 games each season for the Minnesota Twins.

Appearing in more than a third of a team’s games, year after year, is a rarity for pitchers, whose arms can tire quickly. But Guardado bucked the trend, improving over his years of high workloads. Guardado went from being a middle reliever to Minnesota’s star closer, giving up fewer runs on average with each passing year and becoming a two-time All-Star in the process.

He didn’t throw the nastiest pitches or intimidate hitters with his presence on the mound. But for Everyday Eddie, consistency paid dividends.

The curious case of Eddie Guardado speaks volumes about our mismatched desires.

All too often, we focus on flash and pizazz. These attributes captivate our imagination and unleash our sense of wonder.

But what we really want is consistency. We crave the ability for things to remain the same, time after time.

Our desire for this is mostly visible in absentia. When we run across patches of volatility, we long for a sense of stability that is out of reach. Consistency, therefore, becomes a silent expectation – one that is falsely taken for granted.

To be fair, the field coaches and managers in Minnesota did not make this error with Guardado. They kept turning to him, game in and game out. As the years went on, they even elevated Guardado’s role, giving him the ball in the critical 9th inning of ball games.

But management was not on the same page. When Guardado’s contract expired, the Twins ownership wasn’t willing to pay a premium for a reliable homegrown hurler. Guardado moved on to the Seattle Mariners instead.

Everyday Eddie was integral to Minnesota’s success on the diamond. But his value was all too invisible when compared with a Twins starting pitcher with a wipeout slider or a batter who could hit the ball halfway to St. Paul.

Those guys had the Wow factor, even if their overall performance was uneven. And as a result, those guys were the ones who got paid.

I often think of Eddie Guardado as I go about my everyday life.

After all, one of my core attributes is consistency. I show up each day and give it my all.

I demand such an approach from myself. The thought of varying my effort agitates me so much that I just don’t try it.

But I get few rewards or accolades for my steadiness. At best, this attribute is ignored. At worst, it’s taken advantage of by others.

I sometimes wonder if I’m selling myself short. If I’m limiting my potential by giving others the qualities they deserve, but not the ones they’re clamoring for.

I could follow Guardado’s lead, and head to greener pastures where my reliability will be more readily rewarded. But that would require me to uproot and break with consistency in the service of a new normal.

Why should I be the one who must change? Why must I be punished with a crucible just for going about things the right way?

I can’t stomach that. So, my story has diverged from Guardado’s. I’ve stayed the course.

It’s a rugged path. But things might be turning around.

The past few years have been incredibly disruptive.

There was the onset of a global pandemic, followed by economic volatility, and supply chain failures.

All these issues impacted multiple industries. But few took as direct a hit as the airlines.

As the nation locked down in the early days of the pandemic, air travel dried up. When it rebounded, divisive arguments over safety protocols quickly grabbed headlines — all while the airlines struggled to bring back furloughed staff.

These issues have led to a breaking point, with many flights canceled due to inadequate staffing. With the costs of airline tickets skyrocketing and few empty seats to be found, these cancellations have become logistical nightmares for travelers.

This whole ordeal has exposed the airline industry. The major air carriers spent years hawking premium perks and charging passengers for the pleasure of enjoying them. But through it all, they seemed to forget about what consumers were looking for.

Air travel turned into a spectacle of pizazz, all while basic consistency disintegrated in the background. And when the veil on this stunt was lifted, airlines were left with a black eye.

But the brands with their logos on the airplanes weren’t the only ones to take a hit during this fiasco. What we value as travelers has also faced a reckoning.

While we once might have overlooked reliability as a factor we treasured, we no longer can. We’ve seen a world of travel without consistency, and we don’t like it one bit.

In an instant, we’ve gone from lauding Babe Ruth and Willie Mays to singing the praises of Eddie Guardado. We’ve made availability our most treasured ability.

This shift might seem subtle, but it’s a game-changer. One that the airlines can only ignore at their own peril.

But why stop with air travel? This shift toward consistency could revolutionize other industries we frequent as well. It could improve outcomes while enhancing our experience. It could be the answer we need.

We can start this movement. We have the collective might to shift our society away from flash and toward reliability.

But it’s on us to make that first move. To draw a line in the sand and make clear what we stand for.

It’s important work. Let’s get to it.

Effort vs. Execution

Try hard.

We’ve heard those words time and again.

The implication is clear: Put in the effort and the results will follow.

There’s only one problem.

It ain’t true.

Now, don’t get me wrong. There’s certainly some value to trying hard. To putting the maximum effort into whatever you do.

But ultimately, we’re not being judged on our effort.

We’re being judged on our execution.

This is a difficult concept for us to grasp. Largely because we’ve spent an entire generation praising and incentivizing effort.

My generation grew up thinking we could be whatever we wanted, as long as we tried. Our parents reinforced that theory by telling us we were special, and that a little initiative would go a long way.

Schools and extracurricular activities gave us participation ribbons, simply for making the effort to compete. Gatorade told us that if we wanted to be the next Michael Jordan, all we had to was put in the work — and drink their product. (Yes, sweat and a sports drink were all we needed to Be Like Mike.)

We carried this message like a William Wallace battle cry. Try hard and the rest will take care of itself.

Then we grew up, and reality hit us in the face like an Arctic wind.

You see, the real world doesn’t care how hard you try. It cares about results.

And if you can’t deliver those results, you will be held accountable for your failings.

I use the word failings here intentionally. For lack of execution is failure.

It doesn’t matter if you poured your heart and soul into something. If you didn’t get the needed result, you failed.

This is a harsh lesson for us to learn.

After all, we’ve conditioned ourselves to find silver linings, to tilt toward empathy in the times when things don’t go as planned. In doing so, we’ve made effort into a security blanket that covers us from the cut-and-dry nature of accountability.

But in reality, effort guarantees us nothing.

Someone with superior talent can roll out of bed and execute on a task better than we could, even with hours and hours of trying. And in a task-execution-based society, they get all the benefits. It’s as if we didn’t try at all.

So why put in the effort?

Because it builds character and demonstrates integrity.

Those attributes are valued in the long run. And they’re within your control.

Yes, execution is more highly valued in the short run. But the chances of success are determined by more than your talents.

There are elements out of your control that can negatively impact your ability to execute. If you don’t believe me, try pitching a tent in a gale-force wind.

Effort, on the other hand, is firmly within your control. And much like your attitude, it’s something that can speak volumes.

So, it makes sense to try. To give your best effort day in and day out.

But it also makes sense to focus on execution. To look for areas where you have a chance to make an impact and devote your maximum effort there.

This will give you the best chance for sustained success. And that success can help drive society forward.

Execution drives results. Are you ready to take the wheel?

The Essence of Texas

I am a proud Texan. I drink my coffee from a Come and Take It mug, have a Lone Star flag emblem on the back of my SUV and care about March 2nd more than y’all do. Texas soil is sacred to me, and I consider it an honor to live on top of it.

But I’m not a native Texan. Far from it.

So how does someone who spends his childhood more than a thousand miles from the banks of the Red River identify with the land that lies between it and the Rio Grande? Safe to say, this uniquely authentic place has captivated me like none other.

And I’m not alone. Over the years, I’ve gotten dozens of non-Texans addicted to Torchys Tacos. My barbeque brisket has gotten such rave reviews up north that it’s become a holiday tradition. And I’ve been promised return visits from out-of-state family and friends who were pleasantly surprised by how much they enjoyed their time here. Yes, I’m sure my presence has something to do with it, but the unique aura of Texas has had some effect.

But my enveloping connection with Texas goes much deeper than exposure to good food, warm weather and Lone Star charm. Being a Texan has as much to do with the way you live your life as where you live it.

Values are everything in Texas. Doing the right thing matters here, and that includes treating others the right way. This is a breath of fresh air in a world that seems to glorify self-aggrandizement, entitlement, indulgence and misbehavior. Texas hospitality is relic of a more decent time, one which has been sustained into a more advanced and inclusive era.

Of course, Texan values are about more than how you treat others. They’re also about standing up for yourself. It’s a doctrine that found its roots within the walls of the Alamo, and is rooted within the souls of Texans today.

Don’t Mess With Texas is more than just a hollow saying, as Jose Bautista recently found out. (It should be noted that the source of that right hook — Venezuela native Rougned Odor — has quickly ascended to the status of Texan for his very public display of this value.) While violence is not encouraged, standing up for oneself most certainly is.

This complex mix of values serves the backbone of the collective spirit known as Texanism. We are proud to be Texans; by and large, we see no shame in publicizing that.

This is not always an easy concept for others to grasp. A recent New York Times article — written by a Texas resident who grew up in California — passed off Texanism as a regional, commercialized resistance to America’s rapidly evolving culture. I couldn’t disagree more.

Texanism is quite authentic; it’s a tacit solidarity embedded within the souls of those who do right by each other and stand up for themselves. Texanism not about resisting change; it’s about respectfully and gracefully accepting it without sacrificing our identity.

This is what makes Texas uniquely special, this compromise between new ideals and time-honored traditions. Openness is demanded, but heritage is still protected. Independence is lauded but respect is expected. Standing up for yourself is on equal footing with looking out for others. And morality is both a personal and collective responsibility.

Ultimately, the essence of Texas is finding balance in ideals — a concept I believe quite strongly in.

This is why Texas is a part of me. And I’m a part of it.

I am a Texan. I wouldn’t have it any other way.