I hit the homestretch with a head of steam.
I was carving a path through the icy ski slope, out of control, and trying to avoid a wipeout at 20 miles per hour.
Deft skiers would manage this task with ease. But I was a beginner.
So, I took wide turns. I weaved around other skiers. I widened my skis into that pizza shape they teach 4-year-olds to make. Then I widened them more.
Nothing seemed to slow me down enough.
The slope mercifully ended. But now, I was flying through the straightaway like a car with malfunctioning brakes. I crossed the snowy apron like a bowling ball, chugging toward the parking lot.
The laws of physics dictated that I would either run out of velocity or I would crash into a parked car. I prayed for the first option, and I got it — narrowly.
I was alive. I was intact. And no humans, ski equipment, or vehicles were damaged.
But as I made my way back to the apron, two cold truths hit me like an avalanche.
I needed ski lessons, desperately. And momentum is hard to stop.
A few years after my ski fiasco, I once again tangled with the power of momentum.
I was working as a news producer in Midland, Texas. A week before Thanksgiving, the police scanner on my desk buzzed, warning of a “possible train accident” in town.
It turns out that a freight train had collided with a parade float full of Purple Hearts. Men who had courageously served in Iraq and Afghanistan ended up perishing at an event in their honor.
I broke the story on our newscast, and it quickly got picked up nationally. It was a career-making moment, but I was in no mood to celebrate.
For one thing, I was devastated by what had happened. I wished that this tragedy hadn’t hit my home city.
But I was also busy. For the National Transportation Safety Board had converged upon West Texas to investigate the incident. And each day, I would air highlights from the myriad press conferences the NTSB held.
Those press conferences now blur together, but there is one moment I remember clearly. An NTSB representative was discussing whether railroad signals two miles from the accident were working properly on that fateful day. Suddenly, he paused for emphasis.
“This is all important,” he stated. “Because it takes a mile to stop a train.”
It takes a mile to stop a train.
I had never considered that point before. Neither had many viewers of my newscast, who wondered openly why the train engineer couldn’t have just slammed the brakes a bit harder.
But upon reflection, it made perfect sense.
The power of a freight train can be a great asset for the transportation industry. It can help ferry goods across our nation with great speed.
But all that momentum can’t just be halted on a dime. The train needs to downshift first. And it needs plenty of track to gradually slow to a halt.
As it turns out, my career was on a similar trajectory to that train. My big break had broken me, and I now saw no path forward. I sought to switch tracks to a new career — immediately.
This proved impossible.
For my entire resume read TV news, and employers outside of the media were wary of giving me a chance. I would need to fully downshift out of my old vocation before I could pick up a new venture.
It took more than half a year for me to fully make a career transition. And I had to move to a new city and spend several months unemployed along the way.
Momentum is a powerful thing. But sometimes, it can be a crutch.
If you had one word to describe the world as it exists these days, what would you use?
Unpredictable? Unsettling? Divisive?
It’s no secret the past several years have upset the apple cart.
A global pandemic, widening polarization, and economic strife have all shaken the foundations of what we thought we once knew. They’ve forced us to adapt in real time.
Some of these adaptations will likely have staying power. We’ve gone from remote work novices to aficionados in short order, for instance.
Others probably won’t last. Say goodbye to wide-scale remote learning.
I have my thoughts on these specific adaptations, as we all do. But I’m more fascinated with the wider picture.
For there is a narrative behind these changes. There is a not-so-silent expectation of us.
This narrative, this expectation — it demands that we stop on a dime and reverse field. It insists that we throw away everything we’re accustomed to so that we can meet the moment.
Such thinking might seem prudent when staring down an acute emergency, such as a blossoming pandemic. It might seem excessive when the risk is opaque, as is the case with climate change.
But either way, it’s primed for blowback.
For much like a freight train or a novice skier, we are not built for a quick pause. We need to downshift, to lose steam, to exhaust that mile of runway before we can rightfully blaze that new trail.
Expecting anything more of us is unrealistic. And yet, we continue to raise that bar.
Many of us called other people killers when they dared to go out in public early in the pandemic. What was so recently run-of-the-mill behavior was now considered accessory to murder.
And many people who eat meat or shun electric cars have been branded planet destroyers. The endless hurdles of sustainability are ignored in favor of shaming the status quo.
These demands carry a chilling effect, driving a wedge between the judgmental and the judged. They often provoke a nasty response, stoking the flames of polarizing vitriol.
But worse than that, they close doors to opportunities.
For many of those we shame for not being committed to the cause are actually on their way there. They just need that mile of track to downshift before changing course.
Ostracizing these people in such a fragile moment is foolhardy. It causes many of them to abort the mission, and to double down on old habits. For if they’re going to get yelled at either way, it’s better for them to stick with the familiar. At least that’s the common refrain.
Ignoring the physics of momentum does us no good. No good at all.
So, let’s try something new.
Let’s favor grace over judgment. Let’s give others the time to adapt to the realities of an ever-changing world. And let’s give ourselves that gift too.
The downshift requires planning, anticipation, and a mile worth of track. But there is no substitute for this if we want to avoid catastrophe.
And that’s certainly a goal worth striving for.