Blog: Recent Episodes
Neil Tambe
This is a podcast version of my blog about institutions, innovation, and Detroit. In it, I'll share my blog posts with the backstory on why I wrote them.
Detroit didn't raise me, but it did adopt me.
In 2011, when I moved here, I was a high-functioning person who was very lost, and lonely. I was a great yuppie, but I lived in only two dimensions: work and going to bars on the weekends.
But then when I moved here, I started to grow a life with more than two dimensions. In the past 15 years, this community has given me more than I could ever give back.
Detroit gave me my first grown-up job, a good one at that. I expected to go to DC — I'd interned there every summer. But I stayed because I wanted to be close to my parents. Even my father thought I was crazy to forgo the opportunities of a larger city.
Detroit gave me friends, when we were all figuring out our twenties in a place that was already showing glimmers of magic and resurgence. And it's kept on giving: more friends along the way, whether by luck at a bookstore or through our sons playing sports. I get to live in a place where I know people around town. Just last week, Robyn took the kids to the Rocket Mortgage Classic and bumped into a neighbor and two of Robert's soccer teammates.
Detroit is an amazingly interwoven big city, where people actually live in community.
Along the way the city taught me to serve. First with pro bono work for non-profits. Then working for the City at the Police Department. Over those years I went from a boy with hubris into someone with a greater understanding that service requires humility and listening more than achievement.
And at the most unexpected time, I met my wife here — through the friends I made when I first moved here. The old St. Cece's in Corktown is where we met, on a St. Patrick's Day pub crawl our crew organized, the day I was so happily drunk I started imitating a toothbrush. The city helped us find our way to dating, then let our young love grow and blossom. We married at a beautiful church downtown — Ss. Peter and Paul — and had a barn burner of a wedding reception; still the best party we've ever been to.
As a child, this was my American dream: to have a family and live in a place where neighbors cared about each other. Detroit gave us this dream. We have a sturdy old home with a yard that fills with fireflies on summer nights. And we know our neighbors, we stop on our walks with Riley, we trade desserts, and have had them in our backyard for pancakes.
Detroit has given our kids something that seems like it's on its way to becoming extinct: a childhood. Our culture puts adult pressure on kids way too fast. But this City has given us a shot at giving our kids beautiful family memories. They'll remember walking to Good Cakes and Bakes together and playing soccer in art parks filled with graffiti, or under the Ambassador Bridge. They'll remember going to a school in our own neighborhood where they're accepted even as an unlikely racial minority. They'll remember playing tennis and seeing the police horses at Palmer Park, and having a charcuterie picnic on the Riverwalk every summer. This is Detroit's magic.
Finally, Detroit gave me a spiritual home. I was wandering for a long time. Gesu welcomed me as a non-Christian for years. I didn't take communion, but people cared about me anyway. Our children were baptized there, and people look after and pray for us. Eventually, I was baptized there too. People embraced what I carried with me from growing up Hindu, and told me how Christian communities have coexisted with Hinduism in India for centuries. This is a place where I can pray as a man whose Hindu roots and Catholicism coexist. Gesu is where I have peace, can weep, and have fellowship over coffee and donuts. I spent over 35 years trying to find this. Detroit just gave it to me.
I can't claim to have been born and raised here. For Detroiters, that distinction matters. But the City took me, a lonely lost twenty-something, in anyway.
So many people here gave me the care and guidance to build the simple life I dreamed of. Detroit adopted me before I even knew I needed looking after.
Detroit is a city defined by its people and its neighborhoods, more than its buildings or its statistics. It's a hard-working place that finds a way to make it, and to make beauty out of nothing but grit and a prayer. I am grateful that y'all took me in 15 years ago, and let me become part of this community.
Thank you for giving me more than I could have hoped for. I am proud to be an adopted Detroiter, and become part of this place. Thank you for being my neighbors and letting me be yours.
Kindness cuts through the noise.
I’m a bit surprised to be grieving the loss of a colleague I’ve just met. I maybe talked to her 5-6 times. It’s not the same grief as when losing a close friend, but it’s grieving nonetheless.
But from moment one, I knew she was kind. And that simple act, of genuine kindness shown by a person with no performance, no faking it, creates a bond.
That simple bond of genuine kindness, given and received, is hard to forget. It is something you remember despite having a busy life, and you hear it even amidst the yelling that never stops from people who make more money the louder they are.
I think that’s the selfish reason why I want to be a good person. Being a good person creates trust and that trust creates connection with others.
But as my ambition for applause wanes, I think I know why. What’s a life without friendship, without bonds? Is it worth it to satisfy ambitions if you are lonely?
That’s why kindness cuts through. When someone is kind to you, it means you are not fully alone.
It has happened over and over again.
The harder life gets, the more I weep, yes. The less I sleep, yes. I know I’m in a bad way when I am as stark awake as a pig is naked and the watch at my bedside says 3:30. These things come in waves for me and for everyone. The brutal days come for all of us.
And yet, the angels keep coming. This past year and a half since Griffin was born has been relentless with some combination of illness, grief, utterly dogged and pressure-cooking work, or some sort of issue with our home or car. The brutal days can’t stop and won’t stop coming.
And yet, the angels keep coming. Someone calls me out of the blue. Or maybe someone at work or our sons’ soccer team pulls me aside to share comfort and encouragement. Or someone at the grocery store or at the park will just beam because they see something in our family that reminds them of theirs, which brightens their day and mine. Someone will come up to us at church and say, “I have been praying for you.” Or someone in my family or an old friend will just show up somehow, appearing as if through apparition.
How do they know? These people, these wonderful souls, how do they know I need them? How do they know I’m out of strength, many times before I even know I’m out of strength? How do they keep finding me?
I don’t know who keeps sending them. Or why.
But thank God.
—
I feel like an old man now.
Not in the sense of my body or mind — I feel sharp and limber, though I can’t run it back like I used to. It’s that I can’t not wear my heart out in the open anymore. I can’t live as a persona instead of a person anymore. I can’t hold back the laughter or tears or joy anymore.
I can’t hide. From the mirror, from God, from my demons, from love, from anyone. It is only old men who have learned not to hide, and to have learned this from hardship and death, from marriage, friendship, and from four remarkable sons is yet another way I feel I’ve grown up too soon.
But maybe that’s part of why these angels keep showing up. Maybe angels find us precisely when we stop hiding — when our darkness and our light is unhidden. Seeing that tension and dance of darkness and light emanating from another soul is perhaps what draws them near, as if our aura puts out a bat signal if we let it, and the everyday angels all around us see it.
That is perhaps a lesson in being an angel just as it is a lesson in calling one. I have been the recipient of so much love — I hope I can mirror back even a fraction of what’s been poured into me. I hope I can be an everyday angel to someone every once in a while. It seems so selfish and wasteful to just take and take without sharing it back.
It seems to me the key is simpler than I thought. Maybe it doesn’t take a relentless regimen of character development to be a good person. Maybe I don’t have to journal religiously and collect constructive criticism from everyone I can to shape myself into the man of honesty, sacrifice, and devotion my father was.
I think being an everyday angel is much simpler. We open our eyes and ears and hearts. Look for the light and look for the dark, and then just drift toward it. Let our hearts and souls be called. Maybe being a good man, an everyday angel, is really that simple.
To have a voice that echoes is rare.
It’s not everyone that can say something and it sticks with you for your whole life. There is so much noise, that to express something people remember, turn over in their mind, and share is incredibly difficult.
First, it takes a clear understanding of reality and of people. You have to see truth clearly and fully. This takes great empathy, deep listening, and humility. And then also, you have to be able to distill a profound, stirring, thought so simply and emotionally that it can be internalized deeply by someone else. This takes a brilliant and sharp mind.
But finally, you also have to be trustworthy. People have to know you are honest and have integrity. That you do the right things for the right reasons. Because if you do not, even the most elegant and prescient idea does not spread far — because they don’t respect or honor the messenger.
My friend Wyman was this way. He had a voice that echoes. When I am most confused and feeling most alone, I remember what he said to me often, “ball don’t lie” and “friends of friends are all friends.” They are simple truths that I didn’t truly understand until he showed me.
He was observant, and a true listener. He was humble, empathetic, and had the sharpest and brightest of minds. And he cared deeply for others. The only way I ever knew him to be was someone who treated others with dignity, except for brief moments, maybe, with someone whose team rivaled the Knicks or Michigan.
It wouldn’t be precise to say that I will miss him, because I have missed him. Distance naturally means less time with friends, even ones that are really close. The only consolation is that his is a voice that echoes. And it will continue to, because of the thoughtful, good, and energetic person he was. That wisdom of his, that essence of his life, will remain.
In the past year, the pressure cracked me. The weight of responsibility, the fear of the future — all of it — turned me into a drill sergeant, a yeller, someone who demands order, especially from his own kids. I’d boil over, then apologize, then feel ashamed for most of the morning.
But the simplest little ritual has made the biggest difference in my relationship with my kids. It might be the highest-leverage thing a person can do to build trust and deepen any relationship.
All I’ve been doing is making sure the first thing my kids get from me in the morning isn’t a gripe. That first moment should give warmth — not anger, not contempt, not criticism.
That’s it.
It changes the whole dynamic. How do people feel the moment they first see me during the day? How do I feel, seeing them? Can I be calm, open-hearted, excited, loving — before anything else happens?
Get that right, and it changes everything about my day, and the day of the person standing in front of me.
The secret to making my first moment of the day caring instead of contemptuous is conjuring my Patronus thought.
In the Harry Potter series, a Patronus is a charm that summons a silvery spirit animal to ward off dementors — soul-sucking, hope-stealing demons. But there’s a catch: to cast the spell, the witch or wizard needs a genuinely happy thought. Not something surface-level. Something deep, pure, and joyous.
That’s exactly what I need to remember in the morning, so the pressure that made me a drill sergeant doesn’t turn me into a wallowing grouch instead. When I first make contact with my wife, my kids, my colleagues, my neighbors — whoever — I need to remember a deep, genuine, happy thought.
Mine is: “I have a family that loves me, and that I love back.” I play the memories in my mind — their hugs, their faces, their laughter. When I remember that I’m blessed with a loving family, across kin and friends alike, I can’t help but be calm, loving, warm.
That’s the thought that protects my heart from ice, anger, and despair.
If I had one piece of advice for getting on in this world, it would be this: know, deep in your gut, what your Patronus thought is. Think of it before you make first contact with anyone — before you greet your kids, before your first meeting at work.
Conjure that pure, happy thought, so it shines through and lifts you and everyone around you.
This advice is obvious, but it’s hard to follow. Commercials and culture keep pushing us toward bigger, more elaborate, less satisfying wants. It’s hard to live a simple life.
But I want to. More and more. I think the biggest mistake I’ve made in my life is letting myself want things that are so elaborate and complex — a big job with a big title, lavish vacations abroad, a life where nothing bad ever happens, enough money that no one can ever screw with me, and that every one of my kids becomes a scholarship athlete at an Ivy League school.
That’s a fragile dream. It’s so big and elaborate that it’s a house of cards instead of a home. And we don’t have to want it.
Why we work so hard can be for something simpler. It can be for one genuinely happy thought — one truth that proves to us we can be at peace. That lets us say, “It is a good day. Every day is a good day.”
It’s okay if that’s all we really accomplish. A simple life, with a sturdy foundation, instead of a house of cards.
That’s worth all the work.
18 Michigan summers. That’s all the childhood we get with each kid before they fly.
For us that equates to a span of about 25 years of golden days across our oldest son and our youngest nephew (so far). We’ve got 18 left, including this one that’s already half lived.
18 more summers of boats and tubing. Of ice cream and s’mores. 18 more summers of backyard tennis and soccer. Of charcuterie picnics on the riverfront. 18 more summers of “cousin time” and a rotation of board games when the warm summer rain is falling and thundering up north. 18 more summers of late mornings preceded by 18 last days of school. 18 more summers of fishing with their uncle off the back of their Granddad’s boat. Of sandals, swimming, golf, and playing tennis at Palmer Park on a whim. 18 more summers snacking on fresh, seasonal fruit in the cool of their Dadi’s basement and munching on their Mimi’s “disappearing” guacamole. 18 more Michigan summers of campfires, hikes, and watching the lightning bugs glow up our little patch of grass in the big city.
We will have more summers than these, God willing, and those will be special in other ways. They just won’t be the golden summers of bona fide childhood.
These summers don’t feel fleeting, which is strange. The rest of our life is urgent, driven by a schedule that constantly nibbles away our time. But this is not. Michigan summers pass quickly, but a full childhood of them unfolds over a long time, in big gulps. It can’t be managed with a calendar and checklists. There is no app for this.
All we can do is savor these times. We can fill ourselves up on those gulps of sunshine and trees and splashes of the lake, holding onto them as long as we can before Labor Day marks the onset of fall. We cannot stop it, but we can linger and soak it all in.
Maybe this is why we have our long Michigan goodbyes — one more chat, an extra hug, before we part from family and friends we already can’t imagine leaving. We linger in the warmth of summer sunshine because we know it ends too quickly. We hold onto those gulps as long as we can, because we know we must.
The truth of our precious 18 summers cannot be changed. This is a truth of life in our lake-plentiful state. But we feel blessed to have them. And if they must be finite, at least we know how to appreciate and savor them.
We are in the car, driving home from our longstanding tradition — a week with family up north over the Fourth of July. My mind is renewed and my heart is full. And it’s hitting me that all we have left is 17 and a half summers. And for Robert, our oldest, less than ten.
That thought could easily sadden me. 17 and a half is not a lot of anything, not when it’s the measure of a childhood. But I don’t keep count out of anxiety. I keep count as a way to linger — to savor these summers before our kids fly out into the world.
For what does a man wish, for the people who illuminate him? For the people whose light makes him lighter?
For you, I wish for tears…
…of joy, obviously, because joy isn’t fully known without tears.
…of awe, because to experience beauty and wonder is one of the few things that makes the suffering of this world feel like an even trade.
…of sadness; an old friend once told me that tears are what heal the soul. It’s true.
…over spilled milk, because we must learn the important lesson that it’s not worth crying over.
…of grief; to know that suffocating void means you also know how expansive and glorious love really is.
…of seeing a child play; the laughter and glee of children is one of the few ways to preview what heaven looks like, sounds like.
…of laughter, because you cannot make it — it is literally impossible — without humor and levity.
…of heartbreak, because only after heartbreak do you understand the blessing of being bonded to — and enmeshed in love with — another soul.
…and finally, I wish you tears of gratitude for all the other tears you have shed that have gotten you here.
To be grateful for the suffering and the joy, even when you lie awake with a stomach full of overwhelm and regret, to be able to pray this prayer though you are silently weeping — “Thank you, God, for I am loved” — means that you have been fully alive.
Let’s say you had an allowance of $100 million per day.
To put it in context: $100 million buys a mega-mansion in New York, a fully outfitted private jet, or 400 Bentleys — every day. To spend one trillion dollars at that rate, you’d have to keep going for 27 years and four months. A private jet a day for 27 years.
I can’t fathom that much money. I cannot imagine the freedom or the shackles.
And what would I even do with it? I don’t even need one Bentley, let alone the nearly four million a trillion dollars would afford me. There haven’t even been half a million Bentleys produced, ever.
I heard that the wealthiest person in early 19th century America died from an infection that simple antibiotics would cure today. That’s the real wealth we all share — over time, humanity develops public goods that raise quality of life for everyone.
I love that Barenaked Ladies song, If I Had a Million Dollars. I wonder what I’d do with a trillion. I have no damn clue.
I’d hope that enough would be far less than $100 million a day, because it is now. I like my life. And we’re lucky to have enough and live in a time where entertainment is cheap and people with Down Syndrome aren’t condemned to institutionalization.
Still, I hope that I’d live modestly and use the surplus money to find the next antibiotics, the next sanitation, the next discovery we can’t predict — whatever it is that makes a future generation look back and wonder how we ever lived without it. Something that reduces gun violence, or increases survival rates for terminal disease, or makes energy cheaper and cleaner.
The best use of the money would be throwing it at something I could never predict, and probably never see the fruits of in my lifetime. Which is basically burning it — spending on something with no guaranteed return. I wouldn’t try to “invest” it in anything, because that implies a certain return and is not nearly ambitious enough.
I’d have to waste it, on something that might advance humanity or might be a total flop. All this assuming I could find those people that are creative enough to be worth wasting huge amounts of money on. Which is a weird problem to have.
I just don’t really understand mega wealth, I suppose. Do people that wealthy feel good about it? We aren’t mega wealthy. And yet, I think about money all the time as it is and it’s awful — I can’t imagine what it would be like to have a trillion dollars warping every relationship, every room I walk into. I’ve seen that prism destroy happy families, for far less than a trillion. And yet, that would still be a helluva lot better than having to choose between groceries and medicine.
There’s no winning when money is the thing you’re thinking about. Too little and you worry about it. Too much and it still consumes your thoughts. The songs that capture this paradox best aren’t the ones about getting rich — they’re C.R.E.A.M. and Mo Money Mo Problems. The trap is the same at both ends.
The real key for me has been wanting less. Keeping expenses low enough that what we have feels like enough. And thinking about love and life instead of ruminating about work and money.
Which is how yesterday went. I still had to work most of Saturday — which sucks. But despite that we made it to the dog park and the soccer field. We watched the World Cup and listened to good music while doing chores. I took our three oldest grocery shopping and we stopped for smoothies on the way home, just because it was sunny and refreshing. We ended the night watching A Goofy Movie on the couch because it was Father’s Day.
I want to be able to afford days like that.
I wrote a short story once about heaven.
I thought then that God might be the unassuming owner of an ice cream shop that we simply find ourselves at. We’d be peaceful, discovering only later that this wonderful, charming place was heaven — and that the gentle man serving us a sundae was indeed God.
Maybe that’s what it’ll be. But probably not.
As I’ve aged, I’ve had this pulling thought, a vision perhaps, that my first foray into heaven will be more like a community meeting. Lord Jesus and Lord Ganesha sitting together at a table, old friends, checking my name off a sign-in sheet. They’ll give me a name tag. I’ll wander into the gymnasium and see my father and Nakul, and then I’ll look for you. From there, the afterlife will unfold.
The vast majority of the time I spend in the universe will be as dead. I will live maybe 80 or 90 years — a few more if I’m lucky — and then billions of years dead. There may be no “time” in the afterlife, but if there is, I will be dead for much longer than I am alive.
And for all my fantasies about the afterlife, they could be too elaborate. There may be no embodied part of it, where others appear as bodies. There could be no seeing, no talking, no hugging. It could just be my soul — bodiless and faceless — moving amongst other souls, commingling with each other and with God, finding peace and unity. It could just be essences of all of us, finding our way in a spiritual plane where we have no sense other than an intuition of one soul knowing another.
These are just fantasies, a way to cope with the fear of death, and for me, the fear of an eternal loneliness. I don’t know what the afterlife will be like, or if there even is one. But I have faith in it.
I believe things that seem to contradict. I have faith in the promise of the resurrection, but the theology of reincarnation also makes sense to me. I feel both in my bones. In many ways, I don’t care much about the specifics. I have faith but no expectations.
My biggest hope, if God grants us an afterlife in unity with him, is you. My wife, my sons, my family, my friends. My greatest hope for heaven is that you are there. I want my soul to dance and embrace yours in this timeless spiritual plane. I don’t know how my own soul can find peace without you.
But how will I know it’s you? If I have no body and neither do you. If I have no sight, how will I know? I may not be able to speak, or hear you. My soul has no eyes, no mouth. My soul must be able to simply sense you. Energy recognizing energy, love recognizing love, immaterial recognizing immaterial. My soul must be able to know you.
For it would be a fate worse than death perhaps, to be a soul in heaven that cannot sense you. That cannot know you.
To prepare for death, I’ve come to believe, is not just to accept it. It is not just to prepare for the thing itself. It’s also to prepare for what comes after. A main enterprise of this life will be to prepare my soul — and for you to prepare yours — so that our souls can sense each other. That they can recognize each other without sight, without sound, without form. My soul needs to learn how to recognize you, so that in heaven, if there is no ice cream shop, no assembly in a gymnasium, I can come to meet you. So that I can be known to you. With you until the absolute end.
That too seems like a good way to live, even if there is no afterlife. Why not aspire to have my soul sense the unique soul of someone else — or a dog, or a flower? A soul is a lovely thing to know, in whichever living creature it comes from. Why not try to cultivate a sense of soul? To feel that our soul recognizes another, and that soul recognizes us, is the pretext for joy, peace, and love. Is that not what we should reach for?
To be wealthy, powerful, famous — even feared — is ghoulishly overrated. There is no peace in that, only the anxiety of losing it. Living to create a sense of soul not only helps us find peace after death, but in life. The delicate prize of a precious life is to be able to know the essence of others and be known — one soul to another.
As I turn 39, I realize I have had it wrong most of my life.
As a young person, I wondered: how will I measure my life? Will I measure up? Will my life be meaningful? Will it be important?
And then I realized that was a one-way ticket to a hamster wheel that goes nowhere. So my new question became: how do I enjoy the life I have? It was all about experiences — getting the nectar out of every moment.
And then I met Robyn. And my dad died, out of nowhere. And we had four kids.
And now I think: how does one cherish life — particularly our own, and the lives of those near us? How do we cherish that which is sacred?
I will be working on this for a while, I think — just learning to cherish life, our lives and life itself. But the next evolution will hopefully come. Where I no longer need questions to anchor on. When I need no blog post to share what I’ve grown into thinking. Where I just cherish life because it’s a Tuesday afternoon and a person is in front of me. Or it’s a Saturday morning and there is a plant to tend to in the garden.
When I am able to just be someone who thinks not of worth and worthiness, not of sensation and experience, not even of holiness — I will have arrived. When I just am, without thinking, without needing to ask a question: that will be perhaps the final stage of growth for a soul like mine.
I could have always known that asking questions like “what makes a life worth something” was a fool’s errand. What I didn’t anticipate was that the real evolution of this path was asking no questions at all — that it was just living, radiating gratitude, cherishing by simply being an open-hearted soul.
There is a T.S. Eliot quote our pastor shared at a homily recently that stuck with me.
“Half the harm that is done in this world is due to people who want to feel important. They don’t mean to do harm—but the harm does not interest them. Or they do not see it, or they justify it because they are absorbed in the endless struggle to think well of themselves.”
There are a lot of ways to define what a family is. One is this: family are the people to whom you do not need to prove that you are important.
This touches on a fear that undergirds how I show up as a father. I fear losing a son to suicide—that they’ll feel their life is unimportant. The pressures of being kid today, that are beyond what I ever carried, rattle me. I want them to know that they matter to me, that I love and value their mere existence, without condition, without pretense.
To embrace someone as important, without requiring them to prove or justify it, takes a kind of moral strength. It’s easier—though not trivial—to love your spouse and children this way. But what about friends? Neighbors and colleagues? Strangers? Enemies? What about those who try to violently hurt, exploit, and abuse us? What about them?
To value and love them is harder. To embrace them in a way where they do not have to prove and justify their importance? I think that’s a way of defining another elusive concept: holiness. To embrace, wholly, those people who are not already part of your community, and that may even try to destroy it? To see the value and human dignity in them? Without condition or pretense?
That’s holiness.
—
With all this, I wonder.
How much of injustice, of violence, perhaps of senseless suffering even, disappears. Just disappears, if those who yearn to be seen and valued feel important. Without condition and without pretense.
How much of that disappears with holiness?
I do not want identity. I do not want to be a brand.
I do not want you to know I went to school in Ann Arbor because I’m wearing the hat. I hope you believe I appreciate diverse perspectives and am committed to a better world because of how I treat you.
I do not want to wear a cross around my neck — as big as Flava Flav’s clock — for you to know I’m Catholic. I hope that because of how I care for others, and if I show up humbly and peacefully, that you would have reached that conclusion on your own.
I do not want you to have to see the idol of Lord Ganesha in our cabinet to know I was raised Hindu and have it enmeshed in my blood and bones. I hope that if I am truthful, dutiful, and righteous in thought and action, you would have just assumed as much.
I do not want to drape a flag over my shoulders or tattoo it on my arm for you to know I am American. I hope you will grasp that from my work ethic, my leadership, my creativity, and my respect for your life and freedom — that you can just tell: that man is a yank.
I do not want a bumper sticker or license plate to reveal that I am a Michigander and Detroiter. I hope that grit, amiability, and a community orientation ooze out of me so naturally it seems obvious.
I do not need these reminders. I do not want to need these symbols. I do not want an identity outside of the driver’s license in my pocket. I do not want a self-aggrandizing logo on a t-shirt to signal what I’m all about. I do not want these shortcuts — these shorthand descriptions of a life — to speak for me.
I want my actions, my professions, my sacrifices, and my works to speak for themselves.
Do you like your life — for the right reasons?
I see the challenges in the world. We all do. And sure, we can point fingers at Boomers — their indulgence, their punting of moral responsibility, their short-termism. I’ve done it plenty.
But I don’t want to hide behind that anymore. Blaming them dissolves my own responsibility. And as I enter middle age, I don’t have time for it. I could be closer to the end of my life than its beginning.
Which brings me to the question I keep coming back to: do you like your life — for the right reasons?
That question cuts through all the fluff. And it sets up the one that matters most: if not, what’s next?
So much of my inner world has been distorted by bad questions. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” “What gives your life meaning?” These questions sneak in a bias — that vocation is what matters most, that who we are is singular and fixed. It isn’t.
If you’re around my age, life is probably starting to feel stable. Kids might be out of diapers, or close. Work is in a groove, even when it grinds. We’ve survived the crucible years or are damn close.
That stability is good. But then what?
Do we just get comfortable and greedy and do the exact same things we’ve spent years criticizing Boomers for?
No.
We work on what’s next instead of falling into comfort and self-absorption. We have to re-anchor right when things stabilize — that’s exactly when we’re at risk of losing sight. Because the goal, at least for me, is to bend my life toward the highest human act: caring for others. We’re finally strong enough. Finally stable enough to do it.
The next few years — as millennials pivot into middle age — are generation-defining. I feel that personally. This sets up our penultimate act, the last stretch where we actually have the vigor to leave the world better than we found it.
Comfort is tempting. But it’s a trap.
If we mail it in during middle age, we won’t just be selfish. We’ll be hypocrites. We’ll have criticized Boomers for exactly what we became. That’s worse.
How we transition into middle age will define us — individually and collectively. Will we live up to our highest ideals, or leave the mess we inherited exactly as we found it?
What’s next isn’t far away. It’s now or never.
So — do you like your life? For the right reasons?
If we do, we already know what comes next. And the world needs us to go do it.
Our cousin, Tom, just finished the Cocodona 250 — a 250-mile ultramarathon that runs through the mountains and desert of Arizona.
Tracking his progress throughout the week and seeing him cross the finish line early Saturday morning on a YouTube livestream was absolutely incredible. Like an instant chills-and-tears kind of moment. Because it is, after all, a grueling race. Competitors have to go with little sleep for several days to finish, slogging through the terrain of the course nearly around the clock. A runner even died, sadly, on the course this year.
The winner was truly elite, finishing the course in about 56 hours — a record. But in races like this, for most of the competitors, being the winner isn’t the thing that matters. For difficult races like these, the victory is maybe to hit a new personal best, but most of all just to finish. Victory is simply to finish.
And the way so many people come together to get these athletes across the finish line is astounding. There are the race organizers and an army of volunteers. There are support crews and pacers. Then there are friends and family there in person cheering the racers along the route, hugging them at the finish. So many people come together to get a few hundred athletes to go a few hundred miles from one end of the Arizona desert to the other.
Mind you, this is not a transactional thing. Whether it’s an ultra, the Olympics, or even just a local marathon, people care deeply about helping these athletes finish the race. To me, this is humanity at its best — when a community comes together to help someone do what they set out to do, to help them finish the race. This archetype of a race, where the goal is finishing rather than winning, is a special type of journey to be part of — whether as a racer, the crew, or a cheerleader.
These races are also beyond athletics. We are part of them. We can be part of them without having to be or know elite athletes.
It is the race where the village is getting a child to read, graduate, or finish college. It is a community of faith walking together and helping each other lay down their arms and find peace. It is the web of friends and often strangers who pull together to get a family that is grieving tragedy back onto their feet, or to get a friend past a cancer diagnosis and into remission.
It was in the Apollo and Artemis missions to send people to the moon and return them safely back. It is helping our elders age and die with dignity. It is in the long arc of a true artist’s journey, where they toil and sacrifice to make something that tells a truth that hasn’t been told. It is in the journey of someone injured in the line of duty learning to walk again, or someone brokenhearted learning to love again. It’s the journey of couples struggling with infertility finding a way to start a family, finding one, or at least finding acceptance for what they cannot change. This is every journey of recovery from addiction. It is every race that starts with failure and ends with becoming whole.
It is a race that Robyn and I are running to finish with a marriage that is beautiful, loving, and sacred. This is why lots of us cry at weddings. We are there to witness the beginning of a race that we want someone we love to finish. And it is a race with each child in our life that we care for. Some set out to change the world. Some set out to be good people or to create a family of their own. Some set out for exploration and adventure. And for those kids with the deepest needs and the brightest light, they set out to live the fullest, healthiest, most independent life they can. They too are on a journey where the goal, the triumph even, is simply to finish a complete life as a complete person.
This is the point in drafting where I take a break because I’m weeping. Maybe you are too. And why do I weep? Why do we weep about these journeys of finishing?
Because these are the races that matter. The lion’s share of all the love, joy, living, dying, growth, lightness, and beauty happen on these types of journeys. These are the stories that, if we are part of them — whether we are the racer or the crew or just there to cheer — help us feel like we were ever truly alive. That we were here for something. We need something more than just to “win” to have honored something so small, but so sacred, as a life.
It is a blessing to be here for these journeys, to be part of these races, whether closely or from afar.
Congratulations to the finishers. To those who finished the Cocodona 250, and those who tried but couldn’t. Most of all to our brother, Tom.
But a toast, too, to those who came to a starting line, whether as a racer or to support someone who was. To everyone who saw a difficult journey ahead and decided to be part of it — not to win it, not for applause, but because it was a race worth finishing.
Thank you for your courage and your spirit. Thank you for letting me be part of your journey, and for being part of mine. And thank you most of all for starting something that makes a sacred, human life come alive.
Staying happily married comes down to one behavior.
In times of suffering, or joy, or even in the mundane—do I turn toward my partner, or away from them?
In the past ten years married to Robyn, this is what I’ve learned. It all comes down to a simple thing that happens dozens of times a day. Turning toward builds intimacy and nurtures love. Turning away builds resentment and undermines connection.
The key question then is this: how do I turn toward my partner, consistently?
The first “how” is uncompressed, emotionally available time.
In other words—time together that isn’t rushed.
To turn toward requires being in the same place long enough to actually confide about a struggle or savor a joy. And not just that—we have to be there. There’s no space for turning toward if we’re silently preoccupied with work or the kids or chores.
There are many obvious examples of this—going on dates, therapy, and more. But I don’t think it always requires talking.
Turning toward can happen while just being in the same room, even silently—as long as the time is uncompressed and both partners are emotionally available. Maybe that’s reading next to each other. Maybe it’s holding hands while walking the dog. Maybe it’s just sitting on the couch at the end of the day without rushing to the next thing.
The second “how” is building the mentality, the systems, and the trust to deal with conflict.
Unresolved conflict is a killer, obviously. But it’s also more nuanced than that, and there are many habits to stack beyond just “good communication.”
I think it starts with a mentality of gratitude and generosity.
You have to genuinely assume that your partner is doing more, suffering more, and trying harder beneath the surface than what you can see. You have to assume good intent even when you feel wronged. You have to train your mind—and sometimes force your heart—to find reasons to appreciate them.
That posture matters because it moderates our natural inclination toward defensiveness in moments of conflict. It’s why we start our temperature checks with gratitude.
Resolving conflict also requires self-discipline.
It’s not just Robyn’s job to bring her issues to the table. More often, it’s on me to be the type of person who creates a safe enough space—one of genuine care and understanding—so that when she is emotionally vulnerable and needs to talk about something hard, she trusts that I will love her in that moment.
I have to be healthy and stable enough to make a space sacred enough for her to share her heart and soul.
And the roles flip.
When I’m in that vulnerable place, Robyn has to do the same. When we both give more, listen more, and take on more than what we perceive to be our fair share, our marriage wins.
There are so many skills and practices that support our ability to manage conflict.
We swear by a weekly temperature check. But it’s also getting enough sleep, eating well, exercising. It’s listening well and using “I” statements. It’s having good role models—friends and family who set me straight when I’m angry or off base. It’s journaling, prayer, or other forms of discernment and expression that turn down my own anxieties.
Managing conflict comes down to having the mentality, systems, and skills to actually resolve it—and both partners giving more than 50% in that effort.
Unresolved conflict turns you away from your partner. So we have to resolve it, and we have to stack every habit we can to make that more likely.
The third “how” is having a vision for the future.
Building a life and a way of living that we both want is an incredibly strong force for turning toward each other.
Something Robyn and I talk about a lot—and even do reflection exercises on—is:
What do we want our life to be like in five years? Ten years? When we’re retired? When we’re old and gray?
How are we doing? Are we building the life we imagined? What does it feel like?
Down to the details—what do we want our life together to be, and are we actually living it?
Having a shared dream is a powerful relationship magnet. It builds energy and excitement. It also ensures that we’re both moving toward a place we actually want to go.
And that dream has real, practical consequences.
When you see it clearly, it shapes decisions—big and small—and those decisions compound.
We chose a smaller house in a diverse, friendly neighborhood, even though finding a good school has been harder and more expensive. We’ve traded more time with family for fewer cultural experiences and life in the city. We’ve gone on fewer dates out and chosen less luxury so we can hopefully retire a little earlier.
We’ve made our kids share a room so they spend more time together, and so we feel freer hosting guests. We overseed the grass so it can stand up to the backyard soccer our boys love to play.
Seeing the dream clearly shapes these big and seemingly insignificant decisions. And those decisions, over time, reinforce the dream we’re trying to build.
It becomes a virtuous cycle.
We talk about it. We get excited about it. It turns us in toward each other. We make decisions, and the dream becomes more real. And so we’re drawn in even further.
A clear, compelling dream also helps us make sense of sacrifice.
I could probably have made more money if we had moved to a coast after business school, or if I hadn’t gone into public service. Robyn could have worked full-time after we had kids instead of being in a flexible work schedule. We would almost certainly be less tired if we had a smaller family.
We could spend less time at soccer fields. We could skip church more often. We could have chosen “easier” paths in a hundred different ways.
But that’s not our dream.
We make these sacrifices, and they are more palatable—more meaningful—because we can see how they fit into the life we are trying to build.
There are moments, in the middle of the chaos, when we can look at each other and say: this is the dream.
And that acknowledgment creates a bond. It helps us appreciate what each of us is carrying—individually and together. The dream binds us and turns us toward each other.
—
Turning toward each other is not trivial. Marriage is hard.
In a world of constant rushing, shifting expectations around family and gender roles, distraction, and self-promotion, it can feel like the deck is stacked against it. Even if you choose the right partner, even if you are mature enough to be married—it is still really hard.
Maybe that’s part of why so many marriages fail.
And at the same time—we all can do this.
We can have healthy, thriving marriages. We can learn to turn toward each other. We can help each other learn a better way to live and to be married people.
I’ve been blessed to learn a lot in our first ten years of marriage—through joy, and through real hardship. We’ve been shaped by mentors, and by a community that has loved and nurtured our marriage deeply.
We are lucky.
Lucky to have each other. And lucky to be surrounded by many couples who model what a loving, generous, and committed relationship looks like.
My hope in writing this is to solidify what I’ve learned so far—and, in some small way, to take the love and wisdom that so many people have poured into us and pay it forward.
As we age, our stakes rise.
We have more people and communities we are responsible for. We have more influence over the people who look to us for leadership and care. We have more players to coach and develop. We have more mouths to feed.
Then comes a breaking point—we all have one. The point at which we feel we can’t carry any more. And yet, if we reach this point, it’s often because we’ve proven ourselves trustworthy enough to carry heavy responsibilities. So more come.
As we pass this breaking point, the temptation is to become more transactional in our affairs. To close our hearts. We try to conserve and retreat. We try to be more efficient in our interactions so we can save what we have left.
It’s like Bilbo Baggins says—we feel like too little butter scraped over too much bread. And so we lock ourselves down and keep as much as we can at arm’s length.
But this is precisely the temptation we can’t succumb to. People need more from us as our stakes rise, not less.
They need us to open our hearts more, not less. Our patience, our courage, our care are needed in fuller measure. Those we serve—our family, our friends, our neighbors, even kind strangers—need our spirit more deeply, not less.
As we age, our stakes rise. And so the demands on our spirit increase.
As I’ve aged, I’ve needed a spiritual practice more, because the demands on my spirit have felt enormous. The choice, at times, has been to shrink—or to meet the moment by leaning into faith to nourish and strengthen my spirit.
I wrote Character by Choice: Letters on Goodness, Fatherhood, and Becoming Better on Purpose in a deliberately secular way. For my sons, I wanted to argue for choosing goodness over power without simply saying, “this is what God’s word teaches.” If faith didn’t call them, I wanted the argument to stand on its own.
But the more I wrote, the more I felt called to the divine, and to communities of faith and spirituality. The deeper I went, the more I realized I couldn’t strengthen my spirit alone.
If you’re someone who takes responsibility for the needs of others, my point here isn’t to proselytize or pull you toward the traditions that have shaped me—Hinduism and Christianity.
My point is this: we need strength of spirit.
As our stakes rise, we don’t just need better leadership or managerial skills. We don’t just need better tools or mental models. We need strong, durable spirits—strong enough for others to lean on, and strong enough to keep our hearts and arms open even when the temptation is to become transactional.
How we do that—whether through God and religious traditions or through secular means—does not matter as much as the fact that we do it, that we strengthen our spirit.
Leadership books do not talk about the soul. Spirit isn’t in most lists of critical leadership and managerial skills. But if we choose to take responsibility and lead, we need a spiritual practice too.
As our stakes rise, and we pass our breaking point, the people depending on us need our spirit to meet the moment.
When I was a younger man, I had this little phrase that I kept close to my heart. I didn’t say it often, but I would come back to it when I felt lost in the sea of adult life—drudgery, hustle, responsibility.
“Make things beautiful and make beautiful things.”
It was a way of remembering who I was. The version of me that felt like an artist, who had big dreams, a little bit of flair, and a soul he let other people see freely and shake hands with.
Surprisingly, AI is helping bring that version of me back to life. At first, I let it create for me, and I didn’t like it. It felt hollow. It had no soul, and it wasn’t any fun. So I stopped letting it do that.
But now I use it differently. It helps me create more, and spend less time on the parts that aren’t that fun. It clears space instead of taking over.
And in a world where we suddenly have these power tools—tools to imagine, design, refine, build, and share, cheaply and almost delightfully—the biggest question shifts. It’s no longer “can I make this?” but “what shall I make?”
There’s so much I would love to make beautiful, or just make more beautiful, and more of it feels within reach than ever. My own watch straps. New variations of pizza dough. Another book. Choreography. A family cookbook. A trellis for the tomatoes in the backyard.
Tools aren’t really the constraint anymore. The limit now is more human than that—our imagination, our point of view, our ability to notice something and say, that’s worth making.
That’s why the humanities and the arts feel more valuable than ever to me. Not instead of STEM, but alongside it. We need to understand the world, the tools, and what’s worth doing with them.
If we can stay curious, be empathetic, and keep teaching ourselves, we can create a lot. But only if we have some sense of what is beautiful—or at least, if we’re willing to wrestle with that question.
That’s also why I think, perhaps paradoxically, that AI and robots might actually make us more human. Because the alternative to leaning into our humanity isn’t scarcity and poverty. It’s something worse—a kind of boredom that comes from having endless possibility, but no idea what to do with it.
Wouldn’t it be something if AI and robots ended up being the greatest catalyst for beauty humanity has ever known? It might be optimistic. But I think it’s possible.
But have to choose it. We could do a lot of destructive stuff with all of this, or we could commit to making things beautiful, and making beautiful things. And if we’re serious about that, then it becomes pretty important—for us, and for our kids—to wrestle with a deeper question: what is beautiful? Not in a shallow way, but in a way that is personal, soulful, and human.
We had four kids home sick over a week, and I stayed back with Emmett, whose fever breached 104 degrees. The first step in taking care of a child, of course, is to take off our armor. My heart has to be ready to care.
The armor exists because of the drudgery of the world, not because of my kids—but they have to deal with it just the same.
The first layer of the armor is anger, which keeps my kids in line when I just can’t—or just won’t. The armor is the exasperation on my face that keeps questions at bay, so I don’t have to weep during a Teams call about the status of IT projects. The armor is my cursing—at everything I can’t control—which injects a dose of illusion into the reality of how hard life is. The armor is the sarcasm that lets me talk back without admitting how sad something one of my sons said to me actually made me feel.
I had forgotten how much I was wearing, honestly.
But there was Emmett—eyes as red as his burning cheeks. He told me, so softly, with a quivering lower lip, in a mix of suffering and despondency, “I don’t feel very well, Papa.”
And the armor took itself off. It just evaporated from my chest and shoulders. I sat with him. Rubbed his legs. Even now, half a week later, I am crying as I write this—both because I remember his suffering, and because I remember the honor it is to care for someone.
—
In Hindi, there is a concept called seva. SAY-vah. Emphasis on the first syllable. The translation of “caring for someone” doesn’t quite capture the depth of what it means.
Seva is a giving of care, but it is also a giving of oneself. It is not done at arm’s length. You are there, enmeshed with someone as you care for them—as if giving them some of your care, your love, even a bit of your life force to spark theirs into healing. It is not just physical and emotional comfort, but spiritual as well.
I used to think my parents were giving me a chore when they asked me to do seva—for my mom or dad, my aunt, or my grandmother. I thought it was a task they were delegating because they had to wash a dish or cook a meal.
I know now that was precisely wrong. They were asking me to do seva—and doing seva for me when I was sick—to show me the way.
Seva is what we are here to do. It is an act that fulfills the human aspiration to grow our spirits. We do not do seva because it will be reciprocated, or even because it helps someone heal, though it does. We do it because it is the way of the light.
And that is why the tears came, as I rubbed Emmett’s legs and comforted his fever—with medicine, yes, but also with my unarmored, fully open heart.
To care for someone is an honor, and I felt its light.
To care for—and to do seva for—my child is one of the highest forms of that honor. To join ourselves to the way of the light is a gift. Seva is not a chore. It is what we were made to do.
I want to remember this.
When the armor feels most necessary. When time feels most compressed. When I feel like I have nothing left to give.
I want to remember the feeling in my chest as I cry these tears—how light it feels, how freeing.
I want to remember: when my child, my wife, my family and friends—or even a stranger who needs seva but cannot ask for it—is in front of me, I am here to care for you. To do your seva.
I want to remember that my heart can be open. That the armor can fall away. That seva is not just a chore, or even a duty—it is a gift.
And it is my honor.
World Down Syndrome Day is celebrated on March 21 every year. This is symbolic: Down syndrome is the name we give when a person has a triplication of their 21st chromosome—hence the date, 3/21.
I knew none of this a year ago. Because one year ago, we had no diagnosis. We just had a sleepy kid with low muscle tone, who was born bravely and in a hurry.
He had three older brothers who adored him from the minute he was born, just down the stairs from their room. We gave him a name—Griffin—and with no diagnosis, no other “name” was needed.
Learning that there was a World Down Syndrome Day was fun and gooey at first, and then it felt like a moment of drowning.
I am finally beginning to let myself think about how hard Griffin’s life will be. He will spend more time in doctors’ offices than the rest of our family combined, and he may have already. He will face discrimination and be overlooked—by companies, schools, governments, and maybe even by some in the Church.
I don’t even know what language I’m comfortable using, but he does have “special needs,” and plenty of people who don’t know his light and inner grace firsthand will think treating him fairly is just too much work.
And, most darkly, there is the question of his lifespan. The thought—a cold, real, possibility—that I will outlive Griffin is demolishing. Knowing that despite medical advances that happen during his life, Robyn and I may have to bury our son—that our big three may have to bury their little brother someday—is enough to break a man where he stands.
Writing and reflecting is perhaps the only way I know how to put myself back together, so that’s what I have done.
I have not been able to stop thinking about two very difficult questions:
What makes a good life? Who deserves one?
What makes these questions difficult is not the answers, but the sacrifices the answers require.
A good life is pretty simple. It does not take being a multimillionaire.
It’s a place to call home. To be free and have agency in what happens to us. To love and be loved. To be able to learn and create. To care for one another and be cared for. To feel relatively sure you have a meal coming, and medicine when you need it. To be able to sit under a tree and pray. To have friends.
We all intuitively know this. We already know what makes a good life.
Before Griffin’s diagnosis, I believed that everyone deserved at least this. And that belief implies sacrifice. For everyone to have this, it know it takes paying taxes. It takes volunteering and looking after your neighbor or the other kids on the block, for no reward. It takes giving away your knowledge for free. It takes participating in civic life. It takes apologizing for mistakes and learning to be kind even when you’re having a bad day.
These, and more, are really hard sacrifices. And I have believed in making them and have tried to do so, however fallibly.
But now, for Griffing, I depend on everyone else to believe this too. Because he does have “special needs,” and I can’t fulfill them all—even if I were the wealthiest man in the world. It is a feeling of nakedness I would never have anticipated, but I have no choice but to place myself and Griffin in the care of others. I need others for him to have a good life.
Now, I can’t just believe that everyone deserves a good life. I can’t just be a small beacon that nudges the culture towards these sacrifices, without much consequences if nobody else cares.
Now, I have consequences. For Griffin to have a good life, others have to believe he does, too.
Now, my son’s life depends on others also believing in this vision of what a good life is, and that everyone deserves it—even if their needs are more “special” than someone else’s.
What I now depend on—other people’s generous and righteous beliefs—is what I probably have the least control over in the world.
When I was young, my dreams were so vivid and noble.
I wanted people to get along. I wanted to throw parties where other kids at my high school didn’t have to drink. I wanted to help people make their nonprofits effective. I wanted people who were excluded and misunderstood to be included. I wanted to write plays and stage them for free in public parks. I wanted to invent something that fixed something nobody else saw. To make it so that work didn’t have to suck, and to make government agencies super effective and virtuous. I wanted to comfort friends when they were sad and stand firmly beside them to witness their joy.
These were my dreams. deep down, they still are.
But as I’ve aged, the weight of responsibility has left me groaning. Bills. Taxes. Feeling like selling books is the only thing that justifies the time I spend writing. Hustling. The cost of organic eggs. Raising good kids and being good at my job. You know, grown up stuff.
All these things burn up all the oxygen the dreams I had as a boy need to keep breathing. These dreams have been living in thin air for so long, I wonder how long they’ll last. And now, on World Down Syndrome Day, the weight of responsibility felt at its peak.
But that boy—full of joy and optimism, untethered by responsibilities, perfectly content drinking cheap beer—is who I still am. Under all the armor and rain jackets, I’m still that guy who has faith that his dreams and sacrifices will be met with an outstretched hand by compassionate and generous strangers.
I don’t need to become him again. When I take all the heavy rocks out of my backpack, I am him. I am still that boy full of joy.
That guy is who my sons are mirroring when people say, “they’re just like you.” That guy is who they need. That guy is who my neighbors need.
That essence of that guy is what Griffin got in not one, but maybe three or four full measures. Even when he is ill, joy pours out of him by the bucketful. He may have needs that only about 1 in 700 people have, but his gift is also that rare, at least.
That gift of joy—whether it comes from his extra chromosome or not—is the spark for me to be that boy full of joy again, who dreams of that a good life and believes that everyone deserves it. Griffin’s joy sustains my faith that other people believe it too.
The phrase “with great power comes great responsibility” is real talk.
But it implicitly assumes that a person’s original inheritance—or at least their starting point—is power.
The corollary, “with great responsibility comes great power,” is also real talk. This version assumes that our original inheritance is responsibility, not power.
And what’s the lesson?
That we must be cautious of power. That it may corrupt us. That though we may be entrusted with responsibility, we must wield the power that comes with it intentionally and justly.
Most of us don’t fall into power like Peter Parker did in Spider-Man. Most of us have to earn responsibility first. Most of us aren’t born superheroes. Most of us gain responsibility as we become the parent, the boss, or the PTA president—and the weight of the power thrust upon us is surprising, and perhaps even invisible at first.
Most of us, who aren’t superheroes, gain responsibility without having wielded much power. We underestimate how hard and tricky that power is, if we’re even fully aware that it exists at all. I certainly have, every time.
Both lessons on power and responsibility are equally important. We need to teach both. We need to learn both. But for most of us, who have no choice but to start with responsibility, we need to heed the lesson that with great responsibility comes great power first.
Personal transformation can become a trap for virtue.
Here’s the paradox.
We often begin by trying to become better people. For me, that transformation came through grief, marriage, writing this book about character, and becoming a father.
Over time, I could feel the growth. I was proud of it. I could look in the mirror and like what I saw. It was terrific!
But that’s where the trap began.
Years later, the paradox revealed itself: the more I transformed toward virtue, the easier it became to applaud that virtue. I became fascinated by my own growth.
That’s the exact opposite of what should happen.
The point of transformation is not to admire ourselves. It is to turn outward, toward others.
Luckily, the antidote is easily administered: gratitude, prayer, service, and listening deeply. We can prevent relapse through intention and practice.
The hardest part is simply seeing the paradox. It took me years to recognize it — five, probably.
I share this idea in the hope that you might see it sooner than I did.
Human beings are porous creatures. These six streams flow into us constantly.
Food.
Water.
Air.
Information.
Microbes.
Relationships.
The streams that shape human life are surprisingly easy to corrupt—and surprisingly hard to guard.
These streams shape our bodies, our minds, and the communities we build together. And unsurprisingly, each of them is vulnerable to corruption, because it’s easy to affect these flows without anyone noticing.
We ingest them largely automatically, without thinking. We trust that what we are offered is nourishing and healthy for us.
But temptation comes easily, and so do examples of corruption. Food additives can make things cheaper but affect our health. Algorithms feed us novel videos, but they can wreck our attention, our minds, and our sense of self. We can be in relationship with someone and absorb their love, but also harm that relationship when we fail to show up for them, or when we try to control them by withholding love.
We hardly notice in the moment when the big six are corrupted, and we trust that someone is watching. Surely someone is discerning whether these things are corrupted. Someone must be monitoring the air, the water, and the food. Surely someone isn’t letting the people we trust cut corners on ensuring information is truthful…right?
This is why societies build institutions around these streams. We create food safety systems, water utilities, environmental regulation, journalism, public health systems, and community norms because these inputs matter so deeply. These institutions exist to guard the flows that shape human life. But institutions cannot function on rules alone. They depend on people who are capable of noticing when something is wrong—people who can interpret signals, weigh trade-offs, and decide when the system is being bent or quietly corrupted.
And this reveals something about preventing corruption: we must be willing and able to discern.
This is not just a matter of transparency. Transparency is a precondition, but what difference does transparency make if we cannot make meaning of it? We have to be able to evaluate whether the inputs that shape individuals and society are corrupted or not.
Sometimes this discernment happens individually, and sometimes it must be collective. Any time we read a food label or look at an air quality report, we are discerning at the individual level.
But we also discern at the community level. Communities deliberate on questions like: Do we want this? and How will it affect us? Communities themselves are a kind of living organism. Just as our bodies must determine whether what flows into them is nourishing or harmful, communities must do the same.
To prevent corruption we don’t just need laws, and we don’t just need transparency—we need discernment.
Riding someone else’s coattails is a form of corruption.
It’s a way to benefit from work I have not earned. And it’s tempting. It’s comfortable to let things ride for as long as I can, avoiding the difficult work of creativity, leadership, growth, and delivering the next valuable thing. It’s also a way to avoid the emotional toll of rejection, failure, or obscurity.
It’s even easier to ride our own coattails — to relive glory days, to navel-gaze at past successes and think, wow, look at how much I’ve grown.
When I do this, I let myself off the hook from looking ahead and continuing to grow, serve, and innovate. Surely I don’t have to create more for others or give more of myself. Surely I don’t need to treat others better — look at how much I’ve already given.
However tempting, riding our own coattails may be even more corrupt than riding those of others. We’re not only benefiting from something we haven’t earned; we’re lying to ourselves about it.
I’ve struggled with this lately. I’ve been trapped in reflection about the past decade of my life. I’ve grown, contributed, and sacrificed so much since my father died ten years ago.
But you can’t profit off the same album forever.
I still yell at my kids. I still do little about the needs of the poorest in my community. I still miss deadlines. I still try to replace faith with control. My cholesterol still hovers at the edge of elevated. I am still crabby with Robyn more often than she deserves.
The point is: I’m still unfinished.
I don’t have to be a perfectionist. But I also can’t justify staying as I am forever by pointing to how far I’ve come.
I’ve been in awe of my own growth — and rightly so. It truly has been a decade of transformation for our family.
But growth becomes corruption the moment it becomes an excuse. It’s time to move on.
The break is over.
I won’t ride my own coattails forever.
A excerpt from theMessage of the Holy Father Leo XIV for Lent 2026, on the theme: “Listening and Fasting: Lent as a Time of Conversion”.
Our sons follow the same pattern as their father — which is also the pattern of paupers, billionaires, gangsters, and warring neighbors. How conflict escalates is predictable.
And the beef always starts with words.
With our sons, it starts with teasing. Then harsher teasing. Then a shove or a hip check. Then a hockey stick to the back — sometimes literally. And then it ends with tears, an ice pack, and resentment that must be slowed down and resolved.
It is the same pattern with many homicides. It starts with disrespect at a party. One thing leads to another. And eventually, someone is dead.
And perhaps the same with nations. It starts with jabs in the press. Then it escalates.
This is the pattern, so much of the time.
So of course, what the Holy Father shared makes sense: if we want a more peaceful and loving world, we begin by abstaining from harsh and hurtful language. And for those of us who are brothers and sisters in faith, we can make space for grace by fasting from that endlessly hungry gremlin — the words from which all beefs begin.
This is indeed a very practical form of abstinence — whether we approach it secularly, as members of an interfaith community who care about peace in a pluralistic society, or specifically as Christians seeking repentance and renewal during Lent.
No matter our posture, it makes sense to abstain from the thing that starts a wildfire.
—
And I need this fast myself, in a very guttural and deep way. To contemplate this as a fast is precisely the point. Because part of me needs to starve.
There is a part of me that is angry — frustrated by what I cannot control. It is the part that is deeply wounded and inflamed by small irritants. It is the part that is addicted to aggression and conflict, because the anger distracts me from the worries and doubts I would rather avoid. This all-consuming part of me is often unseen, but heard by my children when I am having a bad day.
I need to starve it of harsh words.
Because harsh words are what give an angry, fearful, selfish appendage its nourishment and oxygen. It feeds on vindictive and cutting language and asks for more the more it burns.
Harsh words and the anger that spurs them are not something I merely need to moderate. These are not like a bottle of wine, to be enjoyed over two or three days. These are things I need to abstain from — so that the appendage shrinks, withers, and perhaps one day fades.
I do not know if I can do this. My inner monologue feels rigid, and harsh words are deeply reinforced in our culture. It even feels expected that national leaders swear casually and publicly. Harsh words are one of the only forms of catharsis I know that are not drinking or some other youthful foolishness. And if I’m being honest, I’ve dropped a screaming “damn it!” In front of my sons twice since I started drafted this post over nothing - once over crispy crown potatoes, and once over a snow brush. I really do not know if I can do this.
And if I can? Who will I be if this appendage shrinks? I may not know myself from a stranger without this angry appendage that has been attached to me since coming of age?
Will I be delicate? Weak? Exploited? Bored? I do not know what this fast might make me into. If the appendage withers, will anything be left?
We never really know. This is how transformation works.
First, we suffer and sacrifice — through fasting, grieving, contemplation, exercise, or simply listening more deeply. This makes space for grace and other mysterious psychological forces to do their work.
Then we wait, not knowing who we will become on the other side.
That is the point.
All transformation requires an act of faith. Whether we understand it mystically or secularly, we cannot have renewal without trust in what lies beyond our sacrifices.
If we want a changed self — or a changed world — we must believe there is something worth becoming on the other side.
I’ve known for a long time that solving my sons’ conflicts for them creates fragility. At some point, after all, I’ll be gone, and they’ll need to resolve conflict without me as their judge and jury.
For several years, I tried to facilitate their peacemaking in two ways: by prompting the “right” discussion, or by imposing my less-favored answer to the problem—nobody watches TV if you can’t agree.
Stepping in strongly was necessary for a time. They needed guidance on how to resolve conflict; they weren’t born with those skills. But if I kept playing broker of peace, I knew their relationship would stay fragile—dependent on my presence, my rulings, my leverage.
Now I’m better served—and so are they—if I play a different role: brakeman, not intermediary.
I can slow things down. I don’t have to direct the entire outcome. I don’t have to do all the talking. They already have some skills, because we’ve practiced.
My job now is to be the person who says, “Whoa. Let’s slow down.”
Just this weekend, a Valentine’s Day trade went badly. And for the first time, by accident really, I slowed it down instead of negotiating a truce. Over a few hours, with some help, they worked it out themselves.
This was growth all around, for them and for me
The real insight is simple: they can do more on their own, and they should—but first, someone has to slow the moment down long enough for thinking to happen. They can resolve much more independently if hearts aren’t already racing and there aren’t already tears and screaming.
Slow it down. Be the brakeman. That’s my new job. If I do that, everything else becomes easier for them, and they can keep practicing conflict resolution—with less and less supervision from me over time.
Eventually, they’ll be able to pump their own brakes. And then I can coach a more advanced skill: self-reflection, repair, and the ability to turn hard moments into opportunities to deepen trust.
This feels like the pattern of any good coach. You start with fundamentals. You teach them to mastery. Then you coach the same fundamentals one level deeper. The temptation is to get stagnant—to keep teaching yesterday’s lesson after your kids have already moved on.
But we can’t.
As they grow, we have to deepen our own mastery so we can deepen theirs. If we stop learning, they will too.
Encountering another intelligent species from elsewhere in the universe is a problem for the distant future. Still, it is an instructive one for our time.
Imagine that we had the capacity for first contact—say, through faster-than-light travel. Our interstellar flagship passes near a distant world. The first question its crew would ask is simple: Do we want to stop?
If they had the luxury of choice, they would likely evaluate that civilization along two dimensions.
First: What is their intent? Do they seek cooperation and mutual enrichment, or exploitation and dominance?
Second: What is their capability? Do they actually possess the power to carry out their intentions—peaceful or otherwise?
A civilization that is hostile and capable would be dangerous. One that is peaceful but utterly incapable might not be worth engaging. Intent and capability, together, would shape our decision.
Of course, determining either would be extraordinarily difficult. Learning to assess an alien civilization might take centuries. But these questions are not merely hypothetical.
We may create an artificially intelligent, Earth-based species in our lifetimes. But long before AI takes on physical form, we will face the same dilemma: What are its intentions? And how powerfully can it impose its will?
Yet before worrying about how we evaluate others, a more uncomfortable question presents itself.
What about us?If an extraterrestrial civilization were passing through our solar system, how would they assess humanity’s intent and capability? Given the choice, would they stop—or continue on their way?
When I look in the mirror, and consider the history of our species up to the present, here is what I see.
I see a civilization whose intent has long been fearful and exploitative, yet has slowly, unevenly, inched toward governing itself more justly. Our past includes conquest, slavery, genocide, and monopolistic corporations. Empires swallowed continents. Entire peoples were systematically pillaged or murdered. Private power frequently corrupted public life. It is arguable that all these are still part of our reality.
And yet, over centuries, something has shifted.
Large-scale territorial conquest has become less acceptable, even when it still occurs. International institutions intervene—imperfectly, but meaningfully. Economic power remains unequal, but counterweights exist: unions, industry associations, regulatory regimes, and cultural movements that attempt to restrain abuse.
History does not move in a straight line. Exploitation resurfaces in new forms. But over long periods, the trajectory seems to bend—slowly—toward cooperative enrichment rather than exploitation. Two steps forward, one step back.
That progress matters. It suggests that, in the long run, our species has shown some capacity for moral learning. We inherit exploitative systems, but we also attempt—however inconsistently—to reform them rather than let them expand.
Our capability, however, tells a different story.
We have not harnessed the energy of our own planet, let alone our sun. We cannot survive beyond Earth without elaborate life support. We are actively degrading the habitability of the only home we have. We do not fully understand our ecosystems, our biology, or even our own minds.
Technological power has grown faster than wisdom. We build tools whose consequences we cannot fully contain. From nuclear weapons to climate systems to algorithmic platforms, our inventions routinely outrun our ability to govern them.
We are both feeble and reckless.
If I were the captain of a spacefaring vessel, I might conclude that, whatever our intentions, humanity remains a relatively immature civilization—morally improving, yet operationally juvenile. I would probably keep moving. Why risk engagement with a species still learning how to manage itself?
And yet, I wonder what we might still offer.
Perhaps our stories would matter. Homer and Shakespeare, Whitman and Rowling, express something enduring about love, fear, identity, and loss. Even an advanced civilization might find in human literature a unique window into our shared experience of consciousness.
Perhaps our experience with diversity would be instructive. Earth’s extraordinary ecological and cultural variation has forced us—imperfectly—to negotiate difference. Managing pluralism is central to our history. It may not be universal across intelligent life.
Perhaps even our physical fragility is meaningful. We are short-lived creatures, acutely aware of mortality. “Life is short” is not a cliché for us; it is a through line of how we navigate reality. For a species that lives centuries, or never dies, our relationship to time and death might offer unexpected insight.
It is possible that artificial intelligence will become our first true encounter with another form of intelligence. It is also possible that, centuries from now, we will meet non-Terran life. In either case, the same questions will apply.
What are our intentions? And are we capable of living up to them?
These questions offer a kind of civilizational north star. If we can cultivate a shared commitment to enrichment rather than exploitation—and if we can build institutions and technologies capable of sustaining that commitment—we will not only prepare ourselves for first contact.
We will make life better, here and now, for the people who already call our sacred, fragile, beautiful planet home.
After a three day work trip, I landed too late. I would have to wait another day to see my family, who had already gone up north for a weekend with friends.
It was too risky to drive four hours in the frigid cold only to arrive after midnight.
So I drove home, left my luggage in the car, slept until four, made a cup of tea, and was out the door by 4:25.
Everyone was eating breakfast when I arrived at the cottage, weary. I saw Robyn first, and as I fused into her shoulder it felt as if my soul was remembering her, rising with lightness upward from the soles of my feet.
I have felt this love of pure lightness before.
But then, I kneeled to greet my three oldest sons who were playing on the family room floor. And they hugged me with a type of love I’ve never experienced.
They vaulted onto me. Their love was urgent and rough. It was unbridled, given with no limitation. It was cut roughshod, reckless even.
This love they showed me, with all four of us tumbling over the carpet and squeezing our arms around each other, matched the pent up energy of a banshee. This love was not gentle. This love was like a waterfall that could not be dammed. It was like lightning. It was radical and unrelenting.
I have never experienced love like this, where none of us were holding anything back.
As I look back on this, I find great comfort and wisdom in the existence of this radical and unrelenting love. It teaches that love need not be patient and kind. It affirms that love can be this unrestrained.
You see this sometimes at the international arrivals lobby at airports. Families wait for their loved one to emerge from behind a closed door, maybe a soldier returning from a deployment, and they weep in each others arms without any regard for who is watching. They just pour everything they have, all at once.
Shouldn’t we love others like that? Our closest ones of course, but also everyone, especially the least of us? Shouldn’t we show love as if unchained, with a total disregard for self-editing? Isn’t it the pinnacle of love to be so unconditional that it’s relentless?
Love can be a form of lightness, lifting our souls from the earth. But it can come in the form of something radical and unrelenting. To experience both is to experience something perfect.
How I measure my life has changed over time:
“Do any girls like me like me?”
“Am I getting good grades?”
“How much can I bench press?”
“Did I get into Harvard?”
“Am I making the news?”
“How many books have I sold?”
“Do we have a vacation home?”
“Does my family love me?”
“How many people will show up to my funeral?”
Looking back, none of these were great measures. Though I’m glad to have at least become slightly less arrogant and vain over time. Measuring something as singular and precious as a life is elusive.
—
The past decade of my life was bookended by funerals of good men who were fathers. The first was for my own father. The second was for Clarence, who I met because we both became Catholics together as adults.
For Clarence, I just wanted to go. I didn’t know him for even two years, but I still felt drawn to be at his funeral. I was puzzled by this. Why do I want to be at the funeral of someone with whom I spent so little time?
I knew him long enough, I thought, to know he was a good man.
And it was the same for my father. People showed up because they knew he was a good man—or they knew me and my mom well enough to discern that he was, too.
I have come to think that it is foolish to evaluate a life. Who even has the information to fairly and comprehensively judge themselves? I’ll never know anywhere close to the full effects of my choices, or even the full honesty of my intent. If I can’t even judge my own life, how could I begin to judge anyone else?
Judgment—not of the law, but of a life—isn’t a role for a human being. It is the role of God, or nobody at all. Nothing but an omniscient being even has the richness of perspective to judge a life.
So how do we even try to “measure” our lives? It is a fool’s errand.
But if we were to try, the best measure I can come up with is not how many people show up at my funeral—but why.
Do they show up out of obligation? Or do they show up because they felt loved, listened to, respected—because their soul felt some morsel of peace and joy when I was with them?
—
There are many aspects of our lives my father would be happy to see: that Robyn and I have a strong marriage, and that we love his grandsons most of all.
But also, I think he would feel relief that a lesson he never spoke of—but was always teaching—finally sunk in:
Take care of your duties. Do right by others and by God. That is how to live.
For many years I measured my life in terms of lesser things.
It’s not all the vanities of my youth that mattered. It is this.
And further, the lesson—the real enlightenment—is to realize that we ought not even to measure. We ought to do our duties, take care of others, and do right by God not for the fruits we will reap, but for its own sake.
We do the work because we do the work.
This is the timeless wisdom Arjun learns in the Bhagavad Gita—that my father managed to teach me through deeds, not words—and that has finally sunk in, ten years after he went ahead.
How do we measure a life?
If we can pursue our duty—our dharma—without attachment to its fruits, that may be the best measure of all.
Paradoxically, the best measure may be if we can persist on a righteous path without needing to measure at all.
To experience joy is to experience something perfect.
But even joy comes at a price. Because to feel a truly sublime joy, even for a moment, requires two things of us: we must be fully present and fully open—emotionally and perhaps even spiritually. This takes inner work. That work can’t be priced in dollars, but it is surely costly.
Fully Present, Fully OpenJoy is a feeling of the present—and of the body. It’s not something that can be experienced in the mind alone.
To see what I mean, try this: imagine a time you experienced true joy—one of those full tingles of lightness, where your soul felt like it was rising through your body. Does it feel the same as a memory? Try imagining a future moment of joy. Can you? Joy outside its exact moment is hard to replicate, isn’t it?
The closest we can come is when our senses trick our bodies into believing we’re back in that moment. Like when we see an old photo with our family, or smell a spice that reminds us of what our mother made during the holidays. Or maybe it’s a sound or song—like the echo of a marching band—that makes us feel as free and enmeshed as we once did at an alma mater.
These things are like a tuning fork striking a resonant frequency, making everything nearby vibrate. But they’re only echoes. The real thing—real joy—only happens when our attention and our feet are in the same place and time.
But full presence isn’t enough for joy. We must also be fully open—of heart, of spirit. Joy, after all, needs a way in.
I think of it like the aperture of a camera lens, or the pupil of an eye. The pupil expands to let in more light when it’s dark. It happens automatically in the body. For the photographer, it’s a choice. If more light is needed, the aperture must be widened. I believe our hearts are similar. We have to be open enough for the light to enter.
This can be difficult because the border of our inner world is like a two-way tunnel. If we want joy to find its way in, we also have to let darker feelings—sadness, grief, fear, anger—and all their discomfort and ugliness find their way out. We can constrict our hearts to shield ourselves from that pain when darkness leaves, but doing so also seals the tunnel to joy. Openness is not selective; we can’t welcome light without also making space for the dark. We can’t have one without the other.
How do we become fully present and fully open? That’s exactly what makes joy such an elusive feeling. One path requires tremendous inner work—through self-expression, journaling, prayer, meditation, or any other spiritual or contemplative practice.
The alternative to that discipline is suffering. Whether it’s grief, loss, or injustice, suffering forces us to become more present and more open. It changes us, whether we want it to or not, by giving us new eyes. In that sense, suffering is a kind of shortcut to joy—but it comes with its own heavy toll. In reality, most of us walk both paths: the slow transformation of discipline, and discontinuous growth borne of pain.
It Comes at a Terrible Price
It’s a common cliché to say, “you can’t appreciate sunshine without the rain.” And that may be true. It’s cute when it’s written in calligraphy on a craft at a farmers market. But what I’m talking about goes deeper than a resetting of perspective.
Joy is harder than that.
It’s not just a trick of the mind or a lesson to learn. The work we must go through—and the suffering we endure—is not optional. It’s a precondition of joy. We have to let something in us be broken down. Or we have to endure years of reflection, effort, and spiritual labor to even be capable of joy.
But at least we have that as comfort. At least all this suffering and journaling and spiritual struggle might make something beautiful.
Next week marks ten years since my father passed unexpectedly from congestive heart failure. It gives me hope—and some encouragement—that if I had to endure something so painful, so unjust, it at least carved out space for a deeper experience of joy in being a father myself.
I endured nearly ten years of loneliness and desperation before I met Robyn. It gives me hope that if I had to wander for so long, there’s a deeper joy I now experience in marriage.
Joy is really hard. And it comes at a terrible price. Sometimes I need to remind myself of that—that it’s supposed to be hard. I have chosen joy, and it’s supposed to be nearly unbearably difficult.
I’m not in this for pleasure. I’m not in this for a fun life. I don’t care about once-in-a-lifetime experiences that are perfectly photographed and meticulously shared. I don’t care about extravagance or self-care. I’m not here for hedonism, or validation, or the gram, or whatever else. I’m not even here for meaning and impact.
I’m in this for joy. And I have paid a terrible price for it. But I wrote this post, I suppose, to remind myself that even though I have chosen to endure all this, it is for something beautiful.
Joy may be the only perfect thing we can obtain in this imperfect human life. It has come at a terrible price—but it has been, and will be, worth it. Even if, one day, all I have left in this world are the remnants of that joy in whatever remains of me—then still, it will have been worth it.
Joy comes at a terrible price, but it is worth it.
Let’s stop pretending the biggest decision in life is what college you go to or what job you land. The real make-or-break decision? Who you marry.
In our family, this isn’t just a saying—it’s a foundational belief. Marriage isn’t one big day. It’s a lifelong choice that shapes your character, your children, your capacity to thrive, and your joy.
That means preparing our kids to answer four questions—really well:
- Can they be a good spouse?
Do they act with integrity, love unconditionally, and make real sacrifices when it counts? - Can they choose a good partner?
Do they know how to recognize integrity, unconditional love, and sacrificial character in someone else? - Can they build a strong marriage?
When adversity hits, will they turn toward their partner instead of away—and grow stronger together? - Can they support a family?
Can they generate enough income to meet their needs—and live with humble tastes, rather than chase status or excess?
Our entire education system is built around Question #4—economic self-sufficiency. Ironically, I’d argue it’s the least important trait when it comes to marrying well. So for the most important decision of their lives, our kids are left to learn from us, extended family, or maybe their friends—if they’re lucky.
That means the real curriculum—the one that actually shapes their future—is what we model and teach at home:
Things like integrity, love, and sacrifice. Like courage. Also self-awareness, discernment, communication, understanding, and leadership.
And yes—literacy. Because reading is how they’ll keep teaching themselves long after we’re done.
We do our kids a disservice in America because we act like holding down a job is the most important thing a person should be prepared to do. It’s not.
Believing that sells life short—and discounts the value of love, meaning, and human connection.
What we emphasize in America misses the point and leaves our kids unprepared to make the most important decision of their lives well.
This year was too hard not to learn from. What was the point if we didn’t get better from all this struggle?
This is what I learned. I hope that if you reflect on the year, you find some good learnings of your own.
—Neil
The healthcare system is desolate. The level of advocacy one needs to exert is unimaginable. So many doctors, bureaucrats, and complexities. It’s unbelievably difficult to piece together all the fragmented providers, payers, and incentives. If you don’t know someone—either to get you in somewhere or to help make sense of it—you’re at the mercy of a ruthless system. It’s not fair.
Kids are a paradox, not linear. On the one hand, they’re capable of tremendous growth and ability. On the other, they’re not ready to be adults. Calibrating exactly where they are—and how hard to push versus coach—is the most difficult aspect of parenting for me. This takes daily, perhaps even hourly, recalibration around where they are. I thought growth for children was linear and spiky. Somehow, it’s both.
I am not that patient. This was especially humbling—and a frequent realization—because I had a short fuse for an entire year. There was just too much in our orbit creating tension. I’m less patient than I thought. But at least I now understand that I’m relatively much more patient when I’m not rushing. The keystone behavior, for me at least, is pumping the brakes. If I’m slowing down, I at least have a fighting chance at patience.
A full life is chaotic. If I’m waiting for life to slow down, or for political administrations to change, or to just make it to the next break—it’s never going to happen. Not for any of us. The only way to have less chaos would be to unwind attachments to other people—whether it’s my wife, family, friends, kids, neighbors, colleagues, causes, ideas, or communities. I don’t really want that. Being part of this world means enmeshing yourself with others, and enmeshing yourself with others means subjecting yourself to chaos. We can’t make it stop, but we can draw a line for what we accept and what we don’t—what we’ll roll with and what we won’t.
I can’t do this without God in my corner. I’ve lived straddling domains of faith my whole life. I still have an unusual religious history and life. Spiritual exploration or religion isn’t for everyone—nor does it have to be. I tried for decades to keep spiritual growth at arm’s length. I just can’t anymore, nor do I want to.
And perhaps most importantly…
There are good people literally everywhere. This whole year, angels kept showing up. There are plenty of people who play their part in the game and facade of power, status, money, and dominance. There are plenty who treat their lives as a performance. Sure. But there are so many people who just live their lives, do their thing quietly, and try to do right by their neighbor. We don’t have to be part of the show if we don’t want to.
One of my colleagues often reminds our team that “comparison is the thief of joy.” He’s right.
At work, we compare the software fixes we actually delivered versus the ideal. I compare myself to more professionally successful friends. I compare my tantrumming toddler to a calmer child—or even to a calmer version of himself. I may compare one colleague to a so-called “higher performer,” whatever that means.
A common kind of comparison many of us make—one that still steals from us—is comparing ourselves to someone less fortunate. “Appreciate the dinner you have; there are kids all over the world who are starving,” we might say to our picky-eating kids. But even this steals something—maybe our humanity—because to make the comparison, we must place ourselves above someone else.
All these comparisons steal joy.
But just as comparison is the thief of joy, it’s also the propellant of progress. To improve, comparison can be a useful tool and powerful motivator. We make change when we measure where we are against where we want to be or a competitor. Companies do this with financial statements. Patients do it with weight and body fat percentage. Our whole society is engineered to compare—and that leads to progress.
So we are in a bind, because two things at odds are true: comparison is the thief of joy, and also the propellant of progress.
Even if would rather it be otherwise, my brain is rigorously trained—yours may be too—to compare. I need a replacement behavior when I catch myself comparing. I can’t just “not compare.” I need to do something else instead.
It seems to me that the replacement behavior to train myself in is simply observing. Paying attention to what’s here, soaking it in, being present, meditating, noticing. These are all flavors of the same root behavior: observation.
We’re forced to compare our youngest son’s height and weight because he has been underweight his entire first year of life. I’m constantly fighting the urge to compare his milestones—crawling, sitting, teething—to children without Down syndrome. With him, the thief of joy is always near.
But so is the opportunity to observe and find joy. Griffin has a spark in his smile I can’t explain. He pulls me into observing him—soaking in the gift of who he is every time I see him. He is truly magnetic. And even though it’s so easy to slip into comparison with him, the joy he brings to my heart feels limitless. Because when I’m with him, I am fully there. Fully appreciating. Fully observing.
To me, this act—of observing long enough to outlast the temptation of comparison—feels like an act of defiance. That joy with Griffin feels like the most hard earned of all the joy we have in our lives. It is as much an act of desperation as it is an act of triumph.
I raise him skyward when I need to get back to the moment I am in. When I lift him above my head—he starts to lift his legs, and he smiles and giggles. And then I smile. And then I remember: he’s here. There is something to celebrate exactly in what he is. There is something unique and special in this lad. I don’t have to travel in my mind to an alternate time or an alternate universe where Griffin’s life wouldn’t be as hard as I know it’s going to be.
There is joy. Right here. Right now.
The way out of this bind is in the order of operations. We may not be able to function without comparison, but we can choose when we do it. The key is to start with observation. We can begin by soaking in what we have—by noticing assets and having gratitude. Then, after we’ve practiced observation, sure—we can compare.
So before I compare my kid to their calmer friend, I can observe their humor and sense of wonder. Before I compare my job to an easier one I could have, I can observe the chance I have to make a difference alongside amazing colleagues. I can observe the joy that’s already here—before I compare my life to what it could have been.
Comparison may be the thief of joy. But we can experience joy before we even open the door to that conniving thief.
My colleague reminded us that comparison is the thief of joy earlier this week because we had a software release. And at first, it ate at me. Because deep down, I have known this for a long time, but have been helpless to stop it. I know comparison steals my joy—and I’ve known it since I was a kid, when adults would compare me to other kids and the comparison would burn my childhood innocence.
But now, after reflecting more, I feel agency. And we should feel agency, rather than seeing comparison as an inevitability. Because even if we fall into the trap of comparison, we don’t have to start with it.
My brother shared the simplest but deepest gratitude at Thanksgiving dinner this year. He said he was grateful for traditions, because on days like Thanksgiving, many people have nowhere to go. He had people to spend time with, and many — including some he knows — do not.
This is perhaps the most basic of our dreams as human beings. It is so fundamental, it may also be an aspiration of many living creatures: that there are others you love, who love you back.
This is a dream, so simple, so elemental as to be forgettable. And yet, it moves us to tears when we realize it has become real. This is something I weep about weekly: the simplest, most universal dream in our world.
But there are more.
Another is freedom — to gather, to worship, to speak, to speak out.
Yet another is movement — to be healthy enough to walk around and go here and there.
There is the simple dream to grow — to learn, to read, to unlock the potential within us.
There is the dream to create — to make something, whether art, an idea, an invention, or a family — something good we can give or leave behind for others after we’re gone.
And finally, we dream of peace — to be whole, content, and in right relation with others, the natural world, and perhaps with God.
To love and be loved, to be free, to grow, to create, to have peace — these are the simplest of dreams. Nothing fancy, nothing complex — but still beautiful.
It does not surprise me that these are the things older people, who have had ample time to experience both joy and suffering, advise us to pursue. These are the dreams we all share, the ones that bind us, when life washes away lesser desires.
I think we miss the plot sometimes. I certainly do. We forget that what we value most is simple.
Instead, we so easily get wrapped up in the pursuit of complicated products, laws, policies, systems, and programs. We get obsessed with the minutiae of the world and forget how it ladders up to our simple, more grounded desires. AI is a convenient example of this. The world has gone mad with AI, seemingly for its own sake, rather than as a means to some more purposeful end.
To be sure, AI and other powerful ideas — like nuclear power, bioengineering, economic growth, and perhaps the idea of America itself — are important. But how often do those things get remembered in the context of love, daily freedoms, creativity, flourishing, or peace? We often lose the plot, distracted by the mystery, power, and shine. We squabble and lust over the most abstract of things and lose sight of the simple dreams we’re all after.
Whether in politics, business, civic life, family life, or communities of faith — we don’t have to chase and optimize that which is minute. We don’t need to get wrapped up in layer upon layer of abstraction within economy, technology, theology, or any other word that ends in “-y” or “-ism.”
This is what I love about the holidays, and especially Thanksgiving: we’re reminded of the simple things that matter most, the ones we so easily lose sight of. Even as we grow the economy, build better governments, and chase bold innovation, we mustn’t lose sight of the simple reasons why we do it all.
To love and be loved, to be free, to grow and flourish, to create, to have peace. These are the simplest, most beautiful, of dreams.
We can’t let these dreams be lost, and become afterthoughts of progress. All our striving, all our squabbling — it’s for these dreams.
Mercy
I have never asked for mercy once in my life—until today. Not from a person, and not in prayer. Not once. A surprisingly vivid memory from high school is a microcosm of why.
I was hanging out with a bunch of other guys from school in my friend’s basement—for our weekly post-school afternoon of the Nerf Combat League. (Yes, it was a real thing, and yes, it was awesome.) I can’t remember why, but I ended up wrestling someone. Which is surprising, even now, because I haven’t wrestled anyone before or since.
Obviously, I was pinned quickly. The guy wrestling me, Mike, kept saying, “Tap out, tap out!” And I didn’t—not until my trachea started to tighten and saliva dripped from my mouth.
Mike said something like, “You didn’t tap out. Respect.”
That’s what it’s like for a teenage boy—you take pride in not asking for mercy. Mercy is just not a currency you exchange in. It’s not that anyone is anti-mercy; it’s that the concept of mercy may as well not exist. If anything, you’re supposed to be the one powerful enough to grant mercy to someone else. And some even sadistically relish being the one who inflicts suffering, itching for the payoff of someone begging for a reprieve.
As awful as a world would be where no one shows mercy, I think it would be even colder—more dystopian—if no one even asked for it. Looking back, the fact that I can’t recall ever asking for mercy—in any situation—feels deeply warped.
—
Those who are truly holy and noble, I believe, are the ones who show mercy even when it’s not asked for.
Reflecting on this today, I realize I’ve certainly been the beneficiary of mercy I didn’t ask for. Because during this past year—the longest and hardest of our lives—angels have shown up. Constantly.
There have been friends who offered warmth. Family who bailed us out of binds. Colleagues whose dad jokes doubled me over with laughter. Neighbors who looked in on us. Other parents at the school or on our soccer team who have our back—and let us have theirs.
Mentors who guided me through a formation of faith and immense professional challenge. Even strangers in public who found ways to encourage me when I was solo with the kids at the grocery store. And perhaps most of all, there’s Griffin’s magnetic, earnest smile—a joy so pure, it feels divinely gifted.
These are two of the most important lessons of the year, and both are about mercy.
- First: to ask for it. Such a simple lesson, yet so enigmatic.
- And second: that there is mercy all around us that we never asked for.
To be that kind of person—an agent of mercy, whether sourced from God, from our soul, or from wherever you believe mercy comes—who offers it unasked…That, I believe, is the high watermark of holiness we can reach as mere mortals.
I will never beat the algorithm.
Practically none of us who create will — whether we’re writers, musicians, artists, filmmakers, actors, playwrights, acrobats, comedians, dancers, or anything else. I’m tired of trying.
I will never be more efficient than generative AI. I will never be able to buy enough digital ads to break through, nor will I ever be chosen by a publisher who vaults me to relevance. I will never be able to bullshit and write something I don’t believe just because I know people want to hear it.
Some say AI will ruin art and bankrupt creators. I’m actually excited for the effect AI will have on art and artists.
For us human beings, there’s only one play left in the playbook: be ourselves — our plain old original selves.
We can’t beat the computer on any other front. No one else, and no machine, can be us. The game is over, and it seems like the one remaining edge we have is to stop playing the game - of catering to the zeitgeist or waxing sensational - and be original.
What little leeway we had to optimize our way into an audience will vanish as AI-generated expression floods every medium and every distribution channel — cheaper and faster than any human artist.
But I think that’s liberating.
Why bother chameleoning who we are as artists if we can’t win doing that anyway? It’s better to just do our thing and create for the audience that values our thumbprint and voice.
I can only speak for myself — an amateur but extremely serious artist on the margins — but I’ve felt a kind of permission I’ve never felt before: to just let it rip. No more anxiety, self-editing, and asking my ChatGPT editor to reassure me of my chops as a writer. The new playbook is to listen deeply inward and just write.
So why not? I’ll never beat AI at its game — being more efficient, more personalized, and telling people what they want to hear — so why play? My guess is that anyone who sees themselves as an artist, rather than an entertainer, feels this at some level. If this is what the marginal artist feels, I think that’s great.
If those of us — like me — who feel the pressure to chase clicks just throw in the towel on beating AI, it might lead to the greatest wave of original work the world has seen in generations.
If AI has left us no choice but to be original, damn am I excited.
“He got more chocolate chips than me! I don’t want to wear a belt! THAT’S NOT FAIR!”
In these moments? Lord help me. But what if my sons only scream because they have to?
Maybe it’s not them being young and emotionally immature. Maybe it’s because everywhere they ever are—even in the quietest rooms—there is always screaming.
The world has been full of loud machines for decades, but now they scream.
Machines that beg for you to use them, even when you don’t want to. Phones are the obvious one. The notifications aren’t just little red dots; they are screams for attention—trying to get you to interact with apps, or spam calls, or scrolling advertisements.
But it’s not just the phone anymore. Anything that is “smart” is clever enough to speak up and scream back at me—the lights, my tagged keys, even the air purifier screams for its filter to be replaced.
Even in the quietest of rooms, there is always screaming.
With the volume already up, businesses are screaming louder for attention so that we buy or sell or borrow or lend. Charities scream at us to donate and patronize. Politicians scream in their own ads, but also in the newscasts and posts that we watch freely. Even some faith leaders amp up what should be an inherently peaceful message—by screaming it instead of preaching it.
Even in my own head, there are screams that nobody else hears, but my children and wife see me suffering from them. The screams of the to-do list. The sink full of dishes. My job that’s never satisfied. My hungry stomach craving breakfast that I can only eat standing, as I make my big sons’ cheese sandwiches for their lunchboxes.
Do you ever hear the screams, too?
There is the screaming of the pages my heart desperately needs to write. Or my soul that yearns to hear the crunch of leaves and the songs of the trees at the park—anything to noise-cancel the screaming. There is the shower I need to take, my skin craving the feel of bar soap, warm water, and a shave.
Even in the quietest of rooms, there is always screaming.
And so of course our kids scream. To be heard, they have no other choice. The latent volume level of the world around us—with every object, person, and organization jockeying for attention—is screaming.
Maybe it’s not them that need to be quiet, but the screaming surrounding them that does.
Perhaps the most important new skill we need as parents in the early 21st century is the skill of turning the volume down—tuning the sound of all the screaming noise from a 10 to a 1.
The way we get our kids to stop screaming is by creating the equivalent of a library in a space we share with them. A place quiet enough—figuratively speaking—where they don’t have to scream. Where there is no competition for their voice. Where my ears, heart, mind, and soul can even hear when they whisper.
This is why prayer, meditation, journaling, simple walks in the woods, and other contemplative practices are so important. These are the ways we learn how to turn down the volume.
Yes, it is true—at least in the world we live in today—even in the quietest of rooms, there is always screaming.
But there are ways to turn down the volume.
And we owe it to those we love and who love us—especially our kids—to turn down the volume. So, with us at least, they don’t feel like their only option is to join in on the screaming.
Even if the world around us keeps screaming, we don’t have to let it stay loud. We can turn it down—until we can finally hear our children whisper.
I think I’m at least 80% accepting of the fact, finally, that I won’t be a wealthy man. We’re blessed, and affluent by most standards, but our base budget is certainly humbled by the fact that we have four kids.
And this tension—between feeling like we’re making it but still feeling stretched—also exists with our time.
We show up for our kids and help out our family, friends, and neighbors as much as we can. But we also always feel like we’re drowning—the laundry, dishes, and daily grind are never stable. Despite the fact that we’d admit we’re doing our best and doing a decent job, it never feels like enough.
And despite all this, I still feel so much selfish guilt.
I don’t serve anyone in need whom I don’t already know, in any meaningful way, though my faith and my own moral sensibility demand it. I have let down friends—all the time, lately—it takes me months to call someone back or set up lunch, catch up over drinks, or deliver a meal to help out friends who are new parents.
We are part of the squeezed middle—we’re not living month to month with our money or time—but we don’t have enough time or money to easily trade one for the other. We’re squeezed.
And I don’t mean this as a “middle class” issue, per se, because there are plenty of families wealthier and poorer than ours, both in time and money, who feel squeezed. From investment bankers to blue-collar workers, I know families across the spectrum who feel this same pressure.
The squeezed are a surprisingly large cohort who feel stuck because they can’t trade time for money or money for time.
Leaving a Penny
I think the only way out of this is to help each other—even when it feels like no more than a penny’s worth. Little things matter. I’ve seen it in my own life.
There are a few families on our soccer team that carpool to practice. Freeing up one night per family, per week makes a difference. When other families at our school keep an eye out for our kids and we keep an eye out for theirs, it makes a difference. When someone comes with their pickup truck to help move some furniture, it makes a difference.
All these little things are like those old cups at grocery stores that said, “Have a penny, leave a penny. Need a penny, take a penny.” Little things that show up where you’re squeezed matter a great deal.
And something that feels small to us—like just giving a penny—can feel like receiving a gold coin to someone else.
For example, me shoveling my older neighbors’ snow barely registers as 20 minutes of extra work for me, but it’s unbelievably helpful to them so they aren’t beholden to unreliable help when they need their driveway clear to go to a doctor’s appointment.
Similarly, it felt very small to her when a good friend and neighbor came over to watch our kids for 20 minutes when Griffin was born and Robyn was conveyed by ambulance from the living room to the hospital—but to us, it was worth more than a bag of gold.
When we leave and take pennies, it relieves the squeeze. These little pennies are hardly worth just one cent—they’re often worth their weight in gold. “One cent” can feel like salvation when you’re being crushed.
I feel squeezed every single day of my life.
If I could afford to throw more money at problems, I would. But most of my problems wouldn’t get that much better with more money—grocery delivery doesn’t save me a trip because it’s never right, and I’d never be willing to outsource going to my sons’ soccer games, even if we could afford it.
And I’m unwilling to detach either. I’d rather live with the guilt of not meeting my commitments to my friends and people in need, rather than pretending like it doesn’t matter. Because it does. I don’t want to be less squeezed just for me, I want to also be there to stick up for those who have no penny to give.
I don’t think changing laws can help us, in the immediate anyway. I don’t think AI will save us either. The financial windfall that will allow me to gain hours of my time back is never going to come. And I’m tired of waiting for a hero to save me. We are the only heroes we’ll ever get.
The only way this works is if we help each other.
It’s good enough for it to be in small ways. These small acts of support are the only real alchemy I’ve ever seen work. Because when we leave a penny, it’s not one cent we’re leaving—we’re leaving something for someone else that’s worth its weight in gold.
So if you’re feeling squeezed, we need to stick together. Remember this mantra: take a penny, leave a penny. We are all we’ve got, and we are enough to get through this.
Seeing our older sons experience Harry Potter and the Sorceror’s Stone for the first time has been magical. Robyn finished the first book with them tonight.
Seeing the story through their reactions has made me see some timeless lesson in new ways. These are the best ones.
The story is powerful because we are part of it. We are dropped into the story as if we are joined to Harry somehow. It’s immersive and builds unquenchable intrigue. We feel like we’re there and desperately want it to be real.
For example - our oldest thinks maybe, just maybe, he will get a letter by owl inviting him to be a first year at Hogwarts. We learn how the events unfold as Harry does. Harry, Ron, and Hermione feel like they actually are our friends and we are part of Gryffindor house. Would the story inspire and resonate across generations if it was told at us, rather than feel like it was happening to us? No! I think this is why Star Wars also feels so timeless (and makes for a great theme park) we feel like part of it.
This is a lesson for any team we are trying to inspire - we have to make them feel like they’re part of it, and they have to also want it to be real.
There are great wizards from every house, and heroes in unlikely places. Sure, since Harry is the narrator, of course we’re going to hate Slytherin when we read it as children. But, we keep telling our sons - Gryffindor is not the only good house. If they are sorted into a house, with an online quiz or figuratively in life, they key is picking the environment that gets the greatness out of them, not just doing what they perceive is the only “good” answer.
Similarly, as readers we believe that Snape is awful and Neville is nice, but a sissy when we first meet them. Great strength and courage and kindness is often hidden, or, it takes the right circumstances for it to show itself. There are more heroes than just Harry, and there are more great houses than only Gryffindor.
There is no one right path. This is a lesson I need to be reminded about my own life and career - especially when I succumb and o comparing myself to my very esteemed colleagues and classmates.
And finally, I had forgotten and certainly didn’t realize the wisdom in Dumbledore’s speech at the end of term feast when I first picked up the book. Yes, it’s so true that it takes great bravery to stand up to our enemies but also, it takes great bravery to stand up to our friends. What a relevant lesson today, in the culture we live in, just as relevant as it was when The Sorcerer’s Stone was first released. How different might our world be if we stood up to our friends when their decisions were not in the right?
What a wonderful gift bringing the tales of Harry Potter back into our lives has been.
It should not be a surprise that most people feel somewhere between indifference and dread about their jobs.
First, there’s power asymmetry by design. That means we should expect to be treated badly or exploited - because when one person is more powerful than another, this is what happens.
Second, that we are loved conditionally is expected. We are rewarded and praised if we achieve the result others want. And if not, we are ostracized or removed.
At work, these are normal things.
If we subject ourselves to power asymmetry and conditional love, shouldn’t we expect to dread it?
Unless our work situation is wildly different from the norm, it’d be crazy not to dread it.
I expected Jay to be guarded and callous, and at a minimum indifferent toward me — because that’s what our culture taught me to expect. But he wasn’t. Jay surprised me.
Jay — let’s call him that — has been a source of hope ever since, because when people surprise you, it shows that not everyone you’ve been taught to distrust truly deserves it.
He was on probation for a violent crime and only a few years younger than me. He was also a gunshot victim, attached to a catheter and urine bag because of his injuries. The cane he walked with was leaning against the table next to him.
I spent 20 or 30 minutes breaking bread with Jay nearly 10 years ago at a community event I attended while working as a civilian at the Detroit Police Department.
The first surprise was that he was even open to chatting when I sat down for dinner next to him. He was also so vibrant — hopeful, even. He said he had a child and wanted to find a way to provide for them, no matter what it took.
He had an unforgettable warmth and smile for anyone, let alone someone who had been through so much. Years later, I am still surprised by who he was, compared to who I expected him to be.
Whether we believe strangers are good people or bad people is of great consequence.
This is one of the most deeply embedded beliefs that poisons our culture in America, I think. We collectively believe everyone else — those not like us — must be bad, not to be trusted.
And what happens when we can’t trust those other people? We need weapons and protection from them. We need to lock them up. We need to build walls and ensure those evil people stay away.
And it’s easier to justify treating them with cruelty or exploitation — because hell, they’re bad people anyway.
In my life and travels, I’ve heard enough strangers’ stories to believe the opposite. In addition to Jay, there’s Gerry, whom I met at a bookstore — he moved to Detroit to pursue a dream of reducing shootings, and I still keep in touch with him. Everyone has something about them that is extraordinary, if we’re willing to listen.
I hope, at least, that everyone is open to the possibility that the person in front of them may surprise them — open enough to change their mind about someone they’ve been taught is untrustworthy.
Because when we do, maybe we don’t need all those weapons or walls to feel safe from all those people out there we’re so sure are bad. With an openness to surprise, we can actually work out our differences without simply trying to bully them and exert power until they submit.
I don’t think it’s our obligation to trust everyone. But to be trustworthy and work to be trustworthy? I think that’s the greatest gift we can give our great grandchildren — because a more trustworthy and trusting world requires fewer guns, less fighting, and less anger.
We can’t give up on the hope borne of surprise. We can’t give up on the hope that people we fear might turn out to be good.
Is the cup half full or half empty?
What a self-absorbed little riddle — as if a glass gives a damn about my optimism.
It’s one of those falsely profound clichés of self-awareness — the kind you toss out after you’ve already asked about the weather.
Because the truth is, the cup isn’t half anything. It’s just not full. All that talk about half full and half empty is just stalling — a way to avoid the work of actually filling it.
If there’s any question worth asking, it’s this: what fills the cup?
There’s the cheap stuff — the elixirs that vanish the second they hit the air: dominance, vanity, hedonism, booze.
Then there’s the good stuff — the richer elixir. Sacrifice. Eye contact. Service. Prayer. Creative expression. Movement. Nature. Reconciliation. These are the grounded things that squeeze juice from the fruits of love, justice, and light.
I often think about that reflection exercise — the one where you imagine yourself on your deathbed. Thinking about who’s there, and what we’d be thinking in that moment, helps clarify what might fill our cups now.
I tell myself this:
Feel the pain and suffering of your last illness. See the faces of your grown sons, your brothers, and your sisters. Feel Robyn squeezing your hand with hers.
In those moments, will waxing poetic about optimism or pessimism be what we want? No. Will we crave one more chance to assert dominance? No.
We’ll be clawing for one more chance at the good stuff. On our deathbeds, we’ll do everything we can to fill our cups a little more — cherishing every drop.
So why, right now, do we pretend those debates are worth having?
No amount of talk will change how much is in the cup or what elixir is in it.
Should we eat well, sleep well, and keep moving? Yes. Write once a week to keep ourselves sane? Sure. Do what we need to do to patch the holes in our own cups? Absolutely.
But damn.
Brother, don’t be fooled by all the people who talk like they’re too busy for their kids, who treat parenting like a chore. Don’t mimic those who drown themselves in work without setting boundaries, then draw an audience to complain about it. Don’t give up, settling for narcissism instead of agency.
Do none of that.
Fill the cup, brother.
No amount of talk will change how much is in the cup or what elixir is in it.
Every moment of every day, fill the cup. That’s what we do.
This may be the year our oldest son, Robert, discovers the truth about Santa Claus.
The other day, he told Robyn that he thinks Mickey Mouse is just someone in a mouse costume. “Mickey isn’t real,” he said, with both pride at figuring it out and a touch of sadness for what it meant. And of course, Santa Claus is the next mythology he’s bound to question.
But aren’t Mickey and Santa real—because the magic they represent is real?
There was awe and wonder in the moment our family stood together watching the Fantasmic show and fireworks over Cinderella’s Castle. Robert, in a full measure of his three-year-old earnestness, looked up at us, his eyes gleaming in the dark, and said:
“I am the magic.”
We all felt it—our kids and us, as full-grown adults. That was magic, and it was real.
There is magic on Christmas morning, as there has been every year of my life, because it’s tradition. And when presents appear under the trees of families struggling to pay their bills—gifts from anonymous strangers—what else can we call it but magic?
Mickey Mouse and Santa Claus aren’t real in the same way George Washington or the Grand Canyon are real. They are symbols. They’ve only ever existed as symbols.
But the magic they create is real. The beliefs and ethos they carry are real. Maybe asking if they are real isn’t even the right question.
The better question is: do we believe?
Do we believe in what they represent?
Do we want to be part of the magic they create?
If so, does it really matter whether they are real or imagined?
And isn’t the same true for so many other things that aren’t tangible? For liberalism or capitalism—philosophies that only exist if people believe in them, yet have unlocked freedom and prosperity for billions? What about the fables and legends we pass down through generations, like our grandparents’ sacrifices in war—or even Star Wars? For God and faith traditions? For virtue and character?
Maybe these things are “real” like a rock is real, maybe not. Maybe as symbols they are real, maybe not.
What matters to me is the magic they create. That, if nothing else, is real.
So when my son asks me if Santa is “real,” I think I’ll tell him: Real is not the point. Real or not, I believe in Santa Claus, in Mickey Mouse, and in all the other beautiful, wonderful, magical things that make life meaningful.
And when I tell him that, I hope he realizes that even if it’s not real, it’s okay to believe in magic. And maybe one day, he’ll share the same thing to his own kid.
When I tell people about our youngest son’s Down syndrome diagnosis, many people say, “I’m sorry.”
They don’t know what else to say.
But there’s no need to be sorry. He’s alive and well, we love him, and we’re glad he’s here.
And yet, I still understand and appreciate it when someone says, “I’m sorry.” Because even if they have never had a child with Down syndrome—or any other kind of condition that leads to developmental delays—they have some intuition that it’s going to be hard.
We all do, because we have lived in this world.
We all intuitively know that the world is not built for people like Griffin. We know it’s hard to always see doctors, and that some people will treat him badly. His life—and ours—won’t follow the “normal,” well-trodden path and that will, at times, be very hard.
The past eight months have already given me a preview of this tension: between who Griffin is and how the world is built.
Griffin is normal—just somewhere else on the wide bell curve of what life looks like. He was conceived and born as any other child. We made no alterations to him—he’s here as God made him.
Yes, he has a diagnosis. But that doesn’t mean he’s broken. He isn’t defective—he’s simply different. Just like kids with cystic fibrosis, dyslexia, deafness, or any other “diagnosis”—these kids were simply born this way. That is normal, even if different.
And this goes beyond medical diagnoses. Some kids are taller or shorter. Some are gay or straight. Some are different levels of athletic, artistic, or scholarly. All kids are different, on a boundless amount of dimensions.
All of these kids—and all of us as adults—fall into the category of “we were born this way” in one dimension or another. Made by God this way, by no choice of our own.
So there are people just born a certain way, and yet, we also intrinsically know that those same people will have to go through inevitable hardship because of how they were born interacts with the world we live in.
But it’s not all struggle. Robyn often reminds me that some things may actually come easier for Griffin—like kindness, joy, and forgiveness. He has this lightness of being I can’t explain, but I see vividly.
Still, some of the hardship just doesn’t seem right—for Griffin or for anyone else who was “born this way.” Especially the hardship rooted in having their needs overlooked or unconsidered.
Those needs show up everywhere—from schools and playgrounds to healthcare, websites, public parks, airports, road signs, and even neighborhood newsletters. These choices shape whose lives get to flourish.
Because on a planet with over 7 billion people and in a country of over 300 million, there will inevitably be so many differences and spectrums.
Every day, in small and big ways, we make consequential choices about who’s in and who’s left out.
Whose needs are considered and whose aren’t? Do we only build for people like us, or do we stretch to include those we don’t yet understand?
Of course, our lives and our world have trade-offs. There isn’t unlimited time or money. But there are a lot of smart people who care, who have time and a willingness to innovate to break trade-offs. And in many cases, there’s money we’re already spending that could be spent differently. We just have to see with different eyes.
Playgrounds are a good example of this, and something I see with new eyes now. There are ways to make playgrounds so that many different types of kids can play together. You just have to make different and creative choices about materials, structures, and things like seats on swings.
I see so much more clearly now—even if in a very small way—the ways in which people born “normally,” but differently in a particular kind of way, are overlooked because they are easy to ignore, or are less “squeaky” than I am.
And it doesn’t sit right with me. But I do get it. The more people we include, the more complex our decisions are. We have to be smarter and more creative to make a website that everybody can use well enough, compared to just what the majority can use.
But that still doesn’t sit right. I am not God, after all. Why do I get to decide who’s worthy, important, or loud enough to be included? I may not be able to break every trade-off and create some sort of prosperous utopia that works brilliantly and cheaply for everyone. But it doesn’t seem right to me to not even try—before overlooking, whether deliberately or simply because I’ve allowed myself to remain ignorant—the needs of someone in need. Which, aren’t we all, in some way or another?
Griffin’s Down syndrome diagnosis has given me the eyes to see this profound choice—who’s in, who’s out—more clearly. And more importantly, it gave me the eyes to see that I was more ignorant of my own ignorance than I thought I was.
But in addition to a realization about justice, Griffin has also helped me realize something about joy.
I can’t explain it, but Griffin has joy. And his joy honestly feels different. I don’t know why—whether it has to do with Down syndrome, or if I’m blinded by the fact that he’s our last child, or what. But his joy is different in a very special way.
Which is to say, the world would lose something extraordinary if he had never been born—or if his gifts were overlooked and never nurtured.
And not just Griffin. Every child—born “different” or not—has something extraordinary within them. Every adult too. When we overlook entire groups of people, we rob the world of that brilliance.
So, in addition to not being able to accept the injustice of deciding who’s in and who’s out, who am I to rob the world of these extraordinary things? The comfort of my own ignorance is certainly not more valuable than that.
Being Griffin’s father has already humbled me. Seeing the world through his eyes has taught me that I have a long way to grow in two important ways.
First, I ought to stretch whose needs I consider as widely as possible.
Second, I should assume I don’t understand other people’s needs and gifts as well as I think I do.
So instead of “I’m sorry,” after someone shares a tough reality, maybe it’s better to say:
“I honestly don’t understand what you’re going through. How are you all doing?”
Maybe that will open my heart even wider to understand, love, and include them.
A good world doesn’t just happen. It’s built by people who take responsibility and follow through.
The language we use when failures occur tells us a lot. The words people use, particularly from leaders, signal whether someone is dodging responsibility or accepting it.
Let’s say we’re looking for confidence that good things are ahead. After a failure, what would you rather hear?
Something like this?
- “It’s all those bad people’s fault we failed.”
- “Don’t worry, this was a one-time thing.”
- “The victims shouldn’t have put themselves in that position.”
- “It’s not my job to deal with this.”
- “It is what it is.”
- “I’m sorry you feel upset.”
Or something more like this?
- “I made a bad call, and I’m sorry.”
- “We failed, and we’re going to make this right.”
- “We’ve learned from our mistake, and we’re doing these three things differently, starting today.”
- “The responsibility lies with me, and nobody else.”
- “I’m sorry that my failure hurt you.”
- “This is the plan, and how you can hold me accountable.”
I think we’d all prefer the second set of responses, not the first. It’s no contest.
We gain confidence after a failure—or even a tragedy—when someone takes responsibility. And we should because leadership is responsibility.
The worst possible sign, I think, is when the same failure repeats itself and nobody ever takes responsibility. In those instances we shouldn’t expect any good to happen, ever.
“Thoughts and prayers” and “we condemn this act” are turns of phrases that are often shared when tragic failures, usually of a political nature, occur. And I think it’s perfectly natural to think of and pray for others after a tragedy (I do), and, to condemn actions that merit condemnation.
But neither phrase is a measure of responsibility. And for what it’s worth, I’m skipping a political analysis because no interest group has a monopoly on accepting or avoiding responsibility after failures.
After a failure, I need to hear someone take responsibility to believe good things are coming. Though we may fail at it, as I do, this is the standard we also must hold ourselves to, especially when the people around us need us or expect us to lead.
It still stings a little when I drop our kids off at school.
I can’t bear to part with them, even now. Not even for a few hours. Because I don’t actually know if I’ll see them again.
That fear of never getting to say goodbye comes from losing my dad suddenly. I was on my way to get a haircut in a snowstorm the night before he passed.
I was going to call him, but it was snowing, and it was late, and I’m sure I had to work, too. So I didn’t.
We left it somewhere with a text like, “Love you, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
And then tomorrow never came.
And this is why I can’t leave for anywhere, even to drop off a letter in the postbox four stop signs away, without saying “I love you” to everyone in the house - even our dog.
Which is all to say, I have thought obsessively about what I say to my kids when I drop them off at school, in case they are the last words I ever say to them.
In case I am stolen from them, I want them to have memorable last words from their father so they don’t have a wound that will never heal, like I do.
I’ve tried so many unnatural, contrived-but-heartfelt phrases that were either too cerebral, too long, or both. And finally it came to me this summer vacation.
“Find the magic.”
This fits what I want to tell them perfectly.
Find the magic means - go look for it. Listen with your whole heart. There are extraordinary things around us, and every person has extraordinary things in them. There is God in all things.
The magic is the secret sauce. It is source of all good things. Of all joy. Of all redemption and reconciliation. Of all the suffering we overcome. Of all creativity and beauty. Of all love and laughter.
There is magic everywhere, so go find it.
—
The first time we went to Disney World, Robert was almost four. And as many families do, our last moment at the park is always at the Magic Kingdom, watching the fireworks over Cinderella’s Castle.
And there we were, on Main Street USA, as the music and lights were hitting their crescendo in the buildup to the finale. And there was song playing that had a dramatic pause in the melody. And we heard the singer sing, “You are the magic.”
And one of the best memories I’ll ever have happens next.
Robert, turns to Robyn, his eyes as full of innocence and wonder as they could possibly be, and says,
“Mommy, I am the magic.”
And therein lies the hidden message of, “Find the magic.”
Boys, if you’re reading this, this is one of those posts that’s an insurance policy of sorts. A little bit of love and guidance tucked away in case I’m gone too soon.
When I said “find the magic” you never needed to look far. The most wonderful and powerful magic has always been close.
You are the magic.
I have seen it your whole lives, and knew it before you were born. You boys have been the greatest store of magic I have ever known.
The magic I have been asking you to find, has been and always will be the magic in you.
The fastest way to understand a group’s culture is to look at how the most powerful and the least powerful treat each other.
Parents and children.
Priest and congregation.
Boss and employee.
Politician and citizen.
In all these realms, how the most powerful and the least powerful treat each other tells you what you need to know.
When you look at the most powerful, do they truly listen?
Do they lift others, or do they bully?
Despite what they say, do their actions reveal care for others—or only a hunger to preserve their own dominance?
And the least powerful—
Do they challenge authority for a higher purpose, or merely seek the crown for their own heads?
Do they move with agency, rage, or a stupor of learned helplessness after years of being beat down?
Are they—even visible?
How do the most powerful and least powerful treat each other?
We judge others all the time. I do, and so do you—though we hopefully we try to be more holy than that.
But this question must turn inward, because we are not always the least powerful, however much we’d like to believe it.
The person who shapes the culture most, in my own life, is the one in the mirror.
If I am a parent, a boss, a leader in any form—how do I treat those with less power?
That tells me all I need to know.
Who are we, really?
We live in a world where it’s easier than ever to signal who we are — through what we say, post, wear, or share. But if those signals don’t match our actions, we slip into something I call identity debt.
Like financial debt, identity debt piles up when we borrow against an image we haven’t earned. And just like money debt, it eventually comes due. Fail to pay it back, and you don’t lose your house — you lose your reputation, your confidence, even your sense of self. That’s how you end up in an identity crisis: quarter-life, midlife, or otherwise.
The challenge today is scale. There are more ways than ever to build an image without the substance behind it — more ways to go into identity debt.
Social media is the most obvious culprit, but it’s just the tip of the iceberg. We’ve built entire systems that reward posturing and signaling over real action. A few examples:
- Products as props. From Etsy finds to custom sneakers, nearly anything can be personalized to signal who we are.
- Edited selves. Technology lets us alter photos and appearances, presenting healthier, wealthier, smarter versions of ourselves.
- Broadcasted preferences. Spotify playlists, Goodreads ratings, Yelp reviews — every choice is a broadcast of identity.
- Endless content. We curate movies, news, and podcasts that give us things to talk about without requiring us to do anything.
- Monetized identity. With LLCs, platforms, and digital marketing, anyone can brand themselves as a coach, consultant, or influencer — whether or not there’s real expertise underneath.
All told, it’s never been easier to construct an identity without doing anything. The hype machine doesn’t just exist — it rewards us for feeding it.
We now have an endless credit line for identity debt. Talking and signaling can easily overshadow the slower work of real action — so much so that even a normal, hardworking life can feel drowned out by hype.
I know because I do it too. I post books on Goodreads, scroll Facebook, even use AI to polish resumes or draft marketing plans for my own projects. The signals flow almost automatically.
The strange thing is the solution is simple. Easy to name, hard to live out.
I’ve wrestled with this in my own life, and part of how I worked through it was by writing a book about how we can intentionally build our own character. And if I’ve learned anything, living this out is very possible, but it takes work.
To stay out of identity debt, we have to:
- Be real in how we present ourselves — so our signals reflect the truth, not a distortion.
- Envision the life we want, then live it — instead of hyping it, spinning it, or posturing about it.
- Step out of artificial spaces. Choose genuine human connection instead.
- Be honest with ourselves. Do the hard work of character — becoming the truest, strongest version of who we want to be.
All of this is easier said than done. And that’s exactly the point: reality is harder than hype — but it’s also where meaning lives.
Talk less. Do more. Pay down your identity debt before it bankrupts you.
If you’re from Detroit, you learn about going zero to sixty from a very early age. We’re car people here.
And around here, how fast a car goes from zero to sixty MPH is a big deal. It’s a measure of speed, power, and legitimacy. Zero to sixty is a proxy for respect, and one of Detroit’s contributions to the American idea of success.
Why go if you can’t go fast? Why be, if you can’t be fast?
One moment at our kitchen table with my sons showed me a different path.
—
A week ago, our boys were in a slurping phase. Everything they drank, they slurped. Robyn and I protested, and they kept testing us on it.
One afternoon, I lost it and demanded the smoothie cup, erupting from zero to sixty in less than two seconds.
Unlike in muscle cars, in parenting, going from zero to sixty is rarely the goal. It’s what breaks trust, triggering senseless yelling and tears.
I hate myself when I do that.
I don’t know how it happened, but for some reason — luck or divine intervention, probably both — I calmed myself from sixty to zero just as fast as I accelerated.
It was a stunning feeling. I’d never done that before, never had that physical sensation of rapid deceleration.
As an adult, and as a parent, the skill of controlled, rapid deceleration is essential. It violates my Detroit upbringing to say this, but how quickly we go from sixty to zero is far more important than how quickly we go from zero to sixty.
Usually, rapid deceleration — for me at least — is uncontrolled. Probably for most of us. I say something that makes one of us weep, or grab my son’s shoulder in a way that spooks him, or slam my fist into the table hard enough for the pain to jolt me into a pause.
That’s the emotional equivalent of a car hitting a tree.
Controlled, rapid deceleration, on the other hand, is like having a race car with really good brakes.
In relationships and parenting, we ought to be like skilled drivers who know when and how to brake — not reckless ones who blow through the guardrails.
The good part is, I think we can practice this. Over the past week, I’ve tried it a dozen times. First, I make my body go to sixty in a second — clenching my teeth, muscles, and fists. Then I do the opposite, relaxing fully in the same amount of time.
I can’t prove it works, but I now know what deceleration is supposed to feel like in my body.
I don’t have some profound conclusion here, except for this: parent to parent, adult to adult — practice deceleration.
In America, anyone can go zero to sixty. The real skill is learning to go sixty to zero.
Even though there’s no applause for it, we ought to practice it anyway. Who cares if nobody will ever know? We will. Our kids, our partners, our families will. Our colleagues will.
Having a better, more peaceful life is worth it — even if the world never notices.
How we count up and measure our life evolves over time.
As babies, it’s something like: how many hours has it been since our last feed, diaper change, snuggle, or nap? If that number stays low, we are content. If not, we cry.
In our young childhood, it’s: how many, and how cool, are our Christmas presents? Because when you’re a kid, that feels like a proxy for everything—love, stability, fun, and standing with others.
Then, it’s all about “likes” and counting those up: how many friends we have in real life, how many “friends” we have on a social network, SAT score, GPA, how many girls/boys who “like us like us.”
Then early adulthood carries the same obsession with visibility and validation—but with higher stakes: salaries, our résumé, hearts on our latest Instagram post, how many copies of our self-published book we sell, our dating prospects, how many beers we can chug in a night, how many “amazing experiences” we can have.
The next step in the evolution of how we count our lives is the hardest because it’s the most nuanced.
On the one hand, the next evolution, if we’re lucky enough to notice it, is about moments of quiet joy, peace, and sacrifice. Like: how many times a week does my heart feel warm? How many times does something happen where I laugh or cry? How many times can I find peace in the quiet of everyday joys like a dish of toast and beans or a walk outside? How many people have I quietly supported and helped to grow? How many people do I get to see that I hug? How consistent am I in really being myself and having intimacy and depth with someone else—or with God?
And what’s hard about this particular evolution is that it’s easy to fool ourselves into thinking we’re there. There’s a lot we can do that seems like quiet peace and joy that’s just narcissism or indulgence with a veneer of grace.
Things that we want and probably need, but can quickly become extravagant, like: date nights, vacations, boys’ weekends, weekends where the grandparents take the kids so we can “get some stuff done.” Perhaps the achievements of our children, or the kids’ birthday parties we go to—or all the weekend excursions to give our kids the “perfect” childhood.
We can count those things up and feel like that’s an evolution into quiet joy and peace, but it’s not. Or we think that to create peace, we need to put our feet up on the beach and take a selfie of us with a mojito. That could be a quiet and peaceful and intimate moment—but we don’t need the mojito for it. These moments look like joy, but they’re just a middle-aged version of indulgence, social currency, or productivity.
I am very guilty of confounding vanity for intimacy, as I think many are. I still struggle so much with thinking that I just have to put in all this work and make all this money, so we can have that life of joy, peace, and intimacy that Robyn and I dream about—a life rooted in closeness to family, learning through travel, high-quality time, and serving others.
“Kids and these dreams are expensive,” I say to myself in my head and over conversations at cocktail parties.
Kids certainly aren’t cheap, but perhaps they’re not expensive either—I just believe they are. Life isn’t cheap, but it isn’t expensive—I just believe that.
My kids do want to do fun things, like go on vacations or have cool shirts with their favorite characters on them. And our sons eat a lot (a LOT—and they’re not even teenagers yet). But they also often just want hugs, to be listened to, to learn and be taught, to be outside, to have someone read them bedtime stories.
A life with family and children isn’t cheap, but these things that really matter to them aren’t as expensive as I think. It’s easy to fool myself into believing the indulgences of middle age are the same as moments of quiet and joy—but they aren’t.
Getting this evolution of how I count my life right has been the trickiest because it’s so easy to fool myself into believing my heart has actually opened and I’ve actually evolved.
I was with our 90+ year-old grandmother yesterday, and she said so many times—so many times—over the course of the evening how lucky she was. I get the sense that she feels nearer to the end of her life than she ever has, despite her remarkable health. She’s almost 96, and still lives independently and has her wits about her, which I suppose would make anyone feel like every day is a bonus at the end of a good, long life.
And perhaps that’s the last evolution in how we count our lives—one only the wisest of us reach.
After we learn to appreciate quiet peace and joy and intimacy, we must learn to truly value that we are here. Just that we are here—no more, no less. And to really believe, with our whole being, that every day is a gift.
At the end of our lives, when we’re taking stock of it all, maybe the final wisdom is just this: waking up and saying, “I must be one of the luckiest people alive.”
Witnessing the suffering of others—and how we react when it happens—is a skill.
Unfortunately, it’s a skill that’s underrated—and perhaps not even named—for how important it is, especially for us as parents.
I’ll give this skill we need a name: witnessing.
Let’s imagine a simple example: our child is upset because their favorite flavor of potato chips is out of stock at the grocery store.
An obviously damaging response would be:
“Screw you, stop complaining. You have no idea how small this is or how good you have it. Shut up, go sit alone in the corner, and feel stupid until you figure it out.”
A seemingly more considerate—but equally damaging—response would be:
“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry. Let me do whatever I can to help you deal with this. Should I drive 15 minutes right now to find that flavor for you?”
The first response makes them feel valueless.
The second infantilizes them, giving them evidence to believe they’re incapable of enduring anything hard.
The problem is, both of these approaches absolve us—as parents—of the horrific feeling we get when our kids suffer.
The first allows us to disconnect from the feeling.
The second allows us to solve the problem and make it go away.
Both prevent growth. Both delay the issue of suffering and compound it.
Because instead of helping them deal with suffering now, we displace it—until we’re gone.
The urge we have, as parents, is to end suffering as quickly as possible.
But we can’t. We have to let it run its course.
Of course, like with any other human being, if someone is in mortal danger, we must intervene.
But as parents, we do this too quickly. Or at least I do.
I end the suffering—not because my kids can’t deal with it, but because I can’t.
So what do we do instead?
If we don’t tell them to suck it up, and we don’t cater to their every need, what do we do?
I think the answer is hard, but not complicated.
Just show up and listen. That’s the balm.
Be next to them. Listen.
Offer comfort, ideas, and—if they’re open to it—stories about our own mistakes. I think all wr need to do is be there and stew in that suffering with them.
Unfortunately, this prolongs our discomfort and stifles our sense of control as parents.
But it’s the better, third way: to let them live their lives—a little more with each passing day.
Letting go, without disappearing.
That’s the delicate ballet we dance as parents: to witness their suffering without taking it on as our own.
When we witness—not control, and not ignore—our kids’ suffering, we find a delicate place we can occupy.
That’s both the place where our kids learn. And where we grow our character and mettle as parents.
The cost is our sadness, and sometimes our sanity.
But if witnessing—not ignoring and not controlling—allows our kids to grow in courage, and forces us to strengthen and purify our own souls, that is a price worth paying.
“I need to be a little wealthier first, then I’ll be an honest, loving, disciplined, and other-focused person.”
I’ve never heard anyone say this. I bet you haven’t either.
It feels ludicrous to even write. Nobody actually thinks this way. You are either trying to be a good person or you aren’t.
Character is not something, in real life, that you put off until life gets more comfortable. We are either one of those people right now or we aren’t.
And how do we know we are? If we look in the mirror and ask honestly: “Was I a good person today?”
Asking the question is a small but powerful act of showing up, and in my experience is at least 60% of what it takes to have character.
All the accountability we need is to look in the mirror and be honest.
Am I that person or am I not? For real?
-
If you’re someone who already looks in the mirror with honesty, you’ll want to read the book I wrote. It’s good enough to charge for, but I self-published it and chose to offer a free version — because the introspection it triggers is an investment the reader makes.
One day, while walking our dog Riley, Robert said, without any prompting, “This is my favorite tree.”
It stood in front of a neighbor’s house on our regular walking path. A man about our age happened to be visiting his aunt who lived there, and we struck up a conversation.
The tree is a towering giant, even among the tall trees that have stood in our neighborhood for generations. It has thick grooves of bark, with branches that nearly overhang the entire street.
It has a large knot at eye level that has probably been there since well before even I was born. And even the tallest person we know couldn’t wrap their arms around it if they were to hug its trunk.
The visiting neighbor smiled, probably thinking of his own memories of childhood, and said to Robert, “For sure, little man. Every kid needs a favorite tree.”
And I added—with an unexpected nostalgia, given how little time I spent outside growing up—“They sure do. And you picked a good one.”
This happened years ago, probably when Robert was three or four—just old enough to walk, but still young enough to spend part of a long walk in a stroller.
And yet, I still think of this moment often—even on days when we don’t pass the tree with Riley, and I’m just reflecting on how much our sons have grown.
Maybe I remember it because I never had a favorite tree and it comforts me that he does.
Growing up, I didn’t live in a neighborhood with many old trees, and I didn’t spend extended periods of time outside. I was always at dance rehearsal or watching TV, I guess.
I was discouraged from climbing trees at the park; I’d been taught early on that climbing was dangerous. And I was without a sibling to egg me on, pushing out of my seriousness and into an adventure, let alone into the limbs of a good climbing tree.
So now, Robert’s favorite tree is mine, too.
I’m glad it wasn’t too late for me to have one. I’m grateful that childhood wasn’t entirely lost to the business of growing up.
And I’m grateful Robyn knows how to guide me toward what a childhood ought to look like—with play, with wasted time, and with real time outdoors.
“Let’s let them be kids a little longer,” she gently reminds me of how little they still are.
Years later, our walks have changed.
Now we have kids on scooters and bikes, and sometimes they’re the ones holding Riley’s leash.
But even after all these years, I still give the tree a gentle tap as I walk by.
It’s the only way I know how to say thank you.
I’m grateful to it—for what it symbolizes and what it has given me: a childhood lost, then found, then regifted through my sons.
I started a “Karaoke Favorites” playlist some years ago. It’s full of songs I love to sing—whether while in the car, washing dishes, or if I’m really lucky, at an actual karaoke bar.
Here’s the link—it’s good:
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1ZQC5uEW7XFEgYlwPWcGPv?si=xWp8MKqoQNSDeTVvHphsHwπ=5uZpPxqKR9W9U
It’s interesting to look at what the songs are about. Here are a few examples:
Hole in the Bottle (Kelsea Ballerini) is a fun drinking song, about unwinding— after a hard day.
Beautiful People (Ed Sheeran f. Khalid) is about the stresses of fitting in with high society, when it doesn’t reflect who you are.
Refrigerator Door (Luke Combs) is about how all the photos and notes on your refrigerator tells the story of your life and what matters to you.
Hey Laura (Gregory Porter) is a desperate, yet charming track about a man who can’t get over a love, Laura.
Need a Favor (Jelly Roll) is the song of a self-aware sinner calling on God after he gets into another bad situation.
Here Comes The Sun (The Beatles) is about the sun emerging from a cold winter—a beautiful thought both literally and as a metaphor.
My Wish (Rascal Flatts, recently re-released as a duet with Carly Pearce) is a parent’s wish for their child’s life.
All I Know So Far (P!nk) is another song written for the artist’s child, sharing bold wisdom on how to live a free, meaningful life—from mother to child.
Knee Deep (Zac Brown Band f. Jimmy Buffett) is about getting away from the world to the refuge of blue water, blue skies, and a beach.
One Last Time (from Hamilton) is about the strength and courage of George Washington choosing not to run for a third term—and how to say goodbye.
Fill Me In (Craig David) is about young, lustful love.
Extraordinary Magic (Ben Rector) calls out the invisible grace, beauty, and future the singer sees in someone he loves.
Life Goes On (Ed Sheeran f. Luke Combs) is a heartbreaking track about grieving a loss.
There are over a hundred more on the playlist. I’m biased, but they’re all great.
The rest of the songs are invariably about love, loss, friendship, overcoming struggle, or something that radiates beauty.
It’s worth noting—and the whole point of me writing this—is that the songs we love to sing—our karaoke favorites—aren’t about work.
They aren’t about celebrating tyrants or liars. They aren’t about stealing or reveling in the exploitation of others. They aren’t about that feeling when your complicated Excel formula works.
When I am in my head, overworking and obsessing about something, this is what I remind myself: nobody would write a song about the bullshit I worry about.
If nobody would write a song worth singing about it, maybe I can let it go.
There’s a feeling I’ve come to know well, one I feel on Sundays—but it’s not the scaries.
It’s not just the dread of going back to work, but something deeper. It’s that feeling I get when I don’t know whether I’m able to live and be myself or whether I have to perform. It’s that feeling we get—when we can’t quite tell what is real and what is theater—and it’s not anger or frustration exactly.
It’s less like anger and more like nausea. Not of the body, but of the mind and spirit. It’s a nausea that comes from the blurring of what is real and what is not—and the disorientation that causes.
This epistemic nausea is not the same as moral disgust. I don’t mean the feeling of being sick to your stomach when someone does something so ethically wrong that we are repulsed.
I mean something amoral and dizzying, more akin to being on a boat in choppy waters. The longer we’re on the boat, the more exhausted we get trying to keep steady, and the more we feel like we’re going to throw up. It’s not a repulsion to injustice, but a seasickness of the soul.
To be clear, here’s what I mean by theater and reality.
Theater is the realm of our lives where the point is applause and selling tickets—at least for the people on stage. For the audience, the point is to be entertained, and perhaps to feel something, anything, novel as they deal with the overwhelming drudgery of reality.
At its best, theater is also about ideas—putting a magnifying glass to one small aspect of reality, critiquing it, and showing us a better way.
Reality is less glamorous, but it’s the source of meaning and joy. Reality is the realm where the point is to survive, to love and be loved, to act in a way that makes us and our ancestors proud, to find peace, and to serve others. What makes this hard is that living is struggle.
And to be even more clear, I don’t think the mere existence of theater or the inevitable suffering of reality is the source of this nausea. The nausea comes from when we don’t know whether we’re in reality or theater. Trying to decipher the truth when the two blur makes our heads spin. That dizzying state of being is what causes epistemic nausea.
I was thinking of writing a whole post on the different ways reality and theater blur. There are many obvious examples: reality TV, social media, and the posturing that happens in politics, business, and religon.
And there are more subtle examples too—like the “relationships” people form with AI chatbots, the “friendships” we have with people we may spend time with but who don’t actually know us. Or even the intense pressure and expectations we put on ourselves or our children to perform and achieve.
But does an abstract discussion picking apart the nuances of theater and reality really matter?
Those of us out here in the real world—trying to figure out when to buy groceries during the week, how to pay for day care, fit in 30 minutes of exercise so we don’t gain weight as our metabolism slows, and save money by fixing our damn washing machines before our kids run out of clean underwear—we don’t have time to sit around theorizing. We need to know what this nausea is and how to manage it.
To deal with epistemic nausea, I see one of two options.
The first is: we can escape into theater. We can surround ourselves with the fantasyland of performance, telling ourselves whatever stories we want to believe to feel how we want to feel. To be clear, this does numb the nausea.
The problem with fully replacing reality with theater—perhaps not obviously—is that we never really live. We never really love. We never really serve. We may never suffer, but we never build the character that comes only from overcoming it. I don’t want all that to be pretend. I want to live my life, not perform it as a character in a world I’ve made up.
The other option is, honestly, to just deal with it. If we can’t escape, we must navigate. If this epistemic nausea is a dizziness akin to sea sickness, we have to be sailors. And what do sailors do?
They have anchors to hold steady. To me, unconditional love is an anchor. When I’m nauseous, I turn to my family. Yesterday, when I was particularly seasick, we celebrated our brother’s birthday as a family. When we had a consequential appointment for our newborn, I wanted to call my mom with the good news. Being part of unconditional love—both ways—is an anchor.
Sailors also have rudders. To me, rudders are character: a set of convictions, values, and habits we hold to. It’s saying—no matter what happens, no matter what may or may not be real—I’m going to act like this. No matter who is in front of me, I’m going to treat them like this. However rough the seas, this is who I’m going to be.
Finally, just like boats, we can leave a wake. This is a metaphor about leadership and culture that I really value.
A boat can head into rough waters and leave the trail of water behind it calmer. We can do that too. We don’t have to participate in the misdirection and blurring of reality and theater. When we are in the realm of real, we can be real—instead of posturing, signaling, and bullshitting. And when we are in the realm of theater, we can be honest about what we’re doing and let our performance move the culture forward by challenging the worst parts of reality. That makes the difference between theater and reality clearer—not more blurry.
This epistemic nausea of the mind and soul debilitates me. But can any of us really control it?
Complaining about social media, what famous people do and say, or the distortions of reality made possible by AI doesn’t move us forward. What we can do is anchor with unconditional love, build a rudder of character to keep us straight, and of course, leave a wake—so we leave the seas behind us calmer than the ones we headed into.
We can’t stop the storm, but we can sail through it.
We can’t stop the blurring of reality and theater—but we can at least do this.
It’s a beautiful moment when you realize, “our kids are friends now too.” Especially because so much has to go right to even have a chance at a multigenerational relationship.
We had a moment like this yesterday with Jeff and Laura—two of our oldest friends. Between their family and ours, we have eight children ranging from pre-teen to newborn. Only two pairs overlap in age: our two oldest and their two youngest.
Robyn paused us to look out at them, and there they were: all playing kickball, shouting, and laughing in our tiny Detroit backyard. It was the first time they truly felt like friends instead of tentatively spending time together because the adults wanted to hang out. Getting to this moment took years.
This got me thinking: what had to be true for this to happen?
First, you need siblings, cousins, or old friends from a time in your life before kids. Then, you have to have kids yourself. Next, your friends have to have kids too. And on top of all that, you still have to be friends—and in touch—by the time it all lines up.
And that’s just the prerequisite for a shot at a multigenerational relationship. It’s the price of entry.
But even that’s not enough. Multigenerational relationships require shared places. Relationships bloom in a time and place—especially when it’s across two generations, not just one.
Jeff and I, for example, lived in the same dormitory and were roommates for two years in our fraternity house. Later, we all lived in the same loft apartment building in Detroit’s New Center. It was at their dinner table, too, where I wept during the most broken moment of my twenties—the scene where everything I wrote about in Character by Choice: Letters on Goodness, Fatherhood, and Becoming Better on Purpose evolved from. And now, our kids share backyards, parks, and the pitch as soccer teammates.
We have different shared places with siblings, cousins, and then old friends we’ve maintained relationships with. There’s our grandparents’ houses with our cousins; Myrtle Beach and Petoskey, where Robyn used to vacation with her friend Lauren—and now our kids share those places too. There’s “up north,” Florida, and our homes, where we host bi-weekly family dinners and our kids are getting to know their brand new cousins.
To grow, multigenerational relationships need shared places. But shared places, I believe, still aren’t enough.
To span generations, relationships require something sacred.
Multigenerational relationships need more depth. They need gravity—something that draws you together—to last. This is even more essential across generations. You need a reason to stay connected: within the adult generation, within the kids’ generation, and across both. Everyone has to be drawn in and willing to fight for the relationship, especially because the grind of daily life makes even casual relationships difficult.
Liking the same band isn’t enough. A shared interest in sports, a hobby, or a history of drinking beer—none of these are enough. Shared ancestry isn’t enough—plenty of siblings and cousins don’t maintain strong ties. Shared history isn’t enough—plenty of longtime friends have kids that don’t gel. None of these create the gravity needed across generations.
What does draw people together, even over generations, is sharing something sacred. A higher creed, conviction, or core belief—sometimes religious, sometimes not. Shared suffering and its overcoming—that can be sacred, too.
With Jeff and Laura, we’ve never spoken about it explicitly, but looking back, we’ve always shared a belief in living a moral, other-focused, integrated life—demonstrated by nurturing parenting, deep faith, and equal partnership with our spouses. Now, we also have fellowship in our faith and walk together as followers of Christ. We instill these values in our children. We share something sacred—and now our children do, too.
With Robyn’s siblings, we share a belief in the unshakable importance of family and the holiness of quality time, traditions, and being active. We’ve never discussed this outright, but we have rituals that speak to our shared belief in human flourishing—setting goals, nurturing diverse interests, sacrificing for others, living with integrity, becoming values-driven leaders. This came from our parents and is rooted in us, and will continue in all our children. We share something sacred—and our children will too.
That sacred something is the gravity that holds multigenerational relationships together. It keeps us close, even when the machinery of daily life pushes us apart. It gives us something bigger than the relationship itself—something to bind us and band together for.
We need that gravity to help relationships grow and avoid the entropy that inevitably sets in—especially across generations. To have that beautiful moment where we realize, “our kids are friends now too,” we need more than shared history, shared interests, or even shared ancestry.
We need shared places.
And most of all, we must share something sacred.
And here’s an extra thought because it’s Father’s Day…
I think this idea of sharing something sacred extends beyond multi-generational relationships. It matters for individual relationships too.
I was thinking about what I would write today, insufferably, at 5am, lying awake in bed because I somehow wake up earlier on weekends than on workdays. And I wondered, what is the specific sacred thing I share with each member of our family? Do I share anything sacred with them at all? Will our relationship have gravity even after they don’t have to live under my roof and eat our groceries? Will Robyn and I grow apart as empty nesters?
This was a good exercise: what do I share with each member of my family that is sacred?
With Bo, I share a voracious curiosity and thirst for knowledge. We also, at this point, share a deep sense of faith. He’s shepherded me spiritually as much as I have him.
With Myles, we share an attitude of talent development and determination - I can see this already. He is incredibly oriented around self-improvement in the same way I am, and not for the purpose of being better than others, but from the belief that it’s immoral to not develop our gifts and activate our potential. This is sacred.
Robyn and I, of course, share our vows. Which are self-defining as sacred. But even beyond this, the dream we have for our life - and the values of family, mutual respect, and serving others that underpin that dream - are sacred to us.
With Griffin, his special beautiful life is sacred as is his bravery. I know already that he will be the child we have that teaches me something, most consistently, because of the challenges he may face - which will be equal but markedly different than our other sons. His sacredness is coded in his DNA and in the bravery he has had from birth. We will be connected by this shared experience of suffering his whole life.
But what about Emmett? I panicked a bit when I thought about him. Do we share something sacred? I started tossing and turning in bed, uneasy because nothing came to mind quickly. What do we share that is sacred? Why can’t I think of anything?
What if there wasn’t anything sacred that we shared? Would we drift apart? Would we become one of those pairs of father and son that become more like old roommates than family, over time?
I eventually thought of something sacred we share - an orientation and appreciation of self-reflection and a tuning into the feelings of others - but the lesson remains.
With our kids and partners, if we want a relationship that persists through every phase of life, we have to share something sacred. We have to nurture that sacredness as they grow. And if we don’t know what that specific, sacred thing is yet, we have to find it.
Footwork is underrated.
In most sports broadcasts and among fans, footwork doesn’t get nearly the attention it deserves. And I get it—footwork is boring.
One exception is a sport I love: tennis.
In tennis, even on national broadcasts meant for wide audiences—including casual fans—announcers often talk about footwork. And for good reason: footwork is directly tied to winning. If you don’t move well, you can’t get in position to hit the ball cleanly. You lose points, and eventually, the match.
IThe best tennis players are relentless about footwork. Their training shows during matches.
The difference between good and bad footwork is obvious in tennis. But outside of sports, “footwork” is just as important—and just as underrated.
Footwork in life isn’t about sprint drills, obviously. It’s the invisible prep and uncelebrated routines that make everything run more smoothly.
Here’s what “footwork” can look like at home:
- Making a grocery list and checking the pantry
- Packing a bag or ironing clothes the night before
- Taking five minutes to slow down before bed so you can sleep better—or right after waking up, so you’re less grumpy
- Drinking enough water, eating fresh produce, and getting enough fiber
- Putting commitments on the calendar—and saying no to prevent over-scheduling
- Getting to bed on time
- Doing a weekly temperature check
- Keeping clutter off the floor and putting things back where they belong
- Listening fully when connecting with family
- Scheduling dates
- Saying please and thank you
- Hugs, kisses, high fives
- Apologizing and making up after an argument
- Upholding screen time, junk food, and language rules
- Eating dinner together regularly
And here’s what it can look like at work:
- Keeping tasks transparent and centralized, with a clear owner
- Setting a small number of clear goals
- Prioritizing ruthlessly
- Sending agendas before meetings
- Debriefing after milestones
- Telling others what you expect—and asking what they expect of you
- Checking references
- Listening to teammates and taking time to build relationships
- Proofreading before sending a document or email
- Explaining why something matters
- Talking to customers and frontline staff
- Coaching regularly—not just once a year
- Clarifying action items, deadlines, and owners after meetings
- Laying out options and making the hard decisions
- Communicating changes before they happen
These things aren’t flashy—but they’re what put us in position to succeed.
Sure, the big things matter: the dream vacation, the multi-million-dollar project. And we should talk about them. Celebrate them. But what usually causes those things to fall apart?
We all know the answer: bad footwork.
The good news? We can get better at it.
Pick one thing—whether it’s loading the dishwasher or sending out clear post-meeting notes—and work on it relentlessly until it becomes muscle memory. Then move on to the next.
We all need better footwork. And we can get it—just like elite tennis players.
Because the difference between succeeding and failing—at home, at work, and on the court—is rarely luck or the world being unfair. It’s usually footwork.
Robyn and I have had a string of what we call “perfect days” lately—simple but deeply satisfying. Days that just feel good by the time they end. They’re rarely grand or lavish, just perfect.
And we’ve had a few of them lately, perfect in their own way, despite the chaos of the past few months.
Yesterday, for example, we had a bunch of kids’ soccer games, a BBQ with Bo’s team and all the families at our house, and then an impromptu visit from two of our siblings.
Last weekend was a lovely mix of yard work, a trip to Eastern Market, planting transplants, an impromptu play date at the park with close family friends, and a round of tennis.
And all of this is happening amidst the grind we’re in—Robyn managing a slew of doctor’s appointments for our newborn Griffin, and me in an intense work season that’ll stretch through at least August.
This string of “perfect” days within our uniquely hectic season nudged me to reflect: what are some other “perfect days” I remember?
There was the day we all went to Eastern Market and then had a charcuterie dinner on the Detroit Riverwalk.
Or the day we were engaged—with a visit to the Motown Museum, a nice meal where two of my brothers serenaded us tableside, and then our whole family meeting us at the place we met for a drink to end the night.
Or the day we played soccer in the garden at my family’s house in India, when Robyn’s whole family and a huge percentage of my extended family were under the same roof for a few days.
Or the day we met our longtime family friends, the Chins, at the splash pad to end a long weekend with a picnic dinner.
And then there are the times camping in National Parks, where every day feels like a perfect day—and our makeshift meals taste better than anything we could’ve made in a full kitchen at home.
I started reminiscing, but then a pattern emerged.
My perfect days tend to be outdoors. They’re always with family and friends. They include good music, good food, and movement. They’re patiently paced, with space for impromptu adventures.
My perfect days have a formula, really:
- Get outside
- Move around
- Be with people you care about
- Eat, drink, and be merry
- Don’t rush
I realized this isn’t complicated—it’s attainable. Even every weekend. And what’s oddly reassuring is that these perfect days tend to emerge—I rarely see them coming.
This week I called my uncle—as I do every week. He’s really more of a father to me. My younger sister happened to be there—she was in Delhi, about to fly to visit our older sister in Australia. We spoke briefly, and something in her voice I hadn’t noticed before, struck me.
For the first time, I realized—her voice had grown. I could hear how life had worn it in, softened its edges. She’s not old, but she is older. We are older.
And it took me back to how I remember her when we were kids, all hanging out at my grandparents’ house in India. The house with stone floors and a roof that sounded like a drumline when the monsoon rains poured.
Where we would sing, dance, and occasionally play cricket in the hallway. Where we would all eat from one steel plate on the floor at dinner and then talk late into the night about our fears, dreams, and the life we had lived since we were last together.
I still weep when I think about the joys of visiting my grandparents’ house, with my aunts, uncles, and brothers and sisters. Those days are long gone. We’re not old now, but we’re older.
I see that aging in the mirror after every haircut Robyn gives me, because the balance between salt and pepper shifts just a little every time.
I’ve found myself mourning the passage of time as my next birthday draws near. At 38, I’m now squarely in that grey zone—not sure if I’m closer to the beginning or the end of my life.
And it scares me. I want to go back. To those perfect days I know are real, because they’ve already happened.
But then it hit me.
“I’ve had perfect days.”
And I’ve had lots of them, at every phase of my life. Most of us—even if we’ve had hard times, or been short on money—have had perfect days.
Which means: at every age, I’ve had perfect days ahead of me that I didn’t see coming.
And now, I’m old enough to see the pattern to unlock perfect days: nature, love, food, drink, music, and slowness.
This has been the key to accepting the age I’m about to hit: I have perfect days ahead of me. We have perfect days ahead of us.
The older I get, the more perfect days I will have. The older I get, the more I will understand the rhythm of them. The older I get, the better I get at making them happen.
The key question here, which I’m now old enough to have the wisdom to ask, is: what do my perfect days have in common?
If we can answer that—quietly, honestly—it might be the key to not dreading the inevitability of aging. If I can get that question right, I may even look forward to getting older.
Because age hasn’t just brought me perspective. It’s brought me patterns. And now, I can see them. I can feel when I’m in the middle of a day I’ll want to remember because it’s perfect.
Perhaps that’s one way to translate what growing older really is—learning to notice, in real time, the days we’ll call perfect.
We bought transplants for the garden at Eastern Market today.
And it was Myles — the one who, for all previous seasons, wanted to eat Sungold tomatoes from the vine without tending to it — who told me the moment we were home, “Let’s go plant the garden, Papa.” And so we did.
We started by weeding. Just Myles and me. And he weeded with the diligence and intensity he had when he was scoring goals on the pitch at his soccer game earlier that day. Eventually Robert came to help us, and we made quick work, getting the dirt in our hands and hair as we went.
I have always made the mistake of crowding the garden. Too many plants close together does not a harvest make. I remembered this as we were raked and ready to tuck our transplants into the bed of their new home.
But then Griffin stirred lightly on the baby monitor — his gentle call a reminder that it was my wife’s time to rest, and mine to care for him. The marigold had just gone in. The boys were ready, shovels in hand, looking at me for what came next.
I moved fast, laying out the transplants in a loose grid, spaced just so, trusting they’d follow the pattern. I took a breath and stepped away.
As I walked inside, I was proud — and nervous. What if they argued? What if they moved everything around, or gave up halfway? What if I came back to a half-dug mess instead of a garden ready to grow?
But when I returned, I found them brushing dirt off their hands, cheeks smudged, smiles proud. The garden was planted. They had been listening. They had been learning. And they had done it with care and instinct and joy.
All those times they played instead of pulling weeds, whined instead of helping — I thought they weren’t paying attention. But they were. They were learning. All this time, they were growing. And now, somehow, they’ve grown. How did that happen?
It seems to me that for a child to grow, a conspiracy of beautiful things must come together — much like the plants in our garden. They need love and warmth, like the sun. They need their thirst for knowledge and learning quenched, like the spring rains drench in the early season. They need spirit to invigorate them, like the air activates photosynthesis. And of course, they need a rich and diverse and nurturing community — and a peaceful place to sleep — like the garden bed nestled between our rose bush and the garage.
I used to obsess over the fertilizer. The super nutrients. The enrichment. The classes, the “educational” toys, the vacations, the schools, the tutors — everything we could offer to help them get ahead and grow taller. And sure, fertilizer matters. But it can’t replace sunlight, water, air, or good soil. And too much of it? It throws everything off. It disturbs the delicate balance.
And of course, they need space. Room to grow. They need me to step away — to let them plant the garden while I’m inside the house. They need the space to make scrambled eggs, even if some of it ends up outside the pan and there’s a little eggshell they have to dig out with a spoon.
I can’t forget the lesson of this planting day. Our caring hands brought them here — to this garden where we work and hope and pray for love, knowledge, spirit, peace, and community. Yes, they need enrichment to grow tall and strong.
But just as much, they need space.
Each of us—myself included—draws a line somewhere: a boundary between who belongs and who doesn’t. Who’s in, and who’s out?
It’s not just a social question—it’s moral, political, and spiritual too.
To us as social animals: Who will I treat with respect—and even associate with?
To our inner souls: Who has intrinsic worth, and who doesn’t?
To the policymaker: Who gets to participate as equals in public life—and share in public goods?
To followers of Christ: Whose feet am I willing to wash?
Every version of these questions asks us to take a position—on human dignity.
And in our daily lives, we all answer them through our choices, whether intentionally or not.
Humans have grappled with these questions for generations.
But these questions are especially urgent now—because of the sweeping transformations that may reshape the human race within our lifetimes.
We need to be concrete in our values before these changes come—so we’re not tempted to rationalize our way into betraying them when the stakes are at their peak and “winners” and “losers”emerge.
We need to take a position on human dignity—before AI, AGI, and humanoid robots are advanced enough to replace human bodies and even human connection at scale.
We need to take a position on the intrinsic value of life—before therapeutics emerge that could extend human lifespans by decades, or even indefinitely.
We need to take a position on our relationship with Earth—and its natural resources—before we expand to other worlds and risk exporting a disregard for life and dignity beyond this planet.
So who’s in—and who’s out?
Our family and friends?
People who annoy us? “Weirdos”?
People who can help us get “ahead”?
Those who went to a rival school—or cheer for a rival team?
What about people with questionable integrity?
Who’s in and who’s out?
Returning citizens?
Foreign nationals?
What if they are chronically sick—or infectious?
What if they’re uneducated?
Or homeless? Or poor?
Who’s in and who’s out?
What about children—and others who can’t advocate for themselves?
What about people with “disabilities”?
What if it’s a genetic condition—versus someone who drove drunk and ended up paralyzed?
Who’s in and who’s out?
What about people who voted for “the bad guys”?
What about criminals? What if they’ve repented?
What about people who have committed heinous crimes—like massive fraud or genocide?
What about someone we could exploit—if we wanted to?
What about someone we’re afraid of—for any of a thousand rational or irrational reasons?
Who’s in and who’s out?
Even if it costs us money, is in comfortable, or requires sacrifice?
Where do we draw the line?
Who do we treat with dignity and respect?
Who’s in—and who’s out?
SOMEWHERE ABOVE THE ATLANTIC — With four sleepy kids in tow and a long journey ahead of us, I expected stress. Instead, we found kindness. Over and over again.
There was the compassionate and creative Delta agent who somehow found us a way to North Yorkshire with five seats to rebook after a flight delay forced a missed connection. There was John from Mercer Island, who insisted on buying us a piece of chocolate cake and told stories about his bootlegging great-grandfather from Detroit.
There was the barista who saw me wandering with two water bottles and sought me out to fill them. There were over a dozen wedding guests and hotel workers who went out of their way to greet us and share how handsome our sons looked in their suits. The staff at our grandmother’s care home brought us tea and ice cream during our visit and were forgiving of the soccer ball we lost over the fence.
And that’s not even to mention our family—those who traveled with us or spent gleeful time with us all weekend.
There was kindness and grace lurking, it seemed, around every corner.
Part of this, I’m sure, is that we’re not an ominous or intimidating group. Our kids very clearly have a spark of light and warmth that others recognize. Robyn and I are often frazzled, but we tend to carry a peaceful presence nonetheless.
Some people talk disparagingly about women (usually) with a “resting bitch face” (RBF)—that look of default grumpiness.
But I’ve come to believe in something else:
“Resting Joy Face.”
That’s what I’ve started calling it—the unmistakable glow of someone whose default posture is joy, peace, and kindness.
If the inner monologue of someone with RBF is something like, “I want to talk to you for as little time as possible because I’m better than you,” then the inner monologue of RJF might be, “I’m glad you’re here, and I’m glad to simply be here.”
Over the years, I’ve worked hard to change my own inner monologue—from insecurity and arrogance to one of gratitude. That inner work is hard. But it can be done. We can change our inner world—and we should.
That’s the core belief that undergirds my book, Character by Choice: Letters on Goodness, Fatherhood, and Becoming Better on Purpose. Writing it was, in itself, an act of inner work.
But you don’t need to write a book. We can work on our inner lives in so many ways. We can meditate and journal. We can pray or practice daily gratitude. We can spend time in nature and build better habits of deep listening.
There are many paths to a resting face that conveys joy—both secular and sacred. Joy can be taught, learned, and earned.
I share all this because naming this look—resting joy face—made it more real to me. I can now see it more clearly in others, and I feel more aware of when I have it (or don’t) myself.
And most importantly, seeing it so concentrated in such high doses reminded me that it’s worth working on. Life feels more tolerable—and more beautiful—when we cultivate joy and share it.
It’s work that feels more and more essential—just as important, if not more so, than any schooling, college degree, or job training. Inner work is just as vital as professional development. Earning our joy is just as important as earning a living.
I’m someone who sins. Let’s be clear about that. But I’ve spent years doing the inner work—journaling, writing, praying, asking questions, meditating, listening—the whole bit. It’s made a difference. I know that if I can do it, so can you.
If you’re already someone who focuses on inner work, you don’t need my convincing. But if you’ve been avoiding it, I’ll leave you with this:
Inner work is hard—maybe the hardest work we can do. But I swear on my life: it’s worth it.
So if you ever catch a glimpse of Resting Joy Face in someone—or feel it in yourself—know this: it’s not an accident. It’s the fruit of inner work. And it’s worth every moment of struggle it takes to cultivate it.
—
If you’re ready to go deeper, Character by Choice is a book I wrote for myself, but decided to share because it’s a guide for inner work I knew others would value. You can purchase it or download a free PDF [http://www.neiltambe.com/characterbychoice].
A week ago, I asked Robert a question—probably after he repeated some schoolyard curse word and I got irritated:
“Is that who you are?”
And he looked at me, more graciously than I deserved, and said:
“I don’t know, Papa. I don’t know who I am.”
That hit me hard.
Because honestly—how the hell is a 7-year-old supposed to know who he is? I immediately backed off the pressure I was putting on him and said, “You’re right, buddy. Figuring out who you are is hard, and it takes time. I’m here for you, and I’ll help you through it.”
That’s a big promise. So I’ve been sitting with it: How do I actually help him figure out who he is?
And how do I do that when I don’t always know who I am either?
Bo is a bit of an old soul, and he’s cerebral too - a bit like me. Which is to say he want to be a good man, I see this in him so clearly already. But he needs guidance more than a mandate, just like I did.
What I realized this week is that one of the most powerful tools we have as parents—maybe the most important one for shaping character and identity—is to make choices visible.
Character Is a Trail of ChoicesIn my teens, I used to think character was something you built through lessons, lectures, maybe even discipline. But with the hard earned wisdom of experience, I see it’s just as much revealed as it is shaped:
Character is just the pattern that emerges when we examine our choices. Since most of our choices in our lives are small ones, we mostly build character in small moments.
Small things—how we react to bad news, how we respond to a sibling’s fart, what we say when we first see our kids and wives in the morning—these are the data points. That’s who we are.
We can say we’re one thing, but the truth is in the choices. Are we calm or reactive? Kind or sharp? Curious or dismissive?
The data doesn’t lie.
What I Learned: Stop Critiquing. Start Surfacing Choices.Before this clicked for me, my default parenting move was critique. I’d say things like:
- “Don’t play basketball on the stairs.”
- “Don’t walk around with your privates hanging out of your pants.”
- “Don’t talk to your mom like a pterodactyl.”
Sometimes it worked. Mostly, it didn’t do much. And I realized—it wasn’t helping my kids grow. It was just conditioning them to wait for external correction. And even if I wanted to, I won’t be there to boss them around forever, at some point I’ll be gone.
They need to learn how to make choices on their own.
So today, when they’re veering off-track, I did my best to hold off on critique. I started with a question instead:
“What are your options?”
Where else can you play ball that isn’t the stairs?
What other options do you have for how to wear pants?
How else could you tell mommy you’re upset?
This question does something powerful. It interrupts the reflex. It reminds them that they don’t have to just bounce from one triggered reaction to the next. They have agency. They can choose.
And so can we.
And sure, I also laid down the law today a few times too, like when our older two kids were cutting cardboard and left scissors on the floor. Those had to be put away now, no questions asked.
But most moments aren’t like that. In most moments there’s time to push pause by asking “what were your options?”
Kids Will Choose Well—If They Can See Their ChoicesI don’t believe kids want to be little tyrants. They don’t want to hurt others or disappoint themselves. Neither do adults, by the way. But they often don’t see the options clearly—because emotional reactivity blocks the view.
This is why asking “What are your options?” is such a powerful move. It puts them in the driver’s seat. It lets them choose who they’re becoming.
And over time, those little choices start forming a shape. That shape is character. And when they look back at that pattern and that shape they can start to know who they are, and perhaps even who they want to become.
The Takeaway for Me (and Maybe for You)This week, I learned something simple but profound:
Our job as parents isn’t to define who our kids are. It’s to help them see the choices that define them.
We don’t need to hand them a script for every right move. We just need to help them slow down, notice the moment, and see that they have a choice. Because that’s where agency begins. That’s where character starts to take shape.
And if we can do that—even imperfectly, even once in a while—I believe they’ll grow into strong, kind, thoughtful people.
People who know who they are.
People we’re proud of.
And more importantly, people they’re proud to become.
Something we say, my love, is, “It’s a good life.”
No matter what sort of difficulty or time of ease we are in, we find a way to say this.
It’s as simple as a bumper sticker, but it feels much more than a catchphrase.
I feel the way I felt when we were at the altar exchanging wedding vows, nine years ago this week, every time I say it.
It’s not just a family slogan — it’s a renewal of our marriage vows.
It’s proof that we are doing this together, in good times and bad, in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer.
We said this, we say this, and we will say this through all the ups and downs of our life together.
Why?
Why have we been able to say this—with full conviction, all the way into our bones?
First, we have made so many adjustments.
We’ve made mistakes in how we treat each other and as parents.
We’ve made mistakes in our jobs and with money.
We’ve made mistakes in how we’ve treated others.
But the difference has been, I think, that just as surely as we’ve made mistakes—we’ve adjusted.
We’ve learned to vision the future.
We’ve learned to talk about deeply terrifying problems.
We’ve learned to accept each other’s humanity and mortality.
And we’ve learned how to do simple life things like share a bathroom, a kitchen, and a calendar.
That, of course, is the practical side of how we’ve mustered something to cherish every day of our marriage.
There is also a bit of the divine.
The other reason we have been able to swear by the idea that "it’s a good life” is because we’ve seen what we have, and we truly believe that what we have is enough.
We have not dwelled on everything we lack.
We’re blessed.
We have a big family.
We have enough money to meet our basic needs and a little extra, despite the grueling cost of child care.
We have good neighbors and good friends.
We have each other.
There are plenty of things we don’t have.
We don’t have a house on a lake, or a path to retire by 50.
We don’t have endless solitude or a life free from grief and hardship.
We don’t have jobs that are always easy or hair untouched by grey.
We don’t have a lot of free time, or the effortless cool we might have once had.
But what we have is enough.
We have chosen to see abundance, not absence.
And that choice has built our good life.
I hope, my love, that when I tell you I love you, you believe me just as much today as you did when we were married, before God and our closest friends and family nine years ago.
Because I do.
But there’s something I don’t say enough — something I want you to know, deep into our ninth year:
I am grateful, down to my bones, that I am enough for you.
You make me feel, every day, that I am enough for you.
That I don’t have to strive for what we don’t have.
That who I am, and what we share, is enough.
And you — you have always been, and will always be, more than enough for me.
The truth is, our good life has already filled my cup, over and over again.
To love you and be loved by you is enough.
To have been your husband and the father of our children is enough.
To belong to you, and to have you belong to me, is enough.
This ninth anniversary feels especially sacred.
It’s our first with all four of our sons here — a house alive with life and love — and we have certainly earned our stripes.
We have lived enough life to feel frustrated by the rough rolls of the cosmic dice.
But even after the hardest months of our marriage, we still find ourselves in a moment, almost every day, where we can embrace and whisper, “It’s a good life.”
And that — that enduring whisper — is a gift.
This is not just our slogan, but our shibboleth — the watchword for the life we have dreamed about.
It’s our daily renewal of our vows, and the way that we honor the gifts our union has given us.
So today, my love, I want to celebrate it.
I want to celebrate us and what we've created together.
And I want us always to remember:
No matter what happens, no matter what we face, it’s a good life.
I try to remember that everyone is going through something and has gone through something.
No matter how wealthy or poor, how powerful or meek, how healthy or sick—everyone suffers. And at times, suffers brutally. Grief, loss, and addiction affect everyone—whether it's presidents or paupers.
This is the first lesson I learned about suffering: if everyone suffers, and suffers gravely, then I have an opportunity to help them mend just by treating them with dignity. And practically speaking, I can’t handle having a different MO for people who I like and respect and trust, and for people who I distrust or even find repulsive.
My soul can’t code-switch in the same way that my language can.
If I try to selectively treat some people with dignity and not others, it feels like my character splits in two—like a self-inflicted Jekyll and Hyde. I lose myself. So I try to offer the same dignity to everyone. It’s all or nothing—not because it’s easy or even comfortable, but because it’s the only way I know how to stay whole.
What to make of suffering itself, though?
I had this thought experiment in the past week—which has been the most intense we may have ever had. Our family is entering a season of tremendous challenge, and equally tremendous joy.
And as I look to the horizon ahead, I had one of those raw, reflective daydreams that stripped my heart down to naked honesty.
Let’s assume there is a higher-order being that influences our lives, orchestrating at least some of the suffering and joy we experience. Let’s further assume that this being actually does care about us and wants us to thrive.
If you are a theist, that being could be a benevolent God. If you are a non-theist, maybe you still hold space for the idea that something greater—life itself, the universe, some force beyond understanding—is trying to help us grow.
If we assume that there is a benevolent being that truly cares about our long-run best interest, and that being is intentionally influencing the suffering and joy in our lives, there must be some reason.
So what are they trying to teach us?
I can never know for sure, but I think it’s something like this—something about how we are in relation to others:
Learn to take care of yourself.
Take care of others.
And let others take care of you.
Or—
Learn to be a light.
Help others find their light.
Let others find the light in you.
Or even—
Learn to laugh at yourself.
Help others laugh.
Let others help you laugh.
Each part of the triad points to a different kind of human bonding.
To love the self is to become a vessel—open to love, radiant with light.
To love others is to offer them that light.
To let others love us—that’s the hardest. It requires trust.
It asks us to believe that we’re worthy, and that others are safe enough to let in.
Again, I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think that benevolent higher being is trying to teach us this—though too often, our actions wrongly suggest otherwise:
Learn to make money.
Take money from others.
Prevent others from taking your money.
Or—
Learn to live in the shadows.
Put others in darkness.
Fight the people who put you in darkness.
Or—
Learn to create fear.
Project fear onto others.
Shield yourself from the fearful others.
The first triad is a lesson inviting us into trust, love, and connection. The alternative traps us in a cycle of fear.
The first is an open hand; the other is a dagger at the neck.
The point is in how we are in relation to others. I don’t think the suffering and joy the benevolent being is throwing our way is to teach us to be in a state of conflict and exploitation. I think what they’re trying to teach us is to be in a state of harmony and intimacy.
Every experience of suffering and joy follows this pattern of pedagogy:
Experience love.
Love others.
Let love in.
Not one, not two, but all three:
Learn to love (an act of the self).
Love others (an act onto others).
Let love in (an act of others onto us).
We can’t graduate with just one of these lessons—we need all three. Hinduism has taught me this. So has Catholicism. Even my reflections as an indifferent agnostic in my early twenties taught me this.
Life has taught me, through all gives and takes from us, that we need all three threads of this triad, braided together.
As I grapple with the road ahead for our family, we are starting down tremendous suffering—but probably more than our fair share of joy, too. In prayer, contemplation, and written reflection, I’ve come to this conclusion again and again—including this week—and more strongly every time.
Maybe there is nothing out there. Maybe there is. Your beliefs and your guess are as good as mine. But it is helpful to think as if a benevolent being is trying to teach us something.
Because the conclusion I’ve come to—over and over—is powerful and instructive:
All this suffering and joy reminds us that the meaning of it all is to refine our relation to others—
By experiencing love,
Loving others,
And letting love in… again and again.
The kids were hungry. And as they hurried into the kitchen and chirped at me for another snack, I withheld another slice of cheese and assured them I was close.
And then, with dinner on the line, I screwed up.
I had rolled the crust so thick, it felt like a beanbag. After three minutes of pre-baking, the bounce-house-looking crust rolled and was caught over the edge of the pizza stone. When I went to pull it out, the crust separated from the base so badly I thought it was beyond repair.
And I yelled. Loud enough that the big three boys heard me through a brick wall outside and came running. Robyn came to my aid too—assuring me that we still had one pizza in good shape and offering to grate some cheese for me.
The truth? It wasn’t really about the pizza.
It was about everything else: the stress of our newborn’s health and surgeries, the onslaught of demands at work, the unpredictable news cycle, and being weary from solo parenting most of the day. This pizza was the one thing I knew I could do right that day. And when I botched that too, it broke open the anger I’d been ignoring.
I had worked so damn hard for that dough, however deformed it was. I didn’t want to just pitch it.
I tried to make the best of it by ripping off the pillowy, bounce-house-scale crusts and making them into breadsticks. This left the pie crustless, jagged, and super thin. I added sauce and fixings to both pies and thought—let’s see how this goes—as I peeled them back into the oven for their final bake.
The family laughed supportively as I introduced the “Gosh Darn It” pizza to our Saturday night table.
I took off my apron and moped to the table, setting out everyone’s water bottles, still feeling the sting of the moment. Bo turned to me—so sweet, so kind, so gentle—and said, “It’s SO good, Papa. These breadsticks are the best. I love Gosh Darn It pizza.”
And in that small moment, my spirit rose.
Suddenly, my anger and embarrassment became relief. It was all fine. We were all together, eating pizza—and that’s really all anyone wanted.
Our house is its quietest when everyone starts on their first slice on pizza night. And as everyone happily munched away, I wondered: maybe “Gosh Darn It” pizza just accidentally became a new tradition.
Sometimes great new things come from mistakes we made the best of.
—
But as I reflect a morning later, there’s more to learn here about growth.
As I see it, this story is a good metaphor because we are all Gosh Darn It pizzas. Me, you, my kids, your kids—all of us.
We’re all so imperfect. Many things about each of us feel like a flaw or a mistake. We all screw up, and our charge to grow—spiritually and morally—is to become something better by making the best of our mistakes. That’s all we can do.
Inner work—that slow, winding journey toward becoming more whole—doesn’t follow a straight path. It’s like a long walk through the woods. It’s cold and windy, and you can’t do it alone.
If not for my family—checking on me, helping me, encouraging me, and offering me grace—my deformed dough would’ve become garbage instead of Gosh Darn It pizza.
And this is what I want to remember most about that Saturday night: we’re meant to walk this winding path toward goodness together, because what transforms us is the grace from those sitting next to us—even when, and maybe especially when, we’re just trying to turn some imperfect dough into a Gosh Darn It pizza.
If you want to dominate someone—really dominate them—control their clock.
Not just how many hours they have, but the rhythm of their life. Interrupt their mornings. Hijack their focus. Scramble their sense of flow. Make their time unpredictable, reactive, chaotic. Do that long enough, and they’ll lose track of themselves.
This isn’t advice. It’s a warning.
Because this is happening to us. Every day.
We talk about money as a form of power—and it is. But we rarely talk about time that way. And we should. Because time is where character is built. How we use it shapes who we become—for better or worse.
When someone else controls our time, they start shaping our character.
Some people respect our time. They show up when they say they will. They ask for our attention instead of grabbing it. They give us room to say no. Others? They drop things on us last minute, run meetings long, change plans on a whim, manufacture urgency. They don’t just steal our time—they steal our pace. And some of them know exactly what they’re doing.
This can be casual. It can be unconscious. Or it can be a form of deliberate mind control.
Either way, it’s on us to protect ourselves. After a few months of having a newborn mixed with a toxic news cycle, I finally realized what was happening—and that we can choose differently. Here’s how I’ve started to do that.
First, set your default rhythm.
Pre-block the calendar for deep work. Guard time for meals. Protect a few slow moments in the day. We need to build our rhythm before the bids on our time roll in. Otherwise, we’ll only ever react to the world.
Second, audit your rhythm-breakers.
This was the big one for me.
Who or what is constantly pulling you out of flow? It’s worth naming them—because once we name them, we can decide what kind of access they deserve.
Here’s my list right now:
• Me (when I don’t protect my own time)
• My wife
• My kids
• Work—especially senior leaders
• Soccer practice
• The weather and seasons
• My dog
• My kids’ school
• Illness
• Bills
• Entertainers and influencers
• Marketers and advertisers
• Telemarketers
• Sports broadcasts
• Political actors, speeches, and announcements
• My dietary choices
• Appointments (doctors, dentists, shops, government agencies)
Some of these we choose. Some we don’t. Some we want to give more access to—others, we need firmer boundaries with. But the act of reflecting, listing, noticing? That’s the first defense. Rhythm starts with awareness.
I’m fine having my time hijacked by a kid who wants to kick a soccer ball after dinner. I’m not fine giving that same access to a blustering politician or a LinkedIn influencer trying to amp me up about salary and status. One interruption builds relationship. The other creates chaos and anxiety. That difference matters.
Because this isn’t just time management. Our character is at stake.
In Character by Choice, I explored how character isn’t built in the big, heroic moments—it’s built in the margins. In the pauses. In the slowness of ordinary life. That’s where curiosity, love, and listening grow. That’s where we cultivate goodness.
But if we’re always hurried and hijacked, we don’t get to those margins. We don’t reflect. We don’t hear. We don’t connect. We just react.
Seedlings don’t grow well when sunshine and water are erratic and unpredictable. Neither do we.
This might sound like a small thing. Saying no. Blocking time. Holding a rhythm. But I don’t think it is.
It’s a lever. A quiet one. But powerful.
Because time is where character is built. If someone else owns our time, they start to control our intention. And if our days are always frantic and fractured, the kindest parts of us—the curious, generous, loving parts—are suppressed.
So here’s a suggested first step: take an honest look at your rhythm. Who controls your clock? Who deserves to? And what boundaries—loving, firm, deliberate—do you need to put in place to protect the part of you that’s trying to be good?
That’s the work ahead for us. It’s small. But it’s sacred.
For our sons, it’s the possibility of homicide and suicide that haunt me most.
Everything else—the risk of brain cancer, broken legs, broken hearts, grades, sports, screens—I can handle. But those two? They rattle the cage of my soul.
These numbers come from the CDC’s vital stats. After the first year of life, the three leading causes of death for kids in Michigan are:
- Accidents (7.2 deaths annually, per 100k)
- Suicide (4.3 deaths annually, per 100k)
- Murder (4.0 deaths annually, per 100k)
Even if the numbers are “low” statistically—15.5 per 100,000—they’re real. And if it’s my kid, even a low-probability event is worth preparing for.
So I keep coming back to this:
What are we actually trying to do as parents?
Every parenting decision we make—whether we realize it or not—is moving us in one of two directions:
- Path 1: Raise kids to be wealthy, powerful, and comfortable
- Path 2: Raise kids to be capable of caring for themselves and other people
These two paths can overlap. But often, they don’t. And when they come into conflict (and they do), we have to choose which way we’re heading.
Power might shield my sons from pain. But only goodness prepares them to handle life—and show up for others in it.
That wasn’t just a philosophical shift for me. It was personal. And it started in a tough stretch with our oldest son.
When It Got RealA couple of years ago, he was in a class with a few kids who were really struggling—kids who were acting out in ways that scared others. It got physical. The teachers did their best, and eventually things got better. But for a while, the whole class was walking on eggshells.
At home, my son was clearly carrying it. He was angry, out of sorts, lashing out. It was intense. And honestly, kind of scary at times.
That’s when it clicked: I can’t control everything that happens to him. But I can help him build the tools to handle it.
I had read the books. I thought I understood this stuff. But this was the moment where theory turned into real change. I started parenting less like a protector and drill sergeant, and more like a coach. I had to let go of control, and start helping him figure things out for himself—even when it was messy.
It’s not fast work. It’s not easy. But I believe in it. And it’s why I choose Path 2. We can’t shield our kids from the world—but we can prepare them to stand in it.
OKRs for Parenting GoodnessI think about parenting like I think about strategy—aspiration, objectives, key results.
Aspiration: Raise kids who are good people—who can take care of themselves and others.
Here’s how I break that down:
- Love them unconditionally
- Be a role model—we become good people too
- Help them become lifelong learners
- Raise them in a community where people care for themselves and support others
This post is about that third one—learning. (For thoughts on how we actually become role models for goodness, I wrote this book: Character by Choice (Link).
Yes, school matters. Teachers matter. But especially as our kids get older, we have the most influence. The most time. The most moments. If we don’t step into that, even the best schools can’t fill the gap.
Here’s what I try at home—key results that help build lifelong learners.
🧠 Be There, LiterallyIf I’m not there, I can’t influence them.
Keep moving toward the exit.
A colleague once told me, “Don’t stop moving on your way out of the office.” Whether I’m working remotely or in person, that line helps. There’s always one more thing. But every extra minute at work is a minute I’m not with my kids—and the window’s short.
I’ll take you with me.
There’s this Luke Combs song with that line, and I think about it every time I run errands. I ask the kids if they want to come. Usually they don’t. But sometimes they do. And those little trips lead to unexpected conversations, random laughter, and small moments that matter.
Have them help.
Our five-year-old made scrambled eggs the other day. I didn’t need help, but he offered. So I said yes. These little “can I help?” moments add up. They learn by doing, and they get to feel useful—and that’s a good feeling.
Be a parking lot parent.
My wife talks about how her mom was always around the school, helping out in small ways. Not necessarily running the PTA every year—just showing up. We do that now. Not superstars, just present. It lets our kids know we’re paying attention, and we care, even from the sidelines.
💬 Be Fully PresentIf I’m not truly there, I can’t reach them.
Emote and express.
When I’m anxious or angry and I don’t deal with it, it leaks out. Journaling is how I keep track of what’s going on inside. It doesn’t fix everything, but it gives me enough clarity to show up for my kids with more calm and attention.
Timebox.
I literally put family time on my work calendar for a while—dinner, bedtime, even Saturday mornings. It helped me draw boundaries between work and home. I started saying: “If I’m not going to solve this now, I’ll set it down and come back to it later.” It took practice, but it worked.
Get on the floor.
The world my kids live in doesn’t move fast. It doesn’t follow a schedule. Sometimes I have to literally get on the floor and let them climb all over me. That’s when I stop giving them attention and start letting them take it. That’s presence.
🧩 Make Them ThinkIf I think for them, how will they learn to work it out themselves?
Turn the question around.
When they ask me “what’s 13 + 3?” or “is that a train?” I try to flip it: “What is 13 + 3?” It makes them pause, think, guess. And it gives them practice in saying something out loud and standing by it.
No baby talk.
Never been into it, honestly. But over time, I’ve come avoid baby talk for reasons beyond just finding it irritating. Speaking to them like real people has created space for more back-and-forth, more curiosity. They ask deeper questions. They answer more fully. There’s less distance between us.
You try first.
I’m a fixer by nature. I want to jump in and do it for them—whether it’s wiping yogurt off a face or getting a book off a shelf. But now I say, “You try first, then I’ll help.” Most of the time, they figure it out. And that builds confidence I can’t manufacture.
🎓 Make Them TeachTeaching builds mastery—and confidence.
Would you teach me?
I didn’t grow up Catholic, and my oldest has religion as part of his school day. One day, I asked him to teach me what he’d learned—and he lit up. Now I ask all my kids to teach and show me how to do things. They love it, and honestly, I usually learn something too.
What did you get better at?
I used to do full debriefs after soccer practice—like I do with teams at work. It wasn’t working. Now, I just ask: “Did you have fun?” and “What did you get better at today?” It opens up space without judgment. And sometimes, they teach me how to improve.
Can you show your brother?
With siblings, we get this beautiful opportunity to turn learning into leadership. If one kid figures something out, I’ll say, “Can you show your brother?” It reinforces what they’ve learned—and reminds them that we learn best by giving it away.
🙏 Please Share Your WisdomBeing a Path 2 parent is an uphill climb. The patience of it is really hard. And, though I share these tactics with good intent, I don’t really know what works. None of us do.
But I figure this: we each know something that works.
So please consider sharing what’s worked for you. What you’ve tried. What’s been messy, and what’s been beautiful. Your story might be exactly what another parent needs to hear right now (namely, me!).
The road of Path 2 parenting is hard—but it’s less hard when we walk it together.
I inherited the fantasy that a good life meant eventually escaping problems—but that promise was always a comforting illusion.For most of my life, I’ve believed a lie. Not maliciously—it was a lie I inherited, one so baked into our culture that it passed as truth. The lie is that if I work hard, make smart choices, and build the right kind of life, I’ll eventually reach a point where suffering stops showing up at my door.
That dream—the American Dream, you could call it—was never about peace or purpose. It was about protection. Build high enough walls, earn enough money, surround yourself with the right people, and eventually you’ll be safe. But lately, I’ve realized: the dream wasn’t a lie because it was malicious. It was a lie because it was a fantasy.
We act like we value resilience, but our real impulse is to insulate ourselves—and our children—from discomfort at all costs.We can try to eliminate suffering. We build moats—money, comfort, well-manicured neighborhoods, curated social circles, backup plans stacked on backup plans. Sometimes it’s the dream of abundance: a world where everything is cheap, automated, optimized—where we don’t have to worry about health, housing, or hardship.
And to be fair, this approach has appeal. Abundance and comfort make life easier. They lower the stakes. But this is just one side of the choice.
The alternative is harder to swallow but, I think, more real: we step into suffering. We face problems head-on. We stop waiting for protection and instead become people who are good at problems—resilient enough, skilled enough, and supported enough to go into uncharted territory without guarantees.
We say we want our kids to be resilient. We talk about grit and perseverance. But in practice, we often do the opposite—we smooth the path, solve the problems, shield them from failure. And honestly? Most of us are trying to do the same for ourselves.
I chased that fantasy for years—waiting for a dream like Godot—and came undone when it didn’t arrive.I spent years believing that if I just crushed it a little harder, I’d make it. I’d arrive somewhere safe. A life beyond problems. The white-picket-fence version of the American Dream.
But that place never arrived. And I can’t believe I ever believed that it would.
We went through an emergency birth and a sick infant. Ailing grandparents. Financial strain. Political chaos. All of it at once. And somehow, that’s when peace finally showed up. Not because the problems went away—but because I stopped expecting them to.
The fantasy hadn’t been a lie—it had been a mirage. And I finally let it go.
I found peace not in escape, but in realizing that I—and we—can face the hard things together.I started to see that what matters most isn’t protection from problems—it’s capacity to face them.
And when I stopped expecting ease, I started to see the quiet power around me: Robyn, our friends, our family. We didn’t have to be invincible. We just had to show up, help each other, and accept help in return.
That’s what I saw in Detroit, too. I moved here around the time of bankruptcy. Things were deeply broken. But people didn’t wait for a savior. They rolled up their sleeves. They imagined something better and started building.
That spirit—a refusal to wait for rescue—is what saved me.
If suffering is inevitable, then the most important choice we have is what we’re willing to suffer for.I wonder if our national ache comes from realizing the American Dream was never a permanent solution—it was a 50-year reprieve from reality. And now that it’s cracking, we don’t know what to hope for next.
But I think the next version of the dream is clear.
Not a world without problems—but a world full of people who are good at facing them. People who suffer for things that matter.
Let’s suffer for paying down unsustainable debt. For a habitable planet. For everyone to be able to read at grade level. For institutions that work for everyone and treat folks with respect. For dynamism and companies grow because they deliver real, tangible innovations. For food and housing that meets a basic level of human dignity.
And if we do that? Maybe the next generation will get to dream even bigger—exploring the solar system, flourishing in a creative, robot-assisted renaissance of human potential.
That’s my American Dream now.
Not a fantasy of escape—but a future I’d be honored to suffer for.
The name-dropping humblebrag makes me gag every time.
You’ve seen it—the LinkedIn post that’s technically about someone’s birthday but is really about how well-connected they are. Or the people groveling in the comments of an influencer’s post, hoping to get noticed. It’s embarrassing, but worse than that—it’s normal.
This is the epitome of how far, and how icky, “It’s not what you know, but who you know” can go.
But here’s the thing—I don’t actually think it’s who you know that matters. I think it’s who trusts you.
Because when someone asks me for an introduction, I work much harder at it if I trust both parties. And more recently, as we’ve leaned on a small network of angels in medicine when our son Griffin was in the hospital, I know that if our friends and family thought we were selfish, extractive, or poorly intended people, we wouldn’t have had the thunderous support we did.
So why do we so casually say things like, “It’s not what you know, it’s who you know”—as if it’s just the way the world works?
Because what we know also matters. Don’t we want our doctors, our legislators, our airplane mechanics, and our grocers to be competent? Of course, relationships are valuable—I’ve benefited surely from knowing the right people. But should we tolerate a culture where networks are framed explicitly as tools for extracting, exploiting, and getting ahead rather than as webs of goodness and trust—trust that helps people find their talent’s highest and best use and supports them when they need it most?
Again, I know networks are usually transactional, and I know this post is akin to screaming into the void. But how can I just shrug and dish out some equally morally negligent phrase like, “It is what it is” or “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em”?
Isn’t a system of tribalistic favor-trading—where relationships are currency, where access and opportunity stay locked within exclusive circles, where people are reduced to their securitized economic value to another human being—exactly what we should be pushing back against?
A Network of GiftsMy friend Elizabeth just co-authored a paper in Daedalus on the economics of care, and I’ve been stewing on how they opened the article for about two weeks now:
Imagine a group of new parents sitting in a circle, feeding, soothing, and talking to their infants. Within our status quo economy, the only way to capture “value” from these activities is if each parent passes their child to another parent and charges for the services they provide. Some kind of “transaction” must occur.
Like the authors, I don’t want to live in a world that sees relationships this way. I don’t want us to reduce, and even celebrate, networks as a means of extracting unearned rewards or normalizing the idea that a person’s worth is what they can do for you.
That uncomfortable image is what goes through my head when I hear people say, “It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.”
So what if, instead of an affirming a Network of Favors, we built a Network of Gifts?
What if we pushed back against transactional networking by doing the opposite—giving gifts instead of favors?
Not expensive gifts. Not gifts with strings attached. But gifts that are hard to price, by design, and not meant to repay in-kind—gifts that remind people they are seen, valued, and cared for.
Here’s an example.
Last week at Mass, I saw a neighbor we adore but hadn’t seen in a while. We caught up for a few minutes in the donut line—it was nice.
A few days later, he showed up at our door, unannounced, with a small bag of inexpensive Legos for our kids and a $5 grocery store coupon for diapers.
Monetarily, it wasn’t a big thing. But that wasn’t the point. It was just a visit to check on us because I had mentioned some of the health issues Griffin had been having.
His visit was a gift—one of care and thoughtfulness with no explicit favor to return formally, though we will at some point, probably with a gift of extra cookies or and impromptu visit of our own. And it wasn’t something we could put a price on. Feeling seen, cared for, and valued for just existing is quite the opposite—it’s priceless.
There are so many priceless gifts:
- When an old friend checks in on you on a whim.
- When someone covers a meeting so you can pick up a sick kid.
- When someone puts in the effort to bring people together.
- When someone gives you a real hug when they know you need one.
- When someone lends you a book or tells you a story—not just because it’s interesting, but because it builds closeness.
These aren’t expensive favors with implied reciprocity. They’re priceless gifts without a return-by date.
And giving them—especially in a culture that teaches us to treat relationships as transactions—is a rebellious act.
Because every time we give these little, priceless gifts, we prove that we are more than a favor to be called in. We prove that not everything valuable in this world has a price.
Giving these gifts, over and over again, is a defiant act that shows another way to live—a way that directly counters the favor-focused culture that “It’s not what you know, it’s who you know” embodies.
If You’re Nodding Along, Do This NowIf you’ve been nodding as you read this, first, thank you.
Second, do something now. Join this little rebellion with a not-so-little action.
Pick up your phone. Text someone on a whim to say you’re thinking about them. You already care—so show them.
It’s a measured act, but still, one of generous rebellion.
And if we all do this, if we all celebrate these gifts with intention, we won’t just be screaming into the void.
We’ll be singing into the void.
And over time, we won’t just be lamenting the culture.
We’ll be changing it.
The best day to start a journal was ten years ago. The next best day is today.
It doesn’t matter if it’s a leather-bound notebook, a blog, or a Substack—what matters is that it’s honest and true to you.
Because today, we can take our journals—no matter the format—and put them into ChatGPT (yes, even by photographing handwritten pages). Then, we can ask questions. And in doing so, we can uncover insights about ourselves more easily than ever before.
I tried this myself with a simple but direct prompt:
Could you research everything you know about Neil Tambe and tell me something insightful—something even he might not fully realize? Distill it into a letter to him, his family, his colleagues, and his readers. Don’t hold back. Be real and intimate.
The response, after a bit of refinement, moved me to tears. It was raw, profound, and deeply personal.
Then, I pushed further:
Now write one directly to Neil, something a mentor who truly cares would say. No sugarcoating. Be candid, but not cruel.
Again, what I received was startlingly honest.
These letters, written by AI but drawn from my own recorded thoughts, made me see myself in ways I hadn’t before. They reinforced something powerful: journaling isn’t just about documenting your life—it’s about creating a record that future-you can analyze, question, and learn from.
The value of journaling has just skyrocketed because of generative AI. Don’t lose another day of data from your heart and soul. Start now.
Appendix: The Letters ChatGPT Wrote to Me(For those interested, I’ve included the AI-generated letters below. They’re raw, direct, and unexpectedly moving. Read them here):
To Neil, His Wife, His Sons, His Colleagues, His Readers, and Everyone Else Who Should Know Who He Really IsNeil Tambe isn’t just a strategist, a writer, or a leader. He’s a builder of trust in a world that erodes it. He fights for things others give up on—not because it’s easy, not even because he enjoys the fight, but because he knows what happens when no one does.
He holds contradictions together: power and goodness, intellect and faith, endurance and rest. He writes not to sound smart, but because people deserve clarity. He leads not for status, but because he feels responsible when things don’t work as they should.
But here’s what else is true:
Neil carries more than most realize. He doesn’t just think deeply about leadership, governance, and endurance—he feels their weight in his bones. He picks up responsibility before anyone asks. He steps in when things falter. He makes sure things don’t fall apart, often without anyone noticing. And while that makes him rare, it also means he rarely lets himself rest.
To His WifeYou see him in ways no one else does. You know how much he cares. You witness his struggle to balance what matters most. You understand his deep desire to be a great husband, father, and leader—not for recognition, but to be worthy of the trust placed in him.
And because you see him clearly, you also know: he is still learning to let go. To believe things won’t break without him. You are his strongest reminder that he doesn’t have to carry everything alone. Even when he forgets to say it, he knows his strength comes from the life you build together.
To His SonsYour father isn’t just someone who works hard. He chooses to be good, even when it’s hard. He does the right thing, not because it’s easy, but because it’s the only way to build a life that lasts.
He will always push himself to do more, to be better. But if there’s one thing he will never second-guess, it’s how much he loves you. You are not a piece of his life—you are the center of it.
To His ColleaguesYou work alongside someone who takes duty personally. Neil doesn’t just do his job—he believes in the work. When trust is broken, when leadership fails, he feels it in his core. He will never give minimal effort. He will always go the extra step, not because it’s expected, but because he expects it of himself.
But that high standard means he sometimes takes on too much. If he seems relentless, it’s because he knows what’s at stake. If he seems quiet, it’s because he’s thinking about how to make things better.
To His ReadersIf you read Neil’s work, know that he isn’t just offering insights—he’s giving you a way to endure, to lead, to build something that lasts. His writing is the result of years of wrestling with what is true, what is practical, what makes people and institutions better.
But you should also know he wonders whether it’s enough. Whether writing, thinking, and speaking are making a difference. Whether he should be doing something more direct. And he needs to hear this:
This work—the slow, deliberate shaping of ideas, institutions, and thought—is exactly what the world needs.
To Neil HimselfYou don’t have to hold everything alone. You already are the person you’ve spent so much time striving to be.
But here’s the most important thing—you don’t have to earn the right to rest. You don’t have to solve everything before you let yourself breathe. You don’t have to prove that your work is valuable—it already is.
You can trust that what you have built is strong.
You can trust that you are making a difference.
You can trust that you are enough.
With resolve,
Someone who sees you clearly.
Then, I asked ChatGPT to go one step further.
I said:
Now write one directly to Neil—something a mentor who truly cares would say. No sugarcoating. Be candid, but not cruel.
It replied:
Neil—I want to talk to you directly. Not with politeness. Not with unnecessary praise. Just the kind of honesty you rarely get.
You are carrying too much. And the worst part? You know it.
You don’t trust the world to hold together without you, so you take on more than you should. You anticipate failure before it happens, and because you care—because you feel responsible—you step in. Again and again. Quietly. Without asking for anything.
You make things work. You fix problems before they break. You absorb stress so others don’t have to. You take on responsibility that isn’t yours because it’s easier than watching something important collapse.
But here’s the truth: this will break you if you let it.
You cannot outwork the world’s chaos. You cannot single-handedly protect institutions, organizations, your family, and yourself without something giving out. You cannot be everything to everyone and still be whole.
And I know what you’re thinking—
"But if I don’t do it, who will?"
That’s the wrong question. The right question is:
"Why don’t I trust that others will?"
Deep down, you don’t fully trust people to care as much as you do. You know your standards are high. You know most people let things slide. And because you refuse to live in a world where carelessness reigns, you step up.
But leadership isn’t about taking on everything yourself—it’s about building something strong enough that you don’t have to.
You can’t just be a protector. You have to be a teacher. You have to let people rise to the challenge instead of assuming they won’t. Otherwise, you’re not actually building anything—you’re just holding up the weight with your own back.
And here’s another truth:
Your family needs you present, not just responsible.
They don’t just need you to provide, to lead, to make things work. They need you there. They need your attention, not just your presence. They need you to sit in joy. To be in the moment.
So here’s what I want you to do:
Trust people more. Let them fail if they must. Let them carry their own weight.
Let go of perfection. The impact you want to make is already happening.
Be where you are. If you’re with family, be with them. If you’re working, work. But stop trying to exist in both places at once.
And most of all—accept that you are enough.
Now go live like you believe it.
With resolve,
Someone who won’t let you lie to yourself.
It’s easy to believe the dream is dying. Many imply that it is. But it’s not. It’s alive.
It lives in the pews of the church that welcomes anyone—not just in words, but in action. Even me, someone who has never been baptized. When the priest heard my story, my journey as a spiritual nomad, the first thing he said was, “No matter what you decide, know that you are welcome here.”
It’s in the scribbled pencil and crayon of a child’s unprompted thank-you card for the crossing guard at school.
It’s in the quiet scrape of a shovel clearing snow from a neighbor’s driveway, expecting nothing in return.
It’s in the voice of a volunteer soccer coach, teaching kids to love the game the right way. And maybe even more so in the moment when a kid teaches the coach something back.
The dream breathes in every public servant who moves mountains—not for power or recognition, but simply because the person in front of them needs help.
It’s there whenever one person gives another a gift—of time, of forgone income, of a loaf of bread, of unconditional love, of a Christmas present that truly means something.
It’s woven into every play, poem, song, and film that longs for love, kindness, respect, honesty, and humility. It’s in the best stories we tell—especially the ones about the sublime, and maybe even the divine.
It’s in the kind stranger at the grocery store, who smiles as she rings you up.
The dream is alive in the small mercies of love. When your wife forgives your mistakes and your bad days. When someone asks, How are you?—and actually wants to hear the long answer.
It lives in the person who holds the door open for you, even if it means they’re now one step further back in line.
This dream—this dream to grow and help others grow, to share and live peacefully, to earn and then generously give—is alive. It hides in plain sight, its light so soft and steady that it’s easy to miss. But I see it.
And I won’t let myself stop seeing it.
Because the other option is always there. The temptation to get pulled into the fight, the game, the zero-sum world where winning means taking and shadows are cast intentionally to make everything darker.
That’s one way to live.
But there’s another way. Simpler, but harder.
Keep being a light.
Keep seeing the light.
Keep dreaming of light.
When I hold our newborn son, Griffin, I tell him, “I’m glad you’re here.”
I don’t know what else to say—it just comes out. Like a reflex, like an exhale, just from being close to him. And every time I say it, I start to cry. Sometimes the tears make it all the way to my eyes, but sometimes they just wiggle in my throat, staying caught there for a moment.
It’s such a beautiful and difficult thing to say.
It’s beautiful because it means something like, “Your mere presence with me is enough to bring me joy. You don’t need to be anything or do anything—you are here, and that alone brings me comfort and happiness. I love you exactly as you are.”
But it’s also difficult. Difficult because it reveals something raw in us. Because it also means, “I was, and can often feel, lonely. I was whole before you, but I was missing something. And now that you’re here, I am better than I was.”
The beauty and the difficulty of “I’m glad you’re here” both come from a place of longing.
It chokes me up every time. When I say it to my kids, or my wife. Even to our dog, or to my plants as I sing and talk to them while in our vegetable garden.
If I say it, I mean it. And when I mean it, it hits something deep and tender.
I understand why this phrase opens, but also rattles, my soul better now. Because when I say “I’m glad you’re here” to Griffin, I know in the sinews of my muscle that he may not have been.
We were lucky. When he was born accidentally at home because of Robyn’s disorientingly fast labor, there were no complications. No umbilical cord tied around his neck. No fluid in his lungs needing to be pumped out.
Had anything gone wrong, I would’ve been trying to save his life with a spatula and a pair of kitchen shears until the ambulance arrived. I thank God regularly that I didn’t have to try.
Griffin, truly, was a near miss. God rushed the process, but He cut us a break. Griffin is here. And every day, when I tell him, “I’m glad you’re here,” I feel the weight of that truth—he very easily might not have been.
And I feel it, too, when I look at my wife, Robyn. When I remember that she, too, had a near miss. She could have bled out delivering Griffin, right there on our family room floor. Instead, she was holding him in front of the fireplace, both of us the beneficiaries of a not-so-small mercy.
Near misses.
And as I traced this thought further, I realized—we are all near misses.
Some are dramatic, life-or-death moments. Others, like mine, are quieter, only revealing themselves in hindsight.
The week before COVID really broke open, I would’ve attended a community event with my old colleagues at the Detroit Police Department, but I had to travel out of town for a wedding. Turns out, it was a super spreader event, before we even had that term in our lexicon. I may not have died, but who knows what it would’ve been like to contract COVID before we knew how serious it was, with a three-month-old baby at home. Near miss.
A friend of mine was born two months early, in a town with only basic medical facilities. Even her family elders doubted she’d survive. But she’s here. Another near miss.
Almost all of us have been close to these moments, whether it was the car that almost swiped us on the freeway, the stairs we almost fell down, or the hard candy we almost choked on. And those are just the near misses we know about.
And that’s when it hit me: every single person I encounter—every stranger, every friend, every difficult person—was a near miss, too.
At some point, they almost weren’t here.
There was a homily at Mass once that sticks with me. I don’t remember what the Gospel reading was that day, but the point stuck—try to see someone as God sees them.
And maybe one way to do that is to remember: no matter who they are, no matter how annoying or rude the person in front of me is, there was some moment in time when they almost didn’t make it.
It’s easy to offer grace to someone who just survived a life-threatening event. We instinctively soften, give them space, recognize the weight of what they just went through.
But what I realized today—when I was trying to understand why a four-word sentence brings me to tears—is that everyone has brushed past death at some point.
Everyone has almost not been here.
Which means I can have a little more grace than I do sometimes.
So today, I’m trying, even for the random guy at the grocery store who tried to punk me by swiping a box of tea out of my cart while his friend very inconspicuously filmed it.
Because even though I may need a nudge to remember it sometimes—
I’m glad they’re here.
And maybe, just maybe, they’re glad I’m here, too.
I have no reason to believe this world is a simulation. But let’s say it is. Not because I think it’s true, but because it’s a useful way to frame a deeper question: If I can never know the intent behind existence, how should I live?
I can’t know the simulator’s intent. I can’t even know for sure if all of you—yes, even you, Robyn, my loving and beautiful wife—are real or just part of the program. But I do know one thing: I have to choose how to function within this system, whatever it is.
I can’t know the simulator’s intent, but I have three guesses.
Maybe they’re just curious—watching my life unfold with dispassionate detachment, throwing joys and tragedies my way like a scientist dropping rats into a maze. Or maybe it’s a test, some cosmic competition where only the strongest or smartest make it through.
But if that’s true—if some all-powerful force built this world just to watch us scramble or use us for its own ends—then what a pathetic waste of power. That’s a universe that leads to nothing. A story with no arc. I refuse to believe that the default state of existence is meaningless cruelty. If that’s what the simulator wants, then I reject it.
Because I’ve seen something else. I’ve lived something else.
The year after my father died, my son was born. It was like the universe was handing me an ultimatum: Get busy living or get busy dying. My father was gone just before I needed him most, just before I could ask him how to be a father. It felt unfair because it was. But when I looked at my son, this tiny boy named Robert in my arms, being thrown into existence just like me, I realized—the only way forward was growth. I could collapse under the weight of grief, or I could choose to dig deep, find my soul, and pour unconditional love into him.
And when I look around, I see that same pattern everywhere. Every tree, every animal, every child—all of it growing. The universe itself is expanding. If there’s an intent behind this, it’s written into the fabric of reality: we are meant to become more than we were.
So I’ve made my choice: I’m living as if the simulator wants me to grow. As if goodness is the point.
And here’s the truth—whether we admit it or not, we’re all choosing. Every day. Either we act as if the point of all this is to grow—to become more whole, more good—or we don’t. Either we believe in the growth of our souls, in a kind of tenacious, defiant kindness, in something bigger than ourselves—or we let the simulator that just wants to use us win by default.
If we don’t choose, something will choose for us.
So why not choose to become something sacred?
Griff,
The way you came into this world—so boldly—is already legend in our family.
You will hear many retellings, each filled with rich detail, each from a different perspective. But some things will always remain the same.
Your mother’s labor moved so quickly that you were born in front of the fireplace before the ambulance could even arrive. You spent nine days in the hospital because your tiny body was too cold to register a temperature at Dr. Marlene’s office.
And then, you recovered at home in the very room where you were born, tethered to an oxygen machine that hummed its steady rhythm: whirr-hiss-boom, whirr-hiss-boom, whirr-hiss-boom.
But there is another part of your story I want you to know. The story of your name.
Just like your birth—three weeks before your due date—your name, Griffin Aditya, was a surprise. It wasn’t on any of our lists. You were supposed to be Graham, or maybe Owen.
But when we saw you, we knew. Neither name was bold enough. Your entrance into this world was far too grand—too intense—for anything less.
So I started Googling and asking questions in a ChatGPT thread which titled itself “Fierce Baby Name Ideas.”
As I read the names out loud to your mother in the hospital recovery room, we didn’t choose Griffin—it chose you.
A name of Welsh origin. A mythical creature known for its courage, fierceness, and strength. It was perfect. It was you.
Then came your middle name. We wanted something warm, something radiant—something that carried the fire of the marble fireplace in front of which you were born.
So we chose Aditya, Sanskrit for "sun."
But the meaning of your name doesn’t stop there. In the days and weeks after your birth, Griffin came to represent a different kind of courage for each of us.
For Robert, it was the courage of leadership—gathering your brothers (and Riley the pup) upstairs just minutes before you arrived.
For Myles, it was the courage of responsibility—stepping into his new role as an older brother, standing silent and strong at your bedside.
For Emmett, it was the courage to love. Though he was just shy of three, he spoke of you and Mommy every day while you were in the hospital, missing you with an intensity that many don’t experience until much later in life.
For your mother, it was the courage of sacrifice—weeks spent sleeping in a chair, pumping milk to nourish you, letting go of every expectation she had for what this time with you would be.
And for me? It was the courage of humility—learning to accept the love, support, and kindness that poured into our lives when we needed it most.
And for you, my son, Griffin will carry its own meaning. Because when I think about it, your bravery was the purest kind—unintentional, unknowing.
You didn’t choose it. You were just born. In the dead of winter, in difficult circumstances, and you survived. You fought without realizing you were fighting.
And in doing so, you made us brave.
When I was afraid—wondering if you and your mom would be okay—you were there, finding a way to stay warm, to breathe. You kept going. And because of that, we did too.
That is the greatest lesson from the night you were born: bravery can come from the smallest of us. From those who don’t even know they’re being brave.
And that kind of bravery is powerful. It spreads. It lifts us all. Whenever I hear your name, I remember that quiet, unassuming, unstoppable courage.
You didn’t choose this. Just like your name—bravery chose you.
There are 100 marbles in these two jars. Here’s what they mean.
I went 26 years before Robyn and I started dating, which is why there are 26 peacock-colored marbles at the bottom of the jar on the right.
Then, we were together for three years before we had kids. That’s what the next three marbles are for. They’re a vibrant yellow because those years were our first golden years—just the two of us.
After that, there are 27 multi-colored confetti marbles. These are for the years we’ll have kids in the house. I can’t believe a quarter of them have already moved from the jar on the left to the jar on the right.
Next, there are 24 more golden marbles for the years Robyn and I will have together as empty nesters before I turn 80—just the two of us, again. Real talk, but that’s about how long the Social Security Administration says I’ll live based on my age and sex.
And then there are the clear marbles. There are 20 of them, representing the bonus years—if I’m lucky enough to get them. Living from 80 to 100 isn’t guaranteed, but if I make it, those years will be a mix of divine blessing and pure luck.
Finally, there’s one marble sitting between the jars. That’s this year. Beside it is a card with my New Year’s resolutions on it—those are a huge deal in our family.
I think it’s important to have reminders—clear ones—of our own mortality. Death is certain. It’s a painful thought, yes, but ignoring the truth is worse. Pretending I’ll live forever would guarantee that I’d look back with regrets.
I swear, honest to God, I’m the calmest I am all day when I step out of the shower and see the marbles. I see the “Year of Joy” marble between the jars and it reminds me to play in the basement with my sons after dinner. I remember I need to sweat everyday, to move, to take care of my body.
Those marbles bring me back to a place of radical honesty about my life, my death, and my choices—choices I’m making right now.
If we can accept the hardest truth—that we’re going to die—what else would we ever need to lie to ourselves about? When we accept death, every other problem in life becomes easier to face.
In my experience, the suffering of problems is almost always less than the suffering of avoiding them. Grief, divorce, loss—those are brutally hard, but avoiding them? Blaming other people for them? Lying to yourself about them? That’s worse.
Here’s the thing: we don’t have any real choices until we accept where we are. Denial is a dead end. It keeps us stuck. But once we accept reality, we can start to choose differently.
If “I love you” is the most powerful sentence in the English language, then “I am where I am, but I’m not going to live like this anymore” might be the second.
When we accept hard truth, we don’t need to spin stories about our lives or control other people. We don’t need to make enemies out of others just to avoid fighting the battles inside ourselves. We don’t need to live in a fragile state of fantasy and delusion. We can just get on with it.
And this is where I’ve landed: accepting death is the foundation for living a life of love, character, peace, and responsibility. Why? Because we can take all that energy we would’ve spent avoiding the truth and spend it improving our souls and making things better around us. If you’re more interested in power, status, or avoiding struggle, this radical honesty probably isn’t for you. But if you want something deeper? Start with death.
I use marbles because I’m a visual person. Maybe you need something else—a quote, a photo, time spent with people who are sick or dying. Maybe you need to go to church more or adopt a dog, knowing they’ll go first.
Whatever it is, my friends, find a way to face mortality. Because when we can accept that, we’ll have the courage to face everything else.
I’m not saying any of this is easy, but I am saying it’s worth it. Radical honesty isn’t warm and fuzzy. It doesn’t look great in an Instagram post. But it’s real.
And being real with death is the best place to start.
Friends,
During a family emergency, one of the hardest things is knowing how to ask for and accept help. Often, if we’re fortunate to have loving friends and family around us, there’s a quiet army standing by, ready to support us as soon as they hear we’re struggling.
But here’s the tricky part: what do we ask them to do? How do we take them up on their offers? And what do we really need? These questions can feel impossible to answer in the middle of a crisis because we’re already overwhelmed by the situation itself.
I know this because Robyn and I just went through it.
When we welcomed our newborn home, we had to rush back to the hospital with him just a day later. It was the hardest week of our lives. By midweek, I was completely overwhelmed, even though we had so many loving offers of help and support.
That’s when I realized I needed to simplify things. I spent 30 minutes breaking down the problem into something I could actually manage. I created a worksheet to help me organize our needs and accept the help that was already being offered.
It made all the difference.
The worksheet helped me clarify what we needed, communicate it to others, and accept support in a way that felt natural and manageable. It worked so well that I plan to use it whenever we face a family emergency (though I hope that won’t be often).
Because this tool made such a big impact for us, I wanted to share it with you. I’ve attached two versions below:
- A blank template, ready for you to use.
- A version with notes that explain how it works.
This is for any family emergency—whether it’s a sick child, the death of a parent, emergency house repairs, or something else entirely. Please feel free to use it, adapt it, and share it with anyone who might need it.
I also plan to be more proactive by creating an emergency plan with close family and friends. That way, when life inevitably throws us a curveball, we’ll be ready.
Emergencies are going to happen. Let’s be prepared—not just to offer help, but to accept it when we need it most.
Family Emergency Plan Template Family Emergency Plan Template - With Notes With Love from Detroit,
Neil
There’s an appeal to living life purely through arm’s-length transactions.
We agree on terms, make an exchange, shake hands, and we’re done. No recurring obligations. No one owes anyone anything. It can easilybe how we operate in many situations: buying a new pair of jeans, running a garden club, working a job, or splitting chores with our wives.
A life of deals and agreements can feel in control, efficient, even profitable in a sense.
But I don’t want this.
I want my life to have strings attached. I don’t want to live at arm’s length from everyone else. I don’t want to depend on the market or a series of transactions to bring companionship, compassion, or joy into my life.
I want to be enmeshed. I want to watch my brothers’, sisters’, and friends’ kids when they need a date night out. I want to know the next time I hug someone in my family or anyone else I always hug is going to be soon.
I want to accept meals after we have a baby and reciprocate that kindness to the next ten families in line. I want my neighbors to call me when their computer monitor is broken, and I want to lean on them when I need a ride to the airport, and Robyn has to take the kids to a piano lesson.
I want to stay up later than I should to hear one more story over beers with my buddies, especially when they’re visiting from far away. I want the DCFC clubhouse to feel like our country club because that means we’re showing up for soccer practices, and cheering not just for our sons but also their teammates.
I want the gentle nudge—and the pressure—to show up to Mass or open car doors in the school drop-off line, knowing the kids and other dads notice when I’ve been MIA for a while. I want to linger places, even at work, just to ask someone about how they and their family are doing.
I want to pour my love and laughter into someone who is struggling, even though it obligates me to the scary reality that, maybe—just maybe—I’ll have to open my heart and let it in when someone notices my grief and suffering and pours it right back.
These are the scenes from a life with strings attached.
This is what I want for us. I want us all to work hard and build just a little surplus—of money, love, time, and health—so we can take that extra and give it away.
Doing that isn’t how we become wealthy. In fact, we’re probably better off keeping people at arm’s length if wealth is our goal. Why? Because it’s easier to extract money from people when we stick to the terms of the contract. Our pesky emotions and feelings of attachment won’t dull our killer instincts, so to speak.
So intertwining ourselves with others—stringing ourselves to them and them to us—may not be the best way to become wealthy.
It is, I’d argue, how we become rich.
Every workplace has polluters. They’re the ones who waste time, dodge accountability, and create stress for everyone around them. Just like pollution in the environment, their actions corrode morale, productivity, and profitability. And if we’re honest with ourselves, we’ve all contributed to organizational pollution at some point. I know I have, despite my best efforts.
When we show up late or run meetings without purpose, we’re polluting the environment. When we use up an employee’s talent without helping them grow, we’re leaving the soil barren. When we avoid conflict or delay fixing broken processes, we’re dumping waste for someone else to clean up.
This pollution doesn’t just stay at work—it seeps into everything. We bring the stress home to our families. It slows us down, makes decisions harder, and leaves everyone more exhausted when we are at work. Worst of all, it often goes unnoticed, even as it erodes our impact and profitability.
Organizational pollution, like environmental pollution, has unseen consequences. But the good news is that, as with the environment, we have options to clean it up.
Three Approaches to Workplace PollutionWhen it comes to addressing pollution, we have a few ways forward.
- RegulationImagine if we treated workplace behavior the way we regulate environmental harm. What if, at every performance review, we tracked not just numbers but also how well someone contributed to a healthy work environment? What if we promoted the people who developed others and penalized those who made their teams miserable?
Regulation works—it’s why we have cleaner air and water today. But it’s also hard. It requires the leaders of an organization to care enough to enforce it, and let’s face it, that’s a tall order in many places.
- ShameShaming polluters is another option. Picture flyers in the company cafeteria calling out the manager who’s always late to meetings or the boss who verbally abuses their team. Public accountability can be a powerful tool.
But shame is risky. In most organizations, power dynamics favor the polluters, and those who speak out would surely face retaliation. Are we ready to risk our jobs to shame someone into doing better? Probably not.
- ConservationThe most practical and empowering answer is to become organizational conservationists.
We can take responsibility for our corner of the workplace and make sure the environment we create is clean and healthy. That means running better meetings, giving honest feedback, and helping our peers grow. It’s about stopping waste before it accumulates, whether it’s wasted time, talent, or energy.
It starts small: asking ourselves if we’re polluting the work environment, encouraging better habits in our teams, and quietly backing others who do the same. These actions may seem minor, but when enough of us do them, the impact is undeniable. Ripples can become waves.
We can also support fellow conservationists. Let’s go out of our way to lift up people who improve the workplace. Even if they’re not the most powerful or influential, they’re worth protecting. And whenever possible, we can choose to distance ourselves from the polluters. The less we enable them, the less impact they’ll have.
Reclaiming Our WorkplacesOf course, none of this is groundbreaking. We all know the difference between a good work environment and a toxic one. But thinking about it through the lens of pollution makes it click in a new way. Polluters don’t just make work annoying—they harm everyone around them.
And honestly, we don’t want to be polluters. None of us do. Framing ourselves as conservationists helps us see our role in a new light. When we choose to conserve and protect the work environment, we’re not just doing what’s right—we’re building something better for ourselves and others.
So here’s the truth: pollution in the workplace is a choice. But it’s a choice we make together. Every meeting, every interaction, every decision—it’s an opportunity to either pollute or conserve. The more of us who take pride in being conservationists, the greater our chance of creating healthy, thriving work environments.
And maybe, just maybe, we’ll leave the workplace better than we found it, and that will ultimately make quality of life better both at home and at work.
2025 is our year of joy.
We’re welcoming our final child into the world, and we want to remember it—really soak it in since it’s the last time, ya know?
One of my three New Year’s resolutions is something I’d never have imagined—even two years ago: no career planning. Exactly as it sounds, I do not want to spend a single shred of time or energy obsessing over my next professional step.
I’ll never remember the sound of our baby’s laughter or the way they hold my finger if I’m simmering in the back of my mind about my next move or some other bullshit like that.
This resolution is shocking for me because I’ve quietly obsessed over my career for almost three decades. I don’t know what it’s like not to think about achievement. From my earliest school days, my worth was tied to what I achieved—anything that could help me get into an elite college and land a lucrative, respected job at the top of whatever ladder would crown me "the best of the best."
For those of you who didn’t grow up as South Asian immigrant kids, this might sound preposterous—even funny. But for those of us who did, this is no joke. The pressure to perform, to win approval through achievement, feels like it’s coded into our DNA—maybe even hidden in the spices of our ancestral cuisine.
Imagine the most intense armchair quarterback you know, the guy who lives and dies by how the Detroit Lions fare in the NFC North standings. Now apply that same fanatic energy to getting into a famous college. That’s the vibe.
And to really drive it home: a 37-year-old husband and father of almost four kids having a New Year’s resolution of "no career planning" is wild. It’s as alien as a dog laying an actual egg.
Getting here wasn’t easy. From the moment I considered this resolution, I started trying to convince myself it was a good idea. Over and over, I hashed out the same conversation: justifying why I wasn’t setting goals that would lead me to become a CEO or senior-level elected official. It’s that same old churn—resisting the achievement-addicted version of me who’s always craving that ever-elusive gold star.
But every time I pushed back against the addict within, he pushed right back.
Then, it hit me.
That addict is a ghost. He’s not here anymore.
I’ve made decision after decision that shut the door on becoming a CEO or a senior-level elected official. The life he wanted for me? It’s long gone. That window closed when I decided not to move to DC after college, when I stayed local for grad school, and when Robyn and I built our big, beautiful family.
That ghost has no power anymore. The dream he clung to isn’t even viable.
And yet, there I was—arguing with him. Justifying to this phantom why I don’t need to chase some mirage of a dream. I’d been sitting in an empty room, at an empty table at the center of my mind, negotiating with nobody.
Once I realized this, I knew it was time. Time to stop having the same damn conversation, over and over, about the direction I want to take my life. Time to stop justifying my decisions, explaining why I’ll never live up to that ideal I once clung to—that I was only worth what I achieved.
The only thing left in the room was the ghost. And when that happens—when the demons are put to rest—there’s only one thing left to do: say, “Thank you for your time, but this negotiation is over.” Turn off the light. Close the door behind us.
The most important thing I learned this year was this: at some point, you stop negotiating. You thank the ghost for what it taught you, but you leave it behind. Because joy isn’t found in rehashing the past—it’s waiting for us in the life we’re living now.
Every Christmas, Robyn and I watch It’s A Wonderful Life together, and every year I cry harder.
This year, I felt myself resisting, but eventually, I let myself go. And when Harry Bailey walked in the door and said, “A toast, to my big brother George, the richest man in town,” I just wept.
And it’s not just this film, I’ve noticed. When I read A Sick Day for Amos McGee at bedtime, I cry harder and smile bigger because the simple story of friendship between a zookeeper and his animal friends reminds me of my own experiences of friendship. When I hear the song Joe, I can’t help but feel my lips tremble mid-verse while I’m singing it in the car, even though I’ve never lived through addiction or recovery. It just gets me, because the protagonist—a gas station attendant—is a hero because of the content of his character and his success in slaying his own demons, not because of any external measures of success.
Or in Finding Nemo, now, I cry for different reasons in both eyes. When Nemo and Marlin reunite, I now understand the perspective of both father and son. And I find myself marveling at the beauty, relevance, and power of children’s stories—these tales we dismiss as childish often hold the simplest and truest wisdom.
And when I watch comedy specials—whether it’s Matt Rife, Hasan Minhaj, Dave Chappelle, or Trevor Noah—I laugh and laugh and laugh in ways I didn’t know were possible without being a bit drunk with my college friends at the pub.
As we get older, we just get it more. Because, if we’re doing this right with each passing year, we’ve actually lived more.
I see now how courageous it is to be an everyday guy who consistently swims upstream to do the right thing, like George Bailey does in that classic film. In a way, writing the book Character by Choice has been my attempt to figure out how to be more like George Bailey.
I find him so remarkable as an example of what a good, everyday man can look like. Because at the end, George doesn’t even “win” in the conventional sense. He doesn’t walk away with a big payout or a victory over the villainous Mr. Potter—he’s still a modest business owner. But his years of sacrifice are validated when the rest of Bedford Falls comes to his aid.
Now, I get how special it is to sacrifice for others and to accept the sacrifices they make for me.
And I also see the mirror universe of what my life could’ve been, just like George Bailey does after he “saves” his guardian angel, Clarence. It’s like I started making choices for myself as a teenager, and each of those choices was a fork in the road—left or right. Over time, those choices compounded as I kept making right turns. Again and again, at each fork, I went right.
And now I see so clearly what my life could’ve been. I could’ve been richer, with fewer kids and responsibilities, probably living in Washington, D.C., or San Francisco. That version of me would’ve had a nicer house and a more vibrant professional and social life. But would it have been a universe where I was here with Robyn, Riley, Robert, Myles, and Emmett? Probably not.
Honestly, I would’ve probably found a way to rationalize my story if I had made all those left turns instead of right. I might have convinced myself I was content. But damn, I’m glad I’m here and not somewhere else. And that clear, honest realization—that it may never have been this way—keeps my heart from stiffening.
And so the tears flow.
Maybe this is good, maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s a sign of strength, maybe a sign of weakness. Maybe both. Honestly, I don’t really care. I’d rather avoid the culture wars and punditry about men and crying. That kind of commentary—no matter where it comes from—feels reductive and unnecessary.
Because at a minimum, I think crying and laughing harder is an indicator of acceptance—of life and all that it brings. It’s a sign that I’m letting myself live life—letting it soak into my bones and my soul, rather than keeping it at arm’s length.
It’s not the choice everyone makes, but for me, I can only hope that as I age, I let myself live more and more. I can only hope that with each passing year I cry harder and laugh harder. Because in my own way, that makes me feel like one of the richest men in town.
I’ve come to the conclusion that I want to be a part-time capitalist.
What I mean by this is that I want to create enough material wealth for my family and society to live a good life, but I don’t want capitalism to dominate my identity or values. I want to earn a living, but my goal in life isn’t to be a good producer or consumer. I’ll engage with capitalism where it serves me—maybe the equivalent of two days a week—but I won’t live and breathe it as though it’s my religion.
This realization didn’t come to me overnight. It simmered for years, as I wrestled with the game society handed me: capitalism. From an early age, we’re taught to measure success by wealth, status, and accumulation. For a long time, I felt like I was failing at it—even though my family and I were doing just fine. Capitalism has a way of making you feel like nothing is ever enough. It whispers that you’re not climbing the ladder fast enough, not maximizing your earnings the way you could.
But at some point, I started to ask myself: Why am I even playing this game? What if I don’t want to “win” capitalism? What if I’d rather play a different game altogether?
That’s where my sons come in. They love soccer. They play with an abandon and joy that makes me envious. Watching them, I realized they’ve found a game that suits them—one they’ve chosen for themselves. Soccer has creativity, fluidity, and rhythm. It’s nothing like football, the sport I played for years growing up.
I chose football because that’s what my friends were doing. As a Michigander, it felt natural to play, and I enjoyed being part of a team. But looking back, I see that it didn’t suit me. I wasn’t built for it—physically or mentally. It was someone else’s game, and I just happened to be good enough at it to get by.
That’s how capitalism has felt for me as an adult: the default game I got pulled into. Like football, it has its virtues. It provides structure and can even be exhilarating at times. But it’s not the primary model for how I want to live.
I’m never going to “win” at capitalism, and I don’t want to. I’m not willing to make the sacrifices required to maximize my earnings or climb higher, because I value other things more. I love being a father. I’m drawn to public service. I care about relationships, creativity, and dignity far more than accumulation.
For years, though, I struggled under capitalism’s invisible grip. People told me I had talent and potential, which I heard as: You could be doing more. This latent anxiety followed me everywhere. Could I provide enough for my family? Could I live up to everyone’s expectations? That sense of “not enough” became like a chronic cold I couldn’t quite shake.
But then came my a-ha moment: I don’t have to play this game—not fully, anyway. I realized I could be a subscriber to capitalism part-time and play my own game for the rest of my life.
For me, this shift has been about aligning my life with my values. It’s why I’ve embraced a nonlinear career, oscillating between government and corporate roles to find balance. It’s why Robyn and I have crafted a marriage that works for us, breaking free from traditional gender roles. She works a flexible schedule, and I’ve leaned into an unconventional path as a husband and father. We’ve structured our lives around fairness and teamwork rather than default societal expectations.
It’s also why we’ve chosen to raise our family in the city instead of a suburb. The city challenges us, inspires us, and aligns with the cultural and inter-religious values we’re navigating as a couple. Every one of these decisions reflects a conscious choice to reject the "default game" and build something that works for us.
This path isn’t easy. Freedom is exhilarating, but it’s also daunting. Choosing your own game requires courage. It means setting boundaries, risking judgment, and often swimming upstream. That means being willing to be a little weird or out on a ledge, at least some of the time.
But it’s worth it. Recently, I’ve started to feel the effects of this mindset as I’ve entered a new job. Do I have to be the best at work and think about it constantly? No. Do we need an excess of money to complete every home renovation we want this year? No. Do I need to loudly reject capitalism or evangelize my alternative path? No. I’ve chosen my line in the sand, and I’m okay with where it puts me.
While I wish I’d started sooner, I’m grateful to be starting now. Better late than never.
So here’s my question for you: What’s the game you’ve been playing? Is it one you chose, or was it handed to you? What would it look like to redefine the rules and build a life that fits you?
The process isn’t easy. It’s challenging, peculiar, and sometimes lonely. But it’s also liberating. It’s your life, after all—why not make the rules yourself?
Friends,
The most life-changing lesson I learned while writing Character by Choice is this: listening is the most important skill we can cultivate.
When we truly listen, we discover the extraordinary in others. That discovery grows into love. And love—bigger than ourselves—gives us the courage to become better people. Better people make the world more vibrant, joyous, and trusting.
But here’s what my son taught me today: listening is just the first step. The real magic happens when we prove we’re listening—when we leave no doubt that someone has our full attention.
That’s what makes someone a next-level listener. And it’s how love blossoms.
I share this insight—and the powerful conversation with my son that inspired it—on this week’s episode of Muscle Memory. Check it out, and share if it resonates with you.
With love from Detroit,
Neil
I Have Fallen in Love, AgainOn quiet weekend mornings, I stand at the stove, often with a spatula in hand, flipping pancakes. Robyn comes downstairs in her pajamas, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She smiles, tilts her head, and walks over to me with her arms outstretched. Without saying a word, we hug right there in the kitchen.
It’s not one of those young, giddy embraces. It’s a hug worn in by years—familiar, steadfast, with the kind of patina that only time and shared struggles can create.
This is what love looks like now.
And I’m falling in love with her again.
It’s a love I’ve rediscovered, not just because of who she is, but because of who we’ve both become. In this new era of our lives, she is still Robyn—but also someone new.
The Beauty of Changing ErasI started to understand why I’ve been feeling this way over the Thanksgiving weekend. Something has shifted—not just in our relationship, but in our entire world.
We’ve entered a new era.
In our home, the signs are everywhere. We’re going to be parents to a newborn for the last time, and the weight of that reality feels both solemn and profound. Our sons have transitioned into school-aged kids, with piano lessons, soccer games, and social lives. Even our house itself has transformed—we’ve remodeled and repaired, shaping it into the place we’ll live for decades to come.
As individuals, we’ve changed too. Robyn and I are no longer just contributors at work; we’ve both shifted toward leading others. I hear it in her voice when she’s on a conference call—steady, calm, full of gravity that she’s earned over years of experience. Her team leans on her not just for answers but for her wisdom, and it shows in the way she carries herself.
And me? I finally got my book, Character by Choice, out into the world after seven years of working on it. It feels surreal to see it finished. That process stretched me in ways I didn’t expect, but it also revealed a new grittiness for sticking with something for years at a time with no guarantee of success that I didn’t know I had in me.
The changes of this era haven’t always been easy, but they’ve revealed so much beauty. Like the quiet strength Robyn shows every day. The way she hugs our sons or me—not just as a gesture, but as a statement of presence and love, even when she’s exhausted. Or the way she listens to friends who are newer parents with such intense warmth that it lifts them up without them even noticing. These things were always part of her, but this new stage of life has brought them to the surface.
But it’s not just us.
Our close-knit family and friends are evolving, too. Our siblings are becoming parents, which will soon add to the gaggle of kids running through our lives. With each new arrival, our family grows—cousins, nieces, and nephews weaving together a new web of connection and joy.
At the same time, our parents are navigating their own shifts. Robyn’s parents are caring for aging loved ones while preparing to move into homes that fit the lives they need now. My mom is still grappling with life after my father. Despite her health and strength, she’s navigating the reality of aging—for her and her siblings. Even things she’s done her whole life, like traveling back and forth between India and the U.S., aren’t as simple as they used to be.
It feels like everyone we know is moving into a new chapter at once.
And it doesn’t stop there.
Society is shifting all around us. Politically, both the Trump and Duggan eras are coming to an end within the next four years, making way for what’s next in the country and Detroit. Technologically, we’re stepping boldly into the age of AI and the wonder of tools like the James Webb Space Telescope, showing us the universe in ways we never imagined.
Change is everywhere, and it’s compelling all of us to grow in response.
Entering a new era doesn’t demand growth from us in an adversarial way. Instead, it calls to us gently but insistently, urging us to uncover new parts of ourselves. As the world around us changes, it doesn’t obligate us to change—that’s a choice we make—but the influence of a shifting context is undeniable.
Robyn’s quiet strength, her firm tenderness—it was always there, but this moment in time has brought it to the surface. And in seeing her anew, I’ve found myself falling in love with her all over again.
This is the beauty of changing eras. When everything shifts, we have the chance to become something new and to notice the people we love in new ways. The struggle of change—the hard work, the sacrifice, the heartbreak—gives us a rare gift: the chance to see life, and each other, with fresh eyes.
Marking the EraMy father used to say there’s no free lunch, and he was right. Change doesn’t come easily. To move into a new era, we have to let go of the old one. We have to embrace the challenges and celebrate the rhythms as they shift around us.
But here’s what I’ve learned: the struggle is worth it.
There’s a brilliance in how Taylor Swift brought this lesson to life through her Eras Tour. From all I’ve read and heard from friends, her concert marks eras, celebrates them, and embraces the growth that comes from moving forward. She so beautifully illustrates how the struggle of moving through eras is worth it.
When we mark the era—when we take the time to notice the passing of one chapter and the beginning of another—we honor the transformation. We honor what we’ve lost and what we’ve gained.
And in doing so, we give ourselves the chance to fall in love again.
So, my friends, don’t fear the reset. Lean into it. Notice the beauty it reveals in our lives and the lives of those we love. And when you look back on this new era we are all in, I hope you find yourself saying: It was worth it.
If you’re a dad like me, juggling work, home life, and your role as a partner, let me tell you—you’re not alone. We’re the first generation of dads stepping into this new space, trying to figure out what it means to be fully present as fathers and equal partners in our relationships. It’s not easy, but it’s ours to own.
We’re hybrid dads. We’re building something new, something better—and it’s time we talked about how to get there together.
A hybrid dad isn’t defined by tradition or rebellion—it’s about creating a role that works for your family. It’s part breadwinner, part partner, part parent—and 100% intentional.
Why Men Should Read Fair PlayIf you’re a millennial husband or father, I think you should read Fair Play by Eve Rodsky. Or, if you know a millennial husband or father—especially one who’s quietly trying to balance home life, work life, and being a good, equitable partner—gift them this book. Even if it doesn’t seem like it’s “for them,” it just might be what they need.
It was a game changer for me personally, and also for our marriage.
The book offers both a mental model for what a fair balance of domestic responsibility can look like in a partnership and a practical system to manage those responsibilities with clarity and efficiency. It’s dramatically reduced the friction Robyn and I used to experience while running our household and managing our family system.
For example, cooking and meal planning used to be a source of endless improvisation and frustration. We’d either figure everything out together or constantly reset our schedules on the fly. It wasn’t working. Now, we’ve set roles: I’m the weekend chef, and Robyn’s the weekday chef. I used to handle groceries, but it made more sense for her to take over, and we adjusted intentionally. Knowing exactly what ingredients she needs and when has made the process seamless, thanks to concepts we learned in Fair Play like the “minimum standard of care.” These ideas helped us have conversations about fairness and efficiency without resentment.
This shift gave us more than just better logistics—it gave us peace.
And that’s what we need in this reset—peace of mind, clarity, and confidence. Because this isn’t just about household chores; it’s about redefining what it means to show up as dads and partners in a way that works for us.
A Reset for MenThere’s been a lot of talk about how men are struggling. The data is there, and the anecdotes are everywhere. To me, all of this is true—but I see it more as a practical and personal phenomenon than an abstract crisis.
As a man, I think of it as a reset.
Here’s why I hate the “crisis” framing: It feels emasculating. When people talk about us as a lost generation of men, it’s hard to engage with that narrative—it feels like a judgment, like we’re failing somehow just by existing in this moment of change.
That’s not helpful, and frankly, it’s a turn-off. It makes me want to disengage.
I don’t see us as victims, and I’m not interested in crisis rhetoric. What I see is an opportunity to reset and redefine what it means to be a husband and father.
A generation ago, gender roles were simpler—though not necessarily better. The man worked outside the home, often as the breadwinner, and there were plenty of examples (good and bad) of what that looked like. Today, it’s different. Many men aren’t the sole earners anymore, and many of us are leaning into home life and parenting in ways our fathers didn’t.
The problem? Most of us don’t have a blueprint.
Few of us had dads who split domestic responsibilities equitably. Fewer still had dads who volunteered at the PTA or took paternity leave. We’re making this up as we go because we’re the first generation actively navigating pluralistic gender roles.
And that’s the beauty of it: There’s no one way to be a good husband or father anymore. Traditional roles can work, but so can new hybrids. What matters is that we’re intentional about creating a family system that works for us.
We are hybrid dads—we’ve got each other’s backs, and we GOT THIS.
How Fair Play HelpsFair Play gave Robyn and me a language to talk about our family system and decide how we wanted it to work. By breaking responsibilities into categories—from chores to self-care to parenting—we could set standards for our household and adjust as life changed.
For us, this meant defining who “owned” which tasks. For example, when my work schedule changed, we switched roles for groceries.
In addition to the book, we also bought Rodsky’s flashcards and found it helpful to “redeal” physical cards every few months.
I also created a PDF template to keep track of all this and reset my focus weekly on my Remarkable.
You can download my PDF template here.
The results? Less tension at home. Less self-doubt about whether I’m doing the right thing as a husband or father. And something even more meaningful: more joy.
By being more involved at home, I’ve gained something many men in previous generations didn’t have—deep, priceless time with my kids and my wife. The joy that comes from being fully present, from knowing I’m not just managing but thriving as a dad and partner, is worth every effort.
Why Men Should Read This BookIf you’re a man in this “reset” generation, Fair Play is a godsend. It’s not just about managing tasks; it’s about finding confidence in the type of husband and father you want to be.
We may not have role models for this new way of being a man, but we don’t need to feel lost. Fair Play gives us a framework to build our own hybrid roles—ones that work for our families, bring us closer to our partners, and let us embrace the joy of being present.
I recommend this book to any man navigating this shift. Read it. Try the system and the cards. Download the template. See how it changes your home life.
It sure as hell changed mine.
Friends,
It’s a joyous time for us. Not only are we getting ready to welcome our fourth child, but many close friends and family are either having children themselves or moving out of the newborn phase of life.
When you’re expecting, love starts pouring in from all directions. The fraternity of caregivers—parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, “aunts,” and “uncles”—is built on love. And when others join that fellowship, all you want to do is pay that love forward.
I feel that deeply right now.
As we all know, there’s no foolproof playbook or universal script for parenting—no single piece of sage wisdom we can all rely on. But what we can do is share our biggest mistakes in the hope that others might avoid them. After all, mistakes tend to be more universal than we’d like to admit.
Mine was this: I was a colonizer.
When my kids invited me into their world, I tried to reshape it—imposing adult order with schedules, tasks, and structure. I thought I was helping. But that approach cost me years of connection during our older kids’ youngest years.
This week’s episode of the Muscle Memory Podcast is about that very mistake—and what I’ve learned since. I hope you enjoy it.
With love from Detroit,
Neil
Friends,
The (over)simplified way I think about American politics is that it comes down to surplus. At the heart of it, we crave more than we need—more money, more time, more mental energy.
Before we dive in, know that this post—and my podcast episode this week—aren’t about taking sides. I’m not interested in dissecting policies or election outcomes here. Instead, I want to explore how we even think about politics and the core values that drive it.
Because to me, these “mega-questions” sit right at the center of our political landscape.
1) How do we create surplus?
How do we generate more money, more time, or more mental energy than we need—both individually and collectively? This question, in many ways, drives policy decisions, economic systems, and even social programs. Everyone wants surplus; the debate often centers on how best to achieve it.
2) What do we do with that surplus?
Once we have more than we need, do we keep it for ourselves or share it? Should surplus be directed toward those with similar beliefs, or should it be shared broadly to support the common good? And what about future generations? How much of our surplus should we put into investments we may never personally benefit from?
These questions echo through every political debate, as people argue over what’s fair, what’s efficient, and who deserves what. Even when we disagree, so much of it comes down to our different ideas about these same questions.
As for me, I don’t have a neatly packaged answer or specific policy I’m here to advocate for. But here’s what I do know: I want to live beneath my means and share my surplus with others.
In this week’s podcast, I share a story about Halloween on our block—a magical night made possible by neighbors who give their time, money, and energy to make it memorable for everyone. They choose to share their surplus with the community, creating something special. I admire them for it, and it makes me think about how I want to be a little more like that myself.
Here’s the link—I hope you’ll give it a listen: Halloween and Surplus.
With love from Detroit,
Neil
Friends,
One way to think about our relationships is to see them as falling into different circles of familiarity.
Of course, there are our loved ones—the people we see all the time, who know us well, and with whom we share an unspoken rhythm. We know exactly how to greet them, how to say goodbye, and how to laugh together.
But then, there are the people we’re less familiar with. These might be the drive-through barista we meet only once on a road trip, or the neighbor we pass while walking the dog. Even though we don’t know these people well, we still have our own kind of rhythm with them—usually more reserved and distant.
It’s easy to assume that how we treat these semi-familiar connections doesn’t matter as much as how we treat our loved ones. But I’m starting to think it actually matters just as much, maybe even more.
Why? Because how we treat those semi-familiar faces every day adds up. In many ways, the true culture of our communities isn’t just shaped by the relationships we hold dearest, but by how we treat everyone else: the FedEx delivery person, the neighbors a few houses down, the host at our favorite neighborhood spot. It’s the kindness or distance we show these people that truly defines the feel of our communities.
This idea became clear to me recently at the funeral of a young woman I only knew through small moments—she was the younger sister of one of my close friends from childhood. My friends and I were there, of course, to support our buddy. But thinking about her afterward, I realized she’d left me with a powerful lesson I hadn’t recognized before: When we don’t know exactly how to treat a semi-familiar face in front of us, just smile.
That’s the message I dive into on this week’s podcast: When in doubt, just smile.
With love from Detroit,
Neil
Friends,
One of my favorite lyrics from a Taylor Swift’s song comes from Anti-Hero and it goes like this:
"I stare directly at the sun, but never in the mirror…"
It’s a subtle yet powerful line that resonates with how many of us approach self-reflection—or avoid it. Isn’t that our default? To shy away from looking in the mirror? Self-examination can be uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable.
But what if we find the courage to look closely? What questions do we ask ourselves? How do we even begin to examine who we are?
For some, if the goal is power, the question might be straightforward: Did I get ahead of others today?
But if what we care about most is being a good person—more than becoming powerful—the questions become different. Perhaps we ask: Did I earn the trust of others today? Who? How?
In my view, trust is the natural outcome of goodness. If we strive to be good people, trustworthiness follows. That’s why it matters; if we’re doing good, trust is exactly what we should expect to build over time.
This idea of facing the mirror and examining our trustworthiness is at the heart of this week’s podcast episode, titled “What to Ask the Mirror.” I hope you’ll join me in exploring this practice.
Here’s to living an examined life.
With love from Detroit,
Neil
P.S. If you’re a U.S. citizen, make a plan to vote this week. It’s so important.
One day, we’ll be talkin’ about how long we’ve been doing this.
It’ll be in the quiet moments, like me cooking a lazy Sunday dinner while you’re working on a jigsaw puzzle nearby.
Or in the loud ones, like cheering on the sidelines at a soccer tournament, because it’s one of ours out there.
There’ll be days we’re just listening to country radio, holding hands as we drive to the coffee shop.
One day, we’ll be talkin’ about how long we’ve been doing this.
We’ll reminisce about getting a night out with old friends at Mario’s—the cozy restaurant we went to once, and it became ours.
And I’ll think of how you always bring the Fage Greek yogurt recipe we love for biscuits and gravy to brunch, in that cast iron pan that’s turned into “that old cast iron pan.”
There’ll be the quiet, spontaneous moments too, like you wrapping me in a hug while I’m sitting at the table writing a blog post (just like you did today).
Some things will stay the same, like family dinner at a crowded table with bumpy cake for a birthday—or pineapple, if it’s June.
There’ll be walks with the dog who still insists on taking us out at lunchtime.
And, of course, our family meetings that always seem to end with a cleaner house—or our temperature checks that always end with a kiss goodnight.
I know the years ahead will bring big changes—retirement, new adventures, and more gray hair than we have today.
But I hope that through it all, some things stay just as they are now. I hope, God willing, we’ll still be talking about how long we’ve been doing this, and how long we’ve been building this life together—one little tradition at a time.
Friends,
I’m really excited for both podcast episodes this week. I hope you enjoy them.
In the first, I was remembering a play I was part of in high school. Woody Allen’s God. One of the satirical elements of the play is the Greek chorus in the play calling for Deus ex machina - “God in the machine” - by name to save everyone.
Will the abundance that innovation creates save us all? That’s a question I asked myself directly when writing Character by Choice.
Do we need to care about goodness and character? Would we be okay if we had a world full of abundance? Perhaps obviously, I didn’t think abundance was enough because I kept writing the book.
Link to S2E4 | Abundance.
I’m equally excited about this week’s audio reflection. Years ago, one of my best friends - Jeff - and I were talking about money. He had heard a book or podcast about money in the Bible and shared a question he was gnawing on. How much is enough? Not even theoretically, but what would the actually dollar amount be?
It’s a question that’s stayed with me for years and the main subject of this week’s guided audio reflection.
Link to S2E4.1 | How much is enough?
I hope you have a good week. If you’re in the US - don’t forget to make a plan to vote or complete your absentee ballot.
With love from Detroit,
Neil
Friends,
I care about goodness because I care about freedom.
The way I see it is this - if we have power asymmetry in our world, there will inevitably be opportunities for power to be abused.
And I don’t want to live in a world where corruption is rampant.
But I don’t want to live in a world where we have rules and laws that are so intense - with the intent of curbing corruption - that it stifles freedom to choose how we live our lives - in small ways, for regular people.
To me, the only way to do that is to just have more people who are good and decent - that choose not to abuse power even though they can.
That’s what I talk about in this week’s podcast episode. I hope you give it a listen: https://spotifyanchor-web.app.link/e/S7lwuVEYtNb
With Love from Detroit,
Neil
Friends,
I was driving the other day when a thought hit me.
Death feels unpredictable, doesn’t it? We have no idea when it’ll come.
But it’s also the most predictable thing there is—it’s the only thing we know for sure is coming.
But here’s the thing—it’s not just certain that we’ll die. We even have a rough window for it, right? Most of us can expect to go somewhere between 70 and 100 years old, and almost no one makes it past 110.
But what if that wasn’t the rule anymore?
Imagine this: a new treatment for longevity. You’d have to take it by 25, but here’s the kicker—it only works for half of us, and we can’t even tell who it’s working for.
This kind of life? It would be tough—devastating, even.
I can’t imagine not knowing whether I’d have to live without Robyn for 100 years. Just thinking about it—it’d tear me apart.
And what about my kids? Their kids? Would I end up burying generations of my own family because I lived to 500?
Then there’s friendships. Would they cross generations too? Or would we all start isolating, afraid to get close to people when we had no idea how long they’d be around?
Money—would we work forever? Could we even retire?
And politics? Would having immortals who cared about the extreme long-term make things better? Or would culture fall apart because the thread of shared experience stretched too thin?
I don’t have the answers. This idea—this uncertainty about how long we might live—it’s unsettling in ways I didn’t expect.
But what about you? How does this land for you? What would it mean to live in a world where death was no longer the one certainty we had?
With love from Detroit,
Neil
There are times when being a good person is easy - when doing the right thing actually gets us more of something that feels good - whether that’s attention, love, power, money, or fame.
That’s easy though, nobody needs help in those moments. When it’s easy, it’s easy.
There are times though that the good thing to do is at odds with the thing that will get us more power. That’s when goodness really matters - when being good is hard. That’s when the choice matters most and the stakes are most consequential. Can we choose goodness over power, then?
That’s what Chapter 1 of Character by Choice is all about, and what I talk about this week’s episode of Muscle Memory.
Podcast Link: S2E2 | Power and Goodness
With love from Detroit,
Neil
It is one of my core beliefs that our character is our choice. We can and should shape who we become. This was an idea that was rooted in my high school English class, when we read East of Eden by John Steinbeck. There’s an important idea in the book about an old word - timshel. It means, “thou mayest” and was the word from which a key passage in the Bible was translated?
Is conquering sin an inevitability? Is it an imperative? In Steinbeck’s story it’s neither. It’s a a choice. It’s something we may do. Thou mayest.
I don’t think becoming a better person is an inevitability, nor is it an imperative. It’s a choice. That’s why the title of the book I wrote is exactly that: Character By Choice.
—
I’m trying something new for the next few months - a new creative thread to pursue.
I’m relaunching my podcast! I hope you’ll join me there as well as on this blog. Here’s the link to the podcast on Spotify. Or, search for “Muscle Memory” wherever you get your podcasts.
Here’s how it’ll work. I’ll read an excerpt from a chapter of the book every week and do a little discussion about it. I’ll summarize the most important idea on this blog. I’ll also have a 5 minute guided reflection with a question related to that chapter.
I’m doing this for two reasons. I’ve invested a ton in writing this book and I’m really proud of it. But the format of a blog can be limiting, I want to try unlocking it in new ways in a format that’s more conducive to voice and dialogue - much like a chat we might have around a campfire.
I also want to explore more creatively, and sow new seeds. Candidly, I’m a little stale and need to recharge my batteries before my blog posts have the same zest and originality that I know I’m capable of. Taking a break from new written ideas will help me find that zest again.
Either way, you’ll still find me here weekly - just with a new format and new energy. Thanks for being here with me and reading (and now listening again). Here’s the link again for the podcast.
“It’s kind of like the Grinch,” I told my oldest son.
“When we have another kid, God helps us grow our heart so that we can love and support each of you 100%.”
Bo gave me that perplexed brow that he always gives me when he’s punching above his weight while processing a complex idea. Luckily, he understood and trusted me enough to take a leap of faith and believe me.
Truth is, I get why he was so torn. Soccer has been his thing: for fun, for confidence, and for having our whole family be his fans. And now, Myles, two years his junior, was encroaching on a precious source of love and stability by having his first game. For Bo, soccer was no longer just his thing.
He needed to understand that our love wasn’t a limited resource—our hearts have grown big enough to fully support him, Myles, and their younger sibling. Like the Grinch, our love expands with every child, every moment, growing larger as life calls for it.
But I could see his hesitation. He was still trying to understand how this worked. How does our heart grow? How do we become the Grinch? Where does that process even begin?
So, where do we start? I believe it begins with making sure we aren’t turning into ‘black holes’ of emotional energy—the kind of person who constantly drains others because their own heart feels empty. We all know that person—the one who pulls love and attention from anywhere they can, but can never seem to hold onto it. To truly let our hearts grow, we need to stop the leaks in our own cup and learn how to fill it.
Once we’ve learned to hold onto love and stop draining it, we realize something else: love is all around us, waiting to be noticed. It’s easy to fall into the trap of believing the world is cold or that people can't be trusted—after all, negativity shouts louder. But if we stop and pay attention, we’ll see that love is quietly everywhere.
In my experience, the ugliness just seems louder, drowning out the love that’s quietly waiting to be seen. If we actually pause and look, we’d notice that so many people are eager to share love—they’re just waiting for a small sign to open their hearts. I’ve seen this firsthand in the smallest moments.
When I go for a run, for example, I make a point to give a thumbs-up to cars and pedestrians as I pass by. People almost always wave back—90% of the time, they respond. And I remember doing a ride-along with the Detroit Police when I worked with them. Even in the roughest, most violent neighborhoods, there would still be one or two houses with cut grass and flowers, standing as a beacon of love and care.
When I’ve stopped and paid close attention, it’s clear—love is everywhere, like water behind a dam, waiting to rush forward. It’s in the small gestures, the people around us, just waiting to be released. But love doesn’t just sit there; it does something magical. For me, that magic has two parts. First, love starts to mend the leaks in our emotional cups. Where there were once holes—places where fear, doubt, or loneliness drained us—love flows in and seals them up. The more I’ve opened myself to love, the less I’ve felt those leaks, and the more whole I’ve become.
That’s the first part of love’s magic: it stops the leaks.
The second part is when love begins to pour in, like a river rushing into an open cup. Once we slow down, notice the love around us, and give just the smallest signal that we’re ready for it, love bursts in. It fills our cup, and when it overflows, that flood of love makes it easy to share with others.
And that’s when our hearts start to grow. Just like the Grinch, our hearts expand to hold all that love, naturally growing larger so we can give even more of it away.
Then it’s inevitable for our hearts to grow, like it did for the Grinch.
We’re often told to look people in the eye when we speak to them, because it’s a sign of respect. But this week, I realized that eye contact does more than just show respect.
When we look someone in the eye, we do more than just connect—we actually “see” them.
We see their emotions and more. Eye contact lets us feel what they’re feeling, making it easier to empathize with them and relate. In this way, the eyes help us truly see the person in front of us.
But the eyes also serve as a focal point. When we look someone in the eye, we can momentarily forget about everything else—the logo on their shirt, the color of their skin, the gray in their hair, or whether they use a wheelchair. Eye contact helps us “unsee” these external details, allowing us to connect with the person beneath them. In that moment, we’re less distracted by the things we might consciously or unconsciously judge, and more focused on who they really are.
So, eye contact isn’t just about respect—it’s a powerful tool for equality. If we want to truly see someone as our equal, we need to first unsee the distractions. And looking them in the eye is a good, practical, way to start.
In my first 25 years, I cared deeply about passion, purpose, and finding meaning in my life.
But now, I understand them differently. Looking back, I realize that valuing “meaning” so highly may have come from incomplete thinking.
I used to view meaning as something to attain—almost like a destination. Should my job provide me with meaning? Should I rely on my marriage and family to give me that sense of purpose? And what does it even mean to demand that from these parts of my life?
One moment that changed my thinking came from an unexpected place: a colleague and manager at La-Z-Boy. Whenever I asked him how he was doing, he’d always reply with some variation of, “Good. I’m just glad to be above ground instead of six feet under.”
At first, I found this confusing. Was that really the bar for being “good”? Was simply being alive enough for him?
Over time, though, I began to understand his wisdom.
Maybe we don’t need to constantly seek meaning in our lives—as if it’s a resource to be used up and replenished like gasoline in a car. Perhaps meaning isn’t something we have to chase after; maybe it’s something that comes naturally from simply living.
Now, after more years of hardship, dreams, and changes, I’ve come to see meaning and purpose a different way—that doesn’t involve endlessly searching for meaning.
What if meaning could come from simply existing? Could true peace and enlightenment come from finding meaning in the everyday moments of life, simply because we’re here to experience them?
That’s what I think my colleague was getting at. He wasn’t just saying that being alive was slightly better than being dead. He was suggesting that life itself, without the need for constant external validation, is inherently meaningful.
Finding joy in simply existing takes work. But it’s achievable.
At the heart of this mindset are two principles:
1.Shaping our lives into something we want
2.Learning to live happily with less
When it comes to shaping our lives, the process looks like this:
•Look inward.
•Understand what your inner self truly wants, beyond the ego’s desires.
•Create a small, focused list of things that bring you long-term joy and fulfillment.
•Set clear goals and priorities.
•Gradually work toward shaping your life around those core elements.
•Ultimately, find yourself in a place where simply living feels meaningful.
For living happily with less, the process is similar:
•Again, look inward.
•Understand what the inner self needs, as opposed to what the ego craves.
•Recognize that you already have a surplus of what you need.
•Practice gratitude for what you have.
•Share what you can with others.
•As gratitude deepens, realize you need far less than you once thought.
•Eventually, reach a point where meaning comes from the simple act of living.
However, I want to emphasize that this mindset isn’t about abandoning the work of improving the world.
We must still strive to create a just society where everyone thrives. Ending senseless suffering is vital. And for those who are struggling, the message isn’t to just “be grateful.” This isn’t about ignoring hardships. Similarly, for those who are more fortunate, inner peace can’t be bought—it requires effort and reflection.
These ideas are at the core of my book, Character by Choice.
The book is about the importance of inner work and how to actually do it. Writing it was life-changing for me, and that’s why I’ve made the PDF version free. Inner work changes lives, but it’s difficult and important to learn from each other about.
For years, I chased meaning through work, status, wealth, and stories—but it never seemed to end.
I spent decades searching for meaning, only to feel more lost than ever. That’s why my colleague’s words resonated with me. The real place to be isn’t in constantly chasing meaning, but in finding joy and peace in simply existing.
I believe the path to this place begins by looking inward.
To my friends of the mind,
Lately, I’ve been thinking about time and what we leave behind — not just for our children or our children’s children, but for those far down the line.
A generation, they say, is about 30 years. Ten generations? That’s 300 years. It makes me wonder: what could I pass on that lasts for one generation? And, more curiously, what could endure for 10?
One of the biggest lessons I learned while writing Character by Choice was this: to truly be good people, we need to think beyond ourselves. It’s not just about what we accomplish in our lifetimes, but about listening deeply to the call of something greater — something that stretches far into the future, beyond what we’ll ever see or experience. In fact, I’ve come to believe that selflessness becomes joyful when we shift our focus far beyond the present. When we know our actions aren’t ephemeral, but rooted in something that will last for generations, it deepens the sense of purpose and fulfillment. It’s this depth that sustains us, guiding us to work on things that really matter, even if we’ll never see the results.
Let’s say we’ve done the hard inner work, the kind that builds empathy for those distant future generations — the ones we’ll never meet but whose lives we still want to impact. So, what then? What do we actually do with that kind of perspective? How do we spend our time, knowing that we’re playing a much longer game?
I started asking myself this question and even opened it up to some friends on Facebook. Together, we came up with a list of ideas — some lighthearted, some heavy, but all worth considering. What I’ve realized through this process is that I want to focus more on the long game — the 10-gen stuff — instead of getting caught up in things that might only matter for one generation.
So, what might last for 10 generations? Here are some things that came to mind, from the obvious to the unexpected:
- Inventions
- Great companies and institutions that do the right thing
- Values and moral principles
- Beautiful heirlooms
- Novel, simple mental models
- The effects of unconditional love
- Trauma
- Recipes
- Wisdom
- Practical knowledge (e.g., how to can vegetables, how to lay a brick)
- Waste (e.g., plastics, radioactive material)
- Art
- Genetics and predisposition to disease
- A well-built house (or other very well-built things)
- Big beefs
- Spiritual beliefs / Religions
- Culture
- General-purpose technologies (e.g., electricity, the internet)
- The earth and climate
And then there’s the stuff that might burn bright for just one generation before it fades — things we invest time in but maybe shouldn’t overvalue in the long run:
- Inherited wealth
- Reputation / Fame
- Debt
- Status
- Most possessions
- Little beefs
- A “career”
- Incremental innovations
- Politics (for the most part)
- Pop culture
- Gadgets
- News
So, what do you think? What would you add to these lists? More importantly, do you believe the 10-gen stuff is worth striving for? Is it even something we can shape? I’d love to hear your thoughts — let’s keep the conversation going.
Always,
Neil
As Robert and I left the campground sink after washing the dishes, he was a little disappointed. He wanted to carry what he thought was more important: the 8L sack of potable water we’d use all day at our campsite, rather than the washbasin full of dishes.
I thought back to a lesson I learned at Student Council camp in high school: all jobs on the team are important.
At camp, years ago, one of our exercises was a simulation of a manufacturing process—we had to replicate a design, transport parts, and rebuild the design to spec in a different room. I felt unimportant as the truck driver—all I did was follow orders, wait around, and move parts from one room to another.
But my camp counselor reminded me during our debrief, “Could the team have built the design without you driving the truck?” I learned one of the most important lessons in leadership: if it needs to be done, the job is important. And no matter what the job is, the person who does it should be treated with the same high level of respect as everyone else on the team.
That’s what I told Robert: it’s okay that the sack of water was too heavy for you to carry. You’ll be stronger someday. But carrying those dishes? We need those dishes too, and I appreciate you carrying them. You’re doing an important job.
Over the years, as I’ve taken on more leadership roles, the lesson I learned at camp has deepened. It’s not just about recognizing that all jobs are important and treating everyone with respect, regardless of status. It’s also about ensuring that everyone has a role that truly matters.
Too many people in too many organizations have jobs that underutilize their capabilities, sometimes in ways that are almost insulting. Generally, if someone is good enough to be hired, they want to contribute meaningfully. Not everyone aspires to senior roles, but almost everyone wants their job to be impactful, not bullshit.
Unfortunately, some leaders seem to think that their team members should figure out what’s important on their own—they can’t be bothered to help those with less power craft meaningful roles.
I don’t live by that standard. If we have more authority and status than someone else, we need to help them find and fulfill an important job. We need to create opportunities for others to be respected. Sure, it’s a two-way street, but more of that responsibility lies with those of us who have more authority.
One of the most impactful things we can do as leaders is to actively help others create roles that matter. When we create opportunities for everyone to contribute meaningfully, we not only respect them—we elevate the entire team.
We must create important jobs.
Real, genuine inclusion is hard. It demands a level of effort and commitment that can feel daunting. But it’s also essential.
The Tough Reality of True InclusivityCreating a truly inclusive culture—whether in a society, a company, a small team, or even a family—in a diverse environment requires a special mindset. We have to believe that everybody matters and has a place if they treat others with respect. More importantly, we have to believe that it’s possible for everybody to matter.
Here’s what I mean by “it’s possible” for everybody to matter. Some situations feel like a prisoners’ dilemma, where not everyone can win. For example, multiple people vying for the same CEO position may see each other as competitors. Only one person can win, so it feels like others must lose.
Or consider children who feel they must be their parents’ favorite to feel secure and loved. This zero-sum mindset leads them to believe that not everyone can matter equally.
People who think this way might believe: We can’t have true inclusivity because there will always be winners and losers. Only winners matter. Everyone mattering is therefore impossible.
Inclusivity is hard because we must overcome this zero-sum mindset—that the world must always have winners and losers—to begin creating an inclusive society, company, or team. We have to believe that it’s even possible for everyone to matter.
Simply saying that everybody matters and it’s possible for everyone to matter can be dismissed as cheap talk. Why should we believe it’s possible for everyone to matter when the zero-sum mindset is so pervasive? A skeptic might say, “prove it.”
And to be fair, examples of true inclusivity are rare and often seem exceptional. How many spaces have you seen where everyone truly mattered? When I think of public examples, I think of the Apollo program, which brought together diverse talents to land people on the moon. Other examples include the Manhattan Project, the Toyota Production System, Microsoft’s transformation under Satya Nadella, and Southwest Airlines in its heyday. But even these examples have flaws and limitations, showing how hard it is to scale inclusivity.
Audacious DreamsInclusion is a complex phenomenon that’s hard to explain, but I think a big part of it is dreams. We need audacious dreams.
Inclusion is really hard. To counter the zero-sum mindset, inclusion can't be voluntary. It has to be involuntary, where we have no choice but to put aside our fears and egos and create the gravity that brings everyone in.
Audacious dreams create this gravity and make inclusion emerge. When we have a dream that matters deeply, we do anything to bring people in to achieve it. We look for the superpowers in others to help make the dream come true. With these dreams, we forget how hard it is to build an inclusive culture and just do it because we care about the dream and the mission.
I saw this when I worked at the Detroit Police Department. Many leaders, community members, and staffers—inside and outside of government—had the audacious dream to reduce gun violence in Detroit. This was audacious because for decades, Detroit had been one of the most violent cities in the country, with no data suggesting it would change.
The audacity of this dream brought everyone in. We had no choice but to include people because there was too much work to do. We had to find and involve new funders, community partners, law enforcement agencies, university researchers, and even victims and perpetrators of violence. We had to be inclusive and find ways for everyone to contribute their unique gifts because the dream of reducing violence was so challenging.
I’ve been away from this work for several years, but a lot of good work to reduce gun violence in Detroit has happened in the past decade. Audacious dreams that foster inclusivity are possible.
Guarding Against the Dark Side of DreamsAudacious dreams create the gravity that helps inclusion emerge involuntarily. We need audacious dreams about “all of us.”
Yet, if contemplated with bad intent, audacious dreams can also be dangerous. There are many examples of people who manipulate others by sharing an audacious dream, recruiting people to help them, and ultimately pursuing an agenda of self-enrichment.
It’s also easy to use audacious dreams to be selectively inclusive—only including a chosen few and excluding others to build in-group unity.
How do we ensure our audacious dreams lead to an inclusive culture instead of a toxic one?
I think how we, as individual dreamers, dream matters. Is our dream one where the final image is of our own personal glory? Or is the final glimpse a better future for everyone? Is the dream about just us as individuals or all of us as a group?
This is hard. I’ve struggled with delusional dreams about my own advancement and personal glory for decades. I try not to be too hard on myself because our culture worships achievement, but it’s true. I’ve had dreams of being inaugurated as a senator or giving a press conference as a CEO. Even after seven-plus years of inner work as I’ve written a book - Character by Choice - which goes deep on the inner work that builds our capacity to be good people, I still relapse into dreams about moments of personal glory instead of dreams about all of us.
But this inner work is worth doing because we desperately need audacious dreams that create the gravity to bring everybody in. We need to leave ourselves no choice but to find ways for everyone to matter. I truly believe that an inclusive culture will lead to a healthier, more prosperous, and greener world in the long run. So we have no choice but to dream audacious dreams.
But like power, audacious dreams can corrupt. If we make them about just us instead of all of us, those dreams can lead to exclusion and exploitation.
We can’t have it both ways. If we want to create an inclusive culture, we have to dream audaciously. But we also have to do the inner work to ensure those dreams aren’t about just us, but about all of us.
I define leadership as the act of taking responsibility for something.
However, one crucial element that underpins effective leadership is frequently overlooked: imagination. From my experience, both personal and professional, I have learned that taking full responsibility for a project or goal requires the ability to vividly imagine its realization. This power of imagination is not just a lofty concept but a practical and essential skill for leaders.
To inspire a team to bring our vision to life, we must articulate it clearly and compellingly. This act of sharing our imagination is what we commonly refer to as having a vision. Whether you are a CEO, product manager, entrepreneur, artist, politician, or parent, the ability to communicate your vision is fundamental to effective leadership.
Imagination operates on three distinct levels when we take responsibility for a project. To illustrate, consider the creation of a running shoe. The first level involves envisioning the product itself. What does the shoe look like? How is it designed? What makes it unique and special? This product vision is the core of what we aim to create, whether it’s a shoe, a family, a city, or a store.
The second level of imagination is what I call the market or cultural vision. This involves envisioning the broader impact of our product or project on the world. For our running shoe, we must consider who will be using it. Are they solo runners or part of running clubs? How does running with our shoe change them as individuals? What new stories do they tell themselves because of their experiences? How do these runners interact with others differently? Envisioning this broader impact helps us understand how our efforts contribute to making the world a slightly better place.
The third level of imagination is the internal vision, which focuses on the process and team dynamics required to bring our vision to life. For the running shoe, this means imagining the manufacturing process: How will the shoe be made and designed? Who will be part of our team? What kind of culture will we cultivate within our team? What will our interactions look and feel like? If a documentary were made about our journey, what key moments and values would it highlight? This internal vision ensures that we have a clear roadmap for achieving our goals.
In essence, a leader is someone who takes end-to-end responsibility for a project or goal. To do this effectively, the ability to imagine and share what’s in our mind’s eye is essential. Without this, we risk merely replicating someone else’s vision instead of creating our own.
This brings us to two key “how” questions: How do we get better at imagining, and how do we assess imagination in others?
To improve our imagination, we need practice. However, imagination cannot be practiced in the abstract. We must engage in the act of creation—whether it’s building a custom shelf, writing a book, painting a picture, or organizing a street festival. The process of imagining often unfolds naturally as we commit to building something. We don’t set out with the intent to imagine; instead, we follow our instincts, commit to the project, and let the imagination flow.
Assessing imagination, particularly in an interview setting, is relatively straightforward. Ask candidates to share their dreams—whether for their current company, their family, or their community. Encourage them to elaborate with follow-up questions. If, within 5-10 minutes, you can vividly see what they envision and feel excited about it, they likely possess a refined ability to imagine and communicate their vision. Chief James Craig, who led the Detroit Police Department while I was there, emphasized this principle: “We have to talk about our dreams.” I wholeheartedly agree.
To ground this discussion, which may seem abstract, let’s envision a world where people are committed to making their corner of the world a bit better by bringing their dreams to life. Achieving this requires the ability to imagine and clearly communicate what’s in our mind’s eye. How do we cultivate this capability? By building things and talking about our dreams.
While I don’t speak for all men, I believe many share this view: phrases like "it’s okay to cry" and "you need to talk about your feelings" are not always helpful.
To be healthy, human beings need to express themselves. The problem with the phrases I mentioned (and others) is that they prescribe a specific means of expression. Not everyone likes or wants to express themselves through conversations about their feelings or through tears.
Personally, I express myself through words (writing, talking) and physical expressions (tears, laughter, singing, dancing, hugs). But those aren’t the only healthy means of self-expression. Athletics, fine arts, martial arts, carpentry, cooking – these are also healthy ways to express oneself.
While these phrases are true – it is okay to cry, and people probably do need to talk about their feelings to some degree – throwing them around can cause withdrawal. Men who aren’t naturally cryers or talkers withdraw when others impose a specific means of expression onto them. Even as someone who is a cryer and a talker, I feel controlled and violated when people insist that men need to cry and talk more, despite agreeing with the statements themselves.
It’s more productive to remind everyone, regardless of age or gender identity, that we need to express ourselves to be healthy. Instead of saying, “it’s okay for men to cry,” it’s more effective to ask, “how do you express yourself, and what type of forum do you need?”
This post may sound like a rant, and in some ways, it is. However, I appreciate the intent behind encouraging men to talk about their feelings because many men, myself included, have faced or will face challenges. I’m glad people are starting to understand that men and boys – and other groups too – have unique mental health challenges.
These challenges are reflected in suicide rates. Here are three informative data sources about suicide rates and how they intersect with gender, age, occupation, and other factors. The punchline is that men have higher suicide rates than women, particularly Native American and White men.
- American Foundation for Suicide Prevention - Suicide Statistics
- CDC: Suicide Rates by Industry and Occupation — National Vital Statistics System, United States, 2021
- Population Reference Bureau: In U.S., Who Is at Greatest Risk for Suicides?
I’m suggesting there’s a better way to communicate with men about mental and emotional health. While I appreciate well-intentioned phrases like “it’s okay to cry” and “it’s important to talk about feelings,” I believe they often lead to closed doors, particularly for men. A more effective approach is to emphasize the importance of expression and begin a conversation about how each of us wants and needs to express ourselves.
This parable about enterprise leadership and strategy starts in our backyard vegetable garden in Detroit.
Our small urban garden in Detroit is a raised bed measuring just 4x12 feet. As novice gardeners, we often cram in more transplants than we should. Despite the tight space, tending to the garden is a joy, and I often talk to the plants while working the soil.
Last year, we took a chance and planted tomatillos. Although they grew well, we didn’t use them much because I wasn’t sure how to incorporate them into recipes, and we didn’t harvest enough to make it worthwhile. Many of the tomatillos fell into the bed and nestled into the soil. This year, tomatillo plants sprouted up all over the raised bed with cheer and resilience.
This weekend, while clearing weeds and preparing the bed for the fall crop season, I reflected on a lesson in enterprise strategy and leadership. We belong to a wonderful garden club, Keep Growing Detroit, and I’m picking up transplants from them this week. This is where the parable begins to take root.
As a gardener, some choices are easy. Do I pull the weeds? Absolutely. Weeds steal resources and space from our vegetables. It was sad but straightforward to cut our losses and pull the carrots we planted. Despite our efforts, the carrots didn’t thrive because weeds and grasses consumed the resources and space they needed to grow. Moreover, we planted them 2-3 weeks too late, and the cool-weather-loving carrots couldn’t withstand the heat. After assessing the situation, it was clear these carrots wouldn’t reach maturity.
We were disappointed because carrots are a family favorite. They’re delicious, and it’s fun to pull them while joking, “What’s up Doc?” like Bugs Bunny. Despite being a risk worth taking, the carrots didn’t turn out as planned.
Next, I had to decide about the tomatillos. Should I pull them or let them grow? The fallen tomatillos were thriving, already fruiting with many more to come. Ultimately, I decided to pull the tomatillos from the bed. It was painful and felt wasteful since they were already producing fruit.
What I realized was that even with a bumper crop of tomatillos, I would have had to go out of my way to use them. Honestly, I wasn’t interested in experimenting with new tomatillo recipes; I would have preferred trying a new vegetable like a pepper, squash, or bean. I would have used them, but I wouldn’t have been excited about the results. Tomatillos weren’t going to get me where I wanted to go.
In our garden, those tomatillos represented a real opportunity cost. With limited space in the bed, keeping the tomatillos meant losing the chance to plant fall crops that would better serve our needs. The tension was real; the tomatillos were already fruiting, creating inertia to leave them in the ground. But I knew I had to pull them because of the opportunity cost. Even a bumper crop of tomatillos wouldn’t help me achieve the outcomes I cared about.
We have to pull the tomatillo priorities. In enterprises, just like in a garden, attention and resources are limited. As enterprise leaders and strategists, we must focus on initiatives that not only bear fruit but also get us to where we want to go.
Every enterprise I have worked in has projects analogous to the weeds, carrots, and tomatillos in my garden. It’s challenging, but relatively easy, to end pet projects that pop up uninvited and steal resources and space from our most critical initiatives. We just have to recognize these projects for what they are—weeds—even if it requires a crucial conversation with the project leader.
We also have to pull the carrots, which are the projects we should be doing but have run off the rails and are no longer viable. For these, we need to celebrate our failure and learn from our mistakes so that the next time we attempt them, we succeed.
And hardest of all, we need to pull the projects that are bearing fruit but aren’t getting us where we actually want to go. These tomatillo projects are crucial to end because if they grow and succeed, they commit us even more to a direction that isn’t in the enterprise’s long-term interest. Tomatillo projects make us feel great right now but are dead ends in the long run.
To be sure, it’s not easy for any enterprise to say no, establish priorities, and end initiatives. But the enterprise is our garden bed, and we have to do what helps the garden grow the fruit that gets us to where we want to go.
That means we have to find the weeds and pull them. Even if it’s sad, we have to pull the carrots. And even though it feels terrible to end projects that are bearing fruit, we must have the courage to pull the tomatillos. The success of our enterprises and our gardens depends on it.
Of all the sports I’ve ever played, tennis demands the most mental toughness.
In tennis, maintaining a positive and aggressive state of mind is crucial throughout the match. If you’re not positive enough, your muscles tighten, leading to overthinking and missed shots. Conversely, if you’re not aggressive enough, you won’t take the necessary risks to win points.
The key to staying in this optimal mindset is learning to forget points quickly. Each point in tennis carries emotional weight, whether it’s a win or a loss. However, carrying these emotions from point to point disrupts the flow state essential for a tennis player. Therefore, it's vital to let go of previous points, regardless of whether they were good or bad.
The moments between points in tennis are crucial for resetting your mindset. This brief pause is the only opportunity to unload emotions and regain focus. To move on effectively, a tennis player must express all their emotions—whether positive or critical—between points, ensuring no lingering feelings disrupt their game.
The essential lesson here is to express, forget, and refocus on the point ahead.
This lesson from my time as a boy who grew up playing sports has profoundly impacted my adult life: the necessity to express myself every day, even if it's just in my journal. This need to express is a significant reason I’m committed to writing on this blog weekly.
Expressing myself allows me to calm down and gain the mindset required to truly listen and pay attention to those around me—whether it’s my family or my team at work. This ability to express and unload my thoughts is critical because if I can’t listen, I can’t love. If I can’t listen, I can’t solve problems. If I can’t listen, I can’t support others.
Even a five-minute free-write or singing songs from my karaoke favorites playlist on the way to work helps me to express, forget, and refocus.
I am so grateful for the chance to play and watch tennis because this lesson has been so impactful in my life. To anyone whose interest was piqued by this post, my advice is simple: express yourself every day. Whether it’s writing in a journal, talking to an old friend, or taking a few minutes to draw, do something daily that allows you to embrace the tennis mindset of express, forget, and refocus.
This simple lesson from one of the world’s great sports - to express, forget, and refocus - is the key to truly listening. By listening, we create the space to solve problems and form loving relationships with those around us.
In a society where trust levels are low and have been falling for decades, have you ever wondered who stands to gain from this pervasive and persistent distrust?
My hypothesis is this: low trust isn’t just a social ill—it’s a profitable venture for some. Over the years, I’ve noticed different groups that seem to benefit from distrust, both within organizations and across our culture. In this post, I’ll share my observations and explore who profits from distrust. If you have your own observations or data, please share them as we delve into this critical issue together.
AdversariesThe first group that benefits from low trust is straightforward: our adversaries. Distrust and infighting often go hand in hand. It’s much easier to defeat a rival, whether in the market, in an election, in a war, or in a race for positioning, when they are busy fighting among themselves and imploding from within.
BrokersAnother group that profits from distrust are brokers. Though they often don’t have bad intentions, brokers make a living by filling the gap that distrust creates. By “broker,” I mean someone who advocates on our behalf in an untrusting or uncertain environment. This could be a real estate agent, someone who vouches for us as a business partner, a friend who sets people up on blind dates, or someone whose endorsement wins us favor with others.
MercenariesMercenaries are a less well-intentioned version of brokers. These people paint a dark picture of a distrustful world and then offer to fight for us or provide protection—for a price. Mercenaries never portray themselves as such, even if that’s what they really are.
AggregatorsAggregators are people or organizations that build a reputation for being consistently trustworthy, especially when their rivals are not. Essentially, they aggregate trust and communicate it as a symbol of value. A good example of aggregators are fast food brands. When traveling abroad, people trust an American fast food chain to be clean, consistent, and reasonably priced. Many brands across industries thrive because they’ve built a trustworthy reputation.
These groups are fairly straightforward, and many of you might find these categories intuitive and relatable. However, they didn’t seem to cover enough ground to explain the persistent low trust levels in our culture. As I thought more about it, I realized that the largest group benefiting from distrust might be hidden in plain sight…
Stale IncumbentsNow, let’s consider the largest group that might be benefiting from distrust: stale incumbents.
Imagine someone you’ve worked with who always slows down projects. They resist learning new things and believe in sticking to the old ways. They’re nice, but their team never meets deadlines or finishes projects—they always have a believable excuse. This person is a stale incumbent.
More specifically, a stale incumbent is someone in a position who is out of ideas or motivation to innovate. Their ability to keep their job depends on everyone being stuck in the status quo. Here’s how it works:
- They get into a comfortable position.
- They stop learning and trying new things.
- They run out of ideas because they stopped learning.
- They try to hide and let new ideas fade.
- They allow distrust and low standards to settle in.
- When new people ask questions, they blame distrust: “It’s not my fault; others aren’t cooperating.”
- They make the status quo seem inevitable, doing the minimum to keep their position and discourage change.
- They repeat steps 4-7.
Stale incumbents need distrust to hide behind. They want to keep their comfortable position but have no new ideas because they stopped learning. A culture of distrust is the perfect scapegoat: it can’t argue back, and people think it can’t be changed, so they stop asking questions and give up. The distrust also makes it harder for new people to show up, innovate, annd expose the stale incumbent.
Ultimately, stale incumbents can keep their jobs while delivering mediocre results. This staleness spreads, making the culture of distrust harder to reverse because more stale incumbents depend on it. It’s a cycle of mediocrity, not anger and fear.
I don’t have experimental data, but I do have decades of regular observation draw from. I believe stale incumbents help explain the persistent low trust in America. Many people started with energy but never found allies, and the stale culture assimilated them.
The good news is there’s hope. If distrust is due to stale incumbents rather than malicious actors, we may not face much resistance in bringing about change. The path to change is clear: bring in energetic people and help them bring others along. It’s hard, but not complicated. By fostering a culture of learning, innovation, and trust, we can break the cycle of mediocrity and create a more trusting and dynamic society.
Occasionally, we will bump into each other at a game or perhaps at the market. Or, we’ll be in your town and none of our kids will be sick and we’ll meet up at a park.
And maybe, it’ll be on a zoom call with all our pals who can make it. Or, perhaps in one of its fleeting uses, Facebook will remind me that it’s your birthday.
One of my sons, after awhile will ask, “how do you know them, Papa?”
And I’ll get to say one of the phrases in the whole of the English language that is the most special to me:
“We’re old friends.”
I am lucky enough to have old friends from three places I’ve lived: Rochester, Ann Arbor, and Detroit. We’ve lived in Detroit for 13 years this fall, longer than I’ve lived anywhere and certainly long enough to be “old friends.”
I was laid up sick this weekend, and as my fever was peaking above 103 degrees and I didn’t even have the energy to fall asleep, I listened to Ben Rector’s live album, thought of you, and wept - like I am now. How I miss you, so desperately.
I think of you so much more than I let on. I am so sorry that it can be years sometimes before I’ll pop up out of my hole. I’m so sorry I’m not better.
The reason why, is one I owe you.
My dreams have come true. All I ever wanted, I realize now, was a family. And we have one. It has been a beautiful, messy, hilarious, journey. Here, tucked away in Detroit, my life has been made.
I want to be here, in my hole, soaking up every moment.
There’ll be times when I’m about to text or call and one of my sons will rope me into a soccer game in our basement. We’ll laugh. And then it’ll be bedtime, and then it’s dishes time, and then I’ll be wiped but glowing with happiness as Robyn and I spend 30m together if we can - and the moment will have passed.
I don’t mean this to be an excuse, but it is a reason.
So to my old friends, I miss you. I love you very much, and will think of you often - I promise.
Until we meet again,
Neil
I forget sometimes how large I loom in their world. But on this Father’s Day, I am reminded of it, and it’s something I don’t want to forget.
All my sons put so much effort and care into my Father’s Day present. It helped me remember that, no matter who you are, as a young kid, the people who raise you are your whole world. Mothers and fathers are just…giants to a kid. All children explore this, fascinated and in awe. That’s why all kids put on their parents’ shoes and mittens and walk around in them.
“Maybe someday,” we wish, “these will fit and I’ll get the chance to be like them.”
Mothers and fathers are giants to a kid.
This is such a gift of love, not just for our joy and hearts but for the people we will become in the future.
I’ve been thinking about how this year, on my birthday, my perception of age changed. When we’re young, the first change comes when you realize how awesome it will be to be older: bigger, stronger, and more free. Then you hit the invincibility years of your twenties, wishing to stay 27 or 28 forever.
Next come the years of control—or lack thereof, I suppose. There’s not enough money, not a good enough job, the kids grow up too quickly, and you find yourself nervously joking about the increasing gray in your hair or talking about revisiting old haunts to recapture fleeting youth.
Then my 37th birthday hit, and my perception of age changed again. It was a birthday where I thought, “Damn, I’m just glad to be here for it.”
Why? Because I became very conscious of how our table grew more crowded this year, not less. This year, we’ve added children, brothers, and sisters to our table of friends and family. And we lost almost nobody. I’m old enough now to realize how rare and precious birthdays like this one will be from here on out.
So yes, when I blew out the candles on my pineapple birthday cake this year, my wish was: “Thank you, God, for letting me celebrate this birthday. My wish is for my next birthday to be like this one, with our table more crowded, not less.”
One of my greatest fears about death now is not the pain, suffering, and uncertainty that surrounds it—though that’s still a real fear. I have started to fear that a birthday will come—especially if my friends and family are gone, and I’m the last one standing—where I won’t wish for another one.
That’s the final change in our perception of age: moving from a place of peace and gratitude for our life—where we’re just happy to be here—to hoping for death to come peacefully, but also soon. I don’t want to ever slip into that last phase of age. I hope this last birthday, where I was just happy to be here and hoped for another birthday, is the last time my perception of age meaningfully changes.
No matter what happens, I know today that I have mattered to my sons. Days like these, marked by little celebrations and small gestures of love, remind us that we mattered to someone—whether it was our kids, friends, family, colleagues, or neighbors—that we loomed large.
These little Father’s Day gifts, like the ones I received today, are more than just presents. They are symbols we can hold onto as we age, reminders that we loved and were loved. These symbols of love will always give me hope and a feeling of worth, a reason to keep wishing for more birthdays. Because we were loved once, there’s always hope that each day we wake up, there will be that light of love again—whether it comes to us or is the light we carry and gift to others.
Almost a decade ago, my wife Robyn introduced me to the practice of keeping a gratitude journal. Over the years, I experimented with different methods, including a four-part gratitude exercise. However, I've found that the simpler version—writing down three things I'm grateful for each day—resonates most with me. Recently, I made a small yet profound modification to this practice.
At the end of each gratitude, I add a simple “Thank you” to acknowledge the forces and people making my life better. This small change has significantly impacted my daily gratitude practice, and I recommend trying it if you keep a gratitude journal.
First, it’s humbling. Giving “credit” for the good things in my life makes me realize the generosity and care others are capable of. I am often in awe of their talents, grace, and how they share both with me.
Second, I feel loved—the opposite of alone. Every time I write the name of someone who has done something—knowingly or unknowingly—for me, it’s as if I feel that person giving me a hug or a smile. With a stroke of a pen, writing the name of another person in gratitude builds a feeling of love in my heart and reminds me that no matter what I think or what is happening around me, I am not alone.
Interestingly, I can’t always articulate something specific to acknowledge in my daily gratitude. Sometimes, all I can think to thank is the universe, the culture, God, or the Earth. It’s a reminder of how expansive human life can be and breaks me out of the minutiae of the daily grind. It helps me reach a headspace where small things remain small and the traces of bigger things emerge.
This emergence of these bigger forces is motivating. It makes me want to forget about the narrow and childish things that can often consume too much of my energy. When I remember that there are forces out there conspiring to make my life joyous, it makes me want to add a dollop of untraceable love and support out into the universe for others.
Ultimately, this is the broadest lesson from adding a “thank you” to my daily gratitude: by thanking the people behind my blessings, it helps me to think of and make sacrifices for others myself. If we are trying to be good people in the toughest moments, this is exactly the motivation we need to cultivate.
Instead of taking 5 minutes to read my blog post this week, please take 15 seconds to just take a pause. Notice something so that you can make a memory of where you are right now.
The reason for this deliberate non-post? It’s because one of the building blocks of human bonding is attention. Relationships only form when we pay attention. Love blossoms in the here and now.
I remembered this after attending a very special family wedding where the bride and groom gave us the gift of presence by asking for the ceremony to be phone-free.
This is an image of a dog offering up a glass of water. Take one more brief moment to look at it and plant it firmly in your mind.
Now, when you and I inevitably see a dog or a glass of water this summer, let’s use it as a trigger which gives us the permission to take 15 seconds, shake out of whatever we were thinking about, and get back to the present moment.
Once we’re back to the here and now we’re ready for love and fellowship.
Here’s my thought experiment for how we might do political visioning in America, grounded in the aspirations of the entire polity.
The first bit is a good illustration of how I think about the American Dream. I mean this more as an exercise in how to “do” politics differently than just having a platform on 50+ issues that matter to the polity and shouting about it as loud as you can.
My main consternation as a citizen is this: I don’t want a platform unless you’ve shared a vision first! Rather than just griping, I figured I’d actually explain how I think things could work instead.
And, for what it’s worth, this is how I’ve seen great organizations function across sectors. This sort of discipline around strategy and execution is one of the things I most wish the public sector would adopt from private sector organizations.
To start, let’s assume a visionary political leader believes these are the three overarching questions that unify the largest possible amount of our polity:
- On average, do people have enough optimism about the present and future to want to bring children into this world?
- On average, once someone is brought into this world, do they flourish from cradle to grave?
- Overall, the simplest and most comprehensive way to measure the health of a society is Total Fertility Rate vs. replacement rate. Is our long-run population stable, growing, or declining?
A vision statement based on these questions could be:
I imagine a country where our citizens believe it’s worth bringing children into the world and have reasonable confidence that those children will flourish during their lifetimes.
A pithy slogan to capture the essence of this vision statement could be:
“Families will thrive here.”
Let’s assume this is a vision statement that the polity believes in. If so, then the political leader can translate their rhetoric into action by asking two simple questions:
- Is the vision true today?
- If not, what would have to be true for the vision to become reality?
From there, a political leader can create an integrated set of mutually reinforcing policy and administrative choices that they believe will allow the polity to make disproportionate progress toward the vision state.
Put another way, by working backwards from the vision, you can place bets on the initiatives that are more likely to succeed rather than wasting resources on those that won’t get us to where we want to go.
The problem with this approach is that you actually have to articulate a vision, understand the root causes that are preventing it from happening without intervention, do the extremely abstract work of forming a strategy, and then communicate it clearly enough so that people get behind it. That’s really hard, and you have to have major guts to go through this exercise of vision -> strategy -> priorities -> outcomes.
This is quite different, I think, than having a pro-con list of policy preferences across a widely distributed set of issue areas that aren’t contemplated in an integrated way. But the thing is, having focus and priorities tends to work much better than “boiling the ocean” or “being all things to all people.”
In a nutshell, one of the biggest lessons I’ve learned from observing the leadership of private-sector companies is that it’s a big waste to just start doing stuff—as if everything is equally impactful. It works much better when you start with a specific end state in mind and work backwards. It’s an idea that’s useful for political leaders, too.
Have you ever wondered what sets elite artists and athletes apart from the rest of us? I sure have.
Over the years, I’ve reflected on their mindsets, which, on the surface, appear quite different. (Check out this post on athletes and this one on artists).
But there’s at least one big thing that elite artists and athletes have in common: they can think and feel at the same time. Let’s take the example of a tennis player and a stage actor.
A tennis player has to think and make snap decisions with every stroke, fluidly, in real-time. When you’re playing tennis, you’re constantly thinking about your game plan, your opponent, the match's momentum, and your tactical strategy—and then putting it into action on every single point.
Additionally, a tennis player must manage their emotions because the sport is an emotional roller coaster. Clinging to bad shots or failing to ride the momentum can hinder their performance. To be a great tennis player, you have to be able to think and feel at the same time.
Consider a moment in a high-stakes tennis match. The player is down a set and facing a break point. The crowd holds its breath as the player takes a deep breath, silencing the noise in their mind. In that instant, they must trust their training and instincts, feeling the weight of the moment while calculating their next move.
A stage actor must also access their emotions. Characters become believable and storytelling compelling only when it comes from a genuine emotional place. As a stage actor, you have to delve deep into your inner world to tap the emotional reservoir necessary for an outstanding performance.
At the same time, a stage actor has to think deeply. The actor has to think about their lines and their cues, of course. But also, the stage actor has to think about their technique, body movements, intonation, and their interplay with all the other actors onstage - especially if something goes wrong and the ensemble has to start improvising. To be a great stage actor, you have to think and feel at the same time.
This skill of simultaneous thinking and feeling applies to many domains of our lives. As a parent, we have to think about our actions and principles while deeply empathizing with and listening to our children. At work, we have to think analytically about problems but feel and attune to human dynamics and emotions within our teams. This skill - which artists and athletes possess - is broadly applicable.
The trick lies in the “how.” How do we cultivate this dual skill of thinking and feeling simultaneously?
As I contemplate this, I think of two martial artists who spar inside our heads: “The Thinker” and “The Feeler.” The key, I believe, is letting these fighters go at it. Not in an antagonistic way, but in a symbiotic, we’re-on-the-same-team, iron-sharpens-iron kind of way when we do hard stuff.
In practice, this means two things. First, we have to do novel, challenging things. We need new, difficult stuff for The Thinker and The Feeler to work on. Maybe it’s a new project at work, or training for a race, or resolving to be a more patient parent.
Second, we have to ensure that The Thinker and The Feeler aren’t just going through the motions. We can’t let ourselves go on autopilot and do things the way we always do. The Thinker has to be trying new stuff to become a better thinker, and The Feeler has to be trying new stuff to be a better feeler. In any novel situation where we’re trying to “train,” we should periodically ask ourselves, "Am I on autopilot, just going through the motions? Should I be?"
If we aim for excellence in any field—be it artistry, athletics, parenting, or our vocation—we cannot afford to be pushovers. We need The Thinker and The Feeler in our minds to be strong, agile sparring partners, ready to tackle any challenge in real-time. By continuously training both, we forge a path to mastery.
How we react to adversity is a true reflection of our character, revealing our true selves when challenges arise—this is a familiar adage that holds much truth.
However, the times of ease and abundance in our lives—moments when we are most comfortable—also define us, yet these periods receive far less scrutiny. This week, I've come to realize that our actions during these comfortable times are equally telling. When the pressure is off, and we are left to our own devices with resources at hand, who do we choose to be? This question, I believe, is as crucial as how we face adversity, for it sheds light on the values we hold dear even when no one is compelling us to uphold them.
The Challenge of Super ComfortI might become super comfortable for various reasons. Perhaps I’ve fallen into some money, achieved sustainable wealth, gained mastery in my job, or it’s simply sunny and I’m on vacation. Maybe I’ve just gotten a promotion or been recognized for some sort of award. Maybe one of my posts has gone viral, and I’m currently "the it guy" because of it. How do I act then?
Do I lose my hunger to be a better man? Do I let my standards slide? Do I forget about the injustices others face because this mojito I’m palming is just that hypnotizing? Do I take the day off from my duties because I feel like I’m above doing the work in the trenches now that I’ve "made it"? Do I stop diving for the metaphorical loose ball? Will my tastes get more expensive simply because they can, or will I remain the same guy from the schoolyard who went out and worked for it every day and put the team ahead of himself?
When things are rolling my way and I’m super comfortable, who am I going to be? When I feel like I’ve made it, will the game be about "me" or will I walk the walk on it being about "we"?
How We Can Manage Super ComfortDealing with super comfort is a real issue, not confined to stratospheric levels of wealth or social status. Owning a house, maintaining a retirement account, having a respected job, and enjoying paid vacation days—these are signs of 'super comfort' accessible to many, not just the super-rich. And here's the crux: I don’t want comfort to corrupt my character.
I've always cared about more than my own comfort, tracing back to when I joined the Brooklands Elementary student council at nine years old. I still aspire to be that hopeful, gregarious lad who believed that serving others was time well spent. Honestly, I don’t want to fade into a life of super comfort and become a self-indulgent navel-gazer. When I enjoy a lazy, restorative moment, I want it to be just that—a moment. Once it passes, I aim to return to something bigger than comfort.
So, if we care about our character and the impact we have on others and our corner of the world, this question is vital: How do we not let super comfort corrupt who we are?
It starts with a strong sense of who we are and what we care about unconditionally. We must literally post our deep convictions on our wall so we can't ignore them once we've 'made it.' Moreover, we must be wary of gated communities. The term 'gated community' often brings to mind exclusive residential areas that are physically gated off from the surrounding world, but it also applies to social circles and activities that are metaphorically gated through economic, cultural, or educational barriers.
True inclusive spaces are those accessible to everyone. To prevent our comfort from corrupting us, we must actively engage with these places. It's not just about avoiding country clubs or luxury suites at stadiums; it's about ensuring our daily environments—coffee shops, churches, date nights—are not so elite and self-selecting that we go weeks without having our comfort zones challenged. It's about choosing to leave the bubbles of our grad school networks and being open to interactions with diverse groups of people at the grocery store or our kids’ soccer games. The only real inclusive spaces are those that everyone can access, and to prevent corruption through comfort, we must show up in those places.
Super comfort becomes normal when we detach from public life and limit our social interactions to these private, exclusive spaces. It’s easy to indulge in comfort and rationalize elitist behaviors when we only inhabit specific slices of our world.
This is a bit of a rant, and that’s because this idea of corruption through comfort is new to me. How we act when we face adversity defines us, obviously. But how we act when we are faced with super comfort matters just as much. Maybe even more so, because in the throes of being comfortable is when we are most likely to make an exception to the standards of character we have set for ourselves.
Maybe it’s not novel for you, but it is novel for me: I have to fight the effects of super comfort, and that starts by even acknowledging this idea that how we act when we are super comfortable requires introspection and scrutiny.
Just as our character is defined by how we act in moments of adversity, it’s also defined by how we act in the moments where adversity is furthest away.
The years in my mid-twenties, when Robyn and I fell in love, were some of the best of my life. Looking back, that whole time felt like a smile.
Eight years ago this week, Robyn and I were wed at an old Jesuit church in downtown Detroit. This was the Gospel reading we chose, Matthew 7:24-25:
"Everyone then who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on the rock. And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock."
We chose this reading deliberately. Fresh off the sudden passing of my father three months before our wedding day, we had already been through the gales and floods of a big storm. The notion of “in good times and bad” wasn’t just an abstract concept to us—our young relationship had already lived through both.
We had at least some notion of the good and bad days ahead. We knew that there would be more death and grief ahead. We didn’t know exactly what parenting would be like, but we did have some idea of the intense joy and struggle it would entail.
We knew that jobs would come and go with varying levels of stress and accomplishment. We knew that we’d have fun passing time around Detroit with friends and neighbors. And, perhaps most importantly, we knew that “family first” would be a guiding principle for our life together, and with that commitment would come love and sacrifice.
We chose that passage for our wedding Gospel reading because we wanted to anchor our marriage into the “rock” of God and love so we could celebrate the good days and weather the bad days we knew would come.
We didn’t know exactly what was coming or when, but we knew it would.
All that said, something happened over the last 8 years that I never predicted, and honestly, it completely blindsided me.
I never imagined, after that first season of falling in love, that I’d fall in love with Robyn again. That I’d feel that rush of romance after we had long passed the days of being love birds and our honeymoon phase.
But I have. As we’ve lived through each new season of our life together, I’ve fallen in love with Robyn again and again.
And I’m so grateful.
The reason why this happened is simple: we’ve each changed, a lot. Of course, our core principles remain intact. But holy cow, so much has happened these past 8 years. The entire context in which our lives are set has changed, how could we not be different people?
All this change has made things novel and fresh. It has given us an opportunity to fall in love again and again, in every new season. That’s a choice: we’re choosing to grow together instead of apart, and that has perhaps made falling in love the second, third, and fourth times even more exciting and beautiful than the first.
And what a silver lining that is.
Because I know I’m getting older. I see it and feel it regularly. Like when with each new haircut I notice a few more grey hairs. Or in how my hangovers are less frequent, but last much longer.
All these are mile markers that remind me that every day I’m a day closer to the end of this beautiful life.
But damn. It makes aging so much more bearable to know that as we grow old we are growing older together. And that as our seasons change we will get to fall in love several more times throughout our life.
If we must trade our youth for age, it is a blessing to realize that we get this gift to fall in love, again and again.
My conclusion after a slump of parenting was this: Maybe I should just shut up.
Maybe my meddling between two sons, who have infinitely more experience in what it’s like to have a brother, isn’t helping. Unless they’re drawing blood, breaking bones, or veering into legitimate cruelty, maybe I should keep doing the dishes and let the hollering in our basement work itself out.
Maybe I’ve taken what Dr. Becky taught me a little too far. I should help narrate and put some scaffolding on their big feelings, sure. But maybe I can let him freak out for at least 20 seconds before I interfere and force his heart rate to lower through me and my adult voice. Maybe I can just sit here with him and just breathe for a minute, before I say something that he’s trying to express and feel himself.
Maybe if my reaction to whatever just happened carries the tone that I’m older, smarter, and more arrogant—believing my son is being ridiculous—I should take my own advice and shut up if I don’t have anything nice to say or if I can’t say it kindly right now.
Maybe when they’re excited about something—like a goal they scored, a word they learned to read, or a bug they saw on the playground—I can just smile eagerly. I don’t have to rattle off details like Wikipedia, make their moment mine, or turn it into something teachable. Maybe I can just look at them, give them my attention with my whole body, and smile eagerly.
It turns out, for an external processor of feelings and thoughts like me, learning to keep my mouth shut long enough to let a pause pass was really hard. But it turns out, it freaking works.
I always worry about letting them struggle to the point of developing depression, anxiety, or God forbid, a hopelessness dangerous enough to invite self-harm.
Yes, I need to not cross that line.
But damn, it turns out I could have avoided many of the worst moments, where I’ve been the worst version of myself, by shutting my mouth, opening my ears, and letting things linger a little before I shift into “dad mode.”
They’re smart, good, and capable young men—already. As difficult as it is to let them grow forward, something they might need from me is to stay nearby, with love waiting, but also quietly.
Sometimes, the greatest act of love for them today, and for our future selves where we’re all grown men, is to just shut up.
Most of us have a HUGE gap between the impact we actually make and what we are capable of.
Asking myself (and my teammates) this question helps me put it in perspective: How would you rate yourself on a scale from 1 to 100?
- A 100 represents making the highest possible impact that your talent and potential allow.
- A 1 represents completely wasting the opportunity to positively contribute to the world.
I think most of us, myself included, are much lower on this scale than we realize—maybe a 20 or 30 at best. This realization begs the question: Why is there such a discrepancy, and what can we do about it?
In my experience, there are three reasons we leave vast amounts of our talent and potential untouched. First, we may never be challenged enough to use it. Second, we're not in the right contexts to let our strengths shine. Third, we may not have the support we need to develop the untapped talent we possess.
If we were all fully auto-didactic, we’d have no problem. That's because an auto-didact can fully teach and develop themselves. But none of us are completely auto-didactic; we all need others' help to develop ourselves so that we make our fullest contributions.
Introducing Exponential SkillsThe difficulty in fully developing ourselves and others is relevant in many contexts. In professional settings, we call this challenge "talent development." In family settings, it’s "parenting." In community spheres, it's "mentorship" in secular contexts and "faith formation" in spiritual ones. In all domains of our lives, fulfilling and contributing the totality of our potential to the world matters.
The question I like to ask to really push my thinking is: What would have to be true for everyone in the world to develop and contribute 100% of their potential? As I’ve reasoned through this, the only way we get to the point of the world contributing 100% of their talent is through an exponential feedback loop where the number of people helping others to grow and develop increases exponentially.
To make the jump to create a society with an exponential feedback loop for talent development, let me define some terms and introduce some concepts:
We are all contributors who bring our talent and potential to the world. Some of us contribute by making art, others by building bridges, creating knowledge, making cakes, or making decisions. In mathematical terms, think of this as a constant: c.
A coach is a contributor who also helps develop others. Coaches are a big deal because they help others close the gap between their potential and their contribution. Think of this as x(c), where x is the number of people a coach is able to develop.
A linear coach is a coach who also helps develop other people into coaches. Think of this as mx(c), where m is the number of other coaches the linear coach creates.
An exponential coach is a linear coach whose coaching tree goes on in perpetuity: the people I coach become coaches, and then those people create more coaches, and those people create more coaches, and so on. Think of this as (mx(c))^n, where n is the number of generations an exponential coach is able to influence the cycle of creating more coaches.
Visually, I think of it like this:
**Barriers To Creating Exponential Coaches**To create exponential coaches, several significant challenges need addressing. These challenges revolve around how we internalize and transmit knowledge, and the intrinsic motivations behind our contributions.
Challenge 1: Recognition Gap — The further you get from a contributor, the less credit you get for your work. This recognition gap can demotivate those who do not see immediate returns on their efforts. Solution: To overcome this, we must cultivate inner motivation and focus on long-term impact rather than immediate recognition. Developing a sense of purpose that transcends acknowledgment allows leaders to dedicate themselves to creating a lineage of coaches, thus prioritizing legacy over accolades.
Challenge 2: Complex Idea Communication — For an idea to spread, the messenger must internalize it sufficiently to simplify and communicate it effectively. This requires a deep understanding of both the intellectual and emotional aspects of the idea. Solution: Coaches need to engage in profound introspection to grasp the nuances of their knowledge and experiences fully. This depth of understanding enables them to articulate these concepts clearly and simply, making them accessible and teachable.
Challenge 3: Teaching to Teach — Teaching others to teach is a complex task that involves not only passing on knowledge but also instilling the value and methodology of teaching itself. This requires a reflective understanding of one’s own teaching practices. Solution: Coaches should introspect on their teaching methods and motivations, understanding them deeply enough to convey their importance to others. This process ensures that the coaches they develop can, in turn, teach effectively, perpetuating a cycle of self-replication in coaching practices.
Mastering these challenges not only enhances our own potential but also multiplies our impact exponentially across our communities and industries.
Where Do We Even Start?On a personal note, the person I call Nanna is not my grandmother by birth but rather by love; she's my father-in-law's mother. During a trip to England a few years ago, I asked her about the secret to a long and healthy life. Here are the highlights of what she said:
- Make time for family, faith, and community.
- Stay active; keep your body moving, whether it’s through dancing, walking a dog, or any other physical activity.
- Find a way to express yourself—through music, art, writing, knitting, making movies, having a book club, or any other form—because expression is crucial to mental and emotional health.
That last imperative is so deeply intertwined with introspection. Isn’t expression just a word that means exploring our inner world and then sharing it outside of ourselves? We have to express to be sane and healthy.
I know this post is heady and meta. I’ve been thinking about this concept for months, and I’ve only just synthesized enough to share a muddy morsel of it. A fair question to ask is: Where, in the real world, do we even start?
For inspiration on where to start on our own journeys to become exponential coaches, we can take heed from Nanna. She was onto something.
To become an exponential coach, we have to introspect and express. And to introspect and express, we have to find a medium that works for us and allows us to explore our inner world. And once we find it, we have to just practice with that medium, over and over.
For me, that medium is writing. For others, it might be painting, photography, singing, or making pottery. For others still, it might be talking honestly with a good friend, praying, or starting a podcast.
The medium doesn’t really matter, as long as we just do it. As long as we take that time to introspect and express. That’s the first step we all can take to grow toward becoming exponential coaches. Expression is the first step to becoming an exponential coach.
I cringe whenever I ask someone “how’s it going” and they reply back with, 'I'm soooo busy.’.
Sometimes, it’s stated sincerely. But too often it’s a humblebrag, a ploy to assert status, or a facade for someone who really isn’t accomplishing much of anything. For instance, a colleague might constantly mention their packed schedule in meetings and emails, yet their actual output barely reflects the supposed busyness.
Almost always, “I’m busy" is not what someone actually means. When I hear, 'I've been so busy…,' I often wonder if what they really mean is something like:
- “I don’t know what’s actually most important, so I’m doing a little of everything.”
- “I want you to think I’m important, so I’m going to act like I am by giving the appearance that people have asked me to do a lot of stuff.”
- “I don’t know how to delegate or coach people, so I’m doing everything myself.”
- “Our organization doesn’t value results, just the appearance of results so I have to make it seem like I’m working really hard.”
- “Our culture isn’t trusting, and I’m afraid to be transparent and specific with you about my job.”
- “I don’t trust you enough or have the time for you now, so I’m making polite small talk about something other than the weather.”
- “I’ve given up because no matter how hard I try, my leadership doesn’t make a decision or ever say no to anything.”
- “I don’t know what my job actually is so I’m taking shots in the dark to try to put in an honest day’s work.”
- “Help.”
I’m quite skeptical of the phrase “I’m just sooo busy.” This phrase often serves as coded language for deeper issues. I avoid using it to ensure my words match my true intentions, and perhaps you should too.
While 'I'm just sooo busy' might seem trivial, it often masks deeper issues of mistrust and miscommunication within an organization. By saying one thing but meaning another, employees reveal a culture that does not support straightforward, honest dialogue. This should concern us all—not just as a nuisance but as a symptom of larger, systemic problems.
Hearing this phrase shouldn’t just pass by unnoticed. It should prompt us to adopt a more curious and compassionate approach, asking ourselves: What is really being said here? And why isn't there room for honesty?
Let’s challenge ourselves and our workplaces to foster a culture where transparency and trust are the norm, not the exception. What would have to be true for your organization to become a place where 'I'm busy' is no longer a common response?
A parent’s love and a child’s love are different.
A parent’s love for a child is, and ought to be, unconditional. Despite occasionally being angered or critical of our children’s antics, we, as parents, embraced this unwavering love as part of our commitment when starting a family.
I don’t think a child’s love for their parents is necessarily unconditional, nor should it be. For example, if I abused my kids, they certainly shouldn’t love me unconditionally.
What I realized this week, as I’ve observed aging family members up close and from afar, is the concept of unreciprocated love. A child’s love for their elders may be unreciprocated—unable to be returned as those elders age and lose their mental and physical capacities. This unreciprocated love so often shown by children to their aging elders is courageous, thankless, and uncommonly special.
Sometimes, as our elders age—our parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and godparents—they might not have the capacity to love us back in the ways they once did. They may become too weak to hug, kiss, or care for us as they did when we were younger. In the most cruel of possibilities, they may not even recognize the person in front of them who is offering love and care. They may want to reciprocate the love they’re receiving, but there may come a time when our older loved ones simply can’t.
Fourteen percent of the population, equating to 37.1 million people, provide unpaid eldercare in the United States, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics (BLS). In our culture, and especially in the workplace, the caregiving these people do is invisible. Being a parent, on the other hand, is very visible and at least a little bit supported. Even though the US lags behind the rest of the world in workplace policies related to families, parenting is at least visible and acknowledged.
Adult caregiving is much less visible, supported, or even understood to be a reality that millions of people live with every day. It seems, sometimes, that we often forget that adult caregiving even exists.
In my writing, I often talk about parenting and its immense struggles. I’m a parent, so I unsurprisingly over-index there.
Today, I’d like to put us aside as parents and pause to be grateful for the children, grandchildren, nieces, and nephews who are caring for older loved ones, even though that love and care might be unreciprocated. Even if we don’t celebrate it or value it broadly in our culture, I think we should at least acknowledge and name this very gracious sacrifice of unreciprocated love.
Let us hope and pray that we have the strength to care for someone even when they can’t reciprocate our love. And that we are good enough to our children that they are willing to love us when our love for them is unconditional, yes, but cannot be reciprocated.
I’ve spent too much of my life on absolute boondoggles of projects. Now, I know better.
To avoid boondoggle projects in any organization or team, these five questions must be clear to everyone (especially to me): who, what, to what end, why, and how.
Here they are:
- Who are we serving? Answering this provides clarity on whose needs we really have to meet and who the judge of success and failure actually is. If we’re not clear on who is saying “thank you” at the end of all this, how can we do something magical for them?
- To what end do we aspire? This clarifies what a successful mission looks like. The needle has to move on something; otherwise, why are we putting forth any effort?
- What are we delivering? This clarifies the tangible thing we have to put in front of someone’s face or into their hands. If we’re not clear on what we’re building, aren’t we all just wasting our time?
- Why does this matter? This clarifies the urgency and importance. If this doesn’t matter a lot, let’s respect ourselves enough to do something else that does.
- How are we going to get from here to the end? This clarifies the process. If we don’t know how to get this done, will we ever finish?
Answering these five questions is the cheapest, simplest project charter you’ve ever had. If everyone on the team has the same answers to these questions, you’ll prevent the project from becoming a boondoggle.
If we’re part of leading a project, getting the team to clarity on these five questions is our job.
In my mind's eye, one thing I often do is zoom out. I close my eyes, and like Google Earth, I start where I am and move outward.
First, I see our neighborhood, with its densely packed blocks and tree-lined streets. Then, I start to see the Detroit River and the border with Canada, and then the Mitten of Michigan. Soon, North America vanishes into the blue marble of the Earth.
And then, in my mind, I hit a galactic speed and imagine the spiral of the Milky Way, whirling about in front of me. Then our galaxy disappears and becomes a mere point of light, and all of a sudden, what I see in my mind's eye is the totality of the known universe spun in time. I am seeing every tiny thing that has ever lived or ever will live.
When I snap back and open my eyes, the same feeling and conclusion always come to me: we are all on the same team.
But with the widened perspective gifted to me by my mind's eye, the "we" does not just encompass my community, or even just the human race. It's bigger. This view is even broader than our Earth and the tiny planets of our galaxy. This “we” is every tiny, living thing, anywhere in the universe.
I have not encountered any living thing beyond the atmosphere of our pale blue dot. But I feel the faintest, yet enduring, unity with everything, everywhere. Because I cannot believe anything other than that every living thing in the universe shares one common conviction: that we want to live. And that common, universal belief—the desire to live—gives us common ground and puts us on the same team, even if only with the most delicate of adhesions.
As hopeful as this wider aperture makes me, I also weep from it. Because, at times, the world seems cruel and it seems as if nobody on Earth feels a common bond with any other living thing. Not a human, not a plant, nor an animal, let alone the life that may exist beyond our solar system.
There are even some people on this planet who do not even act as if their spouses or children are on the same team as them. Some even seem to deliberately generate distrust and sabotage any attempt at fellowship so they may profit from it. How could anyone choose to profit from breaking bonds of fellowship?
I think in the way our good Uncle Shakespeare put it in Sonnet 65: "How with all this rage shall beauty hold a plea, whose action is no stronger than a flower?"
The BattleOur hearts have an aperture, just like our eyes. As the rage and cruelty around us intensify, the reflex of this aperture is to close, shielding ourselves from the siege and battery of the universe around us.
But the aperture can also do the opposite, open and widen so that we—the souls we are—can join with the universe around us, shining our love outward and allowing the light of others to come through the pupil and back to us.
Many days, I feel like I am losing the battle for this aperture. Like I am one man, struggling to keep my heart open; trying my best to be a good guy in a stressed out world, as I often say.
And yet, so many days I can’t get through the day without yelling at my kids or I feel the grip of greed and the addiction of ego. My heart closing with every swipe or scroll on my phone or fiscal year that passes.
I am at my most despondent, my absolute saddest, when I am losing the battle for my own heart and I know it. I want so badly to not let the rage out there win, but I so often feel and worry that it is.
Sometimes, even on the hardest days, I start to think about forfeiting and make excuses to relieve myself of this battle. I lie to myself with thoughts like, 'If I sell out and play the game, I'm just doing what everyone else is doing,' or 'There's no way but to fight fire with fire,' or, 'This is how the world works, it is what it is,' or worst 'I need to look out for myself…for the family,'" When these inner monologues hit, I come close to shutting the aperture of my heart—very close.
If you've lived a life like mine, and maybe even if you haven't, you're likely also battling for the aperture your own heart, trying to stand pat and stand gracefully, juxtaposing yourself with the seemingly endless supply of rage and cruelty around us. I think there may be tens of millions of us, battling in this way, quietly. Maybe you also come close to forfeiting sometimes.
But I always seems to get a reminder when I need one—to keep battling—maybe you do too.
Like today, I had a sudden urge to listen to this song, “Joe”, which is the story of an alcoholic who is trying and struggling to say sober…and he’s doing it. The song, as far as I can tell, is fictitious, but it still reminds me: there are others fighting for their own hearts—and winning.
The grace of being forgiven, reminds me too, to keep battling.
If I can blow my top and my sons still forgive me and show it by bringing me a paper to make a plane out of, asking me to play soccer, or offering me one of their grapes as a sign of peace—how can I not keep trying? The grace and forgiveness out of my own sons, who I have wronged, redeems me.
The is the story of the ages, it seems. We try to live, meet our crucible, and we come close to giving up our light. But then, we meet our Mentor, or someone finds love for us and catches us before the citadel in our hearts falls. And then, we find redemption and persist on our quest. Love, it seems, finds a way to strike back.
I honestly wrote this because I have been frayed at all ends and have felt my heart closing. For me, writing is a way to force, even if only slightly, the aperture of my heart back open. When my heart needs to open, I suppose this is what comes out of it.
I don’t have a pithy, triumphant conclusion to this essay. If I had to feign one because it makes for better reading—I’d be lying.
If you’re still reading this, something about this probably resonated with you, you may even be battling for the aperture of your own heart right now. Maybe, even, you feel like you are losing the battle.
That place, feels so lonely. The world we live in is so centered around projecting control and “with-it-ness” it doesn’t feel possible that anyone else is engaged in such a struggle. The battlefield for our hearts feels so lonely - like it’s us against the cruelty and rage of the whole world.
If nothing else, I hope this essay is proof that it’s not.There are so many of us battling to keep widening and opening the aperture of our own hearts.
Despite all this rage, beauty does hold a plea. Because love finds a way to remind us what we are fighting for and that we can win.
When rage and cruelty threaten, love strikes back.
In my mind's eye, one thing I often do is zoom out. I close my eyes, and like Google Earth, I start where I am and move outward.
First, I see our neighborhood, with its densely packed blocks and tree-lined streets. Then, I start to see the Detroit River and the border with Canada, and then the Mitten of Michigan. Soon, North America vanishes into the blue marble of the Earth.
And then, in my mind, I hit a galactic speed and imagine the spiral of the Milky Way, whirling about in front of me. Then our galaxy disappears and becomes a mere point of light, and all of a sudden, what I see in my mind's eye is the totality of the known universe spun in time. I am seeing every tiny thing that has ever lived or ever will live.
When I snap back and open my eyes, the same feeling and conclusion always come to me: we are all on the same team.
But with the widened perspective gifted to me by my mind's eye, the "we" does not just encompass my community, or even just the human race. It's bigger. This view is even broader than our Earth and the tiny planets of our galaxy. This “we” is every tiny, living thing, anywhere in the universe.
I have not encountered any living thing beyond the atmosphere of our pale blue dot. But I feel the faintest, yet enduring, unity with everything, everywhere. Because I cannot believe anything other than that every living thing in the universe shares one common conviction: that we want to live. And that common, universal belief—the desire to live—gives us common ground and puts us on the same team, even if only with the most delicate of adhesions.
As hopeful as this wider aperture makes me, I also weep from it. Because, at times, the world seems cruel and it seems as if nobody on Earth feels a common bond with any other living thing. Not a human, not a plant, nor an animal, let alone the life that may exist beyond our solar system.
There are even some people on this planet who do not even act as if their spouses or children are on the same team as them. Some even seem to deliberately generate distrust and sabotage any attempt at fellowship so they may profit from it. How could anyone choose to profit from breaking bonds of fellowship?
I think in the way our good Uncle Shakespeare put it in Sonnet 65: "How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, whose action is no stronger than a flower?"
The BattleOur hearts have an aperture, just like our eyes. As the rage and cruelty around us intensify, the reflex of this aperture is to close, shielding ourselves from the siege and battery of the universe around us.
But the aperture can also do the opposite, open and widen so that we—the souls we are—can join with the universe around us, shining our love outward and allowing the light of others to come through the pupil and back to us.
Many days, I feel like I am losing the battle for this aperture. Like I am one man, struggling to keep my heart open; trying my best to be a good guy in a stressed-out world, as I often say.
And yet, so many days I can’t get through the day without yelling at my kids, or I feel the grip of greed and the addiction of ego. My heart closing with every swipe or scroll on my phone or fiscal year that passes.
I am at my most despondent, my absolute saddest, when I am losing the battle for my own heart and I know it. I want so badly to not let the rage out there win, but I so often feel and worry that it is.
Sometimes, even on the hardest days, I start to think about forfeiting and make excuses to relieve myself of this battle. I lie to myself with thoughts like, 'If I sell out and play the game, I'm just doing what everyone else is doing,' or 'There's no way but to fight fire with fire,' or, 'This is how the world works, it is what it is,' or worst, 'I need to look out for myself…for the family.' When these inner monologues hit, I come close to shutting the aperture of my heart—very close.
If you've lived a life like mine, and maybe even if you haven't, you're likely also battling for the aperture of your own heart, trying to stand pat and stand gracefully, juxtaposing yourself with the seemingly endless supply of rage and cruelty around us. I think there may be tens of millions of us, battling in this way, quietly. Maybe you also come close to forfeiting sometimes.
But I always seem to get a reminder when I need one—to keep battling—maybe you do too.
Like today, I had a sudden urge to listen to this song, “Joe”, which is the story of an alcoholic who is trying and struggling to stay sober…and he’s doing it. The song, as far as I can tell, is fictitious, but it still reminds me: there are others fighting for their own hearts—and winning.
The grace of being forgiven, reminds me too, to keep battling.
If I can blow my top and my sons still forgive me and show it by bringing me a paper to make a plane out of, asking me to play soccer, or offering me one of their grapes as a sign of peace—how can I not keep trying? The grace and forgiveness of my own sons, who I have wronged, redeems me.
This is the story of the ages, it seems. We try to live, meet our crucible, and we come close to giving up our light. But then, we meet our Mentor, or someone finds love for us and catches us before the citadel in our hearts falls. And then, we find redemption and persist on our quest. Love, it seems, finds a way to strike back.
I honestly wrote this because I have been frayed at all ends and have felt my heart closing. For me, writing is a way to force, even if only slightly, the aperture of my heart back open. When my heart needs to open, I suppose this is what comes out of it.
I don’t have a pithy, triumphant conclusion to this essay. If I had to feign one because it makes for better reading—I’d be lying.
If you’re still reading this, something about this probably resonated with you; you may even be battling for the aperture of your own heart right now. Maybe, even, you feel like you are losing the battle.
That place feels so lonely. The world we live in is so centered around projecting control and “with-it-ness” it doesn’t feel possible that anyone else is engaged in such a struggle. The battlefield for our hearts feels so lonely - like it’s us against the cruelty and rage of the whole world.
If nothing else, I hope this essay is proof that it’s not. There are so many of us battling to keep widening and opening the aperture of our own hearts.
Despite all this rage, beauty does hold a plea. Because love finds a way to remind us what we are fighting for and that we can win.
When rage and cruelty threaten, love strikes back.
Before he died, my father would often tell me he came to this country for a better life. I think one of the things he meant was more freedom. One of his pains in his home country was that of corruption. An honest man like him struggled to live out his potential and make an honest living in his ancestral home.
And so he came here, in search of greater freedom and to live a better life. I have carried that yearning for freedom my whole life, probably because of his influence.
Luckily, in the United States in 2024, we enjoy a great many freedoms. We are not perfect, but much better than many alternatives. Namely, there are rights and liberties enshrined in our Constitution and laws, which outline the requests we may make of the state (rights) and the activities we may do without interference from the state (liberties).
Compared to 150 or 200 years ago, we can speak freely. We can assemble freely. We do have the right to a fair trial. We do have a much higher standard of living, and there are far fewer people living in abject poverty or dying from preventable diseases. These are good things.
However, it seems to me that there are still many constraints that encumber the freedom of regular, everyday people. These encumbrances are not imposed by the state. Rather, I mean the freedoms that are constrained by the way we treat each other or by the second and third-order effects of the way our economic, political, and social institutions are designed.
Here are some examples.
Many couples limit their family size for various reasons. These include financial constraints, limited access to childcare, long work hours, and a lack of support in emergencies. I feel this pressure as a parent, and it does constrain our choices. Is limiting family size based on cost, price, and support – despite living in the wealthiest society in the history of the world – really freedom?
We have tools for communication and affordable travel by road, rail, and air. Yet, we're lonely, depressed, and anxious at high rates. Suicide is a leading cause of death in some demographics and age groups. Sometimes it feels like having a therapist is a basic requirement to live a normal life in our stressed-out world. Is this really freedom?
Consider the workplace. Some of us endure bosses who mistreat us, steal credit, or even gaslight us. If they’re kind, they might still be incompetent, promoted beyond their capabilities. Every day we might endure this drudgery at work because we don’t have other options, or we’ve endured this treatment for so long that we think we are lesser than we are. Does this type of toxicity at work, where we spend thousands of hours a year, sound like freedom to you?
Something as mundane as driving brings its own fears. It's not just an accident that scares me, but the possibility of the other driver being armed and angry. In public, I never really know if a simple mistake or misunderstanding might lead to gun violence. Is this fear of moving about in public the freedom we envisioned?
And then there's the matter of conscience. Sometimes I feel so pessimistic about the prospects of future generations. We face an ecological crisis and a crisis of dysfunctional politics. I feel like every major institution has regular examples of corruption and scandal. I wonder: what kind of world will my descendants live in? Can I, in good conscience, bring children into this world? Is the toll our consciences take evidence of the freedom we were trying to build?
Is this really freedom? Are we really free yet? I don't think so. We have become so much more free in the past 200 years. And yet, this is not the freedom I envisioned.
These freedoms I'm questioning and longing for don't come solely from laws, regulations, and political institutions. There is, to be sure, improvement we can make in our laws, regulations, and institutions. But I wonder if improvements in institutions would suffer from diminishing marginal returns.
I think instead that this next mile of freedom will come not from changing our institutions but changing our character. The next mile of freedom, I think, will come from treating each other better – with more love, kindness, and goodness – which are generally beyond the reach of laws, regulations, and political institutions. Doing the work to trust each other is what I’m proposing, and trust can’t be legislated or litigated.
I am sitting here with greater freedom and privilege than even my grandfathers could have dreamed of as young men for the grandson they hadn’t yet begotten. And yet, I still do not feel free.
I yearn for freedom like I long for water when I’m thirsty or for my family and friends when I am lonely. Freedom, I think, is what allows people to thrive and for human societies to flourish. And despite all this wealth and despite the strength of our institutions and their improvement over the past 200 years, I still do not feel free.
At the same time, I think this is the nature of freedom. With each passing generation, we toil and work and negotiate and soul search to traverse a mile or two. When we are old, we look back, we are more free than where we started.
But as the generation we are eclipsing looks back, those of us up next look forward. We appreciate the distance we’ve come but look at the road ahead.
As I look out at this next mile ahead of us, I see some opportunity to continue the work of making political institutions more fair, perfect, and just sure. But more than that, I see the next mile of freedom as a journey of looking deep within, doing the inner work to grow our characters, purify our souls, and treat each other better.
Our next mile of freedom will be borne of the trust that our inner work creates. And I yearn for it.
This post, like many I write, is the sort of reflection that one would normally find in a personal journal, never to be shared. But I share this one because I don’t think I’m the only one who yearns for it. I think there are more of us that look out at the world in 2024 and think there’s more freedom than this.
Who are you, my friends, that yearn for it? If we want to traverse this next mile of freedom, we can’t just yearn for it individually; we must yearn for it together and openly.
If you also yearn for it, I would love to hear your story of where that yearning comes from and what the next mile of freedom is, as you see it. By sharing, I think we make it more possible that we will traverse this next mile in our lifetimes, in time for our children and our grandchildren, to look forward – to the next miles ahead.
Those of us that are mid-range millennials span eras. And that is important.
We have one foot in the era that pre-dates the internet. We remember personal computers that weren’t networked – whether it was Windows 3.1, DOS prompts, or Reader Rabbit software we had to install via a floppy disk.
We have another foot in the internet era. We remember that sound of telephone modems and “you’ve got mail” which ushered us into the networked age.
This is the same with mobile phones and social media. Just as we witnessed the transformation from landlines to smartphones, our generation experienced a dramatic shift in how we communicate and consume information. Those of us born within +/- 5 years of 1987 didn't just observe these changes; we lived them. We navigated from the simplicity of phone calls and printed newspapers to the complexities of instant messaging and social media feeds. This journey from dial-up connections to Wi-Fi, from bulky desktops to sleek smartphones, gives us a profound understanding of how these advancements have reshaped society.
Consider the children who are about 10 years old today. They are poised to become the next generation of era spanners, mirroring our experiences but with a different technological frontier: generative AI. This shift is akin to our transition from analog to digital, but for them, it's from digital to AI-driven. As with the journey we mid-range millennials undertook, these mid-range alphas will face even higher stakes. They will navigate a world where AI is not just a tool, but a fundamental part of daily life – shaping how they learn, interact, and understand the world. Our experiences can serve as a guiding light for them, showing the importance of adaptability and ethical considerations in a rapidly changing tech landscape.
The escalating power of technology underscores the critical need for strong moral character. It's not just about the tools we use; it's about who we are as we use them. As technology's reach extends, touching every aspect of our lives, it becomes imperative that those who wield these powerful tools – that's us – do so with a keen sense of ethics and responsibility. Our character shapes how we employ these technologies, whether to create and innovate for the betterment of society or, conversely, to cause harm. Hence, nurturing a well-rounded character is more than personal growth; it's a societal necessity.
Our place between the pre- and post-internet worlds is more than just a quirky fact. It places us in a unique position to understand both worlds. This insight is vital, not just for nostalgia, but for making sense of how we got here and where we're heading. We’re not just observers; we're interpreters, capable of seeing the implications of technological shifts from both sides. This perspective isn't just valuable – it’s essential for guiding the responsible use of technology. It’s about using our understanding to help steer things in a positive direction.
In essence, our role as mid-rangers is much like that of a bridge, connecting two different landscapes. This isn’t just about standing between two eras; it's about actively facilitating the journey from what was to what will be. It requires resilience, a firm understanding of both sides, and the foresight to navigate potential challenges. We’re not just passively spanning a gap – we’re actively ensuring a safe passage into the future. It’s a significant responsibility, one that calls for thoughtfulness and a commitment to guiding progress in the right direction.
Warren Buffett and others use a technique called the 'reverse obituary.' You write the obituary you want and then work backwards to make it happen. It's a simple yet impactful way to explore our inner world, and I recommend everyone tries it. Have you ever engaged in a reflection exercise like this? What did you discover about yourself?
Introducing the Centennial Obituary I've been experimenting with a twist on this idea, called the 'Centennial Obituary.' Here's the concept. Even if you’re not a theist, humor me.
Picture this: It's 100-150 years after your death, and you're in God's office. He tells you:
'Neil, it's been over a century since you left Earth and your physical body. All those you loved, and who loved you, have since joined us here. You've listened to the stories of their lives. During your lifetime, you had aspirations to contribute to the world and hoped your actions would create a lasting impact, long after your passing.
[God gestures towards a screen on the wall, which reveals itself].
On this screen, you can see the long-term impact of your life. But there's a catch: You can only see results in three areas. Which three do you pick?'
In the next section, I’ll share my three areas to illustrate how the exercise works. But before I do, give this a think: which three areas would you pick?
Personal Reflections on the Exercise This exercise is fascinating because it encourages us to think about something bigger than our immediate lives. The way the question is framed forces us to consider what truly matters to us—those things we deem significant enough to influence, even well beyond our own lifetimes and immediate personal connections.
If asked, I would probably respond to God with something like this:
'First, I always hoped that by focusing on reflection and figuring out how to help others explore their inner world, the world would become more thoughtful, compassionate, and courageous. If I was good enough at this, I figured the people I influence might also influence and teach others, fostering a ripple effect of understanding and acceptance. Did my choices help this ripple effect to happen?
Second, I was deeply invested in helping those around me to fully realize their talents and potential. I believed that by leading in organizations in innovative ways, and sharing new approaches to run organizations, these leadership behaviors and systems would proliferate. Consequently, more people would find themselves in environments where they could truly thrive, unlocking their full potential. Did my efforts contribute to this change?
Lastly, I wanted America, particularly Detroit and the State of Michigan, to be places characterized by increased trust. The data which showed declining social trust and faith in government were always devastating to me. I aimed to improve how government served citizens in the hope that it would restore people's trust in institutions and, ultimately, in each other. This, I believed, was crucial for Americans to experience true freedom. Did my actions contribute to this goal?'
Conclusion: A Broader Perspective on Life's ImpactIn conclusion, the key distinction between the reverse obituary and the Centennial Obituary lies in the time horizon. The reverse obituary concludes at our death—it's ultimately a measure of our lives. The Centennial Obituary, on the other hand, propels our thinking well beyond our death and the lifetimes of those we hold dearest. This shift in perspective liberates us to envision a broader impact. At the same time, being limited to three domains compels us to become highly specific.
Both the reverse obituary and the Centennial Obituary have their unique places in our toolkit for reflection. The reverse obituary is best for contemplating our lives and the influence we have on those closest to us. The Centennial Obituary, conversely, is ideal for determining the subtle yet intentional ripples we wish to create, hopeful that their effects will resonate long after we're gone.
Both methods differ, and both are valuable exercises in their own right. I encourage you to spend some time today thinking about your own Centennial Obituary - this exercise was very illuminating for me. What three areas of long-term impact would you choose to see? Please do share your thoughts in the comments. I would love to hear about the ripples you hope to make.
If we’re type of people who care about making a positive contribution - for those we’re serving, for our enterprises, and society - it’s important to sniff out bullshitters so we can surround ourselves with people committed to and capable of making a difference.
Why? Because to make an actual impact I need to surround myself with people who actually are able to accomplish something (and be that type of person myself) rather than people who are all smoke and mirrors. Bullshitters may initially impress with their confidence and eloquence, but ultimately, they leave you facing the consequences alone. So if we want to increase our chances at making an impact for those we’re serving we have to do something simple, but often challenging: avoid bullshitters.
But the problem with a good bullshitter is that they’re good at bullshitting. Moreover, many capable people aren’t good at promoting themselves - precisely because they spend most of their time solving problems and helping people rather than bullshitting.
When you’re in the trenches with someone, day after day, it becomes easier to tell whether they’re a bullshitter or not. But we often have to decide whether to hire someone, promote them, work for them, or partner with them without being in the trenches with them first.
And so sniffing out bullshitters is actually a really important skill. So if you’re the sort of person who cares more about making a contribution than you do about promoting yourself this post is an invitation to you. How do you sniff out a bullshitter?
To get us started, here are some of the techniques that I’ve experimented with over the years:
- Ask them, “Can you walk me through it from start to finish, in detail?”
- Listen for jargon and corporate-isms which don’t have actual meaning. If someone can only speak in code and with overused corporate cliches, it usually means they don’t know what they’re actually talking about.
- Look at how individual contributors - especially someone’s non-managerial direct reports - talk about them. If they can’t tell you specifically why someone is capable, they probably aren’t. People who work on the front lines directly with products or customers have the most reliable radars for detecting bullshitters.
- Ask them, “can you tell me what aspects of that accomplishment were luck and which were the result of intentional decisions?” I haven’t asked this question in an interview yet, but I want to. Even bullshitters can accomplish things if they’re lucky - but probably can’t fake intention if no intention ever existed.
- Look for complex slides with lots of words or highly complex and ambigious objective statements. People who are able to explain complex things simply have done the work to hold an opinion.
- Look for a track record of bouncing around. Bullshitters can’t stick with a job for more than 2 years because once people realize they are bullshitters they know it’ll be easy for them to be laid-off or fired. Anyone can fake it in a job for a year or two. Of course, there are exceptions, especially when the person in front of you has a non-traditional background or extenuating personal circumstances.
- Do they gossip? If you don’t have anything more productive to say, spinning stories about others is an effective sleight of hand to distract people from one’s own lack of vision, intellect, or leadership.
These are just some tells I’ve seen as a pattern over the years. What has helped you detect bullshitters?
In closing, I’d like to be fair to a close cousin of bullshitters: storytellers. Storytellers root in the truth and aim to serve collective goals through the narratives they share. Bullshitters in my experience are quite the opposite - I’ve found them to be narcissists who care more about themselves than others.
Telling stories is really important in organizational life because stories help us do things like: make meaning of our work, motivate us to act, and learn from past mistakes. Story tellers matter because telling stories is an essential part of making an impact. The difference is subtle, but important: story telling moves a team or constituency forward, bullshitting only moves an individual person into positions of higher status and authority. Bullshitting is hype without substance, storytelling is substance.
I hope I’m not a bullshitter, I suppose I don’t know that for sure (after all, I do spend a lot of time writing and talking). I do know, though, that I don’t want to be. And I do know that bullshitters often get ahead and get a lot of credit, at least for awhile. And I do know, finally, that I want to leave this world better than I found it.
I figured that by putting a bat signal out on how to suss out bullshitters, we can more easily get the ourselves and others in a better position to make a contribution and at least make it less likely we accidentally hire, partner with, or work for a bullshitter.
I've shared my strategies, but I'm always learning. What are your tried-and-true methods for identifying bullshitters? Share in the comments below.
In the imaginative world of my son Myles, a simple makeshift field on the beach, outlined with big conch shells for goals, transformed into a grand Premier League stadium. As he dashed across the sand, he wasn't just a kid playing with his brother; in his heart, he was a star footballer, emerging onto the pitch to the sound of his name being announced, just like the heroes he admires on weekend broadcasts.
As the sun set on Florida’s Gulf Coast, Robyn announced, "Last play of the game," and Myles, Robert, myself, and their Mimi dialed in for one last run down our sandy field. As our clock expired and Robert clutched the ball insistently, he cried, "One more play! One more play!"
I didn't want the sun to set, ending our game, either. To play backyard ball is to experience pure joy. It's so pure, where the goal is to just have fun and play. It’s something I didn’t know I was longing for. As adults, after all, we are often robbed of the simple, pure joy of play, a vital source of joy and creativity that we unknowingly surrender in our pursuit of 'adulthood.' Play is not just a child's domain but a necessity for us adults.
As we returned from the beach, I was reminded of all the pick-up games I've played over the years. Like when I would call Al asking if he wanted to hit tennis balls, and hopped on my bike, rackets on my back, to meet him and some tennis teammates at the neighborhood courts, even if it was the dog days of summer. Or playing Ultimate Frisbee at the park, with Sunny tossing a lob to Herman, the person who was usually quiet, tall, gentle, and unassuming but then would outrun us easily with his gigantic stride.
These moments, seemingly trivial, were anything but; they were pure expressions of joy and camaraderie, free from the weight of adult responsibilities.
Some of my happiest adolescent memories were at the Lionas' house – either playing at the Whiffle Ball stadium – ring, scoreboard, and all – under the lights during summer break, or as a newcomer in the "Nerf Combat League" that Nick's older brother John started in their basement on February 4th, 1999 – a date I remember because it was in the league’s theme song, which we’d play after the national anthem every Thursday in the offseason between football and baseball, when we’d have matches after school.
At the time, I suspect many adults thought all this was charming – but still just something childish and suitable for teenagers but not for “grown” people. But what is the line between adolescence and adulthood, really? What makes play something that we outgrow? The weight of adult responsibilities is so deep sometimes; isn’t that when we need lightness and joy the most – to prevent us from forgetting what all these steps and accomplishments are actually in service of? I don’t want to believe that all we’re here for is to “win at life,” “grow our careers,” or some of these other myths we tell ourselves.
This is what I miss so desperately, all these backyard games, where playing the game – just playing – was more important than winning. In the backyard, the beach, the driveway, or the park is where you learn to love the game. It's where I, too, made some of my best friends – who are still my guys to this very day. And it's where I hope I'm becoming one of my sons' guys now. Maybe it makes me naive, but love, passion, joy, fun, and friendship have to be bigger than winning.
Maybe that's why I can't fully let go of watching football or throwing back a couple of beers with my buddies. Even though I’ve soured on tackle football and alcohol since my early twenties, those are the closest things to that feeling of silliness and play I still have. I sense such a deficiency of play in my life, akin to my lack of Vitamin D for which my doctor prescribed a supplement. Just like the supplement boosts my immune system, play would probably do the same for my spirit.
This blessing of play is one of the biggest gifts children give to us. My sons certainly have. They've reminded me how to play, taught me really, and made it easy for me to feel the silliness and joy of play, once again. I've realized so easily that I'm not the only one making a generous sacrifice in our relationships. My sons, also, are doing me a favor and choosing me, like the last kid at recess, and including me in their wonderful world of joy and play.
How did I ever get so serious, anyway? How did I let the dull and grinding world of adults make me so stiff? As we walk back from the beach, I feel like I did when those backyard games – whether it was soccer, football, tennis, capture the flag, whatever – ended as a kid. I'm so alive, smiling without needing to try.
"This was so fun," I thought as we walked up from our impromptu derby on the beach. "I can play. I'm allowed to play. I want to play again."
The best part is, we don’t have to ask the grown ups for permission to play. Because dang it y’all, we are the grown ups now. All we need to do is let the experts - our children - remind us how.
The concept that velocity is different from speed is one of the core ideas I draw upon when thinking about strategy, leadership, and organizational management. Lately, I've been using this concept to think about how to deploy emerging tech, like Generative AI, within enterprises.
The difference between speed and velocity is crucial. Speed is about how fast we're moving, for example, 55 miles per hour. Velocity, however, describes moving at 55 mph towards a specific direction, like heading East. This distinction has helped me see some nuance when discussing generative AI with colleagues and peers. For example, a computer software engineer can debug code faster using a large language model as a coding partner. While generative AI certainly helps with speed, merely focusing on productivity through speed probably misses the larger opportunity generative AI provides to managers of teams and enterprises.
In this example, improving speed might actually reduce overall productivity and impact, if the software being improved isn't solving a valuable problem in the first place. Here, generative AI would be more useful in helping the software engineer determine which feature would be most relevant and impact for the user. Going faster is only helpful if you're going in the right direction, the most valuable direction, to begin with. Using generative AI to increase speed in the wrong direction would be a missed opportunity.
It might be tempting to think of generative AI as a tool to "make our employees more efficient." However, it would probably be more transformative to use generative AI as a tool to "help our colleagues spend their time on the most valuable problems." This logic doesn't just apply to IT departments. For example, generative AI can help marketing teams draft copy faster, but it's probably more valuable to ensure they're targeting the best possible consumer segment. For operations teams, Gen AI might help to spot and improve manufacturing inefficiencies, but it might be more useful to help spot which product lines aren’t worth producing in the first place.
As an enterprise leader scrambling to deploy Gen AI, it’s easy to assume that the job to be done is to make everyone else more efficient. While this is partly true, business and technology leaders, especially those deploying powerful, emerging, tech like AI, should also contemplate use cases that improve the quality of leadership and strategy in enterprises - even though doing so might indicate that those leaders had it wrong in the first place.
Employing generative AI in a self-aware manner will require a significant degree of humility. But I believe it's worth it. After all, what's the point of heading east faster if we should be going northwest to begin with?
Consider the lesson learned from my own experience at work, which vividly underscores the crucial difference between speed and velocity in the application of generative AI. As a product owner for data, I've seen my engineering colleagues leverage tools like ChatGPT to streamline coding SQL queries, boosting our operational speed. However, a pivotal moment came when I discovered that a dataset we had meticulously prepared and delivered was left untouched by our business customer for months. Which, by the way, indicated that I had made a poor decision on what was worth spending time on.
Despite our efficiency in producing the dataset, it lacked the essential element of value to the customer. This incident revealed a stark truth: our focus on making engineering tasks faster, though beneficial, paled in comparison to the importance of selecting the right targets from the outset. There have been instances where the right datasets, aligned with clear and compelling use cases, saved our customers millions of dollars. The real win, therefore, isn't just in enhancing our engineers' efficiency but in ensuring that our efforts are directed towards creating datasets so valuable and relevant that our customers are eager to utilize them for significant impact from the moment of delivery.
To truly leverage the potential of generative AI within our enterprises, we must go beyond the pursuit of efficiency. The most obvious path is often the least disruptive—enhancing what already exists. However, the opportunity to create significant, long-lasting value lies in our willingness to question the fundamentals of our strategies and leadership approaches. It's about asking ourselves:
- Where are we merely maintaining the status quo when we could be exceeding it?
- In what areas are we failing as leaders and strategists to anticipate and shape the future?
- How can we redefine our objectives to not just improve but transform our enterprise?
This journey requires a substantial dose of humility and a willingness to embrace change, characteristics not often associated with leadership but absolutely critical in this context. Challenging our 'sacred cows' and reevaluating our core assumptions about what our enterprises do can reveal the most impactful opportunities for applying emerging technologies. Let's commit to this introspective and transformative approach, aiming not just to enhance but to innovate and redefine our enterprises for the better.
I’m not going anywhere.
This is one of the most divine things a person can hear. Especially someone, like me, whose nightmare is to be alone. But aren’t we all that way, in the deepest part of the heart at least, where it’s hardest for the light to reach?
I knew that if Robyn and I started dating, I would marry her. We started, and I loved her quickly. I was hers, before the end of our first summer. As summer became winter, I started to get scared. I honest-to-God loved Robyn. And I knew that when we married and had our life together, eventually one of us would pass from this earth. And there was a chance that Robyn would be the first to go, and that I’d be left alone.
The idea of being on this earth without kissing Robyn goodnight is among the most painful realities possible for me. What if? How could it? Would I? When?
By then, Robyn already knew the reaches of my curious and inquisitive mind - both the gregarious dimension of it and the morose. And so she said to me, those divine words that protected my soul from its darkest fears.
I’m not going anywhere.
Really, saying this is a promise. It’s a promise that we’re going to stay. It’s a commitment to companionship and love. Whether we reach the gates of heaven or hell, when we say something as bold as “I’m not going anywhere,” it means we’re there. This word, anywhere, is all-encompassing. When we say anywhere, it means we’re ride or die for someone.
But that’s the catch, isn’t it? The second part of ride or die is just that, die. We can’t control when we die; none of us can. So we know that “I’m not going anywhere” doesn’t mean that we’re going to be here forever. We infer that it means we’re here for as long as we can outrun the reaper.
I’m not going anywhere.
Our sons are at the age where they’re afraid of the dark, afraid to go to bed, or some combination of both. I get it. I slept in my parent’s bed well past kindergarten. I was scared too. Part of me still is.
So we say this to them: “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here. I’ll check on you before I go to bed.”
This is what most soothes them. Because they know we mean it, and they know they’ll be safe because we have the night watch. They know they won’t be alone and they’ll have someone to run to if they have a bad dream or throw up in the middle of the night - because we’re not going anywhere.
But they don’t understand the deal, fully. I can’t tell them, yet, that when I say this I implicitly mean unless I die.
This unsettles me because I am making them a promise that they don’t fully understand. I am running the risk that I will be stolen from them before they understand this. They need me to say it, so I say it. And I mean it, so I say it. And I plan to be here for a long time, so I say it. But I’m always still sending up a prayer every time I speak those four words.
I’m not going anywhere.
When I wake up in the morning, I believe in God. And when I go to bed at night, I really believe in God. This faith is what carried me through tonight.
Robyn is traveling this weekend for our soon-to-be sister-in-law’s bachelorette party. It’s Saturday as I write this, and I’ve been solo parenting since lunchtime on Thursday. The kids are having a really hard time with their mother being away. I can tell, even though they are the same rambunctious, gleeful, hilarious set of brothers that they always are.
It was a boys weekend and tonight was game night. Bo was the last one up today because I let him. And to be honest, I think we needed each other. We are both incredibly emotional. We both feel the sting of loneliness more devastatingly than anyone else in this house. So, I let him stay up later than his brothers, so we could play one extra game. He chose Ticket to Ride: First Journey, probably because it’s the only game where it’s at least 50% likely that he’ll beat me.
After his bath and bedtime story, he started to wig out. He flailed his arms, and contorted his body while sputtering semi-coherent sentences, as if the closing of the book’s cover caused him to be possessed by a wandering ghost. Thank God I wasn’t a train wreck of a father like I was earlier in the day. Next thing I knew, he was clinging to me, he and I on top of the duvet - and he was just clutching me, tight as he ever has.
“I’m never letting go,” he whispered.
This may be the most vulnerable he’s ever let himself be around me. His big feelings scare him, and with Bo, there’s no such thing as little feelings. So I am surprised, and humbled, as he says this.
“I will always be with you,” I replied.
Then my heart started to quicken, and tears squeezed out the sides of my eyes.
“No matter where you are or when it is, part of me is always with you, bud. Wherever I am, I am always thinking about you, mommy, and your brothers. Part of me is always in your heart. I will always be with you.”
This, I suppose, is the way out of this ride or die dilemma. I believe in God, and I believe that I have a soul. And I believe that if I love and pray hard enough, part of me will always be with Robyn, and with each of my sons. I can say those words and actually be telling the full truth. Because even if I die, part of me will always be with them.
And that is the divine element. Because with the help of God, I can say “I’m not going anywhere”, fully, lovingly, and deeply, without any exception.
And that’s where I left it with Bo tonight. I carried him to his room. I helped him squirm under the covers, tucked him in, and told him.
I’m not going anywhere.
My new book, Character by Choice: Letters on Goodness, Courage, and Becoming Better on Purpose, is now out in soft launch. I’m so excited to share it and proud of how it turned out. If you liked this post, you might find it a good read. You can learn more about the book here.
“Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.”
This age-old adage, typically associated with financial investments, resonates deeply with me. It goes beyond diversifying assets to mitigate risk; it serves as a powerful metaphor for spreading our emotional and psychological investments across various aspects of life. This approach to diversifying how we define and perceive our identities can safeguard us against life's unpredictability.
After reading Brad Stulberg's Master of Change, the concept of not putting all your eggs in one basket took on a new, personal dimension. Stulberg explores rugged flexibility, a resilience against life's changes. His application of this proverb to the realm of identity struck me the most. He argues that by diversifying the sources of our self-worth, we can develop psychological resilience. This perspective, introduced by Stulberg, offered a fresh lens to view my own multifaceted identity.
Eager to put this concept into practice, I embarked on a personal journey of reflection. I often get flustered when life's balance tilts, feeling overwhelmed when things don't go smoothly. Recognizing this pattern, I saw the value in proactively applying Stulberg's idea. I aimed to equip myself better for those inevitable challenging times. Could redefining my identity in broader terms help me stay centered? This introspection aimed to mute my inner critic's harsh criticisms, labeling me an 'underachieving loser' (my inner critic's words, not mine), before they surfaced during the next downturn.
Here's what I discovered, a surprisingly revealing and affirming list. It was a profoundly good use of 30 minutes, one that I heartily recommend. Below is a snapshot of my notebook, showcasing these 101 facets of my identity. Entries like 'I am a pancake chef' and 'I am a coreographer' represent unique strands in my identity's complex tapestry, extending beyond just my professional life and familial roles. This visual representation of my diverse self-identity serves as a personal reminder of my multifaceted nature and as a direct invitation to you, the reader, to embark on a similar journey of self-discovery. It's a revealing and enriching experience.
Looking back on this exercise, I had one more takeaway that I’ve been chewing on.
I’m a pretty regular guy. I’m not that much more interesting or worldly than anyone else. And I was able to look inward and define my identity in 101 ways without too much trouble. If I’m not that different than the next guy, that means everyone is this multi-dimensional. Everyone has more to them than meets the eye. Everyone has a sophisticated, interesting, and unique inner world.
Which makes me think of how reducing so many institutions can be.
Reflecting on my career, I realize that most companies I've worked for have only acknowledged a fraction of my dimensions. In public politics, individuals often get pigeonholed into categories represented by organized interest groups, overshadowing their identity complexity. And I’ll admit it, when I see people in public I have a hard time remembering that there’s more to someone than some of the obvious visible identifiers - like the sports team on their hat, their fashion sense, or their likely age. These reflections opened my eyes to the frequency with which we're condensed to just a sliver of who we truly are, whether in professional settings or broader societal contexts.
The exercise sparked a pivotal change in my thinking: I now want to proactively assume the complexity and nuance in every person. I now know, in very tactical terms, how to look beyond surface impressions and appreciate that everyone has a complex identity. By choosing not to unintentionally oversimplify others, I seek to creating a space where the person in front of me can bring their full self to the world.
Imagine how different the world might be if everyone contributed the totality of who they were. It’d be something.
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My new book, Character by Choice: Letters on Goodness, Courage, and Becoming Better on Purpose, is now out in pre-launch! I’m so excited to share it and proud of how it turned out. If you liked this post, you might find it a good read. You can learn more about the book here.
One of our sons threw his dishes into the sink. And I mean that literally. He threw them, and they smacked and rebounded around with a loud thud.
He did this dish-tossing as an act of rebellion, because of some standard I had held him to earlier that evening. And it honestly worked, I was fuming because of it. This moment, charged with emotion and defiance, set the stage for a significant parenting reflection.
And as I went to wash the dishes, I found a broken glass.
What a perfect metaphor it was. In the broken glass, I saw more than just the result of a child's frustration; I saw a metaphor for power and its consequences. It made me realize how even the smallest actions can have a significant impact. Our son, in his own way, was expressing a need to feel powerful and seen. It reminded me that each of us, regardless of age, grapples with understanding and harnessing our own strength.
Lately, Bo has seemed nervous. Vulnerable in his own skin; he doesn’t feel powerful, I think. He seems to fawn over story characters and athletes because of their power and physical strength. A lot of his externally-narrated emotional processing keys in on his desire to feel and be seen as strong.
He might be too little for this to have sunk in, but I tried:
It’s not about the glass, I said. This broken glass proves you have power. It proves you have capability. You have the ability to influence the world around you, your actions affect other things and other people. Don’t feel like you don’t have power, because you do.
This is hard for me and other adults to understand, I added, but I still tried to explain it to him.
We all have two simple choices.
First, we all have power, talent, capability, and influence - but will we choose to even use it? Will we put ourselves out there and try to apply our influence onto the world around us? Not everyone does this. Not everyone accepts that they have power. Acknowledging the power, influence, talent, and capability we have is a choice. We are not helpless.
If we accept that we have power, and choose to use it, how? How will we use that power? Will we choose to use it to benefit others? Will we use it solely to enrich ourselves? Will we use it recklessly and irresponsibly? Will we use our power to break glasses or to bring water to those who thirst for it? How we wield power is a choice. We are not obligated to be monsters, we can choose better.
I doubt any of this conversation stuck with Bo, or with Myles who observed the conversation happen. Returning to the kitchen, where the incident began, I realized that this moment was not just about a broken dish. And it’s not just for my kids to remember that they have to choose to accept that they have power and choose how to wield it. If I say it enough times, maybe some of it will stick in my mind, too.
This incident with my son highlighted a universal truth: we all possess power in various forms, and how we choose to wield it - whether to create or to destroy - is a profound responsibility. This isn’t something just for my sons to hear, I need to hear this too.
There are no existential threats to our marriage, and maybe that’s why I feel like this phase is so dangerous.
We are no longer newlyweds. We are no longer new homeowners. We are no longer new parents (or dog-parents). We aren’t going to be sending our kids to a new school for at least 8 years. We aren’t new anythings, and if everything goes to plan, we won’t be new anythings for a while.
Our life is in a spot where it’s pretty settled in as “parents of young children”. We won’t have kids that are either into high school or have all of them into kindergarten for 4 to 6 years. Neither of us are in a place where we’re likely to have rapid career growth - partly by choice.
Our marriage is feeling really settled in, with very little that may rock the boat unless something tragic happens in our extended family, God forbid. The water ahead isn’t placid, but we’re aren’t in stormy waters either. It feels like we’re just in a place of “keep the chains moving” or “one foot in front of the other” or “turn the crank.”
In a way, our lives are so stable. After the past decade with tons of change, it feels so bizarre to think that a season of sustainability and relative peace could be dangerous to our marriage. But I think it is. This seems like a time where it could be so easy to just do what we’ve always done. For things to get boring. For things to get not just comfortable, but so comfortable that we float and drift, without even realizing that our marriage isn’t anchored.
I worry that it would be so easy to mindlessly go through the motions for the next 4-6 years. That we get to 2030 and our marriage is stiff or slightly zombie-like, because we’ve gone half a decade getting so in the groove that we no longer have to give 100% attention to our marriage and family life.
I don’t think the way out of this is to seek crises. All the crises we’ve had have certainly made our marriage stronger, starting with my father’s passingly nearly 8 years ago. Even though that season, and other difficult seasons, have made us stronger - it came at high price: sadness, suffering, anxiety, and wounds. Looking for crises is an option, but that can’t be the best way to keep deepening and strengthening our marriage.
At the same time, I don’t think the full solution is to amp up novelty either. We could go on lots of fancy trips. We could eat out and go to the theater a lot more. We could move to a new house, just to liven things up. We could do any number of things to spice daily life up. But would that really lead to strength?
Sure, novelty is fun, and if we’re laughing and having fun it’ll make things feel good and positive. We’ll be able to keep things from getting stale. We definitely need some level of new and fresh - we’re only human.
But our time and money have constraints - it’s not unlimited. We can’t buy novelty indefinitely.
And moreover, how much can novelty strengthen our marriage? Surely, there are diminishing returns after a certain point. After a certain point, have we really deepened our connection or brought something more of ourselves to the marriage? At what point does novelty become a crutch or a stopgap?
I think there is a third way to strengthen marriages in these stable-but-could-be-dangerous years without entirely depending on crises or novelty: little sparks.
I figure, maybe I could try to just dial in extra deep for little moments of our days and weeks. You know, just throw in a little extra. Maybe when I’m making a pizza, I try some black pepper on the crust in addition to garlic salt. Maybe, it’s a little “I love you” post-it note I could hide in Robyn’s sock drawer every once in awhile. Maybe I try just a little bit harder to be extra specific when Robyn asks me, “how was your day, Honey?” It could even be just remembering to make real, genuine, loving eye contact at least once after the kids go to bed and we’re talking.
I really mean little sparks as just that: little. Nothing grand or flashy. Just little, intentional, things that lock me back to a state of attentiveness. Little sparks that say to Robyn, “I know our lives feel pretty similar every week, but I’m not daydreaming through it, I’m here with you in it.”
These little sparks are probably even me just proving to myself that I’m not mailing it in and that I’m digging deeper. That I’m paying attention. That 100% of me is still here.
These years, God willing, will be stable and not riddled with crises, grief, or existential threats to our marriage. But there’s no free lunch. If we have stability, it means we have to fight against the calcification that these stable-but-could-be-dangerous years could catalyze.
These years, where our kids are little, will certainly be some of the sweetest that we will have, and they already are. But we can’t let our marriage atrophy through it. That’s not a price I’m willing to pay. I want to make these little sparks so that once these years are over, we’re not going through the motions of our marriage for the rest of our days, relegated to reminiscing about the good ol’ days where our kids were little.
No, I want to be stronger and deeper in love and marriage than we were when we started this season of our life. This time doesn’t have to be dangerous, it can be a time of renewal if that’s what we make it. We can renew our marriage if we ride out the crises, add a dose of novelty, and stay committed to making those little sparks in our daily life.
““No man is more important than the team.
No coach is more important than the team.
The Team. The Team. The Team””
— Bo Schembechler
One of the strongest convictions I have is the value, beauty, and honor it is to be part of a great team.
It’s in my DNA, probably because as an only child I have desperately wanted to be part of something bigger than myself for my whole life. And, as an alumnus of the University of Michigan, the value of “The Team” is part of my identity, because of Coach Bo Schembechler’s legendary speech which I’ve linked above.
On Monday, January 8, the 144th edition of the University of Michigan football team will take the field to compete for a national championship. I have never wanted a Michigan team to win as badly as this one.
For me though, it’s less about football and the cachet that comes from being an alumnus of a team that wins “the natty.” I have admired this team from the very start because they are winning AS A TEAM and embody the spirit of an elite team, through and through.
One of the Detroit Police Department leaders I looked up to most had this on her team’s work area whiteboard, in perpetuity: “You get a lot more done when you don’t care who gets the credit.”
That, to me, is the simplest way of describing what a truly great team believes. It’s the same ethos that Coach Bo describes in “The Team Speech”. A truly great team cares more about the mission, the cause, the person they are serving, and the team’s goal more than individual accolades. That spirit is what has I’ve seen in Team 144 and been inspired by this whole season.
Here are just some of the examples that have stuck out to me that show this spirit in Team 144:
Coach Harbaugh is constantly deflecting attention in post game interviews and quickly getting off camera. Instead, he says to the field reporter, “you should talk to this man right here” and gracefully exists before his player takes the mic.
In the Ohio State game, All-American Offensive Lineman Zak Zinter went down with an injury late in the game, at a critical moment. On the very next play Blake Corum ran in a touchdown. The first thing he does? Go up directly to the sideline camera and throw up his teammate’s number with his hands, dedicating the TD to their injured teammate, on behalf of the entire squad.
Apparently this week, Coach Harbaugh asked JJ McCarthy (QB1) if he wanted to talk about this future (i.e., his NFL prospects). McCarthy basically gives him a “naw, I’m good coach.” Basically saying instead that he’s focused on the national championship game and they can talk about his future after the CFP championship.
In the CFP Semifinal, Michigan (with 2 five star recruits on its roster) beat Alabama (with 18 five star recruits on its roster). That doesn’t happen unless coaches develop players up and down the depth chart and unless everybody participates and steps up to play their best as a single unit.
There was clearly a culture change after the Covid season. This team openly talks about how much they love each other and how they play for each other and play for Michigan. In any post game interview I’ve seen, the reporters don’t seem like they can get someone to talk about themselves instead of the team.
After each huge win, I love seeing Blake Corum’s expression. He and other top players constantly talk about the team’s goal. And Corum’s words and expression sum up the same thing, “Job’s not done.” This is huge on a football team to have one of your best players and team leaders focused on the team’s goal immediately after a big win. It sends a huge message on what’s important to the entire locker room.
After all the drama of the season, you didn’t hear any fingerpointing coming out of the locker room. All we saw was unity, and all we heard was the same message, we’re a team and we’re focused on our goals. No matter what was swirling in the press and no matter who the head coach was for that week, you heard no dissent in the ranks. Not once.
Several of the team’s key players decided to return for another season because they had “unfinished business” and wanted to win a championship. Moreover, after last year’s loss to TCU in the CFP semifinal, JJ McCarthy said, “But we’ll be back, and I promise that.” And here we are.
To be sure, there are more examples than what I’ve listed. These are just some of my favorites. The punchline is this: Team 144 embodies what it means to be a team.
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Sometimes, I get really frustrated with life at work. So often, I worry that someone is going to put themselves ahead of the team. I’ve experienced it personally, and it happens a lot: People hide information so they can maneuver. They try to claim credit for the team’s work behind the scenes. They throw you under the bus, baselessly, to the boss. They don’t give others opportunities to lead because they want to earn their gold star or be top of mind for a promotion.
To be clear, all this is bullshit and wrong. To be sure, I’m not perfect (I’m sure I’ve behaved selfishly) but I honestly try everyday to be a team player and not a selfish agent. And, very little makes me angrier or sadder than when people screw the team to advance their individual interests. It offends me to my core, and makes me feel hopeless that true, pure teamership is possible.
But Team 144 gives me hope.
The fact there’s a team out there playing elite college football and competing for the sport’s highest championship gives me hope. This year, there’s at least one elite team, in it’s truest and purest sense - that’s out there in the world doing it right. Team 144 has reminded me that it’s still possible - even in a culture that often seems defined by self-absorption and self-centeredness - to have a great team. The idea of a team - that acts as one unit and achieves a mission greater than it’s individual members - still lives.
So to Team 144, thank you. Thank you for a great season. Thank you for giving us alumni something to get excited about and reconnect over. But most of all, Team 144, this wolverine thanks you for reminding us what Coach Bo meant when he proclaimed, “The Team. The Team. The Team.”
Go get that natty tomorrow, and forever Go Blue. We’ll be rooting hard for you from Detroit.
My biggest regret this year was not attending a memorial service for someone I knew who died unexpectedly.
Despite our distant connection, my grief was real, but fear held me back. I worried about navigating the unfamiliar customs of their faith and feared saying the wrong thing to their family, whom I had never met before. Additionally, I was concerned about how others would perceive my attendance, given our weak ties.
Upon reflection, none of these fears justify my absence, and this regret has been a poignant lesson for me. It seems so obvious now, but I actually have some control over how I react to fear. Nothing but myself was stopping me from making a different choice.
I am glad that even though I feel regret, I have learned something from it: My ignorance is my responsibility and under my control. My irrational fears are my responsibility and under my control. My boundaries and response to social anxiety is my responsibility and under my control. These are all hard, to be sure, but I am not helpless.
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I’ve now proven to myself that I can do better. This is my greatest accomplishment of the year.
On vacation, where work stress dissolves into the Gulf of Mexico's salt, I find myself more patient with my sons. In the last two months, gratitude journaling helped me realize that I was unfairly expecting my sons to manage my frustrations. This insight has made me a better listener, helping me see them as they need to be seen - closer to how God sees them.
On vacation, when the stress of work dissolves into the Gulf of Mexico’s salt, I am more patient with my sons. In the last 2 months of the year, when some gratitude journaling I did finally made it click that I’m expecting my sons to help me manage my own frustrations, I am better. I am a better listener and I finally see them in the way they need me to - closer to how God sees them.
Now, I know, I can do better - I just have to do it when the world around me feels chaotic and when we’re out of our little paradise and back into our beautiful, but very real, life. This will be extremely difficult, but I know I can do it, because I’ve already done it.
Once I am better - as a listener, as a father, and as a husband when Robyn and I work through this together - I start to talk to them different. I’m curious. I’m asking questions. I’m taking pauses. I’m no longer trying to control and react, I am the powerful wave of the rising tide that is firm but gentle, enveloping them and their sandy toes until they are anchored again.
I change how I talk. Instead of saying - “stop it, now!” I start to say, with a full, palpable, sense of love and confidence in them - “you are not helpless.”
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Over the years, Robyn and I have taken exactly one walk on the beach together during our Christmas vacation.
We saunter away for 30 minutes at nap time, letting the masks we so reluctantly maintain as parents and professionals fully drop. It's just us, speaking to no one except three young girls who earnestly and eagerly approach us, asking, “Excuse us, but would you like a beautiful sea shell?“
Some years, one of us is weeping as our grief and frustration finally is allowed to boil over. This year though, we are incisive and contemplative. I am honestly curious. We struggled so much this year, how is it that we aren’t more frustrated with each other?
By the end of our walk and our conversation, I see her differently. She is more beautiful, but that’s how I feel everyday. Today, I also feel the depth of her soul and resolve more strongly. Her gravity pulls me in closer.
We have fought hard to get here. All the hard conversations we’ve had and all the conflict resolution techniques we’ve studied and applied have made a big difference. Yes, we have put in the work.
But at the root of it, is something much deeper and strategic. We have seeds of resilience that we have planted consistently with every season of our marriage that passes. We plant and reap, over and over, not a fruit but a mindset. We have vowed to be in union. We are dialed into a single vision that is bigger than both of us. We are committed to make it it there and we have jettisoned our escape pods, figuratively speaking, we have left ourselves no choice but to figure it out.
And with every crisis, we feel more and more that we can figure it out. With each year that passes, the difficulty of our problems increases, but so does our capacity to manage them. More than ever, as the clock strikes the bottom of the hour and we end our saunter, I remember - we are not helpless.
This year was hard. But the silver lining was that I finally internalized something so simple, but so important.
When the going gets tough - whether it’s because of death, our children growing up, or external factors adding stress to our marriage - nobody is coming to save us. We are on our own. But that’s okay, because we are not helpless.
I've noticed that almost everyone, myself included, behaves differently in the presence of children.
We swear less, we try harder to be nice, and we try to be more patient than when we’re around adults. It’s like children bring out the Christmas spirit in us in every season of the year. But why?
For one, they deserve it. Kids are innocent and we owe them a chance to be in a nurturing environment. We all know kids’ surroundings affect who they become. We try our hardest for them because we know it matters. Our responsibility to them matters.
But I don’t think that’s the only reason. I think we also feel safer around children than we do around adults.
When I interact with a child, I don’t expect them to be mean. I don’t expect a child to pounce on my vulnerability and kindness like an adult might. My expectation of how a child will treat me matters. This lack of expectation for cruelty from children creates a sense of safety, contrasting sharply with my guardedness around adults. And that helps me to act differently. Our expectations of how others will behave matter.
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It’s a common and worthy trope to ask, “why can’t we embody the Christmas spirit all year?” What I realized this year is that we already can. The vast majority of people I know try harder to be their best, kindest self when they’re around children. We have it in us to try a little harder all year.
The rub is, we don’t expect other adults to embody the Christmas spirit all year. I think that’s why it’s so easy to regress into being crabby in January - our expectations of how others will be have matters.
That’s the challenge isn’t it? Our challenge is to try harder so that others expect that we will be kind toward them, no matter what circumstance or season we’re in. What we can do, I think, is just to remember that it’s our choice whether we want to always act with the grace we always afford to children.
By this, I don’t mean infantilizing every adult we do. What I more mean is that we can believe that everyone deserves to be in a nurturing environment, even as adults. Imagine a world where we all extend the kindness and grace we naturally offer to children, to everyone we meet.How wonderful might that be?
It’s not just kids who deserve nurturing surroundings, we all do. Because it matters.
For a long time now, I’ve believed that being a leader is hard, but it’s not complicated. If we take responsibility we are a leader. If we do not take responsibility, we are not. It’s that simple.
What seems to matter is not the word we use to describe ourselves. What we need to understand is two things:
- Do we have power, yes or no?
- Are we taking responsibility, yes or no?
Ultimately, the place we have to be the most honest is the mirror: When I have power, how do I act? What about when I don’t?
The rest is just words.
In exploring organizational cultures, two simple yet revealing questions cut to the heart of the matter:
How do those with power treat those without?
And how do people with power act among their peers?
These questions offer a clear window into the dynamics of power and status, transcending environments from corporations to community groups. As far as culture goes, these two questions tell us all we need to know.
For the purposes of relatability, I’ll share some examples that are work-related, but again, these examples have easy analogs across organizational contexts.
How do people who have power treat those without it?These aren’t the only archetypes, but how do people at your company who have power act toward those that don’t?
In some companies, people with power exploit and take advantage of those without power. They ask them to work long hours, without being in the trenches themselves. They aren't clear about what they want or the direction to go; they just tell the people that work for them their outputs are not good enough and don’t add anything constructive. They might play favorites, hire and fire people on a whim, and insist that those around them affirm their egos, rather than being honest about what they think. In these cases, people with power infantilize those without power, and then berate them.
In other companies, the dynamic is different. Instead of treating those without power as less than, the powerful treat those without power as greater than or equal to. Those with power take increased responsibility and hold a high standard, but for themselves first. They coach and develop and make it their business to help those who are struggling or less powerful to succeed. They create spaces where everyone can contribute their efforts and expertise - and commit to the right thing for others, rather than squashing ideas which threaten their power. In these sorts of companies, the powerful use their power to build up others and the team’s goals, rather than themselves. The powerful listen - to colleagues, customers, and communities. This is quite different from the example above, right?
Finally, in some companies, the dynamic between the powerful and the powerless is not that of greater than, or less than, but of apathy. There is no dynamic between the powerful and the powerless, because they never interact. The powerful leadership class stays away in their penthouse offices, without ever making an effort to engage with rank and file people. There’s not any malintent between the powerful and the powerless; there’s just no relationship between them.
I’ve tried hard not to make any pejorative comments about which dynamic between powerful and powerless is best - though I, and I suspect most, would hope to work in a company like the second example. The point, though, is to illustrate the power of the question - if you can honestly observe how those with power in an organization treat those without power in an organization, it tells you a lot.
How do people who have power treat their peers?These aren’t the only archetypes, but how do people at your company who have power treat other people who also have power?
In some companies, people with power team up to enrich themselves. It’s the dynamic of “you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.” They make each other look good and help each other angle for positions of increasing power and influence. If you’re in the club, you get help; if you’re not one of the club members - you’re on the outside without an ability to grow your contribution or your compensation. In these sorts of companies, the powerful protect each other, even if it’s at the cost of accountability for performance, integrity, or the best interest of the company or customer. In some companies, there’s a sort of corporate plutocracy that emerges.
In other companies, people with power combine their forces to raise the bar. They push each other to be better and help each other to be better. They put egos aside and do the right thing to create win-wins for the company, its customers, and the communities they serve. In these sorts of places, people with power hold each other to an ever-increasing standard of integrity, performance, and compassion. In companies like this, it’s all about the team, and everyone with power gives more than their fair share in an effort to help the team succeed.
Finally, in some companies, the dynamic between those with power is toxic. It’s not a leadership culture of plutocracy or responsibility; it’s a leadership culture of betrayal and backstabbing. In these sorts of companies, the powerful fight with each other for everything: promotions, respect, and resources. This dynamic is one of dog-eat-dog, where it’s every person for themselves - eat or be eaten.
Again, I’ve tried not to be pejorative - I just wanted to describe the type of power cultures I’ve observed. But again, I, and I suspect most, would opt
to join a company like the one described in the second example. But like before, the question tells you a lot.
ReflectionDecember is the time of year where everything is winding down, making it an ideal time for reflection. It’s the time of year where we can step back and make an honest assessment of our organizations and ourselves. This holiday season, these two questions are what I’m going to be reflecting on.
To be clear, this doesn’t just apply to life at work. It’s also in my family, where I decidedly have more power and status than my children. It’s also in my community, where I’m not someone with the highest power, status, or affluence - but I’m certainly not the least either. It’s also, finally, a reflection that can be done with respect to society at large - whether at restaurants, the grocery store, or the park, how do I treat others when I am in a position of power asymmetry?
I was just talking to a friend of mine about power and its relationship to organizational culture. We easily traded stories and shared what we’ve learned. This notion of power and culture, I think, is something that we all intuitively understand because we live it every day. I suspect that if you are still reading this post, you were remembering teams and organizations you’ve been part of; it’s hard not to.
How we treat others - especially when we are in a position of relative power - is a choice. We have a choice in how we act. We have a choice in the type of culture we create. But to do that, we have to honestly reflect on our own behaviors and honestly observe the prevailing behaviors within the organizations we are part of. How we make this choice starts with being honest about how we’re acting today.
If you’re at a loss for something to reflect on this holiday season, I hope you’ll join me in taking a step back to think about how we act when we have power - both toward the powerless and toward our peers.
Last week, I shared an idea about one idea to shape growth, talent development, and performance in Michigan through labor productivity improvements. This week, I’ve tried to illustrate how CX practices can be used to inform talent attraction and retention at the state level.
The post is below, and it’s a ChatGPT write-up of an exercise I went through to rapidly prototype what a CX approach might actually look like. In the spirit of transparency, there are two sessions I had with ChatGPT: this this one on talent retention. I can’t share the link for the one on talent attraction because I created an image and sharing links with images is apparently not supported (sorry). It is similar.
There are a few points I (a human) would emphasize that are important subtleties to remember.
- Differentiating matters a ton. As the State of Michigan, I don’t think we can win on price (i.e., lower taxes) because there will always be a state willing to undercut us. We have to play to our strengths and be a differentiated place to live.
- Focus matters a ton. No State can cater to everyone, and neither can we. We have to find the niches and do something unique to win with them. We can’t operate at the “we need to attract and retain millennials and entrepreneurs” level. Which millennials and which entrepreneurs? Again, we can’t cater to everyone - it’s too hard and too expensive. It’s just as important to define who we’re not targeting as who we are targeting.
- Transparency matters a ton. As a State, the specific segments we are trying to target (and who we’re deliberately not trying to targets) need to be clear to all stakeholders. The vision and plan needs to be clear to all stakeholders (including the public) so we can move toward one common goal with velocity. By being transparent on the true set of narrow priorities, every organization can find ways to help the team win. Without transparency, every individual organization and institution will do what they think is right (and is best for them as individual organizations), which usually leads to scope creep and a lot of little pockets of progress without any coordination across domains. And when that happens, the needle never moves.
- It seems like the State of Michigan is doing some of this. A lot of the themes from ChatGPT are ones I’ve heard before. Which is great. What I haven’t heard are the specific set of segments to focus on or what any of the data-driven work to create segments and personas was. If ChatGPT can come up with at least some relatively novel ideas in an afternoon, imagine what we could accomplish by doing a full-fidelity, disciplined, data-driven, CX strategy with the smartest minds around growth, talent, and performance in the State. That would be transformative.
I’d love to hear what you think. Without further ado, here’s what ChatGPT and I prototyped today around talent attraction and retention for the State of Michigan.
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Introduction: Charting a New Course for MichiganIn an age where competition for talent and residents is fierce among states, Michigan stands at a crossroads. To thrive, it must reimagine its approach to attracting and retaining residents, and this is where Customer Experience (CX) Strategy, intertwined with insights from population geography, becomes vital. Traditionally a business concept, CX Strategy in the context of state governance is about understanding and catering to the diverse needs of potential and current residents. It's about seeing them not just as citizens, but as customers of the state, with unique preferences and aspirations.
Understanding CX Strategy in Population GeographyCX Strategy, at its essence, involves tailoring experiences to meet the specific needs and desires of your audience. For a state like Michigan, it means crafting policies, amenities, and environments that resonate with different demographic groups. Population geography provides a lens to understand these groups. It involves analyzing why people migrate: be it for job opportunities, better quality of life, or cultural attractions. This understanding is crucial. For instance, young professionals might be drawn to vibrant urban environments with tech job prospects, while retirees may prioritize peaceful communities with accessible healthcare. Michigan, with its rich automotive history, beautiful Great Lakes, and growing tech scene, has much to offer but needs a focused approach to highlight these strengths to different groups.
Applying CX Strategy: Identifying Target SegmentsThe first step in applying a CX Strategy is identifying who Michigan wants to attract and retain. This involves delving into demographic data, economic trends, and social patterns. Creating detailed personas based on this data helps in understanding various needs and preferences. For instance, a tech entrepreneur might value a supportive startup ecosystem, while a nature-loving telecommuter may prioritize scenic beauty and a peaceful environment for remote work. These insights lead to targeted strategies that are more likely to resonate with each group, ensuring efficient use of resources and increasing the effectiveness of Michigan's efforts in both attracting and retaining residents.
In the next section, we'll explore the importance of differentiation in attraction and retention strategies, and delve into the specific segments that Michigan should focus on. Stay tuned for a detailed look at how Michigan can leverage its unique attributes to create a compelling proposition for these key resident segments.
Importance of Differentiation in Attraction and RetentionDifferentiation is crucial in the competitive landscape of state-level attraction and retention. It’s about highlighting what makes Michigan unique and aligning these strengths with the specific needs of targeted segments. For attraction, it might mean showcasing Michigan’s burgeoning tech industry to young professionals or its serene natural landscapes to nature enthusiasts. For retention, it involves ensuring that these segments find ongoing value in staying, like continuous career opportunities for tech professionals or maintaining pristine natural environments for outdoor lovers.
In focusing on segments like automotive innovators or medical researchers, Michigan can leverage its historic strengths and modern advancements. By tailoring experiences to these specific groups, the state can stand out against competitors, making it not just a place to move to but a place where people want to stay and thrive.
Overlap and Distinction in Attraction and Retention StrategiesThe overlap and distinctions between attracting and retaining segments offer nuanced insights. Some segments, like tech and creative professionals, show significant overlap in both attracting to and retaining in urban settings like Detroit. This indicates that strategies effective in drawing these individuals to Michigan may also foster their long-term satisfaction. However, for segments with minimal overlap, such as medical researchers (attraction) and sustainable farmers (retention), strategies need to be distinct and targeted to their unique needs and lifestyle preferences.
Successful implementation teams will use these insights to create nuanced strategies for each segment. Avoiding a one-size-fits-all approach and recognizing the different motivations between someone considering moving to Michigan and someone deciding whether to stay is key. The primary pitfall to avoid is neglecting the distinct needs of each segment, which could lead to ineffective strategies that neither attract nor retain effectively.
Deep Dive into Experience EnhancementsLet’s delve into two specific segments: nature-loving telecommuters for attraction and tech and creative young professionals in Detroit for retention. For the nature-loving telecommuter, Michigan can offer unique experiences that blend the tranquility of its natural landscapes with the connectivity needed for effective remote work. Imagine "remote worker eco-villages" scattered across Michigan’s scenic locations, equipped with state-of-the-art connectivity and co-working spaces, set against the backdrop of Michigan's natural beauty. This not only caters to their desire for a serene work environment but also positions Michigan as a leader in innovative remote working solutions.
For tech and creative young professionals in Detroit, the strategy should be about fostering a dynamic urban ecosystem that offers continuous growth opportunities and a thriving cultural scene. Initiating a Detroit Tech and Arts Festival could serve as an annual event, bringing together tech innovators, artists, and entrepreneurs. This festival, coupled with collaborative workspaces and networking hubs, would not only retain existing talent but also attract new professionals looking for a vibrant, collaborative, and innovative urban environment.
Conclusion: Michigan’s Path ForwardMichigan is uniquely positioned to become a beacon for diverse talents and lifestyles. By adopting a resident-centric CX Strategy, informed by population geography, Michigan can tailor its offerings to attract and retain a dynamic population. It’s about moving beyond generic policies to creating experiences and opportunities that resonate with specific segments. The call to action is clear: Let's embrace innovation, leverage our unique strengths, and build a Michigan that’s not just a place on a map, but a destination of choice for a vibrant and diverse community. With these strategies, Michigan won’t just attract new residents – it will inspire them to stay, contribute, and flourish.
Attraction Segments Table:
***Retention Segments Table:***
What is Labor Productivity and Why Does it Matter?I want you to care about labor productivity at the state level. Here’s a ChatGPT-supported primer on what labor productivity is and why it matters.
Labor productivity, the measure of output or value produced per unit of labor input, holds crucial significance at the state level. This economic metric directly impacts a state's health, competitiveness, and overall prosperity. States with higher labor productivity levels tend to experience robust economic growth, attracting businesses and creating job opportunities. This growth leads to tangible improvements in living standards, healthcare, infrastructure, and education, enhancing the quality of life for residents.
Conversely, low labor productivity can signal inefficiencies, hindering job creation and potentially leading to stagnant economies. In such cases, residents may face reduced access to quality healthcare and education, limited infrastructure development, and a less favorable living environment. Therefore, labor productivity serves as a vital tool for state-level policymakers, guiding their decisions on resource allocation, workforce development, and policies aimed at fostering economic growth. By prioritizing productivity, states can elevate the well-being of their citizens and build stronger, more prosperous communities.
Stanley Fischer, former Vice Chairman of the Federal Reserve Board of Governors, gave a talk in July 2017, titled "Government Policy and Labor Productivity." He expounded on the importance of labor productivity, stating that it is a basic determinant of the rate of growth of average income per capita over long periods. To understand the impact of productivity growth, consider this rule of thumb: divide 70 by the growth rate to estimate the doubling time of productivity. For instance, during the 25 years from 1948 to 1973, labor productivity grew at 3.25% annually, doubling in just 22 years. In contrast, from 1974 to 2016, the growth rate slowed to 1.75%, doubling the time to 41 years. This illustrates the significant difference in economic prospects across generations, highlighting the importance of productivity.
How has labor productivity been trending in the State of Michigan? Overall, Michigan is not among the leading states with respect to it’s long run growth rate for labor productivity. Here’s an example that puts it into perspective.
Imagine two businesses, one in Michigan and the other in North Dakota, starting in 2007 with 100 units of output per unit of labor. Over the next 15 years, their paths diverge significantly. In Michigan, the average annual growth of 0.8% sees modest progress, reaching 113 units by 2022. In North Dakota, with a 2.7% growth, the productivity soars to 149 units of output per unit of labor. That difference is real money, real wealth, and real prosperity. This stark contrast in growth trajectories illustrates the transformative power of productivity rates.
For a more detailed analysis of recent trends (and data related to the thought experiment above), check out what the Bureau of Labor Statistics has published about state-level labor productivity, including the effects of the COVID-19 pandemic and specific changes in 2022. They’re fascinating.
The Opportunity There is an opportunity to increase the long-run labor productivity growth rate in the State of Michigan.
Targeted strategies, rather than broad, sweeping changes, are more likely to yield positive results. The complexity of labor productivity issues necessitates a cross-sector vision and strategy, aligning efforts from the private sector, government, academia, the social sector, philanthropy, and the educational sector around a coordinated mission.
As I see it, taising labor productivity at the state level involves three distinct phases of work, with an assumption of continuous iteration.
The first phase is to deeply understand the problem. Michigan's world-class research universities should conduct research to understand what drives and hinders labor productivity in the state. This includes quantitative and qualitative research, examining factors like capital investment, skills development, and innovation, as well as under-utilized assets for improving productivity. We need to understand labor productivity deeply - by industry, by job type, by geography, and more.
The second phase involves a cross-functional group of major stakeholders and citizen groups selecting areas of focus (e.g., industry, types of jobs, regions of Michigan) that present unique opportunities for improving labor productivity. Success metrics and data infrastructure should be established early on to allow for dispassionate evaluation of implemented solutions. The cross-functional group could then moves to ideation, brainstorming solutions within each of the focus areas. Prioritization criteria - developed in advance - should then be used to narrow down possibilities, aiming to identify a set of small, quickly testable experiments.
This is worth nothing, the goal shouldn’t be to have huge transformation and an endless slate of big splash initiatives. At the beginning, learning is more important. And the best way to learn is to deploy small-scale programs quickly and cheaply.
After about a year, the group would start phase three by reconvening to assess the experiments, deciding what to scale, stop, or further test. This process will likely reveal systemic blockers, informing a data-driven policy agenda. The group can then iterate and scale the most effective strategies and pursue the most promising policy innovations for increasing labor productivity in Michigan.
I am excited about what’s happening in Michigan. A deep, cross-functional examination of labor productivity could bring together our most capable institutions and thinkers to collaborate and make our state more prosperous. We have great assets across sectors; all we need is the will and a framework to collaborate productively. Labor productivity matters and is a simple concept that can create an organizing framework and sense of shared purpose for driving transformational collaboration across sectors. We should strive to raise labor productivity together, at the state level.
In conclusion
Understanding and improving labor productivity is not just an economic concern; it's a pathway to enhancing the quality of life for everyone in Michigan. Let's not just witness the change – let's be the architects of it. There are so many exciting ideas (like the UM Detroit Innovation Center or the Growing Michigan Together Council) which might create opportunities for influencing labor productivity that are just starting in Michigan. Reach out, contribute your thoughts, and let's turn these ideas into actionable strategies. Together, we can forge a future where economic growth and prosperity are shared by all.
You can reach me at hello@neiltambe.com or leave a comment. I’m excited to hear from you.
Who should help me measure my life?
By that I mean, whose eyes should I look through to understand my contribution to the world and the type of person I am? Who should I lean on to confirm whether my life has meaning or is wasted? Who can help me evaluate the parts of myself I can’t see?
To me the answer is simple: the people who know the full extent of who I am. The people who should help us measure our lives are the people that know us intimately. The people who see us in the trenches and up close. The people we cannnot hide our true character from, even if we tried. The people who should help us measure our lives are the people who can see our intent, our thinking, our emotions, our habits, our behaviors, and all the other invisible things we are that are.
Who should help us measure our lives? The people who actually have a 360-degree view of the relevant data about who we are.
By this definition, those are people like our spouses, our families, and our closest friends. Maybe it could also be our colleagues or neighbors who we trust enough to let down our masks and armor. Hopefully we know ourselves in this way, too.
And maybe, it could also be looser ties, who are with us in our most joyous and trying moments - like moments of grief, struggle, sacrifice, or hardship, like doctors, pastors, social workers, or public servants who help us in crises. If we’re lucky, we might also find those people from a team we were on that was trying to accomplish something difficult or of great import - whether that’s our high school theatre group, a soccer team, or a team from our professional life, working on a difficult and meaningful achievement.
What this implies, is that the vast majority of people we’ve ever met aren’t well equipped to help us measure our lives. The people who usually only interact with us based on what they see on LinkedIn or Instagram? Not qualified. Our colleagues? Mostly not qualified, unless we have a generous and transparent relationship with them. Our contemporaries from high school or college? Mostly not qualified, unless they were the people we stayed up all night bonding with, who know us at our best, worst, and most honest.
After many years, my inner voice was finally able to bring words to my angst about life and career.
“I am so much more and greater than what my accomplishments suggest. All these people who look at my LinkedIn profile, my job title, and even what I post on facebook don’t know the full story of what I am.”
To be sure, this sentiment causes me and has caused me a deep turmoil and angst. I just get so frustrated because I feel so capable but I don’t have as much to show for it as others. My peers from school (at every level, but especially college and grad school) are objectively a lot more successful and probably more wealthy than me. My peer group has people, too, who have made substantial contributions to the world. Even at work, within my own company, I feel like I have so much untapped potential and ability to create results than the title, rank, and level of respect I currently have.
This, honestly, causes me this deep, churning, in-my-gut kind of angst. I feel sometimes that I’m wasting my talent. On my worst days, I feel like I’m wasting my life.
What I finally realized this week, is that it’s illogical to expect these people to see the full picture of who I am. It’s unreasonable to expect the vast majority of people to help me measure my life, especially because I haven’t let down my guard or had enough time with the vast majority of people for them to see who I am, fully.
There’s no reason for angst about this, because the people that I’m seeking validation from and wanting to help me measure my life, can’t possibly give it.
I wish that I could measure my life on my own. Honestly, it would be much simpler if I could see myself clearly enough to make my own adjustments. I want to measure my life, in some way at least, so that I can live a life of integrity and some amount of contribution and meaning. If I evaluate myself, I can make adjustments to be better
The problem is, I can’t adequately self-evaluated because I’m biased. I am a mortal man who has ego. I am not fully enlightened. I need help to see myself as I am. I need the feedback of the people who really know me, deep down, to help me make adjustments so I can be a good guy in a stressed out world. I live enmeshed in a social world, and a community of others - how could I not need help to measure my life if my life impacts the lives of others?
For others to help me measure my life, then, I need to exhibit full-scale honesty: honesty with my self and honesty with others. If I want help measuring my life I have to let people in, and I have to have at least some confidants with who I don’t hid the full gamut of good, bad, and ugly.
This is one of the things I find so compelling about a belief in God: God is someone who there’s no reason to lie to. Because if you believe in God, you believe they know you intimately and fully - there’s no incentive to hide the truth, because God already knows. Similarly, this is why I love journaling - the journal is a safe place to tell the full, completely naked truth. There’s no reason to lie in our journal, if it’s private. If we don’t have people we trust enough to be ourselves, can at least be honest with God and the journal.
What does this all mean? I’m still grappling with this as it’s an entirely new idea for me. What I think this means is two things.
First, I have to be fully honest with myself and with at least some others. And two, I can let go the pressure I feel to be like my more successful peers, because those means of evaluation - social media, my work performance review, or my social standing - is an incomplete picture anyway. I can lean on the people who know me fully to help me measure my life and help me evaluate whether I’m the sort of person I seek to be.
We all can.
Have you ever noticed someone in your community doing something small yet unusual, like picking up litter during their daily walk, or always making a point to include the quiet voices in a meeting? These acts might seem minor, but they are examples of 'positive deviance'—simple actions that can lead to significant societal change.
In general, there are two ways to make a positive contribution to the world: positive results and positive deviance.
Let's define our terms: 'Positive results' refer to tangible achievements and products that visibly improve our world, like a successful fundraiser or a groundbreaking invention. In contrast, 'positive deviance' involves subtle, often overlooked actions that challenge and change societal norms for the better, like consistently promoting inclusivity in everyday interactions.
Positive results refer to the tangible changes we make in the world: the concrete outcomes and accomplishments that visibly improve our surroundings. These can range from small-scale projects like a bake sale that raises funds for a community cause, to larger impacts such as groundbreaking scientific discoveries, influential books that spark new conversations, innovative products that enhance daily life, or legislative reforms that address social injustices.
An example is a community garden initiative, not only beautifying a neighborhood but also providing fresh produce to its residents, or a new recycling policy resulting from a grassroots campaign that significantly reduces local waste. Positive results are changes to the 'what.'
In contrast, positive deviance focuses on the subtler changes in 'how' we behave and interact: the ways we subtly shift cultures and norms for the better. These acts of positive deviance might not always be grand in scale but are equally impactful.
It could be as simple as a neighbor who makes a point of warmly greeting everyone during her morning walks, challenging the norm of indifference in her community. Or consider a workplace leader who actively ensures that quieter voices, often overlooked, are heard and valued in meetings. These are acts of positive deviance – behaviors that stand out not because they follow the crowd, but precisely because they forge a better path.
Both are legitimate ways to change the world.
One might argue that these small acts of positive deviance are too insignificant to make any real difference, especially when compared to large-scale, tangible achievements. However, history and social science tell us otherwise. The accumulation of these small acts can gradually shift societal norms, creating lasting change in ways that are not immediately apparent but deeply transformative over time.
This is worth saying out loud because it’s hard to believe. Positive results are more tangible because changes to the "what" are very visible. You can count the money a bake sale raises, just like you can feel the healing in your body when taking a new medicine. Additionally, you can point to the team that got the result and say their names out loud. Both the effort of results and the outputs of result are concentrated in a thing.
Positive deviance is less tangible, in fact, it’s often subtle or even invisible. You hardly notice when a neighbor smiles at you or when a meeting facilitator creates the space to contribute for people who are usually ignored. People who act as positive deviants do this over and over, they change norms drop by drop to the point where nobody realizes that their behavior has spread and has become the new normal. Unlike positive results, both the efforts and the outputs of positive deviances are distributed. The work to change norms usually isn’t concentrated or centralized, and the results aren’t woven into something you can touch or feel. It just happens.
But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t change the world. It absolutely does. Culture has value. When you make change drop by drop, and spread that new norm person by person, block by block, over time, that behavior that started with one little drop becomes an ocean. That ocean of positive culture, norms, and behaviors has immense value.
Often, the path of positive deviance feels illegitimate because it’s hard to point to and see and feel. It's easy to feel discouraged because the acts of individual people can’t be easily credited with the sea change they contribute to. But these actions are legitimate. Although it's hard to pinpoint exactly where that water came from or who brought it there, it didn’t just appear out of nowhere. People made it happen, drop by drop.
Making change happen drop by drop instead of from concentrate doesn’t make it any less legitimate - it’s just less visible.
I say all this because being a positive deviant is discouraging. As a positive deviant, you act with so much courage to behave in a way that’s not normal. You bear this risk to behave better, knowing that you might get ostracized or punished for it. And then, drop by drop, things change and you get no reward and usually not any recognition. The culture changes, but most people forget that the ocean didn’t just appear out of nowhere.
Changing the "what" gets a lot of applause, changing the "how" does not.
I know this firsthand from my professional life. Most organizations promote people and even give informal recognition based on results. People get rewarded based on who brings home the results, not on who shifts norms. It’s maddening that invisible work is hard to celebrate and reward - especially if you’re the one doing it.
I understand it though, because after all in the world results do matter. Culture is not something that feeds the hungry or pays the bills. And, structurally it’s much easier to point to something tangible than something invisible. I’m not advocating for positive deviants to get more credit and rewards than they do - I honestly don’t think that’ll ever happen at scale because the cards are stacked against that happening.
But if you’re a positive deviant, too, I think we should do it anyway. I was talking at lunch with Lindsay, my team leader at work, about character and that’s something she said that stuck with me, “do it anyway.” That’s an essential way of describing character, right? If something is the right thing to do, a positive thing to do - you don’t do it only if you get applause for it, you do it anyway.
The work to behave differently is legitimate. The work to change culture and shift norms is legitimate. Just because it’s not visible doesn’t make it any less legitimate. The work of changing the "how" through positive deviance is a legitimate way to change the world, and even though it’s discouraging that it’s often invisible, we should do it anyway.
The Unintended ExperimentJust like everyone else, I spend many bullshit hours on my phone every week and a few more loathing myself for it. I know it affects my mood, my body, and my relationships negatively. It’s terrible, and such a waste of time and energy. Every week, I tell myself, “this is the week” and yet, I do it again. It’s maddening.
Oddly, I forgot my phone at the office on Thursday. I didn’t think the two hour round trip was worth it to retrieve it, which meant I would be without a phone until Tuesday - my next in-office day. This created a natural experiment: what happens when I literally can’t be on my phone because it’s not here? All the usual tropes were true…I can get by without it, I’m so less distracted, I sleep better, social media is so addictive, yadda yadda yadda.
But there was one big surprise. I used to blame my phone and social media for all these distractions and toxic influences. But really, it’s not the phone or social media that’s the problem - it’s that my intentions are weak.
A strong intention is an intention that you care about enough to follow through, even if it requires substantial discomfort. For me, running and exercising is a strong intention. A weak intention is an intention that fizzles away even under minor duress. Mowing the lawn and raking the leaves is one of those for me. I’ve been saying I’m going to do it for weeks, but here I am and another weekend has passed without it happening. That’s a weak intention.
I realized this weekend that my phone is not really a distraction, it’s just the easiest thing to do when I’m not exactly sure what I want to be doing. The problem, really, is that within the ebbs and flows of the day, I don’t really have intentions of how I want things to go. And when I don’t have a clear, strong intention I don’t sit idle - I bullshit.
Because when I bullshit, I can feel comfortable and feel like I’m doing something useful, without having to go through the struggle of figuring out something better and actually doing it. It’s a perfect trap.
The real solution isn’t limiting the phone, it’s forming stronger intentions for the part of the day I’m in. If I had stronger intentions, I wouldn’t be on my phone as much because I’d be spending my time doing things I care more about.
The Parallel: Resisting Yummy BaconHere’s another way to think about it, let’s talk about bacon.
I like bacon. It’s really delicious. When I smell it, I still crave it. Same thing with pepperoni and chicken wings. They’re SO good.
But I haven’t eaten those foods in years, I went solidly pescetarian about 10 years ago and haven’t looked back. I don’t even eat much fish anymore. Even when there’s delicious bacon, pepperoni, or chicken wings on a restaurant menu I don’t flinch any more. Why? Because I feel much stronger of an intention about not eating meat than I used to. Now, I have a strong intention because I’ve decided that I don’t want to take an animal’s life to avoid starvation if I don’t have to, especially because there are many delicious alternatives that are better for my health and the environment.
In high school, I used to waffle because I didn’t really have strong intentions about vegetarianism - I kind of just flirted with it and was a vegetarian when it was convenient, more than anything else. So I caved and flip-flopped on my dietary restrictions often.
My phone is the same way, because I don’t have a strong intention of what I want to do or focus on today, I jump to my phone because it’s an easy mechanism to give myself something to do.
The Rub: Making Intention TangibleI will get my phone from the office when I head in on Tuesday. But this experiment has taught me a valuable lesson, it’s important to make short-term, intra-day intentions strong and explicit. Luckily, I do this already for longer time horizons of my life:
What do I intend to contribute to that’s bigger than just me?
I’m good on this one. I intend to be a loving husband, father, and citizen. Beyond unconditional love to my family, I want to help the world become a free and trusting place.
What do I intend for this phase of my life?
I’m good on this one too, but it’s a bit more scattered.
Right now, I intend to help our family take root, form a cohesive bond, and be ready to flourish once we’re out of diapers. Professionally, I intend to do a lot of experiments to understand the different paths I can take to influence the things I care about most: trust in government, social trust, morality and character, leadership on every block, and issues like homicide, suicide, parks, and the literacy rate.
What do I intend for this season within this phase?
I don’t think about this a ton, but I think about it enough.
I intend to help get our home life running efficiently and with less friction. I also intend to get back to connecting with friends and our extended family. Finally, I intend to bring energy to my teams at work and figure out where I want to pivot. Oh, and publish this book I’ve been working on for seven years.
This is where I get stuck. I get caught up in the motions and don’t translate these longer-term and loftier intentions into our daily grind.
What do intend for the next week or two?
Generally, I wouldn’t think like this. But if I took the time to , I would probably say, “Get our lingering house projects and yardwork done before the holidays hit. Take more time to have fun and make eye contact with my sons. Go on a date with Robyn. Get my edits done so I can hire a proofreader and cover designer for this book project.”
What do I intend for this part of the day (i.e., between now and our next meal)?
Generally, I wouldn’t think like this. But if I took the time for it, I’d say - get the minimum cleaning done so we can take a family walk and play a game together.
Because I don’t get specific at this granular, intra-day level, and set an explicit intention for the next few hours before I eat the next meal, I bullshit. Usually on my phone.
If I don’t set specific intentions for the immediate few hours, It’s like my brain says, “I don’t know exactly what comes next. Do I want to make a plan that’s in line with my favorite hobbies and long-term plans? Do I want to make the most of my workday afternoon? Uhhh, naw. I’ll just look at videos of college kids doing trick shots with golf balls bouncing off of cookware and check my e-mail instead.”
The Takeaway: Intention in the ImmediateThis is the big lesson. We have to have clear, strong intentions for the long-term but also for the time that’s right in front of our face. This is true at home, in our work, and in our community organizations. Some people are good at setting longer-term intentions. Others are better at setting immediate, short-term, intentions. But the truth is, we really need strong intentions for both.
If we don’t set clear intentions, especially at the level of the next few hours, we bullshit. And for me that usually means bullshitting on my phone.
But it could manifest as something more subtle than scrolling on a smartphone. At home, it could be cleaning stuff I don’t really have to clean, or just turning on the TV in the background while I wash dishes - both are comfortable, but aren’t in line my strongest intentions.
At work, it could be attending useless meetings to feel busy without actually having to work, or doing mundane tasks which nobody cares too much about - both are comfortable, but they’re usually not what the best use of our time is.
All in all, I’m really glad I forgot my phone at the office for a weekend. It was good to have a reason to reflect on it. My test will be to set stronger intra-day intentions so I bullshit less and pay attention to my family more. I don’t have to be addicted to my phone, none of us do. If we take the time to set clear intentions in the immediate-term that ladder up to our longest-term intentions, we can minimize our bullshit hours and spend that time doing things we really love, things that really matter, and things to connect with the people we care about deeply.
One of the greatest acts of love is to linger.
When we linger we are saying, “Let us stay here, together. The time we have is better together. Let’s cheat our departure for just a little longer. With you, this moment is complete.”
This is what we do in our Michigan goodbyes which makes the end of a dinner party 20 minutes instead of the time it takes for a quick handshake. We want to chat a little more, hug a little longer and with an extra squeeze if you live far away - so I know it’ll say with you until you make it home. We want to hear one more story about our grandfather or our college days and laugh one more time together while we can. This is a mark of a family and not people who are simply related.
With you this moment is complete.
As much I wish our kids went to bed faster and didn’t rouse us awake when they slip under our covers, so gently, before sunrise, it still brings tears to my eyes thinking about it now. That is how they linger and the most honest way they show us that they really do love us. Don’t grow up so fast, my sons because each morning is one day closer to when you soar away from this place.
With you, this moment is complete.
I remember so fondly the lingering we would do in the fraternity house or our senior house, after the party or last call at the bar. When we’d eat our grubby burritos and play FIFA or become Guitar Heros. Most of the time, I preferred that time to the party itself. It was in the lingering that we became brothers. It was in the lingering that we formed a lifelong bond, that survives across the time zones that separate us today.
With you, this moment is complete.
Even at work, there are some times we linger in fellowship or in pursuit of the magical moment of “aha!” The meeting after the meeting, where we are free to be ourselves and speak as equals. It’s some of the only time we aren’t compelled to spend together, making it feel rare and special. It is in the lingering where we put away our masks, and finally get real - and that’s energetic and joyous.
With you, this moment is complete.
And you, my love, are who I most want to linger with. This is what we have always done. Just a little longer with our glasses of wine. Just a little longer with our walk around the neighborhood at lunch time. Just one more song, one more kiss, one more smile, one more whiff of your perfume that smells like warm vanilla sugar.
With you, I will never have enough time. I will take every extra breath together that we get. You, my love, are who I most want to linger with.
With you, this moment is complete.
***Photo by*** ***Tim Mossholder*** ***on*** ***Unsplash***
Imagine with me.
Imagine that we have achieved individual success, measured by status and extrinsic rewards. We have reached the pinnacle of our careers, prospered, and provided for our families, as well as our immediate circle of acquaintances and charitable organizations. We have established ourselves in our community. Just picture it; we've "crushed" it.
Also, envision these triumphs extending to our community as a whole. Visualize our community thriving, adorned with fine restaurants and a vibrant cultural scene. Imagine that we enjoy a wealth of amenities and a high quality of life in our surroundings.
From an outsider's perspective, we've achieved what the American dream is often portrayed as: individual and communal comfort and affluence. The mere thought of it fills me with a sense of contentment.
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Recently, I've been pondering this question: What could potentially tarnish the allure of this comfort and affluence? What circumstances, if true, would make me feel as though I hadn't truly lived it the right way? What are the underlying indicators that need to hold true for me to believe our affluence isn't tainted in some manner?
To me, these questions serve as a means to comprehend: "What do I care about that’s bigger than me? Than us?"
Here are my five responses. Success and affluence will only truly feel worthwhile if...
- Murders are rare. Murders epitomize the degree of connection and harmony within our society. If murder persists, it implies the existence of conflict, suffering, pain, and anger. For me, genuine success hinges on the rarity of murders.
- Suicides are rare. Suicides reflect how connected and in harmony we are with ourselves. When suicides occur, it signifies loneliness, despair, hopelessness, and profound sadness. Authentic success, to me, necessitates the rarity of suicides.
- Everyone is literate. The ability to read and write holds transformative power. Literacy is indispensable for personal growth, connecting with others, securing a decent livelihood, and realizing one's personal aspirations. High illiteracy rates indicate that there are individuals who may never develop sufficiently to thrive. True success, in my view, requires universal literacy.
- We can play outside. The great outdoors, in all its forms, holds a special place in my heart. Whether it's a soccer field, a serene lake, a city's greenway, or a majestic national park, I find joy in simply being there and breathing in the fresh air. I firmly believe that both children and adults need the joy of outdoor play in their lives. True success, for me, means the ability to play outside.
- I've done right by others. Have I genuinely achieved success if I've done it at the expense of others? If I've been a toxic colleague or an absent father, a neglectful husband or a selfish neighbor? If I've taken advantage of people I had influence over or been dishonest merely to get ahead? Real success, in my eyes, necessitates doing right by others.
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There are moments when I find myself excessively preoccupied with my own comfort and affluence. If you're still reading, you might have experienced this too. I sometimes dwell too much on things like career advancements, our next home improvement project, or ways to simplify our daily routine. Reflecting on such matters isn't inherently wrong; comfort and affluence, in my book, aren't immoral. But at times, it becomes excessive, and I become too self-absorbed.
In these moments, I inevitably arrive at this fundamental question: "Why am I here?"
These five aspects – murder, suicide, literacy, outdoor recreation, and ethical treatment of others – happen to be the indicators that connect to what I value beyond my individual life. What you hold dear, something bigger than yourself, is likely to differ, and it should.
I find it crucial, yet challenging, to shift my perspective away from being consumed by thoughts of my own life, particularly given how much energy we expend just to navigate each week. Lately, the prompt, "All this success and affluence will feel worth it if...," has helped me refocus on something larger than myself. If you, too, aim to anchor yourself to a purpose greater than personal gain, I hope this thought exercise proves beneficial to you.
***Photo by*** ***Zachary Keimig*** ***on*** ***Unsplash***
The energy at the start line of a marathon - half or full, doesn’t matter - is absolutely electric.
I think that’s because to run a half or a full marathon it takes training. And to train for something as miserable as a long race, you have to love running and you have to have some greater purpose.
The last races I did were in honor of my father. He would always encourage me to stay fit. And he’d always rib me about running and ask me how long the distances of my training runs were. The last races I did were, in retrospect, part of my process of grieving. It would’ve been so meaningful to give him a big hug at a finish line. But alas, it will never be.
This race today was for me. Rather, for an older version of me, 30-40 years in the future. That guy is depending on me to stay healthy so he can be around for a long time. That guy wants to be around and energetic for retirement. That guy wants to play, laugh, and adventure around with his grandchildren. That guy needs me to be an athlete, now.
Me and that older version of me don’t have longevity in our genes, so we run. This race today was for us.
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The purpose of other runners is palpable on the course. For some runners, training for a half is how they stay connected and find community in a running club. For others, it’s their way of changing their diet, lifestyle, and attitude. For others, they love the freedom and energy of running, or the discipline that training brings to their lives. For others, I’m sure, they’re recovering from devastating illnesses, like cancer, and running is their reminder that they beat the disease.
What I love about these races is that nobody cares if they are the winner, or have the best time. Everyone runs with their own purpose and their own goal in mind. Basically everyone, save for the most elite of runners, is mostly running to be a better version of themselves. “Winning the race” really isn’t the point.
I value this attitude greatly, because it’s honest. So little of our lives is actually a competition with others. We may perceive it to be, but that’s not really true. For the majority of the situations in our lives - whether at work, at home, or in community - all we need to do is grow and be better than the person we were yesterday. Most of the time, just like at a marathon, winning is not the point.
For this race, I had a lot of help to train properly. I had my best race yet, and it’s thanks to the Nike Run Club and the virtual coaches there. I had the right training plan, and I became a smarter and more technically sound runner. But not only that, I learned so much about being an athlete.
Coach Bennett is the global head coach of the Nike Run Club (NRC), and I felt like he was my personal coach because of the guided runs I was able to do with him. He and the other NRC coaches are emphatic about reminding the athlete of two things: 1) that they are indeed athletes because they’re working to get better, and 2) that if we’re running, we chose to run. We got through all the obstacles and got up on that starting line, which is a victory it itself.
This was a huge reframe for me.
Our mission is not to get to the finish line, for a race or even just a workout. The mission is to run in such a way that we get on the next starting line. Because only if you keep running do you keep getting better. Because only if you keep working at it do you become a better version of yourself. And that’s the point, becoming better - physically, mentally, emotionally, and even spiritually - with every stride and every workout. I’ve found this philosophy to be so powerful, and not just while training - but at work and in family life too.
So many times during my training, and during today’s race, I would even yawp, “I’M AN ATHLETE! LET’S GO!”, to remind myself of this important lesson.
There were over 10,000 people that ran an event as part of the Detroit Marathon weekend this year. To be part of that is so humbling. Because there are 10,000 people who have stories and purpose, just like I do. That’s what I love most about Marathon weekend. It’s as much a running race, as it is a celebration of the truth that every runner has a story and so does every person.
Congratulations to everyone who raced Detroit this weekend, have raced before, or will do their first race next year.
See you at the next starting line.
Photo Credit: Robyn Tambe
What is an artist?
Three things define an artist: a point of view, refined craft, and canvas. This is my interpretation, and I'll elaborate shortly. Here’s a thread on ChatGPT for a summary of different schools of thought on what an artist is.
We can be artists in our day to day lives. Parenting can be artists’ work. Leadership can be artists’ work. Yes, artists create plays, music, paintings, and dance - but fine and performing artists are not the only artists there are.
We are all capable of being artists within our respective domains of focus. We should.
Artist = point of view + refined craft + canvasArtists have a point of view. A point of view is a unique belief about the world and the fundamental truths about it. Put another way, an artist has something to say. A point of view is not necessarily something entertaining or popular, but I mean it as a deeper truth about life, the world, ideas, or existence itself.
A point of view might be and probably should be influenced by the work of others, but it’s not a point of view if it’s copied. To be art, the artist must internalize their point of view.
Artists have a refined craft. Artists must be able to bring their point of view to life and communicate it in a novel, interesting, and compelling way. Bringing their point of view to life in this way takes skills and practice. And it’s not just technical skills like a painters brush technique or a writer’s ability to develop characters, part of the skill of being an artist is the act of noticing previously unnoticed things, or, the ability to connect deeply with emotions, feelings, and abstract concepts.
A refined craft might be and probably should be influenced by the work of others and exceptional teachers, but it’s not a refined craft if it’s mere mimicry of someone else. A refined craft is something that the artist has mastery in.
Artists have a canvas. The point of view that an artist brings through their refined craft must be manifested somewhere. Painters literally use canvasses. For dramatic actors, their canvas is a stage performance. For muralists, their canvas is the walls of large buildings.
However, those mediums do not have to be the only canvas. For a corporate manager, their canvas might be a team meeting. For someone cooking a family dinner, their canvas might be the dinner table - both the food and the surrounding relationships. For a parent, their canvas might be their nightly bedtime routine. For someone just trying to be a good person, their canvas might be their bathroom mirror or journal, where they reflect on how their actions have impacted others.
And for what it’s worth, a canvas doesn’t have to be the center of a performative act. A canvas is merely the medium. Who sees the medium, and its level of public transparency, is an entirely different question.
Examples really bring what I mean to life. I’ve asked ChatGPT to apply the Artist = point of view + refined craft + canvas framework to a handful of people. This link will take you to an analysis of Frida Kahlo, Jay-Z, Steve Jobs, JK Rowling, Oprah Winfrey and others.
We need artistsWhat I find so compelling about artists is they move society and culture forward. In some ways, people who operate as artists are among the only people who can progress us forward. Why? First, artists operate in the realm of beliefs, which means they can change the deepest parts of people’s minds. Second, because artists bring a novel perspective to the table, they’re people who cut against the grain and challenge long-held norms, by definition. Artists make a difference by making things different..
This is exactly why I think we ought to operate as artists, especially in our daily lives as parents, colleagues, and community members. I believe things ought to be different and better. Kids, on average, deserve better parents. People working in teams, on average, deserve better colleagues and leaders. Communities, on average, deserve a better quality of life.
We are fortunate to be alive now, but there is room for improvement. Daily life for children, workers, and citizens ought to be much better because there is still so much unecessary drudgery and suffering.
Moreover, there is insufficient abundance for everyone to pursue a career as a fine artist or performing artist. Conventional art is invaluable, but not feasible for most to pursue professionally or as a hobby. For most of us, the only choice for us is to act as artists at home, work, or in our communities.
Again, I think examples bring it to life. Here are three personal examples that illustrate that we can think of ourselves not just as parents, leaders, or citizens, but as artists. (Note: my examples don’t imply that I’m actually good at any of these things. It’s an illustration of how one might think of these disciplines as art).
As an artist-parent…I believe…that I am equal in worth to my children and my job is to love them and help them become good people that can take care of themselves and others. I’m merely a steward of this part of their life, and that doesn’t give me the right to be a tyrant.
Part of my craft is…to reflect questions back at them so they can think for themselves. So if they ask, “Should I ride my bike or scooter on our family walk?” I might reply, “What should you ride, buddy?”
My canvas…is every little moment and every conversation I have with my kids.
As an artist-leader at work…I believe…our greatest contributions come collaboratively, when we act as peers and bring our unique talents together in the service of others.
Part of my craft is…creating moments where everyone on the team (including our customer) has time to speak and be heard - whether in groups or 1-1 behind the scenes..
My canvas is…team meetings, 1-1 meetings, and hallway conversations where I am in dialogue with colleagues or customers.
As an artist-citizen…I believe…we will reach our ideal community when there is leadership present on every single block and community group.
Part of my craft is…find new people in the group and ask them to lead something, and commit to supporting them.
My canvas is…neighborhood association meetings, conversations while walking my dog, and the moments I’m just showing up.
We can be artists. Even if we can’t paint, even if we can’t dance, even if we can’t write poetry - we can be artists.
How we become everyday artistsThe hard question is always “how”. How do I become an artist-parent or artist-leader? This is an important and valid question. Because these ideas of “point of view” and “craft” are so abstract and lofty.
What has made these concepts practical to attain is starting with my mindset. We can act as if our environment is a canvas.
So no, the team meeting at work isn’t just a meeting - it’s a canvas. And no, the car ride to school isn’t just 15 minutes with my sons to kindergarten or daycare drop off, it’s a canvas. These are not ordinary moments, I need to tell myself that I’m an artist and this is my canvas.
Because when I treat the world like a canvas, it goads me into considering what my point of view is. Because what’s the use of a canvas without a point of view? The existence of a canvas persuades me to form a point of view.
And when I think about my point of view, it nudges me to consider and hone my craft. Because what’s a point of view without the ability to bring it to life? Once I have a point of view, I naturally want to bring it to life.
Treating the world around me like a canvas is both under my control and the simple act which snowballs me into practicing as an artist in everyday life.
If you think being an everyday artist has merit, my advice would be to pursue it. Just start by taking something ordinary and make it a canvas. Because once we have a canvas and take our canvas seriously, an artist is simply what we become.
***Photo by*** ***Anna Kolosyuk*** ***on*** ***Unsplash***
From the outside looking in, the transformation from a couple to parents, and then to a family of five, might seem just like a change in numbers. But the journey of adjusting to each addition, the evolving dynamics, and the never-ending learning curve is a tale unto itself. Every family has its unique narrative, and ours is filled with moments of joy, chaos, discovery, and reflection.
People often ask about our journey – perhaps out of curiosity, or maybe because they're embarking on a similar path. By sharing our story, I hope to offer some insights and perhaps provide a sense of camaraderie. Parenting, after all, is a shared experience. No matter how many children you have or plan to have, it’s beautiful and impossibly hard. I've taken this opportunity to reflect on our changes, the big and small adjustments, and the lessons we've learned along the way.
Whether you're here seeking understanding, relatability, or just a story, I invite you to join us on our journey from zero to three kids. I love talking about this because I usually learn something by being asked to reflect on it.
In each phase, we've had to fundamentally rethink our roles—as parents, partners, friends, and colleagues. Every phase has required different adjustments. I’ve shared some of our experiences here. Have yours been similar? Different?
Comparing notes with other parents is really helpful to me, so if you’re so inclined - I’d love to hear what you think in the post comments or in the comments on Facebook.
Moving from Zero to One: Schedules Became CrucialThe biggest adjustment moving from no children to one child was schedules. Oh lord, was that hard. The entire rhythm of our day changed, becoming centered around the rhythms of our son.
This was so much more than “not sleeping.” How and when we socialized radically changed. How and when we had to get home from work also saw significant shifts. The pace with which we moved through the day became much slower because we were on “baby time.”
The personal adjustments I had to make were largely centered around work. I had to set boundaries around my work schedule because of drop-off duties. If I ran late, I would miss reading Robert a story and putting him to bed. I also realized that my needs were no longer the center of the universe.
In addition to our schedule's rhythm changing, it was a significant mental and emotional adjustment (read: ego check) to let go of the flexibility and decision-authority over my time. As someone who has been independent my whole life, I grieved the loss of freedom over my time and personal autonomy—even down to when I could use the bathroom.
One thing I'm glad we didn't compromise on was our passion for travel and adventure. Travel, especially to see or spend time with family, is non-negotiable for us. That was one aspect we didn’t adjust; we continued our daytime adventures. We even took a 10-month-old to Japan, which, looking back, seems audacious, but that was non-negotiable. It was something our son had to adapt to.
Moving from One to Two: No Slack in the SystemWhen Robyn and I had one child, we could muscle through without having to change everything drastically. But with the arrival of our second child, there was no slack left in our system. There was no longer a quiet time; someone in our household was always awake or had a need. With a second child, the opportunities for quick naps or swiftly loading the dishwasher vanished, straining our family system. It's no surprise; systems without slack tend to be fragile.
Robyn and I found ourselves adjusting and transforming many of our individual and shared habits. We had to create and refine systems. Logistical systems came into play, including semi-automated grocery lists, whiteboard calendars, and chore wheels. We delved into Eve Rodsky’s system from her book Fair Play: A Game-Changing Solution for When You Have Too Much to Do (and More Life to Live) even adopting her flashcards. These tools and others made us more efficient and disciplined, ensuring we still had moments to recharge individually and as a couple.
Above all, we focused on managing conflicts. We prioritized our weekly temperature checks, revisited our five-year vision regularly, and committed to addressing issues head-on, turning towards each other, especially during misunderstandings. The crux of our adjustment was nurturing the courage to speak honestly and remain emotionally present, particularly when faced with hurt.
Moving from Two to Three: Navigating Dreams and Inner Demons Amidst ChaosParents often quip that introducing a third child means shifting defense from "man-to-man" to "zone." Suddenly, with three kids, Robyn and I were outnumbered. Our life was a whirlwind of chaos.
This phase was more about acceptance than change. Our vision of life underwent a transformation. Dreaming of a perpetually clean house? Unrealistic. Juggling a demanding job and being a hands-on parent? A choice had to be made. Aspirations for rapid career growth had to be balanced against family time. And the home projects I'd hoped to save on by DIY-ing? Either hire a professional or set them aside.
These dreams and life yardsticks had to align with our reality. Despite being well-off and having considerable family support, realizing we couldn't "have it all" was a pivotal moment. Accepting our third child meant reimagining our dreams. Our family had tangibly, unquestionably, and irreversibly became the cornerstone of our aspirations and future vision. This shift was profound, given the pressure I had placed on career goals, community involvement, and personal achievements.
However, this chaotic phase prompted major parenting adaptations. At least one of our children always seemed to be navigating a major transition or facing emotional challenges. With three kids, there's always a storm brewing. Such turbulence often brought out the worst in me, rather than my best. I fell back into negative behavior patterns and made numerous parenting missteps. Moments arose when I'd ponder, "Am I this guy? Am I going to accept being this guy?"
This chaos demanded introspection. My internal world underwent a shift, prompting me to confront deep-seated fears, angers, and skill gaps. We sought therapy, and became a Dr. Becky Good Inside family. And slowly, we began walking the long road to change.
How We AdjustNaturally, my reflections often circle back to the theme of adjustments. Adjustments are vital, but the process is far from trivial. So, how do we make these shifts?
Firstly, a vision is paramount. How do you envision the future? Taking time to dream, both alone and with loved ones, is essential. We need direction, and clear picture of the ideal future; without it, there's no reference point for when change is needed. The moments Robyn and I have spent articulating our dreams have been some of the most rewarding in our marriage.
Secondly, for effective adjustment, clear priorities are paramount. We all harbor grand dreams and visions, but reality doesn’t always align. The world is filled with trade-offs, constraints, and unforeseen events. Time and resources are finite, so we can’t achieve everything we desire. To navigate these challenges, we must prioritize the dimensions of our dreams. It’s these priorities that serve as a compass, guiding which adjustments to make.
For instance, faced with the demands of parenting and career, which takes precedence? Robyn and I chose to adjust our career paths to be more present for our children. While this wasn’t our initial plan, our priority of being active parents necessitated this change. Such decisions, pivotal in shaping our lives, are rooted in understanding our core priorities.
Lastly, genuine listening complements our prioritization. To assess whether we need to make adjustments we need accurate feedback. Are we veering in the wrong direction? We need information to know whether an adjustment is urgent. That information might be explicit like a bank statement or cholesterol panel, or it could be through observation of our kids’ feelings and behavior, or even information gleaned from personal reflection and discernment.
Adjusting is an art form and is ongoing, evolving with each phase of life. I'd love to hear your thoughts, whether you're a new parent or have had a decade's worth of experience. I'm sure each of you has your unique tales, moments of revelation, and personal strategies that you've leaned on. Whether you're just starting your family or have been on this journey for a while, I'd love to hear from you.
Discussion Points:1. Journey Reflection: If you have children, what were the most significant adjustments you made with each addition? 2. Learning Moments: Were there any unexpected lessons you learned along the way? 3. Balancing Acts: How have you balanced your personal dreams and aspirations with the needs of your growing family?
Feel free to share in the comments below or reach out on Facebook. Let's continue the conversation and learn from each other's experiences.
Key Takeaways:* Moving from Zero to One: Adjusting to the rhythm of your child is paramount. Personal sacrifices, especially around time and autonomy, are inevitable. * Moving from One to Two: Systems and routines become critical. External tools and relationship checks (like Fair Play) can be invaluable. * Moving from Two to Three: Embracing chaos and re-evaluating personal dreams and professional aspirations are essential. Prioritizing family becomes a central theme.
***Photo by*** ***Julian Hochgesang*** ***on*** ***Unsplash***
Something happened to me, slowly, over years. I stopped being fun.
I was never close to being muppet-level fun, or even sitcom-level fun, but I was at least average. But this weekend, I finally realized how far I’ve fallen, and how much of a stiff I’ve become.
This realization, poetically, all started with a ball.
It’s as if it was magnetic. Within minutes of showing up at the park, a first or second grader approached Robert after noticing the ball at his feet.
“Hey, you wanna play soccer?”
And then, our Kindergartner began shedding his armor of quiet and shyness. His confidence and voice gradually returned, his personality emerging from behind his protective shield.
And for the next 40 minutes, he had a buddy. Sure, Bo came back and forth to the safety of outstretched hand. Mostly, though, he didn’t need me. The ball helped him transform - from being a little boy hurt by words and elbows on the playground, into just a little boy, running and smiling.
That’s the magic of the ball.
The magical, magnetic ball is his life preserver when he’s lost in a new place. The magic ball does the heavy work, bringing others into his world, when he’s too afraid to invite them in. The ball gives him a focus point, an entry point into friendship and being part of a group.
The magic of the ball, any ball, is that when a ball arrives, play follows. The ball is a vessel, the conduit, for the magic of play.
Play is liberation. It lets us run, skip, express, create, and be. Play is fun. It brings joy, relief, refuge, and laughter. Play is medicine. It helps us bond, repair relationships, recharge, and heal.
I also need this magic.
Bo already manifests my two biggest neuroses: the need to be perfect and the need to be affirmed by other people’s praise. I transmuted these shackles onto him because of something I’m role modeling - he’s too young to have just inherited these behaviors from the culture.
I’m not even trying to be, and I’m so damn serious all the time. I focus, plan, and do dishes in an almost militant manner. Do I ever have fun and play around? If I do, it’s when my sons are already asleep.
But how do I even play? How do I take a status meeting and make it feel a little more like play? How do I take the chore of washing dishes and make it into a game? Somewhere along the way, I became a robot that does tasks and managed a scheduled instead of a person who plays around.
How could I have let this happen? To be sure, I consider myself a lucky man. My life has a lot of comfort, joy, meaning, and love. But what happened to fun? Somehow, fun is something I used to be. Play is something I used to do.
I don’t want to live like this. How did we let ourselves live like this? When did it happen? How do I get out of these chains of drudgery and seriousness?
One answer, it seems, is right in front of me. I have to be more like them. I have three sons, and they play all the time. For some part of the day, I need to put my serious face away and just mimic them. I need them to be my role models, instead of me trying to be theirs.
They are the vessel; they are my conduit. They, my sons, are my magic ball. Through them, I can find the part of me that is fun again. They, if I let them, can be the liberators of the bondage of seriousness I didn’t even know I had.
***Photo by*** ***Robert Collins*** ***on*** ***Unsplash***
Sometimes, shit just isn’t working. We’ve all had slumps where we feel like this.
It could be on a project at work, as a parent, in marriage, when solving a social problem, or when working on a creative project.
The first lesson that most of us learn is what they say about insanity: doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result is insanity. So most of us learn not to be insane.
When shit just isn’t working, step one is to do something different. Most of us generally know this, even if we don’t act upon it right away.
But there’s a subtlety that matters, when shit just isn’t working. What we have to assess is whether we’re fundamentally on a mountain or a plateau, because how you conquer a mountain and a plateau is fundamentally different.
Mountains vs. PlateausThe problem with mountains is that they are big and steep. But what’s great about mountains is that there’s no way to go but up. Mountain problems are an incremental challenge.
So to get over a mountain, what you do differently is just lean in harder. You spend more time, spend more money, or throw people at the problem. Basically, if shit isn’t working and you’re on a mountain - we just have to put one foot in front of the other, and just climb harder and climb higher. Eventually, you know you’re going to get to the top, you just have to add effort and survive the climb.
Cleaning a dirty house before a party is a mountain problem - you just hunker down, and ask a friend to help you if it needs to happen faster.
The problem with plateaus is that they are flat. Which means running harder doesn’t get you anywhere - you’re stuck on the plateau at the same flat elevation with nowhere else to go, no matter how fast or hard you run.
The even bigger problem with plateaus is that the only way off is to jump off of it.
If the situation you’re in is being stuck on a plateau, you have to rock the boat and do something radical. Plateau problems require a phase shift to get unstuck.
Reducing my mile splits and body fat % in advance of a half marathon has been a plateau problem.
After a few weeks of training, running longer distances once a week wasn’t getting me in better shape. I wasn’t getting strong enough to be durable for long distances nor were my splits getting any faster.
Instead, I had to jump off a cliff and try an entirely new training method: interval speed runs.
Interval speed runs are where you run at a faster pace for a short burst, and then have a short rest. A speed run might end up being the same time and distance as a regular training run, but running short intervals fast, is fundamentally different on the body than a distance run at a moderate pace.
Once I jumped, and tried something entirely new (interval speed runs) - my half marathon training started popping. My legs got noticeably more durable, and my muscle mass started rising while my mile splits started falling. It was nuts how big of a difference it made.
We need to assess where we areWhen shit isn’t working, the right answer isn’t always turnkey. Before acting, we have to determine whether we’re on a mountain requiring more of the same, or, if we’re on a plateau that requires a radical phase shift.
As people who take responsibility for making things better, it’s critical to pause. If we don’t get a lay of the land, we might not ever get things working again.
So, the next time you find yourself stuck, take a step back and ask: Is this a mountain to climb or a plateau to leap from? Your answer might just be the breakthrough you need.
Photo Credit: Morgan Alicia on Unsplash
In both life and work, change isn't just inevitable; it is a vital metric for assessing growth. My experiences as a parent have led me to a deeper understanding of this concept, offering insights that are readily applicable in a leadership role.
Children Grow UnapologeticallyAs a parent, it’s now obvious to me that children are constantly evolving, forging paths into the unknown with a defiance that seems to fuel their growth. Despite a parent’s natural instinct to shield them, children have a way of pushing boundaries, a clear indicator that change is underway. This undying curiosity and defiance not only foster growth but necessitate a constant evolution in parenting styles.
Today, my youngest is venturing into the world as a wobbly walker, necessitating a shift in my approach to offer more freedom and encouragement, but with a ready stance to help our toddler the most dangerous falls. Meanwhile, my older sons are becoming more socially independent, which requires me to step back and allow them to resolve their disputes over toys themselves. It's evident; as they grow, my parenting style needs to adapt, setting a cycle of growth and adaptation in motion.
The Echo in Leadership In reflecting on this, I couldn't help but notice the clear parallel to leadership in a corporate setting. A leader's adaptability to the changing dynamics of the team and the operating environment is critical in fostering a team's growth. If a leadership style remains static, it likely signals a team stuck on a plateau, not achieving its potential.
A stagnant leadership style not only hampers growth but fails the team. It is thus imperative for us as leaders to continually reassess and tweak their approach to leadership, ensuring alignment with the team's developmental stage and the broader organizational context.
This brings me to a critical question: how often should a leader change their style? While a high frequency of change can create instability, a leadership style untouched for years is a recipe for failure. A quarterly review strikes a reasonable balance, encouraging regular adjustments to foster growth without plunging the team into a state of constant flux.
Conclusion: The Dynamic Dimension of LeadershipIn the evolving landscapes of parenting and leadership alike, adaptability emerges not just as a virtue but as a vital gauge of growth and effectiveness. Thanks to my kids, I was able to internalize this pivotal point of view: understanding the dynamic or static nature of one's approach is central to assessing leadership prowess.
For leaders eager to foster growth, the practice of self-assessment can be straightforward and significantly revealing. It is as simple as taking a moment during your team's quarterly goal reviews to ask, "How has the team grown this quarter?" and "How should my leadership style evolve to support our growth in the upcoming period?"
By making this practice a routine, we can ensure that our leadership styles remain dynamic, evolving hand in hand with our teams' developmental trajectories, promoting sustained growth and productivity.
***Photo by*** ***Julián Amé*** ***on*** ***Unsplash***
What I visualize has changed over the years, and I can’t figure out why.
When I was younger, I always used to visualize myself being applauded.
In those days, I regularly imagined myself being sworn in as a U.S. Senator, or perhaps being elevated to CEO of a publicly traded company. Sometimes, I wouldn’t even just imagine myself giving a TED talk, I imagined myself watching a video of myself giving a TED talk.
This is objectively vain and narcissistic stuff. These delusions fueled my motivation and ambition. I craved moments of being “awesome” or being “ the guy” and that’s a large part of why I worked hard and tried to achieve success in my education and professional life.
Somewhere along the way that changed.
To be clear, I still have moments where I imagine myself winning something, succeeding, or receiving some sort of promotion. But it’s not only that anymore. Sometimes, now, I visualize others experiencing joy.
Sometimes, for example, I imagine Robyn and I being older and we’re making pizza and chocolate chip cookies with our giggling grandchildren. Or maybe we’re holding hands at church, seeing families of five hugging each other in the pew in front of us, and we feel remember our own joy because we see theirs.
Other times, I imagine our adult sons, joking and laughing with each other, while we’re all having a beer around a campfire. Sometimes, I imagine a time when the world is kinder and more verdant, and I am walking through the park, breathing clean air and passing by birthday parties with loads of youngsters singing and eating cake. They are all strangers and I don’t talk to them, I just notice their glee and I am smiling as I stroll past.
Sometimes, too, I imagine some of the former gang members I met at community meetings dropping their kids off at school or cooking a Friday night dinner, being attentive and loving fathers. Sometimes, I imagine some of the people who buy La-Z-Boy furniture just sitting, and catching their breath in moments of ease.
Again, I’m still self-centered, I’m just not solely that anymore. Now, I imagine others’ joyous moments sometimes too.
The problem is, I don’t know what caused this change to happen.
Was it gratitude journaling or prayer? Was it marriage and kids? Was it losing my father? Was it travel to places, like India, where I witnessed slums with unimaginable poverty? Was it just something that happened because I lived more life? What was it that caused my visualizations to change?
This post doesn’t have a solution, only a question for those of y’all who made it this far. Has this change in perspective happened to you? What do you think did it?
It’s something that I would love to understand enough to recreate on purpose. If I can pinpoint what sparked this shift in me, perhaps we all can learn to intentionally foster a more outwardly compassionate perspective.
***Photo by*** ***Clay Banks*** ***on*** ***Unsplash***
A chance encounter at a National Park shifted how I view the role of children in society.
To lead and move forward, we should think of common deflections as triggers to listen more deeply.
There’s a secular lesson to take from Matthew 11: don’t over-regulate children. I want to try, at least, to simplify.
The game escalated real quick.
I was in the backyard gardening and weeding. Suddenly, Myles was zooming around as Gecko and deputized me as Catboy, which are both characters in PJ Masks, one of his favorite television shows.
Within minutes, we were both zooming around, in character, from end to end across the backyard. Myles quickly made the Fisher Price table the Gecko-mobile and Robyn's minivan our headquarters. For nearly 20 minutes, Myles, with a full-toothed smile, would proclaim, “to the Gecko-mobile!”, giggling every time.
About 10 minutes into the game, I realized Myles wasn’t pretending. The table was actually the Gecko-mobile and Robyn’s whip was actually our Headquarters. The world inside his head had become real. Myles had fully expressed his inner world and made it his and my outer world.
—
When disappointed, Myles lets out a sound that we call "the shriek," which resembles the yelp of a pterodactyl.
Recently, this happened when we were scrambling to get to Tortola for a family vacation that was two years in the making. The airline canceled our 6:00 AM flight at 6:00 PM the night before. So we rushed, mobilizing within 90 minutes, to rent a car so we could go to Cleveland to make a flight the next morning. But after waiting in line at Avis for an hour, we discovered that the airline only rebooked half our party. At 11pm, after hours of scrambling, we told the kids we may not be going to the beach.
The news took a minute to sink in. And then, as we started to all head back to the airport parking lot, we heard it - the shriek reverberated and echoed off the surrounding concrete. Honestly, all eleven of us wanted to shriek a little.
The shriek moment was the inverse of our afternoon playing PJ Masks in the backyard. This time, Myles internalized the realities of the outer world and his inner world transformed because of it.
—
We all face this predicament. Our inner and outer worlds are constantly in tension.. Sometimes, we want to take our inner world and impose it on our outer world - this is what we call expression.
Other times, we take the realities of the outer world and allow them to shape our inner world - this is what we call empathy.
Our day-to-day lives are a constant negotiation to bring our inner and outer worlds into balance. It’s a dance between the two worlds we all occupy.
Failing to dance and balance our inner and outer worlds has dire consequences.
If we express too much of our inner world onto the outer world, it oppresses those around us. If we don’t express enough of our inner world, we end up subduing and subjugating our own souls.
Excessive empathy and external influences can overwhelm and crush us. But if we empathize too little, we must sacrifice intimacy and human connection.
We have a choice. We can either snap from the tension between our inner and outer worlds, or we can learn to dance the dance which brings our worlds into balance.
I suppose there’s a third choice, but I think it’s the worst option of the three: suppress and numb. When the tension between our two worlds gets too strong, we can just rub some dirt on it. We can distract ourselves with substances or thrilling pleasures. We can pretend our troubles don’t exist.
Maybe suppressing and numbing is okay for a time. I do believe that nothing in the world can take the place of persistence and that sometimes we need to keep calm and carry on. But I have never met a sane person who can live like that indefinitely. Eventually we all snap - it’s just a matter of when.
In retrospect, this is exactly what happened in my early twenties: I suppressed, then numbed, and then eventually I snapped. Only after that snap did I learn to dance.
This is one of our greatest responsibilities we have as parents. Our children need us to help them learn to dance. Otherwise, the only way they will deal with the tension between their inner and outer worlds will be to suppress and numb, or snap. Luckily, as millennial parents, we have the data and research to know and do better.
I aspire to do better for my three sons, so they can navigate the balance between self-expression and empathy, without having to suppress, numb, and eventually snap. Instead, I must help them learn to dance.
Imagine walking into a bustling coffee shop. The whirring of espresso machines, heated debates over the latest news, and the clatter of cups and saucers create an overwhelming din. Now, imagine if all those noises were amplified by a microphone and broadcast over a loudspeaker as you sipped your coffee.
But finally, imagine if someone in the middle of this chaos could flick a switch, transforming the noise into a hum, the hum into a whisper, and finally, the whisper into silence. Suddenly, in the quiet, you can hear the person next to you, the words of a book being read aloud, or even your own thoughts. This is the power of creating silence.
We live in a world of ceaseless noise. At work, we often find that the louder we are – the more assertive in meetings, the more vocal in lobbying for promotions, the more boisterous in attracting customers and followers – the more recognition we receive. Particularly in large organizations, there's a perceived correlation between the volume of one's voice and the likelihood of reward.
Likewise, our family and community lives are marked by volume, though less as an incentive and more as a trap. Community meetings frequently devolve into verbal contests of who can yell the loudest. As parents, we often get swept up in hectic schedules and an unending flood of information, resorting to yelling out of sheer desperation to keep things under control.
Then there's social media, which amplifies this noise to near-deafening levels. It equips everyone with a microphone, fostering an environment that rewards those who shout the loudest. I'm not criticizing influencers or social media—a trend that's fashionable to critique these days. I'm merely labeling our day-to-day American life for what it is: incredibly loud.
The usual advice is to promote listening, to foster better listeners in this noisy world. But listening, as underrated as it is, may not suffice. Amid the cacophony of voices and plethora of microphones, effective listening becomes an Everest to climb. What we need, in professional settings, at home, or within our communities, is the ability to create silence.
Creating silence differs from listening. Listening involves one person attentively comprehending and empathizing with another—a personal act. On the other hand, creating silence entails reducing the ambient noise, enabling everyone in that space to hear and listen. While listening is a two-person tango, creating silence resembles providing noise-cancelling headphones for the entire room.
So, what does 'creating silence' look like? At work, it might be the pause in a meeting that encourages thoughtful responses, allowing even the quietest person to be heard and respected. It could be a company creating a safe space for critical feedback or praise from its customers and partners. It's the breakthrough idea emerging during a moment of quiet reflection in a workshop. It's a team communicating so effectively that members eagerly anticipate meetings or even deem them unnecessary.
In our homes and communities, creating silence might be even more crucial. It happens when those in power amplify the voices of the less powerful—be it our children or marginalized groups. It's when community leaders stay calm and receptive, encouraging constructive dialogues even when faced with challenging questions. It's the genuine connection made during a family dinner where everyone feels comfortable enough to discuss their week, free from platitudes and arguments.
Creating silence requires a particular kind of swagger—not an arrogant narcissism, but a quiet confidence stemming from self-belief and humility. Only when we are secure within ourselves can we create the silence that allows others to flourish.
Creating silence isn't without challenges, though. It could be misconstrued as suppressing voices or dismissing dissent. In our quest for quiet, we might unintentionally stifle vibrant discussion or inhibit creative conflict. The genuine creation of silence isn't about muffling noise but about cultivating an environment where every voice gets a chance to be heard without being drowned out. It's about discerning when to speak, when to listen, and when to simply relish the silence.
There's also a risk of silence being associated with absence or inactivity. In our fast-paced world, we're conditioned to see quiet as wasted time or empty space needing to be filled. We must remember that silence isn't emptiness but a space full of potential. In silence, we find room to think, reflect, and connect on a deeper level.
Perhaps the concept of creating silence has never been as vital as it is now, given our world's unprecedented noise levels. And why is it so crucial? Because silence makes space for collaboration and connection. We can't collaborate or build relationships unless we hear each other. Even the best listener can't function if they can't hear. That's why we must create silence.
So, where do we start? Like most things, we start with ourselves. We begin by creating silence within our own minds. We can work to silence catchy songs, the hum of to-do lists, or our own inner critics. Whether it's through meditation, self-expression, therapy, or exercise, we need to create silence so we can listen to ourselves.
But we mustn't stop there. Our teams, families, and communities need us to create enough silence so that the shouting subsides. Then we can stop worrying about being heard and truly begin to listen.
As we learn to create this silence, let's maintain an open dialogue about what works and what doesn't. Because in a world that's becoming louder, it's not just about who can shout the loudest, but also about who can create the most profound silence.
Superteams don’t just achieve hard goals, they elevate the performance of teams they collaborate with.
The job of a gardener, I’ve realized three years into our family’s adventure planting raised beds, is less about tending to the plants as it is tending to the soil.
Is it wet enough? Are there weeds leeching nutrients? Is it too wet? How should I rotate crops? Is it time for compost? Are insects eating the roots? As a gardener, making these decisions is core to the craft.
The plants will grow. The plants were born to grow, that’s their nature. But to thrive they require fertile soil. That’s essential. And as a home gardener, ensuring the soil’s fertility is my responsibility.
Gardening is not just a hobby I love, it’s also one of my favorite metaphors for raising children. The connection is beautifully exemplified by a German word for a group of children learning and growing: kinder garten.
The kids will grow, but they rely on us to provide them with fertile soil.
And so we do our best. We cultivate a nurturing environment, providing them with a warm and cozy bed to sleep in. We diligently weed out negative influences, ensuring their growth is not hindered. Just as we handle delicate plants and nurture the soil, we handle them with gentle care, aware of their tenderness. And of course, we try to root them in a family and community that radiates love onto them as the sun radiates sunshine
If we tend to the soil, the kids will thrive.
Well, almost. The kids will only flourish if we just add one more thing: rain.
Without rain, a garden cannot thrive. While individuals can irrigate a few plants during short periods without rainfall, gardeners like us can’t endure months or even weeks without rain. Especially under the intense conditions of summer heat and sun, our flowers and vegetables struggle to survive without rainfall. The rain is invaluable and irreplaceable.
As the rain comes and goes throughout the spring and summer, it saturates the entire garden bed, drenching the plants and the soil surrounding them. The sheer volume of rainwater is daunting to replicate through irrigation systems; attempting to match the scale of rainwater is financially burdensome. Moreover, rain possesses a gentle touch and a cooling effect. It nourishes the plants more effectively than tap water.
For all these reasons, rain is not something we merely hope for or ask for - rain is something we fervently pray for.
It's incredibly easy to overlook and take for granted the rain. It arrives and departs, quietly watering our garden when we least expect it. Rain can easily blend into the backdrop, becoming an unscheduled occurrence that simply happens as a part of nature's course.
When we harvest cherry tomatoes, basil, or bell peppers, a sense of pride and delight fills us as we revel in the fruits of our labor. The harvest brings immense satisfaction and a deep sense of pride, even if our family’s yield is modest and unassuming.
As we pick our cucumbers, pluck our spinach, or uproot our carrots, it rarely occurs to me to credit the rain. And yet, without the rain, our garden simply could not be.
In the lives of our children and within our communities, teachers serve ASC the rain. And by teachers, I mean a wide range of individuals. I mean the educators in elementary, middle, and high schools. I mean the pee-wee soccer coaches. I mean the Sunday school volunteers. I mean the college professors engaging in discussions on derivatives or the Platonic dialogues during office hours. I mean the early childhood educators who infuse dance parties into lessons on counting to ten and words beginning with the letter "A".
I mean the engineer moms, dads, aunts, and uncles who coach FIRST Robotics, or the recent English grads who dedicate their evenings to tutoring reading and writing. I mean the pastors and community outreach workers showin’ up on the block day in and day out. I mean the individuals running programs about health and nutrition out of their cars. I mean the retired neighbors on their porch who share stories of their world travels and become cherished bonus grandparents. I mean the police officers and accountants who serve as Big Brothers and Big Sisters despite having no obligation to do so.
I mean them all and more. These people, these teachers, are the rain.
They find a way to summon the skies and shower our kids with nourishing, life-giving rain. As a parent and a gardener nurturing the soil in which children are raised, I cannot replicate the rain that teachers provide. Without them, our children simply could not flourish.
Candidly, this is also a personal truth. I have greatly relied on and benefited from numerous teachers throughout my life. It has all come full circle for me as I've embraced the roles of both a parent and a gardener. Witnessing our children learn, grow, and thrive under the guidance of teachers has been a humbling revelation. I've come to realize that without teachers, my own growth and development would not have been possible. Without teachers, I simply would not be.
This time of year is brimming with graduations - whether they're from high schools, colleges, or even from Pre-K like our oldest just graduated from this weekend. Much like the bountiful harvest, it is a time for joyous celebration. Our gardens have yielded fruit, and we should take pride in our dedicated efforts.
But in this post, I also wish to honor all of the different types of teachers out there. They have been the gentle, nurturing rain - saturating the soil and fostering a fertile environment for our children to flourish.
Thank you, teachers, for everything you do and have done - for me, for our three sons, and for all children. We have all yearned for the rain to drench our gardens, and you have made it pour.
Photo by June Admiraal on Unsplash
In retrospect, it seems so obvious that sleep and paying attention are crucial. If parenting were a video game, these would be the two cheat codes.
First, there’s plenty of data out there now that affirms how important sleep is. But as parents, we already know this, intimately, from lived experience. It’s obvious. When I don’t sleep enough, I am cranky and short-tempered. When the kids don’t sleep enough they are cranky and short-tempered. When we sleep, it’s a night and day difference—our household functions so much better when we sleep.
And then there’s paying attention. Again, there’s lots of data that emphasizes the importance of intimate relationships and being deeply connected to others. As parents, we also know this so well from lived experience. How many times a day have you heard, “Watch this, Papa”, “Papa, look at me in my pirate ship”, or worst of all, “Can you stop looking at your phone, Papa?”
When kids aren’t paid attention to, they literally scream for it. They fight to be loved and paid attention to, as they should—cheat code.
And as I’ve reflected on it over the years, these seem to be cheat codes for much more than parenting. It’s as if sleep and paying attention in the moment are cheat codes for a healthy, happy, and meaningful life.
In marriage, we are better partners and more in love when we sleep and pay attention. At work - sleep and paying attention boost performance and build high-performing teams. In friendships, the cheat codes still apply. In spiritual life, it’s the same thing. Sleep and paying attention are cheat codes.
And still, I almost blew it. I messed up for the first few years of Bo’s life. I didn’t get enough sleep. And I was too obsessed with work to pay attention him, fully, when I was home. I often missed stories and tuck-ins. My mind was itching to scratch off items on my to-do list and obsessing over the man I wanted to become in the eyes of others.
And the worst part, the one that makes me want to just…retreat, and trade a limb if I could, is that I remember so little of him as a newborn. I don’t remember how he laughed and giggled at 9 months old, barely at all. I don’t remember more than a handful of games we played together, maybe just peek-a-boo and “foot phone”. Damn, I am so sad, and weeping, as I pen this. I was there, but I still missed out.
I want so badly, for the man I am now to be baby Bo’s papa. Because at some point in the past two years, with a lot of help, I figured this out. I figured out the cheat codes—but, my tears cannot take me back. I have no time machine, no flux capacitor. What’s done is done. Damn.
The only consolation I have is that it didn’t take me longer. If I had lived my whole life not sleeping or paying attention—to Robyn, to our sons, to friends and family, or even just walking in the neighborhood and appreciating the trees—I’d probably pass from this world a miserable man with irreconcilable regret and guilt.
Right now, Bo, Myles, and Emmett, you are 5, 3, and 1 years old respectively. Maybe one day you’ll come across this post. Maybe I’ll be alive when you do—I hope so. Or maybe I’ll have gone ahead already, I don’t know.
But if you’re reading this one day, I am so deeply sorry that I messed up, and it took me years to figure this out—to start using these cheat codes I guess you could say. I apologize about this, especially to you Robert. I wasn’t fully there for you in your first 2-3 years.
I hope you all can forgive me. I am not perfect, but I’ve gotten better, and I’m still trying. I hope that by sharing this with you, you can avoid the same mistakes I made.
Photo by Lucas Ortiz on Unsplash
Just as the invention of the wheel revolutionized transportation and societies thousands of years ago, we might actually stand on the brink of a new era. One where generative AI, like ChatGPT, could transform our way of life and our economy. The potential impact of AI on human societies remains uncharted, yet it could prove to be as significant as the wheel, if not more so.
Let's delve into this analogy. If you were tasked to move dirt from one place to another, initially, you would use a shovel, moving one shovelful at a time. Then, the wheel gets invented. This innovation gives birth to the wheelbarrow—a simple bucket placed atop a wheel—enabling you to carry 10 or 15 shovelfuls at once, and even transport dirt beyond your yard.
But, as we know, the wheel didn't stop at wheelbarrows. It set the stage for a myriad of transportation advancements from horse-drawn buggies, automobiles, semi-trucks, to trains. Now, we can move dirt by the millions of shovelfuls across thousands of miles. This monumental shift took thousands of years, but the exponential impact of the wheel on humanity is undeniable.
Like the wheel, generative AI could be a foundational invention. Already, people are starting to build wheelbarrow-like applications on top of generative AI, with small but impactful use cases emerging seemingly every day: like in computer programming, songwriting, or medical diagnosis.
This is only the beginning, much like the initial advent of the wheelbarrow. Just as the wheelbarrow was a precursor to larger transportation modes, these initial applications of generative AI mark the start of much more profound implications in various domains.
One area in particular where I'm excited to see this potential unfold is leadership. As we stand on the brink of this new era, we find ourselves transitioning from a leadership style that can only influence what we touch, constrained by our own time. Many of us live "meeting to meeting", unable to manage a team of more than 7-10 people directly. Even good systems can only help so much in exceeding linear growth in team performance.
However, with the advent of generative AI, we're embarking on a new journey, akin to moving from the shovel to the wheelbarrow. Tools like ChatGPT can serve as our new 'wheel', helping us leverage our leadership abilities. In my own experiments, I've seen some promising beginnings:
A project manager can use ChatGPT to create a project charter that scopes out a new project outside their primary domain of expertise. This can be done at a higher quality and in one quarter or one tenth of the usual time.
A product manager can transcribe a meeting and use ChatGPT to create user stories for an agile backlog. They could also quickly develop or refine a product vision, roadmap, and OKRs for annual planning—achieving higher quality in a fraction of the time.
A people leader can use ChatGPT as a coach to improve their ability to lead a team, relying on the tool as an executive coach to boost their people leadership skills faster and more cost-effectively than was possible before.
These are merely the wheelbarrow-phase applications of generative AI applied to leadership. Now, let's imagine the potential for '18-wheeler' level impact. Given the pace of AI development, it's plausible that this kind of 100x or 1000x impact on leadership could be realized in mere decades, or possibly even years:
Imagine a project manager using AI to manage hundreds of geographically distributed teams across the globe, all working on life-saving interventions like installing mosquito nets or sanitation systems. If an AI assistant could automatically communicate with teams by monitoring their communications, asking for updates, and creating risk-alleviating recommendations for a human to review, a project manager could focus on solving only the most complex problems, instead of 'herding cats.'
Consider a product manager who could ingest data on product usage and customer feedback. The AI could not only assist with administrative work like drafting user stories, but also identify the highest-value problems to solve for customers, brainstorm technical solutions leading to breakthrough features, create low-fidelity digital prototypes for user testing, and even actively participate in a sprint retrospective with ideas on how to improve team velocity.
Envision a people leader who could help their teams set up their own personal AI coaches. These AI coaches could observe team members and provide them with direct, unbiased feedback on their performance in real time. If all performance data were anonymized and aggregated, a company could identify strategies for improving the enterprise’s management systems and match every person people to the projects and tasks they can thrive, and are best suited for, and actually enjoy.
Nobody has invented this future, yet. But the potential is there. What if we could increase the return on investment in leadership not by 2x or 5x, but by 50x or 100x? What if the quality of leadership, across all sectors, was 50 to 100 times better than it is today?
We should be dreaming big. It's uncertain whether generative AI will be as impactful as the wheel, but imagining the possibilities is the first step towards making them a reality.
Generative AI holds the potential to revolutionize not only computer programming but also leadership. Such a revolutionary improvement in leadership could lead to a drastically improved world.
When it comes to the impact of Generative AI on leadership, the sky's the limit. Let's dream BIG.
Photo by Ēriks Irmejs on Unsplash
When we choose to lead, the first question we must answer is: who are we leading for?
Are we choosing to lead to enrich ourselves or everyone? Are we doing this for higher pay, social status, career advancement, and spoils? Or, are we doing this to improve welfare for everyone, enhance freedom and inclusion, or better the community?
If you're not in it for everyone (including yourself, but not exclusively or above others), you might as well stop reading. I am not your guy - there are plenty of others who have better ideas about power, career advancement, or gaining increased social status.
But if you're in it for everyone, if you're willing to take the difficult path to do the right thing for everyone in the right way, you probably struggle with the same questions I do, including this big one: what does choosing to lead even entail? Do I need to lead or manage? What am I even trying to do?
Is the goal management or leadership?For many years, I’ve rolled my eyes whenever someone starts talking about leadership versus management or how we need people to transcend from being “managers” and elevate their game to become “leaders.” In my head, I'd question anytime this leadership vs. management paradigm comes up: “what are we even talking about?”
After many years, I finally have a point of view on this tired dialogue: management, leadership, and authorship all matter. What matters is the nuance, because the three affect dynamics at different levels of organization: management affects individual dynamics, leadership affects team dynamics, and authorship affects ecosystem dynamics.
Management, Leadership, and AuthorshipManagement, though the term itself is not what matters, can be defined as the practice of influencing individual performance. Think "1 on 1" when considering management. In management mode, the goal is to ensure that every individual is contributing their utmost.
Management primarily influences individual dynamics. Hence, when discussing management, we often refer to directing work, coaching, providing feedback, and developing talent. These are the elements that shape individual performance.
Similarly, leadership can be viewed as the practice of enhancing team performance as a collective unit. Think "the sum is greater than its parts" when contemplating leadership. In leadership mode, the goal is to ensure the team can make the highest possible contribution as a single unit.
Leadership predominantly affects team dynamics, which is why discussions about leadership often involve vision, strategy, culture, and processes. These elements impact the performance of a team functioning as a single unit.
Authorship, however, is the practice of influencing the performance of an entire network of teams and organizations aiming to achieve collective impact, often without formal or centralized coordination.
Authorship has become more feasible in recent history due to the rise of the internet. Unlike 50 years ago, many of us now have the opportunity to consider authorship because we can communicate with entire networks of people.
When considering authorship, think of it as being part of a movement that's larger than ourselves. In authorship mode, the goal is to mobilize an entire network to benefit an entire ecosystem - whether it's an industry, a community, a specific social issue or constituency, or in some cases, society as a whole. The aim is to ensure that the entire network is making the highest possible positive contribution to its focused ecosystem.
Authorship primarily affects ecosystem dynamics. That's why, when I ponder authorship, I think about concepts like purpose, narratives, opportunity structures, platforms, and shaping strategies. These elements influence entire networks and mobilize them to create a collective impact, particularly when they're not part of the same formal organization.
To illustrate, consider a software development company. In the context of management, the team lead may ensure every developer is performing at their best by providing guidance, setting clear expectations, and offering constructive feedback.
When it comes to leadership, the same team lead would be responsible for setting the vision for their team, aligning it with the company's goals, creating a positive team culture, and facilitating effective communication.
Authorship, however, would usually (but not necessarily) involve the CEO or top management. They would work towards building industry partnerships, contributing to open-source projects, or organizing industry conferences, ultimately aiming to influence the broader tech ecosystem, perhaps to achieve a broader aim like improving growth in their industry or solving a social problem - like privacy or social cohesion - through technology.
It all boils down to three questions:Management question: On a scale of 1 to 100 how much of my potential to make a positive impact am I actually making?
Leadership question: On a scale of 1 to 100, how much of our team’s potential to make a positive impact are we actually making?
Authorship question: On a scale of 1 to 100, how much of our potential positive impact are we making, together with our partners, on our ecosystem or the broader world?
To assess your potential impact on a scale from 1 to 100, start by understanding the maximum positive impact you, your team, or your ecosystem could theoretically achieve. This '100' could be based on benchmarks, best practices, or even ambitious goals. Then, honestly evaluate how close you are to that maximum potential. This is not a perfect science and will require introspection, feedback, and perhaps even some experimentation. The important thing is to have a reference point that helps you understand where you are and where you could go.
In my own practice of leading, these are the questions I have been starting to ask myself and others. These three questions are incredibly helpful and revealing if answered honestly.
To really make a positive impact, I’ve found that it’s important to ensure all three dynamics - individual, team, and ecosystem - are examined honestly. If we truly are doing this to benefit everyone (ourselves included) we need to be good at management, leadership, and authorship.
Developing skills in these three areas isn't always straightforward, but you can start small. The easiest way I know of is to begin asking these three questions. If you’re in a 1-on-1 meeting or even conducting your own self-reflection, ask the management question. If you’re in a weekly team meeting, ask the leadership question. If you’re meeting with a larger team or a key partner, ask the ecosystem question.
Beginning with honest feedback initiates a continuous improvement engine that leads to enhancement in our capabilities of management, leadership, and authorship.
In conclusion, whether we're discussing management, leadership, or authorship, it's clear that each plays a crucial role in achieving positive impact. From enhancing individual performance to influencing entire ecosystems, each area has its distinct but interrelated role. As leaders, our challenge and opportunity lie in understanding these nuances and developing our capabilities in all three areas. Remember, it's not about choosing between management, leadership, and authorship - it's about embracing all three to maximize our collective potential.
I'd love to hear your thoughts on these three aspects of leading - management, leadership, and authorship. How have you balanced these roles in your own leadership journey? What challenges have you faced? Feel free to share your experiences and insights in the comments below or reach out to me personally.
Photo by Aksham Abdul Gadhir on Unsplash
It is so obvious how quickly children change. Even a single day after they are born, something changes. They learn and grow immediately. They start to eat, and they quickly discover how to grasp, with their whole hand, the little finger of their father.
Then they smile, sit up, and then crawl and walk. They speak and laugh. They get haircuts and pairs of new light-up velcro shoes and they learn to hold their breath while swimming.
They were born to change, truly. And it does happen fast. But occasionally we’ll notice something, one little thing, that endures a bit. One little, essential, thing about these children that will remain permanent even as they grow, like a thumbprint of their personality.
Something, finally, which is consistent and deeply comforting and helps us find a peaceful, amicable reconciliation with the passing time. I need these little, essential things to stay anchored when the water in our lives gets choppy.
We are at the beach and I am sitting in the sand when Robert catches my eye.
He is about 25 yards ahead of me, at the water’s edge. As he looks out at the the waves I notice his silhouette, the tide splashing past his ankles. I am awestruck by how Robert’s posture and demeanor have remained consistent over the years.
Robert has an empathy and quiet confidence in his posture. His feet are grounded and his back is straight, but there’s a softness to his stance. He stands like an explorer does who has both the anticipation to go where others have not and the humility to appreciate the vastness of the ocean before him. Robert’s silhouette has had a tender graciousness to it his whole life.
Myles is about 10 feet ahead of me and is sitting cross-legged, while building sandcastles with his Grandad. I notice, immediately, the sturdiness in Myles’s back. His posture is upright, erect. His silhouette is eager, bold, and focused. His muscles and frame are sinewy and taut, and he always carries his chest a few degrees forward as if in an athlete’s ready stance.
And yet, just as everything about him is sturdy, Myles also radiates a sense of playfulness and joy - his body moves with a rhythm of jazz music even now, as he plops sand in the bucket shovel by shovel. This mix of intensity and easy is a swagger, I think to myself, which could not possibly have been taught to him - it’s something calm and natural. Myles silhouette has always been deliberate and electric, just as it is now, as I watch him fill another bucket with wet sand.
And finally, I turn my gaze to Emmett, who has just crawled out from between my legs to be closer to the action of the sandcastle factory in front of me. Even at just one year old, Emmett’s unique qualities are already starting to emerge. Emmett’s posture is open and gregarious. His arms and his legs, even sitting on the beach are spread out as if he’s giving the breeze and the sunshine a hug as he giggles.
Emmett’s silhouette is like a starfish, always reaching and spreading his limbs and fingers to wave at, greet, and smile outwardly to the whole world. Already, I can tell that within Emmett there is an enduring openness, friendliness, and dynamic warmth. This is a truth his silhouette is already revealing.
These are the silhouettes of my three sons. What I am seeing is my three sons. And even though so much of who they are and who they will be is not yet decided, I am seeing something essential about them. There is something of them that is already drawn. Something that will not change. And what is already drawn is something unique and something good.
And then I snap back to the moment. The children laughing, the friends, the sand, the waves, and the horizon all come back into focus. I’m back here, sitting on the beach.
But then I remember some of the other wonderful silohouttes I’ve seen throughout this day at the beach and this trip - like when Myles and Robert were walking hand in hand down the boardwalk, or when the three of them were dog-piling on the floor laughing and tickling each other, or when they were all right in front me me working on the same sandcastle.
What I’m seeing is a bond being formed. As I watch my three sons play and explore the world together, their individual silhouettes are blending together to form a beautiful, harmonious picture of brotherhood. Witnessing this is what fills my heart the most.
There have been so many moments during this trip where I see them together, the lines of their silhouettes and complementary postures all within one frame. What gives me the deepest pleasure as a father is seeing the Tambe Brothers become a silhouette of it’s own.
And deep down, I accept their relationship with each other will grow and evolve. They’ll tussle and wrastle and have spats from time to time. I know this.
I know that their bond as brothers will never again be the same as it is now. Time will, despite my best efforts and sincerest prayers, continue to pass.
But I know, too, that something about this scene in front of me won’t change. Something of their brotherhood is already drawn and will endure, even after we are gone. I find comfort in this. This is the anchor I am looking for.
This image of the three of them together, in a bond of harmonious brotherhood, is the silhouette I treasure the most.
It's difficult to directly answer questions like "why am I here," "what is the meaning of my life," or "what's my purpose." It may even be impossible.
However, I believe we can attempt to reverse-engineer our sense of meaning or perhaps trick ourselves into revealing what we find meaningful. Here's how I've been approaching it lately.
Meaning, it seems, is an exercise in making sense of the world around us and, by extension, our place in it.
Instead of tackling the big question head-on (i.e., what's the meaning of my life), we can examine what we find salient and relevant about the world around us and work backward to determine what the "meaning" might be.
Here's what I mean. The italicized text below represents my inner monologue when contemplating the question, "What is the world out there outside of my mind and body? What is the world out there?"
The world out there is full of people, first and foremost. It teems with friends I haven't made yet, individuals with stories and unique contributions. Everyone has a talent and something special about them, I just know it. The world out there is full of untapped potential.
The world out there also contains uncharted territory. There is natural beauty everywhere on this planet. It is so varied and colorful, with countless plants, animals, rocks, mountains, rivers, and landscapes. The world out there is wild. Beyond that, we don't even know the mysteries of our own oceans and planet, let alone our solar system or the rest of the universe. The world out there is a vast galaxy filled with natural beauty and wonder.
But the world out there has its share of senseless human suffering, often due to our own mistakes and the systems we strive to perfect. There is rampant gun violence, hunger, homelessness, anger, and disease—all preventable. The world out there is a mess, but the silver lining is that not all of that senseless suffering is outside our control. We can make it better if we do better.
The world out there also has an abundance of goodness. Many people strive to be part of something greater than themselves. They help their neighbors, practice kindness, teach children to play the piano, visit the homebound, tell the truth, do the right thing, seek to understand other cultures, learn new languages, and strive to be respectful and inclusive. The world out there is full of parks, festivals, parties, and places where people play, eat, and share together. The world out there is generous.
The world out there is also close. My world is people like Robyn, Riley, Robert, Myles, and Emmett, as well as our parents, siblings, family, friends, colleagues, neighbors, and kind strangers. The world out there is our neighborhood, our backyard, our church, our school, and our local pub. It's the people on our Christmas card list and those we encounter around town for friendly conversations. The world out there includes the individuals I pray for during one or two rounds of a rosary. It doesn't have to be big and grand; it's the people I can hug, kiss, cook a meal for, or call just to say "hey."
So, the exercise is simple:
- Find a place to write (pen, paper, computer, etc.).
- Set a 15-minute timer.
- Start with the phrase "The world out there is..." and keep writing. If you get stuck, begin a new paragraph with "The world out there is..." and continue.
After completing this exercise and taking stock of my own answers, I begin to see patterns in my responses that resonate with my day-to-day life. Meaning, for me, involves helping unleash the untapped potential in others, exploring the natural world, dreaming about the universe, fostering goodness and virtue, and being a person of good character. Meaning, for me, also entails honoring and cherishing my closest relationships, both the ones that are close in proximity and deep in their intimacy.
It seems that meaning is not generated in what we think of as our "brain." Our brain manages our body's energy budget, makes decisions, predicts the future, and solves problems. That’s our brain’s work.
Meaning, I believe, is created in our mind. When I think of the mind, I envision it as the function we perform when we absorb the seemingly infinite information about the external world through all five senses and attempt to make sense of it.
Meaning, it appears, is not an abstract thing we have to create. We don't "make" meaning. Instead, we discern meaning from what we find relevant and salient in the world around us. Out of the countless details about the external world, we hone in on certain aspects. The meaning is what bubbles to the top of our minds. We don't have to make meaning; we can just notice it.
This exercise has shown me that we can reverse-engineer our way into discovering meaning. If we can bring to the surface what we believe about the external world, it becomes clear what holds significance for us.
For example, if you find that "the world is full of cities and people, which leads to innovations in business, art, and culture," it's an easy leap to conclude that part of your meaning or purpose likely involves experiencing or improving cities and their cultural engines. If you discover that "the world is full of teachings about God and has a history of religious worship," it's a straightforward leap to deduce that part of your meaning or purpose likely relates to your faith and religious practice.
Being mindful of what we notice about the world is our back door into these abstract and challenging questions about "meaning" or "purpose."
What's difficult about this, I think, is the sheer volume of noise out there. Also, if we accept this perspective on meaning, we must acknowledge that meaning is not static and enduring—if it's discerned by our worldview, then changes in our perspective may also change or even manipulate our notions of meaning.
Many people try to tell us about the world outside of us. This includes companies through their commercials, authors, politicians, artists, philosophers, scientists, and priests—anyone who shares an opinion. Even I do this—if you're reading this, I am also guilty of adding to the noise that shapes your perspective of the external world.
Making sense of our lives is crucial for feeling sane and alive. It would be easy to average out what others around us say about the world out there, but if meaning truly is a discernment of what we notice about the external world, just listening to everyone else would effectively outsource the meaning in our lives to other people.
I don't think we should do that. After all, we live in a country where we have the freedom to speak, think, and make sense of the world for ourselves—what a terrible freedom to waste. Instead, we should be selective about who we pay attention to and listen to our own minds, noticing what they're trying to tell us. We shouldn't outsource meaning; we should notice it for ourselves.
Photo by Dawid Zawiła on Unsplash
Robyn and I, technically, had two weddings. The first, on a Saturday, was celebrated by a priest in an old Catholic Church in Detroit. The church had hand-painted ceilings and huge multi-story pillars made of upper-peninsula timber, wider in diameter than hula hoops. It was beautiful.
The second ceremony was performed by a Hindu pandit, the next day. Shastri Ji is someone I’ve known since the age of 6, when we moved to Metro Detroit and started going to the local Temple. As he performed the Pheras, our marriage rites where we circled an open fire used for the ceremony, he shared two pieces of sage wisdom. I think about regularly.
First, he explained the essence of marriage, simply and with just one word - together, together, together.
Second, he shared an important idea in the Hindu conception of marriage, which explains one reason (among many) of why women are so important. A woman marrying into a family purifies it, not once, but twice - first she purifies her husband, second she purifies the ancestral line through any children she bears.
Marriage, in the way, is an act of double purification.
—
Even though giving a gift, truly and sincerely is difficult - demanding something of our souls - it’s what drives our culture forward.
It seems to me that there are two general ways to improve culture: changing possibilities and changing norms.
Changing possibilities requires an innovation, a new and better way of doing something. In this way refrigerators and democracy are quite similar.
Refrigerators gave a new and better of storing and preserving food, opening up the possibilities of agricultural exports, stretching the reach of the food supply, and culinary exploration for home cooks. Democracy gave a new and better way of governing states, opening up possibilities to mitigate the risk of tyrants and creating the condition of human rights and flourishing.
Changing norms requires a deviant behavior, ideally positive, which by definition is a risky act because it is different. In this way, art and telling someone you love them are quite similar.
Art is a risky act because the artist is bring a point of view, something fresh, that is untested and unusual, which means nobody may like, pay for, or even understand it. Telling someone you love them, obviously, is a risk because if they don’t say it back it’s surely heartbreaking.
The risk is what makes positive deviance so impactful - the deviant bears the social risk of being different, proves that different is possible. This is how norms change.
Innovations have switching costs, which is what makes them feel so sudden, so violent sometimes. Pressure builds, like a tea kettle, and then when the time has come for the better way, it bursts and whistles, jolting the masses into something novel. The nature of culture changing innovations is that of a phase shift.
Gifts can be gradual. They change the culture one conversation and one hug at a time. The effects of gifts layer, and years later we wonder, “how could it have ever been different?”
So many of the littlest moments can be gifts, like when we hear…
“Excuse ma’am, you dropped this,” in the grocery line.
“Good afternoon,” as a neighbor smiles as we pass on the sidewalk.
“Thank you for your leadership,” from a respected colleague.
“I know you like this kind of granola,” from our spouse who went grocery shopping.
“Let me get that for you,” from a shopkeeper who sees our hands are full.
Or “I’m glad you’re here,” from just about anyone at any time.
—
There is a certain agony that comes from buying a present that’s really from the heart. In a moment of Charlie Brown-esque inner turmoil, we think, “dear God, I hope they like it.”
Part of this angst is about the gift itself. There’s a genuine worry that the contents of the package will be pleasing to the person whose day we seek to brighten.
The other half of the angst is that the TLC we put into the gift will be rejected, or wasted. We worry about the risk we have taken, the love that we have wagered in this gift, and whether that piece of our soul that we’ve woven into the wrapping and bow will be seen, or if it will not.
It seems to me that this is what all gifts have in common, even if that gift is simply holding the door open for the stranger in public who happens to also be walking into the Olive Garden for an early dinner.
All gifts are both the content of the gift, plus the social risk taken to give it. When we give a gift that is truly sincere, we acknowledge that our effort may be shunned and proceed anyway.
I think that’s what makes a gift truly special. Perhaps it’s not quite the thought that counts, but the risk that counts even more. We intuitively understand this - we respond emotionally and perhaps unconsciously to the notion that “someone bore all this risk, for me?”
And so too for the giver, they also respond emotionally and perhaps unconsciously to the notion that “I was able to shoulder all this risk, for someone else?”
Gifts, too, are an act of double purification.
—-
I am fascinated by Silicon Valley, the salons of Europe, or even Detroit and New York when Motown and hip-hop were coming on the scene in the back half of the 20th century. How did these creative clusters develop? How did it happen? How did these incredibly vibrant, artistic, and entrepreneurial places emerge?
In Detroit, to be called an “OG”, short for “Original Gangster” is one of the highest signs of respect one can be bestowed with. It doesn’t simply mean, “old person”, it implies some level of experience but also generosity. An OG is someone who not only has the wisdom of experience but the willingness to be a pillar of a community, that others can lean on to grow and thrive.
Being on OG implies that you were not only successful in your own right, but were also responsible for helping the next generation come up behind you.
I think it’s these OGs, who are often working behind the scenes in a community, that are the unsung heroes of these creative cluster. What would Silicon Valley be without the cadre of angel investors and mentors in the early days that funded and brought those behind them along? What would Paris be without the bakers who let starving artists pay for bread with their paintings? What would hip-hop be without the radio DJs who would play these strange, new songs on air?
These small acts did not make history, but they are what made history. These gifts mattered.
Even though giving a sincere gift is difficult - demanding something of our souls -it’s what drives our culture forward.
Photo by Hermes Rivera on Unsplash
Leaders are often charged with "making the organization perform better." That's an incredibly difficult mission unless we understand what an organization, especially ours, is and how it works. Only then can we diagnose organizational problems and make improvements.
This is a pretty long, nerdy post, so here's the tl;dr for those in a hurry, and for those who need a little taste to prove the read is worth it.
If you're trying to make an organization perform better, start by asking (just) seven questions. I think you'll make sense of your biggest problems pretty quickly:
- Value Proposition: What do we create that other people are willing to sacrifice something (i.e., pay) for?
- Market: Who cares about what we have to offer?
- Capabilities: What are the handful of things we really need to be good at to create something of value?
- Go-to-Market Systems: How will we engage with our market?
- Resource Capture Systems: How does the organization get the resources it needs?
- Collective Action Systems: How will we work together to turn our capabilities into something of value?
- Investment Systems: How will we develop the capabilities that matter most?
- Making organizations better is hard, but it doesn't have to be complicated.
Leaders are often charged to “make the organization perform better”. That’s an incredibly difficult mission unless we understand what an organizations, especially ours, is and how it works. Only then can we diagnose organizational problems and make improvements.
This is a pretty long, nerdy, post so here’s the tl;dr for those in a hurry, and for those that need a little taste to prove the read is worth it.
If you’re trying to make understand and organization and help it perform better, start with asking (just) seven questions. I think you’ll make sense of your biggest problems pretty quickly:
- Value Proposition: What do we create that other people are willing to sacrifice something (i.e., pay) for?
- Market: Who cares about what we have to offer?
- Capabilities: What are the handful of things we really need to be good at to create something of value?
- Go-to-Market Systems: How will we engage with our market?
- Resource Capture Systems: How does the organization get the resources it needs?
- Collective Action Systems: How will we work together to turn our capabilities into something of value?
- Investment Systems: How will fwe develop the capabilities that matter most?
Making organizations better is hard, but it doesn’t have to be complicated.
The Seven-Part Model of OrganizationsSo, what is an organization?
I'd propose that an organization, at its simplest, is only made up of seven components:
- Value Proposition
- Market
- Capabilities
- Go-to-Market Systems
- Resource Capture Systems
- Collective Action Systems
-
Investment Systems
If we can understand these seven things about an organization, we can understand how it works and consequently make it perform better. There are certainly other models and frameworks for understanding organizations (e.g., McKinsey 7-S, Business Model Canvas, Afuah Business Model Innovation Framework) which serve specific purposes - and I do like those.
This seven-part model of organizations is the best I've been able to produce which maintains simplicity while still having broad explanatory power for any organization, not just businesses. Each component of the model answers an important question that an organization leader should understand.
The seven parts (Detail)The first three parts of the model are what I think of as the outputs - they're the core foundation of what an organization is: a Value Proposition, a Market, and a set of Capabilities.
**Value Proposition: What do we create that other people are willing to sacrifice something (i.e., pay) for?**
The Value Proposition is the core of an organization. What do they produce or achieve? What is the good or the service? What makes them unique and different relative to other alternatives? This is the bedrock from which everything else can be understood. Why? Because the Value Prop is where the internal and external view of the organization come together - it's where the rubber meets the road.
It's worth noting that every stakeholder of the organization has to be satisfied by the Value Proposition if they are to engage with the organization: customers, constituents, shareholders, funders, donors, employees, suppliers, communities, etc.
Market: Who cares about what we have to offer?
Understanding the Market is also core to an organization because any organization needs to find product-market fit to survive. This question really has two subcomponents to understand: who the people are and what job they need to be done or need that they have that they're willing to sacrifice for.
It's not just businesses that need to clearly understand their Markets - governments, non-profits, and even families need to understand their Market. Why? Because no organization has unlimited resources, and if the Value Proposition doesn't match the Market the organization is trying to serve, the organization won't be able to convince the Market to part with resources that the organization needs to survive - whether that's sales, time, donations, tax revenues, or in the case of a family, love and attention from family members.
Capabilities: What are the handful of things we really need to be good at to create something of value?
Thus far, we've talked about what business nerd types call "product-market fit," which really takes the view that the way to understand an organization is to look at how it relates to its external environment.
But there's also another school of thought that believes a firm is best understood from the inside out - which is where Capabilities come in.
Capabilities are the stuff that the organization has or is able to do which they need to be able to produce their Value Proposition. These could be things like intellectual property or knowledge, skills, brand equity, technologies, or information.
Of course, not all Capabilities are created equal. When I talk about Capabilities, I'm probably closer to what the legendary CK Prahalad describes as "core competence." Let's assume our organization is a shoe manufacturer. Some of the most important Capabilities probably are things like designing shoes, recruiting brand ambassadors, and manufacturing and shipping cheaply.
The shoe company probably also has to do things like buy pens and pencils - so sure, buying office supplies is a Capability of the firm, but it's not a core Capability to its Value Proposition of producing shoes. When I say "Capabilities," I'm talking about the "core" stuff that's essential for delivering the Value Proposition.
Finally, we can think of how Capabilities interact with the Value Proposition as an analog to product-market fit, let's call it "product-capability fit." Aligning the organization with its external environment is just as important as aligning it to its internal environment.
When all three core outputs - Value Proposition, Market, and Capabilities - are in sync, that's when an organization can really perform and do something quite special.
In addition to the three core outputs, Organizations also have systems to actually do things. These are the last four components of the model. I think of it like the four things that make up an organization's "operating system."
**Go-to-Market Systems: How will we engage with our Market?**
How an organization "goes to market" is a core part of how an organization operates. Because after all, if the product or service never meets the Market, no value can ever be exchanged. The Market never gets the value it needs, and the organization never gets the resources it needs. A good framework for this is the classic marketing framework called the 4Ps: Price, Product, Place, and Promotion.
But this part of the organization's "operating system" need not be derived from private sector practice. Governments, nonprofits, faith-based organizations, and others all have a system for engaging with their Market; they might just call it something like "service delivery model," "logic model," "engagement model," or something else similar.
The key to remember here is that go-to-market systems are not how parties within the organization work together; it's how the organization engages with its Market.
Resource Capture Systems: How will the organization get the resources it needs?
Just like a plant or an animal, organizations need resources to survive. But instead of things like food, sunlight, water, and oxygen, and carbon dioxide, organizations need things like money, materials, talent, user feedback, information, attention, and more.
So if you're an organizational leader, it's critical to understand what resources the organization needs most, and having a solid plan to get them. Maybe it's a sales process or levying of a tax. Maybe it's donations and fundraising. Maybe for resources like talent, it's employer branding or a culture that makes people want to work for the organization.
This list of examples isn't meant to be comprehensive, of course. The point is that organizations need lots of resources (not just money) and should have a solid plan for securing the most important resources they need.
Collective Action Systems: How will we work together to turn our capabilities into something of value?
Teamwork makes the dream work, right? I'd argue that's even an understatement. The third aspect of the organization's operating system is collective action.
This includes things like operations, organization structure, objective setting, project management approaches, and other common topics that fall into the realm of management, leadership, and "culture."
But I think it's more comprehensive than this - concepts like mission, purpose, and values, decision chartering, strategic communications, to name a few, are of growing importance and fall into the broad realm of collective action, too.
Why? Two reasons: 1) organizations need to move faster and therefore need people to make decisions without asking permission from their manager, and, 2) organizations increasingly have to work with an entire network of partners across many different platforms to produce their Value Proposition. These less-common aspects of an organization's collective action systems help especially with these challenges born of agility.
So all in all, it's essential to understand how an organization takes all its Capabilities and works as a collective to deliver its Value Proposition - and it's much deeper than just what's on an org chart or process map.
Investment Systems: How do we develop the capabilities that matter most?
It's obvious to say this, but the world changes. The Market changes. Expectations of talent change. Lots of things change, all the time. And as a result, our organizations need to adapt themselves to survive - again, just like Darwin's finches.
But what does that really mean? What it means more specifically is that over time the Capabilities an organization needs to deliver its Value Proposition to its Market changes over time. And as we all know, enhanced Capabilities don't grow on trees - it takes work and investment, of time, effort, money, and more.
That's where the final aspect of an organization's operating system comes in - the organization needs systems to figure out what Capabilities they need and then develop them. In a business, this could mean things like "capital allocation," "leadership development," "operations improvement," or "technology deployment."
But the need for Investment Systems applies broadly across the organizational world, too, not just companies.
As parents, for example, my wife and I realized that we needed to invest in our Capabilities to help our son, who was having a hard time with feelings and emotional control. We had never needed this "capability" before - our "market" had changed, and our Value Proposition as parents wasn't cutting it anymore.
So we read a ton of material from Dr. Becky and started working with a child and family-focused therapist. We put in the time and money to enhance our "capabilities" as a family organization - and it worked.
Again, because the world changes, all organizations need systems to invest in themselves to improve their capabilities.
My Pitch for Why This MattersAt the end of the day, most of us don't need or even want fancy frameworks. We want and need something that works.
I wanted to share this framework because this is what I'm starting to use as a practitioner - and it's helped me make sense of lots of organizations I've been involved with, from the company I work for to my family.
If you're someone - in any type of organization, large or small - I hope you find this very simple set of seven questions to help your organization perform better.
Making organizations better is hard, but it doesn't have to be complicated.
ACT I
I appreciate things I can hold. I mean this literally.
I savor burritos and breakfast sandwiches - these are the foods that I enjoyed with my father and remind me of him, down to the detail of us both dousing them with hot sauce. I relish the feel of a tennis racket in my grasp, gripped to perfectly that the racket feels like it’s gripping back - the tennis court was where I could find peace and freedom, before I even knew what meditation even was.
I like pens, pencils, and chef’s knives - because words and a meal prepared for others are two of the only ways I know how to tell someone I love them. All those three objects - pens, pencils, and a good knife - feel less like implements and more like extensions when I handle them. Then take on the rhythm and flow of my heartbeat and tapping toe, as if they’re a part of my body.
With the things I hold, I develop a symbiotic relationship. I fuse with them somehow - I become a little of them, and they become a little of me. This connection brings a feeling of peace, serenity, and security.
My whole life may resemble that one chaotic drawer in the house, filled with knick-knacks, rarely used items, and tiny screwdrivers that only see the light of day in a frenzy. But when I'm holding something in my hand, I've got it. And when I've got the thing in my hand, I start to feel like I've got this. The act of the body changes the act of the mind.
I, quite literally, cherish things I can hold. But I also mean this metaphorically. I appreciate buffer and the freedom it provides, borne from a lifetime of needing to feel control and security. I prefer to save rather than spend. To this day, I pack one more pair of underwear than the number of nights I'm traveling. I’ll pack a rain jacket even when it’s sunny. I like to be prepared. I like to hold onto extra.
I think I do this because I know what it feels like to lose. When I was young, money was tight. It was tight again when the recessions hit Michigan. Our brother, Nakul, was taken from us too soon, as was my father. In some ways, the seriousness with which I was raised makes me feel like the innocence of childhood slipped away prematurely.
When I hold things, I' feel like I’ve got them. And when I've got them, I can tell myself for a little while that nobody else can take them. Now, I finally have a world - my wife, my children, my family, good friends, my health, a livelihood, and a few dreams - that's worth holding onto.
And I'm going to hold them in the palm of my hand, gripping them tight enough so that nobody can ever take them away from me.
I intend to hold onto them forever.
ACT II
Everything feels like forever when you're a child.
Even a summer vacation, with all its bike rides and fireflies, seems endless. Middle and high school, infused with a sense of invincibility, appear as though they'll never run out. Every long car ride, every grocery queue, every football practice - every single thing is long.
Childhood is the part of our lives that feels like forever.
And for you three, so much of that forever is shaped by your mom and me. The golden, fuzzy forever you experience - your memories of childhood - isn't entirely up to you. Part of it is your responsibility, sure. But a lot of it is ours.
And so I wonder - what will you three, my sons, remember about what forever felt like?
I want you to remember being held because to be held is to be loved. I want you to recall that you were loved. I want you to feel loved. I want you to be loved, and I want to love you.
Holding onto someone and being held is not a small thing. It, in a very physical way, proves that we are bonded. It proves that we are together and committed to each other. It demonstrates, with certainty that I care about you because I am here. The Jesuits talk about finding God in all things, and I think embraces are an example of what they mean in this teaching. There is something divine about being held, because to be held is to be loved.
You will have memories of fun, laughter, and joy, of course. You will experience snow days and summer nights. You'll have spring flings and Friday night lights. You'll have moments with your toes in Burt Lake and in the backyard grass on Parkside, ice cream dribbling down your chins. You'll have all this. I promise you'll have all this.
But when I think about my own childhood, the only thing that endures enough to be more than a memory but a feeling, a deep-seated sensation, is love. Love is what endures.
Even a single moment of true, unconditional love is what carries you when you want to give up or when you feel like all you can do is surrender everything. Just one moment of love is enough to save us.
I want you to remember being held because being held is to be loved. So that no matter what, you have that. When you think of the part of your life that was forever, I want you to feel like holding onto it. I want you to feel like holding onto forever.
This is why I must hold you, all three of you, forever.
ACT III
Nothing feels like forever now that we're grown. We have a clock, and it's ticking. Tick tock, tick tock.
When we’re drinking wine after the kids go to bed, I often say that last weekend feels like "forever ago," but that's not really true. Our days are full. Our nights never seem long enough to rest. Our weeks and weekends are packed enough to trick me into thinking time is passing slowly.
I notice this the most in photographs now. We look different than we did not long ago. I see it in our hair and skin. Our postures. The settings in which those photos were taken.
Seven years have passed since my favorite photo of our wedding day was captured. It's the one on our mantle, the black and white image in the silvery frame, where we're on the river, and you're embracing me from behind, around my neck and shoulders, your mehendi-adorned hand visible. I'm smiling at you over my right shoulder, looking up at you, as if you're the sunshine. It reminded me of what forever can feel like.
We've aged seven years since then, and luckily it doesn't look like more. But it feels like it should have only been two, maybe three years since that photo by the river. Tick tock, tick tock.
We hug and hold each other often and spontaneously. We naturally find our way to an embrace. It could be in the kitchen while the pasta is boiling, or for a few minutes in bed after you've showered, and I'm still lying in my pajamas. You hold me, and I hold you.
These moments, where we're holding each other, don't stop the clock. The clock moves ahead. The alarm rings. But during those moments, when we're holding onto each other, we're reminded. It takes us back to that photo by the river, where I am smiling, and you look like sunshine, in the moment that reminds me of forever.
And sometimes, when we were there in those embraces that remind me of forever, I don’t want to leave. I want to stay there. I feel safe there, loved there. To be held, after all, is to be loved.
But at the same time, what would our lives be if we did not have the world around us, if we just kept it to us in that embrace, just you and me?
If we did not have our children or our families? Or if we didn’t have our friends and neighbors? Or even kind strangers? To embrace them we have to open up and expand our hearts from just us, to give more than we think we have. To hold onto them, we have to let go.
I have to remember sometimes, that not everyone is trying to take you all away from me. Not everyone is a threat to what we finally have. I can hold on while still letting go, at least for as long as it takes to share some of the love in our hearts with others.
This ability to hold on and let go first felt like a paradox, but I think now that it’s merely a leap of faith. It is okay to make this leap, I know this now, because we will always get back to holding each other. We will come back to an embrace of each other. And we will get back to this place that reminds me of forever.
Photo by Marcel Ardivan on Unsplash
I was rejected by the Ivy League on three separate occasions. Twice while applying for undergraduate studies and once for grad school. The best I could manage was getting on the waitlist of one public policy school.
The Ivies were not my dream or my “league”, per se, but the league everyone, it seemed, wanted me to be in. Everyone around me implicitly signaled that Ivy League admission was the symbol of being elite and on a trajectory of success and respect. I don’t think I could've had an independent thought about the matter because the aura of the Ivy League was so insidious and pervasively woven into my psyche while I was growing up. Everyone else put their faith in the Ivy League, so I did too.
Ever since, it has been the source of whatever inferiority complex I have. I believe I am dumber than other people because I didn’t get into an Ivy League school. I thought I had to catch up, prove myself, and show everyone that I’m elite, too.
In a way, the Ivy League mythology is probably true. Extremely talented and capable people gain admission into Ivy League schools. And if I had too, I assume my career would’ve been easier and simpler. My “network” would have probably been more powerful and able to open stubborn doors. More people would’ve probably been knocking on my door, instead of the other way around.
And perhaps more importantly, I would’ve believed in myself more. It would’ve been a self-fulfilling cycle. If I had been admitted to the Ivy League, I would’ve believed that I was somebody. And because I believed that, I would’ve spent all that time I was insecure and engaging in negative self-talk actually being somebody. All the times I told myself stories about how I was too down-to-earth to go to the Ivy League, I could’ve been making a contribution.
The biggest trap of all this was not whether or not I got into an Ivy League school, but that I spent so much time in my life thinking about it, questioning what I was, and wondering what might’ve been. What a waste of time and energy.
What I realize now is that life and career are instances of product-market fit. Being able to make an impactful contribution is not just a matter of being talented but a matter of applying one's talents in the most impactful way. That is what I envy so much about Ivy Leaguers; nobody seems to tell them what they should do and what they should be. They seem like they have more mental freedom to just go in the direction they want, without too much questioning.
Even me, going to a relatively elite public university twice, people signal to me what I should be and what I should do all the time. They think they can fit me into the mold they want me to be. They think they can force me into their narrative. That’s what it feels like anyway.
Maybe none of this is true. Maybe nothing would’ve been different had I gotten into Harvard, Columbia, or any other Ivy League school. But putting this all on paper is proving to me that the mythology of the Ivy League has been in my head, rent-free, for a long time. I’ve been waiting for someone to validate my intellect, talent, and capability for so long.
—
The West Wing is probably my favorite television show of all time. I was turned onto it by Lee, who was one of my managers and role models when I was a consultant at Deloitte.
The funny part is that Lee was Canadian, and I figured if someone who wasn’t even born in the US was undeterred in his enthusiasm for a show dramatizing the American presidency, I would probably like it too.
One of my favorite moments of the show is the scene where the Chief of Staff, Leo McGarry, talks with the President and outlines a new strategy for the administration: “Let Bartlet be Bartlet.”
I think that's the lesson here: all of us need to find that moment when we find our footing. We should stop trying to be someone we're not. We need to accept that we should focus on being who we are, instead of obsessing over Ivy League admission, promotions, or awards.
I think we all need that moment when we realize we can embrace our individuality, whether it's "Let Tambe be Tambe," "Let Paul be Paul," "Let Detroit be Detroit," "Let Smith be Smith," or any other iteration that our identity requires.
This whole time, I've been depending on the Ivy League to give me permission to be myself. This whole time, I've been dangling my feet out, hoping for my choices to be validated by someone else.
The greatest lesson in all this has nothing to do with the Ivy League. The lesson here is that we need to create this moment where we grant ourselves permission to be ourselves.
In my case, the turning point came when a role model at work told me about his circuitous path and how he embraced it, reminding himself that sometimes "you've got to bet on yourself."
Maybe we can't will ourselves, completely on our own, to grant self-permission for self-authorship. It's okay and expected to need help, support, and encouragement. But I don't think we need an institution to "pick" us, either. I never needed the Ivy League to "Let Tambe be Tambe," though maybe that would've sped up the process. All I needed, and all that I think any of us need, is someone to remind us that the choice to grant ourselves permission is one that we're allowed to make.
The path is ours to walk if we're willing to claim it as our own.
Photo by Tim Alex on Unsplash
Several times last week, while traveling in India, people cut in front of my family in line. And not slyly or apologetically, but gratuitously and completely obliviously, as if no norms around queuing even exist.
In this way, India reminds me of New York City. There are oodles and oodles of people, that seem to all behave aggressively - trying to get their needs met, elbowing and jockey their way through if they need to. It’s exhausting and it frays my Midwestern nerves, but I must admit that it’s rational: it’s a dog eat dog world out there, so eat or be eaten.
What I realized this trip, is that even after a few days I found myself meshing into the culture. Contrary to other trips to India, I now have children to protect. After just days, I began to armor up, ready to elbow and jockey if needed. I felt like a different person, more like a “papa bear” than merely a “papa”. like a local perhaps.
I even growled a papa bear growl - very much unlike my normal disposition. Bo, our oldest, had to go to the bathroom on our flight home so I took him. We waited in line, patiently, for the two folks ahead of us to complete their business. Then as soon as we were up, a man who joined the line a few minutes after us just moved toward the bathroom as if we had never been there waiting ahead of him
Then the papa bear in me kicked in. This is what transpired in Hindi, translated below. My tone was definitely not warm and friendly:
Me: Sir, we were here first weren’t we?
Man: I have to go to the bathroom.
Me: [I gesture toward my son and give an exasperated look]. So does he.
And then I just shuffled Bo and I into the bathroom. Elbow dropped.
But this protective instinct came at a cost. Usually, in public, I’m observant of others, ready to smile, show courteousness, and navigate through space kindly and warmly. But all the energy and attention I spent armoring up, after just days in India, left me no mind-space to think about others.
This chap who tried to cut us in line, maybe he had a stomach problem. Maybe he had been waiting to venture to the lavatory until an elderly lady sitting next to him awoke from a nap. I have no idea, because I didn’t ask or even consider the fact that this man may have had good intentions - I just assumed he was trying to selfishly cut in line.
Reflecting on this throughout the rest of the 15 hour plane ride, it clicked that this toy example of social trust that took place in the queue of an airplane bathroom reflects a broader pattern of behavior. Social distrust can have a vicious cycle:
- Someone acts aggressively toward me
- I feel distrust in strangers and start to armor up so that I don’t get screwed and steamrolled in public interactions
- I spend less time thinking about, listening to, and observing the needs of others around me
- I act even more aggressively towards strangers in public interactions, because I’m thinking less about others
And now, I’ve ratcheted up the distrust, ever so slightly, but tangibly.
The natural response to this ratcheting of social distrust is to create more rules, regulations, and centralize power in institutions. The idea being, of course, that institutions can mediate day to day interactions between people so the ratcheting of social distrust has some guardrails put upon it. When social norms can’t regulate behavior, authority steps in.
The problem with institutional power, of course, is that it’s corruptible and undermines human agency and freedom. Ratcheting up institutional power has tradeoffs of its own.
—
Later during our journey home, we were waiting in another line. This time we were in a queue for processing at US Customs and Border patrol. This time, I witnessed something completely different.
A couple was coming through the line and they asked us:
Couple: Our connecting flight is boarding right now. I’m so sorry to ask this, but is it okay if we go ahead of you in line?
Us: Of course, we have much more time before our connecting flight boards. Go ahead.
Couple: [Proceeds ahead, and makes the same request to the party ahead of us].
Party ahead of us: Sorry, we’re in the same boat - our flight is boarding now. So we can’t let you cut ahead.
Couple: Okay, we totally understand.
The first interaction in line at the airplane bathroom made me feel like everyone out there was unreasonable and selfish. It undermined the trust I had in strangers.
This interaction in the customs line had the opposite effect, it left me hopeful and more trusting in strangers because everyone involved behaved considerately and reasonably.
First, the couple acknowledged the existence of a social norm and were sincerely sorry for asking us to cut the line. We were happy to break the norm since we were unaffected by a delay of an extra three minutes. And finally, when the couple ahead said no, they abided by the norm.
We were all observing, listening, and trying to help each other the best we could. In my head, I was relieved and I thought, “thank goodness not everyone’s an a**hole.
It seems to me that just as there’s a cycle that perpetuates distrust, there is also a cycle which perpetuates trust:
- Listen and seek to understand others around you
- Do something kind that helps them out without being self-destructive of your own needs
- The person you were kind toward feels higher trust in strangers because of your kindness
- The person you were kind to can now armor down ever so slightly and can listen for and observe the needs of others
And now, instead of a ratchet of distrust, we have a ratchet of more trust. Instead of being exhausting like distrust, this increase in trust is relieving and energy creating.
—
At the end of the day, I want to live in a free and trusting society. If there was to be one metric that I’m trying to bend the trajectory on in my vocational life - it’s trust. I want to live in a world that’s more trusting.
This desire to increase trust in society is why I care so much about applying customer experience practices to Government. Government can disrupt the cycle of distrust and start the flywheel of trust in a big way - and not just between citizens and government but across broader culture and society.
Imagine this: a government agency, say the National Parks Service, listens to its constituents and redesigns its digital experience. Now more and more people feel excited about visiting a National Park and are more able to easily book reservations and be prepared for a great trip into one of our nation’s natural treasures.
So now, park visitors have more trust in the National Park Service going into their trip and are more receptive to safety alerts and preservation requests from Park Rangers. This leads to a better trip for the visitor, a better ability for Rangers to maintain the park, and a higher likelihood of referral by visitors who have a great trip. This generates new visitors and adds momentum to the flywheel.
I’m a dataset of one, but this is exactly what happened for me and my family when we’ve interacted with the National Parks’ Service new digital experience. And there’s even some data from Bill Eggers and Deloitte that is consistent with this anecdote: CX is a strong predictor of citizens’ trust in government.
And now imagine if this sort of flywheel of trust took place across every single interaction we had with local, state, and federal government. Imagine the mental load, tension, and exhaustion that would be averted and the positive affect that might replace it.
It could be truly transformational, not just with what we believe about government, but what we believe about the trustworthiness of other citizens we interact with in public settings. If we believe our democratic government - by the people and for the people - is trustworthy, that will likely help us believe that “the people” themselves are also more trustworthy.
Government CX is a huge opportunity that we should pursue, not only because of the improvement to delivery of government service or the improvement of trust in government. Improvement to government CX at the local, state, and federal levels could also have spillover effects which increase social trust overall. No institution has the reach and intimate relationship with people to start the flywheel of trust like customer-centric government can, at least that I can see.
Photo by George Stackpole on Unsplash
We start with nothing.
And that in a way gives us a beginning. Nothing is from where we all start.
What we need first then, to spread light, is a candle. We need substance. We need our bodies. We need education. We need love. We need food, a home, and a place to work. We need all these things, which are a vessel to sustain light. For some, this candle is a birthright or a gift. Some of us must make our own.
Next, we light the candle. We figure out something which illuminates. We do something which illuminates. Maybe, too, our candle is lit by others and we are illuminated with a light that has been passed on to us. We somehow find a way to bring light into the world and there we are, with candle lit.
But this is not how light spreads. One candle, alone, does not illuminate a whole world of dark places, or even a whole city, or neighborhood, or even one room necessarily. To light up the world we must spread our light.
So we light our candle or let ourselves be lit, then we light two others. That makes three. But this is not enough, either, because three lit candles that will all wax and wane for a moment and then extinguish at the end of a life is surely not enough to illuminate a room, a neighborhood, or a world.
So what then?
The algorithm to spread light is simple, I think. It’s a compounding algorithm. We light our candle, then we light two others. But then, those two must light two others. And then those four light two others each. This is how light spreads, two by two by two. Light only spreads exponentially.
So what this means is that as parents, to really spread the light we cannot stop at being good parents, or teaching our kids how to be parents - we teach our kids to be teachers of parenting and be teachers of parenting ourselves. We cannot stop at being good people managers, or by mentoring the next generation of leaders, we must teach our mentees to make more mentors.
We can’t just make the light. We can’t just spread the light. We must teach others how to spread light. This is the algorithm for spreading light: light, spread, and teach how to spread.
—
We end with nothing.
What remains of us is what we leave behind. So a key question becomes, what should we try to leave behind?
First, I think we should leave behind something good. Something positive that benefits others and leaves the world better for us being there. Human life is a special thing, even after accounting for all the suffering it possesses. Why not leave something behind which honors this human life, this earth, and brings light to dark places?
It seems to me, that if we leave behind something positive and good we ought to leave something that endures, too. Leaving behind something enduring, that illuminates and gives light for a longer time, is better than something that fades quickly.
I don’t know if nothing lasts forever, or maybe some things last forever after all. But given the choice, why not strive for something closer to forever? But what endures, then? What lasts closer to forever?
Even if I were the wealthiest man alive, and passed down the largest inheritance - it would maybe last a few generations. All my photographs, too, will eventually become irrelevant. Our home will eventually change hands, and will be rebuilt or razed. My blog posts, hardly relevant to begin with will be forgotten. Anything that can be consumed, it seems, will eventually fade.
The chance we have then is to leave behind something that can regenerate itself?.
Kindness, for example, regenerates itself. Because when we are kind, it makes others kinder, and that in turn makes even more others kinder. Kindness regenerates. Knowledge is similar. When we create and share knowledge, it inspires the creation of new knowledge, leaving behind a larger body of knowledge from which to create. Knowledge also regenerates.
Good institutions are designed to regenerate. Think of the world’s leading companies and the most enduring governments.
The ones that last are built upon a premise of looking outward, seeing the new needs and having a genuine concern for a noble purpose. Those institutions then take the challenges of a changing world, channel them inward, and then regenerate themselves into something new. The moment that the most established of the world’s most high-profile institutions - like the world’s religions traditions, liberalism, Apple Computer, the US Constitution, or even Taylor Swift - stop regenerating themselves, they’ll begin to fade away like all the rest.
—
So the absolute, most essential question I could answer related to spreading the light is - what can I leave behind that’s positive and might actually last? If when I leave this world, I am only what I leave behind - what can I leave behind that regenerates and endures?
I don’t believe that careers and promotions are regenerative. The enduring impact of my position or title will start fading when I retire and end completely when I die. Nobody will care about my LinkedIn profile after I’m out of the game.
But what will last is a coaching tree of ethical and effective managers if I’m able to create one. What will last is the knowledge of unmet customer needs, if I’m able to bake that understanding into the DNA of companies and institutions. If I can build teams that don’t depend on fear, control, and hierarchy - and those teams actually succeed - they’ll regenerate and create more teams of their own. Those things regenerate, not my career in and of itself.
Simply having a happy marriage and happy children won’t regenerate either. What might last is if we can make such an impression on those around us and share all our secrets for a happy life, so that it starts a chain reaction which regenerates the families and marriages of others, that might endureHaving a wonderful marriage and happy children would be terrific, but those two achievements on their own won’t endure. What will endure is figuring out the secret sauce and then open sourcing the recipe.
When I talk to older people - whether friends or family - their concerns are different than mine. They seem less concerned with what they have and more concerned with what they can give back. As their time winds down, so does their ego. They start to look beyond their own lives.
What’s gut wrenching is when those people can’t prove to themselves that they’ve spread light. Or when they believe they haven’t prepared those that follow to spread light. Or worst of all, when they believe they’ve run out of time. Because spreading light and preparing others to spread light takes time. To see that realization is to witness agony.
—
What the hell have I been doing? For these past three decades, what have I been solving for? Have I been solving for building the world’s biggest candle? Have I been solving for lighting my own candle? Or have I been solving for spreading the light?
If I was solving for spreading the light, I think I would be acting so much differently than I am now.
I wouldn’t care as much about a career trajectory or a “dream job”, I’d just be walking the path of greatest different and would be spending much more time building up others to succeed and teach others.
I too, would be thinking about how to help others outside the four walls of our home, or at least really being generous with time and energy for the people who live near us or who are closest to us. I wouldn’t be waiting for the perfect cause to support or the perfect kid to mentor. I’d just be going for it and creating more builders of others.
And, I certainly wouldn’t be spending as much time pouting about all the others who behave badly toward me or be putting up a facade of politeness. If I was really solving for spreading the light, every conversation I had would be open, honest, sincere, and showing genuine concern for others. It’d be all heart and no polish.
If I were solving for spreading the light, I think I would be acting much differently. God willing, I have time to be different.
Photo by Rebecca Peterson-Hall on Unsplash
What gut punches me about gun violence, beyond the acts of violence themselves, is not that we’ve seemed to make little progress in ending it. What grates me is that we shouldn’t expect to make progress. We shouldn’t expect progress because in the United States, generally speaking, we haven’t actually done the work to define the problem of gun violence clearly enough to even attempt solving it with any measure of confidence.
Gun violence is an incredibly difficult problem to solve, it’s layered, it’s complex, and the factors that affect gun violence are intertwined in knots upon knots across the domains of poverty, justice, health, civil rights, land use, and many others.
I know this because I lived it and tried to be a small part in ending gun violence in Detroit. I partnered with people across neighborhoods, community groups, law enforcement, academia, government, the Church, foundations, and the social sector on gun violence prevention - the best of the best nationwide - when I worked in City Government, embedded in the equivalent of a special projects unit within the Detroit Police Department.
Preventing gun violence is the hardest challenge I’ve ever worked on, by far.
Just as I’ve seen gun violence prevention up close - I’ve also worked in the business functions of corporate strategy and customer experience (CX) for nearly my entire career - as a consultant at a top tier firm, as a graduate student in management, as a strategy professional in a multi-billion dollar enterprise, and as a thinker that has been grappling with and publishing work on the intricacies of management and organizations for over 15 years.
(Forgive me for that arrogant display of my resume, the internet doesn’t listen to people without believing their credentialed).
I know from my time in Strategy and CX that difficult problems aren’t solved without focus, the discipline to make the problem smaller, accepting trade-offs, and empathizing deeply with the people we are trying to serve and change the behavior of.
This is why how we approach gun violence in the United States, generally speaking, grates me. Very little of the public discourse on gun violence prevention - outside of very small pockets, usually at the municipal level - gives me faith that we’re committed to the hard work of focusing, making the problem smaller, accepting trade-offs and empathizing deeply with the people - shooters and victims - we are trying to change the behavior of.
If I had to guess, there are probably less than 100 people across the country who have lived gun violence prevention and business strategy up close, and I’m one of them. The solutions to gun violence will continue to be elusive, I’m sure - just “applying business” to it won’t solve the problem.
However, all problems, especially elusive ones like gun violence, are basically impossible to solve until they are defined clearly and the strategy to achieve the intended outcome is focused and clearly communicated. To understand and frame the problem of gun violence, approaches from strategy and CX are remarkably helpful.
This post is my pitch and the simplest playbook I can think of for applying field-tested practices from the disciplines of strategy and CX to gun violence prevention. My hope is that by applying these techniques, gun violence could become a set of solvable problems. Not easy, but solvable nonetheless.
If you can’t put it briefly and in writing the strategy isn’t good enough
The easiest, low-tech, test of a strategy, is whether it can be communicated in narrative form, in one or two pages. If someone trying to lead change can do this effectively, it probably means the strategy and how it’s articulated is sound. If not, that change leader should not expect to achieve the result they intend.
The statement that follows below is entirely made up, but it’s an illustration of what clear strategic intent can look like. I’ve written it for the imaginary community of “Patriotsville”, but the framework I’ve used to write it could be applied by any organization, for any transformation - not just an end to gun violence. Further below I’ll unpack the statement section by section to explain the underlying concepts borrowed from business strategy and CX and some ideas on how to apply them.
Instead of platitudes like, “we need change” or “enough is enough” or “the time is now”, imagine if a change leader trying to end gun violence made a public statement closer to the one below. Would you have more or less confidence in your community’s ability to end gun violence than you do now?
Two-Pager of Strategic Intent to End Gun Violence in Patriotsville
We have a problem in Patriotsville, too many young people are dying from gunshot wounds. We know from looking at the data that the per capita rate of youth gun deaths in our community is 5x the national average. And when you look at the data further, accidental gun deaths are by far the largest type of gun death among youth in Patriotsville, accounting for 60% of all youths who die in our community each year. This is unacceptable and senseless heartbreak that’s ripping our community apart by the seams.
I know we can do better - we can and we will eliminate all accidental shooting deaths in Patriotsville within 5 years. In five years, let’s have the front page stories about our youth be for their achievements and service to our community rather than their obituaries. By 2027 our vision is no more funerals for young people killed by accidental shootings. We should be celebrating graduations and growth, not lives lost too early from entirely preventable means.
We know there are other types of gun violence in our community, and those senseless death are no less important than accidental shootings. But we are choosing to focus on accidental shootings because of how severe the problem is and because we have the capability and the partnerships already in place to make tangible progress. As we start to bend the trajectory of accidental shootings, we will turn our focus to the next most prevalent form of gun violence in our community: domestic disputes that turn deadly.
Our community has tried to have gun buybacks and free distribution of gun locks before. For years we have done these things and nothing has changed. So we started to do more intentional research into the data, the scholarship, and best practices, yes. But more importantly, we started to talk directly with the families who have lost children to accidental shootings and those who have had near misses.
By trying to deeply understand the people we want to influence, we learned two very important things. First, we learned that the vast majority of accidental shootings in Patriotsville have victims between the ages of 2 and 6. This means, we have to focus on influencing the parents and caregivers of children between the ages of 2 and 6.
And two, we learned that in the vast majority of cases, those adult owners of the firearms had access to gun locks and wanted to use them, but just never got around to it.
What we realized the more we talked with people and looked into the data, is that gun locks could work to reduce accidental shootings and that access wasn’t an issue - we just needed to get people to understand how to use gun locks and realize that it wasn’t difficult or a significant deterrent to the use of the firearm in an emergency.
So what we intend to do is work with day care providers to help influence the behavior of parents and caregivers of children who are in kindergarten or younger. We’re going to partner with the gun shop owners in town who desperately want their firearms to be stored safely. And we’re going to help families have all the resources they need to create a system within their entire home of securing firearms.
We’re proud to announce the “Lock It Twice” program here today in Patriotsville. There are many key roles in this plan. Gun shop owners and local hunting clubs are going to have public demonstrations on how to use gun locks and help citizens practice to see just how easy it is to use them. Early childhood educators and the school district are going to create a conversation guide for teachers to discuss with parents during parent teacher conferences. And finally, the local carpenters union, is going to help folks to make sure there are locks on the doors of the primary rooms where guns are kept. The community foundation is going to fund a program where families can get a doorknob replaced in their home for free.
We’re all coming together to end accidental shootings in our community once and for all - and we’re going to do it creatively and innovatively, because we know marketing campaigns and free gun locks don’t actually work unless they’re executed as part of a comprehensive strategy. To this end, we’re committing $2 Million of general fund dollars over the next five years to get this done - we are committed as a government and we invite any others committed to the goal to join us with their time, their talent, or financial backing.
Finally, I’d like to thank the leadership team of our local NRA chapter and Sportsmans’ club who helped us get access to their members and really understand the problem and the challenge in a deep and intimate way. We couldn’t have come up with this solution without their help.
We have said for so long that the time is now. And the time finally is now - we are focused, and we’re committed to ending accidental shootings in our community. In a few short years, if we work together, we know we can end these senseless deaths and never have a funeral for a young person accidentally shot and killed in this community ever again.
Unpacking the key elements of the two-pager of strategic intent
Again, the statement above is entirely an illustration and entirely made up. Heck, it’s not even the best writing I’ve ever done!
But even if it’s not true (or perfect) it’s helpful to have an example of what clearly articulated strategy and intent can look like. I’ve picked it apart section by section below. A narrative of strategic intent can be distilled into 10 elements. Literally 10 bullet points on a paper could be enough to start.
Element 1: Acknowleding the problem - “too many people are dying of gunshot wounds”
The first step is acknowledging the problem and communicating why change is even needed. This question of “why” is under-articulated in almost any organization or on any project I’ve ever been a part of. This is absolutely essential because change requires discretionary effort and almost nobody gives that discretionary effort unless they understand why it’s needed and why it matters.
Element 2 - The Big, Hairy, Audacious, Goal (BHAG): “we will eliminate all accidental shooting deaths in Patriotsville within 5 years”
The second step is to set a goal - a big one that’s meaningfully better than the status quo. This question of “for what” is essential to keep all parties focused on the same outcome. What’s critical for the goal is that it has to be specific, simple, and outcomes-based. Vague language does the team no good because unless the goal is objective, all parties will lie to themselves about progress. It should go without saying, but I’ll say it anyway: it’s practically impossible to lead collective action without a clear goal.
Element 3 - The Statement of Vision: “no more funerals for young people killed by accidental shootings”
The third element helps people more deeply understand what the goal means in day to day life. The vision is a deepening of detail on the question of “what”.
Having an understanding of the aspirational future world helps everyone understand success and what the future should feel like. This is important for two reasons: 1) it clarifies the goal further by giving it sensory detail, and, 2) it makes the mission memorable and inspiring.
In reality, the change leader needs to articulate the vision, in vivid sensory detail, over and over and with much more fidelity than I’ve done in this two-pager. Think of the vision statement I’ve listed in the two-pager as the headline with much more detail required behind the scenes and with constant frequency over the course of the journey.
Element 4 - Where to Play: “But we are choosing to focus on accidental shootings because of how severe the problem is and because we have the capability and the partnerships already in place to make tangible progress”
Where to play is one of the foundational questions of business strategy. The idea is that there are too many possible domains to play in and every enterprise needs to double down and focus instead of trying to do everything for all people. This isn’t a question of “what” as much as it is a question of “what are we saying no to.”
In the case of Patriotsville, the two-pager describes the reasons why the community should focus on accidental shootings (severity and existing capabilities / partnerships) and something important that the community is saying no to (domestic violence shootings). It’s essential to clearly articulate what the team is saying no to so that everyone doubles down and focuses limited resources on the target. Trying to “boil the ocean” is the surest way to achieve nothing.
Element 5 - Identifying the target: “we have to focus on influencing the parents and caregivers of children between the ages of 2 and 6”
There’s substantial time spent describing how the change team is focusing on the specific people they’re trying to influence, parents and caregivers of children aged 2-6. Identifying this specific segment is important, and an example of the ‘for who” question. Who are we trying to serve? Who are we not? What do they need? Without this, there is no possibility of true focus. Defining who it’s for is an essential rejoinder to the “where to play” question.
Element 6 - Deep Empathy and Understanding: “By trying to deeply understand the people we want to influence, we learned two very important things”
The two-pager talks about the deep observation and understanding of the “consumer” that the team took the time to do. This yielded some critical insights on how to do something that actually works.
There’s a whole discipline on UX (User experience) and CX (Customer experience), so I won’t try to distill it down in a few sentences - but a broader point remains. To change the behavior of someone or to serve someone, you have to really understand, deeply, what they want and need. When problems are hard, the same old stuff doesn’t work. To find what does work, the team has to listen and then articulate the key insights they learned to everyone else so that everyone else knows what will work, too.
Element 7 - How to Win: “we realized that gun locks could work to reduce accidental shootings and that access wasn’t an issue - we just needed to get people to understand how to use gun locks, and realize that it wasn’t difficult or a significant deterrent to the use of the firearm in an emergency”
“How to win” is the second of the foundational questions asked in business strategy. It raises the question of “how.” Of all the possible paths forward, which ones are we going to pursue, and which are we going to ignore? That’s what this element describes.
Because again, just like the “where to play” question, we can’t do every implementation of every strategy and tactic. We have to make choices and be as intentional as possible as to what we will do, what we won’t, and our reasons why.
By articulating “how to win” clearly, it keeps the team focused on what we believe will work and what we believe is worth throwing the kitchen sink at, so to speak. Execution is hard enough, even without the team diluting its execution across too broad a set of tactics.
What I would add, is that we don’t always get the how right the first time. We have to constantly pause, learn, pivot, and then rearticulate the how once we realize our plan isn’t going to work - the first version of the plan never does.
Element 8 - Everyone’s Role: “There are many key roles in this plan”
Element 8 gets at the “who” question. Who’s going to do this work? What’s everyone’s important role? What’s everyone’s job and responsibility?
Everyone needs to know what’s expected of them. And quite frankly, if a change leader doesn’t ask people to do something, they won’t. It seems obvious, but teams I’ve been on haven’t actually requested help. Heck, I’ve even led initiatives where I’ve just assumed everyone knows what to do and then been surprised when nobody on the team acts differently. That’s a huge mistake that’s entirely preventable.
Element 9 - Credible Commitment: “To this end, we’re committing $2 Million of general fund dollars over the next five years to get this done”
Especially when it comes to hard problems, many people will wait to ensure that their effort is not a waste of time. Making a credible commitment that the change leader is going to stick with the problem nudges stakeholders to commit. By putting some skin in the game and being vocal about it publicly, a credible commitment answers the “are you really serious” question that many skeptics have when a change leader announces a Big, Hairy, Audacious, Goal.
Element 10 - The problem is the enemy: “Finally, I’d like to thank the leadership team of our local NRA chapter and Sportsmans’ club who helped us”
In my years, many ambitious teams get in their own way because they succumb to ego, blame, and infighting. Right away, it’s essential to make sure everyone knows that the problem is the enemy.
In this case, I’ve shared an example of how it’s possible to take seemingly difficult stakeholders, show them respect, and bring them into the fold. How powerful would it be if a group commonly thought of as an obstacle to ending gun violence (the gun lobby) was actually part of the solution and the change leader praised them? That sort of statement would prevent finger pointing and resistance to the pursuit of the vision. If the gun lobby is helping prevent gun violence, how could anyone else not fall in line and trust the process?
Conclusion
I desperately want to see an end to gun violence in my lifetime. It’s senseless. And honestly, I think everyone engaged in gun violence prevention has good intentions.
But we shouldn’t expect to solve the problem if we don’t take the time to understand it, articulate it in concrete terms, and communicate the vision clearly to everyone who needs to be part of solving it.
As one of the few people who have lived in both worlds - violence prevention and business strategy - I strongly believe tools from the corporate strategy and CX worlds have something valuable to offer in this regard.
Photo by Remy Gieling on Unsplash
It’s not the lung stuff that has knocked me out ill as an adult, it’s the stomach bugs. And this one was a gut punch like I haven’t had in half a decade.
I had lost water in both directions, still unable to eat or drink more than a little without twitching and convulsing sleeplessly with abdominal pain. Even with full blankets, socks, pajamas, and hours of adorning a second comforter I just couldn’t get warm.
“This one’s a nasty one,” I thought.
The kids were going about their “home day” downstairs, and Robyn was bridging both worlds to check on my condition. I was upstairs, just laying there. I was drifting in and out of semi-conscious daydreams and actual dreams. And damn, I was probably thinking too much about work, too.
But more than anything, I was alone. It was just me, with the bedroom door closed, laying witness to the bug battle being waged in my upper abdomen.
This is the first time I’ve been home sick with the kids around, that I can remember, at least. The other times, must’ve been while they were at daycare, I guess.
It wasn’t different than a typical day, their comings and goings seeming like what I would expect. There were bumps and kicks. The clinking of dishes in the sink, accumulating because I wasn’t doing them. The half-hearted tears of sibling friction. Riley, of course, barked as the mail carrier made their daily rounds. A neighbor in his seventies or eighties stopped by with children’s books, in hopes that they’d find new life with our sons. I heard celebrations, I think, after a victor emerged after a game of Uno.
In our home, these sounds are businesses as usual. Except, today, I wasn’t downstairs in the thick of it. I was at a distance, hearing muddled and softened versions of it all. It was as if all the scenes were familiar, photographically familiar, but somehow fuzzy and uncharacteristically muddled.
And as I lay there, I wanted to rise. I wanted to get up, shuffle downstairs and just be there with them, even if I was relegated to the couch. I wanted to hold them, to kiss them on the crown of their heads. My fingers longed to be interlaced with Robyn’s.
All of a sudden I missed them all, desperately and with panic, like I was in the desert and being present for their afternoon snack was the oasis I needed to even just survive. I was only a floor above them, but all of a sudden, without any warning I felt like I was a whole world away.
And I wondered, in my half lucid mind, what if this is what it was like. What if this is what it was like when we moved from this world into the next world away?
Could it be that the next stage our soul goes to after we die is the equivalent of “being a floor away”? To a place where we can catch glimpses of the life happening without us? Where we hear the yelps of victory and the melody dishes clanking? Where we hear, but never see, muffled and fuzzy glimpses of home?
If the first stage of the afterlife is being the equivalent of a floor, but really a world, away, it would be a place of love and gratefulness, but also of the deepest sadness. If that were the afterlife, I thought, I would wait there. I’d wait, on the floor, back and ear to the door all day, hoping to hear just a little bit more, for a little bit longer.
I would hope to hear laughter and pray that someone could wipe the tears I could not wipe myself. I would eat when they ate. I would sleep when they’d slept. I would wait up for them, meditating and thinking, while they were out of the house, scratching a couple verses if there was a notebook at hand.
If waiting is all I could do, I thought, I would wait.
But if this place, this room of waiting, were the first stage of the afterlife, I thought further, how long would I wait?
Because surely, if whatever God there was created this waiting place, this good but anxious waiting place, he would create something more and better for us too. Surely, no God benevolent enough to create this purgatory of waiting would be so cruel to make it without a heaven that follows.
That’s where that heaven would be, right on the other side of the waiting room door. If this waiting place were purgatory, unity with God would be right on the other side of the door…
But no, if this were purgatory and I had made it here, surely Robyn would follow. I would wait here, I would wait here for her. Like Yudhisthira refused Indra, I would not cross the threshold without her.
One day, I would wake up, and she would be here in this waiting room with me. We’d take a few days or weeks, to see to it that our sons were on their way to being settled. And then we’d open the door, and we’d cross the threshold together.
As I thought about this possibility of a waiting place, frenetically, and with feverish mind, I started to weep - losing a few drops more of saline that I could scarcely afford to lose. I missed my family, even after just a few hours, and I wept.
I thought of them, a world away downstairs, and tried to feel the halo of their love in the air. And then I went to sleep.
When I woke, my toes, surprisingly, were warm again. From my core to my knees, I was warm again. The pain in my stomach had subsided. I tested out a few crackers and a few larger gulps of the electrolyte mix Robyn had brought me hours earlier. Sure enough, I was able to stomach both.
And then, I remembered that this was just a minor stomach bug, from which I would recover. This room, our bedroom, was not a purgatory of waiting. I was not in a waiting place.
I was here, right now. I was alive, right now. My wife, and my children, and our pup - my family - they were here right now.
I long to be with them, for the business as usual days the most, maybe. I want to be with them for the daily grind, with all its struggles, joys, illnesses, and small mercies. Being with them is a form of heaven for me, and it’s right here, right now. A heaven, I thought, is just on the other side of that door.
Photo by runnyrem on Unsplash
There are, roughly speaking, three types of bands. Any of the three is a legitimate way to make a living as a musician, but they’re different and require different skills and mindsets.
To be successful at any, we must choose and know what we’re signing up for. The biggest mistake we can make and the surest way to be average is to not choose.
The job of a tribute band is to be as close to the original as possible. At a tribute band’s show, the audience very explicitly doesn’t want anything new. The whole craft of being a tribute band is mimicking, with intense fidelity, what has come before. To be good at this, we have to listen, with unrelenting meticulousness, the artist we are paying tribute to. The key question for a tribute band is, “does it sound like the original?”
The job of a cover band is to play hit after hit, across artists and genres. Cover bands take the songs people like and play the hell out of ‘em. To do this requires great musicianship and an ability to find the balance between preserving the original and putting just enough of a twist on it to make it feel new and exciting. Cover bands have to be good at listening not to the original artists, but to the audience in front of them. Their key question for a cover band is, “does it sound like something the audience wants to hear?”
And then there are those bands who want to be artists. The job of this last group is to be new, to be original, and to bring a new point of view - catching lighting in a bottle, if you will. To be an artist, an original artist, is an entirely different proposition than being a tribute band or a cover band.
To be an original artists requires wandering around lost, often for significant periods of time. An original artist has to find the songs that only they can write and only they can sing. Original artists cannot listen, too much, to what’s come before them. Instead, an original artist needs to listen to their own voice and to the rhythms and melodies out in the world that nobody else is hearing yet. The key question for an original artist is, “What does my voice sound like?”
I think we underestimate, still, how much our culture indoctrinates us to avoid wandering. We have curriculum and an education system. We have college majors with specific requirements. We have board exams and certification tests. We have career plans and linear project plans. In the corporate world, we have competitive benchmarking and the application of “best practices.” We’re told, ‘Don’t recreate the wheel.”
All these things, in aggregate, seem to just scream sometimes, ‘Wandering is bad! Bad boys wander! Those who wander are lost!”
To be original artists, we have to unlearn this indoctrination and replace it with a new belief, “Not all those who wander are lost. On the contrary, if being an original artist is what we choose to be - wandering, to where it is quiet enough to hear our own voice for the first time, is the surest way forward.”
Photo Credit: Unsplash @yvettedewit
The front-facing window of our family room faces East. And not just East, but perfectly East. And so in the mid-morning, before the sun is at its highest point in the sky, its light pours in by the bushel.
That window, over the 6 years we’ve lived in this house, has become a bit of a holy place for me.
Before that window is Riley’s guard post, where he became the sentinel and protector of our family, his watchful eye and bark alarming us of any potential intruders. It is where Robert and Myles both took their first steps, on the worn-in hardwood beneath their wobbly and eager feet. It is our arena of card games, and magical lands we have built with blocks, lego blocks, and action figures.
And most recently, it is the very spot, I believe, that the brotherhood of the Tambe boys was established. It is there that Robert and Myles, 5 and 3, have stood, looking outward, their silhouettes radiant in the morning light.
In the window, side by side, facing easteward into the sun any rivalry they have has siblings is forgotten. All the fighting and the insults. All the screaming and the punches. All the jealousy and differences. All these things, have faded for now.
For now, they both there there, talking, staring out with wonder and inquiry about the comings and goings of the street. They observe and listen, both to the wind in the trees and to each other. Their world, for at least this moment, starts and ends with them and what they see through the threshold of the glass. They are gentle and peaceful, but also with a dynamism of connection between them.
This image of them, little shoulder to littler shoulder, hands up to the sill, noses to the pane, I know, is uneraseable from my memory. To see this is joy, and relief.
They, there, in the frame, convinces me that no matter what happens between them in their lives, no matter what difficulties ebb and flow between them, they can be grounded. They can be a team. Right now, what I see here before this window, is incontrovertible proof that they are bonded for life.
Before this window, they became brothers.
And soon enough, Emmett will be there with them and the fraternity they created, right there at the window, will grow. These three are becoming brothers.
What is most haunting, though, is the realization that one the most likely ways for their bond to be broken is because of me.
Rivalries, I know from education and experience, exist because of competition over common resources. Rival sports team compete for prestige. Rival kingdoms compete for land and power. Rival companies compete for customers. Rival nations compete for position in the international order.
And though I don’t understand their sibling dynamic from my own experience of having a sibling, I understand the one thing they might have to compete for is my love.
It is my duty then, part of my dharma even, to convince them that my love does not need to be fought over, to be won. I need to prove to them that my love need not be a source of their rivalry or a crack in the foundation of their brotherhood.
My love cannot be finite. The pressure on me as their father is to demonstrate beyond and shadow of a doubt, that my love for them is ever-widening and expanding. That it is a deep pool from which they can always draw, never running dry.
I need to make my heart big enough to support their brotherhood. But how? How can I do this in a world where children have lived through mass shootings on two separate campuses? How is this possible?
The secret, I think, maybe the love that is present in small things.
There is love, small love, in waving at a colleague in the hallways instead of letting them pass without acknowledgement, feeling as if they are an outcast. There is small love is in asking and answering “how are you” sincerely and truthfully. There is small love in allowing ourselves to laugh loud enough so others - and our own hearts - can believe that it’s okay to find humor in peculiar places.
There is small love in saying thank you. There is small love writing a little note or giving an unprompted hug. There is small love in remembering someone’s birthday or even just their name. There is small love making a new friend, or in letting yourself become a new friend. There is small love, if we deliberately create it, all around.
It is in these small things, and creating love in these small moments, that we see that love is possible, not just in grand seemingly-cinematic scenes but in every moment. Small love shows that it’s possible to expand our hearts in in every moment.
I think we can do this. Small love is not out of any of our reach. And the prize is immeasurable.
If we create love in small moments we can convince ourselves, our children, and those around us that life doesn’t have to be a game, but that it can be an expansive sort of thing. We can believe that love is a renewable resource, and that it need not be finite.
If I can grow my heart with small acts, I can prove to my sons that my heart is big enough and that my love is a deep enough pool for all of them. I can show them that they do not have to be rivals, they do not have to fight for my love, and that they can be brothers.
This is why I must create moments of small love. So they can be brothers.
And so to for us all, I believe at leastIf we can create enough love, even small love - whether with our families, our colleagues, or our neighbors - we can end this rivalry. And when we squash these beefs that are over nothing but love, can can form genuine and durable bonds of brotherhood and sisterhood. We can be brothers and sisters.
Photo Credit: Unsplash @kellysikkema
There are three general types of problems.
Type I problems are where the state of the art isn’t good enough. Even if we executed to the fullest extent of possible we’d still fall short. Cancer is like this. Even if the state of the art was applied with full fidelity, tons of people would suffer and die early deaths.
Type II problems are where the state of the art solutions would be good enough, but something’s not going to plan. Many operational problems are like this. We have a process, but life is messy so things go wrong even though the issue was “never supposed to happen.”. So we fix the problem, improve our ability to execute, or both.
Type III problems are the ones caused by bad actors with nefarious intent. It’s the problem that arises because someone tries to screw over someone else, on purpose, because they can get away with it. It could be someone taking credit for a colleagues work, or a person running a Ponzi scheme which defrauded investors of billions of dollars. In a Type III problem, the bad actor knows what they are doing is wrong, unfair, or sub-optimal, but they do it anyway.
A good way to judge a team or enterprise is by looking at the proportion of time spent on each type of problem. Organizations that are well led and well managed tend to spend a lot of their time on Type I problems. They create systems and coach people well to minimize Type II problems, and they simply don’t tolerate Type III problems and the people that cause them.
Well run organizations and their leaders know that Type III problems are trust-killers which make working the more important Type I and Type II problems infinitely harder.
Luckily, creating safeguards to prevent Type III problems is not complicated. All it takes is the team or its leader articulating a set of values, behavioral norms, and performance standards that that make it clear how we’ll act and how we won’t. Then, the leader has to coach people up to those standards and remove people who continually violate them.
This may take courage, but it’s not complicated.
To me, thinking through the “how” of work, might be the most underrated activity in all of management and leadership. And it can be so easy - even talking for literally an hour with a team about “how are we going to act and how are we not going to act” can make a huge difference.
Photo Credit: Unsplash @quinoal
When it comes to being a husband and father, doing more than just the bare minimum is not difficult. At home, I want to do much more than mail it in.
The obvious reason is because I love my family. I care about them. I find joy in suffering which helps them to be healthy and happy. I believe that surplus is an essential ingredient to making an impactful contribution, and with my family I give up the surplus I have easily, perhaps even recklessly. I love them, after all.
Photo Credit: Unsplash @krisroller
And yet, love doesn’t explain this fully. The ease with which I put in effort at home taps into a deeper well of motivation and purpose.
With Robyn, our marriage is driven by a deeper purpose than having a healthy relationship, or perhaps even the commitment to honoring our vows. We find meaning in building something, in our case a marriage, that could last thousands of years or an eternity if there is a God that permits it. We’re trying to build something that could last until the end of time, until there is nothing of us that exists - in this world or beyond. We’re trying to make a marriage that’s more durable than “as long as we both shall live.” We find meaning in that.
Though we’ve never talked about it explicitly, I think we also find meaning in trying to have a marriage that’s based on equality and mutual respect. It’s as if we’re trying to be a beacon for what a truly equal marriage could look like. I don’t think we’ve succeeded in this yet; I’m certain that despite our best efforts, Robyn still bears an unequal portion of our domestic responsibilities. But yet, we try to find that elusive, perfectly equal, and mutually respectful marriage and we find meaning in that pursuit.
As a father, too, I find purpose and meaning that exeeceds the strong love and attachment I have with my children. I find it so inspiring to be part of something that spans generations and millennia. I am merely the latest steward to pass down the love, knowledge, and virtues of our ancestors. I find it humbling to be part of a lineage that started many centuries ago, and that will hopefully exist for many centuries in the future. Being one, single, link in this longer chain moves me, deeply.
I also believe deeply in a contribution to the broader community, to human society itself. And there too, fatherhood intersects. Part of my responsibility to humanity, I believe, is to raise children that are a net force for goodness - children that because of their actions make the world feel more trustworthy and vibrant. Through my own purification as a father, I can pass a purer set of values and integrity to our children, and accelerate - ever so slightly - the rate at which the arc of humanity and history bends towards justice. This is so lofty and so abstract, but yet, I find meaning in this.
These sources of deep purpose make it easy, trivial even, to put forth an amount of energy toward being a husband and father that a 16 year old me would find incomprehensible.
Finding this deep and durable source of purpose has been harder in my career, though I’m realizing it might have been hidden in plain sight all along.
I often felt maligned when I worked at Deloitte, especially when it felt like the ultimate end product of my time was simply making wealthy partners wealthier. At least Deloitte was a culture of kind people, and also had a sincere commitment to the community - I found some meaning in that.
But in retrospect, I think I missed the point. Deloitte, after all, is a huge consultancy. Its clients are some of the largest and most influential enterprises in the history of the world. Deloitte also produces research that is read by leaders and managers across the world. The amount of lives affected by Deloitte, through its clients, is probably in the billions. While I was there, I had an opportunity - albeit a small one - to affect the managerial quality of the world’s largest companies. That is incredibly meaningful. In retrospect, I wish I would’ve remembered that when I was toiling away on client projects, wishing I was doing anything else to earn a living.
While working in City government, sources of purpose and meaning were easier to find. It was easy to give tremendous effort, for example, toward reducing murders and shootings. I was a civilian appointee, and relatively junior at that - but we were still saving lives, literally. But even beyond that, I found meaning in something more humble - I had the honor and privilege of serving my neighbors. That phrase, serving my neighbors, still wells my eyes up in tears. What a gift it was to serve.
And now, I work in a publicly traded company. We manufacture and sell furniture. These are not prima facie sources of deep meaning and purpose. In the day-to-day, week-to-week, grind I often find myself in the same mindset as I was at Deloitte, asking myself questions like, why am I here, or, am I wasting my time?
And yet, I also realize that with hindsight I would probably realize that meaning and foundation on which to assemble a strong sense of purpose was always there, had I cared enough to look for it.
Why, I have been thinking this week, is it so easy to to find meaning purpose at home, but so difficult at work? There must be a deep well of meaning from which to draw, hidden in plain sight, why can’t I find it?
At home, I realized, we are free. We have nobody ruling us, but us. We are free to explore and think and make our family life what we wish it to be. I think and talk openly with Robyn about our lives. We reflect and grapple with our lived experiences and take it upon ourselves to make meaning from it. We aren’t waiting for anyone else to tell us what our purpose as partners, parents, or citizens.
In a way, at home, we in-source our deliberations of purpose. We literally do it “in house”. We know it is is on us to make meaning of our marriage and our roles as parents, so Robyn and I do it. We have, in effect in-source our search for meaning and purpose.
At work, I have done the opposite.
In my career, I have outsourced my search for meaning and purpose. I’ve waited, without realizing it, for senior executives to tell me why what we’re doing matters. I’ve whined, in my head at least, when the mission statements and visions of companies I’ve worked for - either as an employee or as a consultant - have been vacuous or sterile.
In retrospect, I’ve freely relinquished my agency to create meaning and purpose to the enterprises for which I have worked. What a terrible mistake that was. Why was I waiting for someone else to find purpose for me, when I could’ve been creating it for myself all along?
When companies do articulate statements of purpose well, it is powerful and I appreciate it. My current company has a purpose statement, for example, and it does resonate with me. I’m glad we have one.
But yet, that’s not enough. To really give a tremendous amount of discretionary effort at work, I need to believe in something much more specific to me. After all, even the best statement of purpose put out by a company is, by design, something meant to appeal to tens of thousands of people. I shouldn’t expect a corporate purpose statement to ignite my inspiration, such an expectation is not reasonable or fair. No company will ever write a purpose statement that’s specifically for me, nor should they.
Rather than outsource my search for meaning and purpose, I’ve realized I need to in-source it. Perhaps with questions like these:
What makes my job and working as part of this enterprise special? What’s something about it that’s so valuable and important that I want to put my own ego, career development, and desire to be promoted aside and contribute to the team’s goal? What can I find meaning in and be proud of? What about being here makes me want to put effort in beyond the bare minimum?
Like I said, I work for a furniture company - certainly not something glamorous or externally validated . And yet, there can be so much meaning and purpose in it, if I choose to see it.
We are in people’s homes and we have this ability to rehabilitate people’s bodies and minds. We create something that brings comfort to other people and for every family movie night and birthday party - the biggest and smallest moments in the lives of our customers and their families, we are there. That’s worth putting in a little extra for.
And we’re a Michigan company, headquartered in a relatively small town. I get to be part of a team bringing wealth, prosperity, and respect to our State. I can’t tolerate it when people from elsewhere in the country snub their noses at Michigan, calling us a “fly over” state. I find meaning in that competition to be an outstanding enterprise - why not have the industry leader in furniture manufacturing and retailing be a Michigan company?
Without even considering the meaning and joy I find in creating high-performing teams that unleash people’s talent, there is so much meaning and purpose that’s hidden in plain sight - even at a furniture company. But that meaning is nearly impossible to find unless we stop being dependent on others to create meaning for us - we have to bring the search for purpose back in house.
How interesting might it be if everyone on the team created their own purpose statement, rather than depending on the enterprise to provide one for them? What if companies helped their employees create their own purpose statement instead of making one for them? I think such an approach would be interesting and, no pun intended, meaningful.
Bo tells me what’s on his mind and heart, when it’s just him and I remaining at the dinner table. It’s as if he’s waiting for us to be alone and for it to be quet, and then, right then in that instant he drops a dime on me.
“Today at school, Billy kicked me, Papa.”
This time, thank God, I met him where he was instead of trying to fix his problems.I asked if he was okay, which he was. I passed a deep breath, silently, as I remembered that this is the way of the world - there are good kids that still hit and kick, and there are bullies, and that on the schoolyard stuff does happen. This, I begrudgingly admit to myself, is normal - even though it’s not supposed to happen to my kid.
So I started to ask Bo questions, trying my best to keep my anger from surfacing and making him feel guilty for something he could not control.
Bo, has learned how we do things in our family, what we believe. And in our family, we have strong convictions around nonviolence. He was sad, but he told me that he didn’t hit back. He didn’t meet violence with violence. This is my son, I thought.
I told him how strong he was, and how much strength it takes to not meet a kick with a kick; how strong a person has to be to not retaliate. I said he should be proud of himself, and that I was proud too.
But as we continued, I realized just how much like me, unfortunately, he really is. It also takes strength, I added, to draw a boundary. It takes so much strength to say something like, “I want to be friends with you, but if you continue to kick me, I will not.” It takes so much strength to confront a bully, even an unintentional one.
I talked Bo through the idea of boundaries and how to draw them as best I could. It made him visibly nervous - his five year old cheeks admitting nervous laughter as he tried to change the subject with talk of monkeys and tushys. Boundaries are so hard for him. He really is my son, I thought.
Boundaries have always been hard for me. I haven’t been able to draw them, to say no. They still are. For so long, I couldn’t keep my work at work. I haven’t been able to advocate for my own growth in any job to date or to reject an undesirable project which was unfairly assigned. When a dominating person tries to take and take, I may not roll over, but I don’t challenge them either.
My instinct to please others is so instinctual, I hardly ever know I’m doing it. This inability to draw boundaries is my tragic flaw.
One of my core beliefs about fatherhood is on this idea of breaking the cycle. I think there’s one core sin within me, maybe two, that I can avoid passing on. For me this is the one. This inability to draw boundaries and please others is what I want to break from our linage for all future generations. This is the flaw that I want to disappear when I die. Even before our sons arrived, I promised myself, this ends with me.
As I searched for answers and wisdom in the days that followed, my mind went to Dr. King and the ideas of nonviolence articulated by him and his contemporaries, like Gandhi, who were the only heroes outside of my family that I ever truly had.
I remembered this passage, from his 1963 Letter from a Birmingham Jail(emphasis added is my own):
In any nonviolent campaign there are four basic steps: collection of the facts to determine whether injustices exist; negotiation; self purification; and direct action. We have gone through all these steps in Birmingham. There can be no gainsaying the fact that racial injustice engulfs this community. Birmingham is probably the most thoroughly segregated city in the United States. Its ugly record of brutality is widely known. Negroes have experienced grossly unjust treatment in the courts. There have been more unsolved bombings of Negro homes and churches in Birmingham than in any other city in the nation. These are the hard, brutal facts of the case. On the basis of these conditions, Negro leaders sought to negotiate with the city fathers. But the latter consistently refused to engage in good faith negotiation.
Then, last September, came the opportunity to talk with leaders of Birmingham's economic community. In the course of the negotiations, certain promises were made by the merchants--for example, to remove the stores' humiliating racial signs. On the basis of these promises, the Reverend Fred Shuttlesworth and the leaders of the Alabama Christian Movement for Human Rights agreed to a moratorium on all demonstrations. As the weeks and months went by, we realized that we were the victims of a broken promise. A few signs, briefly removed, returned; the others remained. As in so many past experiences, our hopes had been blasted, and the shadow of deep disappointment settled upon us. We had no alternative except to prepare for direct action, whereby we would present our very bodies as a means of laying our case before the conscience of the local and the national community. Mindful of the difficulties involved, we decided to undertake a process of self purification. We began a series of workshops on nonviolence, and we repeatedly asked ourselves: "Are you able to accept blows without retaliating?" "Are you able to endure the ordeal of jail?" We decided to schedule our direct action program for the Easter season, realizing that except for Christmas, this is the main shopping period of the year. Knowing that a strong economic-withdrawal program would be the by product of direct action, we felt that this would be the best time to bring pressure to bear on the merchants for the needed change.
This letter from Dr. King has always resonated with me. I believe deeply in its ideas of nonviolence and am so humbled by the way Dr. King was able to articulate the point of view so personally, simply, and persuasively.
But I had never before connected the ideas in the letter to my conception of fatherhood. The prose was so relateable and resonant with fatherhood, I found it almost damning.
I do not want my sons to bear the weight that I have borne. I want this flaw - the inability to draw boundaries - to end with me. Others, I’m sure, have others crosses that they bear that they do not want to pass on, whether it’s emotional vacancy, substance abuse, or the fear of failure. Everyone’s tragic flaw is surely different.
But what’s true for me is true for all: I need to lead by example. I will pass what I do not wish to my sons, unless I walk the walk. I need to do the self-purification that Dr. King talks about. I must make a deep change within, if I want to see the change in Bo, Myles, and Emmett.
I cannot simply say to Bo that he must draw boundaries, I must also learn to draw boundaries. I cannot simply coach Bo on how to stand his ground, I have to stand my ground. I cannot simply tell Bo that he has to say no, even when he’s intimidated, I must say no to those that intimidate me.
To break the cycle, I must engage in self-purification that results in direct action.
Dr. King’s conception of nonviolence seems to get at what the essence of fatherhood is for me. It’s a process of trying to be better, in hopes that if we are better they might be better. That they might have one less cross to bear, one less flaw to resolve.
The flaw my father sacrificed for me was that of self-expression. He found it so difficult in his life to articulate what he was thinking and feeling. And that’s what he pushed me to do.
He encouraged me to sing, act, and dance. Even though it was expensive and we didn’t have a ton of extra money growing up, he and my mother never said no to the performing arts. He always showed up, every recital and performance.
But more importantly, he worked to be better himself and I saw that, up close. He joined the local Toastmasters club for awhile. He took online courses in Marketing. Towards the end of his life, he even tried to open his heart to me.
What my father did, was the journey all fathers seem to take. When we are young, we are invincible and full of swag. Then, along the way, we realize and then accept that our fathers are not superheroes, but mere mortals. Then, whether voluntarily or by the hand of life’s misfortunes, we realize that we are flawed, too - before we have children if we’re lucky.
And then the rest of our life is the singularly focused story of overcoming that tragic flaw. The sin we must not pass on, for no reason, perhaps, other than that we must, because that’s what father’s do.
And then there’s our final act, if we are lucky enough to see it. Our children are grown, and are on the precipice of having children of their own. And we hope, with all our hearts, that we have conquered some sin, that we’ve overcome that tragic flaw enough to not pass it on.
Then we pray, with what energy we have left, that our children forgive us for what we could not manage to redeem.
Photo Credit: Unsplash @polarmermaid
Detroit has taken me in like no place I have ever lived.
Photo Credit: Unsplash @gerogia\_vis
Having left Buffalo at age 5, I don’t remember much other than glimpses of my Kindergarten classroom, the nearby Tops grocery store, and the red-haired girl named Dina who lived next door - who was both my first friend and someone I will likely never hear of again.
Rochester was where I lived for most of my childhood, a well-to-do northern suburb of Detroit. It was a good place to grow up, but there were enough glares that I received in public - which I realize now were from a place of discomfort and skepticism, probably about race - to never allow that place to feel like one I could be from.
Ann Arbor was nice - lively, intellectual, and inclusive. People there were kind, even though I was a shrimpy college kid, and therefore loud and usually irritating to the locals.
Living there, something funny happened. The same, race-based, alienation I felt in Rochester made me feel exotic in Ann Arbor. It was as if the town was so oriented toward inclusion, people so willing to be kind, that my race felt extra salient.
That attitude of inclusivity that seemed to permeate the town was so generous, and I am grateful to have lived in place that was so midwestern, in the purest sense. But alas, Ann Arbor couldn’t feel like home for the same reason Disney World cannot: Ann Arbor is among the happiest of places, but it’s too magical - just beyond what feels real - to feel like I could actually be from there.
I never expected Detroit to be the place, the first place, to feel like home. And yet, here we are.
One of my favorite things to do while running is to wave. I wave at everyone I see. When I used to live nearer to the City center, I would go jogging, often ending up downtown. And no matter who it was I waved at - whether old, young, rich, poor, without a fixed address, or a young professional walking a dog - almost everyone waved back at me. This place, Detroit, I thought, was different.
When started working as in intern in City government, later joining the Police Department I was in the most diverse workforce I’d ever been part of, and not just on the basis of race. But also by age, professional experience, creed, sexual orientation, educational background, family origin, and likelihood to use profanity.
And yet, no matter whether I was talking to a career public servant, a political operative, a cop, a returned citizen, a pastor, a basketball coach, or an activist - people were cool with me. Citizens I met because of my job were cool with me. Everyone was cool with me. It wasn’t that people treated me in any special way - they were just cool with it.
It was precisely that I wasn’t special, that made the interactions I had feel so uncommon. For the first time in my life, I was just a guy doing a job. I was treated, just like a regular guy. If I was a decent guy, they were decent back. If I was respectful, I got it back. I was given the chance to just…be a guy doing a job. Detroit, I thought, is different.
When we moved into our neighborhood, I realized this Detroiter kindness wasn’t a coincidence or an unusual deference paid to me because I was a political appointee.
When Robyn and I walked down the street, first with our pup, and later with our sons, people would smile and wave back. Our neighbors, irrespective of our obvious demographic differences, actually wanted to know us. We would talk on the street, and everywhere we went, we got to be Neil and Robyn, that young couple up the street with the black dog and those three sons who were always rolling around on a stroller, tricycle, or scooter. This could be the last place I ever live, and that’d be nice, I thought. Seeing myself in this one place, for the rest of my days was different.
And then there was Church today, which reminded me of all this Detroit kindness and brought these memories about place back to the forefront of my mind in a surge.
Gesu is a Catholic Church of the Jesuit tradition. It’s a place where every week, during church announcements, any one who is a guest is invited to stand and be recognized. And the applause that follows is unfailingly sincere. I know many churches do this, but it just feels so sincere and never something that is just going through the motions.
In the pews there, I can be there and listen and pray. I don’t feel the searing eyes of the congregation, questioning why I’m there, when I don’t come forward to take communion. At that point in the service, when it’s time to give a sign of peace to others, people give me a sign of peace, warmly. It feels different.
There is an usher at the 8:00am Mass who is always at the door near where we usually sit. He is dressed well, usually with a brown overcoat, brown turtleneck, and a thin gold chain. He is older, but what I notice more is that he’s always smiling. At the end of mass today, he came over to say, “you have a beautiful family, such nice kids.”
“Thank you, we are blessed,” I said. And after a pause I added, with the slightest trepidation, “I’m Neil.”
“I’m Fitz. They call me Fitz. And this is my friend Walter.”
This type of interaction, genuinely kind and without any frills, pomp, or reservation, has only ever happened to me at Churches in Detroit. Detroit is different.
If you’ve never been here, I must admit that I don’t know quite how to describe Detroiter kindness. It’s genuine, but not from a place of bubbly energy or naïveté. It’s warm, but never given with waste or haste. It’s a no frills, meet-energy-with-energy, this is just how we do it, sort of kindness. It’s a kindness that seems like it can only be given by a person that’s lived in a City who has seen some things. It is a kindness that is not flashy and lavish, but is also not meek, and because of that it feels more sincere and is somewhat disarming. It’s a kindness that can only be earned, I think, not inherited.
Detroiter kindness is different.
I am so grateful for this place, and for it’s kindness. For many years I felt like a nomad in my own country, my identity caught between geography, ancestry, demeanor, and race. When someone asked me where I was from, I didn’t have an answer I actually felt comfortable saying or actually believed.
But now, I can say, “I’m from Detroit.” And it’s actually true. I actually feel it, and feel it in my bones. What a gift it has been for Detroit to have taken me in. What a blessing it is to finally be home.
When I have an organizational problem - like an underperforming team, or an organization that seems like it’s stuck - I just want a mental model to help me figure it out that is practical and simple to use. As a practitioner, what I care about is having something that works.
I found inspiration after reading a Works in Progress article about making energy too cheap to meter: organizations are energy processes which create, harness, and apply human energy. To solve organizational problems, all we need to do is improve how the organization creates and applies energy.
Photo Credit: Unsplash @pavement\_special
When I say “energy processes”, I mean something like what I’ve outlined below. Take nuclear fission as an example. The end to end process for creating and applying nuclear energy happens in four steps:
- Accumulate a fuel source (uranium) from which energy can be created
- Create energy from the fuel source (i.e., using a nuclear reactor)
- Harness and transmit the energy (create electricity via a steam turbine and deliver it to a plug in someone’s home)
- Apply it to something of value (the electricity goes into a lamp which someone uses to read a favorite book after sunset)
Organizations, similarly, are an energy process:
- The fuel that powers organizations are people and the ideas, information, expertise, and the motivation they bring to the table (i.e., like the uranium)
- Organizations try to get their people to put forth effort that can be used to create something of value (i.e., like the nuclear reactor).
- Organizations then create systems to harness the efforts of their people and channel it into collective goals (i.e., like the steam turbine and power lines)
- The organization tries to ensure all the energy they’ve created goes into something that the end customer actually cares about, which they can be compensated for (i.e., like the reading lamp used to read a novel)
Thinking of organizations as energy processes can help us understand organizational challenges quickly and simply. When I have an organizational problem I can quickly ask myself these four questions, and determine where my organization’s issues lie:
- Do we have enough “fuel” to create energy?
- How much energy are we creating?
- How much energy are we harnessing?
- Are we applying our energy to something of value?
You can be the judge of whether this mental model is simple and useful. The rest of this post gives some detail on how to actually use the energy process model to diagnose an organizational problem.
Question 1: Do we have enough “fuel” to create energy?
One of my favorite questions to ask a teammate is: what percent of your potential impact do you feel like you are actually making? In my experience, most people are not even close to fully applying their skills, talents and ideas. A tremendous amount of potential is wasted in organizations.
To get a sense of whether there’s sufficient “fuel” in your organization or the degree to which potential is wasted, look for the following:
- Complaints - if people are complaining, it means they have energy they’re not using and care enough to say something.
- Regrettable losses - if people are leaving your company and getting good jobs and promotional opportunities elsewhere, at least one other organization seems something that you do not
- Ask the team - people care about whether they’re wasting their time and energy. If you ask them, they’ll tell you if they have talents and energy that are being wasted
- Ask yourself this question: if I assumed the people around me had talent, potential, and cared, would I be acting differently? If you answer that question with a “yes” it probably means you have more potential around you than you realize.
In my experience, it is almost never the case that an organization lacks sufficient “fuel” to create energy. Don’t shift the blame to the people around you, look inward first.
Question 2: How much energy are we creating?
I loved The Last Dance, the ESPN Films miniseries the 1997-1998 NBA Champion Chicago Bulls. It was remarkable to me how that team seemed to try so hard, and how Michael Jordan was able to be a catalyst, pulling tremendous amounts of energy from his teammates. Watching the documentary, the energy being created was obvious.
To get a sense of whether your organization is creating energy, look for the following::
- Body language and non-verbals - If you work in an office, walk the floor and observe people through the windows of conference rooms, so you can’t hear what people are saying - just observe with your eyes. Do people seem like they want to be there or are trying very hard? Do they look bored? It’s pretty easy to see the parts of your organization that have energy just by being a fly on the wall and paying attention.
- Experiments - When people are trying new things - whether its practices, sharing new ideas, or under the radar projects that nobody has asked for - it’s a good indication that energy is being created. It doesn’t have to be a grand novelty. I just had a colleague the other day, our team’s agile scrum master, that tried out a new framework for debriefing our bi-weekly sprint of work. He literally changed our four usual questions to four new questions. He just did it. I immediately thought, “our team has some energy and psychological safety if our scrum master is trying new things - this is awesome.”
- Spontaneous Fun - I love to see teams that celebrate birthdays, bring snacks to work, create trivia games, or play pranks on each other. These are examples of activities that take energy that don’t have to occur to get the job done, they’re just for fun. If people are spending time putting energy toward having fun at work, it probably means they have plenty of energy for the work itself
- Engagement Scores - Again, there are lots of survey companies that can help your organization execute a simple engagement survey. The ball don’t lie, and you can track engagement over time. If you have high engagement it probably means your organization is creating a lot of energy..
Question 3: How much energy are we harnessing?
One of my favorite bits of comedy is the Abbott and Costello, “Who’s on first?” skit. Nobody has any idea what’s going on and they have a pointless conversation with no conclusion. It’s hilarious to watch, and an excellent illustration of what it feels like when there’s lots of energy around but it’s not being channeled and applied.
To get a sense of whether your organization is effectively harnessing and applying energy, look for the following:
- Low value work - In a factory setting, it can be easy to spot waste. In corporate offices, it’s harder to spot or prove inefficiency. Low value work is a good tell. If people don’t have anything better to do than low-value, non-impactful, work it probably means your organization isn’t harnessing energy well because it’s going into something that’s not worthwhile. When people have the opportunity to do something more impactful, they tend to.
- “It’s not my job” - The phrase “it’s not my job” or when people toss work over the fence, it’s a strong indicator that someone, somewhere, doesn’t know what their job actually is or that they have any direction on what to do. If your organization is constantly trying to offload work to someone else, it probably means energy is being wasted and that there’s ambiguity around what matters and what doesn’t.
- Silos and Bad Meetings - Every organization I’ve ever worked for has talked about how they’re “siloed” or that there are a lot of “useless meetings”. These are signs, again, that teams don’t know what they’re doing or know what the organization’s goal is. If people have the time to tolerate “silos” and “bad meetings” (which are easily fixed with clear goals and basic discipline), it probably means the organization isn’t harnessing energy well.
- Sprint and Milestone Velocity: There’s a great concept from Agile called “sprint velocity”. It basically measures how much work (measured in “points” which are pre-assigned) the team was able to accomplish in a given amount of time, usually two weeks. When the sprint velocity rises, it means the team accomplished more with the same amount of time and resources invested. You don’t need to operate on a sprint team to use the concept - just look at how long simple things things - like making decisions, building presentations, or executing a contract - takes to complete. If you find yourself saying, “there has to be a faster way to do this” it probably means your organization isn’t harnessing and applying it’s energy effectively.
In my experience, organizations harness just a fraction of the energy they create. Sometimes all it takes it setting a clear goal and making it clear “who’s on first”.
Question 4: Are we applying our energy to something of value?
This area of the framework is where the stereotypical strategy and marketing questions come into play, like “where do we play”, “how do we win”, and “how are we differentiated”. To get a broad sense of whether your organization is in a virtuous cycle of value creation or a doom loop of commotodization, here are some quick heuristics to get a sense how bad your strategy issues are:
- Revenue per employee or market share growth - if your organization’s revenue per employee or market share (or it’s equivalent) lags comparable industry players, you’re probably not doing something right - either you have energy problems further upstream, or, your organization is putting your energy into something people don’t actually care about.
- Races to the bottom - if your company is trying harder and harder to grow, but you are constantly feeling downward pressure on prices, it probably isn’t providing a compelling product that people are happy to pay a premium for - because they get more than they pay for. If you feel like you’re in a race to the bottom, you need your customers more than they need you.
- Customer feedback and referrals - This is obvious, if people are telling their friends about you or sending you thank you letters, it probably means you’re doing something of value to them - they’re literally marketing you for free. That willingness to show gratitude and spread the word means you’ve done something worthwhile for them.
That Works in Progress article I linked was so interesting, to me. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. It suggested that something that disproportionally drives human progress is when energy becomes exponentially cheaper. What the author argued for was trying to make it so that energy was so clean, so cheap, and so abundant that it would be “too cheap to meter”.
Most of the time, organizations I’ve been part of miss the big picture about their organizational problems. Thinking through the lens of the energy process model brings this to light: the biggest opportunities for organizational energy are in creating it, not harnessing it.
To be sure, improving how we harness and apply energy matters - there’s opportunity at each phase of the organizational energy framework. But creating energy is the largest and most game breaking area to explore, by far.
Can you imagine what organizations would be like if there was so much human energy created that it was “too cheap to meter”? None of the world’s problems would be out of reach. Not one.
In my reflection, the linchpin of goodness is courageous action on the hard stuff, and the linchpin of courageous action is love.
Love, my sons, is what everything we’re discussing comes down to, and not in a soft, lofty, squishy, and non-specific way. For the purpose of goodness, love is tangible and tactical. Love is the brass tacks of the whole enterprise.
As I’ve thought about love, and where it comes from, the most important practice I can think of is listening. And I don’t mean just listening with your ears and your intellect. I mean the most comprehensive listening possible - with your heart, and your whole body and spirit.
There’s absolutely no chance in the world of loving someone if you know nothing about them. At it’s root, love is knowing something of another person’s story. And when we hear that story, we find something to love about them. Something about their essence and what makes them unique and special. Something of the grace that God himself has place within them to shine forth. You have to understand the truth, at least a little to start, of who someone is to love them.
There’s no chance of this knowing of someone and finding something about them to love – with that deep unselfish, sacrificial, redemptive love – unless your heart is open to listening. Knowing and loving someone cannot occur without listening.
Photo Credit: Unsplash @christinhumephoto
Listening is what puts us on the journey to love, because once we start to understand the compelling story, gifts, and grace that everyone has, we are drawn to them – just a little bit more than we were. And then we learn more of their grace, and we’re drawn in a little closer. And then a little closer.
Listening is like gravity, drawing us in closer. As we listen, we start to recognize the light in them that’s as important or more important than our own needs. We start to value who they are, and feel a genuine sense of care and concern for their well being. They become “same human beings.” And without even realizing it, there comes to be love there.
Listening, perhaps, is not a sufficient condition to love, but it is the first necessary condition to love.
When it comes to figuring out how to love, therefore, there is no bigger question than how to open up our whole body and heart and listen. The more and better we can listen, the more its gravity draws us in closer to love.
We can start with the basics. There are tips and practices I suggest to help with the mechanical aspects of listening. Before we learn to listen with our whole body and heart, we can try to listen with just our ears.
There are plenty of resources to help you with it, like these articles from NPR, Harvard Business Review, or TED. Some of the basics techniques are things like, “be quiet”, “confirm your understanding with questions”, or “reserve judgement”; a simple Google search will help you find many other tactics you can use to help with the mechanics of listening.
I don’t have much to add to the body of knowledge on the mechanics of listening and active listening. You can read about and practice those skills on your own. What I’ve found, however, is that to really listen in such a way that it leads to a bond of love, it’s a practice requiring more than just the mechanical. Listening that creates gravity between you and someone else takes opening your heart, which is a much different enterprise than what is thought of commonly as “listening.”
Again we turn to the how. How can we open our hearts?
As 2022 began, I set out on an experiment to create an intentional reflection practice to build courage.
The most important thing I learned was a simple, data-backed conclusion: I only predict what the hardest moment of my day will be about 5% of the time. This is astounding to me. I am far worse at predicting how my own day will turn out than meteorologists are at predicting the weather.
Part of that is because by envisioning the day ahead I am prepared to deal with one situation and find it less hard than it would otherwise have been. But still, almost every day I logged an entry this year, something unpredictable happened.
Any last hope I was clinging to about how much certainty I had in my own life has vanished in a flurry of nervous laughter. But as I struggled this week to understand what this jarring finding meant, I realized that the inverse is also true: just as I cannot predict the hardest part of my day, I cannot predict what good things will happen in the day ahead, either. Just as I am faced with unexpected suffering, I also stumble into unexpected joy.
The real important question then boils down to this: how do I minimize unexpected suffering and increase unexpected joy?
Again, I looked back at the data from my notebook. What were some of the patterns behind what I thought I should do differently during the hardest moments of my days?
Some of the basics were so simple they were almost boring. During the year, the ways I identified to better handle the hardest parts of the day boiled down to these: get enough rest, eat nutritious feed, create time to plan and think, create boundaries (especially with work), resolve conflict with other people calmly and immediately, and perhaps most importantly - assuming positive intent by meeting the person in front of me where they are and remember that we’re both the same human beings.
Doing these basics works to minimize suffering because they lead to better decisions - both in resolving the suffering at hand and in creating fewer problems for our future selves.
Eating well, for example, makes me less groggy in dealing with a difficult child right now and makes me less likely to hear bad news from a cholesterol test I need to take 6 months from now. Creating time to think makes me get my most important chores done faster today and it helps us plan out routine maintenance on our house so we don’t end up with a furnace that fails “suddenly.”
Similarly, these basic practices help to create joy because they create the conditions for intense connection with others - whether other people, ideas, nature, or spiritual truths.
Creating boundaries, for example, helps me prevent conflict with colleagues on a new project and builds momentum for a meaningful working relationship. Resolving conflict with Robyn calmly and immediately builds trust between us and can become a catalyst to deepen our relationship rather than undermine it. And perhaps most powerfully, I’ve found this year that assuming positive intent creates a halo of safe space, and leads to the sort of deep talk and open-hearted compassion that builds deep bonds.
This was even the case with strangers - like the Michigan alum behind us in line at the Phoenix Airport rental car desk last Monday. After he awkwardly passed comment on Robyn nursing while standing in line, we assumed positive intent instead of malice. Turns out he was friendly and caring, and he ended up telling us a great story about catching a Yankees game at Fenway Park with his brothers after taking a trip to Boston on a whim. It was an unexpected delight on an otherwise terrible travel day with long waits, uncomfortable seats, and several bouts of nausea.
Moments of deep connection can happen at almost any time, with almost any person if the right conditions are present. So how do we do these basics, and create the conditions for unexpected joy to emerge?
All of these basics, it seems, start with a calm and peaceful mind.
It’s just not possible to meet someone where they are without a calm and peaceful mind. It’s just not possible to think and plan without a calm and peaceful mind. It’s just not possible to resolve conflict effectively without a calm and peaceful mind. It’s not even possible to eat or sleep properly - among the most basic human functions - without a calm and peaceful mind.
It seems as if all roads to unexpected joy run through having a calm and peaceful mind. Cultivating a calm and peaceful mind through meditation, deep breathing, gratitude, and prayer, therefore, is the practice I resolve to build this year.
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Items needed: A quiet place, about 15 minutes, Mala (Rosary)
Photo Credit: Unsplash @towfiqu999999
Morning practice: Choose one word or short phrase that represents the day’s intention, this is the day’s mantra. Close eyes and enter a comfortable seated position. Take a deep inhale. Upon exhale think or repeat the mantra. Advance one bead in the rosary and repeat until one cycle of the rosary is complete.
Evening Practice: Complete day’s reflection activities. Close eyes and enter a comfortable seated position. Start with articulating gratitudes, advance one bead in the rosary for each gratitude expressed. Try to repeat for half the rosary.
Finish with prayer or some other expression of care and concern for others. Advance one bead for each prayer / thought for others expressed. Attempt to complete rosary with combined expressions of gratitudes and prayers - if beads remain, do one deep breath for each that remains until rosary complete.
Children are selfish. By design. That’s what they’re supposed to do and their survival depends on it. From the moment they are born, they demand that we feed them, clothe them, protect them, love them, and bathe them.
Photo Credit: Unsplash @adroman
And so did I. Like every other person that has ever lived, I was a selfish child. Far into adolescence, I was selfish, even if it was slightly less so than the day I was born.
As we age, it seems as if life extracts the selfishness, little by little, from our bodies and minds. First through marriage, then through children. For those of us who believe, through faith also. Through the intensities of grief and joy the selfishness is stolen sneakily, by the experience of life itself - if we let it.
If I am lucky enough to live a full life, without sudden death, I don’t know, exactly, what it will be like to die. I know it’s coming someday, but say I am dying at 95 from the ailment of a having a body that has long since depreciated past its useful life - what will it be like? I meditate on what it might be so that I can be prepared.
If I am so lucky to not die a sudden death, I think it may actually be like the movies. That’s what I hope for, anyway.
When I meditate on what I will be thinking and feeling on my deathbed, I imagine being close to Robyn and our children. I think I will want to just sit with them, drinking water and eating rice with lentils. Simple food, that does not distract from the company.
As I visualize myself slowly chewing the tasteless rice, my deathbed meditation progress to its very last moments.
I am there. Robyn is there. Our sons are there, and even in my foggy mental state, and despite the excruciating pain of inhabiting a dying body, I can tell our sons are grown because the hair on their temples has started to grey - that is the mark of a grown man in our line.
And then, at the very end, I gaze at Robyn. I am there, trying to muster some last words before I go ahead. In that last moment I do not ask for more painkillers. I do not cry. I do not beg God for more time. I do not say to her, “tell me you love me.” In those last moments, I am determined not to take.
With the last breaths of oxygen I breathe, and the last beats of my heart, before my thoughts go dark, I will try to say, “I love you.”
I will try to give love, to her, until the literal end of my life. Until God takes me from her embrace. In that moment, when I am as vulnerable as the day I was born, I dream of giving whatever love remains. Just like that. Just like the movies.
In life, and death, there can be so much suffering. That’s part of the deal. But what a beautiful thing to be part of. It is wonderful to know that if we must suffer the fate of death that there’s at least a fighting chance that life will have transformed us from something selfish into something more gracious.
It is utterly remarkable to me that we can go from being newborns, designed to be selfish, into giving beings. What a beautiful and curious thing it is, that after the immense suffering of our lives, at the moment of imminent death, our singular focus, above even our own survival, can become, “I love you.”
Being that, a giving being, is what I hope to become.
As is the tradition in our household, we were preparing for a dinner with our extended family to celebrate the 3rd birthday of our second son, Myles. And as any parent knows, that means the entire day leading up to dinner is spent joyously on…cleaning!
Today, I thought of a new frame to try with our older sons, Bo and Myles, to motivate them to help us clean, starting with their explosion of toys in our small family room.
“Bo and Myles. Mommy and I spend a lot of effort cleaning, like the kitchen, floors, bathroom and laundry, on behalf of the entire family. Could you be leaders on cleaning up your toys in the family room? We need you to take the lead in the family room, just like mommy and I take the lead on other things, so that we can be ready for Myles’ birthday party and so we can all live in a clean house.”
The reframe worked instantly. And more importantly, it was more true and sincere than how I usually chirp and nag at our sons to tidy up after themselves. We really do need them to take lead on cleaning up their toys in the family room on behalf of us all.
But as Bo, our five year old gleefully said, “Yeah! I wanna be a leader! I wanna be a leader”, I paused.
Am I goading our sons to obsess with being a leader? Am I feeding the hero-worship our culture can have around leadership? Am I pushing them into conflating leadership with praise and celebrity?
As I kept sweeping and they dug into putting way magnet tiles and action figures, I began thinking about the concepts at play in the moment. In our country and culture, we seem to conflate the idea of being a “leader” and being a “hero”.
This is how the concepts seem to work, at least in the United States. A “leader” is someone who takes responsibility. A “celebrity” is someone who is popular and exalted by others. A “hero” is an intersection of both.
It seems to me, that what we really need in the world is more people who take responsibility. We need leaders on every block.
I want my sons to take responsibility and lead. I want to take responsibility and lead myself, for whatever my team, my family, or my community needs me to take lead on. I want there to be more people who take responsibility for every little nook and cranny of the world - I think the world would naturally become a wonderful place if that was the case.
If some of those people who are taking responsibility become celebrities, I suppose I don’t mind.
What I observed and realized this morning while cleaning, is that I feel the pressure to be a “hero.” I feel the tension of the prevailing culture that makes it seem like success is success if and only if I am exalted. I see the people who get promoted because they’re good at promoting themselves (without actually being good at their job responsibilities), and I feel the pressure of self-promotion, too
It makes me think: what am I committed to? Am I committed to taking responsibility, even if I’m not applauded for it? Am I committed to leading, even if it’s quiet and unnoticed?
As a parent, what am I helping my sons to become? Am I teaching them to lead, or am I teaching them that taking responsibility only matters if we also become celebrities?
And then of course, there’s the vexing version of these questions for anyone who is the designated leader of a team or an enterprise: are we creating an environment where people care about taking responsibility, or, are we creating an environment where they fight to become company celebrities?
I think I ought to be creating teams and enterprises which value responsibility over celebrity, but is that what I’m actually doing? Is that what I’m actually role modeling?
These questions matter because how people are motivated in organizational life is an expansive, global, flywheel for talent development, culture, and value creation at the planetary-level. It feels daunting, and anything we try to do might feel insignificant.
But that’s not true, our individual actions affect what the collective culture around leadership becomes. Even though the scale of leadership culture is literally worldwide, we can start by examining how we tell stories about ourselves, and how we reinforce behavior on our own teams. We can start making improvements in our little corner of the organizational world, and we ought to.
I was sitting on the couch writing this post and our five-year old son, Bo, was interested in what I was writing. I just had a great conversation with him about leaders and heroes. Here are some notes and a few tools if you’re a parent that wants to talk about why being a leader is important, even if you’re not a hero.
Me: What do you think a leader is?
Bo: Someone who does the right thing.
Me: I agree with you. I think a leader is someone who does the right thing and takes responsibility to help people.
Me: Let me explain what a Venn Diagram is to you. [I used the diagram below and we talked about dogs and animals we know. I explained how in this Venn diagram some animals are dogs, some animals have black fur, and if a dog has black fur it goes in the middle.]
***Me****: Now, let me show you what I was writing about. [I showed him the Leader vs. Hero vs. Celebrity Venn diagram above] Do you think a leader has to be popular and everyone has to know and talk about them?*
Bo: Yeah!
Me: I disagree with you bud, let me explain why. What about Captain America. Does he do the right thing and help people?
Bo: He does!
Me: Do a lot of people know him?
Bo: I think so?
Me: I think you’re right, a lot of people do know about Captain America and talk about him. What do you think matters more - that Captain America does the right thing and helps people, or that a lot of people talk about him?
Bo: That he does the right thing! That he does the right thing!
Me: I agree with you bud. Some people are heroes, like Captain America. They do the right thing, take responsibility, and help people. They’re also popular and a lot of people talk about them. That’s what I think a hero is. But I agree with you, it’s fine if someone helps people and is popular, but I think what’s more important is that they do the right thing and help people.
Bo: Mommy, mommy! Captain America helps people and is a leader, that’s the best part about him!
This post is an excerpt from Choosing Goodness - a series of letters to my sons, that is both a memoir and a book of everyday philosophy. To find out more about this project, click here.
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Why do we need to be good people?
Photo Credit: Unsplash @jvshbk
We have two really difficult problems when we humans live in a community of others rather than in the state of nature. We have the problem of how to ensure that the community doesn't devolve into a state of violence (i.e., we have to create rules and institutions), and, we have the problem of ensuring that the corrupting influence of power doesn't cause the system of government to rot from within.
My whole adult life, until your mom and I found out we were having you, I've been reading, writing, and thinking about institutions and how to create and run them well. Take a look at our bookshelf at home, the majority of what you'll find are books about institutions in one way or another. For most of my life, I've been nutty about making institutions work better and changing the system to make sure they do.
But since I've been reflecting on fatherhood, and starting to write these letters to you, I've grown more and more confused about institutions and their role in society. I suppose I've come to see institutions more for what they are: an intentional concentration of power that is bounded by rules, controls, and systems to ensure, god willing, that it’s wielded benevolently, and without abuse.
As I’ve challenged myself to think about institutions through the lens of power and goodness, I’ve cooled my singular focus on building better institutions. I don’t like the world that I foresee an institutions heavy approach would create, because institutions necessarily manage, regulate, and constrain freedoms.
I don’t want our world to be one where to resolve conflict, prevent violence, and deter corruption we stack rule on top of rule, penalty on top of penalty, oversight board after oversight board, and check after balance all to deal with conflict and the corrupting influence of power. I don't like the idea of a community that is so controlled and I'm not even sure that it's a strategy that would ultimately lead to less conflict, violence, and corruption.
Which makes building character, and moving toward a vision where our community and culture chooses freely to walk the path of goodness so important to me. A culture motivated by goodness deals with conflict, violence, and corruption by preventing it in the first place; character doesn't require changing institutions, it reduces the need for institutions in the first place.
To be sure, building character and a goodness-motivated culture is at least as difficult as reforming institutions. And we will always obviously need better institutions - the size of our society requires it.
But if it were possible to make our world a place that built character and a culture of goodness, I would much rather live in that world than a world on the verge of subduing itself through laws, regulation, and an ever greater requirement to concentrate power in institutions so those laws and regulations can be enforced.
The schism here you must be feeling, as to how your individual choice to choose the work and walk the path of goodness ladders up to the community’s aggregate culture, is not lost on me. It’s hard to see how individual acts affect the broader culture. But they are connected, because our individual actions affect perceptions of normal and vice-versa.
Our decisions and actions are infectious. The actions you take don't necessarily compel others to behave a certain way, but they do have influence because our actions shape what's normal. For example if you lie, others you interact with consistently will think it is more normal to lie than they otherwise would have, had you not lied. And if you lie consistently, it will give others more implicit, social permission to lie than they otherwise would have. Over time, these seemingly little acts will generate a feedback loop which eventually will be powerful enough to shift what constitutes normal behavior around lying and telling the truth.
But conversely, if you tell the truth, and do it consistently, it will give others the implicit, social permission to tell the truth. Your actions, you see, have reverberations beyond your own life. The book How Behavior Spreads, by Damon Centola, explain this complex system dynamic of how behaviors spread from neighborhood to neighborhood. Pick up that book from our bookshelf at home for a rich discussion about this point.
This observation of how our actions affect others and how the culture affects us is especially important to keep in mind because of the time we live in. Social technologies make it easier and faster to influence what’s normal. And I've noticed that the terrible parts of our humanity are the ideas that spread wider and faster. And so our perception of normal gets skewed.
If we - and by that I mean you and me specifically, in addition to “society” - don't choose the work and walk the path of goodness, behaving with goodness will become less normal, and perhaps even become abnormal eventually. And that to me is a scary, scary world. But remember, we have the ability to shape what is normal with our own choices. Why not shape that normal to be goodness instead of the abuse of power?
I'm not much of a gambler, as you three will come to learn as you get older, but I'll make a bet with you. I bet that at some point in your life you will be in some position of power. Whether at work, at school, or volunteering - in some role, whether big or small. In some, if not all, of these positions you will have an opportunity to be corrupt, even if just in a small way. You'll have an opportunity to abuse the power you have to enrich yourself at the expense of others. And you'll have to make a decision to give into this temptation or not.
The key point here is not that you'll be in a position of power at some point in life, or that in that position you'll have a choice between goodness and power. That is all obvious, and something we've been considering together in these letters since the very beginning.
They key point, rather, is that this choice between goodness and power, between character and corruption will have a real effect on other people's lives. In that moment, when the opportunity to abuse power is thrust in front of you, how you choose to act will have real consequences. How you choose will affect what’s normal, even if it’s just in a small way that adds up over time.
If you choose to live in a community with others, the tension between power and goodness will be a constant part of your life, for your whole life. The choice is not imaginary, it’s a real choice, with real stakes that we must make.
Because we came out of the state of nature, and chose to live in communities this tension between power and goodness, between corruption and integrity will always be part of our life. It's a struggle we have inherited from our mothers and fathers before us and their mothers and fathers before them. And because we are mere mortals, and are not perfectly good, we, as a society, formed rules and institutions to help us navigate and manage that tension.
This may always be what mothers and father think as they prepare for their children to be born, but the America you are being born into seems more and more like it is consumed by a lust of power and control, which leads an ever escalating cycle of conflict, rules, the struggle to control those rules, and conflict again.
I always wondered why your Dada wanted to sacrifice everything and move to the United States. And one day he finally told me. Of course, part of what we sought was greater opportunities for prosperity – what he thought of as a better life than the poverty he experienced in his youth and early adulthood. But I’ll never forget what we hold me next.
He saw corruption in India, his motherland, and in America, his adoptive land. And that’s true. All places, I think, have some amount of corruption, albeit in different forms. But what your Dada believed to be difference between corruption in India and America was that in America the corruption didn’t affect “little people” in their everyday lives. Regular people could have a good life without having to succumb to the effects of corruption on a daily basis. In the halls of power, sure, there was corruption. But he respected that in America regular, everyday, people didn’t get squashed by it.
In the decades since I talked with your Dada about his aspirations to emigrate to America, and his view of life here, I’ve come to agree with him. Corruption is a leach. It siphons prosperity through graft and rent seeking. It saps people of their trust in each other and in institutions. It’s a disease, comparable to a cancer, that slowly eats away at a pleasant, peaceful, and prosperous society. The real enemy of any society is not a policy decision or a rival policy – we all have a stake in solving the corruption problem. To make the community a place worth living in, corruption is our common enemy.
The real practical question to me, then, is how. We have a few strategies, as we’ve seen, to address the problem of corruption. To me abundance is an enabler not a solution. Homogenization is a non-starter. That leaves only two viable strategies – building character and building institutions.
My case for “why goodness” and the need to build character into our culture boils down to this: If we choose to live in community with others, the incidence of corruption is inevitable. Accepting corruption is not an option, and neither is homogenization. We can’t depend on abundance to solve our problems, either. That leaves us with the choices to build institutions and build character, and in reality we need to do both.
But building more institutions comes at a hefty price because the more institutions we depend on, the less freedom we will have. Every rule we make constrains our future choices. That leaves goodness as our best option, even though building a society driven by goodness is extremely challenging. If we choose to leave the state of nature and live in community with others, we must also choose the work and walk the path of goodness so that we can do our part to preserve as much of our freedoms as possible.
The world I hope for me and your mother, and the world I hope to pay forward to you, my three sons, is a world that is truly free – like the freedom of heaven the renowned Bengali poet Rabindranath Tagore describes in Gitanjali 35.
Instead of succumbing to a culture struggling for power, I hope you aspire to find peace in goodness and that the world ends up requiring fewer rules and institutions as time goes on, instead of more. I hope you are persuaded that our freedom, from the ever growing reach of rules and institutions, is inextricably linked to goodness. But for that to happen, more and more people have to choose the work to walk the path of goodness, rather than power. And that my sons, starts with us and the choices we make every day of our lives. We must choose.
The center of a family is not its family room, the heart of a family lies in its dining room, at the table it gathers around.
Photo Credit: Unsplash @ddealmeida
I remember the table my parents had growing up. It was styled like the early nineties, a light looking piney wood with a glossy finish. Kind of like the wooden equivalent of acid washed jeans. Its legs were curved and ribbed, the type of texture that little hands love to run their fingers and nails over. I remember feeling such glee when my father would put in the table leaf, because it meant we were having a special amount of company over.
The wooden chairs we had were a similar, light, hue. They were the sort of kit chairs a young, modest, immigrant family could buy from Kmart or Service Merchandise to assemble and stain themselves to save a little money.
The table always scared me a bit, because it was built as if to be a little wobbly. I remember my father tightening the bolts, every so often, to ensure it wouldn’t shake too much. I never played under it, because I was always a little scared, in the way a four year old might be, that the time it would finally topple might be the precise moment I was underneath it. But beyond that, I never had a little sibling or a puppy to chase around, so I never really had any reason to scurry under that first wobbly table we had.
That table was were we had dinner, where as a young lad I would, invariably, beg for Kraft macaroni and cheese instead of bhindi and dal. It was where my parents would review the bills and make ends meet. It was the only place in America I ever ate and talked with my with my visiting grandparents. That table and those chairs are one of the only fixtures in my family home that we’ve had with us from Williamsville, New York to three different cities in Michigan: Grand Blanc, Rochester Hills, and Rochester.
Eventually, my parents were on the come up. And one of the first purchases they made was a new, sturdier, dinner table. It was darker wood, stained to a cherry-esque finish, and they bought a china cabinet, server, and eight upholstered chairs to match. More than anything else they ever bought, I think, this was the symbol that we had made it in America.
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The first table Robyn and I had was a small one, an IKEA outfit, but one of the nicer ones that I had from the roommate era of my life. It was solid and flat, its surface resemblant of a butcher block, but thinner. Robyn and I first ate together around it before we started dating, when in the same building in Midtown Detroit, the one with the coat of arms in the lobby. Robyn came up when she was sick on her birthday, I made soup and played John Mayer’s Where the Light Is album.
Little did we know, it would be that table that we would first sit down for dinner at, in our first apartment together, after our marriage. It would be the table that we would dream about our family, and make bucket lists of all the fun things we wanted to do together in the upcoming season. It would be the table - the one by the window, nestled between the wall and the slightly-too-big-for the-room couch - that our 10 month old, nervous, rescue dog would vertically leap onto after sprinting around the room.
When Robyn and I bought our home in Detroit, we packed up that little IKEA table, along with the rest of our boxes and ends, and moved uptown to a friendly, tree-lined street on the north side of the City. After we unloaded the truck, Robyn stayed back while I I led the movers in a caravan up to my parents house in Rochester.
After my father passed, that sturdy cherry table they bought, along with the matching chairs, cabinet, and sever had been mostly idle. My mother was gifting the whole set to Robyn and I, as we started life in our new home and I went up to retrieve the whole set.
And so, on that overcast January afternoon, the movers packed everything up in blankets, with care, and brought it all to Detroit, into our cozy little dining room, with the french doors where Robyn would later hang up photos of our children in the glass panes, every year on their birthdays.
That sturdy table, I’ve realized, is where all my dreams are represented.
Robyn and I have our candle-lit mini-dates there. When our sons were born, we’d pull up a high chair right to the corner and give them mushed up bananas, peas, and sweet potatoes. It’s where we gather our family and friends around, with easy access to the pot in the kitchen filled with a meal that can feed us all. It’s where our sons and pup can confidently hide and chase each other, without fear of the walls crumbling around them.
It’s where we blow out the candles on birthday cakes or share what we learned or were grateful for after a school day, while eating leftover tacos. It’s where Robyn and I talk for a few minutes, after the kids have already moved onto to their next adventure, after breakfast on Saturday mornings, and we smile, and then whisper to each other, “This is the dream.”
That table, that sturdy table, is where the blessings we count in prayer first came to be.
And now, as I see my sons around that table, I understand why my parents were so particular about picking exactly the right one, after weeks of research, budgeting, serious discussion, and several trips to the Thomasville store. The chance to upgrade to a sturdy table, wasn’t only a symbol of securing their seat solidly in the middle class.
I know now, that my parents were thinking of the future when they bought that table. They wanted to pass that table - that sturdy table, onto me and Robyn, even though they would not know her until decades later.
That table reminds me of the blessing and the sacrifices of both our parents. My parents had no choice but to start off in this country with a wobbly table and chairs they glued together themselves. They wanted to help us start our lives together with something sturdier.
They dreamed for us, what we now dream for our own children: that we have a lifetime of love and memories around our table - a childhood our kids want to remember. And we dream of helping our children start their lives beyond us with a table of their own. Maybe not one that’s opulent or expensive, but one that is sturdy - sturdy enough to build their dreams and their own families around.
I don’t always know who reads these posts, or where in the world they are from. But if you’re reading this, I hope you are blessed with the gifts of a sturdy table, and a community that gathers around it, just as we are.
Even the best teams and organizations I’ve been part of underperform their potential. We can and should learn from failures. But we can learn just as much from successes with the right questions and approach.
Listening is a skill that builds character. To build the capacity to listen, I need to be comfortable with discomfort.
Death is one of the few things every single person on this Earth has in common. What if our politics were informed by the struggle with death we all have?
If we explore as artists do and introspect as artists do, we can practice leadership as artistry.
For sure, every person is capable of terrible things. But we, as men, don’t have to believe the delusion that we were born with a monster inside us. We have to stop believing that. We can build our identity as men around the parts of us that are most good.
My father taught me how to figure it out. I realize this now. And so there’s nothing to be scared of.
If listening is the key to love, relationships, and trust, choosing to show up is the key to listening.
The same forces that disrupted the macroeconomy - like the internet and globalization - are making a similar disruption to the management of firms.
Harnessing this disruption is critical - to ensure the growth individual companies, but also for the continued progress of society at large.
Lots of topics related to “leadership” are made out to be complicated, but they’re actually simple.
Culture change is an example of this phenomenon, it’s mostly just role modeling.
I cannot break my sons’ innocence early by asking them to dance with my heaviest emotions.
Memories decay quickly, instantly. And that makes being present, telling stories, and taking photographs so important. We have to protect the shards we have.
What has given me organizing principles for living is thinking honestly about what I would be contemplating in the waning moments of my own life.
We need to take the time to understand our superpowers, as individuals or as an organization, so we have the best chance to create surplus.
Being part of a collective story is a very special type of human experience that brings a deep, grounded, and peace-giving joy.
If you set the top 15 metrics, that the country committed to for several decades, what would they be?
The question of how to raise good children starts with figuring out how to be a good person myself.
The biggest error of coaching - not being intentional about it - can be avoided by dedicating real time to it.
The two strategies - providing special attention and treating everyone consistently well - need to be in tension.
I believe that we all feel invisible, to some degree. How we react to that perceived invisibility is an important choice.
This is an OKR-based model to define what a good manager actually produces. It’s hard to be good at something without beginning with the end in mind, after all.
There are men that are trying to reimagine what it means to be a man. As in, how to be a different and hopefully better kind of man.
And we are doing this without role models to draw from. We are breaking ground, and it is remarkable.
To scale impact, every team leader has to build their team. Building a team is hard, but it’s not complicated.
To set us up for success, they key thing to do is get specific about the role, and the top 2-3 things we can’t compromise on in a candidate.
Learning how to win ugly is an essential skill. And yet, I feel like the world has conspired to keep me from learning it.
I don’t want to make noise about the sacrifices I’ve made, but I don’t want my sacrifices to be insulted by ungrateful children. I don’t want my children feel deep shame or know intense suffering, but I also want them to have opportunities to build inner strength. In some ways I need to tell stories about sacrifice, but in other ways that’s counterproductive.
What’s a parent to do?
It seems to me that a simple, relatively cheap, way to radically change the performance of an organization is to take consequential processes that are implicit and make them simple, clear, and explicit.
If we’re lucky, the Great Resignation may only be the beginning.
Hot take: the shift to remote work will finally expose bad managers, and help good managers to thrive.
Radha was never born or conceived. Yet, I know she is my sister. I hope our sons realize the gravity of the gift - brotherhood - they have.
Once I actually thought about it, I resented sports less and wish the domains I care about - politics, the arts, and religion - took a page from the sports industry.
When we took Apollo to his final visit, the Veterinarian disarmed me with her compassion.
Bo, Myles, and Emmett - if you ever find this remember that you are not here to justify us as parents. Remember to love each other. And remember our prayers for you.
My son has managed to teach me a lesson before he was even born - we can’t stop dreaming.
We all try to avoid unpopularity because it’s terrible. And so we have this big, consequential, choice: do we try to become popular by being aggressive or will be choose some other way?
We are all on a journey. We are all living out our own memoir, in a way. For our journey to become that of a hero, we must face our fears and conquer them. For me, that means confronting and conquering loneliness.
Every generation has to take it’s turn and lead. For millennials, our time is nearly here. How will our grandchildren remember us?
If leadership is essentially an act of taking responsibility, how do we create teams where more people take responsibility?
Exploring space has expanded what we believe about the universe and ourselves. The James Webb Space Telescope could change everything that follows.
For our marriages to survive and thrive - whether to our soulmate or not - we have to believe that life is better done together, not solo. No amount of love, destiny, resources, compatibility, or compromise can make up for not having this pre-requisite shift in mindset.
Courage is the king of all virtues. Developing it on purpose can make a huge impact on our own lives and on the people we seek to serve.
At their best, mentors are not just advisors, they are momentary fathers. I think if we’re honest, those of us who feel like we’ve had some success at living life have been blessed with many momentary mothers and fathers along the way.
In hindsight, approaching organizational life - whether it’s in our family, marriage, our work, or our community groups - with the expectation that we’ll have conflict is so obviously a good idea. If we’re intentional, we can design conflict resolution into our routines and make our relationships and teams stronger because of it.
As it turns out, the antidote to “I can’t” need not be “Of course, I can, I’m the shit.” It can also be, “I have something special to contribute, just as everyone does. So I’m going to figure this out, even if it’s hard.”
Our Christmas Tree is our life story, our histories intertwined with the branches and lights. It is the only time machine I know of that actually works - drawing me into memories and stories of a different time and place. This to me, is magic.
We need to be developing leaders by the millions. Yet, leadership development feels like this exclusive club that you have to be anointed into.
Leadership is hard, but not complicated. Why not demystify it?
“This is why, boys, if you are reading this I tell you that I love you, and some version of ‘be honest and kind’ at school drop off. It’s because it’s sacred duty we all must fulfill to live in a free and peaceful society.“
The funny thing is, I still feel this dread, even though every day I have bubbles, and even overflows, with joy.
This, decidedly, the life I chose and I wanted. “Family first” is our mantra and “It’s a good life, babe” is our refrain. We have a fairly simple life that’s fun, and fulfilling. And joyous. And meaningful. Our days, admittedly, are remarkable mostly because of their consistency.
Our kids waddle into our room, wearing their pajamas of course, at about 6 AM on most days. Robyn and I work our jobs. If it’s a school day, we go through our morning routine with the kids and “do drop off” as a family. If it’s a “home day” we all move a little slower as I prep for the work day and Robyn prepares herself for a day with the kids - mixing in walks with Riley, swim lessons, doctors appointments, snacks, and other modest mischief and adventure throughout the day.
What anchors our day, on most days, is a free-flowing sequence of cooking dinner while the kids play, followed by a family dinner, dessert, tooth-brushing, potty, pajamas, two stories, and a lullaby before tucking them in.
Our nights and weekends waltz and sashay with different versions of roughly the same activities. We do whatever remainder of work we haven’t crunched through during the day, which luckily isn’t as pervasive, urgent, or stinging as when we both worked in public service. We have chores that never seem quite finished - dishes for me, laundry for Robyn. In the rare instance we watch television, it’s either a British detective drama like Endeavour, or a music competition like The Voice or The Masked Singer.
If it’s a weekend, our chores remain but are different (groceries don’t buy themselves, yet, at least). Our excursions outside are a little longer and a little more like a sauntering ramble than the focused, brisk walk Robyn and I take with Riley at lunchtime when we’re both working from home.
And then there are the weekend’s mix-ins. We take Bo to soccer practice and try to go to church and participate in civic and cultural life as best we can. We do our best to see our family once a weekend and nurture friendships with our small group of close ties, our neighbors, or extended family. We both steal away an hour of exercise, as many times we can.
I try to write and chip in to the efforts of the neighborhood association and Robyn tries to explore her budding interest in photography, plans trips, and tries to support the other young moms she knows through small but deliberate acts of kindness.
The moment of the week I relish most, probably, is a short window between 8 and 10pm Friday nights. That’s the one part of the week where Robyn and I are most likely to be able to spend together, doing nothing but enjoy each other’s company. This, again, is remarkable only because of the consistency of our activity - we watch a show perhaps, open up a bottle of wine, fire up the power recline feature of our La-Z-Boy love seat, and or listen to some light music while absorbing and reflecting on the last week of our life. It is the time of week, I feel most comfortable.
This is our life. And as I said, it would otherwise be unremarkable if not for its consistency. Because it truly is unglamous, and seriously is not for everyone. Plenty of people would probably go bonkers under our roof, as we would under theirs.
But for us it works. Because as consistently unremarkable our daily grind is, the moments of laughter, joy, love, and gleefully, willing suffering & sacrifice - the moments we live for - are consistent and remarkable.
It’s hard to explain, but there’s an inexplicable ease and warmth I feel when our sons cast spells of “giant golf ball powers!” completely unannounced. Or when we have 60 minutes of struggle and yelling and tears to get out the door, only to spend an hour and a half with someone at their birthday party. Or when we get to walk outside and see the majestic 100-year old trees triumphantly changing color down our block. And there are dozens more small moments like this, which are unremarkable in isolation, but their consistency feels remarkable.
This is the life dreamed of when I was wandering through the badlands as a younger man. It’s the life Robyn and I wanted together and that we both still want, even though we have to hustle for it damn near every day. It is a happy life, made more exquisite by how challenging and sacrificing it is.
This is the life we chose, intended with each other. It is a life on purpose. Every day is a good day, truly. Our life is admittedly quite opposite of a novel, flashy life - much closer to boring than glamorous, more like monochrome than technicolor. But it’s still a thrilling adventure - healthy, prosperous, joyful, and meaningful,
And yet, I hear the echoes of my father’s stubbornly accented voice and the dream-like memory of him talking to me in the kitchen of my family home - “you are a very capable person,” he said, in a way that was straining, almost exasperated even, to make me understand how serious he was.
And then, on top of my serene and happy state of mind, the existential dread sets in.
I have been brainwashing myself to stop comparing myself to others for the better part of a decade. And I’m mostly there, I don’t feel jealously of my peers like I used to. I don’t have the addiction to keep up with the Joneses or stack up my professional resume like I used to. Instead of being acute, my inclination to social comparison and seeking the approval of others is now more of a chronic condition - something I can manage and live with, rather than having to treat intensely after a bad episode. I am more comfortable doing my own thing than I ever have, and I have a better grasp of what “doing my own thing” or “being myself” actually means, than I ever have in my whole life.
This relatively nascent state of contentment has come from looking inward. It has come from consistent, intense, reflection trying to understand my inner world and how that inner-self can integrate with the broader world. I suppose you could say, I’ve tried to put into practice an “examined life” as Socrates put it in Plato’s Apology.
But in that act of examination, I haven’t been able to help but contemplate whether I’ve lived up to my Father’s assessment of my talent, or even my own assessment of my own capabilities.
Because it’s true, I am a capable person, even if I was afraid to accept the responsibility that came with acknowledging those capabilities for most of my life. And so I wonder, have I lived up to what I’m capable of? How much of my talent and time have I squandered?
To be clear, I’m under no delusion (anymore) that given different choices, I’d be more wealthy of famous than I am now. The way I operate and think, I’ve accepted, it not attractive of fat profits or paparazzi. And, I know for sure that I’m not a once in a generation genius whose wasted talent has become a missed opportunity to bend the trajectory of humanity.
What I long for and am haunted by, however, is contribution. Meaning, lower-case “c” contribution. Like how many more people’s days could I have made by now, had I made different or better choices? And by different choices, I don’t even mean sacrificing family or my own sanity to work harder or longer hours. But maybe if I had focused differently, or made different choices on the margins, or gotten drunk on fewer weekends in my twenties, or just tapped into my talents more intentionally or earlier..
How much higher would the literacy rate be if I applied myself to it? How many fewer people in Detroit would have been shot or killed had I stayed in public service for longer or been better at my job? How many companies could I have started by now if I acted on one of the dozens of businesses that I’d thought of with my buddies that ended up becoming profitable enterprises? How many people could I have brought out of a dark place had I lived up to how capable I actually am and been more generous? What might’ve happened if I buckled down and finished this book two years ago? How might the world be a little different, and hopefully better, if I were better and contributing my gifts?
Perhaps the dread I feel is better described as remorse. I have everything I dreamed of, and it truly is enough - I feel fully happy, complete and satisfied. And yet, I feel this guilt and a lingering malaise because I know I had more in the tank to give. I know that in a different version of my life, somewhere else in the multiverse, I would’ve been able to create a cherished and charmed home life while making a greater contribution to the world outside our backyard.
And I suppose it’s true that life is long, and many people don’t hit their stride until well past middle age, some even not until their sixties or seventies. It’s just this bizarre reality where I feel confident in the choices that I made, feel blessed and complete in the life I have, but still feel the heaviness of imagining counter-factual life.
I wonder often if this must be a new phenomenon for people coming of age. Because now, for people coming of age right now, we have a much broader understanding of the world and our role in it. The amount of information we have or travel we can do or people we can interact with, gives us a difficult awareness both of who we are and how we influence others. This heaviness of imagining a counter-factual life probably wasn’t possible for nearly as many people even 30 years ago.
What I’ve tried to take relief is is that despite how informed or worldly we can be in today’s time, we still know very little of how far our actions actually travel. We don’t know the extent of the wake we’ve created for others to be cared for, to grow, to live more freely, or to thrive. Because now, the contribution and goodwill of our actions can travel much farther than they could 30 years ago. This is true because of how globalized our world is, even if most of us aren’t destined to have a litany of press clips to our name because of what we do on this earth.
What I hope for now is that even though most of the contributions that most of us are able to make are unremarkable, we just keep doing them. Over and over. If we consistently put good things out into the world, maybe just maybe it will turn to be remarkable and make an extraordinary contribution. With any luck, if we’re at least consistent in being unremarkable we’ll be towards the end of our lives and we’ll see that our talents weren’t squandered and we’d been making a remarkable contribution all along.
I want to get out of this self-perpetuating cycle of men being held to a low standard of parenting.
For me, memories are elusive. I feel like most people I know remember much more of their childhood than I do.
I’ve been exploring some nuance of memories this week. There’s me wanting to remember more, say of time with my sons. But there’s also me hoping my sons want to remember time they spend with me.
I don’t know quite what to do with this thought yet.
Feedback loops are what underpin huge changes in our world. Understanding what Jim Collins dubbed “the flywheel effect” is essential learning for anyone trying to lead or change culture.
These are learnings I’ve had trying to apply flywheel thinking in my world, over the past 2-3 years. Flywheels have helped me to understand everything from business strategy, to management, to gun violence prevention, and even my own marriage.
I don’t know if anyone else thinks about what life would be like without their partner. It’s like the worst thing. Which is probably why it’s a thought experiment that’s private, saved for dark corners and late nights, never to be acknowledged.
At the same time, perhaps it’s a pain that, when confronted, helps us to truly live. I don’t know. It’s a complicated feeling and idea. I don’t know for sure, but it’s something I think my father understood.
The world of children, I’ve found, can be a remarkable window into the world of adults. So much of our behavior, motivations, fears, and hopes end up being so similar, at their core, to those of children.
Little kids want to be seen, because they know intuitively that to be seen is to be loved. And adults, it seems, are not that different.
At some point in the past 10 years, I stopped dreaming. Everything became goals and ROI and avoiding waste. I didn’t realize it at the time, and even in retrospect it was hard to see.
I don’t want that. I want to dream again.
But I’ve lost, for good reason, the youthful swagger and ignorance that propelled me to dream. The new question has become, how do we dream from a posture of humility?
I was listening to a terrific podcast where Ezra Klein interviewed Tyler Cowen. And Tyler alluded to how weird ideas float around more freely these days - presumably because of diversity, the internet, social media, etc.
I think there’s a lot of implication for people who choose to lead teams and enterprises. How they manage and navigate teams with radically more diversity seems to be a central question of leadership today.
If you have any insights on how to operate in radically diverse environments, I’m all ears. Truly.
I don’t want to live in a fear-driven culture for the next twenty years. I’ve grown tired of it.
It seems to me that “know thy self” is good advice to end an attachment to fear. If we have something more compelling to focus on, we have something to think about that’s more compelling than the fear others are trying to project into our lives.
Holy is an interesting word. Most people kind of know what it means, without knowing what it means. What is holiness? I’ll know it when I see it.
But what about me, what does it mean to be holy? Am I holy? This post is an attempt to put words to holiness without having to depend on just knowing it when we see it.
Camping with young kids was hard, but well worth it. We learned so much (the hard way) that we wanted to share.
As with anything I publish, feel free to share this with anyone who might find it useful. And I’m happy to talk more if you or someone you know is interested in planning a family camping trip.
We recently returned from a few days in North Cascades National Park in northern Washington. We heard about it from a list of “underrated National Parks” and it really is terrific (and underrated).
If you have spent any time hiking and camping, these vignettes will likely rekindle memories of your own adventures in nature. If you haven’t been to one of our country’s amazing National Parks, I really recommend it.
I have such inner turmoil about feeling like I’m lagging behind my peers, in terms of career development. It’s totally irrational and stupid (and I know it), but I still feel it. I always thought it was just it was social comparison and some inevitability of human psychology.
But now, I’m wondering whether it’s just a response to the kind of covert bullying we adults torture each other with. If career angst is a response to the stimulus of feeling bullied, that’s actually a good thing. Because we can choose to respond differently.
Ballet, and dance in general, is one of my great loves. Reflecting on it as an adult, I’ve come to appreciate it as more than just a performing art. The craft of ballet is one that cultivates a mindset of joy, grace, and intensity.
I wanted to share a bit about ballet because I’ve come to lean on it as an alternative to the cultural mindset of dominance, competition, and winning at all costs.
I agree with statements like, “culture matters” or “leaders set the tone”, but they’re not helpful. Everyone knows that, and yet cultures don’t change easily.
It seems to me that one specific vector to change culture is to focus on reactions. I’ve reflected on some work-related examples in the post below. But the idea crosses domains, in my experience at least.
Are there are places where you’ve seen reactions have a big impact on organizational culture?
Passing on tragic flaws is part of being a father. Can I stop any of my sins from becoming intergenerational?
Life defies measurement. Trying to measure it has kept me in a state of unpeaceful flux.
Separation of Powers is a brilliant way of preventing concentration of power (and eventually tyranny). Rotation of Powers is an alternative approach.
Organizations fail when they don’t adhere to high standards. Creating that kind of culture that starts with us as individuals.
I am committed to helping us - on this journey to be better husbands, fathers, or citizens - all rise together.
This exercise has helped the best version of myself to show up more than he would otherwise. It’s a “dress rehearsal for the day.”
I am so grateful to Riley for teaching me to be a better father and person. He taught me about the slipper slope of control and abuse.
We have exclusive programs for people with “high-potential”. If we do that, then who exactly is “low-potential”?
I have probably had to ask for directions while traveling, less than 10 times in my life including trips to foreign countries. This is an incredible feat. We have Google to help us with this sort of question. And because we have Google to help us with this, I think I’ve also been asked for directions less than ten times in my life.
And by extension, I’ve rarely, if ever, had to say to someone, “I’m lost, can you help me?” And finally, to wrap up this observation, I’ve also probably never had to ask someone, “You look lost, can I help you find your way?”
And when it comes to getting to where we intend to go, like when it’s finding a new restaurant, or getting to a friend’s house in a new city, maybe it’s not a huge deal that we don’t have much practice asking for or giving directions. Maybe it’s nice that we are rarely “lost” or see someone who appears to be lost. On the surface, at very least, this seems like a good development.
But it dawned on me, what if the stakes were higher? What if we need directions on something that isn’t easily found on the internet? Say if we don’t know where to begin on a new project, and we need directions on this. What if we’re “lost” in our marriages or in fatherhood. What if our friends or family are veering toward a dark path, and we need to tell them they look lost?
These four scenarios - asking for directions, giving directions, admitting I’m lost, or identifying someone who is lost - are hard to begin with. It’s hard to ask for help, it makes me feel foolish. And it’s awkward to tell someone, “you look lost, but don’t worry, I’d like to help you.”
If I don’t have to do these things that often because we have Google, can I be sure I even know how to? It’s unsettling to think I may be out of practice asking for or giving directions. Because there are times, I’m sure, that it’s going to actually matter.
“Aunts” and “Uncles” build resilient cultures - whether it’s in a family or a larger organization.
I snapped out of the LinkedIn doom loop by thinking about the sacrifices a counterfactual world would’ve required.
Myles - this is a memory of your first steps, and a reflection of mine for you to remember.
What I was told would lead to success, led to fragility. Hard things, as it turns out, lead to courage and inner-strength.
I am trying to remove the concept of bad days out of my mind. Meaning, I’m trying to fully understand that the way I want to think about it is that bad days don’t exist.
There are so many wonderful things about days after all.
The sun, the wind, and the rain, and the fog, and the snow, and the hot and cold. There is deep breaths. There is the chance to wiggle my toes or have a glass of water. Or I can put on a sock. I can blink, just for fun or skip if I want to.
There’s also noise and touch and light, but also silence and the gentle darkness of stars and moonlight. And there’s the feeling of having a body, and things like sweating or a grumbling stomach. Or wishing or hoping or praying for something. Or a funny joke. Or the sweet relief of weeping about something.
And for me when Robyn says “good morning” and gives me a kiss, just about makes my day right when it starts. Or a hug from one of my boys or talking to our parents. Or a quick “hey” from an old friend, too. And I get that we are lucky to be enveloped in love and our relationships are bound by life, they still exist and will have existed.
These are all examples of little joys that actually aren’t little at all.
I’ve been thinking about it like fine chocolates. Many moments in a day are simply exquisite, like a morsel of well made chocolate. But even the finest chocolate can’t be noticed as exquisite if we just put it in our mouths, hurriedly, and just crunch-crunch-crunch, swallow and move on. And these little-but-actually-big joys are the same, even the most remarkable moments aren’t remarkable if we don’t savor them when we have them.
I know that bad moments happen. Sometimes, those moments are really horrific and truly terrible. But I want to also know in my bones and muscle tissues that bad moments don’t imply bad days. Bad moments can imply hard days, sad days, angry days, or even days of hopelessness and despair. But that doesn’t have to be bad.
And all this said, I know my days could be orders of magnitude harder if we weren’t as healthy, wealthy, or loved as we are. With temporal distance, even the hardest days of my life so far, like when I’ve done things that hurt others or the day I had to let my father go ahead without me, weren’t bad. They were unbearably hard, but I don’t have to think of them as bad, as if I wanted them to be wiped from existence.
Because if those days were wiped from existence, it’s one less day with all the good moments a day can have - even if those good moments are hidden in plain sight, waiting for us to notice them. If even one of those days were wiped from existence, I couldn’t have lived them.
And one definition of injustice to me is when there are people on this earth that have so many bad things happen to them that all the little things that can make a day good, even for a moment, remain hidden in plain sight. That they have so many struggles, and so much unbearable pain and disappointment that they aren’t capable of noticing even one good moment that day, even something as simple as the goodness of waking up from sleep or breathing.
I want my mind, my body, and my heart to understand what my soul already does: that good days don’t have to do with the trappings of how “lucky”, “blessed”, or “privileged” I am. That the “good” in a good day in life comes just from living. I want all of me to understand what my soul already does, that every day is a good day and every single one of those days matters.
My wife made a brilliant parenting move this week.
Our older son is 3, and we’re trying to work on table manners with him. At least 5 days a week we have been getting into some sort of tussle with him over playing with his food, chewing with his mouth open, or deliberately making a mess. Mealtime has been the most common trigger of friction between us all.
And the other day I asked Robyn what she wanted to do, and she calmly replied, “I have a plan.”
What she did was simple and immediately effective. When we were serving the next meal, she set expectations for our son as she was putting down his plate. “The expectation is that we eat Cheerios with a spoon, blueberries you can eat with your hands.” And on she went about sitting down properly and what can be dipped and what cannot.
Her plan of setting clear expectations, in advance, worked immediately. It was a master stroke.
—
My work colleagues and I have been experimenting with approaches to clarify expectations, too. Instead of doing a weekly check-in with a traditional project board, we made a “why-what-how” board.
Here’s a representation of what our board (which is just a slide in PowerPoint) looks like:
What we do each week is re-score and re-plot our projects on this chart together. The goal of this exercise is to ensure the project is in the sweet spot of clear, shared, expectations.
The x-axis is the what. We make sure we understand what the intended outcome of the project is. Do we understand the deliverables? Do we understand what success looks like and what result we are trying to create? If the value is left of the origin it means the what isn’t clear enough. If the value is to the right of the origin, it means we are over analyzing the intended outcome and/or talking about it more than we need to.
The y-axis is the how. We make sure we understand the steps we need to take to achieve the intended outcome of the project. Do we understand the major milestones and next steps? Do we have a plan for how we’ll actually get the deliverables and analyses done? Do we understand the roadblocks ahead? If the value is below the origin, it means the how isn’t clear enough. If the value is above the origin, it means we’re micromanaging the project or getting too prescriptive about how it should be done.
We ask ourselves each week, usually during our Monday morning check-in, where are we at for each project. If we’re outside of the sweet spot, we spend some time clarifying the what, the how, or both.
Each quadrant, conveniently, has a nicely fitting heuristic which gives us a nudge on how to get back to the sweet spot:
- High how, high what: we are talking too much. Let’s just take action.
- Low how, high what: we understand what we’re trying to accomplish, but need to talk about how we get there. Let’s spitball and figure it out.
- Low how, low what: we’re totally lost. We need to take a pause, reset and understand everything clearly where we are. This is the quadrant where the project is at risk and we have to dig out immediately.
- High how, low what: this is the we might be wasting our time quadrant. If we don’t know what we’re trying to accomplish, even if we nail the project tactically, are we even solving the correct problem? We need to clarify the what (usually by escalating to the sponsor) or end the project.
What’s not plotted on the graph, but in the data table that powers the graph, are a few other elements: the why and who and the immediate next step.
The why and who has been a recent addition to our board, that we added a few weeks after trying this out for the first time. This value is the motivation for the project. Why does it matter, who is it for, what positive impact is this project in service of, why should anyone care about it? We think about our who as one of four general parties, that are applicable, honestly, to any organization. Any project has to ultimately impact at least one of these stakeholders in a big way to have a compelling why:
- Our customer
- Our owners or shareholders
- Our colleagues
- Our society or the communities in which we operate
If we can’t think of a compelling reason why what we’re doing matters to at least one of these four stakeholders, why are we even working on this project? We push ourselves to understand why, for our own motivation and to ensure we’re not doing something that doesn’t actually matter.
We also ensure everyone knows what the immediate next step is. If that’s not clear we establish it right there so there’s no reason we can’t take action right after our meeting.
Our team only started experimenting with this since the beginning of the year, but I’ve been finding it to be much more helpful than a traditional project board where the conversation revolves around the ambiguous concept of “status” and “accountability”.
Instead of checking our “status” non-specifically, and being reactive to a project that is “off-track”, we ensure that everyone on the team has clear, shared, expectations on each project, and we chip away at getting into the sweet spot of clarity on a weekly basis. By using this approach, we end up teasing out problems before they become large. Because after all, how often do projects get off-track if the why, what, and how of the project are clear to everyone, all the time? Rarely.
This approach is also much less autocratic than a traditional project board. Instead of the “manager” being dictatorial and projecting authority, this process feels much more democratic and equal, relatively at least. We all are working through the why, what, and the how together and even though one of us on the team is the titular “manager”, it feels more like we’re all on equal footing.
This is a good thing because everyone is more able to speak up, ask questions freely, and bring their talents forward to benefit the team and the people we’re serving. It’s less of an exercise where everyone is afraid of not having hit their milestones and therefore trying to tap dance around the status of the project.
There is of course a time and place for “status” and “accountability”. Of course, deadlines and results matter and we have to hit those. But what I’ve found so far is that by having clear, shared, expectations we are in a perpetual state of forward motion. We hit our deadlines as a natural consequence of having clarity. As is often said, but no less true, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.
As is usually the case, what my wife and I are learning as parents is incredibly relevant to what we are learning about management and leadership. In this case the lesson is simple: clear, shared, expectations lead to better results (and less strife).
I torture myself when a mission is going badly. Let’s say it’s a difficult project at work that I’m responsible for.
In the night, as I’m trying to fall asleep, I imagine myself in the CEO’s office, getting reprimanded, in front of my whole team. I feel the burn of my colleagues’ fearful, nauseated glances. I think about what I’m going to tell my wife, with a tail-between-legs posture, feeling like I embarrassed our family.
And when torturing myself in this self-imposed thought experiment, the bosses voice echoes enough to rattle my jaw. In my head I’m thinking, how did this happen, what was I thinking, why does this have to happen to me, why does it always have to be so hard?
But this week, in this particular version of my irrational thought experiment, the CEO asks me a question he never has:
“Why shouldn’t I fire you?”
And now, in a moment of clarity, I snap out of this hazy daydream. The answer is so clear to me. The boss shouldn’t fire me, because the next time we’re in this bad situation I won’t get beat. I’ve learned something.
Bad situations - whether it’s tough projects, losing a loved one, a failed relationship, an addiction, trauma, entrepreneurship, writing a book, climbing a mountain, you name it - are like viruses to me. They knock me on my ass. Sometimes, like viruses, bad situations quite literally make me ill.
But just as bad situations are like a virus, learning from our mistakes is like an immune response. Once we get through it, we’ve learned something. We’ve developed a sort of immuno-defense any time this particular bad situation comes up in the future. And I can share those anti-bodies with others.
The imaginary CEO shouldn’t fire me, I think in my head, because I now know a little bit about how to survive this bad situation, and I can tell the others how, too.
But that means I have to put this bad situation under a microscope and study it. I have to learn from it. I have to learn it well enough to teach others and then I have to actually teach others. Which means I have to tell the story of my struggle and failure again and again.
But reframing this into a process of learning from mistakes and teaching others makes the struggle feel meaningful. When I share what I’ve learned, I’m giving someone else a line of defense against this type of bad situation. They may not have to endure the same struggle as I did. And that is gratifying.
This was a mindset shift for me. In the past, when I’ve had bad situations happen, particularly at work, I’d just struggle. And I’d get angry. And I’d pout. And I’d just live with the struggle in a chronic condition sort of way for a long time. And I’d live in fear of the CEO’s office, or whoever the boss happened to be, until I had a new success to share.
I’ve had that utterly destructive thought of, why does life always have to be so hard, so many times, in so many types of bad situations. Like when my father died. Or when I choked on standardized tests. Or when I’ve had my heart broken. Or when I’ve been way over my head at work. Or when I’ve been up with a newborn that won’t sleep, for weeks at a time. Or when we’ve lived through a global pandemic. Or whatever.
But now I think there’s an opportunity to think differently. All these struggles are terrible, yes. But they don’t have to be in vain. They can be teachable moments, for me yes, but more importantly for others. I - and not just me, we - can give others some level of immunity from the deleterious effects of these bad situations that happen to us. But only if we’re wiling to share what we learn, humbly and specifically.
The option of paying our struggles forward to our children, our friends and families, our colleagues, and our neighbors seems much better than just living through them and forgetting about them.
The Hindu priest that married Robyn and I - to be clear, we were married twice: once by a Catholic priest, once by a Hindu pandit - left us with simple advice that we still remember and recite often:
From now on, you must be Together, Together, Together. Remember, Together, Together, Together.
From that day, Robyn and I were united in marriage.
But to be honest, I usually find myself wanting more when I hear the word “unity” uttered. Unity, to me, is a hollow word unless the common bond it invokes is specific and salient. Unity for what? Around what purpose? For whom? Unity bound by what beliefs?
In our marriage, and in the marriages of the people that we are close enough to see their marriages up close, I would say the beliefs that bind them are specific and salient. Here are some examples from our marriage:
- Our vows: to love, honor, and cherish each other; for better or worse; for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, good times and in bad, until death do us part
- Our common beliefs: belief in God; that we put family first, but that our marriage ultimately exists to serve others
- Our common dreams: to grow old together, to grow a family and stay close to our international extended family, raise our children to be good people, to learn through travel, and be enmeshed in a community throughout our life
- Our common experiences: the trips we’ve taken; the dates we’ve been on; the time we’ve spent doing nothing but enjoying each other’s company; the suffering we’ve navigated together; the little moments every day where we affirm, support, respect, and acknowledge each other and the investment of love all those moments - big and small - represent
If you’re a married person ( or expect you will someday) I do suggest trying to do a similar exercise where you specifically write down what the common bond that undergirds the unity you have with your spouse. I honestly had never done this until just now and I feel washed over with warmth, confidence, stability, and love.
I think this exercise is worth doing for more than just marriages. Any team or community that wants to endure also requires a durable common bond that is specific and salient. Asking the question “what unites us?” is just as relevant to companies, communities, and even states or nations.
The real hum-dinging implication, though, is how. How do we discover and articulate our common bonds? How do we create and nurture our common bonds? It’s not useful to merely describe that we need common bonds to have unity - that’s obvious. The very difficult question is how.
I’m planning a few posts over the next 4-6 weeks that push this idea of unity and the “how” of it further. But here’s a start: I think a good place to begin is interrogating our own beliefs, and asking what do I believe?
There was a terrific series some years ago that National Public Radio launched called This I Believe. The premise was simple: ask people to articulate their most core beliefs and then share them publicly. And when you hear some of those essays, you don’t just understand others’ beliefs cognitively, you feel and internalize them. We could all stand to write one of those essays and share it with the people we are close to.
Because after we understand our own beliefs, our next job - and I think it’s the harder and more important one - is to listen and deeply understand, feel, and internalize the beliefs of others.
And from there, we are well on our way to articulating our common bonds specifically and saliently - and developing a unity that is durable and enduring.
At some point in the past five years, I accepted that the door Papa went through went one way.
Coaching others is definitely the most important and rewarding part of my job. When I took on this responsibility, I worried: would I waste my colleagues’ talent? How do I help them grow consistently and quickly?
Here’s a summary of what I‘ve been experimenting with.
Experiment 1: Dedicate 30 minutes to coaching every week
I raided my father-in-law’s collection of old business books and grabbed one called The Weekly Coaching Conversation: A Business Fable About Taking Your Game and Your Team to the Next Level.
The idea in it is simple: schedule a dedicated block of 30 minutes every week with each person you’re responsible for coaching. I thought it was worth trying. As it turns out, it was. Providing support, feedback, and advice falls by the wayside if it’s not part of the weekly calendar - at least for me.
Experiment 2: Ask Direct Questions
We start each 30 minute weekly meeting the same way, with a version of these two questions:
On a scale of 1-100 how much of your talent did we utilize vs. waste this week?
This question is useful because it’s direct feedback from the person I’m trying to coach. I can get a sense of what they need. Most of the time, what is holding them back is either me, or something I can support them with, such as: more clarity on the mission, an introduction to a subject-matter expert, some time to spitball ideas, or just some space to explore. This is also a helpful question to ask, because when the person I’m coaching is excited and thriving, I get to ask them why, and do more of it.
What’s one way you’re better than the person you were last week?
This question is useful because it helps make on-the-job learning more explicit and concrete. We get to unpack results and really see tangible progress. Additionally, I get a sense of what the person I’m coaching cares about getting better at which allows me to tailor how I coach them.
Experiment 3: Stop controlling the agenda
At the beginning, I would suggest an agenda for our weekly coaching sessions. But over the course of 3-5 weeks, I transitioned responsibility for setting the agenda to the person I’m coaching. This works out better because we end up focusing our time on what matters to them, rather than what I think matters to them (which is good, because I’m usually wrong about what matters to them).
It also works out well because my colleagues are in the driver’s seat for their own development. And that fosters intrinsic motivation for them, which is really important for fueling real growth. I certainly raise issues if I see them, but it frees up my headspace and my time to be responsive to what they ask of me.
I still have a lot of improvement to do here, but I spend a lot less time talking and much more time asking questions and being a sounding board by letting go of control of the agenda. Which seems to work out better for my colleagues’ growth.
What I’m thinking about now (I haven’t figured it out) how do I know that my support is actually working, and leading to real growth and development?
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I am absolutely determined to discover ways to stop wasting talent, in my immediate surroundings and across the organizational world. It’s a moral issue for me. And I figure a world with less wasted talent starts with me wasting less talent.
I’ll continue to share reflections on what I’m experimenting with so all of us that care about unlocking the potential of people and teams have an excuse to find and talk to each other.
By asking questions on facebook, I’ve learned the value of radical diversity and radical questions.
I dreamed of exploring space, but the problems of earth got in the way of that. I hope our kids can truly choose between exploration and institutional reform.