Time Isn’t Just Precious. It’s Freedom.

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.

Why not become something sacred?

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?

Surplus should be shared

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

Why Goodness?

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

Audacious Dreams: The Key to True Inclusivity

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 Inclusivity

Creating 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 Dreams

Inclusion 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 Dreams

Audacious 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.

Comfort Reveals Character: Like Adversity, Ease Defines Us

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 Comfort

I 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 Comfort

Dealing 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.

We Yearn For The Next Mile of Freedom

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.

Our Duty as Era-Spanners

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.

Team 144

““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.

—

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.

2023: The Year of ‘Not Helpless’

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.

—

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.”

—

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.

Children bring out our best

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.

—

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.

Who should help us measure our lives?

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.

Deregulating Parenting

Our parish’s pastor, Father Snow, is about my height. Which means that he’s far shorter than an NBA prospect, though some students at his former parish - Creighton University - were indeed NBA prospects.

Today at mass, our Father Snow gave a homily on Matthew 11: 21-25 which was today’s Gospel reading. To start, he shared an anecdote from his experience at Creighton.

An angry parishioner was lecturing Father Snow about an annulment that she thought the Church shouldn't have given. She was fuming over this application of rules. So much so that one of his giant basketball-playing parishioners stepped in. Putting his elbow on Father Snow’s shoulder, he facetiously asked, “Want me to take her down, Father?”

Father Snow could tell the story better than me, but his point was that too much focus on rules and compliance can be overwhelming. When we fixate on rules they place a heavy burden upon us, chaining us to a slew of anger and stress.

Today’s Gospel reminds us, he said, that Jesus really only had two rules, the first and second greatest commandments: Love God and Love thy neighbor. That’s it. Just two.

In contrast to the 600+ laws imposed upon the Jewish people by the Pharisees, following just two laws is a significantly lighter burden. While this lesson and Gospel reading hold theological and spiritual implications, my immediate takeaway was secular: I impose too many laws on my children.

I have so many rules that underly my parenting. I say “no” all the time, for every little thing it seems, some days at least. If I put myself into the shoes of our sons, I would feel heavy, suffocated even by the grind of the complex, nagging structure of laws I’m imposing.

Surely, a house needs rules about things like not eating ice cream three times a day or not running around naked. But if I’m saying no a hundred times a day, which I think I do sometimes, probably means I’ve gone over the top.

My secular reflection exercise from this biblical lesson - to lighten the burden of rules and laws - was to see if I could simplify my regime of parental law. I wondered, could I get my parenting principles down to two or even just three?

These three are what I came up with. These three principles - be honest, be kind, and learn from your mistakes - can govern every standard I set as a parent.

I’m not trying to advocate for these three rules to become yours if you’re a parent or caregiver, though they fit terrifically for me as a parent. If you like them, steal them.

The more important point I’d advocate is for you to try the exercise. If you’re a parent, caregiver, or even a manager to a team at work, what are the 2-3 principles that you expect others to follow that will govern every standard you set?

It’s not as important what the principles are, as long as they're thoughtful and intentional. What matters the most is that we simplify the burden of our household law to a few principles rather than hundreds.

Even just today, reducing my laws to these three principles has been liberating for me. Instead of trying to regulate every of our sons’ behaviors, I could focus on honesty, kindness, and learning from mistakes.

For example, instead of saying, “stop calling your brother stupid dummy,” I could let this question hang in the air: “It’s important to be kind. Is that language kind?” Instead of having mistakes feel like failure, I could reinforce something they learned. Today it was about how to be kind when sharing food. Tomorrow it can be something else.

I understand that changing my parenting approach will be challenging. After relying on processes and rules for 5 years to establish standards, transforming my behavior will not happen overnight. While every parent is different, I’m confident I’m not the only one who struggles with this.

We can focus on essential principles and free ourselves and our children from a long list of rules by de-regulating parenting. I know I should.

If you try to get your parenting down to a few principles, I’d love to compare notes with you. Please leave a comment or contact me if you give it a go.

—

For those interested, here’s some context for the three principles I’ve been playing with. Again, the point is not to copy the principles exactly, the point is to think about what our, unique, individual ones will be. I wanted to share for two reasons: putting my thoughts into writing helps me, and, I always find it helpful to see an example so I assume others may also find it helpful.

Boys, I have been meditating on it and I don’t want to be a parent that’s obsessed with rules and policing your behavior. One, it won’t work. Two, policing your behavior will not allow you to learn to think for yourself. Three, the level of stress, anger, arguing, and effort required - for me and for you all - having a highly regulated house will be a heavy burden.

I think I’ve come up with three principles that encapsulate the standard of what I expect from myself as a member of this family and community. These are the guiding principles I will use to raise and mentor you. I hope that by centering on three principles that get to the core, we can avoid having dozens upon dozens of rules in our house. Here is what they are.

Be honest.

Honesty is the greatest gift you can give yourself. Because if you are honest, you can have trust and confidence in your own beliefs. And that confidence that your own beliefs and observations about reality are true prevents your soul from questioning itself on what is real. There are no small lies - the uncertainty and pain that lies cause is predictable and omnipresent. One principle between me and you all is to be honest.

Be kind.

Kindness is the greatest gift, perhaps, that you can give to the world. Because if you are kind, you can have trusting relationships with other people. If you are kind, your actions are a ripple effect, making it safer for other people to be kind - and a kind world is a much more pleasant one to live in. Finally, by being kind to others, you can also learn to be kind to yourself. One principle between me and you all is to be kind.

Learn from your mistakes.

Mistakes are part of the plan. They aren’t bad. Quite the opposite - if you’re not making mistakes doing things that are hard enough to learn from or that make an impactful contribution to the world. Mistakes are a feature, not a bug. If we have this posture, it’s essential to learn from your mistakes. Because if you make mistakes and never learn from them, you’ll hurt yourself and others. If you don’t learn from smaller mistakes, you’ll eventually make catastrophic, irreversible mistakes. One principle between me and you all is to learn from your mistakes.

These three principles: be honest, be kind, and learn from your mistakes are our compact. I promise to put in tremendous effort and emotional labor to live by these words that I expect of you. I will hold you to these principles as a standard, but I also promise to help you grow, learn, and develop into them over the course of your life.

Our word is our bond, and these words, my words, are a bond between us.

Resistance against easy

At my angriest or most exhausted especially, I question whether my effort to do the right thing makes a difference.

And then I wonder if I should be a bit more “flexible” in how I choose to act. Because…

…I could angle for a promotion by courting competing offers that I never intend to take.

…I could get my colleagues to bend to my will by shaming them a little during a team meeting, sending a nasty email, or politicking with their boss.

…I could yell more at my kids or threaten them with no more ice cream.

…I could pawn domestic responsibilities off on my wife or run to my parents to bail me out.

…I could adhere to a rule of “no new friends” and prioritize the relationships in my life based on social status or what that person can do for me.

…I could say “because I said so”, much more.

…I could make all my blog posts click bait or say things I don’t actually believe to get more popular.

…I could find reasons to take more business trips or weekends with buddies to get away.

…I could play with facts to make them more persuasive.

…I could keep my head down if I notice little problems or injustices that others don’t.

…I could stop listening or talk over quieter people so that I can be heard.

…I could just throw away the toys the kids leave all over the floor.

…I could tear down others ideas, with no viable alternatives, to gain supporters.

…I could, literally, sweep dust under the rug.

…I could do these things to make it a little easier.

Lots of people do, right?

And honestly, I for sure still fail my better angels no matter how hard I try. I’m no perfect man, especially when it it comes to that one about yelling at my kids (yikes).

But damn, if I did shit like this on purpose, what would that make me?

“But what would that make me?” is all I need to ask myself when I want to stop trying so hard. That sets me straight when I want to loosen up a little on principles.

I share all this because I’m feeling the weight of the daily grind a little extra today. And I know I’m not the only one who fights the urge to compromise on their principles, even just slightly.

We could. But what would that make us?

Light only spreads exponentially

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

Fatherhood and The Birmingham Jail

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

“Our freedom is inextricably linked to goodness”

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.

—

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.

Listening comes from discomfort

Listening might be the most important skill there is. It’s like a steroid for building character muscles.

By listening, I can realize that you, no matter who you are have an extraordinary story - and that will get me to love you more.

By listening, I can find something sacred in you, something of intrinsic value. And if I know that, I can be courageous enough to make a sacrifice for you.

By listening, I can understand what you really need. And then, I can serve you and care for you.

By listening, I give you a voice.

By listening, I can understand that the awful things I assumed about you aren’t true. Listening leads to humility and evaporates stereotypes.

If I could just listen more, I’d be a better man.

But to listen, I need to stop thinking about me for just a minute. For just a little while, I’ve gotta put my task list, my hunger, my fear of failure, and my need to be perceived as awesome off to the side. I’ve got to turn off the voice in my head that says, “I can’t deal with you right now, you’re going to have to wait a minute until I take care of ME.”

That suspension of my ego-monologue is so hard because it creates discomfort. When I put off my own needs, my ego and my body hunker down and make me feel discomfort - emotionally and physically. Which is why it’s so hard to stop thinking about myself and create the space to listen to you - by choosing to listen to you, I’m accepting that discomfort is coming.

I think that’s the key to listening - getting used to discomfort. Because if I can get uncomfortable, get through it, and realize that I got through it, the next time I want to listen I will remember that temporary discomfort is okay. The next time I want to listen to you, I can remind my ego-monologue that the listening to you is a temporary discomfort we can get through.

What I need to do, then, is practicing discomfort. Or more accurately, I need to trick myself into being uncomfortable. Because my ego-monologue will not go quietly into discomfort.

I’ve tricked myself into discomfort before.

Tricking myself into discomfort is when I need to go on a 5 mile run when it’s hot and I go two-and-a-half miles in one direction, which leaves me no choice but to run home. It’s when I force myself to raise my hand in class, so I sweat with the anxiety of maybe saying something stupid. It’s in starting the guided mediation video, so I feel obligated to stew in the discomfort of increasing the awareness I have of my own thoughts.

It’s in playing truth or dare or hot seat around a campfire so that I’ll look like a jackass if I don’t answer a deep, vulnerable, question. It’s in the walk down the wobbly diving board or the steps up to the top of the playground slide, with friends behind you, so there’s no way out other than cannonballing into the cold unknown.

If, through practice, I can get comfortable with being uncomfortable, I can convince my ego-monologue that it can deal with the discomfort of quieting down and letting me listen to you. And if I can listen to you, I can be a better man.

So what I really need to do is make the choice to get into uncomfortable situations, get through it, and create the belief that I’m capable of managing discomfort. Discomfort is a resource I need to build my capacity to listen, and, in turn, a resource I need build my own character.

The real slap in the face is that the same is true for our sons. I have to let them be uncomfortable. I can’t put them into situations of genuine harm, but I can’t rob them of the gift of discomfort either. They need me to let them stew in it.

Photo Credit: Unsplash @kaffeebart

Leadership as artistry

In a second, I’m going to suggest that leadership can be considered artistry. But first, what is an artist?

I’ve been thinking non-stop about this take from the comedian, writer, and producer Hasan Minhaj.

Here’s a clip (link to Instagram Reel) from his appearance on the Colin and Samir podcast (heads up: there’s some profane language in the clip). Here’s a key blurb:

It’s artistry vs. the algorithm…An artist is someone who has something in their head or their heart that they gotta SAY. And they want to get it out - that’s an artist. I have to get this out into the world. You’ve got a short film? Let’s show it in the park TONIGHT.

I love this framing: an artist has something to say. They have a point of view that they have to share out into the world.

And then there’s the algorithm. Serving the algorithm is not expressing a point of view, it’s putting something out based on whether other people will like it. Whether other people will click it. Whether other people will buy it. You’re not serving up a point of view, you’re serving up something that optimizes some variable.

Like Minaj says in the clip, I’m not trying to be disparaging about living by the algorithm or pejorative. Choosing artistry over the algorithm (or vice versa) isn’t necessarily better…but it is a choice.

Is leadership artistry? I know it can be, because I’ve seen leaders communicating a point of view through their leadership. I’ve seen leaders who have something in their heart that they’ve got to say. A recent example I’ve encountered is Alan Mullaly’s interview (he’s a former Boeing and Ford CEO) on The Knowledge Project podcast.

The entire interview is worth listening to, but I’d summarize Mullaly’s point of view on leadership with his phrase “love by design.” It’s clear that his whole worldview on leadership - from the language he uses, to his framework of key ideas, to the management operating system he uses to manage the process of leading a team - all come down to loving and serving others.

Mullaly has a point of view, that he needs to communicate. He’s an artist. His medium just happens to be leadership.

I’ve found that many successful leaders I’ve observed also express a unique, personal, cohesive point of view through their leadership.

Like a colleague of mine who’s one of the founders of Joybird furniture: his point of view, which I learned within an hour of meeting him, is to create growth - for people, for enterprises, and for customers.

Or there’s Reese Witherspoon, whose entrepreneurship founding Hello Sunshine centers around the importance of telling stories that celebrate women and puts them at the center of the story.

Or there’s former Joint Chiefs Chairman and Secretary of State Colin Powell whose point of view centers on solving problems and taking care of people. When I was an intern at the State Department, I heard personal tales from my colleagues about Secretary Powell embodying this through behaviors like eating in the canteen with everybody else or personally seeking out the families of personnel who died or were injured in action and finding ways to help them.

Of course, the alternative to leadership as artistry is leadership by algorithm.

We can do what makes the most money with the lowest risk. We can do what optimizes for a social metric. We can do what gets us promoted the fastest. We can copy the generic management system we learn in graduate school. Whatever variable we choose, there’s there’s a leadership algorithm to optimize for it.

Leadership by algorithm is a legitimate choice, and maybe even the right one for the circumstances. And just like on social media, playing to the algorithm works if you do it well enough.

But like Minhaj opined in the clip above - leadership by algorithm may work well, I just don’t want to live like that.

In my experience and study of organizations and leaders for the past 25 years, algorithmic leadership has consequences I’m not willing accept.

Just like social media, algorithmic leadership leads to “inflammatory content” like when ego-maniacal leaders develop cult followings with their extreme tactics.

Just like social media, algorithmic leadership leads to “content mediocrity” - like when the leadership quality of the entire cadre of listless middle-level managers in the world seems to mirror the endless supply of mediocre cat videos on the internet.

Leadership by algorithm can work, but it has consequences.

Behavior Is communication

The hard part, as is usually the case, is the “how.” How do we actually do this? How do we actually develop a point of view that we can express through how we lead?

Robyn, my wife, recently shared a concept she learned during her training to become a high school teacher: behavior is communication. In the education (or parenting) context, the lesson is simple: when kids are acting out, they’re actually trying to say something that they aren’t capable of expressing in words. Their behavior is communication.

If we want to think of our leadership as artistry, we can apply the same lesson. Our behaviors - when we’re trying to lead a team or make a positive contribution - say something. The beliefs we have in our hearts are represented in how we act. Our point of view is reflected in how we operate.

Just like artists can express a point of view with their scripts, paintings, or music - we can express a point of view with how we behave in the organizational world.

If we want to think of our leadership as artistry with a point of view, we first have to explore and try new things. We have to listen and observe. We have to hone the fundamentals of our craft - like communicating, being authentic, delegating, and more. And then, we have to reflect, and do deep introspection about what we’ve experienced and form a point of view.

That practice of introspection can take many forms, but I think this question is as good as any to start: when I try to behave in a context of leadership and organizations, what am I trying to say? What am I trying to communicate, from deep within my heart, through my behavior?

If we explore as artists do and introspect as artists do, we can practice leadership as artistry.

Photo Credit: Unsplash @timmossholder

We do not have monsters inside us

The first time I had the delusion, was probably around the time I started high school. I don’t remember what preceded it, I just remember thinking, “there’s something untamed and dark inside me.”

As I’ve aged, I’ve come to realized that I’m not the only man who has felt the grip of something inside them, small to be sure, but something that feels like evil.

For decades now, I’ve believed this about myself as a man: I have this tiny little seed, deep down, in my heart. That seed is a little root of evil and I must not let it grow. I know there is a monster within, and I must not let it out.

I don’t know from whence this deluision came. But it came.

The delusion reawakened when I started to seeing press about a new book, Of Boys and Men by Richard Reeves, which is about the crisis among men we have in America. I haven’t read the book, yet, but here’s some context from Derek Thompson at The Ringer:

American men have a problem. They account for less than 40 percent of new college graduates but roughly 70 percent of drug overdose deaths and more than 80 percent of gun violence deaths. As the left has struggled to offer a positive vision of masculinity, male voters have abandoned the Democratic Party at historically high rates.

Or this from New York Times columnist David Brooks:

More men are leading haphazard and lonely lives. Roughly 15 percent of men say they have no close friends, up from 3 percent in 1990. One in five fathers doesn’t live with his children. In 2014, more young men were living with their parents than with a wife or partner. Apparently even many who are married are not ideal mates. Wives are twice as likely to initiate divorces as husbands.

I come away with the impression that many men are like what Dean Acheson said about Britain after World War II. They have lost an empire but not yet found a role. Many men have an obsolete ideal: Being a man means being the main breadwinner for your family. Then they can’t meet that ideal. Demoralization follows.

For more than a year, before this book was released, I’ve been grappling with some of its core themes. I might not call my own life a crisis, per se, but I struggle with being a man in America today.

I have been wanting to write about “masculinity” or “the American man” for some time, but have struggled to find the right frame and honestly the guts to do it.

A different version of this post could’ve been about how lonely, and isolated I feel and how hard it has been to maintain the ties I have with close, male, friends from high school, college, and my twenties. Or I could’ve written about the pressure of competition in the workplace and the way other protected groups are supported, but I and other males are not, though we also struggle.

I might’ve written about the confusion I feel - I am trying to operate in a fair and equal marriage with Robyn, but we have no blueprints to draw from because society today and what it means to be a man feels so different from the time I came of age. A different version of this post might’ve be political and angry, pushing back against the stigma I feel when I’m gathering with other men - for example, sometimes I feel like getting together in groups of men is something to be ashamed of because it’s assumed that groups of men will devolve into something chauvinistic or destructive and “boys will be boys” and masculinity is “toxic.”

[Let me be clear though: abusive, violent, exploitative, or criminal behavior is absolutely wrong. And the many stories that have been made public about men who behave this way is wrong. And I’d add, men shouldn’t let other men behave that way, toward anyone. I do not imply with any of the struggles I’ve referenced above that any person, man or women, is exempted from the standards of right conduct because they are struggling.]

What I do imply, is that the struggles that are talked about in public discourse about the crisis of men is real to me, personally. My life does not mirror every statistic or datapoint that’s published about it, but directionally I feel that same struggle of masculinity.

As I’ve searched for words to say something honest and relevant about masculinity, what I’ve kept coming back to is that delusion I’ve believed that there is an evil and dark part of me, even if it’s small and buried deep down, that exists because I am a man. The negative ground that all my struggles of masculity come from is the belief that there’s a monster inside me, and that the balance of my life hangs on not letting him out of the cage.

For me at least, this is the battleground where the struggle of my masculinity starts and ends. No policy change is going to solve this for me. No life hack is going to solve this for me. No adulation or expression of anger is going to solve this for me.

If I want to get over my struggle with my masculinity and difficulties I feel about being a man in America today, I have to dispel the belief that there’s a monster inside me. I have to prove that I am not evil inside and that belief is indeed a delusion. The obstacle is the way.

But how? How do I prove to myself that there’s not a monster, that I was born, inside me?

—

Our neighborhood is full of old houses, built mostly in the 1920s. And fundamentally, there are two ways to renovate an old house. You either paper over the problems, or you fix them and take the house all the way down to the foundation and the studs if you have to.

As it turns out, the only way you really make an old house sturdy is to take it down to the studs, and build from there. Papering over the issues in an old house - whether it’s old pipes, wiring, or mold - leads to huge, costly, problems later. The only way is to build a house is from good bones.

With that model in my head, I thought of this reflection, to hopefully prove to myself - once and for all - that I do not have the seeds of evil and darkness, sown into me because I was born a man.

The rest of this post is my self-reflection around three questions. I share it because I feel like I need to try out my own dog food and demonstrate that it can be helpful. But more than that, if you’re a man or someone who cares about a man, I share all this in hopes that if you also believe the delusion that you were born with a monster inside, that you change your mind.

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.

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What are the broken, superficial parts of me that I can strip away to get down to the core of the man I am?

I can strip away the resentment I have about being raised with so much pressure to achieve. I can strip away the bizarre relationship I have with human sexuality because as an adolescent the culture around me only modeled two ways of being: reckless promiscuity or abstinence, even from touching. I can strip away the anger I have because as a south Asian man, I am expected to be a doctor, IT professional, and someone who never has opinions, something to say, or the capability to lead from the front. I can strip away the self-loathing I have about being a man - I can be supportive of womens’ rights and opportunities without hating myself. I can strip back all the times I tried to prove myself as a dominant male: choosing to play football in high school, doing bicep curls for vanity’s sake, binge drinking to fit in or avoid hard conversations, trying to get phone numbers at the bar, or talking about my accomplishments as a way of flexing - I do not need to be the stereotypical “alpha male” to be a man. I can strip away my need for perfection and control, without being soft or having low standards.

I can strip away all pressures to prove my strength based on how I express feelings: I do not have to exude strength by being emotional closed, nor do I need to exude strength by going out of my way to express emotion and posture as a modern, emotionally in-touch man - I can be myself and express feelings in a way that’s honest and feels like me. I can strip away the thirst I have for status, my job title and resume is what I do for a living, not my life. I can strip away the self-editing I do about my hobbies and preferences - I can like whatever I like, sports, cooking, writing, gardening, astronomy, the color yellow, the color blue, the color pink - all this stuff is just stuff not “guy stuff” or “girl stuff.” I can strip away the pressure I feel to be a breadwinner, Robyn and I share the responsibility of putting food on the table and keeping the lights on, we make decisions together and can chart our own path.

Once I strip away all the superficial parts of me, and get down to the studs, what’s left? What’s the strong foundation to build my identity, specifically as a man, from?

At my core, I am honest and I do right by people. At my core I am constructively impatient, I am not obsessed over results, but I care about making a better community for myself and others. At my core, I am curious and weird - that’s not good or bad, it’s just evidence that I have a thirst to explore no ideas and things to learn. At my core, I value families - both my own and the idea that families are part of the human experience. At my core, I care about talent - no matter what I achieve extrinsically I am determined to use my gifts and for others to use there, because if the human experience can have less suffering, why the hell wouldn’t we try? At my core, I believe in building power and giving it away and I am capable of walking away from power. At my core, I care most about being a better husband, father, and citizen.

Now that I’ve stripped down to the studs, what mantra am I going to say to replace my old negative thought of, “I was born with a monster inside me that I can’t let out of the cage?”

I was born into a difficult world, but with a good heart. I am capable of choosing the man I will become.

Photo Credit: Unsplash @bdilla810