Character is a choice, Podcast relaunch!
Here's an update on the next few months and the relaunch of my podcast!
It is one of my core beliefs that our character is our choice. We can and should shape who we become. This was an idea that was rooted in my high school English class, when we read East of Eden by John Steinbeck. There’s an important idea in the book about an old word - timshel. It means, “thou mayest” and was the word from which a key passage in the Bible was translated?
Is conquering sin an inevitability? Is it an imperative? In Steinbeck’s story it’s neither. It’s a a choice. It’s something we may do. Thou mayest.
I don’t think becoming a better person is an inevitability, nor is it an imperative. It’s a choice. That’s why the title of the book I wrote is exactly that: Character By Choice.
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I’m trying something new for the next few months - a new creative thread to pursue.
I’m relaunching my podcast! I hope you’ll join me there as well as on this blog. Here’s the link to the podcast on Spotify. Or, search for “Muscle Memory” wherever you get your podcasts.
Here’s how it’ll work. I’ll read an excerpt from a chapter of the book every week and do a little discussion about it. I’ll summarize the most important idea on this blog. I’ll also have a 5 minute guided reflection with a question related to that chapter.
I’m doing this for two reasons. I’ve invested a ton in writing this book and I’m really proud of it. But the format of a blog can be limiting, I want to try unlocking it in new ways in a format that’s more conducive to voice and dialogue - much like a chat we might have around a campfire.
I also want to explore more creatively, and sow new seeds. Candidly, I’m a little stale and need to recharge my batteries before my blog posts have the same zest and originality that I know I’m capable of. Taking a break from new written ideas will help me find that zest again.
Either way, you’ll still find me here weekly - just with a new format and new energy. Thanks for being here with me and reading (and now listening again). Here’s the link again for the podcast.
Resistance against easy
The easy path is attractive. But what would that make me? What would that make us?
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?
Overcoming Ivy League rejection, finally
Overcoming the weight of Ivy League rejection, I discovered that the key to success and self-worth lies in embracing our own unique paths.
I was rejected by the Ivy League on three separate occasions. Twice while applying for undergraduate studies and once for grad school. The best I could manage was getting on the waitlist of one public policy school.
The Ivies were not my dream or my “league”, per se, but the league everyone, it seemed, wanted me to be in. Everyone around me implicitly signaled that Ivy League admission was the symbol of being elite and on a trajectory of success and respect. I don’t think I could've had an independent thought about the matter because the aura of the Ivy League was so insidious and pervasively woven into my psyche while I was growing up. Everyone else put their faith in the Ivy League, so I did too.
Ever since, it has been the source of whatever inferiority complex I have. I believe I am dumber than other people because I didn’t get into an Ivy League school. I thought I had to catch up, prove myself, and show everyone that I’m elite, too.
In a way, the Ivy League mythology is probably true. Extremely talented and capable people gain admission into Ivy League schools. And if I had too, I assume my career would’ve been easier and simpler. My “network” would have probably been more powerful and able to open stubborn doors. More people would’ve probably been knocking on my door, instead of the other way around.
And perhaps more importantly, I would’ve believed in myself more. It would’ve been a self-fulfilling cycle. If I had been admitted to the Ivy League, I would’ve believed that I was somebody. And because I believed that, I would’ve spent all that time I was insecure and engaging in negative self-talk actually being somebody. All the times I told myself stories about how I was too down-to-earth to go to the Ivy League, I could’ve been making a contribution.
The biggest trap of all this was not whether or not I got into an Ivy League school, but that I spent so much time in my life thinking about it, questioning what I was, and wondering what might’ve been. What a waste of time and energy.
What I realize now is that life and career are instances of product-market fit. Being able to make an impactful contribution is not just a matter of being talented but a matter of applying one's talents in the most impactful way. That is what I envy so much about Ivy Leaguers; nobody seems to tell them what they should do and what they should be. They seem like they have more mental freedom to just go in the direction they want, without too much questioning.
Even me, going to a relatively elite public university twice, people signal to me what I should be and what I should do all the time. They think they can fit me into the mold they want me to be. They think they can force me into their narrative. That’s what it feels like anyway.
Maybe none of this is true. Maybe nothing would’ve been different had I gotten into Harvard, Columbia, or any other Ivy League school. But putting this all on paper is proving to me that the mythology of the Ivy League has been in my head, rent-free, for a long time. I’ve been waiting for someone to validate my intellect, talent, and capability for so long.
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The West Wing is probably my favorite television show of all time. I was turned onto it by Lee, who was one of my managers and role models when I was a consultant at Deloitte.
The funny part is that Lee was Canadian, and I figured if someone who wasn’t even born in the US was undeterred in his enthusiasm for a show dramatizing the American presidency, I would probably like it too.
One of my favorite moments of the show is the scene where the Chief of Staff, Leo McGarry, talks with the President and outlines a new strategy for the administration: “Let Bartlet be Bartlet.”
I think that's the lesson here: all of us need to find that moment when we find our footing. We should stop trying to be someone we're not. We need to accept that we should focus on being who we are, instead of obsessing over Ivy League admission, promotions, or awards.
I think we all need that moment when we realize we can embrace our individuality, whether it's "Let Tambe be Tambe," "Let Paul be Paul," "Let Detroit be Detroit," "Let Smith be Smith," or any other iteration that our identity requires.
This whole time, I've been depending on the Ivy League to give me permission to be myself. This whole time, I've been dangling my feet out, hoping for my choices to be validated by someone else.
The greatest lesson in all this has nothing to do with the Ivy League. The lesson here is that we need to create this moment where we grant ourselves permission to be ourselves.
In my case, the turning point came when a role model at work told me about his circuitous path and how he embraced it, reminding himself that sometimes "you've got to bet on yourself."
Maybe we can't will ourselves, completely on our own, to grant self-permission for self-authorship. It's okay and expected to need help, support, and encouragement. But I don't think we need an institution to "pick" us, either. I never needed the Ivy League to "Let Tambe be Tambe," though maybe that would've sped up the process. All I needed, and all that I think any of us need, is someone to remind us that the choice to grant ourselves permission is one that we're allowed to make.
The path is ours to walk if we're willing to claim it as our own.
Listening comes from discomfort
Listening is a skill that builds character. To build the capacity to listen, I need to be comfortable with 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
Showing Up Is The First Choice
If listening is the key to love, relationships, and trust, choosing to show up is the key to listening.
Listening is the key.
We can love, maybe anyone, after we listen to their story. We can understand and solve many challenges if we are curious enough to listen and learn and understand. Relationships of trust and respect are built upon listening, more than anything else, perhaps. Listening to and knowing our own hearts, strengths, and unrelenting desires is a non-negotiable aspect of finding our way.
And from a posture of listening comes the core foundation of inner strength: courage, persistence, and integrity. I really believe this deeply, and as I’ve aged I’ve come to see listening as the under-appreciated linchpin of character and morality.
If listening is the key unlocking greater virtues, the key to listening is showing up. Only after showing up does listening even become possible. I know this without any empirical data.
I know this when I creep into my inbox, and Robert starts to inexplicably lash out at his brother. I know this when the energy in a work meeting changes based on the percentage of people who have their camera on vs. the percentage who are multi-tasking with their camera off. I know this when Robyn mentions that “Myles was asking for ya” at story time when I’m away on a business trip. I know this when I’ve glazed over half a chapter of my nightstand reading because I’m thinking about my to do list.
I know this when I’m rocking Emmett back to sleep, fuming about the slights I’ve perceived from the day, and he doesn’t settle into sleep on my shoulder until I’ve shifted my thinking to his breathing. I know this when I remember what it’s like to go on a date with Robyn and I’m finally hearing her again, not even realizing that I’ve forgotten how to listen.
And though I can wax about it’s importance, showing up is so hard. We can travel so cheaply, to get anywhere but here. We can be any place in the known universe with a smartphone. We can work from anywhere. We can retreat from the present challenge and justify just about anything under the auspices of “I deserve this” or “self-care”. We can disappear into our to do list, because it never ends anyway.
And there, too, is great distraction in struggle. There is hunger. There is disease. There is violence. There is The fear of missing out. There is uncertainty and mean spiritedness. There is the fear of not being enough or a life without meaning. These struggles are a barrier to showing up.
And most insidious of all, we can tell ourselves we can stop showing up if someone we love seems like they’ve stopped first. Tit for tat. it’s only fair. “He did it first” makes it okay, right?
Showing up is a choice. Rather, showing up is many little choices.
It’s the choice to get enough sleep. Or to put the phone away at dinner. It’s the choice to put a boundary on work hours. It’s the choice to meditate and do yoga to build concentration. It’s the choice to eat nutritious food and drink adequate water to prevent the body from distracting the present.
Showing up is the choice to make eye contact, and not scurry into our house to avoid talking with our neighbor. It’s the choice to hear out our proverbial weird uncle or aunt at Thanksgiving dinner. It’s the choice to not weasel out of a commitment when we get better plans. It’s the choice to breathe deeply instead of letting our attention run wild.
In a world of limitless choice, where we can be almost anywhere physically and digitally, showing up is a choice in itself.
I struggle with this. Most of the time, I act on autopilot and don’t actively choose to show up or not. It just happens or it doesn’t.
Like, literally yesterday I had an AirPod in my ear listening to the Michigan game while we had a family afternoon painting pumpkins and playing soccer, in Long Island, with family we flew across the country to see. In retrospect, why did I need to multitask for the sake of a football game? I was on autopilot.
And perhaps choosing whether or not to show up is not the greatest of all choices. That honor belongs to the choice of whether or not to become a better person. But even if it’s not the greatest choice, choosing to show up is our first moral choice. I must remember this, it is a choice. Showing up is a choice. It’s step one.
Before anything, I must stew on this deeply in my bones: will I choose to show up? And I must repeat the echo the answer in my head as a mantra: Yes, I can choose to show up. I can choose to show up. I can choose to show up.
Photo: Unsplash (@a_kehmeir).
If true, am I really a “leader”?
If I choose to shirk responsibility, what am I?
If I choose to…
…say “just give it to me” instead of teach,
…set a low standard so I don’t have to teach,
…blame them for not “being better”,
…blame them for my anger instead of owning it,
…let the outcome we’re trying to achieve remain unclear,
…keep the important reason for what we’re doing a secret,
…leave my own behavior unmeasured and unmanaged,
…set a high standard without being willing to teach,
…proceed without listening to what’s really going on,
…proceed without understanding their superpowers and motivations,
…withhold my true feelings about a problem,
…avoid difficult conversations,
…believe doing gopher work to help the team is “beneath me”,
…steal loyalty by threatening shame or embarrassment,
…move around 1 on 1 time when I get better plans,
…be absent in a time of need (or a time of quiet celebration),
…waffle on a decision,
…or let a known problem fester,
Am I really a “manager” or a “leader”? Can I really call myself a “parent”?
If I’ve shirked all the parts requiring responsibility, what am I?
To me all “leadership” really is, is taking responsibility. It’s the necessary and sufficient condition of it. The listed items I’ve prepared are just some examples of the responsibilities we can choose (or not) to take.
And, definitely, there are about 5 of those that I fail at, regularly. My hope is that by making these moments transparent, it will be more possible to make different choices.
The Great Choice
The greatest of all choices is choosing whether or not to be a good person.
In the spring of 2012, my life was a mess - even though it didn't appear that way to almost everyone, even me. But a few people did realize I was struggling, and that literally changed the trajectory of my life. It was just a little act, noticing, that mattered. And from noticing, care. Those seemingly small acts were a nudge, I suppose, that put me back on the long path I was walking down, before I was able to drift indefinitely in the direction of a man I didn’t want to become.
Those small acts of noticing and care were acts of gracious love, that probably prevented me from squandering years of my life. Without a nudge, it might have been years before I had realized that I lost myself. Because in the spring of 2012, I was making the worst kind of bad choices – the ones I didn’t even know were bad.
But I’m getting ahead of myself here.
Trying to become a good person is like taking a long walk in the woods. It’s winding. It’s strenuous. It’s not always well marked and there are a lot of diversions. There’s also, as it turns out, not a clear destination. Being a good person is not really a place at which we arrive, and then just declare we’re a good person. It’s just a long walk in the woods that we just keep doing – one foot in front of the other.
It is not something we do because it is fun. A long walk in the woods can be chilly, rainy, uncomfortable – not every day is sunny.
Righteousness is a word that I learned at an oddly young age. I must have been 10 or younger, I think. It was a world I heard lots of Indian Aunty’s and Uncles say during Swadhyaya, which is Sanskrit for “self-study” and what my Sunday school for Indian kids was called that I went to as a boy. And when those Auntys and Uncles would teach us prayers and commandments and the like – righteousness was a word that was often translated.
My father also used that word, righteous. I can hear him, still, with his particular pronunciation of the word talking to me about the rite-chus path. This idea of taking a long walk in the woods, you see boys, is an old idea in our culture. To me, talking about being a good person, going on a long walk in the woods, taking the righteous path – whatever you want to call it – are not just words and metaphors. It’s a dharma – a spiritual duty. It’s a long walk down an often difficult, but righteous, path.
But it is still a choice. Will we take the long walk?
This is a choice to you, like it was to me, my father before me, and his father before he. All of your aunts and uncles, grandparents, had this choice. In our family, this is a choice we have had to make – will we walk the righteous path or not? Will we do the right thing, or not? Will we take the long walk, day after day, or will we not? Will we try to be good people, or will we not?
This is the great choice of our lives. We have to choose.
This passage is from a book I’ve drafted and am currently editing. To learn more and sign up to receive updates / excerpts click here.
