Category Archives: life

The Scoreboard Is Lying to You

The car business loves a scoreboard.

Units sold. Gross profit. Closing percentage. Calls made. Appointments set. Products sold. Month-to-date pace. Yesterday’s number sits beside today’s goal, and every morning the board tells us whether we are ahead, behind or in need of a very uncomfortable meeting.

I understand the appeal. A scoreboard is clean. If the goal is thirty and the total is twenty-eight, nobody needs a committee to determine whether you reached it.

Numbers are useful. I have spent most of my adult life looking at them, managing by them and occasionally trying to explain why a particular one should not be interpreted too harshly until at least next Tuesday.

The problem begins when a useful measurement becomes a complete verdict.

A salesperson has a bad month and starts believing he is bad at his job. A manager misses a goal and carries the failure home like it belongs at the dinner table. A strong month produces the opposite illusion: the number is high, so everything must be working.

Then the calendar turns over.

The scoreboard resets to zero and begins demanding proof again.

Life has scoreboards too, although they are considerably less honest about who installed them.

Income. Job title. House. Relationship status. Weight. Followers. Children’s accomplishments. The age by which we believe we should have achieved something. We collect measurements from family, culture, social media and people we barely like, then act surprised when winning their game does not feel like winning ours.

I have done this repeatedly.

There have been months when work went well and I felt ten feet tall. There have been months when I questioned decisions stretching all the way back to the first job application I ever filled out. I have looked at money and felt successful, then looked at less money and wondered whether the earlier version of me had been a fraud. I have treated relationship status like a grade on my ability to love and career progress like an official ruling on my potential.

The score kept changing because I kept asking one number to measure an entire life.

That is too much work for any number.

Money matters. Anyone who says it does not has probably never tried to figure out which bill can wait until Friday. Career matters. Health matters. Relationships matter. Goals matter.

But none of them, by itself, gets to announce the final score.

A person can earn more money while becoming someone his children barely know. He can lose a job and become more present, more creative and more alive. A marriage can end without proving every year inside it was meaningless. A child can struggle without becoming evidence of a parent’s failure. A body can change while the person living inside it grows wiser.

Sometimes the number is telling the truth about the category and lying about the person.

Twenty-eight is still short of thirty. Pretending otherwise does not help anybody. But “we missed the goal” and “we are failures” are not the same sentence.

One gives us information.

The other gives the information authority it never earned.

While writing A Nobody’s Guide to Self-Help, I kept returning to the gap between the life we expected and the one we are actually living. Most of the pain in that gap is real. Some of it comes from loss, mistakes and roads that genuinely closed.

But some comes from standing beneath a scoreboard we did not build, losing a game we never consciously agreed to play.

So I have started asking different questions.

Not only: How much did I earn?

Also: What did earning it cost?

Not only: Did I reach the goal?

Also: Did the pursuit make me more disciplined, honest and useful?

Not only: Does my life look successful from the outside?

Also: Do the people I love experience me as someone who shows up?

Those questions do not eliminate measurable goals. They put them back in their proper place.

A scoreboard should help you understand the game. It should not be allowed to tell you whether your life is worth playing.

Look at the number currently deciding how you feel about yourself.

What is it actually qualified to measure?

And what have you allowed it to say that it never had the authority to decide?

The Uncertainty of Family History

In Liliana Colanzi’s essay “Tropical UFOs,” her mother and uncle agree that something extraordinary happened above a river in Bolivia. A spaceship came down. Strange light covered the witnesses. Then it disappeared toward the trees.

They disagree about almost everything that should be easier to remember.

Her uncle says they were children. Her mother remembers being married and returning from a funeral with several relatives. He remembers an abduction. She remembers an object hovering above them.

The other witnesses are dead.

That means the argument will never be settled—not because the event was too strange, but because the people who could compare the stories are gone.

Two people watch an unexplained light hovering above a tropical river at night.

The UFO is almost beside the point. Families lose track of ordinary facts all the time.

Someone I know grew up believing she was descended from a Cherokee chief. That was the story her mother had given her. Not merely Cherokee, either. A chief. Family legends rarely suffer from a lack of promotion.

Years later, the subject came up at a family reunion. Her aunt had heard a different genealogical story. The branches didn’t connect the same way. The confidence remained; the facts had started moving.

Eventually she took a consumer DNA test. The ancestry estimate came back entirely European.

Somewhere between her mother’s story, her aunt’s version, and the laboratory, the Cherokee chief quietly left the family tree.

A DNA estimate can’t perfectly reconstruct every person who ever contributed to a family. But it made one thing difficult to deny: the story she inherited as fact was not nearly as settled as it had sounded.

That doesn’t necessarily mean her mother lied. More likely, her mother repeated what somebody had once told her. Sincere people can pass along inaccurate stories with tremendous confidence. Family history often travels farther on certainty than it does on evidence.

Two relatives compare old photographs and genealogy papers during a family reunion.

That’s part of what makes writing about small towns and family history both important and dangerous.

Places changed by water, time, and people leaving do not preserve themselves in clean transcripts. They survive in kitchens, church foyers, old photographs, property lines, and stories told by people who assume everyone already knows the names.

One person remembers the year. Another remembers the weather. Somebody insists the truck was blue. Somebody else is equally certain it was green. The event may be real while the details refuse to stand still.

Writers feel pressure to fix that.

Readers prefer a date. They want one truck, one route, one version of what happened. Uncertainty can look like weak research, so the temptation is to choose the account that sounds best and sand away the disagreement.

But making the past neater does not make it truer.

A writer records an older person’s memories beside the Arkansas River near Carden Bottoms.

Sometimes the disagreement is the history.

The honest version may be: She remembered it this way. Her brother remembered it differently. No one is left who can tell us which one was right.

That sentence preserves more than doubt. It preserves two people. Their memories. Their loyalties. The different meanings the same event gathered as they carried it through life.

The work, then, is not only collecting stories. It’s collecting the edges around them. Who told you? Were you there? What part do you know, and what part did you hear? Did anyone else remember it differently?

Ask while someone can still answer.

Record the pause before the answer too.

Because when the last witness dies, we don’t simply lose another version. We lose the chance to measure one memory against another. What remains may still be beautiful, useful, and worth passing down. It just should not be dressed in a certainty it no longer possesses.

Sometimes “I don’t know exactly” is not a failure of storytelling.

It is the last truthful sentence available before silence.

Source note: Inspired by Liliana Colanzi’s “Tropical UFOs,” translated by Chris Andrews and published by Southwest Review.

The River Keeps What We Throw Away

After the water level falls, a riverbank can look like a drawer somebody pulled open and forgot to close.

Mud gives back pieces of bottles, rusted metal, buttons, tools, fishing line, and things too worn to name. Some were lost. Some were thrown away. Most entered the water without ceremony because the person holding them had no reason to imagine a stranger studying them generations later.

Time changes the category.

An object can spend two hundred years as trash and become history the moment another hand lifts it from the mud.

A mudlarker searches the exposed Thames shoreline and lifts a small weathered object from the mud.

The Wall Street Journal recently reported that roughly 10,000 people are waiting for permits to search the River Thames. At low tide, mudlarks move through layers of ordinary London life accumulated across centuries. Roman pottery may rest near a modern vape. A coin, buckle, pipe stem, or broken piece of tableware becomes evidence that somebody once stood there, worked there, ate there, or dropped something he assumed was gone.

The river did not preserve any of it because it understood its importance.

A river doesn’t curate. It doesn’t separate heirloom from garbage, tragedy from routine, or the final possession of a dead man from something tossed aside after lunch. It carries, buries, breaks, and exposes. Some debris is only debris. Some of it poisons the water. The river remains indifferent to every meaning we eventually place upon it.

That may be what makes the lesson honest.

The Arkansas River moves past Dardanelle without announcing which parts of our lives will matter later. History is happening in kitchens, fields, sheds, boats, church foyers, and front seats while everyone involved still calls it an ordinary day.

Low water exposes mud, driftwood, and fragments of ordinary life along the Arkansas River near Dardanelle.

We are poor judges of what an absence will make valuable.

My mother died at sixty. Grief changed the weight of ordinary things. An old photograph could knock the breath out of me, not because the paper had changed, but because the world around it had. The image became a place where someone could still be found.

That happens with more than photographs.

A phrase repeated so often that nobody bothered to record it can become the sentence everyone strains to remember. A tool is just a tool until the hands that used it are gone. A familiar drive, an unnoticed laugh, or an afternoon spent doing nothing special can become precious only after repetition is no longer possible.

We usually preserve the ceremonies. We photograph birthdays, graduations, weddings, and holidays. We assume Tuesday will take care of itself.

But much of what grief asks us to recover was hidden inside Tuesdays.

This is also the problem facing anyone who tries to preserve family or local history. We search for the dramatic story and overlook the ordinary instructions packed inside a saying, the name written on the back of a picture, the reason a certain road was avoided, or the small object nobody has thrown away because it still feels connected to a person.

Family photographs, a worn button, and an old hand tool rest on a kitchen table while someone records their stories.

We cannot save everything. We shouldn’t even try. A life can’t become a storage unit where every receipt and broken object demands reverence. Attention is not the same as accumulation.

Still, we could become better witnesses to the life in front of us. We could ask the question while the person who knows the answer is still sitting nearby. We could write the name on the photograph. We could listen once more to the story we think we already know.

The mudlark looks at what another person discarded and sees evidence. Grief often does the same thing. It teaches us, too late, that the mundane was carrying more life than we noticed.

Maybe what we call history is often the present, rescued too late from our inattention.

Sources: Wall Street Journal: “Why 10K People Are Waiting to Search the Thames”; Wall Street Journal: “Why 10,000 People Are Clamoring to Dig in London Mud”

Inheriting Wisdom: The Power of Grandmother Sayings

My grandma used to tell me to be careful when I prayed for patience or courage. The Lord wasn’t likely to drop either one in my lap, according to her. He would give me opportunities to practice patience and put me in situations where they was required.

I understood the words when I was young, but I didn’t fully understand the warning. It sounded almost like she was telling me not to pray too hard. But what she meant was that character doesn’t arrive gift-wrapped. God may answer the prayer by handing you a hard person, a long wait, or a moment when doing the right thing makes your knees a little wobbly. That one little saying carried theology, realism, and a survival plan without ever turning into a sermon.

An older relative and a younger family member talking across a worn kitchen table.
The words matter. So does the voice that gave them weight.

I thought about her when I read an Upworthy collection of old grandmother sayings. One of them was, “Some days you’re the pigeon, and some days you’re the statue.” On the surface, it’s just funny. Underneath it, though, are crystal clear instructions: do not confuse a good day with permanent status, and do not mistake a bad day for your identity. Stay humble when you’re flying. Stay steady when you’re the statue.

Families around Dardanelle and Carden Bottoms didn’t always explain their worldview in essays. They packed it into warnings, teasing, Bible language, and comparisons that made sense if you had ever watched the river, worked a field, fixed a fence, or tried to stretch a dollar. A saying could correct foolishness without starting a fight. It could make bitter medicine go down with a laugh.

My grandmother grew up in the Bottoms in a large family that picked cotton. I can’t pretend to know every sentence that traveled through those fields or across that kitchen table. But I do know the kind of work that made concise wisdom useful. When your hands were busy, you didn’t need a lecture. You needed a line short enough to remember and strong enough to use the next time.

A notebook, recorder, family photograph, and cotton boll arranged to preserve a family story.
A phrase becomes an inheritance when the story around it is preserved.

That’s what makes these phrases more than colorful old speech. When a saying dies, the circumstance that produced it starts to disappear too. “What did you come for, a chunk of fire?” makes very little sense until someone explains the old stove, the borrowed coal, and the hurry involved. Once the story is attached, the phrase becomes a tiny doorway into a world. Without the story, it is just a strange collection of words.

As a father, I think about how easily my children have inherited names and photographs without inheriting voices. They may know where somebody lived and when they died, but not how they sounded when somebody got too big for their britches. They may recognize a face in a picture but never hear the phrase that could bring that person back into the room.

If I give my kids only the saying, I have handed them the shell. The story is the part that breathes. Who said it? What kind of trouble summoned it? Did everyone laugh? Was the lesson understood right then, or did it take twenty years to land? Those details aren’t decoration. They’re instructions.

The hard part is that some of the people I would like to ask are already gone. There are questions I can no longer ask them. That turns this from nostalgia into responsibility. Memory feels permanent right up until the last person carrying it is no longer here to answer the phone.

A father and two children sharing stories on a rural Arkansas porch at dusk.
Fatherhood turns memory into a responsibility to pass something on.

So here is a simple thing worth doing. Ask an older relative what sayings they remember. Don’t stop at making a list. Ask who said each one, when it came out, and what foolishness or hardship brought it out. Record the conversation on your phone or write it down while the voice and the details are still fresh. Then tell one of those stories to your children.

A family inheritance isn’t always land, money, a recipe, or a quilt. Sometimes it is one crooked sentence that kept people patient, cautious, humble, or laughing when life got heavy. It can vanish without anyone rejecting it. All it takes is for everybody to assume somebody else will remember.

Thursday Night Football and Shipping Containers

Months before the Los Angeles Rams crossed the Pacific, a shipping container was already making the trip.

Inside were game-day drinks, supplements, food, and supplies. The kind of things nobody in the stands would notice unless they are missing.

The NFL’s first regular-season game in Australia will be played under the lights at the Melbourne Cricket Ground. That is the part made for television: the uniforms, the crowd, the opening kick, and the announcer reminding us how far everybody traveled.

The less glamorous part began 218 days earlier.

The Rams had to move roughly 25,000 pounds of equipment in 90 trunks. Every trunk needed a manifest listing what was inside, what it was worth, and where it came from. Australian biosecurity rules meant the cleats had to arrive free of dirt, seeds, and grass. Somewhere, while the players prepared to play football, an equipment manager was scraping yesterday’s practice field from the bottom of somebody else’s shoes.

A shipping container carrying game-day supplies crosses the Pacific months before kickoff.

That may be the most honest picture of leadership I have seen in a while.

We like the visible moment. We celebrate the touchdown, the sale, the finished book, the family picture, and the number at the bottom of the report. We rarely ask who made sure the right cord, form, meal, key, or backup plan was in the room when the moment arrived.

The game isn’t won in the shipping container. The players still have to play. Preparation can’t guarantee an outcome.

But a great many things can be lost there.

An equipment manager removes every trace of dirt and grass before the cleats can clear customs.

At a dealership, the customer sees the delivery photo. He sees the clean vehicle, the keys in his hand, and the smile that gets posted online. He doesn’t see the inventory checks, the trade appraisal, the lender calls, the paperwork corrections, the detail department, the fuel, the insurance verification, or the person who caught the missing signature before it became tomorrow’s problem.

When those pieces work, the final moment looks easy. That’s the strange reward of good preparation: it often removes the evidence that it was necessary.

Leadership is not only performing well when the pressure arrives. It’s reducing the number of emergencies everyone else will have to survive. Pressure may reveal preparation, but it rarely replaces it.

Before the doors open, a dealership manager prepares the paperwork, keys, and vehicle behind the delivery photo.

Fatherhood contains the same invisible work. Children see Christmas morning, not the calendar, sacrifice, and quiet worry behind it. They see the uniform ready for practice, not who remembered to wash it. They see that somebody showed up, not the rearranged day that made showing up possible.

That doesn’t mean children owe us applause. Love becomes something uglier when every sacrifice is presented as an invoice. The point is not to make people feel guilty for enjoying the moment. The point is to respect the work required to make good moments dependable.

Writing is no different. A reader sees the finished essay, not the notes carried around, the weak opening deleted, or the paragraph that had to be rebuilt because it sounded better than it was true. The published piece is kickoff. Most of the real contest happened when nobody was watching.

There’s a temptation in responsible lives to resent that invisibility. We want somebody to notice the early morning, the second check, or the problem prevented so completely that it never became a story. Sometimes they will. Often they won’t.

Do the work anyway.

The crowd will remember who caught the pass. The customer will remember the keys. The child will remember the morning. But somewhere before each visible moment was a person nobody applauded—the one who packed what everybody else would need before they knew they needed it.

Source note: Inspired by Morning Brew’s reporting on the Rams’ Australia game and Sports Illustrated’s inside account of the team’s 15,000-mile operation.

Potential Has an Undefeated Record

There is a moment in writing when the work stops belonging only to you.

For a long time, the book was a collection of notes, half-finished ideas and sentences scattered across more files than any responsible adult should create. It was mine in the safest possible way. I could work on it when inspiration showed up, ignore it when life got loud and still tell myself I was writing a book.

Then I finished it.

That should have felt like relief. Instead, I stared at the file and realized finishing had created an entirely new problem.

Somebody else could read it now.

As long as the book remained unfinished, it could still be great. Not actually great, of course. Theoretical greatness is much easier. In my head, every unfinished chapter contained exactly the right words. Every joke landed. Every emotional moment struck the perfect balance between honest and self-indulgent. The imaginary reader closed the imaginary book and stared thoughtfully into the imaginary distance.

Reality is less cooperative.

A real reader can become bored. A real paragraph can fall flat. A real book can receive a very real shrug.

Potential has an undefeated record because potential never has to play the game.

The job you never apply for never rejects you. The person you never ask never says no. The business you never start never fails. The difficult conversation you never have never goes badly. The shot you never take cannot miss.

Of course, it cannot go in either.

That is the bargain we make when we protect our potential. We avoid one outcome by eliminating both.

I have always believed I was capable of more than my circumstances showed. That belief has helped me survive difficult seasons. It has also occasionally become a hiding place.

If the better career, finished book or improved version of myself remained somewhere in the future, I could keep believing it would be exceptional. Reality had not measured it yet. I was not failing. I was simply waiting for the right time, the right opportunity, the right energy or the right alignment of the planets.

Fear owns a surprising number of respectable outfits. Sometimes it dresses like preparation. Sometimes it calls itself patience. Sometimes it brings a legal pad, asks seventeen responsible questions and convinces us that one more round of thinking is the same thing as progress.

Preparation matters. Timing matters. Some decisions deserve patience.

But eventually we have to ask whether we are preparing to act or preparing an explanation for why we never did.

When I sent the manuscript to its first readers, I felt exposed in a way that surprised me. These were not strangers on the internet. They were people whose opinions mattered. They would see the seams. They would know where I had reached for something and missed it.

They might also find something useful.

That possibility only became available when I stopped protecting the other one.

The book is called A Nobody’s Guide to Self-Help. The title is partly a joke and partly a confession. I am not offering the wisdom of a man who conquered the world. I am offering a few landmarks from a man who has walked into enough holes to recognize some of them in the dark.

Writing it taught me something I probably should have learned sooner: evidence is less flattering than potential, but it is far more useful.

Evidence can be improved.

You can revise a bad paragraph. Learn from the interview you did not ace. Adjust the business after the first month. Recover from an awkward conversation. Practice the shot you missed.

Potential cannot be improved because it refuses to become anything.

So this is not a motivational demand to quit your job by lunch, empty your savings into a dream or confess your love to somebody who has made it very clear they would prefer you remain several counties away.

It is a smaller challenge.

Identify one thing you have kept safely theoretical. Then find the smallest honest action that would allow reality to touch it.

Send the email.

Submit the application.

Share the draft.

Ask the question.

Take the shot.

You may miss. I may too.

But undefeated is not the same thing as accomplished.

What part of your potential are you protecting from the possibility of becoming evidence?

Grief as a Crumple Zone: Navigating Loss with Grace

There’s more empty space inside a modern football helmet than you might expect.

That space isn’t wasted. It’s part of what keeps the person inside alive.

The shell, padding and collapsible liners are designed to move and compress. To give the force of a collision somewhere to go before it reaches the head inside. Morning Brew summarized the science in six words: “Distance makes the head blow softer.”

The layered interior of an unbranded football helmet resting on a worn locker-room bench.

That may the best explanation of grief I have ever heard.

Most of us were taught that strong things don’t bend. Strong men keep working. Strong parents hold the family together. Strong Christians trust God and do not ask too many uncomfortable questions. After the funeral, the breakup or the diagnosis, we straighten our backs and try to make our pain as unobtrusive as possible.

People tell us how well we are holding up.

Sometimes what they mean is that we have made our suffering convenient for everyone else.

When my mother died at 60, I learned there is a difference between knowing something and surviving contact with it. I had always known people die. I also know Arkansas is hot in August. Knowledge is one thing. Stepping outside is another.

Death stopped being an idea and became a collision.

I wanted to be strong. I thought strength meant showing as little damage as possible. But rigid is not the same as strong. Rigid is often just one hard hit away from being broken.

A solitary man seated quietly in a modest rural Arkansas church.

The Virginia Tech Helmet Lab is blunt about this: no helmet is concussion-proof. Better equipment can reduce risk, but it cannot make a violent game harmless. Rules matter. Technique matters. What happens before the impact matters, too.

Grief works the same way. There is no prayer, friendship, ritual or number of calendar pages that makes loss harmless. Faith does not make the funeral less final. A good friend cannot fill an empty chair. Writing can’t revise a page that has already been torn from the story.

But those things can create space.

A friend who sits beside you without trying to fix you. A church pew where you no longer have to pretend you understand. A story told again because saying the name keeps the person from disappearing completely. A notebook, a long drive, a meal somebody leaves on the porch, or a quiet morning when you finally allow yourself to cry.

These are not cures. They are crumple zones.

They give some of the force somewhere else to travel.

A worn journal, Bible, coffee and faded family photograph on an old kitchen table at first light.

We tend to treat yielding as failure. We apologize for the tears. We feel guilty for needing rest. We rush to become the version of ourselves who is “doing better,” mostly because grief makes other people nervous and, if we are honest, it makes us nervous too.

But maybe being strong was never supposed to mean walking away unmarked.

Children grow up. Relationships end. Parents die. Houses empty. Photographs that once looked ordinary begin knocking the breath out of us. Some collisions cannot be prevented, and no honest version of faith or self-help should promise otherwise.

The purpose of a crumple zone is not to pretend the wreck did not happen. The bent metal is proof that it did.

It is also proof that something was allowed to give so the person inside could survive.

Maybe grief needs the same mercy.

Dolly Parton’s Legacy of Books and Empowerment

We tend to talk about legacy as if it is something we build with our own two hands.

A business. A book. A name on a building. Enough money left behind that our children do not have to struggle the way we did. Then somebody leaves behind something larger than anything he could have built himself.

When Dolly Parton died on August 25, I learned something about her that I didn’t know. And it had nothing to do with rhinestones, pearls, and country music. It had everything to do with her father.

Robert Lee Parton could not read. Dolly called him the smartest man she had ever known. She also believed his inability to read kept him from fulfilling many of his dreams.

So she built the Imagination Library in his honor. What began in one Tennessee county grew into a worldwide program that mails a free book every month to more than three million children. Before he died, her father told her it was “probably the most important thing I had ever done.”

Not the songs. Not the awards. Not the money.

The books.

A boy traces a page in an open book while his father's hand rests beside him at a wooden kitchen table.

I think about that because one of my boys has had to learn that difficulty with traditional reading is not the same thing as a lack of intelligence. School can turn one narrow skill into a courtroom exhibit. A hard page starts to feel like evidence. A slow test starts to sound like a verdict.

It is not.

A child can struggle to pull meaning from a page and still understand people, patterns, consequences, machines, humor, or the quiet things happening in a room. Intelligence does not always arrive in the format a classroom finds easiest to grade.

That does not mean reading is unimportant. It means shame is a lousy teacher.

As a father, my job is not to pretend the hill is flat. The hill is real. There will be assignments, forms, instructions, applications, and a thousand other places where the written word matters.

My job is to keep him from believing the hill is the whole world and that he is responsible for crossing it the same way everyone else does.

That may be one of the hardest parts of parenting. We want to give our children confidence, but confidence cannot be built from lies. We cannot tell them everything will be easy. We can tell them that hard is not the same as impossible, and struggle is not the same as stupid.

Dolly’s father could not hand her literacy. He handed her intimate knowledge of what happens when a capable person is locked outside a door. She spent the rest of her life mailing keys.

A father installs a wooden bookshelf in his son's bedroom while the boy waits with a stack of books.

We usually talk about what children inherit in visible terms: our eyes, our temper, our last name, our property, and, if genetics is feeling especially generous, the best of ourselves.

But children inherit our unfinished business too.

Sometimes they inherit the courage we modeled. Sometimes they inherit the wound we could not heal. Sometimes our limitation becomes the raw material they use to build something neither of us could have imagined.

That does not make the limitation good. It does not romanticize the hurt or excuse the world for failing to recognize somebody’s intelligence.

It simply means love can refuse to waste pain.

I don’t have to possess every gift my children will need. I won’t understand every way their minds work. I will not always know the right book, the right teacher, or the right sentence to say when frustration settles over the kitchen table.

But I can keep building shelves.

A father carrying boards and tools walks beside his son carrying a book near a rural roadside library at sunset.

I can protect curiosity while skill catches up. I can separate effort from worth. I can remind a boy that a page is something to work through, not something allowed to define him.

Maybe that is legacy.

Not proving that we had every answer, but making sure our children never confuse the answers we lacked with the limits of who they can become. A father does not have to possess every gift to help awaken it in his children.

The man who could not read helped build a library anyway.

Mitakpa, Five Years Later: The Life I Kept Meaning to Live

Five years ago, I wrote about a Tibetan word I had discovered while reading The Comfort Crisis. The word was mitakpa, and it roughly translates to impermanence.

The idea was simple enough: everything born is subject to death and decay. We are all walking toward the edge of a cliff. We can pretend the cliff is not there and act surprised when it appears, or we can acknowledge it and allow the destination to change how we travel.

At the time, that idea hit me like a truck.

My mother had just died. She was sixty years old, which had always sounded like an old age right up until my mother reached it. Then it sounded impossibly young. Grief had made death real in a way that books, sermons and funeral-home visitations never had. The cliff was no longer a philosophical exercise. I had watched someone I loved reach it.

I wrote that making peace with the destination could change the course we chart toward it. I thought about who was walking beside me, what we were doing along the way and how many flowers I might regret passing without ever stopping to smell.

I still believe every word of that.

What I did not understand was how easy it is to see the cliff clearly and still stand in the same place.

Awareness is not action. Clarity is not courage. Knowing that time is limited does not automatically stop us from wasting it. Sometimes it only makes us feel more sophisticated while we continue doing exactly what we were doing before.

I have spent portions of the last five years thinking deeply about time while using it poorly.

I have told myself I needed to be more present with my children, then caught myself looking at a phone while one of them was talking. I have known that certain relationships deserved more attention while continuing to give them whatever energy was left after work. I have thought about books I wanted to write, changes I needed to make and conversations I should have, then stored them all in that enormous warehouse called later.

Meanwhile, the children kept growing.

The little boys I once carried in one arm became young men with their own opinions, schedules and worlds. My daughter stopped being the tiny child in so many of my favorite photographs and became a person who notices more than I would sometimes prefer. The changes happened gradually enough that I could miss them from one day to the next, but quickly enough that an old picture could knock the breath out of me.

That may be the cruelest trick time plays. It moves too slowly to frighten us today and too quickly to forgive us tomorrow.

The original lesson I took from mitakpa was to appreciate life because it ends. Five years later, I think the harder lesson is that appreciation without action can become another comfortable idea.

It is possible to love your children and still fail to give them your attention.

It is possible to value your health and continue neglecting it.

It is possible to believe a dream matters and never risk making it real.

It is possible to know where the road ends and keep driving as if we have unlimited gas.

I do not say that as someone who has solved the problem. I say it as someone who has become increasingly suspicious of his own ability to turn insight into a substitute for movement.

Recently, I finished writing a book I had been meaning to write in one form or another for years. Finishing it did not transform me. Angels did not descend. My bank account did not suddenly develop a six-pack.

But the file exists.

It can be read. It can be disliked. It can fail.

That matters because the imaginary version could do none of those things. It was protected by someday. The real one had to enter time with the rest of us.

Maybe that is what I missed five years ago. The cliff does not merely ask whether we appreciate the walk. It asks whether we are actually walking.

I still do not think about death three times a day. I am not trying to turn every Tuesday morning into a funeral meditation. Life is heavy enough without manufacturing dread before breakfast.

But every so often, I try to remember that the page will close.

Not to scare myself.

To interrupt myself.

To put down the phone. Make the call. Write the paragraph. Sit in the bleachers. Say the thing while the person can still hear it. Stop saving the life I claim to want for a future version of me who may never arrive.

Five years ago, I made peace with the existence of the cliff.

Now I am trying to become more deliberate about the road.

What part of your life have you been meaning to live later?

Embracing Failure: Lessons from Ted Williams

I should be more consistent with writing. I don’t usually sit down and think of a particular topic to write about. Most of the time, it just comes to me. Just the other day, I was thinking about “failure.” I realized that many things I write about have failure as a central theme. I don’t consider myself an expert on anything, but if I were to bestow that title on myself in some regard, it would be “Master of Failing.”


To be honest, I’m not even mad about it. It took a while to learn, but once I figured out that failing was an important part of growing, I decided to embrace it. I’m not saying that I have never made the same mistake twice, but I feel like most of my failures are unique, and I use them to fuel growth and development.


I’ve been in the car business for almost 20 years. When you are a professional salesperson, failure is a constant factor. Even the best in the industry don’t sell to every customer they talk to. A GOOD salesperson should expect to close 30%- 35% of the customers they interact with. To put it in perspective, if a baseball player gets a hit one out of every three times he goes to the plate, he’s considered a Hall of Famer. Similarly, if a salesperson closes a sale with one out of every three customers, they’re doing exceptionally well.


That means that the best players in the game’s history fail two out of every three times they have an at-bat.


Today, I’m returning to 1941, when Ted Williams had arguably the best season at the plate in baseball history. He finished the ’41 season with a batting average of .406 with 37 home runs and 120 RBIs. To provide context, .200, the Mendoza line, is considered the low-end threshold for professional ball players. The average batting average of Hall of Famers is .303.


Williams played in 143 games that season and had 456 at-bats. But the breakdown of three particular stretches of that 1941 season interests me the most.


On April 30th, Williams entered the game hitting .462. Over the next four games, he hit .182, dropping his season average to .310.


By June 21st, he had battled his way back up to .415. But he only hit .318 over the next 21 games, dropping that average all the way down to .393.


His average peaked again at .413 during the heat of the pennant race in early September. But a .292 stretch over the next 17 games saw it drop right to the .400 mark near the end of the season. Entering the last day of the year, he was so close to the .400 mark that a bad day at the plate would have kept him from reaching that sacred number.


This is important because even though his season as a whole is considered extraordinary, not every day, or even week, was even considered average. But during those subpar stretches, Ted Williams didn’t panic. He didn’t change up his swing. He didn’t stay down in the dumps and stop coming to work. He showed up every day, stepped inside that chalk-outlined box, and did his job to the best of his abilities. And he let the chips fall where they may.


The most significant lesson I’ve learned about failure is that it’s interwoven into the fabric of success. It’s more about ‘fall, learn, grow’ than ‘pass or fail.’ These three unremarkable stretches of Ted Williams’ historic season wouldn’t impress anyone. But his resilience and determination during those times are just as, if not more, important than his successes.


We get so caught up in results that sometimes we lose focus on the processes. Instead of getting up and walking out of the pit of despair, we let ourselves get so deep that we can’t even climb out. We let our losses define us even though we may be on the cusp of a breakthrough. Our inactivity lets the tide sweep us back to the starting line when riding the wave will get us closer to our destination.


I used to tell kids when they’d ask me a question, “I wish I had it all figured out.” I don’t tell them that anymore because it isn’t true. I’m glad I don’t have it all figured out. My next failure is always right around the corner, and I’m excited to see what revelation it will lead to. I try (emphasis on “try” ) to be consistent and open-minded while keeping a positive attitude. In the words of the great poet Henry Longfellow: “Learn to labor and to wait.”


Show up. Stay the course. Keep your head high. Learn. Don’t quit. Don’t ever quit.