The Hidden Skill Of Being Reliable

 

There are a lot of qualities that people admire.

Talent.

Intelligence.

Confidence.

Charisma.

Success.

Those are the qualities that usually get the spotlight. 

They're the ones we notice first, and often the ones we spend the most time trying to develop.

But there's another quality that quietly holds so many of those others together.

Reliability.

It isn't flashy.

It doesn't make headlines.

It probably won't earn you a standing ovation.

Yet if you asked someone to describe the person they trust the most, chances are they wouldn't start by talking about how talented or charismatic they are.

They'd probably describe someone who is reliable.

Someone who shows up.

Someone who follows through.

Someone whose word actually means something.

To me, keeping your word and honoring your promises are the backbone of reliability.

It's one thing to say you're going to do something.

It's another thing entirely to actually do it.

In fact, if I had to choose between someone who constantly tells me what they're going to do and someone who quietly does it without fanfare, I'll take the second person every single time.

That's why the old saying has stood the test of time:

Actions speak louder than words.

Words create expectations.

Actions create trust.

I've realized over the years that this is one area where I know myself really well.

If I tell someone we're going somewhere or doing something together, that commitment immediately finds its way onto my mental schedule. 

Once we've agreed on it, it's no longer just an idea. 

In my mind, it's a promise I've made to another person.

By the time that day arrives, very little else matters until I've honored that commitment.

My mind is already there.

I've also learned something about the way I schedule my life.

I don't schedule around my free time.

I schedule around my commitments.

Those two things might sound similar, but to me they're completely different.

Once I've told someone I'll be somewhere, that commitment becomes one of the anchors of my day.

 Everything else gets scheduled around it because keeping my word has already become the priority.

If someone asks me what I'm doing later that same day, I'll often tell them I already have plans. 

If I expect those plans to be over by the afternoon, I'll gladly say I should be free afterward. 

But I intentionally avoid promising an exact time until my original commitment has been fulfilled.

I'd rather tell someone, "I'll let you know as soon as I'm done," than confidently promise something I may not be able to keep.

I never want to be in a position where keeping one commitment forces me to break another.

I know everyone is wired differently, and I'm certainly not saying this is the only way to approach life.

It's simply the philosophy that's worked for me.

I think part of that philosophy also comes from the season of life I'm in.

I'm single.

I don't have a spouse or children.

Outside of work, my schedule is generally very predictable. 

I know what days I work, I know what time I get out, and beyond that, most of my calendar starts as free time unless I've already committed to something.

Many of my friends are in a very different season of life.

They have husbands or wives.

They have children.

Their calendars are already filled with school schedules, sports practices, doctor's appointments, family dinners, and countless responsibilities that naturally come with raising a family.

I don't look at that and think they're any less reliable.

If anything, I'd argue the exact opposite.

Being a good spouse and a good parent requires reliability every single day. 

Your family depends on it. 

You don't wake up each morning wondering if you feel like showing up. 

You show up because the people you love are counting on you.

The difference isn't reliability.

The difference is where our commitments begin.

Their calendars are built around their families.

Mine usually starts with free time.

That's why I take the commitments I choose to make so seriously.

I've actually seen this play out with some of my own friendships.

We'll throw around ideas, settle on a tentative date, and everyone is genuinely excited to get together.

Then the day gets closer.

A child gets sick.

A spouse gets called into work.

Someone realizes there was already another family commitment on the calendar that they forgot about.

Suddenly, the plans have to be postponed.

Do I get disappointed?

Of course.

I was looking forward to seeing my friend.

But I don't hold it against them.

How could I?

Those aren't excuses.

They're responsibilities.

Sometimes I even catch myself wondering if I should bother making plans, knowing there's a decent chance they'll end up being rescheduled anyway.

But then I remind myself that this really isn't about reliability.

It's about reality.

When your life is full of standing commitments, sometimes you don't even realize how full your calendar already is until something overlaps. 

What looked like free time a month ago suddenly disappears because life happened.

That doesn't make someone unreliable.

It simply means they're carrying commitments that I don't currently have.

It also reminds me to appreciate the flexibility I do have.

If I have the ability to be somewhere, and I've given someone my word that I'll be there, then that's exactly where I intend to be.

Ironically, this mindset also means I probably get more excited about plans than the average person.

Once I've committed to something, I've already started looking forward to it.

So when plans unexpectedly fall through, I genuinely feel disappointed.

Not because I'm angry.

Not because I think someone let me down.

But because I'd already mentally committed to the experience long before the day arrived.

In fact, I sometimes joke that I'm more excited about the plans than the person I'm making them with.

As funny as that sounds, I think it reveals something deeper.

When I commit to something, I don't just put it on my calendar.

I put it in my priorities.

That's how trust is built.

One kept promise at a time.

Every time you do what you said you were going to do, you're making another small deposit into the trust you've built with the people around you.

Most people won't notice each individual deposit.

But over weeks...

Months...

Years...

They add up to something incredibly valuable.

And here's the part I think we sometimes overlook.

The reason actions speak louder than words isn't because words don't matter.

It's because actions are what give your words their value in the first place.

When someone consistently backs up what they say with what they do, something interesting begins to happen.

Their words start carrying weight.

If they tell you they'll be there...

You believe them.

If they say they'll finish something...

You stop wondering whether it'll actually happen.

Their reputation has already answered the question.

I think of it like a play-action pass in football.

A play-action pass only works if the defense genuinely believes the offense is willing and able to run the football.

If a team has established the run over and over again, the defense has to respect it. 

They react to the fake handoff because they've repeatedly experienced the real thing.

But if the offense never runs the ball?

The fake doesn't fool anyone.

Reliability works the exact same way.

Your actions establish the run.

Every promise you keep.

Every commitment you honor.

Every time you follow through when you said you would.

You're establishing a pattern.

Eventually, people stop questioning your words because your actions have already proven they can trust them.

In other words...

Actions may speak louder than words.

But consistent actions are what make your words worth listening to.

Unfortunately, the opposite is also true.

Trust can be damaged much faster than it's built.

A broken promise.

Repeated excuses.

Consistently saying one thing while doing another.

Those withdrawals can erase years of deposits.

That's why reliability isn't something you earn once and keep forever.

It's something you continue earning every single day.

Now, being reliable doesn't mean being perfect.

Reliable people make mistakes.

They forget things.

They miss deadlines.

Life happens.

The difference is what comes next.

A reliable person owns the mistake.

They communicate honestly.

They apologize when necessary.

They make every reasonable effort to make things right.

Reliability isn't about never falling short.

It's about refusing to hide from your shortcomings when you do.

I've also noticed that truly reliable people rarely spend time convincing others they're reliable.

They don't need to.

Their actions have already done the talking.

At the end of the day, talent might open a door.

Charisma might leave a great first impression.

Success might attract attention.

But reliability is what keeps people coming back.

Because reliability earns something that can't be demanded and can't be bought.

It earns trust.

And trust is built one kept promise at a time.

Maybe one of the greatest compliments a person can ever receive isn't,

"They're incredibly talented."

Or,

"They're incredibly successful."

Maybe it's something much simpler.

"If they said they'd do it... they'll do it."

To me, that's a reputation worth building.

As always, thanks for reading!

Until next week!

The Weight You Can't See

 

When most people hear the word "weight," they immediately think of a number on a scale.

Trust me, I've spent enough time paying attention to those numbers over the past couple of years.

But lately I've been thinking about a different kind of weight. 

The kind that doesn't show up on a doctor's chart. 

The kind that can't be measured in pounds.

Because some of the heaviest things we carry aren't physical at all.

They're invisible.

The weight of worry.

The weight of regret.

The weight of things left unsaid.

The weight of expectations.

The weight of comparison.

The weight of uncertainty.

The weight of responsibility.

The weight of decisions.

The weight of tomorrow.

The weight we put on ourselves.

The funny thing is, if someone asked you how much these things weigh, you couldn't give them an answer. 

Yet most of us know exactly what it feels like when we're carrying too much of them.

Have you ever spent an entire day worrying about something that hadn't even happened yet?

A medical test.

A financial problem.

A difficult conversation.

A family member going through something.

A car repair.

A car inspection after said car repair.

Wondering if the reason someone isn't messaging you back is because they're mad at you.

Worrying about some random pain, and where it may have come from, and assuming the worst.

Nothing physically changed about your day, but by the time your head hits the pillow, you're exhausted.

Why?

Because carrying weight is still carrying weight, even when nobody else can see it.

Then there's regret.

Most of us have something in our past we wish we could redo.

Something we should have done.

Something we shouldn't have done.

A decision we would change if given the opportunity.

The strange thing about regret is that it can follow you for years. 

The event itself may have lasted only a few minutes, but the weight of it can stick around much longer if you let it.

I have a whole blog dedicated to one of my biggest regrets.

But there are also regrets for the things you didn't do.

Maybe you didn't go to that outing with your friends but you really wish you had.

You put off getting gas, and now you're running late, but you need to stop for gas now.

You ordered a chicken sandwich, checked under the top bun to make sure there wasn't a pickle, then you took a big bite.

Surprise, the pickle was underneath, and now it ruined your first bite.

Now you regret not checking underneath.

Then there's the weight of things left unsaid.

Maybe it's an apology you never gave.

Maybe it's a thank you that somebody deserved to hear, but you never got around to saying it.

Maybe it's telling someone how much they meant to you.

Maybe it's telling someone how much they hurt you.

The older I get, the more I realize words have weight.

Not just the ones we say.

The ones we don't say too.

Sometimes we convince ourselves there will always be another opportunity.

I'll call them tomorrow.

I'll text them later.

I'll tell them next time I see them.

Then life happens.

And suddenly tomorrow isn't guaranteed anymore.

Sometimes the words we never say end up weighing more than the words we do.

Expectations can be heavy too.

Sometimes they're expectations from other people.

Sometimes they're expectations we've placed on ourselves.

The pressure to have everything figured out.

The pressure to be successful.

The pressure to always have the right answer.

The pressure to somehow become the perfect version of ourselves.

There's nothing wrong with having goals. 

But there comes a point where expectations stop motivating us and start weighing us down.

I throw a bowling ball that I expect to be a strike, and it leaves the ten pin.

Life can leave a lot of ten pins.

The thing is, you can still pick up the spare, and move on to the next frame.

Then there's the weight of comparison.

This one is especially easy to carry nowadays because social media practically hands it to us.

Somebody else is making more money.

Somebody else is in better shape.

Somebody else is married.

Somebody else has kids.

Somebody else has a bigger house.

Somebody else seems to have their entire life figured out.

The problem is that we're comparing our everyday life to somebody else's highlight reel.

Nobody posts the arguments.

Nobody posts the anxiety.

Nobody posts the sleepless nights.

Nobody posts the mistakes.

We're seeing the final score without watching the game.

And comparison is a game nobody wins.

No matter how much progress you make, there will always be somebody ahead of you in something.

If your happiness depends on catching them, you're signing up for a race that never ends.

As the saying goes, "Comparison is the thief of joy".

Then there's the weight of uncertainty.

Sometimes the problem itself isn't what weighs on us.

It's not knowing.

Not knowing what the doctor is going to say.

Not knowing what the mechanic is going to find.

Not knowing whether the bill is going to be $50 or $500.

Not knowing how a conversation is going to go.

Now knowing if that person is going to want to take a picture with you for your photo album.

Not knowing if you're going to have a good or bad day at work.

Human beings are remarkably good at filling in the blanks.

Unfortunately, we usually fill them in with worst-case scenarios.

I've lost count of the number of times I've spent days worrying about something, only for it to work itself out in five minutes.

Sometimes uncertainty weighs more than reality ever does.

Responsibility is another interesting one.

Being responsible is generally a good thing. 

In fact, it's something most people strive for.

But responsibility has weight attached to it.

Being the person others rely on.

Being the dependable friend.

Being the one who shows up.

Being the one who has to make the difficult decisions.

Being the one who organizes the game nights. 

Those are good burdens to carry, but they're still burdens.

Then there's the weight of decisions.

I don't think anybody talks about this one enough.

When you're younger, most of your decisions are relatively small.

Do I want the soda or the juice with my popcorn at the movies?

Do I want the Candy Apple or the Caramel Apple that my neighbor makes every Halloween?

Do I go to my 1st Grade crush's birthday party and risk getting cooties, or stay home and play my Game Boy instead?

Do I want to rent a movie or a video game from Blockbuster this weekend?

Do I want strawberry or grape jelly for my PB &J Sandwich? 

As you get older, the stakes start getting higher.

Should I take this job?

Should I move?

Should I stay where I am?

Should I spend the money?

Should I save it?

Should I take the risk?

Should I play it safe?

Every decision feels like it closes the door on another possibility.

Sometimes we become so afraid of making the wrong decision that we end up making no decision at all.

But indecision has a weight of its own.

Eventually you realize there is no such thing as a life without mistakes.

The best you can do is make the decision with the information you have, learn from the results, and keep moving forward.

Then there's the weight of tomorrow.

I think this is one that catches a lot of people.

How many times have we spent today worrying about something that might happen next week?

Or next month?

Or next year?

I've certainly been guilty of it.

We take tomorrow's problems, drag them into today, and then wonder why we're tired.

The future eventually arrives on its own. 

It doesn't need our help getting here faster.

Tomorrow is already going to be tomorrow, it doesn't need to be today too.

There's also the weight we put on ourselves.

Have you ever noticed how much kinder you are to other people than you are to yourself?

A friend makes a mistake and you tell them everybody messes up.

You make the exact same mistake and suddenly you're replaying it in your head for the next three days.

A friend falls short of a goal and you encourage them to keep going.

You fall short of a goal and you start questioning whether you're capable of reaching it at all.

We extend grace to other people all the time.

Sometimes we're terrible at extending it to ourselves.

I've spent plenty of time criticizing myself over things that nobody else even noticed.

Carrying around mistakes.

Carrying around failures.

Carrying around expectations that only existed in my own head.

That's a lot of unnecessary weight for one person to carry.

What's interesting is that over the last couple of years, while I've been losing physical weight, I've noticed other things getting lighter too.

Not disappearing completely.

Just becoming lighter.

Financial stress.

Self-doubt.

The feeling of being stuck.

The feeling that change wasn't possible.

The scale was measuring one type of progress, but it wasn't measuring everything.

Some of the most meaningful improvements in life never show up as a number.

They show up in the way you think.

The way you react.

The way you sleep.

The way you carry yourself.

The way you look toward the future.

So here's the question I've been thinking about lately:

If someone could see all the weight you're carrying—not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually—how heavy would it be?

And more importantly...

What are you still carrying that you no longer need to?

As always, thanks for taking the time to read this, until next week!

The Vacation Test

 

If someone handed you a week off tomorrow and told you that you had absolutely no obligations, what would you do?

Not what you think you should do.

Not what social media says you should do.

Not what sounds impressive when you tell other people about it.

What would you actually do?

I'm asking because, by the time you're reading this, I'll officially be on vacation.

For the next ten days, there are no work schedules to check, no alarms to set for the next shift, and no airport waiting for me in the morning.

And as I was thinking about how I wanted to spend that time, it got me thinking about something I call the Vacation Test.

For some people, the answer is travel. 

They'd immediately start looking at flights, hotels, and destinations. 

For others, the answer is sleep. They'd spend the first few days catching up on rest that they've been putting off for months.

Some people would spend every moment with family. 

Some would finally tackle projects around the house. 

Some would dive into hobbies they've neglected.

Some would sit down, stare at the wall, and realize they have no idea what they actually enjoy doing when nobody is telling them what needs to be done.

That's what makes the Vacation Test interesting.

It isn't really about vacations.

It's about priorities.

The answer often reveals what we've been missing, what we've been craving, or what we value most in this particular season of life.

Of course, the answer is going to be different depending on who you are.

Someone with young children is taking a very different Vacation Test than someone who is retired. 

A married couple will probably answer differently than someone who is single. 

Someone caring for aging parents will have different priorities than someone fresh out of college.

There isn't a right answer.

That's the point.

The test isn't measuring whether your vacation is exciting enough. 

It's simply revealing what matters most to you when you're finally given the freedom to choose.

For me, the answer is surprisingly simple.

I'm going bowling.

I'm writing this blog.

I'm recording a podcast.

I'll probably play some video games, get some extra walks in, catch up on a few things I've been meaning to do, and enjoy not having to look at a work schedule for a little while.

And the more I thought about that answer, the more I realized something.

My ideal vacation doesn't look all that different from my normal life.

The difference isn't what I'm doing.

The difference is that I'm doing it on my own schedule.

Now before anyone misunderstands me, I'm not saying that work and vacation are the same thing.

Trust me, if you offered me the choice between going to work tomorrow or continuing my vacation, I'd be extending the vacation every single time.

There's a reason people look forward to time off. 

Work comes with responsibilities, schedules, deadlines, expectations, alarms, commutes, and all of the other things that demand our attention whether we feel like dealing with them or not.

Vacation gives us something that is becoming increasingly rare as adults:

Freedom.

Not freedom from responsibility forever, but freedom from responsibility for a little while.

Freedom to decide how we want to spend our own time.

And that's where the Vacation Test gets interesting.

Because once the obligations are removed, what remains?

What are the things you naturally gravitate toward when nobody is telling you what to do?

For some people, the answer reveals that they're exhausted. 

Their entire vacation revolves around sleep, relaxation, and recovery because that's what their body and mind have been asking for.

For others, it reveals a desire for adventure. 

They want new experiences, new places, and a break from routines that have started to feel repetitive.

For others, it reveals a need for connection. 

They use every available moment to spend time with family and friends because those relationships have been pushed aside by the demands of everyday life.

None of those answers are wrong.

In fact, I would argue they're all valuable.

But every once in a while, someone takes the Vacation Test and discovers something unexpected.

They discover that when given complete freedom, they still choose many of the same things they normally do.

Not because they have to.

Because they want to.

That's a very different feeling.

When I thought about what I wanted to do during this vacation, my list wasn't filled with things I was desperate to escape to. 

It was filled with things I already enjoy.

Bowling.

Writing.

Podcasting.

Walking.

Playing games.

Spending time with friends.

Taking photos.

Working on personal projects.

The only real difference is that I get to do those things without checking the clock to see when I have to be somewhere else.

And I think that's an important distinction.

A lot of people spend their lives chasing the idea of escaping.

Escaping their job.

Escaping their routine.

Escaping their circumstances.

Escaping the life they've built.

But maybe the better goal is to build a life that doesn't require constant escape in the first place.

That doesn't mean every day is exciting.

It doesn't mean every day is easy.

It doesn't mean you'll never need a vacation.

It simply means that when vacation finally arrives, you're not spending the entire time trying to become someone else.

You're simply getting more time to be yourself.

And maybe that's the real lesson hidden inside the Vacation Test.

The older I get, the less interested I am in building a life that looks impressive from the outside and the more interested I am in building one that feels fulfilling from the inside.

A life where I enjoy my hobbies.

A life where I enjoy my friendships.

A life where I have goals I'm working toward.

A life where I can find satisfaction in ordinary days, not just special occasions.

Because the truth is that vacations are temporary.

Eventually the trip ends.

Eventually the time off runs out.

Eventually the alarm clock comes back.

The real challenge is what happens in between those vacations.

What kind of life are you returning to?

If your answer is "one that I can't wait to escape from again," that might be worth examining.

If your answer is "one that I generally enjoy, even though it isn't perfect," that's a pretty good place to be.

Thirty years ago, if you had given me a week off, my answer would have been completely different.

Ten Year Old me with 10 days off?

I'm hopping on my bike, riding down the street to my best friend's house, playing video games, playing outdoor games, going swimming, renting a game from Blockbuster, and watching Surf Ninjas on repeat.

Twenty years ago, different again.

Twenty year old me with 10 days off?

Not having to go to work for 10 days in a row?!

Once you hit the workforce, vacation takes on a whole new meaning.

I'm still hanging out with friends, I have a car at this point, so my options of "where to go" have now expanded.

But I also have bills now.

And bills don't take vacations.

Trust me, I checked.

Even still, I'm playing wiffle ball with my friends until the early morning hours at the basketball court behind my local town hall that has lights that stay on all night.

Then going to Taco Bell at 2 AM, just having casual conversations in the car while eating a Beef & Potato Burrito.

Ten years ago, different again.

Now I have my own place.

Now I have even more bills.

Like rent.

But I also have a job that affords me to be able to pay said bills, and enjoy said vacations.

So I still hang out with friends, maybe catch up with friends I don't get to see very often.

But I'm also more than content just staying in, maybe catching up on some shows.

I'm also going to any and all professional wrestling shows that are in the area.

And by "In the area", I'm talking anywhere in Massachusetts, Connecticut, parts of Rhode Island, parts of New York, and maybe even parts of New Hampshire if I'm feeling spry.

So yeah, that's a pretty decent area.

Five years ago, different again.

At this point I'm going on food adventures, checking out restaurants that have been recommended by people.

I'm well settled into my job, I have good seniority, and now I'm at the point where my vacations are happening on or around the same time every year, and I can now plan for that.

I'm able to take a vacation every 3 months, and it's a nice way to reset and refresh.

The things we choose when we're given freedom evolve as our lives evolve.

The Vacation Test isn't something you pass once.

It's a question that keeps getting asked throughout your life.

And if you're lucky, the answer changes right along with you.

And today?

Today my vacation started with bowling.

Then writing this blog.

Then recording a podcast.

Tomorrow I'll probably take a walk.

Maybe play some video games.

Maybe work on a few personal projects.

Maybe do absolutely nothing for a little while.

And honestly, I'm perfectly happy with that.

Twenty years ago that probably would have sounded boring.

Today it sounds peaceful.

Now I have a healthy balance of it all.

Time at home.

Time with friends.

Side projects.

Recreation.

They all have a place, and I make time for all of them.

Maybe that's why my answer looks the way it does today.

Over the years I've slowly built routines, hobbies, friendships, and goals that I genuinely enjoy.

So when I'm finally given complete freedom, I naturally gravitate back toward them.

So here's my challenge for you.

Imagine someone handed you a week off starting tomorrow.

No obligations.

No work.

No appointments.

No responsibilities.

What would you do?

Your answer might tell you a lot about what you've been missing.

It might tell you what you've been neglecting.

It might tell you what matters most.

Or, if you're lucky, it might reveal something else entirely.

It might reveal that you've already built a life you enjoy living.

And if that's the case, then maybe you've already passed the Vacation Test.

Your Future Self Is A Stranger... For Now

 

One of the strangest things about life is that we're constantly interacting with versions of ourselves that don't exist anymore and versions of ourselves that don't exist yet.

Yesterday's you is gone.

Tomorrow's you hasn't arrived.

Yet both of them influence your life every single day.

Think about it.

You wake up in the morning and your lunch is already packed.

Your clothes are already laid out.

The gas tank is full.

The dishes are done.

The bill has already been paid.

The appointment has already been scheduled.

In that moment, you don't always say it out loud, but you're thinking:

"Man, I'm glad I took care of that yesterday."

Past-you just did present-you a favor.

We've all experienced it.

We've also experienced the opposite.

You wake up late.

The gas tank is nearly empty.

The laundry isn't done.

The sink is full of dishes.

The bill is due today.

The paperwork you needed wasn't printed.

Now your entire day starts with unnecessary stress.

And the funny thing is that it almost feels like somebody else caused the problem.

Because in a way, somebody did.

Yesterday's version of you.

So close, yet so far away.

One of my favorite ways to think about this is that every day we're sending something to our future selves.

Sometimes it's a care package.

Sometimes it's a time bomb.

Filling the gas tank before you get home.

Care package.

Putting money into savings.

Care package.

Meal prepping for the week.

Care package.

Going for a walk.

Care package.

Calling a friend you've been meaning to check on.

Care package.

Ignoring a problem that you know isn't going away.

Time bomb.

Putting off the oil change.

Time bomb.

Avoiding the difficult conversation.

Time bomb.

Spending money you don't have.

Time bomb.

Skipping every workout because you'll "start next week."

Time bomb.

Never eating pickles because they're the worst thing ever.

Universal care package that everyone should send themselves.

Did pickles just catch a stray right there?

More like "A Direct".

Every day we're making deposits or withdrawals from a future account that eventually comes due.

The interesting thing is that most people would never intentionally make life harder for someone they care about.

Yet we do it to ourselves all the time.

Not because we're bad people.

Not because we're lazy.

But because the consequences are delayed.

If skipping one workout instantly added twenty pounds, nobody would skip the workout.

If spending money recklessly immediately showed up as an empty retirement account, people would think twice.

If neglecting friendships instantly caused loneliness, we'd all make more phone calls.

The delay creates the illusion that there is no cost.

But there is always a cost.

The bill just arrives later.

And that's where life can be deceptive.

We tend to imagine that our future will be shaped by huge decisions.

The reality is that most of our lives are shaped by tiny decisions repeated over and over again.

Nobody becomes financially secure because of one deposit.

Nobody becomes unhealthy because of one dessert.

Nobody builds a strong friendship because of one conversation.

Nobody grows in faith because of one prayer.

Nobody masters a skill because of one practice session.

Most outcomes are simply the result of small actions compounded over time.

Little choices.

Repeated often.

That's all.

One small step at a time.

And yet those little choices eventually become our reality.

The person who spends ten minutes cleaning up before bed is doing a favor for tomorrow morning.

The person who fills their water bottle before they need it is doing a favor for tomorrow afternoon.

The person who sets aside money every paycheck is doing a favor for a future version of themselves they may not meet for decades.

The person who has a disciplined routine, which can come in many forms, such as someone who prays, who exercises, who learns, who saves, and who invests in relationships is building a life one small brick at a time.

The bricks don't seem important when you're holding them.

But eventually they become a house.

That's the part I think we often forget.

We talk about our future selves as though they're strangers.

As though they're some distant person we'll worry about later.

But eventually later arrives.

Eventually tomorrow becomes today.

The future self you've been helping—or neglecting—becomes the person staring back at you in the mirror.

The person saving for retirement eventually becomes the retiree.

The person investing in their health eventually becomes the older adult living with those choices.

The person nurturing friendships eventually becomes the person surrounded by people who care.

The person writing a weekly blog can now look back on them and be happy that he started doing these again.

Or the person wondering where everybody went.

Tomorrow's problems have a funny way of becoming today's reality.

That's why I think one of the most useful questions we can ask ourselves isn't:

"What do I feel like doing right now?"

It's:

"What kind of person am I being to my future self?"

Am I leaving behind solutions?

Or am I leaving behind problems?

Am I voluntarily eating olives because I want to?

Or have olives tricked many of you into thinking they're actually good?

Am I sending care packages?

Or am I sending time bombs?

Is it death by a thousand cuts, or is it healing by a thousand stitches?

Because every decision we make is a message to our future selves.

Some messages say:

"I was thinking about you."

Others say:

"Good luck. You're on your own."

The beautiful thing is that we don't need to change our entire lives overnight.

Most of the time, the answer isn't some massive transformation.

It's doing one small thing today that makes tomorrow a little easier.

Fill the gas tank.

Make the phone call.

Put the money aside.

Go for the walk.

Say the prayer.

Wash the dishes.

Send the text.

Ask the question.

Pursue the friendship.

Take care of the thing you've been putting off.

Because someday you'll become the future self you've been making decisions for all along.

And when that day comes, I hope you're grateful for the choices you made on their behalf.

It's never too late to stop eating terrible foods too.

As always folks, thanks for taking the time to read this!

Until next week!

The Best Things In My Life Are The Things I Don't Have To Think About

 

One of the strangest things about life is that some of the most valuable things we have are the things we rarely think about.

Not because they aren't important.

Quite the opposite.

We don't think about them because they're doing exactly what they're supposed to do.

I don't think about my refrigerator very often. I open it, my food is cold, and I move on with my day.

I don't think about my internet very often. I turn on my computer, it works, and that's the end of it.

I don't think about my car very often. I get in, start it up, and it takes me where I need to go.

I don't think about the electricity in my apartment. 

I flip a switch and the lights come on. 

I charge my phone. 

I heat up leftovers in the microwave. 

Everything works exactly the way I expect it to.

The moment any of those things stop working, however, they immediately become the most important thing in my life.

It's funny how that works.

We tend to focus on the things we don't have, the things we want, or the problems we're trying to solve.

 Meanwhile, some of the biggest blessings in our lives are quietly sitting in the background doing their jobs so well that we hardly acknowledge them.

The older I get, the more I realize that a large part of happiness isn't found in gaining something new. It's found in appreciating the things that are already working.

A reliable vehicle.

A stable job.

A roof that doesn't leak.

Hot water.

Food in the refrigerator.

Friends who answer the phone when you call.

Family members you can count on.

These aren't exciting things. 

Nobody posts on social media because their refrigerator successfully kept their milk cold for another day.

Nobody takes a picture of their water heater and says, "Still working. What a blessing."

Nobody brags that their car started for the 1,847th consecutive day.

But if you've ever gone without any of those things, you know just how valuable they really are.

The same idea applies to our health.

Most of us don't spend much time appreciating the ability to walk across a room. 

We don't celebrate being able to bend down and tie our shoes. 

We don't wake up every morning grateful that our body is functioning the way it's supposed to.

Why would we?

It's normal.

Until it isn't.

That's the challenge with gratitude. 

The things that deserve our gratitude the most are often the things we've become accustomed to.

We adapt quickly.

The new car becomes just a car.

The promotion becomes just a job.

The apartment becomes just where we live.

The healthy body becomes something we don't even notice.

What starts as a blessing slowly becomes the baseline.

Think about the things you once desperately wanted.

The apartment you hoped you could afford.

The car you hoped would last a few more years.

The job you hoped would call you back.

The friendships you hoped would stand the test of time.

Chances are, at least some of those things are part of your everyday life now.

That's how quickly blessings can become expectations.

Then we move on to chasing the next thing.

I've done it. Everyone has.

We're constantly looking ahead at the next goal, the next purchase, the next achievement, the next milestone. 

There's nothing wrong with having goals, but sometimes I think we forget to look around and take inventory of everything that's already going right.

Because for many of us, there is a lot going right.

The lights come on when we flip the switch.

The car starts when we turn the key.

The paycheck shows up when it's supposed to.

The water is hot.

The refrigerator is cold.

The people we care about are still here.

Those things may not feel extraordinary, but they are far from guaranteed.

One thing I've noticed is that we often judge our lives based on what is actively demanding our attention.

If your car is making a strange noise, that's what you're thinking about.

If you have a bill coming due, that's what you're thinking about.

If you're dealing with a health issue, that's what you're thinking about.

The problem is that our attention naturally gravitates toward what is wrong, not what is right.

If ten things are working perfectly and one thing isn't, guess which one gets all of our focus?

The one thing that's broken.

That's understandable. 

It's human nature.

But it can also create the illusion that everything is going wrong when in reality most things are going right.

Think about your average day.

You wake up in a bed.

You have running water.

You have a hot shower.

You have a toothbrush.

You have access to food.

You have climate control.

You have transportation.

You have the ability to communicate with almost anyone in the world from a device that fits in your pocket.

A hundred years ago, some of those things would have been considered luxuries. 

Today they're so common that we get annoyed when they're slightly inconvenienced.

The Wi-Fi is slow.

The drive-through line is long.

The package is arriving tomorrow instead of today.

The restaurant just ran out of your favorite dish.

That shirt you really wanted doesn't come in your favorite color.

You didn't get your first choice of seats when you bought concert tickets.

I could go on forever.

I've caught myself doing it too.

A lot of these have been rightfully categorized as "First World Problems".

Sometimes I think we've become victims of our own success.

Life has become so comfortable and convenient that even minor inconveniences feel like major problems.

We aren't upset because life is hard.

We're upset because life is usually so easy that anything less feels unacceptable.

It's amazing how quickly convenience becomes expectation.

I think that's why gratitude requires intention.

Nobody accidentally becomes grateful.

Complaining happens automatically.

Comparison happens automatically.

Taking things for granted happens automatically.

Gratitude is the thing that requires effort.

You have to deliberately stop and say, "Actually, a lot of things are going pretty well right now."

Not perfect.

Not problem-free.

Not exactly the way you want them.

But pretty well.

That's an important distinction because gratitude isn't pretending that problems don't exist.

You can be grateful and still have concerns.

You can be grateful and still have goals.

You can be grateful and still be working to improve your situation.

The two are not mutually exclusive.

In fact, I think gratitude becomes even more meaningful when it's practiced in the middle of life's imperfections.

Anybody can be grateful when everything is going their way.

The real challenge is recognizing the good things that are already present while you're still dealing with the less-than-ideal parts.

Maybe that's why it's worth taking a few moments every now and then to appreciate the things we don't normally think about.

Not because something went wrong.

Not because we were forced to.

Just because they're there.

The best things in my life aren't always the things that make the most noise.

More often than not, they're the things quietly working in the background, asking for nothing, demanding no attention, and making my life better every single day.

The funny thing is that if all of those things disappeared tomorrow, I'd notice them immediately.

So maybe the goal is to notice them today instead.

Before I have a reason to.

Life can become predictable, even mundane.

Appreciate all of it.

Embrace the mundane.

Your "mundane" could very well be someone else's dream.

Stay grounded.

Stay grateful.

As always, thank you for taking the time to read this, until next week!

I'm Not Anti-Social, I Just Don't Like Everyone

 

This is one of those statements that sounds much harsher than it actually is.

When people hear someone say they don't like everyone, they immediately assume that person is anti-social, bitter, unfriendly, or somehow difficult to get along with. 

In reality, I've found the opposite to be true.

I believe every person deserves to be treated with respect and dignity. 

Every single one. 

Whether you're my best friend, a coworker, a stranger at the grocery store, or someone I've known for five minutes, you deserve a baseline level of kindness simply because you're a human being.

What I don't believe is that I'm obligated to like everyone.

Those are two completely different things.

Somewhere along the way, it feels like society started treating respect and friendship as if they were the same thing. 

They're not.

Respect is mandatory.

Friendship is optional.

I can be polite to someone without wanting to spend my free time with them. 

I can wish someone success without wanting them in my inner circle. 

I can hope that good things happen in their life while simultaneously having no interest in building a relationship with them.

That isn't hatred.

That isn't being anti-social.

That's simply recognizing that not every person is meant to occupy the same space in your life.

As I've gotten older, I've become much more selective about who gets access to my time, energy, and attention. 

Not because I think I'm better than anyone else, but because all three of those things are finite resources.

Every hour I spend dealing with unnecessary drama, negativity, or chaos is an hour I'm not spending with the people who actually make my life better.

One of the biggest lessons I've learned is that there are people who bring peace into your life, and there are people who bring complications into your life. 

The older I get, the more I find myself gravitating toward the first group and quietly distancing myself from the second.

That doesn't mean I dislike the second group.

It just means I don't need them sitting at my table.

I think a lot of people struggle with this concept because they've been taught that if someone isn't your enemy, they should automatically be your friend. 

But life isn't that simple. 

There is a massive middle ground between friendship and hostility.

Most people I meet fall into that middle ground.

They're perfectly fine people.

I wish them well.

I simply don't need them in my life.

The funny thing is that when I was younger, I probably spent far too much energy trying to make everyone like me. 

I think most people do. 

You want to fit in. 

You want to be accepted. 

You want to be part of the group. 

So you spend time chasing approval from people who were never going to be your people in the first place.

At some point, though, I realized something.

Not everyone likes me either.

And that's perfectly okay.

I once read a quote that said "You might be the sweetest peach on the tree, but some people just don't like peaches."

That perfectly sums it up.

There are billions of people on this planet. 

The idea that every one of them should enjoy my company is ridiculous. 

So if I'm willing to accept that not everyone is going to like me, why would I feel guilty for not liking everyone else?

The goal isn't universal approval.

The goal is mutual respect.

That's a much more realistic standard.

I've also noticed that many people confuse boundaries with hostility.

I have plenty of coworkers that I always have a nice conversation with.

When we're at work, we enjoy each other's company.

But are we ever going to hang out in a non work setting?

I doubt it.

And that's perfectly fine.

There's no hard feelings.

There's also no forced expectation of anything needing to happen outside of work.

It's just fine as it is, where it is.

It could even get to the point where said coworker says "Hey, a bunch of us are going to do (insert social activity here) after work if you'd like to join us."

That's where you can make a decision, do you want to spend time with them outside of work?

Maybe you do, maybe you don't.

It's your decision, and neither one is wrong.

Where it can get murky is if you decide not to go, and now you might be hit with the "anti-social" label.

If you decline an invitation, you're anti-social.

If you keep your circle small, you're anti-social.

If you prefer a quiet night at home over a crowded social event, you're anti-social.

No, maybe I just know what I enjoy.

Maybe I've reached the point where I'm comfortable admitting that not every social opportunity is actually an opportunity.

Sometimes it's just an obligation disguised as one.

I've met people who seem to collect friendships like they're collecting trading cards. 

Every person they meet immediately becomes a close friend. 

Every acquaintance becomes a best friend. 

Every interaction becomes another social commitment.

That's never been me.

I don't need 1,000 friends.

I'd rather have 10 people I can trust than 1,000 people I feel obligated to keep up with.

In fact, some of the happiest periods of my life have coincided with having a smaller social circle.

Fewer misunderstandings. 

Fewer obligations. 

Less drama. 

More genuine relationships.

Trips to Taco Bell after wiffle ball, just eating and talking, telling stories.

We were never trying to impress each other, we just loved Taco Bell, and the conversation came naturally.

Times like that are the true core memories I hope to be able to hold onto forever.

Quality has always mattered more to me than quantity.

And that brings me to something I've realized about myself over the years.

I need genuine sincerity.

Not the obligation to attempt to be sincere.

There's a difference.

I've never been particularly interested in relationships that exist because people feel they're supposed to maintain them. 

The relationships that matter to me are the ones where people genuinely want to be there in the first place.

Not because social convention says they should.

Not because somebody told them they have to.

Not because they're trying to keep up appearances.

Because they genuinely care.

I certainly hope that the people that are in my life are here because they genuinely want to be.

Because I can assure you, if I've become a part of your life, in whatever big or small way that it may be, know that it's because I genuinely want to be there.

I think that's why performative behavior has always felt strange to me. 

If someone tells me I have to react to something, part of me immediately questions whether the reaction is even authentic anymore. 

If someone is only saying something because they feel obligated to say it, how much meaning does it actually carry?

For me, sincerity has always mattered more than appearances.

I'd rather receive a simple message that someone genuinely meant than a perfectly crafted message that exists only because they felt required to send it.

I think sincerity is also what separates an acquaintance from a friend.

Every meaningful friendship I've ever had started the same way. 

Not with some grand moment, but with small interactions that gradually became bigger ones.

It starts with a simple:

"Hey, how's it going?"

Then maybe a few weeks later, it becomes a slightly longer conversation.

Then you start learning things about each other.

You discover common interests.

You share stories.

You exchange opinions.

Eventually, one of those conversations turns into:

"So what are you up to this weekend?"

And before you know it, you're making plans outside of the environment where you originally met.

That's how bridges get built.

Not through obligation.

Not through social expectations.

Not because somebody told you that you should be friends.

They get built through genuine interest in another person.

The strongest friendships I've had were never forced. 

Nobody assigned them. 

Nobody required them. 

Nobody sat down and decided we were supposed to be friends.

We simply enjoyed each other's company enough that we kept choosing to spend time together.

Over and over again.

Until one day we realized we had become friends.

Another thing I've come to accept is that not every friendship is meant to last forever.

That sounds depressing at first, but I don't think it is.

Think about how many people you've met throughout your life. 

School friends. 

Former coworkers. 

Teammates. 

Neighbors. 

People you saw almost every day for years.

 At one point, those people were a regular part of your life. 

You knew what was going on with them. 

They knew what was going on with you.

Then life happened.

Someone moved away.

Someone got married.

Someone had kids.

Someone changed careers.

Someone got busy.

And before you know it, the person you used to talk to every day is now someone whose name pops up once a year because Facebook reminded you it was their birthday.

They write "Happy Birthday."

You click "Like."

A few months later, they do the same for you.

And that's the entirety of the relationship now.

What's interesting is that I don't view that as a tragedy.

I don't view it as a failed friendship.

I don't view it as evidence that somebody did something wrong.

It's just life.

For a certain period of time, our paths crossed. 

We shared experiences. 

We created memories. 

We helped shape each other's lives in ways that were meaningful at the time. Then our paths diverged.

There was no fight.

No betrayal.

No dramatic falling out.

Just two people continuing their journeys in different directions.

I think social media sometimes tricks us into believing that because we still have access to people, we still have relationships with them. 

Those aren't necessarily the same thing.

Being connected isn't the same as being close.

And that's okay.

Relationships don't have to last forever to have value.

Some people are with us for a reason.

Some are with us for a season.

Very few are with us for a lifetime.

That doesn't diminish what they meant to us.

It simply acknowledges reality.

As Gotye famously sang, sometimes they're just somebody that we used to know.

Not because of bitterness.

Not because of sadness.

Not because of regret.

Just because life goes on.

One of the most freeing realizations I've ever had is that not every relationship requires a grand conclusion. 

Sometimes people simply drift apart. 

Sometimes they move in different directions. 

Sometimes you realize you have less in common than you once thought.

That isn't failure.

That's life.

At the end of the day, I don't think being a good person requires you to like everyone.

I think being a good person requires you to treat everyone fairly.

Those are very different standards.

One demands emotions.

The other demands character.

And character is something you can choose every single day.

So no, I'm not anti-social.

I enjoy good conversations.

I enjoy meaningful friendships.

I enjoy spending time with people I care about.

I simply don't believe that every person I meet is entitled to a permanent reservation in my life.

Respect?

Absolutely.

Kindness?

Always.

Friendship?

That part has to be earned.

Thanks for reading this folks, until next week!

The Friendship Speedrun

 

I've noticed something about myself over the years.

Whenever I meet somebody new and we start getting along, I feel this weird sense of urgency.

Not desperation. Not clinginess. Just urgency.

Like there's a clock running somewhere that only I can hear.

I don't think I was always like that.

When you're a kid, friendships just kind of happen. 

You sit next to somebody in class. 

You play the same sport. 

You live on the same street.

You both watch pro wrestling. 

Before you know it, you've been friends for five years and didn't even realize it.

Nobody is in a hurry because nobody is going anywhere.

As an adult, it feels completely different.

One thing I've learned working where I work is that people come and go.

Some people stay for twenty years.

Some people stay for twenty months.

Some people stay for twenty days.

You never really know.

I've seen people walk through the door, become part of my daily routine in one way or another, and then disappear, sometimes almost as quickly as they arrived.

Not in a bad way.

They got promoted.

Transferred.

Found a better opportunity.

Moved closer to family.

Life happened.

And honestly, good for them.

One thing I'll always do is wish the absolute best for anyone, wherever that might take them.

But it does something to the way you approach new friendships.

I think that's why I sometimes feel like I have to speed things up.

I'll meet somebody and catch myself thinking:

"I should really get to know this person."

Not because I'm trying to force a friendship.

Because I've seen what happens when you don't.

You spend months staying in the small-talk phase.

Talking about the weather.

Talking about work.

Talking about whatever game was on last night.

Then one day they announce they're leaving.

And suddenly you're wishing you had spent a little more time getting to know who they actually were.

The funny thing is that I don't even think this is really about friendship.

I think it's about opportunity.

Some opportunities come back.

A lot of them don't.

If somebody leaves, there's no guarantee you'll ever see them again.

Especially as adults.

When you're a kid, moving away feels like the end of the world.

As an adult, it's Tuesday.

People disappear into careers, marriages, kids, responsibilities, and geography.

Nobody means for it to happen.

It just does.

One of the strangest things about getting older is realizing that friendships don't end the way they do in movies.

There's usually no big fight.

No dramatic falling out.

No betrayal.

You just stop seeing somebody every day.

Then every week.

Then every month.

Then one day social media reminds you that you haven't talked in three years.

And you're left wondering where the time went.

I've also realized that every friend leaves behind a different kind of hole.

That sounds dramatic, but I don't know a better way to describe it.

Some friends are the people you laugh with.

Some are the people you vent to.

Some are the people you can talk sports with for three hours.

Some are the people who somehow make an eight-hour workday feel like four.

When they leave, it's not like replacing a light bulb.

You don't just go find another one.

People aren't interchangeable.

That's why certain friendships stay with us long after the circumstances that created them are gone.

There's another part of this that I've never really talked about much.

When you've had enough people come into your life and then leave, you start asking yourself questions that probably aren't fair to ask.

Questions like:

"Was I interesting enough?"

"Did I make enough of an impact?"

"Did this friendship mean as much to them as it did to me?"

I've always put a little extra pressure on myself when it comes to friendships.

I never want to feel like I'm wasting somebody's time.

I think that's why I sometimes feel this need to contribute something of value to every conversation.

To be funny.

To be helpful.

To have a good story.

To have something worth bringing to the table.

To say something "interesting enough".

To do something "interesting enough".

To be interesting enough.

Because somewhere in the back of my mind is this fear that if I don't, people will eventually realize they don't need me around.

Looking at it now, I know that's not really how friendships work.

The people who become your friends aren't keeping score.

They're not sitting there evaluating whether every interaction was entertaining enough to justify your existence in their life.

But knowing that logically and feeling it emotionally are two very different things.

The older I get, the more aware I become of how quickly time moves.

Maybe that's just part of getting older.

Maybe it's because I've watched enough people come and go.

Maybe it's because I've lost people.

Maybe it's because one day you wake up and realize years are starting to feel like months.

Whatever the reason, I don't take conversations for granted the way I used to.

I've stopped thinking I have unlimited time to foster these relationships.

Time is fleeting.

Life can pull people in every possible direction all at once.

Now I try to give every interaction the time and attention that it deserves.

I've started appreciating all of them.

The deep conversations.

The stupid conversations.

The five-minute conversations.

The random text messages.

The inside jokes.

The quick "How's it going?" as you pass somebody in a hallway.

The conversations where absolutely nothing important was discussed, yet somehow they still become part of your favorite memories.

When I look back at the people who have mattered in my life, I usually don't remember the huge moments first.

I remember the ordinary ones.

The conversations that weren't supposed to be significant.

The moments that seemed completely forgettable at the time.

Until they weren't.

I've also learned that I'm not somebody who opens up immediately.

Never have been.

If you've ever met me, you probably know exactly what I'm talking about.

I tend to take my time.

I observe.

I listen.

I figure people out.

Some people can walk into a room and become best friends with everybody in ten minutes.

I've always admired that ability.

I've also never been that person.

It usually takes me a while to warm up to people.

It takes me a while to trust people.

It takes me a while to decide whether I'm willing to let somebody see the parts of me that exist beyond sports scores, weather conversations, and whatever happened at work that day.

But once I get there, it means something.

At least it does to me.

When I let somebody into that circle, they're no longer just somebody I know.

They're somebody I care about.

Somebody whose successes I'm genuinely happy for.

Somebody whose struggles I genuinely worry about.

Somebody whose absence I notice when they're not around.

And maybe that's part of why people leaving hits me the way it does.

Because by the time I've reached that point, I'm invested.

And that's when the clock starts getting loud again.

Because I've lived it enough times to know that one day somebody is going to walk into work for the last time, and you won't know it's the last time until after it's already happened.

Maybe that's why I've become more intentional about friendships as I've gotten older.

Not because I expect every acquaintance to become a lifelong friend.

But because I've learned that time is a lot less predictable than I thought it was when I was twenty.

The people sitting around you today might not be sitting around you next year.

The conversations you're having today might become memories sooner than you realize.

The older I get, the less I care about how long a friendship lasted.

I care more about whether it mattered.

Some friendships last decades.

Some last a season.

Some last only as long as a particular job, hobby, team, or chapter of your life.

That doesn't make them any less real.

I don't need every friendship to last forever to appreciate that it existed.

I just need to know that for whatever amount of time our paths crossed, we made each other's lives a little better.

And honestly, maybe that's enough.

Maybe the friendship speedrun isn't really about trying to become friends faster.

Maybe it's about recognizing something that younger versions of ourselves never had to think about.

Time matters.

People matter.

And if you find somebody whose presence genuinely makes your day a little better, don't assume you'll always have tomorrow to get to know them.

Because sometimes tomorrow turns into a transfer.

A resignation.

A move across the country.

Or just life taking people in different directions.

And when that happens, you'll be glad you took the time while you had it.

Because in the end, maybe friendship isn't measured by how long it lasted.

Maybe it's measured by how much it mattered while it was there.

As always, thanks for reading!

Until next week!