The Steps That Never Officially Count

Every day my phone quietly tells me how many steps I take each day. Some days there’s a satisfying green check mark beside my goal. Other days there isn’t.

I still like having a daily step goal. It gets me off the couch or away from the computer. It encourages me to take breaks and head outside. On a nice day, I genuinely enjoy seeing how far I’ve walked. Even a steady drizzle isn’t too bad.

But I’ve also learned something. Not every step gets counted, and not every counted step tells the whole story.

Take the other day. My phone told me I’d walked a little over 8,200 steps. I smiled because it felt like a good day. But I also knew the real number was probably much closer to 12,000. I’d gone out earlier without my phone, so a few thousand steps simply disappeared as far as the app was concerned.

The app can only count the steps it knows about because my phone isn’t attached to me every waking minute.

Sometimes I intentionally leave it behind because I want a quiet walk without notifications buzzing in my pocket. Other times I’m just moving around the house and don’t carry it.

Every day I climb up and down the fourteen stairs in my place several times. Five steps to a landing, then another nine steps. I probably make that trip half a dozen times a day or more.

The phone counts the individual steps, but it doesn’t really appreciate the effort of climbing them. Anyone who’s carried a basket of laundry or a heavy box upstairs knows that’s a different workout than walking several steps in a parking lot.

There are several long, gradual hills where I live that one friend joked, even her car has trouble getting up. I don’t always walk them but when I do, the step counter doesn’t take in the extra effort needed to get to the top, then down where the temptation is to walk too fast, then turn around at some point and repeat the up and down.

Then there are all the little trips that make up everyday life like walking over to the bay window to look out at the lake while waiting for my soup to heat or going back to another room to retreive my reading glasses or pour my next coffee. I don’t wear my phone when I’m taking out the recycling or the garbage. I don’t wear it when I first wake up and do my business in the bathroom or any other time I head there. If someone knocks at the front door, I don’t wear my phone before getting up and answering it.

None of those little journeys seems important on its own, but together they probably add up to hundreds, and maybe even a thousand steps that are never recorded because my phone isn’t in my pocket.

And then there’s winter.

People love to say, “Just get your steps in.”

That’s easy enough if you live somewhere with cleared sidewalks and mild weather.

It’s a little different in rural Ontario when you live a half hour drive from the city.

After a blizzard, the roads narrow as snowbanks creep in from both sides. Sidewalks can disappear for days. Hidden ice often waits under a fresh layer of snow, and freezing rain or sleet can turn the entire landscape into a skating rink.

At my age, falling isn’t just embarrassing. It can change your life.

Someone always suggests using a treadmill, and yes, maybe I could buy one but I don’t have the room for it. So they say go to the gym.

That’s a great idea…right after they volunteer to drive me there through the same blizzard they’re telling me to ignore because I’m sure as hell not driving in it.

Then there’s the bridge.

From around December 15 through February—and sometimes into early March—I just take it off my walking route.

For three seasons, it’s a nice part of one walking route because you get a great view of where two lakes meet. In winter, the snowplow piles snow right over the sidewalk, so the road is basically the only option.

I tried walking on the road a few times two winters ago, before I came to my senses.

All it would take is one hidden patch of ice.

If I slipped while a car was coming, the driver might not have enough time—or traction—to stop. And suddenly I’m not thinking about step goals anymore. I’m thinking about not getting hit or getting my legs or even head crushed depending on how I landed during a fall.

No fitness app is worth that.

So for about three months of the year, that stretch just doesn’t exist for me. The app doesn’t get why my step count drops. It just sees fewer steps.

I see common sense.

It’s one of the biggest reasons I dream about spending winters somewhere warmer;

I miss the freedom to simply walk long distances.

No wondering if the road has been plowed. No hidden sheet of ice under fresh snow. No bridge that’s off-limits because the sidewalk has disappeared under a mountain of snow.

Just sunshine for the most part, clear sidewalks, and the ability to head out the door whenever I feel like it without putting on two or three layers. That’s why when some fitness guru in San Diego or Phoenix posts that we should be getting in our 10,000 steps every day of the year no matter what, I laugh and think, “Sure, spend a full winter in Minnesota, New England, Vermont, the Dakotas, or cottage country in Southern Ontario, and then come talk to me.” Believe me, we want to and try to, but it’s not always possible.

Ironically, if I did spend winters or live full time in a better climate, I’d probably hit my step goal more often without even thinking about it because the weather wouldn’t be trying to stop me.

The step goal is still a good thing. It motivates me, and on most days I’m happy to see that green check mark.

I just refuse to let a phone convince me that a number matters more than common sense.

Some of the healthiest decisions we make never show up in an app.

No, Your Cat Doesn’t Need a Night Out

I love cats. Always have. They’re curious, funny, independent, and far less needy than most people I know before they’ve had their first coffee. I’ve owned two indoor cats that lived nice, long, contented lives.

But that doesn’t mean I want to see one sitting in the middle of a busy restaurant.

During the summer tourist season at my local hangout, someone walked in carrying a cat in a carrying case.

The people simply walked in as if bringing your pet into a restaurant was the most natural thing in the world.

I was surprised they were allowed to stay.

Now, before the internet sharpens its claws and hisses at me, this isn’t anti-cat. It’s pro-common sense.

For starters, there are allergies. Cat allergies are among the most common pet allergies out there. Some people can’t sit in the same room as a cat without their eyes watering or their nose plugging up. They came out for a meal, not an unexpected allergy test.

Then there’s the cat itself.

Restaurants and bars are noisy places. People are talking over one another. Glasses clink. Chairs scrape across the floor. TVs blare. Someone inevitably laughs loud enough to wake the dead. Someone always seems to be celebrating a birthday, anniversary, retirement, or promotion.

Meanwhile, the poor cat is sitting in a little plastic carrier wondering what terrible life decisions led to this moment.

Cats generally don’t crave social outings. They’re perfectly content spending 18 hours a day asleep on a windowsill, a couch, or your favourite sweater. If your cat could vote, I suspect it would choose “stay home and nap” every single time.

So why are we bringing it to the local restaurant?

It also raises an obvious question.

If cats are fair game, where exactly is the line?

Can somoeone bring their iguana?

How about a parrot? He promises not to repeat the bartender’s drink orders.

Maybe someone else would like to bring their pet snake. “Don’t worry, he’s friendly.”

Or perhaps we’ll have a rabbit under one table, a ferret under another, and someone’s emotional-support goat waiting patiently for the appetizer menu.

Ridiculous? Of course.

But that’s exactly why most places have rules.

Restaurants aren’t just serving the person who brought the animal. They’re responsible for everyone else in the room, too. They have to think about allergies, hygiene, safety, comfort, and the simple fact that not everyone wants to dine beside someone else’s pet.

The host was put in an awkward position. Once the customer is already standing inside with the carrier, saying no suddenly becomes much harder than stopping it at the door.

Sometimes good manners simply mean asking first.

Maybe the manager says yes. Maybe there’s an outdoor patio where it’s allowed.

But assuming permission instead of requesting it is becoming far too common.

We’ve reached a strange point where some people seem to believe that whatever makes them happy should automatically be acceptable to everyone else.

It doesn’t work that way.

Public spaces involve a little give and take. We all make small compromises so everyone can enjoy them. That’s why we don’t blast music through our phone speakers, have loud FaceTime conversations in restaurants, or let our kids sprint between tables. Or at least we hope so.

And yes, that’s why we generally leave the cat at home.

Your feline companion will survive a couple of hours without you. In fact, it’ll probably sleep through the entire evening, wake up five minutes before you get home, and greet you with the same expression cats have perfected over thousands of years:

“Oh… you’re back already?”

Not Everyone Gets Access to the Fuel Tank

I took a long brisk walk today.

Maybe a little too brisk because I felt like I was speedwalking – going faster than I should be. I don’t know why I was going so fast but I did and it felt great. 

It was one of those cool, sunny fall days when walking feels effortless, and by the time I reached my destination, I felt terrific. Heart pumping. Head clear. A bit of a sweat even with the wind. My energy level was considerably higher than when I left home.

Which reminded me of something I took too long to figure out about energy.

Not everything that requires energy drains you.

Exercise is the obvious example. A good walk requires physical effort, but somehow you finish with more energy than when you started.

Other things work the same way.

A good conversation can energize you. So can laughing with somebody, sitting quietly among familiar people, getting work done, or simply the overall patterns of life. 

Then there are people who can drain your tank faster than a tractor-trailer drains its fuel tank.

You know the type. They don’t really have conversations. They unload.

And if you’re an empathetic person, you’re particularly vulnerable because your instinct is to listen.

You ask questions and sympathize as you try to understand. You may even offer a suggestion or two because you want the person to feel better. 

That’s fine occasionally. We all need somebody to listen when life gets difficult. I’ve needed it. You probably have, too.

Friendship would be pretty meaningless if every response to someone’s difficult day was, “Sorry, I’m protecting my energy.”

But there’s a difference between somebody needing you and somebody routinely using you as a place to empty themselves repeatedly. 

That’s where my fuel-tank theory comes in.

Imagine starting each day with a tank of emotional energy equal to 100 gallons.

Work uses a gallon. An annoying phone call takes another.

Running errands burns a little more.

Maybe something goes wrong and costs you five gallons you weren’t planning to spend.

But you have opportunities to refuel, too.

A good night’s sleep. Exercise. Music. A walk. Sitting beside a fire while reading something uplifting. A pleasant conversation with somebody who doesn’t require anything from you.

The tank rises and falls all day. Most people take a little and give a little.

Then the tractor-trailer pulls up.

Suddenly, somebody needs to tell you the entire history of whatever they’re dealing with. Again.

You listen because you’re kind.

Then you listen some more.

You offer advice.

They explain why that won’t work.

You suggest something else.

There’s another reason that won’t work.

Eventually the conversation ends, and something strange has happened.

They seem lighter. You? You’re exhausted and maybe a bit annoyed. 

They transferred the load.

You accepted it.

That’s the danger for empathetic people. Giving feels natural, so we don’t always notice the meter running.

Until we’re parched.

And I’ve realized that having energy doesn’t mean everybody is entitled to some of it.

That’s an important distinction.

I can have plenty of energy for a walk and none for somebody else’s crisis.

I can want companionship and some friendly banter without wanting a two-hour discussion about someone’s problems. Actually, let’s call that a one-sided discussion. 

I can care about somebody without having the capacity to carry what they’re carrying.

Those things aren’t contradictions.

Maybe the trick isn’t becoming less empathetic. I don’t particularly want to become somebody who stops caring because caring occasionally costs me something.

It’s learning that empathy doesn’t require unlimited access.

Sometimes you listen, and sometimes you help.

And sometimes you recognize the tractor-trailer approaching and quietly put the nozzle away. 

Because eventually you need enough fuel left to get yourself home.

Standing Closer Doesn’t Make the Plane Leave Earlier

Airports are one of the best places to study human behavior.

They’re also proof that many of us believe the laws of time and space can somehow be negotiated.

The announcement comes over the public address system.

“Now boarding Zone 1.”

Within seconds, half the gate area is on its feet.

The strange part is that many of those people aren’t in Zone 1.

They’re in Zones 2, 3, 4 or 5.

Some haven’t even looked at their boarding pass. They simply see movement, assume they should be part of it, and join the growing cluster around the boarding gate. Soon, what was once a waiting area has become a human wall that the actual Zone 1 passengers must navigate just to reach the scanner.

I’ve often wanted the gate agent to make a different announcement.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re now boarding Zone 1. If your boarding pass says Zones 2 through 5, we’d appreciate it if you’d kindly step aside so the people we’re actually boarding can get to the front. The plane isn’t leaving without you.”

It would probably get a laugh. More importantly, it would work.

If it were my last day on the job, I’d be tempted to say, “We are boarding Zone 1 only. The rest of you get out of the way and sit your entitled asses down until your zone is called.”  

Instead, everyone performs the familiar airport dance, weaving around backpacks, roller bags and people standing exactly where they don’t need to be. The funny thing is that, for most travelers, there is absolutely no advantage to standing there.

If you have an assigned seat, you’ll still have that seat whether you’re the fifth person aboard or the 105th. Unless overhead bin space is especially tight, you’ve traded a comfortable chair for ten minutes of standing on industrial carpet.

Why? Because being closer feels like making progress. 

It’s the same instinct you see elsewhere.

At a restaurant, customers walk past the “Please Wait to Be Seated” sign, scout the patio, then return to tell the host they’ve found empty tables. Never mind that the tables already have menus, cutlery, and “Reserved” signs sitting on them.

The host knows they’re there; he or she works there and communicates with the servers. Yet somehow, after a twenty-second inspection, the customer believes they’ve uncovered valuable new information.

“Good news! There are three empty tables outside.”

Yes.

The host noticed.

The same thing happens in grocery stores when people crowd the checkout before it’s their turn, or when drivers inch forward at a red light as though creeping another six inches will somehow make it change sooner.

We’re wired to equate movement with progress, even when the movement accomplishes absolutely nothing, and airports and other places simply magnify that behavior. 

The same mindset appears at the other end of the flight.

As the aircraft pulls up to the gate, the flight attendant makes a familiar announcement.

“We have several passengers with very tight connections. If this is your final destination, we’d appreciate it if you would remain seated for a few moments to allow them to deplane first.”

It’s a perfectly reasonable request.

Then comes the sound.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

Two hundred seatbelts release in unison. Apparently, all 212 passengers on board have an urgent connection.

Really? On a flight into New York City?

Surely some of you actually live here. It’s the largest city in North America.  

Meanwhile, the passenger who genuinely has thirty minutes to cross two terminals is trapped behind someone in Row 23  who is taking their time retrieving a suitcase, putting on a jacket, checking a text message, and adjusting a backpack before finally stepping into the aisle.

During my heavy travel days, I was the passenger hoping people would actually listen to that announcement.

A delayed inbound flight left me sprinting through Dallas/Fort Worth more than once. Houston was another memorable one where I may have set the unofficial world record for the 400-yard dash with a backpack, and both Chicago – a few times – and Memphis had me running through the terminal as well. I made every connection except one in Chicago, but thankfully, I made the next flight to San Antonio 90 minutes later, and one of those Dallas dashes ended with me arriving just as my flight was boarding.

When you’ve been in that situation, ninety seconds can make all the difference.

That’s exactly why flight attendants ask passengers whose journey ends there to remain seated for a moment. Those requests aren’t made for fun. They’re made because missing a connection can mean spending hours in an airport, missing an important meeting, or not getting home until the following day.

So yes, if you’re racing to another gate, I’m hoping you make it.  

If you’re heading home to your house thirty minutes from O’Hare or La Guardia, though, maybe leave the aisle clear for the people who aren’t.

Whether we’re crowding a boarding gate, scouting “empty” restaurant tables that are clearly reserved, or jumping into the aisle before the seatbelt sign has barely gone off, we’re often doing the same thing.

We’re confusing movement with momentum. Standing doesn’t make the boarding process faster or make the aircraft door open sooner. 

Sometimes the quickest way forward isn’t to rush to the front.

It’s to wait ninety seconds, let the process work, and then carry on without turning everyday life into an unnecessary obstacle course for everyone else.

Are You Guys in Season?

A few wild turkeys wandered across my place this morning.

Not hurriedly. Not nervously. They weren’t glancing over their shoulders or ducking behind trees.

They were strolling.

Which, given the occasional shotgun blast I’ve been hearing lately, made me want to open the door and ask, “Are you guys in season?“

If so, they may have chosen my place wisely.

I don’t hunt. There isn’t a shotgun tucked beside the fireplace. The most immediate threat I pose to a turkey is probably taking its picture.

Welcome to October in the country.

This is still one of the adjustments from living in Kitchener. There, if you heard gunfire from hunters, you likely drove a considerable distance out of town first.

Here? Maybe a couple hundred yards away.

BOOM. 

Then silence.

Back to the fire crackling in the fireplace.

Duck hunting season is underway, and other hunting seasons are around this time of year. Deer season is coming, which presumably means the occasional distant blast will become an even more familiar part of the soundtrack.

What I’ve found interesting since moving here, though, is how different the reality of hunting can be from some of the stereotypes surrounding it.

Several people I know hunt. They also have tremendous respect for wildlife.

Those two things aren’t contradictory.

The hunters I’ve gotten to know aren’t heading into the woods because they enjoy killing something. They hunt for food. A successful season means venison, duck, goose, moose, wild turkey, or other game goes into the freezer and feeds their families for months.

They also seem to appreciate the animals and the land, which comes from spending considerable time among both.

They notice things.

They know when animals are moving and what their seasons are. They pay attention to habitat and weather. They know the deep woods and waterways around here in ways I’m still learning.

There’s a respect involved.

It’s easier for me to understand now because wildlife has become part of everyday life.

Nature isn’t something I have to drive somewhere to experience anymore.

Sometimes it walks across my place. I’ve seen deer nearby. Wild turkeys apparently consider the property part of their morning commute. Birds I barely noticed when I lived in the city now become part of the daily scenery.

And during hunting season, occasionally there’s that distant BOOM.

Then everything becomes quiet again.

It has changed how I understand what it means to appreciate wildlife.

You can admire a deer standing at the edge of the woods across the road and also understand why someone might legally hunt one and put the meat in a freezer.

You can enjoy watching ducks on the water while knowing somebody nearby hunts ducks for food.

For many people here, those aren’t competing ideas.

They’re part of the same relationship with the land.

I still won’t be joining them – and no, I don’t have anything against hunting. 

I’ll happily leave the hunting to people who know what they’re doing while I remain near the fireplace with my coffee, my laptop, or head outside for a long, brisk walk or two. 

But I’m starting to understand the culture around it much better.

And I’ll continue providing temporary sanctuary to whatever wanders across the property.

Although those turkeys this morning might want to check the calendar.

Just in case.

What Outdated Technology Do I Miss Most? Absolutely None of It

I came across a writing prompt recently that asked an interesting question: What outdated technology do you miss most? I thought about it.

Fax machines? No.

Dial-up internet? Definitely not.

Rotary phones or even those mobile phones the size of a brick (I never owned one)? Not even a little.

VCRs? Typewriters? Television antennas? Busy signals? Nope, nope, nope and nope.

Maybe I’m supposed to get nostalgic at this point. I’m an older guy, after all. I grew up with much of the technology that now sits in museums or appears in movies when the director wants to establish that the story takes place sometime around 1987.

But I don’t miss any of it.

I love technology. I love that I can do my banking at 2 in the morning if I want to. Not that I should be doing my banking at 2 in the morning, but I like knowing I can. I love that I don’t have to go to the bank to see if the wire transfer I am expecting has shown up yet. I don’t have to bring my passbook and have them run it through their machine to update it. 

I don’t have to look at the clock and think, “I’d better get to the bank before it closes.”

The bank never closes. 

I love that I can buy something online and have it delivered to my door within two days. I don’t have to drive around to six stores looking for an obscure item, only to be told, “We don’t have it here, but our location across town might. Let me give them a call…yes, they have one left in stock.” Now, I have to take one more trip. 

Nowadays? Click. Buy. Delivered.

I love that if I don’t feel like cooking or grocery shopping, I’m no longer limited to calling the pizza place down the street. I can order food from all kinds of restaurants and grocery stores and have someone bring it to me.

Again, I don’t do it much. I just like knowing I can.

I love that I can work remotely. Not “work from home” as some unusual arrangement that requires special permission and an explanation to everyone in the office.

Just work. My closest client is two hundred miles away, and my farthest is on another continent. I can interview someone in Australia, and the internet connection is awesome. I can send a story to Europe or queue it up in WordPress for a client in California while sitting at my desk in Canada.

Nobody thinks that’s strange anymore. The only time someone may ask where you are is to ensure your convenience and theirs so everyone understands which time zone each person is in. Did you meet the deadline? Is the work good? Excellent. That’s what matters.

I also love that work doesn’t necessarily have to happen between 9 and 5.

If I want to work at 6 in the morning, I can. If an idea hits me at 11 at night – when I really should be sleeping – I can open my laptop and start writing. If I want to take Friday afternoon off but work for a few hours on Saturday, that is fine too – again, as long as I meet the deadlines. 

I don’t have to wait until the office opens. The office is wherever the laptop is.

And can we take a moment to appreciate the fact that the busy signal has essentially disappeared?

There was a time when you called someone and, if they were already talking to somebody else, you got a repetitive beeping sound that basically meant, “Too bad. Try again later.”

That was it. Just beep, beep, beep. And if the person on the other end was on the phone for an hour, you had better be patient because you were out of luck until they got off the phone. You couldn’t even leave a voicemail on one of those external answering machines with what today would pass as a lousy sound. No texting – that didn’t exist yet. 

Technology has also completely changed how we experience sports.

I can sit in Canada and watch a sporting event taking place in Japan or Australia with a picture so clear it looks like the game is happening across the street.

Huge television screens with brilliant color and multiple camera angles. Slow motion. Super-slow motion.

Drones flying over stadiums and courses, giving us perspectives we couldn’t have imagined a generation ago.

And long-distance phone calls?

I remember when calling someone thousands of miles away actually sounded like you were calling someone thousands of miles away. There might be a delay. The voice might fade in and out. And somewhere in the background there was often a strange sound, as though someone on the other end was gently crinkling paper into the receiver. I also remember the cost. Depending on where you were calling, it could run you several dollars a minute, and you tended to call after 11 pm because it was two-thirds off the regular rate. Even calling someone in the next area code, maybe 50 miles away, would cost you a dollar a minute at regular rates. 

Today, I can talk to someone on the other side of the world, and they sound like they’re sitting in six feet away from me. Better yet, I can call and see them. For free – unless I want to talk all day, and then I upgrade to the paid model on certain platforms. 

So no, I don’t miss outdated technology.

I appreciate what it did for us. Every fax machine, dial-up modem, and VCR was part of the journey that got us here. Remember two-head VCRs where if you paused it, you got those snow bands across your screen? Remember the size of VHS tapes?

I don’t want them back. Nostalgia has its place, but sometimes the good old days weren’t actually better. They were just old.

In fact, as I write this, it’s 12:35 on a rainy weekend afternoon, and I am doing some work because I took yesterday afternoon off. Technology and remote work have made that possible. 

A writing prompt made me think about outdated technology.

That thought turned into an idea. And within minutes, that idea was becoming a blog post that I could publish immediately if I wanted to.

Just an idea, a laptop, and an internet connection. 

What outdated technology do I miss most? Honestly? None of it. 

The Standards We Keep for Ourselves

A thought occurred to me recently, and the more I sat with it, the more uncomfortable it became. When I make a mistake, I tend to see it in black and white. I should have known better. I should have done more. I should have seen it coming.

There’s very little middle ground in my own thinking. I either got it right or I didn’t. Success or failure. Productive or lazy. Smart or stupid. It’s an exhausting way to keep score.

Yet when someone else makes a mistake, my reaction is often completely different.

“They’re only human.”

“Everyone has an off day.”

“They probably had a lot going on.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Those are words I find myself saying to other people with genuine sincerity.

So why don’t I believe them when they’re directed back at me?

The contradiction struck me recently during an ordinary conversation. I realized that I often extend grace to other people almost automatically. I don’t expect perfection from my friends, colleagues, or the people I interact with every day. In fact, I know perfection isn’t possible.

Life happens. People oversleep and forget things. They miss deadlines. They say something they wish they could take back or spend more money than they intended. I could go on.

My instinct isn’t to condemn them but to understand them.

Yet if I do one of those very same things, the conversation inside my own head changes completely.

How could you be so careless?

You should have planned better.

You knew better than that.

It’s remarkable how quickly compassion disappears when I’m the one who needs it. I suspect I’m not alone.

Many of us carry around two sets of standards. One is reserved for everyone else, and it’s surprisingly reasonable. The other is reserved exclusively for ourselves, and it’s almost impossible to satisfy.

Think about the conversations you have with friends or co-workers. A friend tells you they made a mistake and you tell them it’s okay and that things will work out. 

A coworker makes an honest mistake. You help solve the problem instead of reminding them about it for the next six months.

We’re often quite good at putting mistakes into perspective when they belong to someone else, and yet, we turn around and deny ourselves that same perspective.

I’ve noticed this pattern in my own life more times than I care to admit. If I take an afternoon off, there’s a voice that says I should have been working.

If I don’t finish everything on my list, I can focus on what didn’t get done instead of appreciating what did. If I make a financial decision I later regret, I can replay it far longer than I ever would if a friend told me the exact same story.

Objectively, I know that’s unfair. Emotionally, it can be hard to remember.

Maybe that’s because we know our own intentions, fears, and failures so intimately. We don’t just judge today’s mistake; we connect it to every other mistake we’ve ever made. Suddenly, a small misstep becomes evidence in a trial that has been going on for years.

With other people, we don’t have that burden. We see one moment in a much larger life, so we’re naturally more forgiving.

What if we treated ourselves the same way? What if we looked at one bad day as just that – a bad day? What if an unproductive afternoon didn’t erase a productive week? What if a mistake simply meant we were human?

None of this means lowering our standards or refusing to take responsibility. Accountability matters as does learning from our mistakes – but so does fairness with ourselves.

I’ve spent most of my life expecting more from myself than I ever expected from the people around me. There are times when that has pushed me to work harder and keep moving forward.

There are also times when it has made me unnecessarily harsh toward the one person I spend every minute of every day with.

Maybe the goal isn’t to expect less from ourselves but to simply offer ourselves the same patience we already know how to offer everyone else.

After all, if the people in our lives deserve a little grace when they stumble, we do too.

Does Anyone Remember Postcards?

There was a time when every vacation included at least one small ritual.

You would walk into a souvenir shop, spin one of those postcard racks around a few times, and look for the perfect picture. Maybe it was a beach, a mountain, a famous building, or some slightly faded photo of the town you were visiting.

Then you would buy a stamp, write a few quick lines on the back, and drop it in a mailbox.

“Having a great time. Weather is beautiful. See you next week.”

That was about as deep as most postcards got.

And yet, somehow, they meant something.

Today, of course, the postcard has mostly disappeared. We take a picture with our phone and send it instantly. Or we post it. Or we upload 17 vacation photos before we have even finished breakfast.

It is faster, easier, and more practical. But despite my love of technology, there is, or was, something cool about postcards.

I was reminded of that years ago during a conversation with a co-worker named Steve. We were talking about how nobody sends postcards anymore. Everything had become instant. Why wait a week or two for a postcard when you could send a photo in two seconds?

I happened to be leaving for ten days’ vacation the next day.

Almost jokingly, I said, “I’ll send you a postcard.”

So I did. Actually, I sent him two or three.

When I got back, he laughed because he had not received a postcard in years. That should have been the end of it.

Instead, something funny happened.

The next time someone in our department went on vacation or traveled to a tradeshow, they sent Steve a postcard to his work address. 

Then someone else did. Then another.

Before long, it became an unofficial office tradition. Nobody announced it. Nobody organized it. There was no memo, no meeting, and no corporate team-building exercise. It simply happened because people thought it was fun.

Within a couple of years, Steve must have had 200 postcards stuffed into one of his work desk drawers. They came from beaches, cruise ships, ski resorts, little towns, major cities, famous tourist attractions and scenic spots, and places most of us had never been. Every vacation became another opportunity to add to the collection.

The best part was that it spread. It was not just our department anymore. Even our department vice-president got into it. Then people in our European offices started sending postcards. Then our Asian offices joined in too.

Steve’s desk drawer became a miniature atlas of the world.

Australia. Dubai. Egypt. Brazil. Germany. Japan. Singapore. England. Places that seemed impossibly far away from our office somehow ended up represented in one collection of postcards.

Imagine trying to explain that to someone today.

“No, they weren’t for his family. They were just for Steve.”

“Why?”

“Because it was fun.”

And it was.

Every new vacation or tradeshow meant another surprise arriving in the mail. Nobody knew exactly when the postcard would show up or from where. Sometimes it arrived while the person was still away. Other times it would appear after they had already been back at work for a week.

That delay was part of the charm. The postcards themselves were not especially profound. Most said some version of “having a great time” or “wish you were here,” or a little tidbit about the place pictured. Some probably had inside jokes. Others were simply signed with a name.

The point was never the message. It was the effort.

Someone had taken five minutes out of their vacation to think about a co-worker back at the office. They found a postcard, bought a stamp, figured out where to mail it, and sent it across the country or halfway around the world.

There was something surprisingly personal about that.

I love being able to send a photo from my phone. I am not pretending I want to go back to waiting two weeks for everything. Instant communication is useful, convenient, and sometimes wonderful. And besides, where would you find a rack filled with postcards nowadays anyway? 

But instant messages also disappear quickly.

A postcard sticks around. It sits on a desk or gets pinned to a bulletin board. 

Or, in Steve’s case, it fills an entire desk drawer with memories collected one vacation or tradeshow city at a time. Today, we can share dozens of vacation photos before lunch. 

But I wonder how many of them people remember a month later.

Steve may still have that drawer full of postcards somewhere. Two hundred little pieces of cardboard, each one representing not just a vacation, but a person who took a few minutes to think of someone else while they were far from home.

Looking back, it was never really about the postcards.

It was about a small, fun tradition that made the workplace feel a little more human.

Why Is Facebook the First Call After a Car Accident?

I walked past a minor accident the other Saturday, and the important part was that everyone was okay. 

It wasn’t a hit-and-run. One driver was clearly at fault in the rear-end collision. At least one car would need to be towed – probably both. In my mind, the checklist seemed pretty straightforward. Okay, call the police. Call a tow truck. Call your insurance company. Exchange information. Get home.

Instead, the accident was already a post in the local Facebook group, complete with photos of the crumpled vehicle and a play-by-play of what had happened. Now, photos are fine for the insurance company to see, but Facebook?

When did Facebook become part of the accident report?

This isn’t meant to criticize the people involved. After something stressful, we all react differently. But it does make me wonder how much social media has changed our instincts.

Years ago, if you were in an accident, you dealt with it. You called the people who actually needed to know. Family. Police. Insurance. Your employer if you were going to be late. Now it feels like there’s another step in the process. Take pictures for public consumption. Write a post. Hit “Publish.”

I always find myself asking the same question: Who is this post actually for?

Unless you’re asking for witnesses, road conditions, or trying to locate a missing pet after the accident, I’m never quite sure what the local Facebook group is supposed to do. They can’t tow your car, file your insurance claim, or straighten your bumper. They’ll wish you well – and that’s genuinely kind – but the people who can actually help aren’t scrolling Facebook. They’re the tow truck driver, the insurance adjuster, the police officer on scene, and maybe the body shop.

Most of the comments end up being predictable.

“Glad everyone’s okay.” 

“People drive way too fast there.” 

“That intersection has always been dangerous.” The intersection is fine; it’s the people who drive through it who make it dangerous. 

“I almost got hit there once.” Thanks for the update. 

It’s the online equivalent of drivers slowing down to look at an accident as they pass by. Human nature makes us curious, but curiosity doesn’t really help solve the problem.

Maybe that’s what social media has become. We don’t just experience events anymore; we document them in real time. Every flat tire, delayed flight, power outage, grocery store lineup, and yes, even car accidents become content for everyone else to consume.

I suppose there’s comfort in hearing from your community. People genuinely mean well when they offer kind words or ask if everyone is okay.

But I think my priorities would be a little different. If I were standing beside a car with the front end smashed in, my phone would be busy calling the insurance company, arranging a tow, figuring out how I was getting home, and maybe letting someone know I was in a car accident but am okay. 

I wouldn’t post to Facebook. So, why was I on Facebook in the first place? It’s a great source of inspiration with its endless stream of posts.

Maybe that makes me old-fashioned. Or maybe I’ve just reached the point where not everything needs an audience.

Some things simply need to be handled.

Once everything is settled and you want to share the story later, that’s different. But in the moment, I can’t imagine thinking, “I should update the Facebook group.”

It’s funny how technology quietly changes our habits. Without really noticing, we’ve gone from asking, “How do I solve this?” to asking, “How do I post this?”

For me, the answer is still the same as it always was. Take care of the people, the legalities, and the car. Facebook doesn’t need to know. 

Before You Hit “Post,” Read It One More Time

We’ve all done it.

You type a text message too quickly, hit send, and only then notice that your phone has transformed “there” into “their” or decided that “duck” wasn’t the word you intended. It happens. Most people laugh it off and move on. Another writer friend and I joke that we don’t need perfect grammar, spelling, etc., in private messages.

A business, however, doesn’t get the same luxury.

The other day I came across a Facebook post from a company promoting its services. In just two short sentences, I counted multiple spelling, grammar, punctuation, and capitalization mistakes. The message itself was perfectly reasonable. The execution was not. The Facebook post is below:

“Were ontarios largest marine recyclers and are zoned for it, we dont do it out of a backyard near farmers fields. If you have a boat you need to dispose of, do it properly by bringing it to the proffessionals!”

Ugh. It made me wonder: did nobody read this before it went online?

“Were” → “We’re” (missing apostrophe; contraction for “we are”) “ontarios” → “Ontario’s” (needs a capital “O” and an apostrophe to show possession) “dont” → “don’t” (missing apostrophe) “farmers fields” → “farmers’ fields” (plural possessive, assuming multiple farmers) “proffessionals” → “professionals” (misspelled) Comma splice/run-on sentence after “it” (“…zoned for it, we don’t…”). It should be separated with a period, semicolon, or conjunction.

Every business spends time worrying about its image. They invest in logos, websites, signage, advertising and social media. Yet one poorly written Facebook post can undermine all of that. Fair or not, customers notice these things. If a company appears careless with its own marketing, some people naturally wonder where else that lack of attention to detail shows up.

This isn’t about expecting perfection. Everyone makes mistakes. Even professional writers occasionally miss one despite proofreading several times. That’s why newspapers, magazines, and publishing houses have editors. A second set of eyes catches what the first one misses.

The bigger problem is when nobody seems to have looked at it at all.

Spell-check and grammar checkers are everywhere. Better yet, ask someone else in the office to read it before you publish. Do it in Microsoft Word or Google Docs first (it will catch things) before you post it on Facebook. It takes a couple of minutes and can save you from looking unprofessional in front of thousands of potential customers.

If writing isn’t your strength, that’s perfectly okay. Running a marina, repairing engines, selling furniture, or baking bread doesn’t require a degree in journalism. But if you’re using words to represent your business, those words matter.

Hire a freelance writer if you post regularly. Ask an employee who enjoys writing to look things over. Use AI as a proofreading tool. There are plenty of options that cost little – or nothing at all.

The goal isn’t literary greatness. It’s credibility.

When I see obvious mistakes in a business post, I spend more time noticing the errors than the message. That’s the opposite of what good communication should do. Your audience should remember what you offer, not wonder whether “we’re” needs an apostrophe.

Before you hit “Post,” do yourself one favor. Read it. Then read it again. If possible, let someone else read it too. Those extra three minutes may be the cheapest investment you’ll ever make in your company’s reputation.