When Motion Becomes Medicine

There’s a strange kind of calm that shows up only when you start doing things. Not big, dramatic things, but just simple, tangible actions. Send a message. Make a list. Write the first sentence.

It’s funny how quickly the mind can spiral when we sit still too long. The weight of uncertainty, money worries, or creative doubt grows heavier the longer we think about it. But the moment we start doing even the smallest, most ordinary task, something shifts.

Action doesn’t solve every problem, but it breaks the spell of helplessness. You remember that progress isn’t always a leap; sometimes it’s just movement. A few deliberate steps are enough to remind you that you’re not stuck, just paused.

And once you’re in motion again, it’s not the size of what you did that matters; it’s the fact that you did something.

Because when motion becomes medicine, even small wins feel like healing.

When Confidence and Talent Don’t Speak the Same Language

Charles Schulz once told his first wife that if he ever saw a psychiatrist, it might ruin his work. The creator of Peanuts — one of the most beloved comic strips in history — feared that getting rid of his inner struggles would also take away the well he drew from. And maybe he was right, in a way most of us who create can understand.

Schulz’s comics were warm, funny, and deeply human, but they were also tinged with melancholy. Charlie Brown’s endless defeats, Lucy’s cynicism, Linus’s faith — they all came from a mind that wrestled with insecurity and even loneliness, despite a wife and kids (he later divorced his first wife and remarried). For all his success, Schulz was often haunted by the feeling that he didn’t quite measure up.

That’s something I’ve lived, too.

I’ve received notes and messages from people who think I’m confident — colleagues, editors, even clients who call me “a natural storyteller” or “a great writer who really gets it.” When I was downsized from Christie, the farewell notes said things like “you have a real knack for finding the story” and “your writing always stands out.” And yet, I remember sitting at my home office rereading them and feeling almost detached, like they were describing someone else.

It’s strange how the mind can dismiss what the world reflects back at us. Among my more public works over two decades or so, I’ve written numerous profiles that editors praised, readers loved, and publications featured prominently — two pieces each for Sports Illustrated, Golf World, and Golf Australia that were well-received, with one being a cover story. But inside, I felt one had missed the mark and the others were only “okay.” It’s as if the internal bar keeps rising no matter how high the external praise climbs.

There’s a quiet war that happens between what we know and what we feel. Rationally, we know the work is good. We know we’ve done the research, shaped the story, met the deadline, hit the right tone. But emotionally, something whispers, Sure, but it could have been better. You’re lucky this one turned out. They’ll see through you next time.

Maybe Schulz understood that voice too well. Maybe that’s why he drew Charlie Brown trying — and failing — again and again, only to keep showing up. There’s truth in that kind of persistence. Not the motivational-poster kind, but the kind that says, I’m not sure I belong here, but I’ll keep creating anyway.

I’ve learned that confidence and talent don’t always speak the same language. Talent shows up on the page. Confidence wavers somewhere between drafts. And the trick, I think, isn’t to silence the doubt but to work alongside it — to let it sharpen you, not stop you.

Every writer, artist, musician, or designer carries some version of this contradiction. The ones who keep going aren’t the ones who never doubt — they’re the ones who write, paint, compose, or build through it.

So when I look back now at those old emails, the LinkedIn endorsements, the kind words from people who meant them sincerely, I try to see them differently. Maybe they were describing the version of me that only appears after the battle — the one who finishes, delivers, and moves quietly to the next assignment.

That version is still me. And maybe that’s the same truth Schulz lived by: the talent isn’t what you have because you suffer; it’s what you keep doing despite it.

Rant No. 17: The Oblivious Escalator Stander

There are certain unwritten rules of civilization that, if followed, make life smoother for everyone. Hold the door for the person behind you. Don’t blast your music on public transit – and that includes airports. And perhaps most sacred of all: stand right, walk left on the escalator or airport moving sidewalk. 

It’s not complicated. It’s practically a universal law, like gravity or the fact that socks vanish in the laundry. And yet, day after day, some people treat the escalator or airport moving sidewalk like their personal moving park bench, planting themselves dead center, blocking the flow, and throwing an entire system of unspoken order into chaos.

You’ve seen them. You’ve been stuck behind them. The escalator stander – blissfully oblivious, left hand gripping the rail, the other scrolling their phone, unaware that behind them is a growing line of commuters and people trying to catch their flight, silently screaming. Some of us want to walk. Some of us need to catch trains, flights, meetings, or simply escape the mall before the background music drives us insane. But no. We’re trapped behind Captain Oblivious, riding the world’s slowest conveyor belt.

What makes it worse is when they stand side by side. One on the right, one on the left, creating a human barricade that turns the escalator into a moving wall. Congratulations, you’ve achieved maximum inefficiency. You’ve successfully screwed up a mechanism designed to keep people flowing, transforming it into a stationary queue where time stands still.

And then there are the “leaners.” Oh, the leaners. These are the folks who not only stand still but sprawl across the escalator step like it’s their living room couch, elbows out, shopping bags everywhere, daring anyone to squeeze past. God forbid you try to politely clear your throat or mutter an “excuse me.” They don’t budge. They barely notice. They’ve claimed this three-square-foot patch of moving staircase as their sovereign territory.

I sometimes wonder what’s going through their heads. Do they not know the rule? Were they raised in some escalator-less wilderness? Or do they just not care? Because trust me, people care. Commuters care. Airport travelers with 45 minutes until boarding definitely care. The sighs, the eye-rolls, the passive-aggressive toe-tapping are all signs that society is silently revolting against you, dear escalator hog.

And don’t tell me “well, the escalator is moving, so why walk?” Because the escalator is not supposed to replace walking, it’s supposed to assist it. Walking plus an escalator equals efficiency. Standing across the whole thing equals mutiny. This isn’t a carnival ride. This isn’t a scenic tour. It’s a transportation tool. Respect it.

Rant No. 16: The Laundry Room Hostage Takers

There are few domestic crimes more infuriating than the Laundry Room Hostage Situation. Twice in my life, I’ve had housemates who decided the washer and dryer weren’t shared appliances but long-term storage units. They’d toss in a load Saturday morning, run the cycle, and then… vanish. The clothes would sit there for days – sometimes a whole week – until the smell of damp cotton and passive aggression filled the basement.

At first, I thought maybe they were busy. Life happens. But after the third day of walking past their wet jeans fermenting in the washer, it became clear this wasn’t forgetfulness – it was entitlement. I think they assumed I’d move their stuff from the washer to the dryer for them. Maybe they pictured me as some kind of unpaid laundry butler, standing by to ensure their socks were fluffed correctly and folded. I wasn’t.

So, when Saturday rolled around again and the same half-dry pile was still lounging in the drum like it paid rent, I did what any fed-up housemate would do: I took action. Their laundry started appearing in unexpected places: neatly heaped on top of the dryer at first, then gently relocated to the floor when I ran out of patience. One time, I just left it in the washer. They’d gone away for the week, so I figured I’d let nature take its course. A few days later, I opened the lid to find a new life form thriving inside, as moisture, heat, and neglect had created a lovely ecosystem.

When I finally got tired of the constant hostage negotiations over laundry space, I went to the laundromat. It cost me a few bucks, but it was worth every penny to wash and dry in peace. No waiting. No “Is this yours?” No science experiments growing in the machine. Just the hum of clean clothes and the quiet satisfaction of not sharing a space with the chronically inconsiderate.

The thing about shared laundry rooms is that they reveal people’s true colors. Some treat it like a communal space; others treat it like an extension of their bedroom. I used to think dirty dishes were the biggest housemate problem – but no, laundry neglect wins. There’s something uniquely offensive about someone holding the washer hostage for seven days straight, like it’s a personal storage locker. It took several conversations and one threat of tossing his clothes in the backyard to fix the issue with him. 

So here’s my rule: if you start a load, you finish it. Promptly. Not “eventually.” Not “when you remember.” The dryer is not a closet, and the washer is not a waiting room. It’s a simple system: wash, dry, fold, remove. Do that, and civilization as we know it just might survive another week.

When You’re Doing Everything Right But Still Feel Stuck

Have you ever felt somewhat stuck despite doing things right? Yeah, me too. You’re working. You’ve got projects lined up. You’ve got a plan – maybe even a one and five-year plan. You tick the boxes: assignments delivered, outreach done, goals written down. On paper, it looks like progress. And yet, inside, it feels like nothing is moving. You’re grinding but not growing, working but not really doing.

It’s frustrating, even a little scary. You start asking questions you don’t want to ask: Am I burned out? Am I depressed? Am I just spinning my wheels? And underneath it all sits that heavy, hollow feeling that maybe you’re not really going anywhere.

Here’s the thing nobody talks about enough: this is normal. This is especially true for people who are naturally driven, ambitious, or creative.

Ambitious people are wired to seek momentum. They want to see dots connecting, doors opening, wins stacking up. They thrive on forward motion. But momentum is not the same thing as motion. You can be in motion: cranking out work, showing up for obligations, even landing contracts, and still not feel momentum. Momentum is when things feel purposeful, when one step naturally leads to the next. Without that, even real progress can feel flat, like running on a treadmill.

The irony is that driven people are more likely to fall into this trap precisely because they hold themselves to high standards. They’re always asking, What’s next? What’s bigger? What’s better? They don’t allow themselves the luxury of just “being.” So when life slows down, or when the payoff doesn’t match the grind, the emptiness sets in. Conversely, sometimes in my case, chasing a few warm leads can be almost as exhilarating as doing the actual work with the clients I have. “I might land that one and that one. This is exciting.”

If you’ve ever been stuck in a repetitive routine of the same town, the same coffee shop, the same conversations, it can intensify the feeling of stagnation. A predictable routine may be stable, but for someone wired to chase growth, it can feel suffocating. The brain starts whispering, Is this all there is? Isolation plays into this, too. Without enough connection – whether that’s spiritual, social, or simply being around new people – even the most productive day can feel hollow. Humans are wired for community, but ambitious people sometimes trick themselves into thinking they can go it alone. They can’t, not forever.

It’s tempting to read this flatness as failure. If I’m doing everything right but still feel empty, maybe I’m broken. But it’s not failure at all. It’s a natural dip that happens when effort outpaces fulfillment. Think of it like exercise. You can push your body every day, but without rest and variety, even the fittest athlete burns out. The same goes for driven people in work and life. You can’t sprint endlessly. At some point, the grind has to give way to recovery, reflection, and refueling.

You might be in this stage if you’re checking boxes but not feeling joy in the work, if you finish projects and immediately feel like they don’t matter, if you’re restless but too drained to chase new opportunities, or if you feel like you’re moving but not moving toward anything. These aren’t signs that you’re lazy or incapable. They are signs you’re human. They’re signals that something deeper, like purpose, connection, or rest, is missing. For me, that is the key: I need to feel like I am moving toward something. 

So how do you move from emptiness back to momentum? The answer isn’t to work harder; that only deepens the rut. Instead, it’s about small, intentional shifts. Change the scenery – even a day working in a different environment can spark your brain back into motion. A library, a café, or a walk in a new part of town can all provide novelty and fuel. Reconnect with people: don’t just text – call a friend, join a group, or attend a meeting, spiritual or otherwise. Driven people forget that connection is as important as accomplishment. Do something small and winnable like writing a blog post, cleaning a drawer, or finishing a task you’ve been putting off. A quick visible win reminds you that action can still create momentum. Revisit your “why,” because ambition without purpose is just motion. Step back and ask: Why am I chasing these goals? What part of me lights up when I imagine them finished? And most importantly, allow rest without guilt. Sometimes what feels like emptiness is actually exhaustion. Rest isn’t wasted time; it’s recovery and it’s what lets you come back sharp.

What feels like emptiness today is often the quiet before renewal. Just because you can’t see the momentum doesn’t mean it isn’t building. Sometimes you’re laying track for a train that hasn’t arrived yet. And remember, driven people are often the hardest on themselves. They confuse a season of stillness with failure, when really it’s just part of the cycle. Nobody can feel “on” all the time. Even the best golfers in the world may shoot 65 one day and 76 the next. Nobody can sustain momentum without pauses. The dips are not just normal; they’re necessary.

If you feel like you’re not moving toward anything, take a breath. You are. You’re just in the stretch of road that feels endless before the turn comes. Motion doesn’t always feel like momentum, but that doesn’t mean you’re stuck. This emptiness isn’t proof you’re broken. It’s proof you’re alive, striving, and human. It’s the universe’s way of saying: rest now, so when the next wave of momentum comes, you’ll be ready to ride it.

Rant No. 15: The Drive-Thru Novice

There’s an unspoken contract when you roll into a drive-thru: you keep it moving. You get in line, you glance at the glowing menu board, you make your choice, and when it’s your turn at the speaker box, you order with confidence. That’s the deal and the whole point of a drive-thru.

So tell me why, after waiting in line for ten solid minutes behind a parade of SUVs and pick-up trucks the size of Mount Everest, I get stuck behind the Drive-Thru Novice. The one who, after sitting idle the entire time, suddenly decides this is their moment to start studying the menu like it’s the SAT exam.

“Uh… hmmm… okay… what comes on the cheeseburger?” What comes on the cheeseburger? It’s a cheeseburger! The clue is in the name. Cheese. Same standard condiments as on a hamburger. Done. Yet there they are, grilling the poor teenager on the headset about ingredient lists, portion sizes, and whether the fries are gluten-free. Meanwhile, the rest of us are debating whether it would be faster to abandon ship and go forage in the wilderness for food.

And then comes the panic pivot. After five minutes of indecision, they settle on something. “I’ll have the chicken sandwich.” But as soon as the cashier repeats it back, they backpedal. “Actually… no, wait… do you have wraps? Oh, you do? What kind? Hmm, okay, maybe I’ll go with…” The line is now backed up to the street. Horns are honking. Children are crying. The entire concept of “fast food” is dying a slow, painful death.

Let’s not forget the add-on parade. They finally settle on an order, but instead of letting it ride, they tack on item after item like they’re building a Lego set. “And can I add a small fry? Actually, make that large. Oh, and a shake. Do you still have those seasonal pies? No? Okay, never mind. Wait – do you have apple slices? You do? Okay, throw those in.” At this point, the cashier deserves combat pay.

And then they reach the window. This is when the true performance begins. Out comes the fumbling for the wallet. Digging through the cup holder for change. The “Oh shoot, I think I have a gift card somewhere in here” routine. They’ve had ten minutes in line to prepare, but only now, when the entire operation rests on their payment, do they start rummaging through their belongings like raccoons in a dumpster. Just use a damn credit or debit card like everyone else and have it ready.

By the time they drive off, victory bag in hand, you’re questioning every choice that led you here. And you’re trying not to make eye contact with the car behind you, whose driver is surely debating whether it would be socially acceptable to ram your bumper just to escape. And in a way, you wouldn’t blame him. 

I get that menus and options are big. Sometimes you panic. But the drive-thru is not the place for soul-searching. It is not the place to discover yourself. It is not the place to explore your culinary boundaries. This is a pit stop, not a pilgrimage.

I propose a solution: a drive-thru license test. You have to pass a basic exam before you’re allowed in line. It’s simple. Multiple choice. Question one: You’ve been in line for eight minutes. When do you decide what you want? A) Right now. B) At the speaker box, after much dithering. C) Never, because life is meaningless. The correct answer is A. Fail, and you’re banished from all drive-thrus for six months until you learn how society works.

Maybe even better: separate lanes. One for people who know what they’re doing. One for the novices. The “I need to see a menu first” lane, complete with a holding pen and maybe a life coach to walk them through their order at their own pace. That way, the rest of us can keep civilization running.

Because the drive-thru is sacred, it’s fast food in its purest form. In, out, gone. But when the novices roll in, hemming and hawing, second-guessing, fumbling, and dragging us all down, they betray the one rule that matters most: keep it moving.

So, dear Drive-Thru Novices, respect the line. Study the menu as if it were scripture before you hit the speaker box. Have your money ready. And for the love of cheeseburgers, stop treating the drive-thru like it’s your personal episode of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. No lifelines. No do-overs. Just order and move on.

Why We Crave the Ballpark Dog: The Story of Baseball’s Iconic Snack

With the baseball playoffs down to crunch time, I thought I’d take a look at the humble hot dog and why and how it became a staple at every Major League ballpark. The relationship between baseball and hot dogs is one of America’s great love affairs. For many fans, a trip to the stadium isn’t complete without that first bite of a grilled or steamed frank tucked into a soft, often slightly soggy bun, slathered in mustard, relish, or chili. It’s a culinary tradition so deeply ingrained that Major League Baseball fans consume an estimated 20 million hot dogs annually. But how did this humble German sausage become the undisputed, go-to food of America’s pastime?

The story of the ballpark hot dog is a classic tale of immigrant ingenuity, simple convenience, and a bit of disputed entrepreneurial history, all starting in the late 1800s.

Before they were “hot dogs,” they were simply “frankfurters” or “dachshund sausages.” These cured, seasoned sausages were brought to the U.S. by the massive wave of German immigrants in the 19th century and quickly became popular street food. They were cheap, satisfying, and easy to cook, and they could be sold from pushcarts in bustling urban centers like New York and Chicago.

The critical turning point came when these convenient street snacks were introduced to the burgeoning sports crowds.

The earliest, and often credited, pioneer was Chris Von der Ahe, a German immigrant and the owner of the St. Louis Browns (now the Cardinals). By the 1890s, Von der Ahe, who also owned a popular saloon, started selling his franks to fans at his stadium. He understood that baseball games created a captive audience looking for something quick and affordable to eat while watching the action.

While Von der Ahe may have started the trend in the Midwest, the snack was cemented as an iconic East Coast ballpark staple thanks to another visionary: Harry M. Stevens. A British immigrant, Stevens began his career selling baseball scorecards before transitioning into stadium concessions, where he realized the need for a wider variety of food.

The famous legend involves a cold day in New York City at the Polo Grounds (home of the Giants) around 1901. It was too chilly to sell the usual ice cream, so Stevens had his vendors swap their cold desserts for warm “dachshund sausages.” The vendors supposedly began shouting, “Get your red hot dachshund sausages!”

This is where the name supposedly stuck. A newspaper cartoonist named Thomas Aloysius “Tad” Dorgan was present that day. He observed the scene and drew a cartoon of the vendors selling the sausage, but legend says he couldn’t remember or couldn’t spell the long German word “dachshund.” Instead, he simply captioned his illustration with the now-immortalized phrase: “Get your hot dogs!”

Though the exact origin of the term “hot dog” is still debated – some claim it was used as early as the 1890s to refer to the long, thin sausage – it was Stevens’ concession success and Dorgan’s cartoon that firmly linked the frankfurter, the bun, and the name “hot dog” to the American sporting experience.

Ultimately, the hot dog’s enduring popularity is no accident of history; it is the perfectly engineered stadium snack. It’s a complete meal (I didn’t say a particularly healthy one) of protein, bread, and condiments, perfectly packaged for consumption while seated, requiring zero utensils.

Vendors can quickly prepare and sell hundreds of them, which can be easily hawked through the stands, minimizing the time a fan has to spend away from the game. Unlike the latest trendy craft beer or burger, the hot dog is a timeless baseball classic. It links generations of fans, evoking a deep sense of tradition, summer, and the simple joy of a day at the ballpark.

From St. Louis to Fenway Park and beyond, the hot dog became a standardized, dependable part of the baseball experience, providing warmth and fuel on a chilly night or a salty, comforting bite on a hot afternoon. So, the next time you hear the vendor yell, “Hot dogs! Get your hot dogs here!” remember you’re not just buying a sausage in a bun – you’re participating in a delicious, long-time American tradition.

Rant No. 14: The “Reply All” Abuser

There’s a special kind of chaos that comes when one person, with a single misguided click, detonates the nuclear option in email communication: the dreaded Reply All.

We’ve all been there. You’re minding your own business, sipping coffee, trying to plow through your inbox, when suddenly a little ping announces itself. Fine, an email. Then another ping. Then another. And suddenly, your inbox is lighting up like a pinball machine because some careless soul who should know better hit ‘Reply All’ instead of ‘Reply’.

At first, you think maybe it’s useful. Perhaps it’s an important update. Possibly the original sender intended to gather everyone’s input. You’re optimistic. But no. What you get instead is a tidal wave of “Thanks!” “Got it!” “Sounds good to me!” – each one sent to the entire distribution list of 87 people.

This is the email version of standing in a crowded theater and applauding every time someone sneezes. Nobody asked for this, and nobody needs it. Yet here we are, watching our productivity sink while the dopamine meter in some Reply All addict’s brain lights up because they just had to show they’re engaged.

And don’t even get me started on the “unsubscribe” guy. Every Reply All storm has one. Some poor soul, already annoyed, decides to fight back by replying to the entire list: “Please remove me from this chain.” Congratulations, you’ve now multiplied the problem. Instead of quietly suffering, we all get to witness your futile cry for help. And you know what happens next? Someone replies to that with “Same.” Then another person chimes in: “Me too.” Now the fire has jumped to the next building.

But the real pièce de résistance? The mistaken reply that should’ve been private. I once saw someone send their catered lunch order – “I’ll have the turkey on rye with extra mayo, and the vegetable soup” to 37 people. Another time, half the company was treated to a rant about a boss because the employee had forgotten they weren’t just sending it to their friend; they were sending it to the VP, the entire department, and the folks down in IT.

Email is supposed to be functional. It’s not a town hall meeting or open mic night. If the original message wasn’t explicitly addressed to you with a question, odds are, you don’t need to hit Reply All. Yet every office, every organization, every community listserv has that one person who treats Reply All like it’s their personal megaphone.

And it doesn’t stop with offices. Community boards, volunteer groups, fantasy football leagues — if there’s a mass email list, there’s a Reply All abuser lurking. It’s like they can’t help themselves. They see the button, and their finger just twitches toward it, like a moth to a flame.

I honestly believe this deserves consequences. Forget email etiquette seminars. Those clearly don’t work. I’m talking real punishment. You hit Reply All twice in a week? You’re automatically signed up for an “Introduction to Boundaries” workshop and deducted one day’s pay. Three times? That’s it – banished to BCC-only purgatory where your messages are filtered into the void until you’ve earned back society’s trust.

I’m not saying we need to end Reply All entirely. It has a place. Occasionally, it’s necessary to coordinate to ensure everyone is literally on the same page. But the keyword there is occasionally. Not for “Got it.” Not for “Thanks.” Not for “Me too.” And definitely not for “I’ll have the turkey on rye.”

The next time you feel the urge to hit Reply All, ask yourself: Does every single person in this chain really need to know what I’m about to say? If the answer is no, then spare us all the suffering. Click Reply. Just Reply. Do it for your coworkers. Do it for your sanity. Do it for the greater good.

Because when you hit Reply All without cause, you’re not just adding clutter to an inbox. You’re declaring, loudly and proudly, that your need to be seen outweighs 87 other people’s need for peace. And frankly, that deserves less of a thank-you and more of a slow clap – the sarcastic kind.

Struggle and Why Some People Don’t Know What It Means

I’ve always had a complicated relationship with the word struggle. Real struggle is grinding away at something with no guarantees, scraping by when the payoff is uncertain, and getting judged for it along the way. What pisses me off is when people who’ve never had to deal with any of that toss the word around casually, as if late-night gaming in their childhood bedroom counts as hardship. 

I know guys who lived at home well into their thirties, with mom still folding laundry and making sandwiches. Their biggest struggle was deciding what kind of jam to put on toast or deciding where to get their oil changed. When they finally moved out, it wasn’t because they were financially independent. It was because they got married, and their wife stepped into the role their mother had always filled. That’s not independence – that’s just trading caretakers. And if they were doing well financially, it’s because they paid only a modicum of rent while living at home, and meals were free – they had never gone grocery shopping in their life.

What really stings is how differently people view those who actually do step out and take risks. In 2000, after a downsizing, I returned to school through a government program designed to help individuals upgrade their skills. The deal was simple: they paid a modest income for the year, and the course fees, but I couldn’t take a side job or I’d lose the funding. So I stuck to the rules. And yet the rumors started: “He has afternoons off, he could be working.” Lazy. Unmotivated. Taking advantage. None of it is true. I spent afternoons doing homework online. 

Later, when I was building my freelance business in the early 2000s, it was the same thing. Long days of pitching, writing, barely scraping by – and the whispers came back: “He should just get a real job.” It’s funny how people respected my ex-father-in-law when he built his electrical contracting business from scratch after being downsized, struggling through lean years with his wife and three young kids at home. That was noble. That was grit. But when I went through lean years doing the same with my now ex-wife and one (step)son? Lazy. Doesn’t want to work. A loser.

Then, of course, when I landed the PGA Tour Americas job, along with its affiliates, numerous major magazine features on contract, and later Christie, suddenly I had “cool jobs.” The very people who dismissed and disparaged me before suddenly wanted a piece of it – some corporate swag, free tickets to a golf tournament, deeply discounted green fees, or golf paraphernalia. And I’ll be honest: part of me wanted to tell them all to screw off.

That’s the thing – no one sees the grind. No one sees the sweat, the rejection, the late nights at the desk when you’re not sure how you’ll pay the bills next month. They only see the highlight reel, not the bloopers.

Rome wasn’t built in a day, but people seem to forget that Rome wasn’t built in silence, either. There were years of scaffolding, labor, and setbacks. The same goes for business – whether it’s Ray Kroc finding McDonald’s in his fifties, Dave Thomas flipping burgers before Wendy’s, or Colonel Sanders hauling his chicken recipe around and getting rejected a thousand times. Everyone celebrates the billion-dollar outcome, but no one wants to watch the part where you’re living in a cramped apartment, doubting yourself, and wondering if you’ll ever catch a break.

That’s the invisible grind. And if you’ve never lived it, you don’t get to talk down to those who have.

There’s nothing wrong with stability. If you lived at home into adulthood, that’s your story. If your wife became “mom 2.0,” that’s your story. If you never moved more than a few blocks from where your parents still live and the familial tit to one extent or another, fine. But don’t call it a struggle. And don’t diminish people who’ve taken the harder road, because you’ve never walked it.

The difference is simple: some people live without a safety net. Some don’t. Only one of those groups knows what it feels like to struggle. Truly struggle. 

Maybe I shouldn’t care what the “baby bottle of home” crowd thinks. But I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t still nag at me sometimes. Judgment has a way of sticking, especially when it’s unfair. What I’ve come to realize, though, is that respect doesn’t come from them – it comes from the grind itself. From getting up, showing up, and pushing forward anyway. From knowing that the work I’m doing now – researching, writing, editing, delivering – is mine. Built by me, not handed to me.

In the end, maybe that’s the point. Struggle isn’t about appearances. It isn’t about rumors. It isn’t about who cheers you on. It’s about the unglamorous middle – the scaffolding years no one wants to look at or thinks about. 

That’s where the truth is and where respect should live.

Rant No. 13: Why Do People Have to Make Everything So Complicated?

Have you ever noticed how the simplest things in life somehow become the most unnecessarily complicated? I swear, half my frustration these days doesn’t come from “big problems.” It comes from companies, people, and situations that overthink something that should have been easy.

Think about buying something online. You’d think clicking “Add to Cart” would be simple, right? Wrong. Suddenly, you’re trapped in a labyrinth of upsells, pop-ups, and warranty add-ons, with the question: “Do you want to protect this $12 item for only $4.99 a month?” Excuse me? No, I don’t need a lifetime guarantee for my spatula. Just let me check out without feeling like I’m negotiating an international trade deal.

Another thing: customer service that doesn’t actually serve. You call a company, desperate to talk to a human being, and you get the robot menu of doom: “Press 1 for billing. Press 2 for technical support. Press 3 to go slowly insane.” You pick an option, wait on hold for what feels like forever with distorted elevator music, and then get disconnected.

When you finally reach a human, they transfer you three more times because apparently no one is allowed to answer a straightforward question anymore. By the time you resolve the issue – if you even do – you’ve wasted an entire afternoon and lost faith in humanity.

Let’s talk packaging. Why does everything come encased in plastic strong enough to withstand a nuclear blast? You buy a pair of scissors, and you need another pair of scissors to open them. That is peak irony. Half the time I end up with sore hands, cut fingers, and a newfound respect for whoever invented dynamite, because that’s what it feels like you need to get into these packages.

Work isn’t safe either. Nothing screams “pointless” like a meeting scheduled to plan another meeting. Half the time, the actual issue could have been solved in a two-line email. Instead, you sit there for an hour while people circle the same three points like vultures waiting for something to drop dead. By the time the meeting ends, the only thing accomplished is setting the date for the next one.

And can someone explain why every gadget now needs an app? My toaster doesn’t require Bluetooth. I don’t need push notifications about my bagel. Not everything has to be “smart.” Some things should just do their job quietly without demanding Wi-Fi and a software update.

What really sets me off is this: somewhere along the way, we forgot that life works better when simple things stay simple. Create a password, check out with your groceries, speak with a real person, open a package, send a quick message, and toast your bread. None of these should feel like climbing Everest.

But here we are: frustrated, overcomplicated, and wasting time on nonsense that could’ve been avoided if people just stopped trying to reinvent the wheel every five minutes.