Two Ply

If I could magically take you back in time to when you were 16, 25, or even 35 again, what would you do differently when you got there?

Most of us can immediately conjure up a specific memory, or four, and almost instantly see the forks in the road where we should have made a left instead of a right. It’s also easy to imagine our current upgraded selves stepping in to right those many wrongs and save the day.

There is a critical caveat to this thought experiment, however, that I forgot to mention.

When I take you back, you don’t get to take the intervening years with you.

Without the gift of hindsight in place, the answer to what we’d do differently becomes simple:

Nothing.

We would make the same choice with the same limited perspective and raw emotions we had the first time.

Wisdom isn’t a replacement for the past; it is a direct product of it. We didn’t grow despite those choices; we grew because of them.

Although we live in an age where the ability to know anything we want is everywhere, we seem to understand very little. Information is everywhere, yet wisdom is nowhere.

So why isn't knowledge enough?

Growing up, my father would tell me to "measure twice, cut once" more times than I could count. A solid piece of knowledge that I can vividly remember turning into wisdom, when I measured once, ruining a board, and sheepishly realizing that no amount of further cuts was going to make that board any longer.

Wisdom and regret are really the same story, just told by different narrators. If we’re not careful with the story we tell, our perceived failures can accumulate over time and turn into a filing cabinet of proof that we can no longer be trusted to make the next move.

So, how do we begin to turn our trail of perceived roadkill into the yellow brick road?

Consider this example, one I think most of us can relate to:

An acquaintance or colleague at work or school asks for a favour, usually in the form of money.

Your first instinct, a split-second gut reaction, is no.

And then the "sell" begins.

“Come on, I thought we were friends! Remember when I helped you out with that email and then bought you those fries? Look, I’ll even write you an IOU.” I’ll have it back to you by Friday, I swear.”

And the negotiation with yourself begins. You weigh the social pressure against the potential embarrassment of being "the mean guy” and eventually overrule your gut and hand over the money.

"Next Friday, right?"

"Next Friday!" they reply.

We all know the ending. Friday shows up, and they don't.

What’s the first thing you say to yourself?

"I knew it!"

And that is when our mind usually plays its most devious trick by saying, "See? You can't trust your yourself,” and then proceeds to file that memory into the cabinet.

But when we slow down for just a second and take a closer look, you’ll see that your instinct was actually correct and said "no" right from the start.

And that’s the switch. Not a hope or affirmation, but a clear, data-driven fact.

The problem wasn’t that you couldn't trust yourself at that time; it’s simply that you didn't.

Muhammad Ali once said, “If a man is the same at 50 as he was at 20, he has wasted 30 years of his life.

Much of our societal friction comes from the impossible demand that everyone be on the same page. Although we’re all part of the same book, we must recognize that we are all in very different chapters.

The young are on their way up, trying to build wisdom and confidence, and the old are on their way down, just trying to find some peace and contentment.

Our discord lies in trying to convince ourselves that we were never like that, while they, sometimes quite vocally, declare they’ll never be like us.

The reality? We were like that, and they will be like us, at least to some degree.

As the 19th-century French proverb goes, if you aren't a liberal at 20, you have no heart; and if you aren't a conservative at 40, you have no head.

The world is going to change, and you will, too, hopefully with greater wisdom and less regret.

So to my young friends, I say, tell the truth and embrace your perceived mistakes to extract the necessary wisdom so you can move forward with greater strength and confidence.

And to my older friends, I say the same, so you can move forward with greater peace of mind.

Serenity Now

When I think of the word "serenity," I almost always think of Frank Costanza. Those who know me well will be rolling their eyes, as Seinfeld analogies are pretty much a daily occurrence for me.

I immediately picture Frank in the backseat of George’s car, head tilted back, emphatically shouting, “Serenity now!” with his arms outstretched high in the air.

It’s a phrase my friends and I often say half-jokingly in moments of frustration, almost as a strategy or methodology to create peace in a stressful situation, but behind it lies a deeper truth that many of us can spend a lifetime trying to understand.

When I look back on my life honestly, I can see that there have often been strong tendencies to manage certain situations and outcomes so that things go the way I believe they should.

Ya, a clever way to say I’ve had some control issues. Pretty sure I’m not alone on this one.

And for a long time, it truly felt feasible.

There were many moments I can point to that prove my efforts paid off, where persistence led to results, and things eventually bent just enough to match my expectations.

I can also see now, in hindsight, that those choices came with a hidden cost.

They were quietly reinforcing an unconscious belief that if I could control some things, I could eventually control everything.

I think we all reach this crossroad at some stage in life.

A moment when we begin to notice that no matter how hard we try, certain things won’t go our way. People don’t behave the way we want them to, outcomes don’t align with our plans, and life refuses to follow our script.

What once felt like determination and achievement now feels like struggle and frustration, and the harder we press, the more resistance we encounter.

There’s a well-known prayer written almost a century ago by Reinhold Niebuhr that reads:

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change;
the courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

Often, as we encounter things we don’t like, be it a difficult person, an unexpected outcome, or a frustrating situation, our instinct is to immediately fix it, change it, or make it different.

But what if that instinct is not only part of the problem, it’s what perpetuates it?

What if our stress in situations like these doesn’t come from what’s actually happening, but from our refusal to accept first that it is happening?

What I find most interesting about the Serenity Prayer is not just what it says, but the order in which it says it.

It begins with acceptance.

Not action. Not change. Not effort.

Acceptance.

But that’s not how most of us typically operate.

We will fight, resist and argue until we get nowhere, and then, we will finally surrender. 

That process can take minutes, hours, or even days. Sometimes, it can take years.

What if we surrendered first?

Austrian-born neurologist, psychiatrist, and philosopher Viktor Frankl once wrote, "Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”

In these moments of perceived opposition, I think we often fail to recognize that as we continue to feel irritated by someone who refuses to change, we are also refusing to change.

The truth is that while we can influence some aspects of our lives, if our peace ultimately depends on everything going our way, then that’s not peace at all; it’s control.

And if we have a desire in life not to feel controlled, then our solution cannot be to control.

Acceptance is often misunderstood. It doesn’t mean agreement or approval, and it certainly doesn’t mean giving up. It simply means seeing reality as it is, before deciding what, if anything, can be done about it.

And that shift alone can change everything.

I can now see that what I thought were “successes” in controlling different situations or outcomes weren’t really successes at all; in fact, they were a regression.

What I thought was a goal to achieve a life of peace devoid of chaos was actually a desire for serenity, a state of being calm, peaceful, and untroubled inside, regardless of what is transpiring outside.

It’s an inside job, and acceptance is the key, not in giving up on what will be, but a temporary surrender to what is in that moment.

Once that state is achieved, we are now free to choose what might be.

Mind Your Change

I suspect I’m not alone in feeling that the first hint of spring over the past few days sparked a joyful urge to get moving again.

Almost instantly, I wanted to get outside, go for a walk, swing a golf club, clean my bike, car or anything else that would require more physical effort than I had expended over the last few frigid months.

The next morning, however, my 58-year-old body reminded me that winter’s dormancy had quietly changed it in ways I hadn’t noticed.

That reminder was pain.

It seemed that in my puppy dog-like exuberance, I had forgotten the golden rule of any new burst of activity; when a long period of inactivity ends, there’s one important step before a new action begins.

Stretch. Stretch. Stretch.

Our bodies are often a great reminder that even when we leave things alone, change is always occurring.

It’s not so much that my muscles weren’t changing as it was how they were changing, and in what direction. They were shrinking, becoming stiffer and more rigid from the neglect of months of inactivity.

Our minds and hearts are really no different.

I was reminded of that toward the end of last year in my coaching practice.

Throughout much of 2025, I began noticing a pattern.

Clients were seeking new timelines and a different pace, with shorter sessions, more follow-up and support tailored to their evolving needs.

With what I believed was a 20-year track record of success, I found myself resisting. I clung to a comfortable mindset backed by results that had worked for a very long time.  

“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” I kept telling myself.

Meanwhile, the data kept piling up, strongly suggesting that while it may not be broke, it’s definitely starting to crack.

The world was changing, and I was being asked to change with it.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that my mind and heart had slowly begun to atrophy.

Charles Darwin’s Origin of Species is often summarized this way: it is not the strongest species that survives, nor the most intelligent, but the one most adaptable to change.

Resilience isn’t really about strength or intellect.

It’s about our ability to bend.

I could easily blame a cold, hard winter for my lack of exercise and the soreness that followed that first burst of activity.

But the truth is, winter didn’t simply happen to me; I was an active participant.

Or in this case, an inactive one.

I could have exercised; I just didn’t.

My struggles in coaching last year came from a similar place.

I resisted the clear signals that what once had worked no longer did. I was clinging to how I thought things should be rather than paying attention to how they actually were.

To move forward, I needed to see that, feel it, and accept it.

And that’s the stretch.

George Bernard Shaw once said, “Progress is impossible without change, and those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything.”

Staying the same is a myth. Our bodies, minds, and hearts are always changing. Even when we dig in and resist, we’re still changing; we’re just becoming more rigid.

Change is inevitable, but direction is optional.

We can dig in and grow brittle, or we can stretch and become more adaptable.

The choice is ours.

This newsletter is the result of one of those stretches, a stretch that I will admit was quite uncomfortable, but one that has renewed my connection to my clients and to my craft.

In this Year of the Horse, I feel revitalized and back in the saddle.

It’s exciting (and a little terrifying.)

Giddyup!

Subjects In Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear

After reading my January newsletter, a friend of mine asked, “Why do you call it a ‘Subjective Perspective’ - isn’t your role as a coach to be objective?”

It’s a fair question, and one that I had pondered many times before deciding to go with subjective.

“I realized that claiming ‘complete objectivity’ is something that I could not in good conscience say,” I replied, adding, “Who could really?”

To be objective is to be a mirror, one with no past, no future, no emotion, and therefore no bias. Just the facts.

But can anyone honestly say they live that way?

When I return home from a relaxing mid-summer night’s ride on my motorcycle, I spend the next half hour cleaning the ‘facts’ of that ride off of my helmet.

Seen through the lens of the other bugs, I’m a “high-speed maniac who came out of nowhere and took out Johnny and half his crew!”

Same event, different lens with no objective truth to be found.

The word objective can also mean: something that you plan to do or achieve.

Ironically, the moment we have an objective, we lose all objectivity.

Our goal becomes its own lens or filter, as everything we encounter is now categorized: it’s either an asset or a liability, a shortcut or a hindrance to what we want to achieve.

We are no longer observing reality as it is; we are measuring it against what we desire.

I’m not convinced that any of us can be completely objective in life. I am certain, however, that complete subjectivity is more than doable.

Examples of this can usually be found in social gatherings, in those somewhat tedious and often one-sided conversations that usually end with, “I’m going to get another drink, you want anything?”

And in the spirit of objectivity, I have also been known to be the recipient of that awkward question a few times, as well.

French author Anais Nin once wrote, “We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are.”

This is not only philosophy; it’s also physics.

One of the major tenets of quantum mechanics is that the act of observation actually changes the object being observed, meaning we don’t simply look at our lives; we interact with them.

This concept can also be found in many religions, too.

In Catholicism, Proverbs 23:7 states: “As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.”

In Buddhism: “The root of suffering is attachment,” (ie, the self or subjectivity.)

In short, we don’t find meaning in the world; we project meaning into it.

“Reality,” as Einstein once said, “is merely an illusion, albeit a persistent one.”

So, is the deer crossing the road, or is the road crossing the forest?

It really depends on who you ask.

Our obstacles on the road of life often arise from being stuck in a particular point of view, from where we are to where we think we’re supposed to be.

Some would propose that the solution is to focus harder and create a stronger mindset.

But as I look back at some of our darker and more troubled times in history, much of the damage that ensued came from very set minds.

What unsticks us is remembering that the world we see is not viewed through a fixed aperture of facts, but rather a zoom lens of interpretation.

It is our ability to entertain in any situation that it is not always the result that needs to change, but our limited perception of it, and to see a bigger picture.

Paradoxically, what distorts that objectivity is our objective.

The solution is not to try to expand objectivity, but rather to temporarily suspend our own subjectivity long enough so that we are able to see a different landscape.

With less attachment comes less struggle.

We each decide if life is just something that is happening to us or if we are creating it.

Whichever lens we choose will ultimately determine the reality we experience.

Why Happiness Eludes Us

Many of us were raised with the belief that happiness is something to be found, a thing to chase, earn, or some sort of destination to finally arrive at.

Once that idea took root, the race began.

We ran toward careers, relationships, purchases, philosophies, and spiritual practices, listening to anyone or anything that promised to help us build that happy place.

And sometimes it worked, at least temporarily.

Sure, most of us can point to moments when happiness seemed to fall into our hands: a new adventure, a meaningful relationship, or a long-anticipated achievement. But just as quickly as it appeared, it then began to fade, and before long, we found ourselves chasing it once again.

The cycle repeats, and over time, this pursuit becomes less exciting and more exhausting. The carrot stays just out of reach, and the thought of starting again can feel overwhelming.

So how do we finally secure this elusive thing we call happiness and free ourselves from that endless frustration of carrot and stick? When does this vicious cycle end?

What if the problem isn’t so much that happiness keeps slipping away, but that the way we’re looking for it is what keeps pushing it out of reach?

We are often so eager to fix the troubles in our lives, and typically rush straight into solutions without taking the time to truly understand the problem. Like sitting in a sinking boat taking on water, frantically looking for bigger buckets without ever stopping to look for the leak.

Before trying to solve our happiness dilemma, do we actually understand what happiness is?

French philosopher and Nobel prize-winning novelist Albert Camus once wrote:

“In the midst of hate, I found there was, within me, an invincible love.
In the midst of tears, I found there was, within me, an invincible smile.
In the midst of chaos, I found there was, within me, an invincible calm.
I realized, through it all, that…
In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.”

For me, Camus’ words quietly point to a radical notion, that the thing we’re searching for isn’t something to acquire, it’s a constant. It’s always there.

In other words, happiness doesn’t come and go; we do.

Just like the sun doesn’t vanish when clouds roll in. It’s still there, shining just as strongly as ever, but the clouds create the illusion that it’s gone.

When I look back on my own life, even during the chaos of recent years, I can see that moments of happiness were always present, scattered between all of the struggles.

At the time, I attached those moments to external things like:
This person makes me happy.
I’m happiest when I’m on my motorcycle.
I feel good when I take a walk in nature.

But when I look more closely, none of those things actually created happiness. They simply helped quiet my mind long enough for me to be fully present, and in that presence, something fundamental revealed itself.

The happiness was already there, and that’s the constant Camus was pointing to.

Those moments worked not because of where I was or who I was with, but because, for a brief moment, I was simply here, now, and unencumbered by thought.

Happiness, then, is not something we earn or achieve. It is our natural state of being.

When this becomes clear, the exhausting search finally subsides, and a new skill becomes essential going forward: awareness.

As we begin to notice how and why we leave this natural state, we then also learn how to return to it, without anything needing to change and without something new needing to happen.

With that awareness and understanding, the struggle softens, the frustration loosens its grip, and ironically, the things we once thought needed to change begin to change.

Maybe happiness was never what we were searching for; maybe it was peace.