I often think about this tweet from Adam Grant:

“Too many people spend their lives being dutiful descendants instead of good ancestors. The responsibility of each generation is not to please their predecessors. It’s to improve things for their offspring. It’s more important to make your children proud than your parents proud.”

Having spent most of my career working with college students, I have too often seen young people overly concerned about what their parents want for their lives.

When in doubt, though, maybe default to choices that would make your kids, or future kids, proud. And that might simply be living a life that’s true to yourself, that’s on a track you truly want to be on, as an example for the generation following you.

When I was in elementary school, my dad quit his secure job to start his own business. After a few bumpy years of uncertainty and just barely getting by, he and my mom had their small business in a position to provide a rewarding, if not especially lucrative, career for them both. Years later he told me that his primary motivation in quitting his job and starting his business was to set an example for me and my sister, to show us we didn’t have to settle for a conventional career path, that we should feel free to pursue whatever dreams inspired us.

What is the story your grandchildren will be told about how you lived your life? Honor your parents. But live your life, not theirs.

I was driving my 15-year-old to school a few days ago. She was having a particularly challenging week with final exams and a big project, and she was showing some signs of stress.

I asked her if she had ever seen those WWJD bracelets. “No.”

Did she know what WWJD stands for? “No.”

I explained that it means “What would Jesus do” and that people would wear them as a reminder of how they wanted to act throughout the day when facing challenges. While Jesus is certainly a good choice, I encouraged her to think of any role models in her life that she could be inspired by and keep them in mind to help her respond to hard things as she went through a tough day.

I explained that as a kid I was drawn to the biographies section of my school library. There were short biographies of a wide range of historical figures, and I couldn’t get enough of them. From MLK to Lincoln to George Washington Carver (the peanut guy) to Hannibal (the general with the elephants!), the heroes of those little books fueled my imagination and became role models. Biographies continued to be my primary reading material throughout my teenage and early adult years as I was trying to piece together how to be an adult.

I do think all those biographies wired in me some baseline standards as well as aspirational goals of how I want to think and act. While I don’t recall literally asking myself “What would Lincoln do?” (I’ve read a lot of Lincoln biographies), my subconscious mind is likely shaped by all those role models I’ve absorbed. Beyond reading, though, I know I’ve also soaked in character traits and mannerisms from, of course, my family and friends and coworkers and bosses and public figures and celebrities and even fictional characters. As a young man I aspired to become a kind of synthesis of Abraham Lincoln, David Letterman, Captain Picard, and Indiana Jones. I have come far short of that potentially epic hybrid of heroes.

I still often find myself automatically mimicking the way my dad stands or using one of my mom’s expressions or telling a funny line reflexively aiming for a hint of Obama’s wry humor. Even the way I over-enthusiastically greet someone appearing in my office door by saying their name with an exclamation point is a direct copy of one of my first coworkers from thirty-plus years ago. We are all products of our influences, and we can choose which influences we absorb by the books we read and the media we consume and the people we spend time with. You can be intentional about shaping your character by studying the kinds of characters you aspire to be like.

After monologuing a much shorter version of this line of thinking with my daughter on the way to school, she seemed to appreciate my point or was at least willing to humor me. Knowing she’s a Taylor Swift fan, I suggested that maybe her mantra for the tough day ahead could be: “What would Taylor do?” She pondered that for a moment, then came back with “How about WWRGD?”

WWRGD?

“What would Rory Gilmore do?” Ah, of course. Brilliant! Rory Gilmore of The Gilmore Girls TV show was an ace student who got into Yale, so, naturally, channeling Rory would be the move on exam day. She was quick to add that she would be thinking of high school Rory, not college Rory, who she thought made some poor decisions in that particular era of the show. This level of discernment was impressive and amusing and had me driving away from the school that morning feeling confident she would be just fine.

This scene from the movie Lady Bird shows the main character, an angsty teenager eager to get out of high school and get out of town, being called on her supposed disdain for her hometown:

“You clearly love Sacramento.”

“I do?”

“You write about Sacramento so affectionately and with such care.”

“Well, I was just describing it.”

“Well, it comes across as love.”

“Sure, I guess I pay attention.”

“Don’t you think maybe they are the same thing? Love and attention?”

I need to be intentional about giving my full attention to whom and what I love. Too often I have moved through days on a sort of autopilot, with my attention consumed by distractions and trivialities.

We are surrounded by wonders and trudge on by without notice. An occasional pause for reverent astonishment would be a potent tonic.

And maybe I should take note of what I truly pay attention to consistently and see if there are hidden objects of affection I’ve been oblivious to.

In an increasingly distracted world, paying attention is a powerful gift and the ultimate expression of love.

Conan O’Brien on being remembered, or not:

I had a great conversation with Albert Brooks once. When I met him for the first time, I was kind of stammering. I said, you make movies, they live on forever. I just do these late-night shows, they get lost, they’re never seen again and who cares? And he looked at me and he said, [Albert Brooks voice] “What are you talking about? None of it matters.” None of it matters? “No, that’s the secret. In 1940, people said Clark Gable is the face of the 20th Century. Who [expletive] thinks about Clark Gable? It doesn’t matter. You’ll be forgotten. I’ll be forgotten. We’ll all be forgotten.” It’s so funny because you’d think that would depress me. I was walking on air after that.

We all want to be something or do something that endures, that leaves a legacy, that outlives our life. But in the big scheme of things, we are a mere blip. We take up very little space, and our lives twinkle in and out of time in a flash. I am one in seven billion. I will be gone and forgotten soon. So will you.

So, the pressure is off. I don’t need to make a dent in the universe in an effort to be remembered. I should take my shot at making a dent, though, simply because it delights me to give it a go. I’m alive and living in a splendid mystery, so why not play the game I’ve been dropped into?

“You are someone amazing. You are nobody special. The challenge is to hold onto both of those truths at the same time.” –Allison Vesterfelt

“It is a far cry from fleeing evil and pain to what the sages say, that among equally good actions the most desirable to do is the one in which there is most trouble.” –Montaigne

“There is most joy in virtue when it’s hardest won.” –Lucan

The hardest thing about doing hard things is in the imagining of how hard it will be before you actually do it. Having done a hard thing, though, is immensely satisfying.

This might be a guide for good decision-making. Considering two options, the one that seems hardest, that elicits more trepidation or resistance, might be the more interesting, more rewarding path.

At the end of a day that’s been especially satisfying for me, it’s usually because I’ve overcome some resistance to do something that required a bit of courage or summoned some effort.

Even barely fulfilling a fraction of my potential is going to mean choosing discomfort regularly. But I know the reward for consistently pivoting toward challenges and away from numbing comfort will be more satisfying than the mindless, empty pleasure of the path of least resistance.

“Hard choices, easy life. Easy choices, hard life.” –Jerzy Gregorak

“The secret to being good at anything is to approach it like a curious idiot, rather than a know-it-all genius.” –Mike Monteiro

He who thinks he knows, doesn’t know. He who knows he doesn’t know, knows.

I need to regularly pause and remind myself just how little I know. When inclined to judge or label or assert my clever hot take, I need to stop myself and get curious instead.

When I’ve done a thing countless times and think I’ve got it down, I should check myself and try approaching it with a beginner’s mind.

“In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities. In the expert’s mind there are few.” –Thich Nhat Hanh

“I don’t know” is a surprisingly strong mindset and, as an honest response to a question, a potential launching point to possibilities not yet imagined.

Curious idiot: My aspirational default mode.

“Almost everyone is screwed up, broken, clingy, scared, and yet designed for joy. Even (or especially) people who seem to have it more or less together are more like the rest of us than you would believe. I try not to compare my insides to their outsides, because this makes me much worse than I already am, and if I get to know them, they turn out to have plenty of irritability and shadow of their own. Besides, those few people who aren’t a mess are probably good for about twenty minutes of dinner conversation. This is good news, that almost everyone is petty, narcissistic, secretly insecure, and in it for themselves, because a few of the funny ones may actually long to be friends with you and me. They can be real with us, the greatest relief. As we develop love, appreciation, and forgiveness for others over time, we may accidentally develop those things toward ourselves, too.” –Anne Lamott

Everyone is completely winging it. I am. You are, too.

That’s either wonderfully reassuring or absolutely terrifying. Or both.

I have often felt I can’t let others know I don’t have things figured out. I don’t want to let anyone down who’s counting on me to be wise or strong. But allowing others to glimpse our own uncertainty and weakness is a gift that enriches both. Vulnerability leads to trust and authentic connection.

I need to embrace the mess and surf the chaos and give grace to everyone, because everyone is a mess just like me.

There was a time when I posted something to this site every day. That daily challenge I set for myself added a little tension to each day, but it was also invigorating and rewarding. I would wake up each morning knowing I expected to capture an idea and put it out into the world. I would be on a daily hunt for a spark, for a thought worth exploring and worth sharing.

Some nights I would scramble before I went to bed to post a quote, a photo, a link, anything just to keep the streak going. And I had no shame in doing just barely enough to take credit for writing something every day. Just keep going. Just keep posting. Long streaks of forgettable or cringeworthy posts would be interrupted occasionally by something pretty good, something I was actually proud of. And I wouldn’t have gotten to the few good ones without all the mediocre attempts.

Committing to posting something daily put my antennae up throughout the day in a way that’s been missing since I’ve stopped writing regularly.

What can I ever write, though, that would be of lasting value? Who am I to write with any sense of authority? What do I know anyway? And who even cares? Eventually, those questions derailed me. It was just easier not to make the attempt.

Well, I do know that just the act of writing something down helps me to better understand myself. And writing, as frustratingly difficult as it is, can lead to rare, refreshing moments of clarity and the occasional deep satisfaction of crafting a phrase or illuminating a thought that delights me. Plus, there’s the double bonus of possibly writing something that might be meaningful to someone else, even if only by accident.

How can I know what I think until I see what I say?

The best way to understand something is to try to express it.

I know all this is true, but I have been resisting for years now the hard work and messy self-examination regular writing requires of me.

But I’m going to get back at it, even when—especially when—I just don’t feel like it. (Writing the first sentence is the hardest part. Once I put something down, no matter how embarrassingly bad it is, I tend to keep going. And it tends to get better.) I just know that being intentional about writing regularly has been good for my soul. “Not feeling like it” is a puny excuse that prevents an infinity of possible good things from ever happening.

I’m not promising daily posts. I’m not trying to start a new streak, knowing that the pressure of keeping a streak alive just adds to the resistance to even start. I’ll aim for dailyish.

It’s been too easy to default to consuming rather than creating. But I won’t look back some day and wish that I had scrolled Twitter more often or watched more YouTube videos. But I already regret not writing more. I regret not regularly attempting to make something meaningful or delightful, something that helps me make a little more sense of the world and might help someone else, too.

So, I’ll be back at it. Right here. Dailyish.