The 365 Commitment

My intellectual journey has led me to a profound bias toward iterative thinking. This approach, at its core, follows a simple yet powerful cycle: Try, observe, learn, adjust, and then try again.

This stands in stark contrast to the linear thinking that characterized my younger years: Analyze, decide, execute, and finish. The philosophical chasm between these two methodologies can be distilled into two distinct principles:

Linear is Perfection-first: One thinks until confidence in action is absolute.

Iterative is Action-first: One acts when sufficient knowledge exists to learn more.

It's crucial to acknowledge that neither approach is inherently superior, though I confess a preference for the latter. Iterative thinking shines brightest when the cost of learning is low and feedback is readily available and actionable. Conversely, it falters when errors carry extreme costs, are irreversible, or when the problem domain is already thoroughly understood.

Consider product development, writing, strategic planning, software engineering, training, or scientific experimentation—these are fertile grounds for iteration. One can readily test an idea, gauge its impact, and refine it.

However, one would be ill-advised to "iterate" through bridge construction, a surgical operation, nuclear safety protocols, or a significant legal brief. Such endeavors demand meticulous planning, rigorous modeling, exhaustive verification, and adherence to established procedures before execution.

The rapid advancements in artificial intelligence have, rather forcefully, taught me a critical lesson: iteration can, at times, serve as a convenient excuse for insufficient upfront thought. While speed and learning are invaluable, an endless cycle of trial-and-error can squander precious time when careful reasoning could preempt obvious missteps.

Though not yet fully implemented, I am formulating a hybrid approach, a more robust decision-making pathway that synthesizes these two modes of thought:

Think → Plan → Act → Measure → Learn → Adjust.

This might appear self-evident, yet in practice, we often lack the discipline to measure, thereby failing to extract the full lessons from our actions. Unplanned, chaotic actions, devoid of a clear execution strategy and without metrics to track progress, frequently lead to unproductive repetition.

The true inquiry, then, isn't which thinking style reigns supreme. Rather, it's about determining the optimal balance: how much thought should precede the initial action, and with what alacrity should one adapt thereafter?

There is a peculiar mystery to the relief that washes over us when we commit something to paper. A problem can haunt the mind for hours, even days, resurfacing relentlessly even when immediate action is impossible. Whether driving, dining, drifting to sleep, or engrossed in unrelated work, the thought reappears, as if the mind is a persistent sentinel, ensuring the issue remains unforgotten.

Then, you write it down.

The problem itself remains unchanged. The task is not completed, the difficult conversation not had, the decision not made, and the uncertainty persists. Yet, an internal settling often occurs. The thought no longer clamors for attention. It has been externalized, captured, and that simple act seems to grant permission to set it aside, at least for a while.

Psychologists have long been fascinated by this phenomenon. One of the earliest to explore a related concept was Bluma Zeigarnik.

Born in 1900, Zeigarnik studied psychology in Berlin during the 1920s under the influential Kurt Lewin. The genesis of her research is often traced to an observation made in a restaurant. Zeigarnik and Lewin noted that waiters possessed an extraordinary ability to recall complex orders while customers were still seated. However, once the bills were paid and the transactions concluded, those intricate details seemed to vanish from memory with surprising speed.

This observation sparked a compelling question: Did an unfinished task engage the mind differently?

Zeigarnik began to experiment. In one of her most renowned studies, participants were given a series of relatively simple activities—solving a problem, constructing an object, completing a puzzle, or other small tasks. Crucially, some activities were allowed to be completed, while others were deliberately interrupted.

Later, Zeigarnik asked participants to recall what they had done.

She discovered that people tended to remember the interrupted and unfinished tasks more readily than those they had completed. Her explanation posited that initiating a task creates a psychological tension. Once an objective is set, a part of the mind begins to strive for resolution. This tension is released upon completion. When a task remains unfinished, however, the mind continues to hold onto it.

This tendency became known as the Zeigarnik Effect.

While modern research has added nuance to Zeigarnik's original findings, and the effect doesn't manifest identically in all circumstances, the broader idea resonates intuitively. Unfinished matters tend to remain mentally active. They linger. They return. They seem to occupy disproportionate mental space simply because they lack closure.

Viewed through this lens, the nature of stress becomes remarkably clear.

Most of us carry a far greater burden of unfinished business than we realize. There are emails awaiting replies, conversations we know must occur, partially completed projects, commitments made, forgotten tasks, postponed decisions, and problems for which we simply lack solutions. Beyond these tangible items lie more abstract concerns that defy easy placement on a to-do list: worries about finances, family, work, health, relationships, or the future.

Few of these demand our constant attention, yet our minds often treat them as if they do. They periodically resurface, sometimes at the most inconvenient moments, almost as if the brain is conducting a mental audit to ensure they haven't been forgotten.

This, I believe, is why writing holds such power.

When something exists solely in your mind, your brain bears the dual responsibility of eventually solving it and remembering its existence. This creates an additional burden. A portion of your attention must remain tethered to the problem, lest it slip away.

Once you write it down, that dynamic shifts.

Psychologists sometimes refer to this as cognitive offloading, the process of transferring the work of remembering or organizing information from your mind to the external world. We engage in this constantly, often without conscious thought. A calendar frees us from memorizing every appointment. A grocery list allows us to navigate the store without mentally rehearsing a dozen items. A phone reminder permits us to defer thinking about something until the opportune moment.

Writing down a concern functions in much the same way.

You are not necessarily solving the problem. You are creating a trusted repository where the problem now resides.

This distinction is crucial, for the mind seems to respond differently to an unresolved problem that has been captured versus one that merely floats in our thoughts. The former can often be set aside. The latter tends to resurface repeatedly because the brain lacks assurance that it won't be forgotten.

I have come to understand this through a long-standing habit: at the end of each day, I make a point of closing my day out.

It is not an elaborate ritual, nor do I approach it as a productivity exercise demanding perfect utilization of every minute. I simply take a moment to honestly assess the day. I note my intentions, my actual accomplishments, what remained unfinished, and what needs to be carried forward.

Over time, I have found this practice profoundly therapeutic.

Acknowledging what didn't get done is as vital as recognizing what did. Without that acknowledgment, unfinished work tends to follow me into the evening. I may physically cease working, but mentally, fragments of the day persist. A forgotten task resurfaces during dinner. An incomplete item appears in my mind as I try to sleep. My attention drifts back to the workday, even though it has technically concluded.

Closing the day transforms this relationship.

I can look at an unfinished item and simply acknowledge it. I know it's still there. I know it requires attention. I might even decide when I will revisit it. But I no longer have to mentally rehearse it to ensure its survival until tomorrow.

In a sense, I am not necessarily closing the task; I am closing the day.

This has become an important distinction for me. We often assume that peace arrives when everything is done, yet few of us will ever reach the end of a day with absolutely nothing left unfinished. There will almost always be another email, another project, another conversation, another idea, or another obligation awaiting us.

If our capacity for rest hinges on completing everything, we will rarely find rest.

Instead, we can cultivate a reliable method for acknowledging the current state of affairs. We can recognize accomplishments, accept what remains unfinished, capture what needs to happen next, and then consciously allow the day to conclude.

Most people eventually stumble upon some version of this when overwhelmed. There comes a point when too many things circulate in the mind, prompting us to grab a notebook or open a document and begin listing everything that needs doing. We call it a brain dump or a task list, and almost immediately, a sense of relief washes over us.

The intriguing aspect is that nothing has actually been completed. If you had seventeen problems before making the list, you still have seventeen problems afterward. What has changed is that those problems are no longer seventeen indistinct entities vying for space in your head. They are visible. They have names. They have been captured.

The temporary relief we experience in those moments conveys an important message.

We don't have to wait until we are overwhelmed to act.

Instead of treating writing things down as an emergency mechanism reserved for moments of extreme mental pressure, we can integrate it into the ordinary rhythm of our day. We can develop a habit of regularly clearing our m...

There once was a young man who believed he had been born for greatness.

He did not want an ordinary life. He wanted riches, fame, and glory. He dreamed of building something so grand that people would speak his name long after he was gone.

So he left home with ambition in his heart and certainty in his step.

His first venture failed.

He lost nearly everything he had saved, but he told himself that all great men stumble before they rise.

So he tried again.

The second venture failed too.

Then came another. And another.

Each time, he imagined that this would be the one. The business that would make him wealthy. The invention that would make him famous. The achievement that would finally prove he had been meant for something extraordinary.

But success never came the way he imagined it would.

Years passed.

Along the way, he married a woman who believed in him even when he had stopped believing in himself.

She sat beside him when money was scarce. She encouraged him when another dream collapsed. She celebrated the smallest victories and endured the longest disappointments.

Together, they had children.

The young man loved them, but part of him always remained fixed on the horizon.

He kept searching.

He chased opportunities in distant cities. He risked what little he had. He made promises to himself that the next attempt would be different.

Sometimes he came close.

There were years when he thought fortune had finally found him.

But something always happened.

A partner betrayed him.

A market changed.

An investment disappeared.

A business closed.

A door that seemed certain to open suddenly shut.

And still he pressed on.

His children grew.

He taught them to work hard because work was the one thing he understood.

He taught them to keep their word because he had learned what it felt like when others did not.

He taught them to rise after failure because he had become very good at rising.

He taught them courage, although he never thought himself courageous.

He taught them perseverance, although he considered his life a long series of disappointments.

And then one day, almost without noticing, the young man became an old man.

His hair turned white.

His hands became thin.

The great fortune he had imagined as a boy had never appeared.

No buildings carried his name.

No crowds had ever cheered for him.

No books recorded his accomplishments.

And as he lay in bed near the end of his life, he felt a quiet sadness.

He thought about all the things he had chased and never caught.

All the plans that had failed.

All the dreams that had remained dreams.

He wondered whether he had wasted his life searching for treasure that had never existed.

Then he heard voices in the hallway.

His wife entered first.

She was old now too.

She took his hand just as she had done thousands of times before.

Behind her came their children.

And behind them came their children.

And then came the little ones—the children of their children.

Soon the room was full.

There was laughter.

There were stories.

There were tears.

One grandson told him how his father had taught him never to quit because that was what Grandpa had taught him.

A daughter told him that she had learned loyalty by watching the way her parents had remained beside one another through difficult years.

Another spoke of honesty.

Another of courage.

Another of kindness.

Another of faith.

The old man looked around the room.

He saw his wife.

He saw his children.

He saw grandchildren climbing onto the bed.

He saw great-grandchildren whose lives had only just begun.

And suddenly, for the first time, he saw his life clearly.

He had spent his entire life believing that treasure was something waiting for him somewhere in the distance.

A fortune.

A title.

An achievement.

A moment when the world would finally declare that he had succeeded.

But while he had been searching for treasure, he had been collecting it.

One ordinary day at a time.

A marriage that had survived hardship.

Children who had learned from his mistakes.

Grandchildren carrying lessons he had once learned through pain.

Stories.

Traditions.

Memories.

Love.

Character.

A family whose lives had been shaped by his own.

The old man began to cry.

His wife leaned close and asked, “What is it?”

He looked around the crowded room and smiled.

“All these years,” he whispered, “I thought I had failed to find my treasure.”

He squeezed her hand.

“But I see now that I was gathering it the whole way.”

And with the people he loved surrounding him, the old man finally understood something that had escaped him when he was young.

A man can spend his whole life searching for riches and never become wealthy.

He can chase fame and never become known.

He can pursue glory and never have the world remember his name.

And still—

he may leave behind a treasure greater than anything he ever thought to seek.

For some treasures are not found at the end of the journey.

They are gathered along the way.

I want to begin with something Jesus said about prayer that I have been thinking about lately.

In Matthew 6:7, Jesus says:

“But when ye pray, use not vain repetitions, as the heathen do: for they think that they shall be heard for their much speaking.”

That phrase caught my attention: “Vain repetitions.”

Because repetition is actually a huge part of religious life. Christians repeat the Lord’s Prayer. Catholics pray the Rosary. Buddhists repeat mantras. Jewish worship includes prayers and passages that have been recited for generations. Muslims pray at prescribed times each day and repeatedly recite passages from the Quran. And even those of us who don't follow a highly structured form of prayer tend to repeat ourselves.

We pray for the same people. We ask for the same things. We use many of the same words.

So I started wondering:

Is repetition the problem?

And I don't think it is. In fact, repetition may be one of the most powerful tools we have for changing our lives. Think about almost anything you have ever learned to do well. You learned to walk through repetition. You learned to speak through repetition. An athlete repeats the same movement thousands of times. A musician plays the same scales again and again. We learn multiplication tables through repetition. We develop physical strength by repeating the same movements.

And our character develops in much the same way. We become generous by repeatedly practicing generosity. We become patient by repeatedly choosing patience. We become grateful by repeatedly looking for things for which we are grateful. Eventually, something we once had to consciously choose begins to become part of who we are. So repetition itself isn't the enemy.

Repetition is one of the primary ways human beings are formed.

And this is where I think Jesus' choice of words is important. He doesn't simply warn us about repetition. He warns us about vain repetition.

And then he tells us what makes the repetition vain:

“For they think that they shall be heard for their much speaking.”

In other words, the problem wasn't simply that these people repeated themselves. The problem was what they believed their repetition was accomplishing. They thought the quantity of their words somehow increased their influence over the divine. More words. More prayers. More repetitions. More likelihood that the gods would listen.

Prayer could become almost transactional.

If I say enough… If I pray long enough… If I perform the ritual correctly enough… perhaps I can produce the outcome I want.

And Jesus immediately challenges that idea.

In the very next verse he says:

“Your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask him.”

I think that is the heart of this entire teaching.

Jesus is saying:

You don't have to earn God's attention.

You already have it.

You don't have to overwhelm God with words. You don't have to discover the right formula. You don't have to accumulate enough prayers to move your request to the top of some heavenly scoreboard. Your Father already knows.

And yet, interestingly, Jesus doesn't say:

“So don't pray.”

He teaches them how to pray. And immediately afterward he gives them what we now call the Lord's Prayer.

“Our Father, which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name…”

And Christians have repeated that prayer for nearly two thousand years. There is something almost ironic about that. Jesus warns us about vain repetition and then gives us one of the most repeated prayers in human history. But maybe that tells us something important.

The question isn't whether we repeat something.

The question is:

What is the repetition doing?

There is a profound difference between repetition as formation and repetition as transaction.

When repetition is formative, I am not trying to change God. I am allowing the practice to change me.

Imagine that I am anxious about something in my life.

And I pray:

“Thy will be done.”

Then ten minutes later the anxiety returns.

“Thy will be done.”

The next morning I wake up worrying about it again.

“Thy will be done.”

A week later I am still struggling.

“Thy will be done.”

I might say those words a hundred times. But I'm not saying them because I believe God needs to hear them a hundred times.

I need to hear them a hundred times.

The repetition isn't working on God. It's working on me. Every repetition becomes another opportunity to surrender. Another opportunity to trust. Another opportunity to bring my mind back to what I believe. And I think this is where we can learn something from religious traditions beyond our own as well.

In Buddhism, for example, mantras and other repetitive practices are often used to focus attention.

The wandering mind wanders. And the practitioner brings it back. It wanders again. And the practitioner brings it back again. The repetition provides an anchor. Christians have developed similar practices throughout history—repeated prayers, memorized Scripture, hymns, liturgy, contemplative prayer.

And there is something deeply human underneath all of them.

Our minds wander. Our intentions wander. Our priorities wander. Our behavior wanders. And sometimes we need something that repeatedly brings us back. So perhaps repetition can serve a very beautiful spiritual purpose. It can become a way of returning.

Returning to gratitude. Returning to humility. Returning to forgiveness. Returning to compassion. Returning to God. But there is also a danger.

Because something that begins as meaningful repetition can gradually become mindless repetition.

We can say words without thinking about them. We can perform rituals without remembering why. We can attend church without really being present. We can sing hymns while thinking about lunch. We can say “Amen” without having paid attention to the prayer. And perhaps even more dangerously, we can begin keeping score.

How many prayers did I say? How many days have I completed? How many chapters did I read? How many services did I attend? How many boxes did I check? There is nothing wrong with measuring a habit. Measurement can help us develop discipline.

But eventually we have to ask:

Is the practice producing the person it was intended to produce?

Because it is possible to complete the repetition while missing the transformation. I can repeat prayers about forgiveness while refusing to forgive. I can repeat prayers about generosity while remaining selfish. I can say “Thy will be done” while spending my entire life insisting upon my own will. I can pray “Give us this day our daily bread” while never noticing the person beside me who doesn't have any.

At that point, perhaps the repetition has become exactly what Jesus warned about. It has become vain. Not because it was repeated. But because the repetition stopped reaching the heart.

So I've started thinking about repetition in a different way.

Before repeating a spiritual practice, maybe we should ask:

Am I trying to change God, or am I allowing God to change me?

Am I praying because I believe enough words will produce the outcome I want? Or am I praying because returning to these words is slowly forming me into the person I am called to become? And this principle extends beyond prayer. If you want to become grateful, repeatedly practice gratitude. If you want to become generous, repeatedly practic...

Present bias is the tendency to overvalue rewards available now and undervalue larger benefits that arrive later. In plain terms, people often choose immediate comfort, pleasure, or relief even when waiting would produce a better overall outcome.

Repeatedly choosing the immediate reward can make that pattern feel more automatic, more normal, and more compelling over time. In other words, present-biased choices can become habit-strengthened through repetition, so the short-term option starts to feel like the default rather than a choice that is being actively evaluated.

Here is the problem that we all face, and this is a decision-making process that happens multiple times each day.

An immediate reward is available. The “now” option feels vivid, certain, and emotionally salient, while the future benefit feels abstract and distant.

You choose the immediate reward. That choice often produces quick payoff: pleasure, relief, convenience, reduced effort, or avoidance of discomfort.

The brain learns from the payoff. Behaviors followed by rewarding outcomes tend to become easier to repeat. Even if the long-term result is worse, the short-term reward teaches: “Do this again.”

The behavior becomes more automatic. Over time, less conscious deliberation may be involved. The easy option becomes the familiar route, and the delayed-benefit option starts to feel effortful, unnatural, or even threatening.

Future-oriented choice becomes harder. Not necessarily impossible, but harder, because now you are not only fighting the original attraction of immediate reward, you are also fighting a learned pattern.

Over time, this path of choosing the easier immediate reward becomes “hard-coded.” This is a good metaphor because repeated present-focused choices can create a self-reinforcing behavioral loop. This loop is that immediate reward strengthens the behavior, repeated behavior becomes habit, habit reduces reflection, reduced reflection increases default short-term choice, and repeated short-term choice strengthens present-biased responding again.

That loop makes the immediate option feel increasingly “obvious” and the delayed option increasingly “unnatural.” This aligns with the idea that immediate rewards are valued disproportionately strongly, while delayed rewards are sharply discounted, especially over short time horizons.

A good example of building a habit to pick the immediate reward instead of the longer-term benefit happens all the time in our finances. Consider the daily coffee shop visit. For a few dollars, you get an instant caffeine fix and a moment of indulgence. The longer-term benefit, however, would be to brew coffee at home, saving that money daily. Over a year, those small, immediate rewards add up to a significant sum that could have been invested, used to pay down debt, or saved for a larger goal. The instant gratification of the barista-made latte often trumps the delayed gratification of financial security, illustrating how easily we prioritize the present over the future.

Delayed benefits often have three disadvantages: they are abstract, not vivid right now; they require effort or discomfort now; they are uncertain or psychologically distant.

Meanwhile, immediate rewards are usually concrete, emotionally satisfying, low-friction, available right away. So if someone repeatedly takes the immediate option, they are not just making isolated bad choices. They may be training attention, expectation, and habit to prefer fast payoff.

When you have reinforced this pattern for a long time, it can feel almost insurmountable, especially when the pattern is old, emotionally rewarding, and built into daily routines. But “insurmountable” is not true. Habits can be weakened, and environments can be redesigned. You can fix this. Research suggests several ways to reduce present-biased behavior, including immediate incentives for good behaviors, making future choices in advance, and cooling-off periods before impulsive decisions.

Present bias makes immediate rewards attractive. Repetition makes them habitual. Habit then amplifies present bias by making immediate-reward choices feel automatic and delayed-reward choices feel harder.

Here is another example we all deal with. Suppose someone wants to exercise but keeps scrolling social media instead.

That is what happens when you continuously reinforce this “present bias.”

Present bias explains the initial pull toward immediate rewards. When you repeatedly choose immediate rewards, you strengthen that bias behaviorally, making delayed-benefit choices feel progressively harder over time.

We often find ourselves either the victims or the perpetrators of the false choice, attempting to coerce others into selecting one option over another. This tactic is almost invariably a rhetorical maneuver, designed to dramatically underscore why our preferred option is the superior one. The reality, however, is that such choices are almost always illusory. The concept of the "false choice" or "forced choice" is a significant theme in the work of Jacques Lacan, who deeply intertwined it with his ideas of "alienation" and "separation." He posited that individuals are fundamentally alienated from their true selves through language and the demands of society, culture, and even parents. In this process, a person is presented with what appears to be a choice, yet, in reality, it offers no genuine alternative for their subjective freedom.

Lacan famously illustrates this with the "either/or" proposition, specifically the choice between "your money or your life." He argues this is not a true choice because, despite presenting two options, both lead to a loss for the subject. Choosing "your money" means losing your money. Choosing "your life" still means losing your money (to save your life). The "choice" is structured such that one cannot escape a fundamental loss or compromise of their being or possessions. This scenario highlights how what seems like a decision-making moment is, in fact, a situation where the person is forced to concede something essential, regardless of the path taken.

I found myself in precisely such a situation today. Someone, in offering me an opportunity, clearly wanted me to choose a particular path. They presented two alternatives, one of which seemed utterly impossible. After a moment's thought, I declared, "I want both." The person stared at me in astonishment. "Both? You cannot have both!" "Then neither," I replied. You see, we are constantly thrust into false choice scenarios, and I've learned that the best answer is always "and," not "or."

Worse, however, is when we inflict this upon ourselves. Pay close attention to your own language over the next few weeks. Do you do this? Most of us do. When we're trying to win an argument or persuade someone to make a decision, we often resort to this technique: presenting a false choice. I caught myself doing it with one of my children a while ago: "You can do this or throw your life away. Pick one." That was overly dramatic, and the choice was entirely false. They could easily pick a third, fourth, or many other options that didn't involve either of my proposals. Why do we do this?

It's a form of manipulation. Humans are clever; they quickly realize that the most effective way to control someone is to narrow their options. We are so adept at this that we almost all do it subconsciously, as we are all, in some way, attempting to control each other. I believe we recognize this, which is why you hear people say, "Well, you can choose between A and B, but I'm okay with whatever you want to do." As if that somehow alleviates the guilt of presenting another person with a false choice.

I bring this up because recognizing when this is happening is incredibly helpful. It allows you to avoid the false dilemma and prevent unnecessarily falling into a forced dichotomy where, either way, you lose control of the situation—much like when you walk into a car dealership to buy a vehicle!

The software development world came to a screeching halt today when the runners hosted in GitHub suddenly stopped serving what are known as actions. About a 6- to 8-hour outage for probably one of the most heavily used services on the Internet. It definitely exposed a bottleneck for many development shops that are becoming increasingly dependent on agentic workflows that automate the process of checking in code changes.

Which is interesting because the reason we use a service like that in the first place is for retention of code revisions to recover from issues and problems associated with the accelerated pace that multiple teams working on the same code base produce. In the IT world, we spend a lot of time worried about bottlenecks in our process.

What is a bottleneck, really? Don't you always have them? Seems like a matter of perspective. Perhaps it's less about eliminating them entirely and more about identifying the most restrictive one at any given time. The one that, if addressed, would unlock the greatest immediate improvement. It's a dynamic target, shifting as you optimize. So, yes, there's always a bottleneck, but the crucial question is: which one demands your attention now?

This phenomenon is not just in the development world; it is everywhere. I have a fig tree in my backyard that cranks out an incredible number of figs, and it is impossible to keep that area clean of figs falling to the ground and attracting ants. However, I try. Today, I noticed a stream of ants making their way across my countertop to get to a fig that had fallen near my outdoor sink. They found an interesting path, and I think the entire colony was out collecting the harvest. However, even these industrious ants were facing a bottleneck. The one spot that transitioned to the top part of the counter was narrow, and so only 2 or 3 ants could cross at a time. They had a major jam in their operation, in essence, a bottleneck.

I wondered if they would do anything about it. I watched for a while and got bored. I came back a few hours later, and, sure enough, they had found a second path. Now they had two parallel streams heading toward the countertop bounty. I almost felt bad when I removed the fig and threw it away. Almost. However, if I had left the fig in place, the ants were probably experiencing a bottleneck somewhere else. Perhaps the coffers of food storage back at the colony were jam-packed with ants trying to drop off their payload.

The point is, even ants deal with this problem of ever-continuing bottlenecks. When you clear one, there will always be another. They seem to be about perspective. Once you start growing because you remove one barrier, you will run into the next one. And the general rule seems to be, the larger and faster you get, the bigger and nastier the bottleneck becomes.

So, in essence, we humans all have one thing in common. We are constantly working hard to remove bottlenecks. Remind yourself of that next time you are stuck on the 15 freeway, or waiting in line at the pharmacy, or just admiring the ants trying to help you clear the figs.

I was on a call recently with the senior leader in an organization. During that call, a problem surfaced which we began discussing vigorously. One of the subordinates on the call was having a visible panic attack. She was horrified that a problem was being brought up in front of her leader in such a manner. No preparation. No triage. No cover story. Nothing, just plain, raw truth, unfiltered and real-time. This reaction caused me to pause and think this through. I am naturally inclined to pull all the skeletons out of the closet as soon as I discover that they are there. I want everyone to know as fast as possible so that a solution may be derived quickly. However, her reaction was much different, and that is when I realized that the leader is always the last to know.

I was doing some research on field notes from the German army during the later days of World War II. The pending catastrophic collapse of the Normandy area was well known by the officers. They knew that the muscle and sheer volume of machinery and ammunition being produced by the United States was going to crush them. The level of intel they had was astonishing, actually, but by the time this got up to Adolf Hitler and his inner circle, the doomed defense of the coastline was largely dismissed as a minor inconvenience. This is often the case in hierarchical systems, where subordinates are fearful of reprimand regarding negative or poor reports.

I read a study on an effort by a U.S. company to introduce topsoil composting to provinces in southern India many years ago. They taught methods and procedures on how to produce more topsoil. This was necessary due to the devastating effect the monsoon season could have on fertile soil. As any good U.S. company would do, they created a reporting system so they could accurately calculate what each farmer was generating from composting efforts. The problem is that they did not understand this same phenomenon in reverse. Each farmer would report to their superior a slight exaggeration of soil production. Due to the number of mid-level reports, by the time this reached the top reporting structure in the government, there was enough compost to cover the entire planet, much less southern India.

The point in all of this is that if you are the leader, if you are the person in the dominant position, the one that is funding everyone in the reporting chain, then you should expect nothing less than this phenomenon. The court that you oversee will only tell you what you want to hear. You could be the biggest clown that everyone laughs at when you leave the room, but when you are there, everyone will treat every ridiculous thing you say and do with grand gestures and seriousness. As long as you continue to pay the bills, of course. So you may not know this; you could be the laughingstock of your own company, and you would be slow to find out. All you see is nodding heads and polite smiles.

That is on a personal basis; what is worse is that the direction you are heading could be completely wrong and ultimately going to lead to the death of the organization. You will think that you are helping; you will go into the conference room and jump up and down with all manner of enthusiasm and exclaim imminent success if everyone would just follow your course, but then a few months later, you will discover that the boat went right off the edge of a waterfall and everyone that you thought really liked you silently got off the ship and watched it happen. Not saying a word, because, after all, the king is the last to know.

This has repeated constantly throughout history and in many corporations. Failure is often seen well in advance by everyone except for who really needs to know. This is something to keep in mind as you raise your voice, flap your arms, and boast of how awesome everything is. You could very well be saying something that you believe to be an absolute possibility, when everyone around you knows the real truth: your demise is a foregone conclusion. I have seen many leaders that pride themselves on being "good with people" find out the truth later on: they were only good because they learned to say they were good so that you would go away. The pompous royalty that sits on the throne, basking in their glory right up until the horde is at the gates.

How can you motivate someone to work harder?

I am in a unique position to answer this question, as I have worked and been a leader in small organizations, large public education, large public and private companies, and my own startups. I have battled with this question, and I have seen others battle with it too. I have read many books on the subject, and I can collectively distill that knowledge into two concepts: give the person a carrot to chase or beat them with a stick.

The "carrot and stick" analogy is a classic metaphor for motivation, describing a system of rewards and punishments used to encourage a desired behavior. The "carrot" represents the incentive or reward offered for compliance, something desirable that an individual or group will strive to attain. Think of a donkey being enticed forward by a carrot dangling just out of reach. The "stick," on the other hand, symbolizes the penalty or negative consequence for non-compliance. This could be a punishment, a threat, or the removal of a privilege, much like a driver might use a stick to prod a stubborn animal.

In essence, it's about leveraging both positive reinforcement (the carrot) and negative reinforcement (the stick) to steer actions. While effective in some contexts, it's often criticized for being a simplistic and potentially demotivating approach, as it can foster resentment or a focus solely on avoiding punishment rather than genuine engagement or intrinsic motivation.

However, this is what most managers defer to: one or both of these methods. They think they are really innovative when they come up with a reward and punishment system, and then they subject their workers to a bunch of ridiculous rules in order to qualify for each program. I have learned that neither of these works at all. Gone are the days when people are lucky to work for you. They have a choice and are surrounded by options, so you need a better plan.

First, understand their "why." What are their aspirations, their dreams, their fears? Connect their effort directly to those deeply held desires. Show them how working harder now isn't just about a paycheck, but about building the foundation for the life they envision.

Second, provide clear, achievable goals and regular, constructive feedback. Break down large tasks into smaller, manageable steps. Celebrate small wins to build momentum and confidence. When offering criticism, focus on solutions and growth, not just shortcomings.

Third, foster a sense of autonomy and ownership. Give them opportunities to take initiative, make decisions, and contribute their unique ideas. When they feel invested and respected, their intrinsic motivation will naturally increase.

Finally, lead by example. Demonstrate your own work ethic, passion, and commitment. Create a supportive environment where hard work is recognized and valued, and where mistakes are seen as learning opportunities. Remember, motivation isn't a one-time fix; it's an ongoing conversation and a continuous process of encouragement and empowerment.

I was at an executive retreat where someone actually said that employees should always put the company first. This is a common sentiment, but it often overlooks the fact that employees are not just cogs in a machine; they are individuals with their own lives, families, and aspirations. As Simon Sinek points out, "When we take care of our people, our people will take care of our customers, and our customers will take care of our bottom line."

A high school memory of a cassette tape, a broken rewind button, and the unexpected discovery of Led Zeppelin's "D'yer Mak'er" that changed everything.