Legacies

I've been hemming and hawing about writing this post for a few months, fretting over striking the right tone.  Much of what follows can probably be viewed as maudlin, trite, or simply just a downer, but that isn't my intention.  In fact, much of what I wrote below I regard as overwhelmingly positive (and for those of you who expect it to tie into a commentary on business development, it'll get there.  But then again, I'm not sure any of my posts can ever be considered strictly professional, so 'there' is a relative location), but I have to wade through some darker thoughts first to get there.  I've bowdlerized them as much as possible, so you don't feel like you're watching me pitch my script for Requiem for a Dream II: This Time It's Depressing.

As I start out, I can't say whether or not it will extend into a series, or if I'll be able to wrap everything up in my usual 1000-ish words [ed. it'll be a mini-series].  I expect much of this will read as an amateur take on philosophy, but what I've discovered in the last few months has helped me cope with the changes that accompany jettisoning a job I'd been at for 18 years with no concrete career prospects in immediate sight.

This whole thing started rattling around my brain early this year when Google sent me a remember when... photo retrospective from 10 years ago.  2015 was a year that kicked off profound personal and professional change for me.  The most profound of those events was Expedia's purchase of Orbitz, a company that I'd been at for nine years, I'd thoroughly enjoyed working at, and one that I'd naively assumed I could easily see myself retiring from years in the future (Oh well.  Got that one wrong.).

The stroll down memory lane, in turn, made me reminisce about relationships I had with various people at the time and how many of those relationships have attenuated over the last decade.  This isn't an uncommon experience for anyone on this planet, but it struck me with a sense of panic/horror that some of the people I was close to then may not even give me a passing thought today.  It isn't that they actively ignore me or hold a grudge against me, but simply that, over time, the imprint of who I am ultimately didn't leave a strong impression on their lives.

We typically view ourselves through the lens of being the star of our own movie.  In some cases we cast ourselves as the villain, in some cases as the hero, and in some as the put upon everyman that the community eventually comes to recognize even if we start out in anonymity.  

But the truth of the matter is either much more mundane - most people don't love us or hate us; they simply don't think about us.  Even the people we cherish.  This idea can be deflating at first, which is why I was jarred when the thought trickled into my head that, hey, maybe I'm just not as important to the universe as I want to be.  I think we recognize this from a background position, but it can be scary when it comes to the forefront of our minds.

But, as I chewed on this realization more, it became less daunting, and, even in some cases, comforting.  

To start with, let's assume your best friend of a decade who moved away to another city for a job opportunity 10 years ago and whom you reminisce about fondly on frequent occasions meets you in a chance encounter at a bar.  It becomes readily apparent that they can't recall major details about your life, and not in a we-all-get-older-and-more-forgetful way, but because your recollection was much more enriching than theirs [If you're wondering, this particular event didn't actually happen to me, but is something of a composite across my life experience].

Well, of course a situation like that is bound to be a disappointment.  The dynamics of the relationship that you'd assumed were balanced in your head were completely thrown off-kilter.  But, it's important to recognize the relationship for what it was at the time it was in bloom and understand what you gleaned from it.

This sounds like self-help bullshit rationalization - and I can't fully say that it isn't - but we have a tendency to dwell on outcomes, not journeys.  The job that went south?  Should've jumped ship sooner.  The horrible break-up with our ex?  Should've recognized the warning signs early and never should've dated 'em.

But, if we only look at final outcomes, we're always bound to be disappointed, because, well... (since I'm already wading in dark, broody themes, I'll double down)

We're all going to die.

Most of us who die will die in some degree of discomfort or pain.  If we're "lucky" we'll die in relative health, but way past the prime of youth most of us lament.  The alternative is to die young, which doesn't really seem so great either.  If we're one of the luckier ones, is our life simply the sum of our geriatric years and its maladies or is it the accumulation of our experiences across all of our decades.  It seems more cynical that I'd only be remembered for dementia or COPD than for the more complete person I'd always been.

Surprisingly, we typically cope well with this dichotomy at someone's death.  It's why obituaries and memorials focus on the richness of one's life rather than detailing the last few hours before they passed.

But, when such finality isn't present, we're much less forgiving of ourselves.  Maybe it's because we think there's still time to correct our past errors.  Death is immovable.  A fractured relationship seems less so.

I'm not trying to champion toxic positivity, because unfortunately a lot of growth ultimately requires us to undergo difficult experiences, but we shouldn't discount the joy that we felt from the past, as long as we're not consumed by it via an over-reliance on nostalgia or regret.

I'll stop there for today, because otherwise I'll run the risk of belaboring the point or beating a dead horse (that horse was great, wasn't he.  He had a shiny coat and could run like the wind!)  

It's probably not obvious at this stage, but I'm taking a long, meandering path to reevaluate my purpose in the corporate world and, specifically, how to measure my worth in management, because, if there's anything that's difficult to comprehend, it's how you affect the world as a manager of people.

Until next time, my human and robot friends.