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    ONWORDS: On Hustling, The Fourth Quarter and My One Thing

    ONWORDS: On Hustling, The Fourth Quarter and My One Thing

     By Todd Lieman

    I set out to write a post about finishing the year strong. About goals. I was feeling blustery and powerful and inspired by the start of the fourth quarter on Monday, October 1st. Monday, a new month AND a new quarter all rolled into one day?!? Let’s crush it! (Insert virtual chest bump, high five, bro hug and “Hustle” t-shirt here.) But as I wrote more and more, it became clear that my basic premise was terribly flawed. Then a friend posted something profound on Instagram and well, my whole original intention was blown to hell. And I’m so glad it was. That said I’m going to start at the beginning. I’m going to start with my original thought.

    If you’re like me (or many people we probably all know), you set a few goals for yourself at the start of the year. (I’ll refrain from calling them resolutions.) Mine were fairly simple. I had allowed myself (read Sabotaged myself) to get ridiculously out of shape (again) and set out to achieve the following:

    • Run 500 miles
    • Row one million meters
    • Lose 40 pounds
    • Run a ½ marathon
    • Finish my book

    I’ve kept a Google spreadsheet to keep myself accountable (something I’ve never done before). I’ve logged my workouts, weight and notes about my progress and feelings. And for most of the year, I’ve been killing it. I got down 50 pounds. I signed up for a race. I was truly appreciating my miles and my workouts. I was even meditating more. I felt kind of amazing. (Even if I wouldn’t let myself admit it.) And then the wheels started to fall of the wagon. Slowly at first. And then completely.

    I hurt my back. No idea how. Just one of those freak things. I tweaked it and it simply didn’t get any better. So I didn’t run at all in September. In fact, I barely worked out. I started eating horribly again (old habits die hard) and while I’m still down a bunch of weight, it’s not anywhere near 50 pounds.

    At this moment, my history dictates that I give in and give up. I failed a little (even if I didn’t), so why not just fail all the way? My history dictates that I beat myself up for hurting my back (even if it wasn’t my fault). My history dictates that I start berating myself for eating like crap and adding few pounds. My history dictates that canceling my race registration is a massive failure and I must really suck. For years, I’d yo-yo up and down. For years I’ve said, “I never lose weight. I just misplace it until I find it again.” My history dictates that if I screwed up my goals…it was time to fall into a black hole.

    This is where I started writing about October 1st marking the beginning of the fourth quarter. This is where I started to use the requisite sports metaphors and point out that if my year were a basketball game, I’d say that I’ve been leading most of the game, but have allowed the competition back into it. Who’s the competition? Demons. Doubts. Myself. Doesn’t matter. Then I was going to write something inspiring like, “I’m putting the wheels back on the damn wagon, dusting myself off, stretching my back and am setting out to consciously finish the year strong!” (Come on, more high fives bro!) Or maybe, “Not this time! Because history also dictates that maybe the old way of doing things hasn’t really worked.” And, then I’d go in for the kill: “Let’s finish strong. Together.” (Cue dramatic music)

    This is where I also started to realize the cracks in my original premise. And then I saw the Instagram post. A friend from a few lifetimes ago (someone I don’t know well now) posted that a super close friend of hers had died. She was understandably devastated. Through her tears, she looked up toward the sky and asked her friend for a sign that he was okay wherever he was (and here’s where I get goosebumps). Twenty minutes later the guy delivering her Chinese food arrived wearing a t-shirt with the logo of the company her deceased friend. She asked where he got it. She said someone gave it to him randomly. It was his favorite shirt. She told him the story and they hugged and cried together. (By the way…This isn’t like Google or Microsoft. It’s a smaller company.)

    This is where the light bulb appeared above my head and I thought, “Dude. Finish Strong? Finish what? Maybe this isn’t actually the end of anything.” Who cares about October 1st? Why do we need to care about any dates on the calendar? December 31st is just the day before January 1st. Maybe this is all about starting something.

    We aren’t promised anything. What if I remove (and release) the false pressures, false deadlines and false expectations to achieve some arbitrary thing by some arbitrary date? My goals aren’t about a number on a scale or miles entered into a spreadsheet. Those are the results of something altogether different and deeper. Those numbers are just, I’m not sure what the right word is, a cairn. Maybe they are just are trail markers to remind me where I want to go. And where I’ve been.

    Like that scene in Mr. Mom, I can just hear those inner voices saying, “Dad, you’re doing it wrong!” Running the race, finishing my book, or any of these goals don’t mean anything if they aren’t coming from a place where I can eliminate the massive swings (of mood, of productivity, of everything). That kind of life can only come from a place of truth. Or wholeness. Or healing. Or the heart. If the goals are coming from hurt and wounds, it won’t matter what dates I circle on the calendar, they will never be achieved. Even if they are achieved, the goal won’t have been accomplished authentically. And therefore, the results won’t last. This is why I’ve lost and gained and lost and gained and lost and gained and…forever. I wasn’t trying to lose weight because it made ME feel good. I was trying to lose weight for the same reasons I gained it in the first place…to cover the pain.

    I fear that I’ve gone far astray. Off trail. Because this post really has nothing to do with weight loss. It’s just the easiest, most relatable goal that we typically have. (I think?) This post is about this scene from the movie, City Slickers:

    Curly: Do you know what the secret of life is? [holds up one finger] This.
    Mitch: Your finger?
    Curly: One thing. Just one thing. You stick to that and the rest don't mean shit.
    Mitch: But, what is the "one thing?" 
    Curly: That's what you have to find out.

    This post is about my one thing. Our relationships. Regardless of the day, week, month or year. The only thing (goal, whatever) that matters to me now, the only thing that I’ve set for myself with no deadline is just this: Build better relationships. The importance of healthy relationships is scientifically proven. The studies done at places like Harvard and Stanford are irrefutable. Still, we’re conditioned to hustle. To lose weight. To make more money. To work harder. Longer. To achieve, achieve, achieve. I’m not here to suggest we stop doing that. I’m just here to remind myself that, in the end, we’re going to always remember the time spent with our friends. We’re not going to remember hitting our sales quotas. We’re going to remember the dinners, the vacations, the laughs and the tears. Even as I close my eyes now and think about the slide show of my life…it’s all people. (And dogs. Lots of dogs.)

    If my relationships are healthy and intact, if I have intimacy in my life (real intimacy: feeling safe to share who I am and how I feel) and the right people around me, well, the weight (that registers both on the scale and on my shoulders) will take care of itself. Finishing my book. Running a race. All of these things will take care of themselves. We can’t protect ourselves from the heartbreak that my old friend is feeling. But we can reassure ourselves that we were grateful to have a friendship like she had with her late friend. We can focus on the memories that will stay with us as long as we’re around. And depending on your spiritual, universal, soul thoughts…maybe even longer. 

    Now go kill it in the fourth quarter…




    By Todd Lieman

    I’m turning 50 in three months and I have a confession to make.

    Now, before the chorus of “age is just a number” comments start in, I assure you that I’m completely aware of that. My confession has nothing to do with age. Turning 50 simply provides the perch from which to inspect the view of passing time. And that’s where my confession lives. On that perch. Inspecting that view.

    I haven’t lived my best life. I haven’t lived the life of which I’m capable. I haven’t achieved the things I’ve wanted to achieve. I haven’t stretched and challenged and clawed. I haven’t been the man I know I can be and I really haven’t even lived a life of which I’m particularly proud. I’ve done some stuff, sure. Cool stuff even. But, for the most part, I’ve watched time pass when I should have been part of it. For the most part I feel the shame of the hurt I’ve caused more than the celebrations from the good.

    Now, before the chorus of “you’ve still got plenty of time” or “stop being so hard on yourself,” comments start in, I assure you that I’m completely aware of these truths. My confession isn’t a plea for support or an invitation to give myself and out/excuses. It’s a declaration. A personal cry to learn from the first 50 and start living by feel. According to soul.

    I know that I haven’t lived my best life because, as I type, I’m a good 30 pounds overweight. The same 30 pounds that I’ve gained and lost more times than I can count. In fact, I’ve gained and lost this weight so many times that I’ve taken to joking about it, “Oh, I don’t lose weight. I just misplace it for a while. I’ll find it again.” I know I haven’t lived my best life because last night I ate tater tots, cheese, crackers and apple pie a la mode for dinner. All washed down with booze. That’s easy to laugh off, but that’s not living by feel, in love, according to soul. 

    I woke up this morning, jumped out of bed and went for a slow run. It hurt. Still I managed to run through the discomfort. I managed to get on the other side of the pain and find, at least for a short time, a kind of bliss. I won’t go so far as to say it was a runner’s high because I’ve experienced that and this wasn’t that. But it was something. It was a change.

    As I was exploring this change, a friend posted a magnificent thought that poetically took the feelings I’m having and put them into words:

    I’m running out of time...
    Time to be 
    Time to create by the dictates of my soul’s voice.
    Time to be a playful lover
    Of life.
    Time to breathe the only prayer that matters, “thank you.”
    I’m running out of heartbeats and clock ticks for everything that’s important.
    So with today’s new sunrise above the hills, let me remember how few of them I have left and do something with this one.
    Which lovely old poet said, “Eternity’s comprised of nows”? Was that Browning? No matter. I’m going to craft a day made with the bricks of eternity.
    (Jacob Nordby)


    Now before the chorus of “wow, this reeks of a midlife crisis,” please know that I’ve faced that one already (perhaps multiple times). I had my crash. My crisis of faith. I’ve already faced the army of fears and doubts and judgments that made it a brutal task to simply get out of bed. And I’ve come through it. This was the feeling on the other side of the discomfort on my run. That I’ve come through it. I’m left with what feels very much like the first “today” I’ve had in a very, very long time. An actual today. Not a yesterday or tomorrow wearing the disguise of today. But an actual today.

    Another friend of mine once sent me a note titled, “I love myself when.” The attachment was a beautiful list of the things she did when she loved herself. It included things like eating whole foods or making her bed. When she loved herself, she read, exercised and traveled. It was a spectacular list that would be easy to dismiss as being too ambitious. The thing is . . . It wasn’t ambitious at all. The things on that list were all very simple. They only seem difficult or overly ambitious when we don’t actually love ourselves enough to do them. Love is such a dichotomy. It is the ultimate armor. It protects. And yet it can only protect us when we reveal ourselves wholly. Completely naked. We can only love ourselves by exposing ourselves to the things we think can hurt us.

    Intention is expressed through actions. And my intention is to live a life I love. To love myself enough to risk everything. I haven’t ever really done that. Not if I’m completely honest. My temper, the masks, the choices and, yes, the 30-pound yo-yo are all indications that I’ve lived perched above my life, watching, instead of living my life. I haven't acted according to the life I profess to want to live. I confess to all of this. 

    It’s time to make some changes. Real changes. The first 50 may have been good enough, but, frankly, that’s not good enough. Cue the chorus.