I maintain a database of ideas, articles, and book passages that I never want to forget. Every day it gives me notes to review. Today, January 1, two passages about perspective and transformation surfaced. And they’re good words to mark the start of a new year.
The first passage is the preface of Rich Roll’s Finding Ultra, a book about how an alcoholic-turned-food-addict became one of the world’s top ultra endurance athletes after his 40th birthday.
“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation, and go to the grave with the song still in them.” —HENRY DAVID THOREAU
The American Dream is an elegant, aspirational ideal originally premised on egalitarianism: equal opportunity for all. A mandated right to seek self-improvement. An open door to pursue potential, and in turn, contribute the fruits of one’s journey for the benefit of all.
But along the way, the foundational ethos of this enchanting concept lies a smoldering carcass on the shoulder of a modern superhighway, supplanted by a relentless compulsion to accumulate and consume. The priority is no longer self-actualization. Nor is it contribution. Personal responsibility has been exchanged for victimhood. Challenge is to be avoided. Comfort is king.
And he who amasses the most wins.
Indeed, personhood has been reduced to consumerism. Our social currency is stuff—worth dictated not by who we are but by what we own, fueled by a cultural mandate that forsakes the value of service, struggle, and authentic expression for the pursuit of luxury, instant gratification, and ease.
The implicit promise of this perverted paradigm? Happiness, of course. Peace of mind. Contentment.
This is perhaps the greatest lie ever perpetrated on humankind. Because stuff doesn’t make one happy. Because the quest for status is rooted in ego. And because security is an illusion.
As a result we suffer. In turn, we inflict pain on others. And upon the planet at large.
Intellectually, we all know it’s true. The key to our identity, and ultimately our happiness, cannot be found in what we own. Our quest is not to accumulate. It’s not to seek power. And it’s not to remain safe…
I’ve been there. I too bought into the great lie. Blinded by its false promise, I spent years in pursuit of a life I didn’t mindfully choose. But rather than do something about it, anything, I simply medicated myself to salve a pain I wasn’t even consciously aware I harbored. Drugs, alcohol, fast food—you name it. It’s a path that took me to some very dark places. And it’s a life that left me profoundly desperate, accelerating me to the grave without any awareness that deep down, lying dormant, was a song. A song yet to be discovered. A song yearning to be sung.
This book is about my search for that song. It’s a story about pain, and the unhealthy relationship with myself and the world that drove me to madness. And it’s about the hard-fought journey to reclaim my life. A life of purpose, personal meaning, and service to others.
Through a grace that far exceeds my own power, I found a way out. It’s a solution that begins with how you feed the body. Extends to how you fuel the mind. And concludes with how you nourish the soul.
If my story stands for anything, it is that the human body, mind, and spirit are far more resilient than you can possibly imagine. My testimony is that each and every one of us is sitting atop vast reservoirs of untapped potential. We’re all capable of feats beyond our limited imagination. And personal growth isn’t just possible, it’s our mandate.
To echo Thoreau, we need not lead lives of quiet desperation. You too can break the chains of enslavement to take control of your health and destiny. You too can be better, do more, consume less, thrive. And along the way, achieve things beyond your imagination.
It’s never too late to change. You only have to do one thing: decide.
Today I sing my song. I sing it proudly, and loud.
My hope is that these pages will help you find your song. So you too can sing it with everything you’ve got. Because you deserve it. And because the world needs you to be who you really are.
The second passage comes from Brandon Sanderson’s Oathbringer. For context, the speaker is a life-long warrior reaching middle age who has confronted the tension between who he was and who he wanted to be.
The most important words a man can say are, “I will do better.” These are not the most important words any man can say. I am a man, and they are what I needed to say.
The ancient code… says “journey before destination.” Some may call it a simple platitude, but it is far more. A journey will have pain and failure. It is not only the steps forward that we must accept. It is the stumbles. The trials. The knowledge that we will fail. That we will hurt those around us. But if we stop, if we accept the person we are when we fall, the journey ends. That failure becomes our destination. To love the journey is to accept no such end. I have found, through painful experience, that the most important step a person can take is always the next one...
I ask not that you forgive me. Nor that you even understand. I ask only that you read or listen to these words. In this record, I hold nothing back. I will try not to shy away from difficult topics, or paint myself in a dishonestly heroic light. I will express only direct, even brutal, truth. You must know what I have done, and what those actions cost me.
For in this comes the lesson. It is not a lesson I claim to be able to teach. Experience herself is the great teacher, and you must seek her directly. You cannot have a spice described to you, but must taste it for yourself. However, with a dangerous spice, you can be warned to taste lightly. I would that your lesson may not be as painful as my own. I am no storyteller, to entertain you with whimsical yarns. I am no philosopher, to intrigue you with piercing questions. I am no poet, to delight you with clever allusions. I have no doubt that you are smarter than I am. I can only relate what happened, what I have done, and then let you draw conclusions. I will confess my murders before you. Most painfully, I have killed someone who loved me dearly. I will confess my heresy. I do not back down from the things I have said, regardless of what the ardents demand. Finally, I will confess my humanity. I have been named a monster, and do not deny those claims. I am the monster that I fear we all can become.
So sit back. Read, or listen, to someone who has passed between realms. Listen to the words of a fool. If they cannot make you less foolish, at least let them give you hope. For I, of all people, have changed.
Hugh Spackman, MBA, MHA 