Hindsight has an effective way of humbling us

The above FB memory and the thoughts it prompted

There I was—awkwardly nonchalant in front of the MDot sculpture before my Sacramento Ironman in 2022. After a long stretch of cancellations and transfers thanks to the realities of COVID, I finally landed on what I often call my hometown turf. The training was complete, the hay was in the barn, and yet I was flooded with surreal “Am I really here?” moments. A few tires had popped during the trip across the desert from Utah to California (and yes i deflated tubes to about half pressure), and I was quietly wrestling with the fresh grief of losing a best friend to the painful truths of mental health and suicide.

It was a collision of readiness and vulnerability—standing at the edge of something monumental while carrying the weight of something deeply personal.

The efforts that form my baseline often feel so routine to me, yet I still perceive them through a lens of insufficiency. I rarely compare myself to others—but in moments of weakness when I do, I struggle to grasp how my pursuits and priorities, which feel deeply personal and unique, stand apart from those navigating their own worldviews, journeys, and autonomies.

I don’t easily surrender my free will to systems—especially those designed to streamline thought and decision-making. Many of these systems, shaped by tools like social media, subtly replace our inner deliberations with shortcuts: speed, convenience, comfort, and the illusion of reduced pain. Philosopher C. Thi Nguyen offers powerful insights into this modern dynamic of exchanging our moralities by these subtle tools known as gamification and too often in the cultural dogmatics and culture of religious indoctrinations.

Instead I have paired many traits of stoicism to be more actionable! When I swim, bike or run – I actively engage with the cardinal virtues—courage, temperance, wisdom, and justice, I use this as a way to process the absurdities of life and most importantly the asylum between my ears. This practice isn’t just physical—it’s moral and intentional. It helps me shape and align my internal worldview, guiding how I show up for my family—my wife and kids—not just to live, but to seek joy and truly sit with it when it arrives through purposeful action. It’s become a deep process of remember, renew, and recalibrate. I repeat as often as required especially when current intersections with joy is/are not enough!

Each day, it feels harder to be kind. Harder to find examples of people thinking slowly and deliberately—not just with conviction, but with empathy, care, and compassion. We need more leaders who act from thoughtful intention, not just echoing “because I said so.”

I’m often humbled when I slow down enough to sit with my thoughts—and face the insecurities that live quietly beneath them. In the moment, I rarely see myself doing things classified as EPIC. But looking back on this one, I realize I was practicing something powerful: the art of doing small things in a great way. I tend to follow the concept that EPIC is a demonstration of many small things done with discipline, precision, refinements and lots of effort.

For this event, I had planned to finish around 12 hours. Life, as it often does, had other plans. The day threw curveballs—things beyond my control. But because I’d been consistent in the small things, I didn’t stumble. I didn’t fall. I persevered. I finished.

And somewhere along the way, it stopped being about time. It became about digging into a well far deeper than I thought I had. It was for Steve. It was for the love and support I’ve shared with my wife. It was for my family. It was for returning home and giving a cheeky middle finger to the place that shaped me—like best friends do, the way Clooney and Pitt do in those movies. It was for me.

And it all shifted when Liz helped me grasp a simple but transformative truth: “Be teachable—you’re not always right.”

This post isn’t meant to be grand. My hope is that it reaches a few people in my circle and nudges something inside them. Because the absurdity of our current world—this shallow noise of red vs. blue, greed, privilege, and performative outrage—isn’t solved by clinging to old data points or tribal certainty.

What Ironman related triatholns continues to teach me is this: I can change. I can recalibrate. I can take small, actionable steps. I can’t be epic every day—but I can do small things well. And that starts with me.

It’s a hard journey. A deep one. It demands honest self-scrutiny. I’m grateful for Liz’s patience. For friends—like Big Steve, even from the other side—who keep nudging me forward, reminding me I can. Nay, I must!

If you’ve read this far, thank you. I know I can’t change you. But maybe I can inspire, support, or model a better way—one that you shape for yourself. Expecting you to bring your own magic to improve upon things gleaned from me and others, and most importantly – you!

As awkward as I felt standing in front of that MDot in Sacramento, I plan to be there again—yes, maybe even in Sacramento. Because for me, it all began with this thought from Ryan Holiday, echoing Marcus Aurelius:

“The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way.”

I was the obstacle. I was standing in my own way. So, I began to change.

Am I there yet? No. And maybe I never will be. But I choose to recalibrate—again and again—as often as I must. I lean on this guiding thought from Marcus Aurelius:

“Objective judgment, now, at this very moment. Unselfish action, now, at this very moment. Willing acceptance—now, at this very moment—of all external events. That’s all you need.” — Meditations IX.6

And I pair it with another truth that continues to shape me:

“Now ye may suppose that this is foolishness in me; but behold I say unto you, that by small and simple things are great things brought to pass; and small means in many instances doth confound the wise.”

These words remind me that transformation doesn’t come in grand gestures—it comes in the quiet, consistent practice of small things done with intention. That’s where the real work lives. That’s where I live now.

I’ve come to realize that I can be the small and simple thing—and that’s where I choose to focus. My hope is that, in doing so, others might be inspired to do the same. Along this path, I’ve found a few kindred spirits, though many still seem tethered to systems that shape their beliefs more than they realize.

It’s just an observation, but I’ve noticed how often people—especially those who claim Christianity—lean on the idea of “Jesus taking the wheel,” without fully embracing the gift of free will. True grace, I believe, isn’t about surrendering responsibility or accountability; it’s more about owning our imperfections and choosing to receive the grace that’s offered through conscious, intentional living and recalibrations – often incremental and helpful scars serve to represent the wisdom and lessons learned through our failures, frustrations and attempts and re-attempts.

@vidurabandararajapaksa …historically accurate jesus… —————— Links to the full comedy special available at monsoonseason.show or vidurabr.com #standup #standupcomedy #comedy #srilankan #jesus ♬ original sound - Vidura Bandara Rajapaksa

I also hold close this guiding principle: “Rather than endlessly debating which worldview is superior, consider drawing wisdom from multiple traditions. Use these insights to shape your own philosophy and personal practice—then let your actions show that collaboration and diversity of thought are more powerful than any single perspective.”

This is the path I’m walking—one of small, intentional steps, shaped by humility, curiosity, and a deep desire to live authentically. My journey of reasonable self scrutiny!

Honestly, I’m not sure. The system that shaped me isn’t the one I’m chasing anymore. It promised direction, but it didn’t deliver meaning. It offered a framework or a platform is maybe the better description to forge and discover or better yet remember where and what I came from.

“Rather than endlessly debating which worldview is superior, consider drawing wisdom from multiple traditions. Use these insights to shape your own philosophy and personal practice—then let your actions show that collaboration and diversity of thought are more powerful than any single perspective.”

— my personally crafted quote from a Ryan Holiday share

A postscript I felt compelled to add:

Lately, I’ve been learning to recognize the subtle cues in spaces I enter—trying to discern whether I’m truly welcomed, if I belong, or if it’s time to quietly step away. I often think of it like attending a buffet. I scan the offerings, build a plate that suits me, and when my wife and kids are with me, I first help my children. Next I tend to wait patiently for my life partner. Then, if what’s best for me is still available, I go for it. If not, I adapt.

I apply this same approach to every circle I engage with – in each scaled space I participate in. What I’m working on now is recognizing when there’s nothing nourishing for me at the table. In those moments, I’m learning to abstain or walk away. That’s been a hard shift. But increasingly, I see the value in it—for my own peace, safety, and the well-being of my family.

I’m reminded of a moment in my professional life when I made a different choice. While my colleagues gravitated toward post-work outings—restaurants, bars, social spaces—I opted to run in Central Park. I was deep in triathlon training, and those environments didn’t align with my goals or values at the time. Their mixed reactions weren’t mine to carry; that was their discomfort, not mine.

Since transitioning to a fully remote lifestyle with limited travel, I’ve lost touch with that instinct—the one that helped me prioritize what truly nourished me. That’s part of why I blog and journal: to reconnect with those internal cues, to revisit the wisdom earned through past frustrations and missteps.

This is the path I’m walking—one of small, intentional steps, shaped by humility, curiosity, and a deep desire to live authentically. My journey of reasonable self scrutiny!

And while I’m here, I can’t help but notice something ironic. People observe me—most often silently, with subtle nonverbal cues—and I can almost hear the question behind their eyes: Why do you care so much?

I don’t hold onto many absolutes. But I do know this: one day, I’ll die. And when that day comes, my spouse and kids will either grieve me—or they won’t—based on how I made them feel. Based on how I showed up. Based on whether I lived in a way that mattered to them and to others.

That’s what I care about. That’s what guides me now.

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