All Magazine Essays - Library Page 2

Free people form community

True community emerges when free individuals come together as equals, unburdened by hierarchy or dependency. Yet this ideal is fragile and often undone by success, perception, and power.The great Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw was at a party one night when the host approached him and asked, “Are you enjoying yourself, Mr. Shaw?” He replied, “Yes — and that’s the only thing I’m enjoying.”Shaw’s quip exposes the emptiness of gatherings where people are present but not genuinely connected — where the room is filled with opportunists seeking advantage, not free individuals coming together to produce something meaningful.Most communities initially organize themselves with the belief that everyone involved is a leader and has earned their place at the table. This is why newly formed communities achieve significant success right from the start. Members value each other’s company and share a clear perspective on reality — that each individual matters, but no one matters more than anyone else. There is no anxiety, pressure, fear, passivity, or struggle for power. Everyone involved is free.Success alters this reality. People from outside the community begin to care about what’s happening and what this new group of leaders has to say. Now, there are stakes, reputations to uphold, and power that must be exercised. Some individuals start to be perceived as mattering more than others. Credit must be given, egos must be stroked, and the land that’s been seized must be defended. Other groups emerge to claim a share of the harvested crop for themselves.Inevitably, the community’s spirit shifts. Of course, nothing has truly changed, but reality can’t compete with perception. The community comes to be seen as just a small group of leaders trying to control everything and everyone else. “Screw that,” say those outside the perceived inner circle. The character, integrity, and motivations of the community and its leaders come under scrutiny. Competitors arise solely from this, promising to achieve the same results as the original community but with more honorable intentions.Social media has conditioned us to believe that having followers is a good thing. In reality, followers — when they’re just dependents — weaken a community’s core. A strong, cohesive community cannot thrive if it is split into distinct groups of leaders and followers. Free people — not followers — create community.This cycle of growth and collapse is not exclusive to a specific type of community; it has clearly manifested itself across all areas of human organization. Think of a startup humming with ideas — until investors swoop in, egos swell like balloons, ready to pop, and the team splinters.To tread on safer ground, let’s consider political parties, as they seem to be disliked by almost everybody. In 2012, following President Barack Obama’s defeat of Mitt Romney, pundits and the media confidently claimed that the Republican Party was bound to remain a minority, non-governing party for decades. After Romney’s loss, the party produced a notorious autopsy report advising that it soften its stance on immigration and place significant emphasis on outreach to minority voters.You know what happened next. Four years later, Donald Trump won the presidency by doing exactly the opposite of what former party leaders recommended. Trump’s success didn’t come from appealing to followers with a softened message; it arose from mobilizing free individuals who rejected the blueprint of the perceived party elite, demonstrating that a community of leaders treated as leaders can defy expectations.The Democratic Party is where the Republican Party was in 2013. The current division among Democrats reflects a trend towards top-down control, where leaders dictate, and followers comply — undermining the freedom and hope that once unified them. However, because the ruling party will eventually overlook the reason for its success, you can be certain that the Democrats will regain power much sooner than today’s analysts expect.The cycle repeats, always.Why does this happen? A person who depends on others for access, validation, success, or happiness will eventually want to break free. Nobody wants to be a follower. Nobody wants to be the one mid-conversation, watching their partner’s eyes drift over their shoulder for someone better. Followers aren’t free — they rely on others, giving up control of their destiny. That’s what sheep do, not communities. True community rejects this dependency — it thrives on freedom instead.The term “community” has been diminished to the point of losing its meaning. It’s time to reclaim it as a space for free individuals who are unafraid to be themselves.Begin where you are: treat everyone as a leader, and see the limits fade away.

Roosevelt’s Arena: Today’s CEOs face dust, sweat, and torched Teslas

In the spring of 2021, the co-founders of Basecamp, a software company known for its project management tools, decided that political discussions had no place in their internal communications. The decree came down like a guillotine: no more debates about elections, no more arguments over social justice. The backlash was swift — employees quit in droves, and the press jumped in, with The New York Times documenting the exodus as a tale of corporate overreach.A few months earlier, Brian Armstrong, CEO of Coinbase, the cryptocurrency exchange, had taken a similar approach. He urged his staff to leave politics at the door and offered severance to those who couldn’t comply. About sixty employees — around five percent of the workforce — accepted the money and left, while critics condemned the move as a suppression of dissent. Both companies, in their pursuit of focus, stumbled into a firestorm.Elon Musk, the undisputed titan of technology, has entered a different kind of battle. Appointed by President-elect Donald Trump to co-lead a growing Department of Government Efficiency — DOGE, a reference to Musk’s cryptocurrency interests — his arrival in Washington has sparked not only debate but outright rebellion.Teslas are being vandalized in parking lots, dealerships are being picketed, and cars are being set ablaze in isolated bursts of anger. Threats against Musk’s life have emerged, serving as a grim reminder of the stakes when business and government collide. In recent days, left-wing favorite California Governor Gavin Newsom sent prepaid phones to a hundred tech CEOs, preloaded with his personal number, only to face a wave of skepticism from the media and many in his party: Why associate with the Silicon Valley elite?There are countless more examples, but the pattern is clear: when business leaders enter the public arena — or even flirt with it — the atmosphere fills with recrimination. Employees rebel, customers bristle, and the media sharpens its knives. This is enough to make any executive hesitate, questioning whether the reward is worth the effort.Let us present another perspective on this issue — one where a leader doesn’t shy away from chaos but embraces it. Theodore Roosevelt, in a speech that decorates many business leaders’ walls, articulated it best: “It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles.... The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood.” For business leaders peering over the parapet today, the question isn’t whether they’ll be liked — it’s whether they’ll have the courage to step in at all.The aversion to mixing business and governance is understandable. Business thrives on clarity — profit margins, market shares, quarterly reports. Politics, by contrast, is a swamp: murky, tribal, and unforgiving.Criticism in politics often only gains traction when there are elements of truth. Let’s look at the following:But to stop there is to miss the point. Life isn’t a popularity contest, though it’s tempting to live as if it were. The alternative — shying away from the arena because the crowd might jeer — is a recipe for stasis, a slow drift toward irrelevance.Roosevelt’s words carry a sting because they’re true: the arena isn’t kind. It’s a place of bruises and missteps, where every move invites scrutiny. Basecamp’s founders lost talent; Coinbase’s Armstrong lost goodwill. Musk’s Teslas are paying a literal price, scratched and scorched by those who see him as a usurper. Yet the arena is also where history gets made, where the timid don’t tread.Business leaders who engage with it — whether to streamline bureaucracy, resolve internal conflicts, or form a new alliance — aren’t guaranteed success, but they are guaranteed to face challenges. To do otherwise — retreating and polishing one’s image until it shines — is to squander the little time we have in life to make a difference.And that, Roosevelt would argue, is the only thing that counts.

DOGE and America’s last chance at greatness

In the annals of history, empires crumble not with a bang but with a whimper — a slow bleed of resources, a quiet surrender to the weight of their own excess. This is the grim prophecy of Ferguson’s Law, named for Scottish philosopher Adam Ferguson, who distilled a simple, brutal truth from the wreckage of great powers past: when a nation spends more servicing its debt than fortifying its defenses, it teeters on the edge of oblivion. Habsburg, Spain, the Ottoman Empire, and the British Empire all faltered when their ledgers tipped this way, their coffers drained by interest payments while their swords dulled. Today, the United States stands at that precipice. In 2024, the nation crossed Ferguson’s “limit,” with debt service eclipsing defense spending — $1.124 trillion to $1.107 trillion — a razor-thin margin that signals a deeper rot. If history is a guide, this is not merely a fiscal footnote; it is an existential warning.Enter Donald Trump and Elon Musk, an unlikely duo now wielding a chainsaw (sometimes literally) against the sprawling bureaucracy of the American state. Their weapon of choice is the Department of Government Efficiency, or DOGE — a name that nods to Musk’s penchant for cryptocurrency mischief but carries a far weightier mission. Launched by executive order on Trump’s first day back in the White House in January 2025, DOGE is no mere advisory panel; it is a battering ram aimed at the federal government’s bloated underbelly. Musk, the world’s richest man and a self-styled “Tech Support” for the republic, has taken to the task with the zeal of a man who once fired half of Twitter’s staff overnight. Already, the team has slashed contracts, shuttered leases, and offered buyouts to millions of federal workers, all while gaining access to the Treasury’s payment systems to root out what they call “fraud and waste.” Trump, meanwhile, has blessed this blitz, framing it as a crusade to save America from itself.The stakes could not be higher. Ferguson’s Law is not a theory to be debated in ivory towers; it is a mathematical certainty etched in the ruins of empires. When debt service outpaces defense, a nation’s ability to project power erodes. Resources that should fuel innovation, secure borders, or deter adversaries are instead funneled to bondholders — many of them foreign. The U.S. national debt, now a staggering $36 trillion, is a ticking clock. By 2049, the Congressional Budget Office projects net interest payments could hit 4.9 percent of GDP, dwarfing defense spending at an estimated 2.45 percent. This is not just a financial crisis; it is a death knell for a superpower. A country that cannot defend itself — or worse, cannot afford to — invites challengers to test its resolve. In a world of rising powers like China and emboldened autocrats, the United States cannot afford to be caught counting pennies while its rivals sharpen blades.DOGE’s early moves are a desperate bid to reverse this slide. The team has targeted agencies like the Department of Education and the U.S. Agency for International Development, slashing budgets and dismantling programs with a speed that has left Washington reeling. Critics howl about legality and chaos, but the urgency is undeniable. The federal budget, a $7 trillion behemoth, is riddled with inefficiencies — $208 billion in savings identified by the Government Accountability Office alone, from Medicare payment reforms to redundant contracts. Trump and Musk are betting that by hacking away at this excess, they can free up resources to shore up the nation’s defenses and stave off the Ferguson limit’s fatal embrace. It’s a gamble, but one rooted in necessity: a nation drowning in debt cannot long remain a nation.Yet there’s a delicate dance at play. Trump has vowed to protect Medicare and Social Security, the twin pillars of America’s social contract, from DOGE’s blade. It’s a promise that resonates with the millions who brought him back to power, a nod to the elderly and vulnerable who view these programs as non-negotiable. Together, they account for nearly $2.5 trillion of annual spending — more than a third of the budget — and their costs are rising as the population ages. The math is unforgiving: by 2035, the Social Security trust fund could be insolvent without reform, and Medicare’s hospital insurance fund may follow by 2036, according to the trustees’ reports. Still, Trump’s pledge buys time, serving as a political lifeline to avoid alienating his base while DOGE takes its first swings elsewhere.This strategy — beginning with discretionary spending and then revisiting entitlements — holds merit, both tactically and ethically. The federal government is a maze of waste beyond the traditional strongholds of Medicare and Social Security. For instance, the Pentagon wastes billions on outdated systems and unaccounted expenses — a 2024 audit discovered $850 million in discrepancies.Agencies like the IRS, which Musk’s team has already infiltrated, could streamline operations to increase revenue without raising taxes. The Department of Education, a longstanding Republican target, spends $80 billion annually, yet student outcomes remain behind; DOGE’s cuts there could redirect funds to more urgent needs. By addressing these areas first, Trump and Musk can build a case — dollars saved, efficiencies gained — before confronting the more challenging issue of entitlement reform.And that sale will come. Ferguson’s Law allows no room for sentimentality. Entitlements, however valued, are the elephant in the budget, projected to grow from 10.2 percent of GDP in 2024 to 14.2 percent by 2050, according to the CBO. Without reform — whether by raising the retirement age, means-testing benefits, or capping growth — the U.S. will plunge deeper into the debt trap, leaving less for defense, infrastructure, or the innovation that Musk advocates. The American public, long used to these programs as birthrights, will need convincing. DOGE’s early victories could provide the credibility to make that argument: If billions can be saved elsewhere, why not here? The alternative is unimaginable: a future in which the U.S. cannot fund its military, its commitments, or its very existence.Musk’s role in this drama is audacious and essential. He brings an outsider’s ruthlessness and a Silicon Valley ethos that views bureaucracy as a bug to be squashed. His clashes with civil servants and his gleeful X posts — labeling USAID a “criminal organization” — are indeed theater, but they highlight a deeper truth: the status quo is untenable. Trump, for his part, provides the political muscle, offering a mandate from voters who yearn for disruption. Together, they are racing against Ferguson’s clock, knowing that financial health encompasses not just balancing the books but also preserving the nation’s soul. If they fail, the United States risks becoming a cautionary tale of hubris and neglect, another name in the graveyard of great powers. If they succeed, they may just rewrite the ledger — and the future.

Networking your way to loneliness

During lunch one day, Ron tried to convince Jacob to skip his child’s choir concert in favor of attending a “fireside chat,” a gathering that would surely draw the right people and connections needed to build a bank balance large enough to avoid attending such events in the future.The promise was enticing: networking, the quintessential American pastime of trading authentic family moments for uncertain, lucrative opportunities. This raises the question: Why do we make these types of choices so often?It’s a curious and stubborn belief that success requires personal sacrifice, especially sacrificing family time. Many professionals seem convinced that missing soccer games, choir concerts, or bedtime stories shows seriousness and ambition.In his influential book Excellent Sheep, former Yale professor William Deresiewicz argues that contemporary American society is defined by misguided worship of “busyness” and professional success at the expense of meaningful relationships. “We’ve become adept at impressing strangers,” Deresiewicz writes, “but hopelessly estranged from those who matter most.”Beneath the philosophical lament lies a deeper issue: a common cultural belief that attaining professional success inevitably requires sacrificing family milestones. But do these sacrifices produce the remarkable rewards we’re led to believe?Data suggests otherwise. A seminal study from the Harvard Business Review found that, ironically, those who prioritize family commitments by establishing clear boundaries around family time report higher job satisfaction, improved mental health, and, surprisingly, better long-term career performance. Conversely, professionals who frequently skip family events for work commitments consistently report higher stress, lower satisfaction, and a greater likelihood of professional burnout. It’s as if missing the choir concert leads not to the corner office, but to the corner couch in a psychiatrist’s office.Part of this disconnect may stem from what sociologist Arlie Hochschild termed “The Time Bind.” In her book, Hochschild notes that workplaces have subtly evolved into surrogate homes — spaces where validation, meaning, and identity are increasingly pursued at the expense of personal relationships. As Hochschild explains, “Workers often willingly accept longer hours, believing this sacrifice affirms their value in ways that home life does not.” This illustrates a fascinating paradox: networking events present themselves as opportunities for career advancement but primarily function as self-reassurance rituals.Such reassurances come at a cost. The family calendar, proudly pinned to the refrigerator, doesn’t lie. Missed events quietly accumulate, each one a small wound until one day, the choir concerts stop altogether.Psychology professor Daniel Kahneman, a Nobel laureate and author of Thinking, Fast and Slow, reminds us of our misguided intuition about happiness and success: “When thinking about how successful we’ll feel tomorrow, we rarely consider how we’ll feel looking back on missed opportunities ten years from now.”So why do we persist?Perhaps because networking is, at its core, performative theater. Who among us hasn’t come back from one of these events to say that everyone was just “pretending to like each other,” trying to transform superficial interactions into vague career benefits? The participants themselves are not oblivious to this fact. Yet, they persist, fearful of missing out on some enigmatic, game-changing opportunity — like a gambler continuously placing bets despite knowing the house usually wins.Wharton professor Adam Grant argues that the most successful professionals effectively blend authenticity and personal relationships with their professional aspirations. Grant emphasizes, “Success isn’t about what you sacrifice; it’s about what you refuse to sacrifice.”Ultimately, we must confront this uncomfortable truth: skipping your child’s (or family’s) event could indeed change your life — but perhaps not in the ways you hope. The sacrifices we make aren’t neutral exchanges; each choice shapes not just our careers but also who we become.Jacob’s child probably won’t appreciate his “sacrifice” but will only remember scanning the audience, hoping to see his father’s face. The irony is painfully clear: in a world where everyone worries about missing the right event, perhaps the most significant moments are the quietest ones — not those labeled “fireside” or “networking,” but simply and sincerely called “choir concert.”