Healthcare & Pharmacy Insights – Brad G. Philbrick & Company

We Pick Up Where We Left Off

Brad G. Philbrick & Company — Wed, 08 Apr 2026 21:04:04 +0000

There are conversations we mean to return to.

A message we intend to answer.
A lunch we mean to schedule.
A person we think of, briefly, and then again later.

And then time passes.

Not dramatically.
Not with intention.
Just enough for us to wonder if the moment has passed.

If the opportunity has closed.

If the silence has said something we didn’t mean to say.

I had one of those recently.

A note that sat longer than it should have.
An invitation to reconnect that I didn’t act on right away.

And then, eventually, I reached out.

Not with urgency.
Not with an explanation.

Just a simple message.

What came back was not hesitation.

It was openness.

A willingness to meet.
A quiet generosity.
A sense that the conversation was not lost — only paused.

We met for lunch.

There was no need to revisit the delay.
No need to account for time.

We picked up where we left off.

And it reminded me of something easy to forget:

Not all missed moments are missed.

Some are waiting.

Waiting for the right day.
The right energy.
The right version of us to arrive.

We often think of time as something that closes doors.

But sometimes, it does the opposite.

Some conversations don’t end.
They wait for us to return.

The Moment Before Reaction

Brad G. Philbrick & Company — Thu, 02 Apr 2026 15:12:32 +0000

It happens quickly.

Someone says something.
A tone shifts.
A look lands the wrong way.

And before we even realize it, we’re already responding.

A comment.
A correction.
A defense.

It feels immediate — almost automatic.

For most of my life, I thought that was normal. Necessary, even. If something was said, it required a response. If something felt off, it needed to be addressed.

But over time, I began to notice something else.

Not the reaction.

The moment before it.

It’s brief. Almost invisible.

A fraction of a second where nothing is said yet — but everything is about to be.

That space changed everything for me.

Because in that moment, there is a choice.

To react.
Or to pause.

To defend.
Or to observe.

To speak.
Or to wait just a little longer.

I didn’t learn all of this at once. It came slowly, almost reluctantly. Through conversations that escalated too quickly. Through misunderstandings that might have resolved themselves if I had just given them a moment.

Through realizing that not every comment requires a reply.

And not every feeling requires expression.

Sometimes what’s needed most is not a better response — but a delayed one.

Or no response at all.

In that small space before reaction, something shifts.

Emotion settles.
Perspective widens.
Understanding has a chance to catch up.

I’ve found that when I allow that moment to exist, I often see things differently. What felt sharp softens. What felt personal becomes less so. What felt urgent no longer is.

And occasionally, what I thought needed to be said… doesn’t.

There’s a quiet strength in that.

Not in withholding.
Not in avoidance.

But in choosing.

Choosing when to speak.
Choosing how to respond.
Choosing whether the moment even requires a response at all.

Most of us move through life reacting quickly.

But the people who understand themselves — and others — learn to live in that small space just before reaction.

It’s easy to miss.

But once you notice it, you begin to realize:

The most important part of what we say…
often happens before we say anything.

If Dickens Returned Today

Brad G. Philbrick & Company — Thu, 26 Mar 2026 17:34:49 +0000

At a Poets & Writers write-in on Monday, we were given a prompt about ghostly eyes.

It stayed with me.

Not the ghost itself — but the idea of who might be behind those eyes.

I began thinking of the great English writers — Charles Dickens, William Shakespeare, Jane Austen, Agatha Christie, G. K. Chesterton, George Orwell, and even Geoffrey Chaucer.

Writers whose sentences stretched and breathed. Writers who lingered.

And I wondered —

What if one of them returned?

What if Dickens walked into the room while we were writing today?

He might sit quietly at first, observing.

Watching us type.

Watching how quickly we move.

How efficiently we express.

How few words we use.

And then, perhaps, he would say:

“You are in such a hurry.”

Not as criticism.

As curiosity.

Because in his time, writing unfolded.

It described.

It wandered.

It took its time introducing a character, a setting, a feeling.

Today, we are taught the opposite.

Be concise.
Be clear.
Be brief.

Say more with less.

And there is wisdom in that.

But I wonder what we’ve traded away.

Have we gained clarity at the expense of texture?

Have we replaced immersion with efficiency?

Or have we changed the rhythm of storytelling?

I don’t think Dickens would disapprove.

But I think he would notice.

He might ask why we rush past what he would have lingered on.

Why do we summarize what he would have explored?

Why do we move forward when he might have paused?

And perhaps, before he left, he would offer something simple:

“You have learned to write quickly. Don’t forget how to see slowly.”

And then he would be gone.

Leaving us with the cursor blinking.

And a question we didn’t know we needed to ask.

The Obvious Things Nobody Sees

Brad G. Philbrick & Company — Wed, 11 Mar 2026 17:43:48 +0000

“The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes.”
— Sherlock Holmes

There is something quietly humbling about that sentence.

We tend to assume that insight comes from intelligence, credentials, or experience. We believe that clarity requires complexity. That wisdom must be earned through effort.

But Sherlock Holmes suggests something far simpler.

The world is not hiding its truths.

We are simply failing to notice them.

Seeing Is Not the Same as Observing

There is a difference between looking and observing.

We look at thousands of things every day.

We observe almost none of them.

We glance at faces but miss the tension in someone’s jaw.
We hear words but overlook the hesitation behind them.
We read headlines but miss the underlying patterns.

Holmes built his reputation not on brilliance alone, but on attention. He noticed the mud on a shoe, the crease in a sleeve, the ash from a particular cigar.

The clues were always there.

Others didn’t observe them.

The Quiet Skill That Changes Outcomes

In my years as a pharmacist, I learned something that Holmes understood instinctively.

Sometimes the most important information is subtle.

A patient walks differently.
Speaks more slowly.
Seems slightly disoriented.

On paper, everything may look fine. But observation tells another story.

The difference between a routine encounter and a critical intervention often lies in noticing what others overlook.

This principle extends far beyond healthcare.

Leaders who observe well see trouble before it becomes a crisis.
Writers who observe well uncover meaning in ordinary moments.
Parents who observe well recognize unspoken emotions.

Observation is not flashy.

It is powerful.

The Age of Distraction

Modern life trains us to skim.

Scroll.

Swipe.

We consume enormous amounts of information while noticing very little.

Attention has become fragmented. Presence is rare.

But insight rarely arrives in noise.

It tends to appear when we slow down long enough for the obvious to reveal itself.

Holmes understood this.

He did not search harder than others.

He paid attention longer.

A Small Invitation

Today, try something simple.

Notice one ordinary thing more carefully than you usually would.

The expression on someone’s face.
The tone of your own thoughts.
The pattern in your day.

You may discover that the world is not withholding insight.

It is offering it constantly.

The world is full of obvious things.

We forget to observe them.

The Most Accessible Healthcare Professional You’re Not Using Enough

Brad G. Philbrick & Company — Wed, 04 Mar 2026 19:56:25 +0000

An older man shuffled to the pharmacy counter one afternoon to pick up his prescription.

At first glance, nothing seemed urgent. He wasn’t collapsing. He wasn’t in distress.

But something felt off.

His movements were slower than usual — deliberate, almost mechanical. His speech lagged by a second or two, as if he were reaching for words just beyond his grasp. When asked a routine question, he blinked longer than expected before answering.

The pharmacist leaned forward.

“How have you been feeling lately?”

The man hesitated.

“Well… not great. Headaches. Tired. Just lousy.”

He mentioned he’d been taking several over-the-counter medications to try to “shake it off.”

That answer sharpened the pharmacist’s attention.

A quick blood sugar test told the real story.

His level was 35 mg/dL.

For most people, that number means nothing.

But in practical terms, it meant this: he was dangerously close to losing consciousness, close to a seizure. Close to getting behind the wheel of his car and blacking out.

An ambulance was called.

He didn’t need another appointment.

He needed someone paying attention.

The Expert Hiding in Plain Sight

Pharmacists are among the most accessible healthcare professionals in the country.

No appointment required.
No referral needed.
No waiting weeks to be seen.

And yet, many people treat the pharmacy like a drive-through window — a place to pick up a bag and move on.

That’s understandable. Modern healthcare often feels rushed and transactional.

But pharmacists are medication experts. That’s not marketing language — it’s training.

They study:

Drug interactions
Dosing strategies
Side effects
Absorption and timing
Duplicate therapies
Contraindications
Insurance formularies

And they see something many physicians do not: the full list of what you are actually taking.

Prescriptions from multiple doctors.
Over-the-counter medications.
Supplements.
Herbal products.

When something doesn’t align, they often see it first.

Why We Don’t Ask

So why don’t more people use this resource?

A few reasons:

We assume the doctor has already covered everything.
We see the pharmacy as transactional, not relational.
We don’t want to “bother” anyone.
We turn to Google instead.

But Google doesn’t know your medication list.

And algorithms don’t check for drug interactions.

A pharmacist does.

Questions Worth Asking

You don’t need a crisis to start a conversation.

Here are simple, powerful questions you can ask the next time you’re at the pharmacy:

“Do any of my medications interact with each other?”
“Why am I taking this medication?”
“Is there a more affordable alternative?”
“What side effects should concern me?”
“When is the best time of day to take this?”
“Do I really need this supplement?”

Those questions are not interruptions.

They are responsible.

Sometimes clarity prevents harm long before symptoms appear.

The Last Safety Check

In many cases, pharmacists are the final checkpoint before a medication reaches your hands.

They review prescriptions for:

Incorrect doses
Dangerous interactions
Allergies
Therapeutic duplications

They call prescribers when something seems off. They catch mistakes more often than most people realize.

That work rarely makes headlines.

But it quietly protects patients every day.

Accessibility Is a Gift

In leadership, we often talk about expertise.

But expertise is only valuable if it is accessible.

Pharmacists are accessible.

They are trained.
They are present.
They are watching.

And often, they are underused.

A Simple Shift

The next time you pick up a prescription, pause.

Ask one question.

Start one conversation.

Healthcare doesn’t always require a new appointment.

Sometimes it requires awareness.

And sometimes the most powerful decision you can make is to use the expertise already standing in front of you.

More insights like this will appear in my forthcoming book, Safe to Swallow, a practical guide to understanding your medications and making informed healthcare decisions.

When Growth Outpaces Readiness

Brad G. Philbrick & Company — Thu, 26 Feb 2026 18:31:20 +0000

“Growth for the sake of growth is the ideology of a cancer cell.” — Edward Abbey.

In modern business culture, growth is inherently seen as virtuous.

Revenue growth.
Program expansion.
Market reach.
Innovation at speed.

But growth without readiness is not strength.

It is instability disguised as ambition.

The Grant Illusion

In my consulting work, I offer a diagnostic tool called Are You Grant Ready?

Many nonprofit leaders approach me with urgency.

“We just need a grant.”

But foundations do not fund needs alone. They fund sustainability.

Behind every grant decision is a quiet question:

Will this organization still be standing — and delivering — two years from now?

Foundations are wary of “here today, gone tomorrow” organizations. They have seen grants awarded to passionate leaders who lacked the staffing, systems, and operational capacity to fulfill their promises.

A grant is secured.
Funds are distributed.
Deliverables are outlined.

But without:

Adequate staff
Clear leadership structure
Financial controls
Outcome measurement systems

The initiative falters.

The organization strains.

The foundation’s investment produces little measurable impact.

Funding does not create readiness.

Readiness creates sustainable funding.

Growth before structure multiplies weakness.

For that reason, I have declined potential clients when they were not ready. Growth pursued prematurely helps no one — not the nonprofit, not the foundation, and not the community they serve.

Innovation Without Infrastructure

Earlier in my career, I worked within a large national corporation that prized innovation and expansion.

New initiatives are launched frequently.
Strategic directions shifted rapidly.
Ambition was constant.

But operational alignment lagged.

Leaders juggled too many priorities.
Execution diluted.
Focus blurred.

In everyday language, it felt scattered.

In business language, it reflected a lack of strategic coherence.

Innovation moved faster than infrastructure.

Growth outpaced readiness.

The Leadership Discipline of Restraint

Healthy growth strengthens the core before it stretches the perimeter.

It asks:

Do we have the staff to execute?
Are our systems mature?
Is leadership stable?
Can we sustain this expansion?

Without those foundations, expansion amplifies fragility.

The discipline to pause — to refine before scaling — is often harder than the excitement of saying yes.

But it is wiser.

The Better Question

Instead of asking:

How quickly can we grow?

Ask:

Are we prepared to grow well?

Sustainable leadership is not anti-growth.

It is pro-structure.
Pro-capacity.
Pro-alignment.

Because when growth outpaces readiness, the consequences are rarely immediate — but they are eventually unavoidable.

Closing

Not all expansion is progress.

Sometimes the strongest leadership decision is consolidation.

Sometimes, sustainability is the highest form of ambition.

Growth that strengthens the organism is healthy.

Growth that multiplies weakness is not.

And wisdom lies in knowing the difference.

“I Want All the Glory, You Do the Work”: A Truth About Human Nature We Prefer Not to Admit

Brad G. Philbrick & Company — Wed, 26 Nov 2025 14:48:47 +0000

There’s a Vernon Howard principle that seems almost deceptively simple:

“Be aware of how human nature declares, ‘I want all the glory, you do the work.’”

On its face, it’s merely an observation of human behavior. But look deeper, and it becomes a piercing commentary on ego, entitlement, leadership, and even our own blind spots.

This isn’t just a principle—it’s a mirror.

And like most mirrors, if you look long enough, you start to see more than you bargained for.

The Ancient Pattern: Praise Me, Burden You

Thousands of years before Howard wrote those words, the same dynamic played out in tribes, families, workplaces, and nations. Those who wanted the appearance of greatness often relied on others to do the unseen, unglamorous work.

The pattern is so familiar that you can probably name a few people immediately:

The colleague who signs their name to a group project but doesn’t touch a single task.
The boss who takes the victory lap while the team works late nights.
The friend who wants the benefits of success without the discipline required to achieve it.

This dynamic is found everywhere because it comes from an ancient part of human nature:

The craving for significance without the responsibility that earns it.

We’ve all seen it.

Many of us have lived it.

Some of us—if we’re honest—have done it.

The Delusion of Effortless Glory

Howard doesn’t say we want the glory.
He says human nature wants all the glory.

There’s an important distinction.

Wanting the glory means you appreciate recognition, reward, or feeling valued.
That’s normal.

But wanting all the glory means you want the spotlight without sharing credit.
You want prestige without participation.
You want achievement without the sweat.

It’s the refusal to accept a simple truth:
There is no meaningful glory without meaningful effort.

But human nature tries to bend that law.

It wants to cheat the process.

Why This Principle Stings: Because We Recognize Ourselves in It

It’s tempting to read Howard’s line and think of other people.
But the most significant value of this principle lies in how it nudges us—quietly, but firmly—to examine the places where we do the same.

Maybe we’re not blatant credit-takers.
Maybe we don’t assign the heavy lifting to others while we stand by.

But there are subtler versions:

Expecting others to understand our needs without communicating clearly.
Hoping success will “just happen” without consistent, disciplined work.
Wanting admiration without cultivating mastery.
Wishing for progress without enduring discomfort.
Expecting relationships to flourish without tending to them.

In each case, human nature whispers:
You deserve the reward—surely someone or something else will handle the effort.

Howard is asking us to wake up to that whisper.

Leadership: Where This Principle Becomes a Warning

In leadership—whether managing a team, mentoring others, running an organization, or simply being a reliable colleague—this principle becomes a critical check.

Authentic leadership is impossible when we want all the glory but delegate all the responsibility.

Great leaders share both.

Poor leaders hoard the spotlight and distribute the labor.

Whenever you see a high-performance culture—business, nonprofit, healthcare, military, creative teams—you find the same pattern:

Leaders absorb responsibility and share credit.
Egoists absorb credit and share responsibility.

One builds trust.
The other builds resentment.

The Trap: Thinking We’re the Exception

Here’s the uncomfortable part: the ego always believes it is the exception.

Ego says:

“I’ve worked hard before—I’ve earned a break.”
“Others have more time than I do.”
“They’re better at this task anyway.”
“People should notice my contributions without me having to articulate them.”
“I’m the visionary—others can handle the details.”

This principle invites us to ask:

Where am I quietly expecting others to carry what is mine to carry?
Where am I trying to skip the process but still claim the reward?

These questions are humbling—but they are also freeing.

They reorient us toward integrity.

The Liberating Alternative: Shared Glory, Shared Effort

When we step out of the “you do the work, I take the credit” mindset—even its subtle forms—we move into a more generous, collaborative way of living.

We become the colleague who says,
“Let’s do this together—and when it succeeds, we’ll celebrate together.”

We become the family member who contributes entirely rather than relying on others to pick up emotional or practical slack.

We become the leader who recognizes effort in others and motivates people by honoring their contributions.

We become the friend who gives as much as we receive.

And interestingly, when we stop seeking all the glory…
We often earn more respect than we imagined.

People trust us.
People value us.
People want to work with us.
People know we stand beside them, not above them.

That is its own kind of glory—quiet, steady, real.

A Closing Reflection

Vernon Howard’s principle is not an indictment; it’s an invitation.

It invites us to look honestly at where we might be living off borrowed effort—ours or someone else’s.

It invites us to step out of ego and into authenticity.

It invites us to become the kind of person who earns what they receive and shares what they gain.

And perhaps most importantly…

It invites us to remember that the work and the glory are intertwined.
You can’t have one without the other.
And when you honor the work—your own and others’—the glory takes care of itself.

When Membership Costs More Than It Gives: Rethinking the Value of Professional Associations

Brad G. Philbrick & Company — Thu, 20 Nov 2025 20:29:10 +0000

Professional Associations have long been the backbone of many industries. They promise community, networking, mentoring, credibility, and growth opportunities. In theory, they are built on a noble foundation: professionals helping professionals.

But in recent years, I’ve noticed a subtle shift one that I suspect many quietly feel but rarely discuss out loud.

It seems increasingly clear that the value exchange between associations and their members is becoming lopsided.

Members donate their time, ideas, leadership, and experience. They serve on committees, volunteer for events, write content, recruit others, and support the organization’s mission. Their contributions are the lifeblood of the association.

Yet when those same members wish to participate more deeply, to learn, attend, or engage, they often find themselves facing a string of fees.

Donate your time.
Donate your expertise.
Donate your energy.
And then… please pay to participate.

Something about that equation no longer feels in balance.

The Unseen Cost of “Belonging”

Every association needs revenue to survive. That’s reasonable. Programming, staff, materials, and infrastructure cost money.

But the modern membership model has tilted toward a “pay to engage further” mindset:

Pay your membership dues.
Pay for every workshop.
Pay for every conference session.
Pay for advanced training.
Pay for certifications.
Pay to volunteer in specific capacities.

And while all of these offerings may have genuine value, the more profound concern is this:

Why is participation itself becoming a transaction?

When an organization asks for volunteer labor and then charges volunteers to attend the events they’re supporting, it creates an ethical tension. Members begin to wonder whether they belong to a community — or to a marketplace.

The Quiet Hierarchy No One Talks About

Over time, I noticed another pattern — one I suspect many volunteers observe but seldom voice. A segregation or pecking order forms within some associations. A small group gains visibility, influence, and opportunities to teach paid courses, often with the organization’s full support. Meanwhile, many members donate countless hours yet must still pay to engage with the same programs they help uphold.

This dynamic isn’t intentional or malicious, but it does create a structural imbalance. It can begin to resemble an endless recruitment cycle: bring in new members, rely on their enthusiasm, and unintentionally exhaust the very people who contribute the most. When participation becomes an economic pipeline rather than a shared endeavor, even the most dedicated volunteers start to feel the strain.

And once that question is raised, it isn’t easy to un-ask.

The Emotional Tax on Volunteers

Most associations are held together by a small band of dedicated members who serve tirelessly.

They:

take on leadership roles
respond to emails late at night
run local chapters
train newcomers
mentor students
help organize conferences
promote the association’s mission

These are the people any well-run organization should treasure.

But when volunteers feel taken for granted, a subtle erosion begins — not of loyalty, but of meaning.

It is not “sour grapes” to feel this.
It is simply the natural human response to an imbalanced exchange.

People will contribute generously when they feel valued.
But they will quietly withdraw when they feel used.

The Larger Question: What Should Membership Mean?

At its core, membership should represent:

Shared purpose
Shared responsibility
Shared benefit

Reciprocity is the engine of healthy professional communities. When it works, everyone grows.

But when the return on membership becomes:

unpredictable
minimal
or dependent on personal sacrifice

Then the association risks burning out the very people who hold it together.

Membership should never feel like paying admission to your own generosity.

A Way Forward: Reimagining the Value Exchange

Instead of criticizing associations, I believe there’s a constructive conversation to be had—one that invites all professional organizations to reflect on their futures.

A sustainable, ethical association model could include:

Clear, tangible benefits for volunteers

If someone donates their time, expertise, or leadership, there should be built-in perks — discounted learning opportunities, free access to training, or recognition that feels meaningful.

Transparent value delivery

Members should feel the return on their investment in concrete ways — not vague promises of “networking opportunities.”

Consideration and Honor for Those Who Donate Their Time

Volunteers are not free labor. They are partners. Treat them as such.

Balanced pricing models

If everything costs extra, engagement naturally declines. A healthier model is one where baseline participation is truly included in the membership itself.

A renewed focus on mission, not monetization

Associations should be more than revenue engines. They should be communities of purpose, rooted in service and professional uplift.

Why I’m Writing This Now

I write this not out of resentment, but out of reflection.

I have served on committees. I have volunteered. I have supported missions. I have given my time and energy freely because I believe in professional community and collaboration.

And I also believe in honesty in naming a misalignment when I see one.

This is not about one association or one experience.
It is about a pattern emerging across many industries.
It is about a system that deserves examination.
And it is about advocating for healthier, more reciprocal community models.

Most of all, it is about honoring the countless professionals who give so much of themselves quietly, reliably, generously, expecting little in return except the satisfaction of contributing to something larger than themselves.

Those individuals deserve to feel valued.

They deserve associations that live up to their mission statements.

They deserve a community where generosity is not taken for granted, but celebrated and supported.

A Final Thought

Stepping back from specific associations didn’t diminish my commitment to my profession. What it clarified was something much larger: membership should never feel like a transaction disguised as community.

Volunteers are the backbone of any professional organization. They contribute time, experience, and genuine care. When their efforts are undervalued — or overshadowed by constant financial demands — something essential begins to erode.

Healthy associations honor both contributions and connection.
They balance financial needs with fairness.
They recognize that sustainable communities are built on reciprocity, not extraction.

As professionals, we aren’t looking for notable exceptions.
We’re simply looking for alignment — for an association whose values reflect our own.

When that alignment exists, everything flourishes.
When it disappears, no amount of dues, programs, or conferences can replace it.

In the end, the question is simple:
Does this organization strengthen my sense of belonging—or diminish it?

It’s a question worth asking. And for many of us, it’s long overdue.

Membership should feel like belonging, not like a transaction.

If we want our professional communities to flourish, we must ask an honest question:

Are we building associations that serve, or associations that charge?

The future of professional membership depends on the answer.

Riding the Waves: The Art of Acceptance from Epictetus to Kabat-Zinn

Brad G. Philbrick & Company — Thu, 13 Nov 2025 19:17:59 +0000

Sometimes I Think of Acceptance as a Quiet Force

Sometimes I think of acceptance as a quiet force, like a weed pushing through a crack in the sidewalk. Botanists call this process imbibition—when a seed or plant tissue absorbs water and swells, generating enough pressure to split rock or asphalt. There’s no resistance, no argument with its environment. The plant doesn’t curse the concrete or demand an easier path. It simply accepts what is and grows through it.
That image reminds me that acceptance is not weakness or surrender. It’s strength expressed in a gentler form—the kind of strength that bends but doesn’t break, that finds light where there seems to be none.

The Stoic philosopher Epictetus captured this spirit centuries ago when he wrote:
“Don’t seek for everything to happen as you wish it would, but rather wish that everything happens as it actually will—then your life will flow well.”

When Life Refuses to Follow Our Script

Even though Epictetus lived about two millennia ago, his wisdom seems uncomfortably relevant today. Most of us try to change the world to suit our plans throughout the day. We convince ourselves that happiness is only a step away from the next difficulty handled, the following helpful person, or the subsequent fortunate development. However, life rarely goes according to plan because of its tenacity.
The Stoics urged a radical shift in perspective: stop demanding that events obey your desires and instead align your desires with reality. Focus only on what is within your control—your actions, thoughts, and attitude—and release everything else. It’s a discipline of perception and response.

I’ve seen this truth play out in my own work. In pharmacy, for example, no two days ever went entirely as planned. A shipment would be delayed, a patient’s insurance would suddenly reject a claim, or an emergency would draw all hands to the counter. Early in my career, I fought every disruption, determined to “fix” it all. Over time, I learned that calm efficiency came not from controlling chaos but from moving with it—anchored by the things within my grasp and unburdened by what wasn’t.
Acceptance, as Epictetus taught, is not resignation; it’s intelligent focus. It’s choosing not to waste energy on the immovable, so that you can give your best to what can still be shaped.

From Stoicism to Surfing

Fast-forward two millennia, and a modern voice echoes this same truth with oceanic grace. J. Johnson wrote in Music Teacher, 66 (1). 19–22 in his article The Self-Compassionate Musician: Learning to Love Yourself Through Music Making and Teaching, referred to a quotation from Jon Kabat-Zinn, founder of mindfulness-based stress reduction, who wrote:
“You can’t stop the waves, but you can learn to surf.”

It’s the same philosophy, translated from the language of reason to the language of awareness. Where Stoicism disciplines the mind, mindfulness softens it. Kabat-Zinn reminds us that life’s waves—stress, disappointment, uncertainty—are inevitable. Trying to stop them is futile. The only sustainable path is to find our balance atop them.

In mindfulness practice, we learn to observe thoughts and emotions without judgment. We notice the swell of anxiety or irritation and recognize it for what it is—transient energy, not a personal failure. Like a surfer reading the tide, we learn when to paddle, when to wait, and when to ride.

There were many moments in my writing life when I felt those waves. A rejected essay, a stalled idea, an unexpected pivot from a steady career into uncertain creative waters. Each time, resistance made me sink faster. But the moment I stopped fighting the current and stayed present—listening, learning, breathing—the water carried me forward in its own way. Acceptance didn’t erase the challenge, but it restored my balance.

The Practice of Acceptance

Acceptance sounds simple, but it’s one of the hardest disciplines to live with. It asks us to release control in a world that glorifies control, to trust movement when we crave stillness, and to believe that peace can coexist with imperfection.

How can we practice it?

Pause before reacting. When frustration arises, take one conscious breath. That single moment creates space between stimulus and response—the birthplace of freedom.
Name what’s within your control. You can guide your words, your tone, your effort—but not other people’s choices or the randomness of outcomes.
Reframe the obstacle. Instead of asking, Why is this happening to me? ask, What might this be teaching me?
Return to presence. Acceptance thrives in the present moment. The mind that ruminates on yesterday or predicts tomorrow resists what is; mindfulness anchors us to now.

Acceptance doesn’t mean you stop pursuing goals or setting boundaries. It means you pursue them with eyes open to reality, adapting instead of demanding. You acknowledge pain without being defined by it. You let life breathe through you, instead of trying to hold your breath until it behaves.

When Resistance Becomes Growth

Returning to that weed forcing its way through concrete, I see how nature models acceptance. The plant doesn’t analyze its odds or compare itself to the oak across the field. It simply does what it was meant to do—absorb, expand, and grow. Its persistence is quiet but powerful.

Perhaps the valid message of Epictetus and Kabat-Zinn is that acceptance is not a passive state but rather a source of great creativity. It turns adversity into strength and resistance into perseverance. Even when life doesn’t play well, it lets us live life to the fullest.
Instead of fighting reality, we should learn to work with it.

Closing Reflection

Life, like the sea, never stops moving. Some days bring calm water; others, relentless surf. Yet beneath every wave lies the same invitation: to meet what comes with steadiness, curiosity, and grace.

Epictetus reminds us that peace begins when we wish for things to unfold exactly as they will. Kabat-Zinn reminds us that even the stormiest sea can become a playground of balance.
Perhaps the art of living lies in marrying both philosophies—accepting what comes, yet dancing within it. When we stop demanding calm seas and start mastering our stance, we discover that even the fiercest wave can become a dance.
Like the weed in the crack, like the surfer on the crest, we learn not to conquer life but to grow through it.

He Played Five Aces. Now He Plays the Harp.

Brad G. Philbrick & Company — Wed, 22 Oct 2025 16:17:28 +0000

A frontier epitaph with a timeless message about shortcuts, integrity, and legacy.

Boot Hill cemeteries dot the ghost towns of the American West — places where sheriffs, outlaws, drifters (and often those who died violently), and gamblers all wound up under the same patch of desert sky or amongst the Midwest plains or around the mountains of the far west. Among the weathered markers, one epitaph has endured in legend:

“He played five aces. Now he plays the harp.”

At first glance, it’s darkly funny. A gambler cheats death — or tries to — only to meet it instead. But the more you read it, the deeper the lesson becomes.

In poker, most of us know, a hand of five aces is impossible. It’s the boldest cheat imaginable and quite stupid to think one could get away with something so obvious. Whoever this gambler was, he wasn’t just bending the rules — he was breaking them beyond belief. We don’t know his name, but we know the outcome. His final “hand” was an epitaph — carved by someone with both wit and warning.

That bit of Western gallows humor is classic frontier philosophy: if you can’t moralize, you might as well memorialize with irony. “He played five aces. Now he plays the harp.” Translation: cheat if you want, but you’ll eventually face the ultimate dealer — life itself.

Fast-forward 150 years. The saloon is now a boardroom, where you can make a marketing presentation, report sales figures via Zoom, or create a social-media feed that garners attention with an outlandish post. We still face the same temptation: a shortcut, a manipulation, a “five-ace” play that promises instant reward. But the rules — ethical, professional, human — remain the same. Shortcuts often shorten careers. Deception erodes trust. The easy win rarely leads to the right legacy.

Leaders and Human Relations professionals who perform background checks verify academic degrees and certifications. An employer, when discovering a falsified degree, often leads to immediate termination, and as a result, the “cheater” is usually ineligible for future employment.

Research shows that cheating has negative impacts on an individual. Psychologists have found that unethical behavior can cause a temporary rush of confidence known as
The Cheater’s high.” But then this high is followed by feelings of guilt, shame, and a shrunken self-image.

Then the cheater often faces the constant anxiety of being caught. It is a tremendous weight that will negatively affect one’s work performance and overall well-being.

Then a word about business culture. Several business research studies show that organizations that focus entirely on profits, the bottom line at all costs, can trigger dishonesty and thus make it challenging for the honest team members to succeed.

The gambler’s legacy isn’t his winnings. It’s his epitaph. What will ours be?

Each of us gets dealt some cards we can’t control. But how we play them — with honesty, respect, and restraint — determines whether we’re remembered for what we gained, or for how we played.

So the next time you’re tempted to “add an extra ace,” think of that old Boot Hill marker. It’s a cheeky reminder that the world always calls the bluff eventually.

Play fair. Play smart. Play for keeps. Because no one ever built a lasting legacy on a crooked hand.