On Becoming

A forgotten psychological assessment led me to the wrong question.

Recently, while sorting through some files on my computer, I stumbled across a document I had long forgotten about: CONFIDENTIAL PSYCHOLOGICAL ASSESSMENT, dated January 2015.

Whatever I had been looking for was immediately forgotten as I began reading the six-page, single-spaced report. The assessment had been conducted as part of the promotion process for a leadership role I accepted late in my career.

I’ll never forget that day.

I flew to Atlanta expecting a casual conversation about my career goals and leadership style. Instead, it turned into an eight-hour one-on-one session with a psychologist who grilled me through a seemingly endless series of hypothetical business scenarios, IQ tests, and probing questions that left me with a pounding headache and the certainty that my career had just reached its end.

A week or two later, I sat down with my boss to review the assessment.

It described someone who was intelligent, strategic, ambitious, and effective at building relationships. It painted the picture of a leader capable of navigating complexity and achieving difficult goals. It was flattering, but I was certain the psychologist was wrong. It described the leader I wanted to be, not the one I saw in the mirror each morning.

As I read further, the man I saw in the mirror began to emerge. My actions were, it said, “geared towards gaining approval and regard.” My self-confidence was “variable and dependent on the situation.” And my self-assurance was “contingent on external feedback,” leaving me to “seek validation and praise.”

In essence, it described a highly effective leader who struggled with confidence. Two characteristics that seemed oddly at odds with one another.

Today, as I look back at that report, I find myself asking a different question. Which of us was seeing me more clearly? The psychologist who spent eight hours trying to understand me? Or the man who had spent a lifetime convinced he already knew?

Maybe the answer is hidden in the question itself. The psychologist was the only one who walked into his office that day without already being sure.

The report was trying to answer an unanswerable question.

Who is Chris?

It’s easy to believe there is a concrete answer. A stable identity waiting to be discovered, described, and understood.

Since that assessment was written, I have retired. I lost much of my eyesight. I wrote a memoir. I began writing fiction. My understanding of myself, and of the world, has continued to evolve in ways I never anticipated.

The man described in those six pages was real. He simply wasn’t the whole story.

Like a wave in the ocean, I have been shifting and changing for sixty-seven years. But the bigger question is this: Am I the wave, or the water?

And can one exist without the other?

It really isn’t an esoteric question.

It’s easy to look at a wave and say it’s simply water. But that isn’t entirely true. A wave is the visible manifestation of energy moving through the water. Without the water, there is no wave. But without the energy, there is no movement.

Looking back, I can see the many waves of my life. Marine. Engineer. Husband. Father. Executive. Retired. Writer.

Each shaped by what preceded it. Each, in turn, shaping what came next.

They weren’t different people. They were different expressions of the same life, shaped by experience, love, loss, failure, success, curiosity, and time.

Perhaps that’s why the question, “Who am I?” is so hard to answer.

Since retiring, I have discovered a passion for backpacking. Living in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains, that seemed almost inevitable. Their beauty and sheer magnitude dominate the skyline. They feel timeless.

But they aren’t.

Every year, freeze-thaw cycles crack rock, streams carry away sediment, trees split boulders with their roots, and wind slowly wears away exposed peaks. The changes are almost imperceptible from one year to the next, yet they never stop. To a hiker returning every summer, the mountains appear unchanged, even though they have been changing continuously.

Perhaps that’s why the Rockies feel immutable. Their changes unfold more slowly than a human lifetime. Ours unfold from within, one year, one day, one moment at a time. The change is so gradual that, like the mountains, we rarely notice it.

But look back over your life, and the changes are unmistakable.

I can’t imagine how many trails I’ve hiked believing the summit was just around the next bend.

The trail climbs through the trees with the promise of what lies ahead. You push harder, convinced you’re almost there.

The switchbacks climb steadily up the mountainside. One turn after another. Each one certain to be the last.

Finally, the grade eases.

Just ahead, the trail rounds a shoulder.

This is it, you think.

You step around the bend and stop.

Another ridge rises in the distance. Another set of switchbacks climbs toward a summit still out of sight.

You wipe the sweat from your brow. Take a deep breath.

Then you continue the climb.

I was hiking with my good friend Gary last summer when we stopped for water on a steep stretch of trail. As I took a drink, I noticed him slowly turning in a circle, taking in the trees, the mountains, and the sky above.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Whenever I stop for water, I like to take a minute to look around,” he said. “To appreciate where we are.”

I love that.

I have walked far too many trail miles with my eyes fixed on the dirt beneath my boots.

And too many years of my life with my attention fixed on the next milestone. Marriage. Children. Career. Promotions. Retirement.

Always looking ahead.

Always believing that what I was searching for lay just beyond the next ridge.

Maybe it’s because there is far more trail behind me than ahead, but today I find myself trying to live the lesson my friend Gary taught me.

Perhaps there was always a bigger question than, “Who am I?”

Perhaps the better question is, “Who am I becoming?”

Today, I’m pretty sure the answer isn’t waiting at the summit.

It keeps quietly unfolding with every step forward.

I just have to remember to stop, and look around.