Brady Helps

Yesterday I wrote about the Iliad and how warriors pause fighting when they recognize shared humanity (see post). I claimed that holding space for the enemy makes me feel most alive. Today, I still believe that—and I want to show you what that practice looks like when the gods are screaming at you to pick a side.

I start with a premise: you and I are made of the same things yet experience the world in unique ways. That's the foundation—shared humanity, different lives.

The next level is sympathetic vibrations. When someone feels harmed, the people accused of causing that harm often feel harmed too—by the accusation, by the conflict, by their own perceived injustices. The "right" and "wrong" parties create effects on each other that amplify and reinforce. It's a feedback loop.

The last layer is incentives and tradeoffs. I assume every party acts to maximize their interest. I think about what they're trading to improve their position, what second and third order effects follow, and what brutal compromises they're willing to make. I ask people for their thoughts. I try to hold space for all of it.

You might observe that I don't come to firm conclusions. In a world where gods amplify narratives and every issue becomes a loyalty test, I prefer to stay curious. I'll hypothesize, but I'm willing to change as I learn more. My refusal to give into certainty — that's the practice of living (for me).

Here's an example: trans rights.

First principle:

People for trans rights, against trans rights, and I are made of the same material and live unique lives. We're the same yet totally different.

Vibrational effects:

Pro trans rights people tend to feel their communities are marginalized, unjustly treated, targeted, vilified, unnatural.

Anti trans rights people tend to feel their words, history, traditions, and basic knowledge of existence are threatened. Their children threatened. They're victims of culture wars. This is unnatural.

I see harm on both sides and I see how the harms reinforce each other, like strings on a piano vibrating sympathetically. I cultivate empathy for both positions.

Incentives and tradeoffs:

Here are two quotes from people I love who are willing to make brutal tradeoffs to strengthen their positions—metaphorical amputation and actual physical confrontation:

• "A doctor would amputate what's not serving the system."
• "I'll absolutely get in a fight with someone."

The tradeoffs people are willing to make—cutting out parts of society, physical confrontation—show this isn't about finding an equilibrium of interests. It's about winning. Zero sum. And when both sides operate from that frame, cooperation becomes impossible.

I feel the weight of this issue. I know readers will want to place me in one camp or another. And I feel that pull too — the desire to resolve the anxiety by picking a side and letting the tribe do my thinking. But that resolution would be a kind of paralysis. The aliveness is in the resistance — in refusing to let amplified narratives be my conclusions, in embracing the nuance even when it's uncomfortable.

The very fact that I can doubt, question, and cultivate empathy with both sides of a controversial issue — that I can attempt to understand why people hold positions I might oppose—tells me I'm alive. I'm exercising agency. I'm thinking with my own mind versus letting the gods think for me.

You might say this method doesn't lead to action in the face of injustice. I argue the opposite. Acting from rage produces escalation. Acting from understanding produces resolution. Because if I rage, I see enemies to defeat; while my understanding sees humans in conflict whose interests might, with effort, be reconciled.

The "Iliad" shows us warriors can fight for their positions while still seeing their opponent as worthy of respect, even friendship. I see that as a kind of strategic empathy resulting from how I see the larger system.

I never intend to tell people what to think or believe. My intent is to show another way of thinking: that beneath the surface of every issue are people trying to live with dignity — even when their visions of dignity clash. People wanting to love and be loved in return.

Seeing that simple shared humanity doesn't paralyze me. I believe it equips me to act effectively — to respond to what's actually there: humans in conflict, a system that could move towards cooperation if we stopped treating it as a war for total victory.

This practice — holding space, staying curious, refusing to let the gods do my thinking— costs something. It means living with uncertainty when everyone around me has chosen their camp. It means feeling the anxiety of not knowing what to believe or who to believe or if to believe.

But, I rarely do life the easy way — who chooses a musician life style for the ease. And that discomfort, that lack of ease, is the price of consciousness. It's maintains my humanity. It's what makes me feel most alive.

I bet it's not hard for you to imagine something you're raging over right now. A slight at work, immigration, trans-rights, a boundary crossed, a promise broken, a thing of yours taken that you believe was yours. How much energy does that rage cost you? How long have you been spending that energy?

Homer's "Iliad" opens with two powerful men — Achilles and Agamemnon — who are pissed at each other over honor and a woman taken as a bounty of war. Their fight with each other is about standing, who gets to claim what, and public humiliation. Their nation, Greece, is at war with Troy; and Achilles is so furious by his issue with Agamemnon that he withdraws from the fight all together, willing to let his own people die than fight for a leader who disrespected him.

The Greeks and the Trojans have been at it for nine years. Why? A woman taken, an act that violated hospitality and marriage and conveniently gave both sides an opportunity to war. The gods don't help, they amplify everything, whisper in ears, tilt the scales, and turned an issue that could have been resolved through cooperation into something that must be avenged.

The "Iliad" tells the stories of warriors who die for perceived slights. For loyalty to family lineage. For national honor. For orders given by men who claim divine favor. The text is full of young men killing each other over things that appear ridiculous. And yet, given the amplification by the gods and the moment itself, it all feels righteous.

That kind of thing could never happen now.

Except, the "Iliad" isn't just about war. It's about when warring takes a beat and pauses. When fighting does stop, it's not because a victor emerges, it's because warriors choose to see each other differently.

Homer writes about a fight between Hector (Trojan) and Ajax (Greek). The heralds interrupt the fight. They agree to duke it out the next day. But before they part ways, they exchange gifts — parting as friends who see each other worthy of their respect.

Armies pause for funeral rites. Greeks and Trojans both recognize that mourning the dead are obvious reasons not to fight. It's understood that, universally, that death is pain and deserves its time.

Go to the first question: how much are you spending on your rage? And how long have you been raging?

What would you need to see in a person, or an idea, that would make you choose to pause? What would you need to see in yourself?

Gods, in the Iliad, are like media (social or any kind) — they amplify a narrative. They rouse a will to war, or rage, against a person or an idea. The gods are the voices in your head that tell you that you're right and just and the others are wrong and evil. Why give those voices power?

Your enemy, is a person who also fears humiliation, carries wounds, and believes they're defending something just as important as what you believe yourself to be defending. That doesn't make your enemy right and you wrong, and it doesn't make you right and your enemy wrong. It does mean that you and your enemy have something in common — a shared and fragile humanity.

Your enemy might be an idea. And I argue that an idea is not a person, it's a story we want to tell ourselves and that we want to be alive or dead. And ideas left unattended and unchecked can be intoxicating and dangerous. Ideological humility is a virtue. Hold your story lightly enough to recognize it's a story — one that can inspire you but isn't finished, isn't complete, and doesn't capture all of reality.

The choice to see the shared humanity is not a one-time choice. It's a persistent practice. It requires effort and constant reinforcement. It may not seem worth it because the ideological or physical stakes may look too high. I maintain the practice is worth it and is felt in the long-run.

I am a realist and I advocate for peace. Not because it's easy or because conflicts aren't real, but because the alternative — years of life and energy raging over harms appears absurd from any distance. And because when I choose to hold space for the enemy in my head and my heart, I feel most alive.

Economists like to use the prompt — solve for the equilibrium. Oversimplified, the phrase challenges the responder to find the point where everyone’s interests are met.

A memorial service is a kind of market. Dad had an explicit wish for one thing. Others would like to see something else. No one participant in this market is right, and no one is wrong — there are just different interests to consider. The goal of the market maker, the siblings, is to find a way to meet everyone’s interests with the least amount of waste (hurt feelings, anger, resentment, lifelong grudges, and wrecked families).

I get paid to do that kind of work every day. Sellers have different demands and needs than buyers and I try to find a way for both parties to meet at the equilibrium point. When that happens, business happens. However, a memorial service is not a business transaction, though it feels like one.

When a person wants to buy a thing, they are investing money into a thing they believe will solve a problem they think they have. The classic marketing school example is that of a hammer — a person buys a hammer to make a hole in the wall. I argue a person buys a hammer because they have pride — presumably they want to hang something on the wall they’re proud of. A salesperson isn’t selling a hammer, they’re selling pride. A memorial service is similar.

Some people who want to attend a service have decades of history with my Dad. For them, a 45-minute service represents decades of a life with someone. It’s a chance for that person to get closure on that life. For some people, the 45-minute service represents the almost 79-years of my Dad’s life. A hammer is not just for a hole, and a service is not just for readings and music.

The challenge for the market maker here is that everyone’s perception of what constitutes value from a service is different. For some its readings and music rendered by offspring. For some, it’s immediate family. For some still, it’s a few words. Religious and societal cultural traditions are also production input factors.

Personally, I see playing or reading at my Dad’s funeral as a net negative. I can’t imagine anything more horrifying for me than doing that. A priest can do readings and we can always play recordings, or hire someone. But contrastingly, someone might see my participation as value.

Like every economic decision there are tradeoffs. My siblings and I will make decisions that will appear some aspects of the market, and disappoint others. Equilibrium doesn’t mean that all needs are met, it just means the market has reached a balance between the quantity of a thing supplied at the current price and the quantity of the thing demanded at the current price.

Within 72 hours cousins, aunts, uncles, friends, mothers, fathers, wives, husbands, kids, passerby, and maybe ne'er-do-well pepper me with questions like — when is the funeral? who is invited? when will the burial be? can they attend?

These people all mean well, and I love them. They want and need closure. They want to participate. They want to help. They want to show support. I love it! Truly. I just don’t understand it.

Who has these details figured out immediately? For my siblings, they’re still figuring out their day and what they’ll do next. They’re stressed. The LAST thing they want to think about are these details. Me, meh, I prefer to work on these things on a work day as this feels like work to me.

I realize these are natural questions. And I am sure some families have these things ironed out well in advance. But we did not intentionally. We didn’t know when Dad would pass. And, we didn’t know what we didn’t know — those are terrible conditions for making effective decisions. Instead, we chose to see how things looked post-death and mindfully and methodically work the problem — as a group (my siblings and I).

I laugh as I write this post to you. So many people tell me “everybody grieves in a unique way”, yet, it also appears that everyone expects everyone to have their shit together the same way too.

A chaplain came to me to offer their condolences. I asked them, how much for two?

Perhaps I am cynical, or maybe I’m just over it. What is the utility of a condolence?

Usually, the condolence includes something like “I’m so sorry for your loss.” But then I think, “what did you do to be sorry?” Also, isn’t a bit presumptuous to believe I’ve lost something?

Death gave me a great perspective and a deep sense of freedom.

I know that at some point I must die. I must go through a fate like my father. And, while I wait for that time to come, I must maximize the time I have now. To continue to live the way my Dad would want. To continue to have his words and advices in my head. He said he would be more alive to me dead than alive, and it’s true. I can’t help seeing and hearing him and his advice in all things. I can’t thank the universe enough for that gift.

I don’t see why someone should be sorry for me, and I don’t see the need for a condolence. I’ve been grieving for years. I’m actually in a pretty good mental health spot. I’ve got a perspective that’s informed by constant reflection, noticing without judging, and grounding myself in a philosophy of life that embraces death and the absurdity of fearing it.

I anticipate my greatest struggle will be not be dealing with death, but dealing with how other people expect me to deal with death…

The doctor I visit prescribes me blood pressure medication; my blood pressure is high when the doctor’s office takes measurements.

When measurements are taken, the nurse asks me to rest my arm on my leg. The measurements are taken after in the morning after a cup of coffee. Usually my arm is dangling next to my side. Additionally, healthcare and the system it belongs to challenges my patience. It’s no wonder that my blood pressure is elevated, 138/68 in the office. The doctor is concerned, and contemplates increasing the blood pressure medication.

I take my blood pressure at home, almost at the same time every day. The diastolic (top) number is 112 on average, with a standard deviation of 13 points. I don’t see much volatility between the numbers for the last 5 days, most however around 108 or 113. When I take measurements I use all of the measurement best practices — my arm is level with the top of my heart, the blood pressure cuff is correctly situated, I’m sat down with both feet on the floor, and I don’t attempt to zen out. I’m puling these best practices from Nature — source.

The doctor’s office measurement is 2 standard deviations above the mean, almost 3 — which would make it more significant data-wise. The nurse is not adopting established best practices when taking measurements — it’s clear that the arm position matters. And, I’m starting to experience some dizziness when I change position — my hypothesis is that this is caused by my current dosing of blood pressure medication. I decide to share my thoughts.

I fail to understand why healthcare professionals become so extremely offended at feedback from non-professionals.

• Healthcare people appear extremely direct, their bedside manner more-often-than-not leaves a lot to desire, and when I attempt to mirror that bedside manner they find me rude.
• Perhaps they’re stressed out and overworked? Well, I’m stressed out and overworked, and I don’t prefer to be on more medication — and I prefer better collected data.
• Maybe they believe their expensive credentials are being challenged? That’s a good thing! We learn when we fail. And, at least as it relates to medication that goes into my body, I prefer to be open to data — I am my own n=1 experiment.
• Perhaps they’re aware and wish they could do better but this is not the time and place? Then I argue, when is the time and place? Perhaps I should leave feedback on the “healthcare survey” form? I’m convinced that data is used in the aggregate, and any system change is made to appease the median patient — I’m probably an outlier and it wouldn’t make sense to change a system for an outlier.

Of the people that are the hardest for me to understand — healthcare professionals continue to be the subset of humanity that my connection efforts fail. Mirroring communication patterns doesn’t work. Showing the peer-reviewed human/clinical trial preponderance of data doesn’t move the needle, and being gentle only allows the bully to be more of a bully.

I’m not ready to give up… Call me Ahab.

The nurse explained to me that mucous builds up in the lungs. And when that build up happens, people can sound like a coffee percolator when they are in the process of dying. In the past, they used to clear out the mucous, but the lungs would just produce more. Now, they give a medicine to make the music dry up on its own.

When I arrived at the facility, in the afternoon, Dad was alone in bed. I sat next to him. His eyes opened up for me. He looked at me, we made eye contact. His eyes, appeared to have little-to-no life left in them. Time appeared to stand still as we fixed our gaze on each other. Then I noticed his left eye begin to veer off course, my Dad attempted to point at his eye as it veered. The eye veers because the muscles are not holding it in place.

His eyes closed, and the percolator, known as “Death Rattles”, started. Accompanied with that noise was that B-below-middle-C moan.

I stayed with Dad that night. My shift started at 10/10:30pm. I fell asleep at 5:30am for an hour or so. Between 10/10:30pm and 5:30am I stayed awake speaking to my Dad about our time together. I imagined we were camping again in the backyard. I talked about our times together — driving from Milwaukee to Miami and staying in motels that looked like drug dens. I recalled how he always reminded me that “God and me make a majority” and to never let a day go by where I don’t tell the people in my life that touch me that I love them. I spoke about how I felt he was the only one who truly got me, who knew how my soul worked.

I recalled a letter he wrote to me in eighth grade. A few quotes are below:

“God’s love will help you love others more. Only if you love others — your brother, your sister and your friends — will your life be fulfilled. This you have done well. From the help you give your brother to daily phone calls to your Grandmother you have shared God’s love. Always remember how important this is. Never let a day go by without telling your Mother and those other people who touch your lives how much you love them….Always follow your heart. You know what is right. Always remember that, no matter what anyone says, God and you do make a majority . If you follow your heart you will never be ashamed of anything you may do in life. Your Mother and I wish that you could forever be that little boy whose picture I have enclosed. We wish that every day would be your first at school. We wish that every night for the rest of our lives we could kiss you goodnight and tell you how much we really love you. These wishes can never come true. You have matured and you will continue to grow. However, there is one wish that can come true. That wish is that every day we tell each other how much we love them — how much they turn the sun on in our lives — and carry out our words in action.”

I played him a voicemail he left on my phone in November of 2011:

“10:35, I’m going to bed, I just thought I wanted to tell you before I go to sleep how much I love you, and how much I’m proud of you… goodnight.”

I cried. My eyes winced. My chest muscles jerked.

I put my head next to his and expressed how happy I was that I could have just one more night with him to tell him how much I loved him. To tell him that I will do what I can to be a person that serves others. To not allow petty things to get in the way of love. That I am so thankful that I had just this experience, as stressful as it was, to tell him how much he meant to me… and how proud I am that he is my Dad. And most importantly, how proud I am that he finished what he started.

When I woke up at 7:30am, his moaning became louder and the rattles kept going.

I picked up my mother who wanted to say a few words to Dad. I brought her to Angels grace, I was gone not more than 45 minutes to an hour. When we walked in the noises stopped. My sister said to get the nurse. We cleared the room so that my mom could talk.

The nurse walked in. With her stethoscope she listened.

2 minutes of silence passed.

“It’s been two minutes and I have not detected a heart beat or noises from the lungs. Your father has passed. I am so sorry.”

Dedicated to my Dad (1946 - 10/9/2025), who I love so very much.

Dad arrived at AngelsGrace hospice unit by ambulance. I wasn’t there for the arrival. When I arrived, he was in a bed wearing the yellow shirt.

His eyes mostly closed. He held a cross in his hand given by his sister. He began to moan. The moan changed pitches, but I place it at B below middle C. He would make a fist and waive it. The moan became louder.

The nurse came in. The moan continued. She scanned his bladder, and found tons of urine. She installed a catheter. His moaning stopped.

She gave him morphine.

He slept.

Dad sat in a chair wearing a yellow collared short sleeve shirt, green and navy plaid pajama bottoms, and navy and white plaid flannel-like buttoned down sweater. Both arms on arm rests of the EZ chair. Legs crossed. He wore grey socks, and tan slippers. Eyes closed.

As he sat, two people came in — one white and one black — both kind faces, young. They wore navy-grey jackets bearing the Bell ambulance logo. Their coats, I’m not sure of the material, but they swooshed — A LOT. Lots of swooshing. Like a light coat you might wear for windy weather rubbing against itself.

A nurse gave him morphine. He appeared to be in a daze.

They got him up, he kind of mumbled. They helped him scuffle into the stretcher. Again, that swooshing sound of the coats.

Once on the stretcher, they draped him with five straps to keep him secure. The straps also gave a sound — a similar sound to the jackets, except when pulled tight. When pulled, the straps sounded like cord being pulled taut before being knotted.

The stretcher, under its own power, rose from the ground — it sounded like a wench. When it hit its appropriate height it locked into place.

The two people, whose faces I shall never forget, cleared the path and took Dad out.

SubwayTakes posted an interview discussing the Beatles. I understood the core idea to be — you can’t have just one favorite Beatle, you end up needing all 4. The sound existed the way it did because all 4 Beatles were present — it wasn’t just one person’s show. They are the sum of their parts — they are a collective. Click here for the video.

Apparently, large brained humans — like ourselves — existed at least half a million years earlier than prevailing scientific consensus. Skulls were discovered in China. Click here for the BBC article.

My take is this:

You and I belong to a group of animals — Homo sapiens. We are an ancient species. We persist through cooperation, tribalism, wariness of outsiders, etc. And, in spite of all the messiness that comes from being human, we still persist.

I imagine a reason we persist is because we know that we need each other to survive. And needing each other doesn’t imply rainbows and bunnies; our history acquiring labor is messy. The point is not about morality, the point is that we recognize a need for others — that we are the sum of our parts.

Another reason we might persist is due to our curiosity. Humans are naturally curious about the world around them. We are curious about each other. We are curious about what we can see and can’t see. We wonder and wander. And, we organize ourselves together to be curious collectively about things.

So what if we started becoming more curious about that which is different from us? The humans who are not like us. Pick any attribute that makes someone different from you, what prevents you from being curious about that difference? What stops you from trying to learn more about someone else? Seeing the world the way they see the world. Perhaps you might learn something about your own world.

It’s not lost on me that saying be curious about the people in other tribes is easier said than done. Some attributes of people you might hate or disgust. I recommend that you lean into those emotions — determine why you might feel that way and consider the alternative — what if you could feel a different way?

The Beatles are the sum of their parts, they are also a group that leaned into the counter-culture and asked what if. Not entirely different from ancient ancestors who, I imagine, did something similar.