We have become accustomed—perhaps even conditioned—to upgrading everything, all the time. We upgrade our computers. We upgrade our mobile phones. We upgrade our flights and we upgrade our homes. And in the age of apps, the web, and connected everythings — from thermostats to TVs; from door locks to cars — we don’t even have to choose to upgrade, because everything automatically, continuously upgrades itself. At a price. Some time ago I began to wonder whether I might need an upgrade. Perhaps my life needed an upgrade. It’s not that I didn’t have a great life—I had an amazing life. But while I was feeling good, everything and everyone else seemed to be getting upgrades all the time. So why not me?
Perhaps not coincidentally, my personal upgrade obsession started around the time I turned 50. Seemingly involuntarily, I began to look over my shoulder every time a new shiny car drove by. I developed an inexplicable desire to lose some weight. I had my first colonoscopy. My awareness of the limitations of my biological hardware seemed to translate into a nagging feeling that something—anything—needed to change. And yet, I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what. As I said, I have a good life. I was happy. Surely my vacuous lust for new shiny things must be a phase.
I quickly concluded that a major “hardware” upgrade was going to be tricky. I’m not big into cosmetic enhancements, and bionics are a tad nascent for my taste. Yet I could make some external upgrades, couldn’t I? Add some new peripherals? And the software—surely my “operating system” was in need of an upgrade? Perhaps my learning algorithms were out of date?
I contemplated how long it had been since I’d had a major software upgrade, and realized that it had been approximately 20 years since I last changed my operating system and upgraded to Life 2.0. I’d gotten divorced, moved from Boston to San Francisco, started a new company, jacked into a different network, and installed a bunch of new friends. I’d connected with the person who is now my life partner. All good.
Since then I’d made many incremental, small tweaks and had a few unexpected reboots—but no major upgrades. I was anxious. What might I be missing?
After some contemplation and a few sessions with my therapist, I realized that peripherals wouldn’t help much. I didn’t really want a new car. Phew, dodged that one. And if I were to lose weight, it would be so I could climb more mountains and wake up every morning feeling better, not so I could look like someone I was not.
But the genie was out of the proverbial bottle. I was surrounded by upgrades everywhere I turned, and I could not avoid addressing the big question: Might there be a major upgrade available that would somehow change my life for the (even) better?
So began a deep review of my operating system—the operating system that had begun to doubt how current it was. Had that operating system somehow become flawed and out of date?
It’s not like I wanted a bunch of new features or a new life. Perhaps it was more about the algorithms I was running—how current were my learning algorithms? Was I connected to the networks to which I wanted to be connected? Were my core abstractions and representations of the world still helpful? Was I feeding myself the data that would help me gain deeper insights and discover new truths? Was the way I saw the world stuck and in a loop?
Was my virtual reality out of touch with the reality that surrounded me?
These were difficult questions to answer while there was a big load on the system. So I hit the proverbial interrupt button, left my job, and made the unsettling decision to take a break without knowing what I was going “do” next. It became a year-long break.
The year began with changing my sensory inputs — mixing up the sources of my proverbial data. I put on my skis and climbed many new mountains. I didn’t get a shiny car, but I got a new bicycle, which I rode up winding roads and down stunning, meandering valleys. I traveled to far away places and spent time with people that didn’t live the way I did.
I caught up on years of neglected reading. I captured lots of light, making pictures of countless beautiful and curious people, places, and things. Most of all, I slowed down my clock speed. It was a most wonderful year.
What did I learn?
“The data I was inadvertently feeding myself by living the life I was living was causing my learning algorithm to overfit.”
It turns out it was about the data—the stimuli—and not about the software. At least not primarily. Did my learning algorithms need some tweaks? Absolutely. Had some of my abstractions, beliefs, and values become a tad skewed or fuzzy after so many years of head-down, chin-up, drive-hard, push-through living? Yes. A tune-up was definitely in order—but not a major upgrade.
I came to see just how much my inputs had been skewing my outputs. The problem, of course, was that the output was my perception of happiness. My inputs—the data I was feeding my belief and value algorithms—were starting to impact my beliefs and values. The data I was inadvertently feeding myself by living the life I was living was causing my learning algorithm to overfit. I needed a larger, more varied, noisier data set.
My perceived need for an upgrade was driven by data that reinforced, everywhere I turned, that upgrades are it. More, newer, ever-shinier things will make you even happier. Upgrade your life to Life 7.0 and THAT will bring you the joy and happiness you think others have. I mostly knew it was bullshit, but when the stimuli is overwhelming and it’s continuously training your learners that upgrades in their many forms lead to greater happiness, then after a while it messes with your algorithms, skewing your truth and values.
In the end, I guess I didn’t learn anything I didn’t already know—but I did reinforce and tune up the belief and value algorithms at my core. I tuned my inputs to listen more to channels from the real world, including the nature channel, the friend channel, the love channel, the curiosity channel, the literature channel, and the travel channel. I smelled a lot of roses and marveled at amazing vistas near and far. I even let myself get bored from time to time. I reduced my clock speed to a frequency where I could stop and hear each second tick-tock into the past.
So if you feel a growing urge for a major system upgrade; if you’re feeling anxious and think that something needs to change but you don’t know why; or even worse, if you think your hardware is getting old or out of date and requires drastic change—I suggest you consider tuning into some new channels. Get in touch with your core algorithms—your core beliefs and values. Open your senses and feed yourself data. Teach yourself a few new things. Expose yourself to new experiences. See some things you cannot see from the vantage point of your current life. Go smell, taste, and listen to new scents, flavors, and voices. Most of it is right there in your backyard, if you just look.
