I remember reporting to my first duty assignment in the Army and overhearing an exchange between the Sergeant Major and one of the unit’s First Sergeants. I was in an odd place at an odd time and, honestly, probably shouldn’t have heard the conversation.

The First Sergeant was discussing—or more accurately, bitching about—a situation going on in his company. After he finished venting, there was a long silence. Finally, the Sergeant Major looked at him and said:

“Okay, you’ve bitched about it. Now how are you going to fix it?”

That simple question has stuck with me for decades.

It’s one of those lessons I’ve always tried to live by, though not always effectively or expeditiously.

Recently, as many people are aware, I’ve been trying to stop complaining about things and start fixing them. That’s easier said than done. Major change is difficult. I’ve said many times in this blog that meaningful change is usually a long process. There are very few shortcuts.

Years ago, I helped conduct training for the Black Rock Rangers at Burning Man. The Rangers are a non-confrontational mediation and assistance group whose job is helping people navigate conflicts, crises, and sometimes just really bad days. Their role is far more complex than that, but explaining it fully would take an entire blog post of its own.

One of the training exercises was surprisingly simple. Two participants would stand back-to-back and be given a single instruction:

“Change two things.”

That was it.

Most people would unbutton a shirt, turn a hat backward, swap shoes, or make some other obvious physical change. When the exercise was over, one of the teaching points was always the same:

“You were told to change two things. Did it ever occur to you that one of those things could be changing your attitude?”

At the time, exercises like that felt a little trite to me.

Much of my education and professional training took place in lecture halls where information was delivered, notes were taken, and the goal was remembering enough to pass the test. These kinds of life lessons seemed simplistic compared to everything else I was learning.

Recently, though, something rekindled that memory.

It occurred to me that maybe I’ve spent too much time focusing on changing outward circumstances and not enough time changing my approach to them.

Maybe instead of wishing things were different, I need to adjust how I respond to them.

Maybe part of fixing a problem isn’t changing the situation itself.

Maybe part of fixing it is changing my attitude.

I’ve been frustrated by many of the physical changes in my life, especially those resulting from my strokes. I’ve been frustrated by changes in my social life and the way relationships have evolved over the last few years. I’ve complained about those things publicly and privately more times than I can count.

But eventually there comes a point where you’ve vented enough.

Eventually, you have to ask yourself the Sergeant Major’s question.

“So what are you going to do to fix it?”

The answer, at least for me, isn’t pretending everything is fine.

The answer is changing my approach.

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve talked quite a bit about finding new friendships and exploring things I haven’t done before. I can still enjoy the things I’ve always enjoyed, but maybe—even at my age—it’s time to try some new things as well.

Maybe growth isn’t about replacing the old.

Maybe it’s about adding something new.

I’ve reached a point in life where I’m beginning to realize that the most important changes often aren’t visible from the outside. They’re internal. They’re changes in perspective, expectations, priorities, and attitude.

Maybe it’s time to stop relying on old relationships, old assumptions, and old versions of myself to solve new problems.

Maybe it’s time to build something different.

My dog has never been a huge fan of change, but eventually he adapts.

My mother changed careers in her late fifties and embraced an entirely new chapter of life.

Maybe that’s the lesson.

Adaptation isn’t surrender.

Adaptation is growth.

And maybe the first thing I need to fix isn’t the world around me.

Maybe it’s how I choose to look at it.