The Story at the End of the Day

Welcome to The Brighter Side of Everything.

This newsletter serves a simple purpose → To help you build optimism, resilience and a solution-focused perspective.

Each week, I’ll share actionable insights that not only brighten your day but position you to be a leader within your own life and seize life’s opportunities.

Read time: 20-30 minutes.

Hello, Brighter Side readers! ☀️

Welcome to our newest readers!

Also, a massive thanks to those who continue to read along, it means the world that you make room for this newsletter inside your week.

This week is about people and purpose.

Most of us are capable of far more than we give ourselves credit for, especially with great people beside us and backed by a reason that matters.

We trek through the volcanoes of Iceland, meet the man who shared the seatbelt with the world, and finish with an old story that reminds us the world is much bigger than just the patch of ground we sit on.

So grab yourself a cuppa ☕️ and settle in.

See you on the Brighter Side,

Chris

P.S. Please feel free to send me feedback on how I can improve. I respond to every email.

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The first time I visited Iceland, I wasn't really going to Iceland.

In 2010, my wife and I tacked on three days in Reykjavík to a trip to mainland Europe.

We blissfully wandered the unique city, exploring the sights and enjoying the local foods.

Did you know the number one restaurant in Reykjavík is a hotdog stand?

And not only that, it’s delicious!

We even hired a car to visit the blue lagoon, visit several waterfalls and witness the black sand beaches of the southern coast.

Within a matter of hours, we’d both fallen for the place, it was stunning.

When I returned in August 2015 I believed I had a fair idea of what Iceland looked like.

Then I spent five days hiking the mountains of the Laugavegur Trail and realised I'd only touched the surface.

The first thing I remember about Landmannalaugar, where the trail itself began, is the colour.

We approached a wide gravel plain ringed by mountains, some appearing as though they’d spilled paint all down the side of them.

Rust, ochre and a strange mineral green amongst a variety of colours.

The air smelled of struck matches and steam was drifting off the hillsides as though the whole place was cooking.

Icelandic horses grazed in the middle distance, entirely unbothered and our bus idled behind us before pulling away and leaving us the wind.

I’d certainly never seen this part of the country.

And also never arrived anywhere that felt so completely and utterly somewhere else.

I worked for Flight Centre Canada at the time and the group taking part on the trek had each spent the preceding months asking people for money.

Raffles.

Awkward emails.

Standing in front of groups of people explaining why a hike through the Icelandic mountains was worth parting with their cash.

Each one of us had fundraised our way onto that trail in support of the Make-A-Wish foundation.

Between us as a group, we’d managed to raise $50,000.

This was also the first trip of it’s kind for the company, so none of us were entirely sure what we'd signed up for.

What I do know is that we were all immesnsely grateful to be there and up for whatever challenges lay ahead.

Sixty kilometres doesn't sound like much until you start walking.

And not everyone had paid close attention to the packing list.

One of our colleagues turned up on day one with a large roller suitcase.

Hard shell, telescopic handle and four flimsy little wheels.

It was bag you take for a cruise or a week in the sun, not across volcanic highland covered in gravel with no roads to speak of.

The rest of us secured our backpacks while they stood there holding a handle and dragging the wheels through the dusty gravel.

Watching them realise the weight of their decision remains one of the funniest moments I’ve seen.

No complaints, just a wonderful dose of self-deprecating humour that would set the tone for the next few days.

So, off we went.

Day one takes you past hot springs and sulphur-stained ground toward Hrafntinnusker, where the hills turn to black glass.

Old snow remained packed in the hollows in the middle of August.

We ate lunch on the deck of the hut in light sweaters with the sun on our faces and it turns out lady luck was on our side.

Just two days later that same hut sat shut due to a weather warning, hurricane-force winds and rain coming in sideways.

Iceland decides the sort of day you're having, and it can change its mind within the hour.

Day two was a long one.

Twenty-five kilometres, three mountains, a glacier, steam vents hissing out of the hillside, rivers to cross in both directions.

Ten hours on our feet.

The ground seemed to shift and change every half hour.

Obsidian, then rhyolite, then sulphur-soaked basalt.

Snowfields and ice bridges that had formed over deep ravines.

This was followed by plenty of mud, then meadow, then a sheer face with the trail cut right into it.

We’d shift from cold, to hot, then soaked, then wind-blasted, often all within the same hour.

The beautuful thing though?

Every time I looked around, everybody was grinning like idiots and loving every minute.

The river crossings I still think about.

Boots off, water cold enough to burn, rocks shifting underfoot.

The whole group gathered on the bank, watching one person step in ahead of everyone else.

Poles braced and marching through the water to the other side.

Everyone cheering as each person returned to dry land.

Somewhere on the descent that day, a close friend went over on his ankle.

Badly.

We were two days into a five-day hike, on a steep slope of snow and loose rock.

A long way from anything you’d call a road.

Painful and unfortunate?

Yes.

Stopping our momentum?

Not a chance.

The group supported him and he chose to trek on despite the pain.

Some of the group dropped back and stay with him, walking at his pace, and helping carry what they could.

The rest of us trudged ahead and he came down that mountain carefully on an ankle that obviously didn't want to hold him with his jaw set and a determined look on his face.

As we reached the base of the mountain, the ground opened into a flat plain, expansive open country where the sky takes over and everything seems miles away.

It reminded me, absurdly, of the walk between the two great stone figures in The NeverEnding Story, or maybe even Frodo’s adventures as he approached Mordor.

The moment his boots hit level ground, he put his head down and went.

Straight past most of us.

On a ruined ankle.

Fuelled by sheer bloody determination.

A few of the people on that trek were already close friends before we went.

They still are, and that day is a fair indicator of why.

We walked into Álftavatn that evening toward a lake so still the volcanoes sat upside down in it, birds calling across the water as the light faded.

We were shattered, but I’ve rarely stood anywhere more beautiful.

The days seemed to build a rhythm after that.

Pack the tent, walk five to ten hours, put the tent up somewhere else equally extraordinary.

No satellite signal, no constant notifications, no responsibilites other than looking out for each other.

Blister plasters, shared snacks and running jokes that would make little sense to anyone that wasn't there.

Oh, and nobody showered either.

Not once, from the day we left Reykjavík to the day we came back.

Sweat, mud, dust, river water and snowmelt all soaked into the same clothes, dried on you overnight and went back on in the morning.

My bag of baby wipes worked overtime that week.

You stop caring somewhere during day two.

Our dedicated Icelandic guides walked with us the whole way, and the success of the journey was largely down to them.

They knew the ground and they knew the weather, and they knew where each of us was on any given day, often before we did.

Nobody was left behind but nobody was fussed over either.

They were funny, and they engaged in conversation the whole way.

Stories about the country, snippets of its history and traditions we’d never have come across on our own.

They even shared a phrase I've used several times since.

Þetta reddast.

It roughly translates as "it'll work out.”

After five days in that environment under their guidance, I understood why they say it.

We walked that trail in the company of some of the most determined and genuinely hilarious people I've had the pleasure of travelling with.

Through the hardest sections, this mindset mattered more than our fitness.

At the end of each day, once the boots were off and our wet gear hung up wherever it might dry, we would come together as a group.

The Make-A-Wish representative who’d joined us and fit into the group like a duck to water, would share a story about a child.

It was incredibly moving.

A name, a family, an illness, a wish, and what that wish meant to the people who loved them.

Those ten minutes changed how we viewed the the entire trip.

We'd spent the day working hard, laughing, complaining about our packs, feeling pleased with ourselves for overcoming our challenges.

Then a story would shed light on a kid’s reality that required so much more than we had given.

There were tears most nights but plenty of laughs too.

Which happens when a group becomes close enough for both.

These stories made the rest of the day look small.

Psychologists have studied a version of what happened to us on that hut floor.

In 1959, Elliot Aronson and Judson Mills ran an experiment showing that people who endure an unpleasant initiation to join a group?

End up valuing that group far more than people who are let in easily.

Effort justification, they called it.

Decades later, the Oxford anthropologist Harvey Whitehouse arrived at something similar but coming from a different direction.

He calls it identity fusion.

People who go through something hard together stop operating as a collection of individuals and start behaving more like one unit.

Which is an academic way of describing nineteen filthy, blistered people on a hut floor at the end of a long day, listening to a story.

No offsite work conference or event I’ve attended has come close to creating the level of unity on this one.

Probably for that exact reason.

The day we left Emstrur for Þórsmörk, the weather finally caught up to us.

Amidst relentless rain and fierce wind, we dismantled the tents as efficiently as possible before setting off once again.

The trail ran for miles along the rim of the Markarfljót canyon, close enough to the edge in places that we kept our eyes on our boots despite the magnificent views.

Vast stretches of black sand and striking basalt formations created a dramatic landscape of stark, near-desolate terrain.

Somewhere along that stretch the hike stopped feeling like a hike.

All of us strung out in a line across the ash, packs on, heads down, walking toward a volcano.

For a good part of that morning, we looked (and felt) like the fellowship on their approach to Mordor and I wasn't the only one to say this out loud.

But this instead, was Landmannalaugar to Þórsmörk.

And it was real.

Then, improbably, came bumblebees.

And butterflies.

And sheep, and a smattering of small, tough flowers holding on for dear life through the hard gravel.

To reach Þórsmörk you climb, and as you climb the scrub thickens.

Revealing birch trees, taller than me which in turn brought birds, shade, and the smell of green.

After five days of rock and ash, the shade felt ridiculous.

Our last camp sat on a wide floodplain between two glacier-capped volcanoes.

Katla under Mýrdalsjökull on one side, and on the other Eyjafjallajökull, the one that grounded European air travel in 2010.

That night we built a bonfire on the floodplain, and it turned into quite the memorable evening.

We were boisterous and jolly enough that other campers wandered over with a guitar, and campfire songs and stories closed out the evening.

One of them pulled out a bottle of brennivín, so we sipped, and sang the night away.

Our songs, then theirs, Icelandic ones we had no hope of pronouncing and sang along anyway.

We were complete strangers to them, yet they sat down like they'd known us for years.

That fellow with the guitar?

Also happened to be a sitting member of the nations current parliament.

We sang well past midnight, which in an Icelandic August isn't night at all.

The dark never properly arrived.

The twilight sat there, blue and warm, softly lighting the glaciers either side of us.

There's a great photo from the last day.

The whole team lined up in front of a waterfall holding a Make-A-Wish banner.

Everybody grinning from ear to ear and absolutely filthy.

Upon our return to Reykjavík, I had three showers, back to back.

Yes, three, followed by one of the coldest most delicious beers ever consumed.

Just like the vikings would have done.

Know what it's for: The trail didn't become shorter because we were raising funds for charity. Knowing why we were out there changed the atmosphere of the whole week. When something you need to face is hard, always answer that question first.

Watch who slows down: Nobody from our group completed that trail on their own. There are times when you need an outstreched hand or someone to lift your spirits. Keep close those who drop back and walk at an injured mate's pace without being asked.

Find the funny: On a wet, windy day with hours still to go, whoever gets the group laughing is doing incredible work. That roller suitcase kept us going for days, and when you have people who can laugh at themselves it creates a lightness that can transform even the most challenging situations.

Hard moments bond people: Five days of mud, cold rivers, tired legs and sore muscles did more for the bonding of our group than any corporate team-building ever could have.

What I’ve found fascinating while writing this, has been how clearly I remember the details.

Iceland provided a week of some of the most extraordinary scenery I’ve ever experienced.

What I remember most vividly though?

Is a circle of exhausted hikers listening intently to a story about a child they’d never actually meet.

What made that week special was who we were with and why we were there.

You don't need a trail in Iceland for that, but it was a spectacular cherry to place on top.

Anyone can go and stand somewhere beautiful.

You need something else that costs you a bit of time or comfort, done for somebody other than yourself.

There'll be a chance to do that this week.

Eleven years on, I think about those evenings more than I recall the mountains themselves.

If you're ever offered the chance to do something hard for a reason bigger than yourself?

Say yes.

You'll come home with so much more than photos.

Check out the following 90 second video for a glimpse at the splendour of the Laugavegur Trail, and Iceland’s unmatched beauty:

🦜 The World’s Heaviest Parrot Just Had Its Biggest Breeding Season on Record - When the kākāpō recovery programme began in 1995 there were 51 birds left alive, and this month 90 chicks from a single season passed the 150-day mark that counts them as independent, lifting the population from 235 to 325 and past 300 for the first time in about 75 years. Read more → (RNZ)

🚑 Twenty-Three Students Built the World’s First Solar-Powered Ambulance, and It Just Passed Its Field Test in Kenya - Designed to bring the clinic to the patient rather than the other way around, Stella Juva carries tuberculosis testing kits, cooled vaccine storage, an X-ray machine and an ultrasound scanner, covered more than 800 kilometres of Kenyan terrain on trial, and generated more energy than it used while running all of it at once. Read more → (France 24 / AFP)

🥾 He Fell 71 Times. At 91, He Became the Oldest Person to Walk the Appalachian Trail - Dale Sanders spent 359 days covering 2,190 miles at an average of twelve a day, weathered six hard falls, a hospital stay for a pinched nerve and a death in the family, and still summited Katahdin in late August — including one last tumble 600 feet from the finish. Read more →(Smithsonian Magazine)

😄 Darwin Was Right About Why We’re Ticklish - Researchers surveyed nearly 450 people across China, the Netherlands and Greece and found a remarkably consistent map of ticklishness — armpits, belly, soles, neck — along with the finding that the parts of the body we touch least are the ones that react most, because contact there is the least expected. Read more → (BPS Research Digest)

👁️ One of the Smallest Countries in Southeast Asia Just Beat the World’s Leading Infectious Cause of Blindness - The World Health Organization confirmed this week that Timor-Leste has eliminated trachoma as a public health problem, making it the last country in the region to do so, and the tools that got them there were unglamorous ones: better sanitation, faster diagnosis and antibiotics reaching people who needed them. Read more →(Positive News)

You likely did it this morning without thinking.

Reached over your shoulder, pulled and clicked.

Then drove off.

You've done it tens of thousands of times and often without even realising it.

Which is exactly what the man who made it work was hoping for.

And exactly why you've probably never heard of him.

Nils Bohlin.

He got there because he came at the problem from the opposite direction to everyone else at the time.

Bohlin gained his engineering diploma in 1939 and joined the aircraft maker Saab in 1942, working as a designer and helping develop ejection seats.

He spent sixteen years of thinking about how to get a human body out of a machine at speed, in one piece.

In 1958, Volvo hired him as its first safety engineer, and the question flipped.

Keep them safely inside the vehicle.

He'd picked up something while at Saab that had little to do with engineering, but it turned out to be the most useful part.

A fighter pilot will generally strap into anything you hand him, because they’ve thought seriously about what could happen if they don’t.

Whereas, the guy driving to work has not, and is less likely to wade through thirty seconds of fiddling with buckles before they set off.

So developing the restraint itself was the easier task and that had largely been solved already.

The challenge was making it something a distracted person would actually bother to do.

At this time, seatbelts already existed and so did three-point belts.

Roger Griswold and Hugh DeHaven patented one version in 1955, a diagonal strap and a lap belt which met at a buckle in the middle of your chest.

It worked well in lab tests, but in a real crash, the whole setup moved when placed under under pressure.

Also, just getting into it required both hands and a healthy dose of patience.

Bohlin had the idea to move the buckle.

He anchored both straps low and off to one side, beside the hip, so they formed a V rather than a Y.

Chest and hips were now held separately.

And, most importantly, the belt stayed exactly where it was when the car stopped and your body tried to keep going.

The bonus?

You could strap yourself in one-handed, in about a second.

Volvo's own company history states that Bohlin ‘perfected’ the seatbelt rather than invented it.

Perfected is the right word as he never started from a blank page.

He took something that half worked and fixed the part everybody else had walked straight past.

This took him about a year, and then the first belt appeared in a Volvo in 1959.

Remarkably, Volvo chose to hand over the patent to the global automobile industry.

Completely free.

They didn’t ask for payment and provided no conditions, allowing every competitor to access it.

Why would they do that?

A global car company which had discovered the most commercially valuable safety feature anyone would ever design, and they decided owning it (and profiting from it) mattered less than everyone having access to it.

That sounds a lot like common sense, which has become a rare commodity these days.

What’s interesting though, is once it was released?

People wouldn't wear the thing.

Not for years.

No law required it, and there was widespread conviction that a seat belt would trap you inside a burning car.

Bohlin had built it, Volvo had given it away, and most of the world chose to leave it hanging by the door.

Because with change comes uncertainty, and uncertainty is what most fear more than change.

So, he took matters into his own hands and gathered the evidence personally.

In 1967 he presented a study of 28,000 Swedish crashes to the Stapp Car Crash Conference.

Unbelted occupants were dying across the whole range of speeds, including the slow ones.

Belted occupants weren't being fatally injured below 60 mph at all.

Where the passenger compartment held together, no belted occupant died.

Volvo also sent him to America to make the case to regulators face to face.

And the first place on earth to stop asking people nicely was Victoria, Australia.

It was December 1970.

Eleven years after the patent was provided for free, an Victorian state parliament passed the world's first compulsory seatbelt law.

The Victorian annual road toll fell from 1,061 to 923 inside twelve months.

Every other Australian state followed within two years while the rest of the world took most of a decade to catch up.

Design for the person you'll actually get: Bohlin knew a fighter pilot would strap into anything, but someone running late for work wouldn't. So he built it for the second person. So many things fall over there. We make plans for the rested, organised version of ourselves, and then act surprised when the tired one turns up instead.

Give the good thing away: Volvo could have charged every rival in the industry for that patent and none would’ve blinked. They chose to hand it over instead, and the seat belt ended up in every car on earth rather than just one brand. Holding onto something tightly is not the same thing as it being worth something.

Having the idea is the easy part: Bohlin designed the belt in about a year and then spent the rest of his career getting people to use it. The crash data, a trip to America, endless arguing his points. Good ideas die in the years afterwards, when nobody can be bothered to keep making the case.

There's a strange reward that comes with getting something exactly right.

Everybody forgets you did it.

Bohlin's belt exists in nearly every car on earth today.

It's in the Smithsonian.

It's written into law within most countries across the globe.

It has outlasted the man, his employer's claims on it and (more importantly) every argument ever made against it.

And not one of us ever thinks about it.

We reach over the shoulder and pull, we hear the click and before we know it we’re already somewhere else.

Initally I though it was a little sad that this was the case for Bohlin but in truth it's the highest compliment available.

His invention stopped being an invention and simply became a habit, which is a far harder feat to pull off.

I know I’ll be thinking of Nils Bohlin each time I hear that click moving forward.

Check out the follwing video if you want to learn more about Volvo’s lauch of the seat belt, which still provides the most effective protection in the event of an accident:

I finally read One Hundred Years of Solitude earlier this year.

It was a book I'd had on my list for years but somehow never quite committed to.

I adored it.

Possibly my favourite novel I've ever read.

Then, almost as if someone had been listening, Netflix served up the onscreen adaptation right on queue.

I gave it a go, fully expecting the book to lose its magic on screen, because it’s magic is what makes it extraordinary.

After reading it, I'd have called the novel somewhat unfilmable, and it turns out I was in good company.

García Márquez thought so too.

He refused to sell the film rights for most of his life, convinced the story was 'written against the cinema' and that no screen could ever hold it.

So I didn’t have high hopes for this one but I shouldn't have worried.

It's brilliantly done.

And now the entire story is available on Netflix, with part 2 recently released and available for viewing.

The story of how this series was made is half the appeal.

García Márquez spent decades saying no.

He worried that a Hollywood film would squeeze the book into two hours and slap American and European faces on a story that belongs to the Caribbean coast of Colombia.

After he passed, his sons finally said yes, but only on their own terms.

It had to be in Spanish.

It had to be filmed in Colombia, with Colombian actors.

And it had to be given room to breathe.

Netflix gave it sixteen full episodes rather than just two hours, and honestly, that one choice makes all the difference.

This way, the story has all the room it needs.

The reviews have been glowing, and it went on to win three Platino Awards, including best series of the year.

Viewers rate it even higher than the critics do.

Which also tells you something.

Visually, this series knocked me sideways.

To show the passing of generations, they built four separate versions of Macondo on a farm a few hours out of Bogotá.

Eleven hundred workers assisted in building the main set alone.

You watch the town grow from a cluster of mud huts into something grand, then watch the years wear it back down again.

The book's strange, circular sense of time, displayed right there on screen.

The way it was cast was also unique and quite interesting.

Only about a third of the main cast were professional actors.

Ten thousand people auditioned for just twenty-five roles, and twenty thousand more were brought in as extras.

So when Macondo fills up on screen, you're largely watching Colombians who had never acted before, telling the story of their own country.

And then there's the magic.

The yellow butterflies.

The impossible made to feel completely ordinary, exactly the way García Márquez wrote it.

The show never winks during these moments or rushes to over explain them.

They simply happen.

The way they do on the page.

I won't say more than that.

Some of these moments are best discovered cold. 😉

A few things watching it stirred up for me:

Some things can't (and shouldn’t) be rushed: Two hours would have ruined this story, it needs all sixteen episodes. So much in life is the same, and we forget it far too easily.

Return to what you love in a new form: Reading it and then watching it a few months later deepened both. The story grew within me rather than just repeated.

A no can be worth more than a yes: García Márquez turned down offers for forty years, and that stubbornness is the only reason this version exists. Sometimes looking after something means refusing what's sitting in front of you.

Watching Macondo come to life after living inside the book was a real thrill.

No screen will ever replace the experience of reading García Márquez, and he was right about that.

But this honours the book rather than flattening it, and that's rarer than you'd think.

If you've read the novel, the series is a gift.

If you haven't, it might be the doorway that finally gets you there.

And the timing has never been better.

When I first watched, only the first half existed.

Then, I had to sit on my hands and wait.

You don't.

Seven more episodes arrived on August 5th, and the finale followed on the 26th.

They gave that last one its own release, as it runs closer to film length than an episode.

Laura Mora, who directed most of the second half, wanted every episode to carry the scale of a feature film.

Early reaction to the second half has been even warmer than the first, and I agree completely.

When art is done well, it captivates and inspires you in a way that transcends ordinary experience.

And this story does exactly that.

Please share; I'm always keen for great suggestions.

The following story is about 2,400 years old, and as true today, as it was then.

There's a frog who lives in a broken-down well.

He's happy and enjoys living there.

He hops along the rim, rests on the cracked bricks, paddles about with his chin above the water.

He looks down and observes the tadpoles and the crabs and thinks: none of you can compare to me.

One day a turtle turns up from the Eastern Sea.

Come in, says the frog.

Come and see the place.

The turtle gets one foot over the edge and stops.

He's far too big.

He can't even get a knee past the rim.

So he steps back, and tells the frog about the sea instead.

A thousand miles wouldn't cover how wide it is.

In the years of the great floods, when it rained nine years out of ten, the water didn't rise.

In the droughts, seven years out of eight, it didn't drop.

The frog has nothing to say to that.

He's spent his whole life as the biggest thing in the only place he's ever seen.

Go Deeper

The frog was never lying, but simply revealing ’their’ truth.

Everything he said about his experience of the world was accurate.

He just had the wrong idea about how much world there actually was.

Psychologists have a term for this.

In 1977, Lee Ross and two colleagues at Stanford asked students to spend half an hour walking around campus wearing a sandwich board that read "Repent."

About half agreed, while the rest wanted nothing to do with it.

Then they asked both groups the same question.

How many of your fellow students would say yes to that?

The ones who'd agreed guessed 62%.

The ones who'd refused guessed 33%.

So the volunteers thought most people would volunteer.

The refusers thought most people would refuse.

Each group positioned itself with the majority.

This is known as the false consensus effect.

We take the one sample we have, from ourselves and the people nearest us, then treat it as the shape of everybody.

You'll find this within small, everyday things.

The opinion you're certain is just common sense.

The assumption that everyone, underneath it all, wants roughly the same as what you want.

Before you decide that “most” people think something, ask where the sample comes from: If the answer is solely your feed, from your street and your mates, you’re making decisions from inside the well.

Do what the turtle did: He didn't tell the frog he was wrong but described the sea and then let the frog do the rest. One specific aspect from your world moves somebody further than an hour of arguing about theirs.

Go somewhere your assumptions stop working: It doesn't have to be far. Someone from a different profession, or a different generation, someone whose life runs on very different rails to yours.

The frog loved his well, and we should never hold that against him.

What caught him out was his certainty.

The people who've seen the most?

They tend to be the least sure about anything.

Travel will never hand you all the answers, but it takes your false certainties away, one at a time.

And gives you back better questions than the ones you asked.

So when I find out my world was smaller than I thought?

I treat that as a good day.

The frog can stay in the well if he chooses to, that’s fine.

He just has to stop insisting there’s no sea.

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