The Rubber Ball Theory

A Valentine's Day Lesson

I awoke today as I do most Saturdays—sneaking downstairs for coffee, my MacBook, and a few hours to write. While I’d like to think today was no different than any other, it was. It is a day of overpriced gestures, riddled with chocolate, jewelry, and flowers. However, my days of dozens of roses and diamonds have dwindled—not because I love my spouse any less, but because our focus as parents has shifted toward our two children. I woke up realizing that as a father to two girls, I am responsible for establishing what this day should look like for them, ensuring they always know they have a Valentine in me.

As my oldest made her way downstairs to join me on the couch—one of my favorite parts of the day—I continued to type away at a draft article very few, if any will read. A few minutes later, even as she watched cartoons, she said firmly, “Dad, get off your computer. I have gifts for today.” Unbeknownst to me, she had spent hours making Valentine’s Day cards for everyone, including our dogs. She showed me each one before handing me mine: “Dad, see the heart? It’s made of our two favorite colors.” I have thirty-seven years on this kid, yet she seems to grasp the meaning of the day better than I do: she knows how to make sure the glass balls don’t break.

When we categorize the elements of our lives—family, work, hobbies, a poorly crafted blog post that will never win a Pulitzer—they generally fall into one of two categories: glass or rubber. Rubber balls are resilient; they bounce, rebound, and won’t break. When you leave a job, it doesn’t shatter the company. They simply move on—the ball bounces back to its original height. Physicists would be hard-pressed to explain how a company maintains such perfect kinetic energy, but it does; the system returns to its original position long after your departure. This applies to many of the things we prioritize, the things that consume the majority of our time. We don’t spend forty hours a week with our families; we work. There are real-world consequences that require us to do so, but that doesn’t make work a glass ball.

Glass balls are different. When dropped, they produce an inelastic collision. Plainly put: they shatter. The glass balls are the most delicate things we are entrusted with: our spouses, our children, and our health—both mental and physical.

And yet, how do we juggle them? We often treat the glass like rubber and the rubber like glass. That last-minute presentation dropped on your desk? I HAVE to stay late. The work phone? I HAVE to check my email. Meanwhile, when my daughter slips downstairs to spend quality time with me on the couch... I let it bounce.

I am not sure why we do this. While humans are remarkably resilient, our emotions are often inelastic. When handled incorrectly, they crack and shatter, even if the damage isn’t immediately visible. I have ignored my children to write an article no one will read. I have answered work emails that aren’t saving lives or the organization. Not only could those emails wait until Monday, but even if they went unanswered, the organization would simply march on.

This morning was a gentle reminder to juggle the glass and let the rubber bounce. The immutable laws of physics prove that the rubber ball will return to a height where we can grasp it again. Physics also proves that glass and rubber possess drastically different properties; they do not share the same elasticity. We would do well to honor the laws of physics that have guided our universe since the days of Newton and remember, “Rubber bounces.”