I'm way behind on work, deadlines whizzing by, and am stuck in Pasco, Washington, for a five-day meeting. I'm feeling sorry for myself because I want to participate fully in the meeting, I want to spend time visiting with colleagues, and yet I keep sneaking back to the hotel room to crank out text. So I end up feeling sorry for myself. Which of course makes me less productive, exacerbating my existential crisis. It's times like this that I need to take a deep breath, and remember people like Nguyen Xuan Cuong, who I photographed a few years back in Ha Trach, Vietnam. He lost his arms to a landmine during what the Vietnamese rightly call the "U.S. War." He and other amazing people I met on that assignment, people who'd been left physically challenged by their history, simply don't waste time feeling sorry for themselves. Despair, methinks, really is a privilege of class. Sigh.