What’s the Point?

“I’d rather be a great father than a great golfer.”

– Scottie Scheffler

Another interesting and poignant sporting moment set the table for this week’s reflection.

If you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you know I’m not a believer in the never-ending chase for more—the pressure to get rich, be famous, or achieve some illusion of greatness.

This week, world number one golfer Scottie Scheffler reminded us why that path so often rings hollow.

“There’s a lot of people who arrive at number one and then say, What’s the point?
Why do I want to win this golf tournament so badly?
That’s something that I wrestle with every day.”

In a post-round press conference, Scheffler questioned the very nature of his pursuit.
He wasn’t cynical. He was honest.

“What’s the point? This is not a fulfilling life.
Even if I win, it’s going to be fulfilling for two minutes, and then we’re on to next week, talking about how important it is to win the FedEx Cup.
Does it fill all the deepest parts of my heart? Not…”

He even went as far as to say:

“If golf ever affected my life with my family, it would be the last day I ever golf again.”

So what can we take away from this?

Ironically, this clarity is exactly why he’s free to be the best golfer in the world.

He knows what matters.

He’s in love with the process, not the outcome.

“I love putting in the work. I love the practice. I love the challenge.”

And above all, he understands the true prize—his family.

“Golf isn’t the most important thing. I’d rather be a great father than a great golfer.”

In a world where power, influence, money, and fame flood every corner of our media, it’s deeply refreshing to see a top-tier athlete push back—not with arrogance or bravado, but with humility and grounded purpose.

Now, you could say it’s easier to feel that way when you’ve reached number one in the world and earned hundreds of millions of dollars. And yes, you’d have a point.

But that doesn’t make the pursuit of those things right or fulfilling.

The money doesn’t fill your heart.
The status doesn’t.
Nor does the fleeting moment of winning.

It’s all a mirage.

What does fill your heart is the love of the work itself—and the connection to those you love while in service to something greater than yourself.

Don’t you think so?

Character, Tradition, and Being Present

“The true test of a man’s character is what he does when no one is watching.”

– John Wooden

I found myself having a lot of conversations this week—unintentionally, but consistently—with different friends who work in human performance. And oddly enough, each one circled back to a common theme: character.

Then, over the weekend, I had the time (and privilege) to watch the Wimbledon Men’s Singles Final. Wimbledon has always been one of the most iconic and impressive sporting events on the calendar. Like the Masters in golf, it’s steeped in tradition, ceremony, and exquisite detail.

In a way, these events elevate the people who compete in them. They set a bar—not just for performance, but for behavior, temperament, and grace. To step inside that arena, you have to rise toward something greater.

This year’s final featured two of the best young players in the world: Jannik Sinner and Carlos Alcaraz. Both have ascended into the rarefied air once occupied by the Big Three—Federer, Nadal, and Djokovic. And the match didn’t disappoint.

Alcaraz brought his best, but Sinner, perhaps still carrying the sting of his French Open loss to Alcaraz, rose just a bit higher and claimed his first Wimbledon title.

What struck me most wasn’t the quality of play—it was the quality of character.

Alcaraz was gracious in defeat, praising Sinner and his team with sincerity. Sinner, in turn, spoke respectfully about their friendship and mutual admiration. It was beautiful to witness.

Tennis, I’ve always felt, is a sport that naturally cultivates this kind of character. Not always, but often, there’s an undercurrent of respect in the language, the interactions, and the rituals. Winning matters—but it’s not weaponized. There’s grace in both victory and defeat.

Wimbledon takes that energy and amplifies it. From the ballkids and groundskeepers to the chair umpires and royal box guests, everything is polished, intentional, and respectful. Some might call it pretentious—and yes, there’s a touch of that. But at its heart, there’s something deeper: a reverence for the sport, the process, and the people.

It’s in the details. The all-white attire. The strawberries and cream. The bow to tradition. You don’t just watch Wimbledon—you feel it. It’s a sensory experience. A celebration of presence, poise, and purpose.

And it makes me wonder:

Why does it work there?

And how can we bring more of that energy into our daily lives?

Not the pomp or pageantry—but the respect. The gratitude. The awareness. The small nods to those who’ve helped us. The humility in winning. The grace in losing.

I think too many of us coast through life unaware, distracted, and ungrateful. We forget to notice. We forget to feel. And when something like Wimbledon comes along and makes us feel, we realize how much we’ve been missing.

That’s the cost of not being present: we disconnect from our senses—and from meaning.

So maybe the takeaway is this:

How can you be more in tune with your senses?

How can you more consciously engage with your experiences?

How can you carry yourself with a bit more presence—and a bit more character?

Something to think about.

Be Here Now

“Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift. That is why it is called the present.”

– Eleanor Roosevelt

I was just lying on my back on the screened-in porch—my summertime sanctuary.

The sounds of the birds, the fresh air, the green everywhere, and a certain quietude—it’s the perfect space just to be.

I had just finished showering after hiking the mountain near where I live. It’s a solid 875 meters of vertical over about 4.5 km, and I usually take the gondola down. It’s part of my summer rhythm—almost weekly. A little less in the winter.

It’s a great workout, and today I followed it up with some neuro drills, a good stretch, and a blissful nap.

Why am I telling you this? It might sound like I’m bragging about my life. But that’s not my point.

This is about intention.

What I packed into today was driven by one thing: my daily intention to be physical, to move, to be outside in fresh air and sunlight as often as possible.

When I say intention, I don’t mean rigid goals or fixed expectations. Some days it’s a full mountain hike. Some days it’s just a 1 km walk to the mailbox and back. Both matter.

What matters most is that I’m present when I’m doing it.

I’m not checking boxes on a to-do list. I’m connecting to the experience. I’m hearing the birds, feeling my heartbeat, noticing my breath as it quickens and slows. I feel the challenge of the climb, the ease of a simple walk, the restfulness of lying on my porch.

And I let it all unfold as it needs to. I don’t force the hike if it’s not in me that day. That’s not giving up—that’s listening to what my body and mind actually need.

Today, I napped for 35 minutes. No set alarm. Just what my body required.

Then I lay there, just listening.

Last night, I was watching Stanley Tucci’s show where he travels across Italy tasting incredible food in every region. What struck me—besides how remarkably fit he looks for someone whose job is to eat—was how fully present he is in the experience.

That’s something Italians, as a culture, seem to understand deeply. Food isn’t just fuel—it’s about taste, tradition, plating, ambiance, and connection. It’s intentional. It’s social. It’s an experience.

There’s a beautiful flow to it—from the first glass of wine and small antipasti, to the rich flavours of the piatto principale, to the perfect wine pairing. And it’s savoured.

You can’t truly experience something if you’re not present.

We’re not present.

We rush. We multitask. We forget to feel.

We need to slow down.

We need to invest in our senses, our emotions, and our relationships.

We need to be here, now.

This isn’t whoo-whoo. It’s life.

It’s movement.

It’s connection.

It’s the experience.

Be here now……..

How will you remind yourself to be present?

Friendship Means Everything

“Some people go to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends.”

– Virginia Woolf

This past weekend, I attended a professional conference that brought together people with whom I don’t spend large amounts of time, but who have become good friends.

It made me reflect on how friendship expresses itself, what it truly means, and how it evolves and reinvents itself, especially these days.

When I grew up, friendship was forged in the fire of shared experiences—both the good and the bad—through middle school and high school. It was sports played, games won and lost, epic parties, and simple moments of boredom, often filled with stupidity and laughter.

Time and tension were the forges that shaped those bonds. Some of them, even decades later, feel exactly the same. I have friends from high school that I see every few years, and each time we reconnect, it’s as though no time has passed.

Every so often, I open my phone to 100+ back-and-forth messages from this gang of elders, debating the latest sports event or laughing about some crazy thing someone got up to.

After high school, university became the next fertile ground for friendship. Like most people, some lifelong relationships were formed during those years. It was different, though—not quite the everyday immersion of high school. Friendships formed around class schedules, projects, sports, and parties. If you lived in residence or shared a house, you might have recreated that high school fraternal vibe.

When these foundational life stages ended, work became the primary opportunity to build friendships, along with the pastimes you explored outside of work. But now, the time you spend with people is filled with purpose and agenda. It’s often compressed and challenging. The experiences you share in these spaces are different, but they can still yield incredible friendships and profound growth.

That said, life’s responsibilities and constructs slowly shrink the time we have to simply be together. Long, aimless periods are replaced by short, intentional moments where life is experienced in snapshots.

Caring for someone else feels more precarious, less tangible, and often fleeting. But through recurrence and intentionality, you begin to build trust. You know they know. You know they want to know.

And then, if you have children, friendships often blossom from your kids’ friendships with other parents. These relationships can feel a little less stable, because they’re rooted in your children’s connections. Still, the shared experience of parenting—the challenges, the wins, the mutual support—becomes a powerful glue. There’s a unique comfort in knowing someone else has your kid’s back, just as you have theirs. It’s a vital part of the community you build.

Over time, you realize that friendship thrives in these brief, intense moments of presence, not necessarily in permanence.

You also realize you have a responsibility: to reach out, to circle back, to be open.

In today’s world, where we’re all consumed by digital life, friendship is both harder and simpler to maintain. Sometimes, trying to “design” it feels forced, and you don’t get the same magic.

You have to trust that the relationships that matter will bubble up and return, not always as expected, but as understood. You have to believe in your friendships, even if the connections are brief, unplanned, and shaped by timing rather than deliberate action.

When you force it or when you expect something from it, you’ll likely end up disappointed.

If you attach too much meaning to the moments you interact—or the gaps when you don’t—you create stories about what others think or feel. And those stories often lead to letdowns.

Friendship doesn’t have rules of engagement.

Real friendship is knowing that when you come together—whenever and however that happens—you’ll feel connected, known, and understood, even if it’s fleeting.

It also means taking personal responsibility for being present. Feeling what your friend needs. Sometimes they need a listener. Sometimes they need advice. Sometimes they need a complex conversation. Sometimes they just need to hear your story.

This past weekend, I had all of that and more:

• Quick catch-ups
  
  
• Informed conversations
  
  
• Deep, meaningful interactions
  
  
• I listened to a friend’s story of surviving cancer
  
  
• I watched friends present their craft on stage
  
  
• I toured a friend’s impressive performance environment
  
  
• I laughed—big laughs, little laughs, the kind that come from deep inside
  
  
• There were brother and sister hugs, handshakes, and fist bumps
  
  
• I listened to stories, and I told some of my own
  
  
• I finally met in person some friends I’d only known on Zoom since the pandemic
  
  

Because I didn’t force it—because I just allowed it all to unfold—it was rich, beautiful, and it filled my heart and soul with the real food of life.

As I grow older, this is where I find peace, energy, and a deep sense of self—in the richness of friendship, with all its facets and fault lines. However imperfect, when you let friendship be what it is, you feel fulfilled.

So I ask you:

• How does friendship live within you?
  
  
• How does it serve your life?