“The greatest ability is availability.”

― Unknown

I waited a long time to write this.

One of these three Olympians stood on the edge of history, chasing his 100th career win and hoping to close his Olympic journey with two more gold medals in mogul skiing.

He came close.

100 Wins….check

A silver in singles, decided by a tie breaker.

A gold in the first ever Olympic duals event.

Congratulations to Mikaël Kingsbury.

The King. The greatest of all time in his sport. And quite possibly one of the greatest athletes, period.

A nearly 70% podium rate.
A win rate near 60%.
More than double the gold medals of the next best in history.

He retired this weekend on his home mountain in Saint-Sauveur, in front of thousands who came to watch him one last time.

But this story is not just about Mik.

It’s about three of Canada’s greatest Olympic athletes. Three of the best mogul skiers the sport has ever seen.

And it’s about something far less visible than medals.

Mogul skiing is unforgiving on the body.
It’s a sport known for torn ACLs, chronic knee issues, and the kind of wear that often follows athletes long after their careers end.

Yet all three of these athletes left the sport without surgical scars on their knees.

No zippers.

They’ll ski with their kids. Move freely. Live fully.

That is the story.

I was fortunate to work with all three of them from the early stages of their careers.

With Alex and Mik, we started with healthy, talented young men, 17 and 18 years old, stepping into the unknown of elite sport. One pushed relentlessly. The other questioned the purpose of it, but bought in eventually. Both were learning what it meant to prepare.

Jennifer came to me differently.

She had already come close to the Olympic podium. But she was dealing with knee and back pain that threatened to limit what she could become.

In many ways, she was my first real experiment at the Olympic level.

Up until that point, I had spent years in university sport and professional hockey, slowly shaping an idea…
What if rehabilitation and performance were never separate?
What if we treated preparation as a continuum?

I began to look at training differently.

Not just as building strength or capacity.
But as understanding what an athlete truly demands of their body.

What can they access?
What have they lost?
What have they never had?

And how do we restore that before asking more of them?

Over time, one belief became foundational:

Availability is the greatest ability.

You lose every race you cannot start.
And in team sport, your absence changes everything.

So rather than just preparing athletes for performance, I wanted to make them more complete movers.

Clear out the remnants of past injuries.
Restore access to forgotten or unused systems.
Expand what their body could draw upon when it mattered most.

Because here’s what I came to understand about elite athletes:

They don’t ask, “Can my body do this?”

They try. They fail. They adapt. They try again.

This is often described as self-organization. The body finds a way.

But there’s a flaw in that assumption.

Self-organization only works if what you need is actually available.

And often, it isn’t.

Through injury, disuse, or protective patterns, parts of the system go offline. The body compensates. It finds alternatives.

There is redundancy built into us.

But over time, those workarounds can become liabilities.

They become the weak link.
The silent contributor to breakdown.
The thing that eventually gives way.

Jennifer had already run into that wall.

Over multiple off-seasons, including a full year dedicated to rebuilding before Torino, we worked to restore what had gone missing.

With Alex and Mik, the process was more about maintenance and precision.

Year after year, we addressed the bumps and bruises of the season. Cleared the system. Then built it back up.

When more significant injuries did occur, an ankle for Alex, a fractured spine and later a groin issue for Mik, they were just that…

Speed bumps.

Not roadblocks.

Because the system underneath was intact.

All three athletes learned how to train.

But more importantly, they began to understand why they trained the way they did.

They understood that what they were doing was protecting their ability to show up.

To stand at the top of every run with certainty.

Not hoping their body would hold up.

Knowing it would.

Knowing that the only thing between them and winning was execution.

That is a powerful place to compete from.

I take no credit for their talent.

Or their drive.
Or their results.

What I can say is that the work we did together, over years, gave them the best possible chance to express all of it.

To be ready.
To be available.
To be present when it mattered most.

And sometimes, that’s everything.

Availability is the greatest ability.

Put a pin in that.

 “Sometimes it’s hard to look at a flower, when your dying inside.”

― Anthony Liccione

I remember watching The Italian Job years ago and hearing a line that stuck with me. One of the characters describes someone as FINE, and acronym for: F-reaked Out, I-nsecure, N-eurotic, and E-motional.

It always made me smile. But over time, it’s made me think.

How often do we answer the question, “How are you?” with “I’m fine”?

And how often are we anything but?

How often are we carrying something heavy, something uncertain, something quietly difficult… and still choose “I’m fine” because anything beyond that feels like opening a door we’re not sure we want to walk through?

If we’re honest, most of us don’t ask “How are you?” expecting a real answer. It’s a social entry point. A brief acknowledgment as we pass each other in the flow of life. Even when the moment has potential for something deeper, it can feel like the wrong place to unpack what’s really going on.

And even if we did… what are we hoping for?

Most people can’t solve what we’re dealing with. And often, we’re not even looking for solutions. We just want to be seen. Acknowledged. Understood, without being fixed.

This has been on my mind more than usual lately because it’s close to home.

Business has been hard. Not just challenging, but disheartening at times. It’s not where I thought it would be at this stage of my life, and that reality has weight.

So recently, when people have asked how I’m doing, I’ve found myself saying it.

“I’m fine.”

But I’m not fine. I’ve been frustrated. Uncertain. At times, discouraged.

And I know I’m not alone in that.

There’s a broader sense right now that things feel unsettled. The world moves fast, but not always forward. The economy shifts, attention is fragmented, and consistency feels harder to find than ever. Running a business, especially in a space like education, demands constant adaptation. The goalposts don’t just move, they disappear and reappear somewhere else entirely.

We’re living in a digital world that evolves at a pace our human systems weren’t built for. We have more tools than ever, more access, more information. And yet, in many ways, we feel less grounded, less certain, less clear.

It creates a quiet tension.

Because everyone is dealing with it.

Everyone is “fine.”

But underneath that, many are FINE.

Struggling in their own way. Carrying their own version of uncertainty. Trying to be strong for others while not always feeling strong themselves.

I can only speak from my own lens, but I do think there’s an added layer for men. We are wired, and in many ways conditioned, to solve problems. To fix. To move things forward. It’s part of what drives us.
But it also creates a barrier.

Because when someone shares something difficult, the instinct is to offer a solution. And when we’re the ones struggling, we anticipate that response. So instead of opening up, we stay quiet. We keep it to ourselves.

We remain “fine.”

Not because we are, but because it feels easier than navigating what might come next.

And yet, this is why the entire world of self-help, performance, and personal development continues to grow. Everyone is searching. Everyone is trying to make sense of what they’re feeling and how to move through it.

But there isn’t a perfect formula.

There isn’t a single answer that resolves the complexity of being human in a world that feels increasingly uncertain.

Mental health, in many ways, is the challenge of our time. And despite all our advancements, we continue to build environments that test it.

So what do we do?

I don’t have a perfect answer.

But I do believe this: we need more spaces, and more people, who allow others to simply be heard without expectation. Without judgment. Without immediately trying to fix.

A place to land.

And maybe just as important, we need to allow that for ourselves. To acknowledge when we’re not fine, even if we don’t have a solution. Even if nothing changes right away.

I didn’t write this to invite responses or reassurance.

I wrote it because it’s true for me right now.

And if it resonates with you in any way, I hope it reminds you of something simple but important:
You’re not alone.

And even if you feel FINE at times… it won’t always be that way.

Better days, clearer moments, and steadier ground have a way of returning.