“Change the way you look at things and the things you look at change.”

― Wayne Dryer

Perspective…

I am often asked, as I was again this past week while back home in Ottawa for a workshop, “Do you miss working in the NHL?”

For those reading who may not know my history, I worked in the NHL as an Athletic Therapist and Strength and Conditioning Coach from 1998 to 2009. My first year in the league was with the New York Islanders organization, but after a chaotic season and an uncertain future, I accepted the same role with the New York Rangers.

After two seasons with the Rangers, and a management and coaching change following my first year, I found myself out of a job in the spring of 2001.

Uncertain of what was next, I spent that summer roaming Manhattan and, somewhat randomly, took a Pilates instructor certification for fun.

Then, in August of 2001, I was hired by the Montreal Canadiens and returned home to the city where I had gone to school and built much of my early career through the 1990s.

My first days with the organization were marked by learning that our captain, Saku Koivu, had stage-three cancer, followed shortly after by the events of 9/11. Suffice to say, it was a heavy beginning to the next chapter of my life.

Back to the workshop.

This time the question came a little differently:

“Do you regret leaving the Canadiens now that the team is doing so well?”

If you are not a hockey fan, or specifically a Canadiens fan, you may not realize the organization has spent much of the last thirty-plus years trying to rediscover its former glory. Since their last Stanley Cup in 1993, there have been flashes of competitiveness, but very few moments where the team was truly considered a serious Cup contender.

But right now, they are deep in the process of creating something quite special. The youngest team in the playoffs, a rookie coach, Marty St.Louis, who continues to impress as he grows into his role, and a feeling around the city that something magical might just happen sooner rather than later.

However, when I arrived in 2001, the organization had been dealing with three straight seasons of over 500 man games lost due to injury. To put that in perspective, the league average was around 250. It is hard to win when much of your starting lineup is in the clinic instead of on the ice.

Part of why I was hired was to help reduce that number.

Over the years, we brought the team average down to roughly 180, including one season as low as 108. We improved availability significantly, but improved health does not automatically equal championships.

Those years were a mixed bag. Aging stars. Injured stars. Inconsistent drafting. Moments of hope mixed with stretches of frustration.

One season, though, it felt like something special might happen.

Sheldon Souray had returned from wrist surgery and was having a tremendous year. Alex Kovalev was fully engaged and playing brilliant hockey. Saku Koivu, after his cancer recovery, was in his prime as a leader and player.

We went up 2-0 on Carolina in the playoffs and the city was alive.

Then Saku suffered a serious eye injury.

We lost four straight.

Carolina went on to win the Stanley Cup.

That is sport sometimes. Tiny moments that change everything.

I remained with the Canadiens until the summer of 2009. The year before, my wife and I had welcomed our first and only child into the world. I was already forty-five years old, and suddenly life felt different. Priorities shifted.

I had an opportunity to move into Olympic sport, and I decided it was time to leave professional hockey behind.

So when people ask me if I miss it, the answer is layered.

I absolutely reflect fondly on the camaraderie, the relationships, and the incredible energy that surrounds a city when a team is winning. There is truly nothing quite like playoff hockey in Montreal. I experienced it a handful of times, and when that city comes alive, it is unforgettable.

But I also remember the heaviness.

Nostalgia has a funny way of softening the edges of reality. Professional sport is far more losing than winning, and when things are not going well, everyone around the team carries that burden.

The Islanders, to put it politely, were a gong show. My first season in the league became an exercise in humility and disappointment. A twenty-seven-day training camp in Lake Placid instead of the normal seven. Missing key players. Constant instability. A season that felt cursed from the start.

The Rangers had resources and star power, but also disappointment. We missed the playoffs. There were coaching and management changes. Mark Messier returned. Theo Fleury arrived. Mike Richter tore his ACL again. Expectations were enormous, but success never followed.

Then suddenly, no playoffs and no job.

Life in professional sport is a strange mix of glamour and grind. Beautiful hotels, charter flights, incredible restaurants, and world-class arenas blended with relentless pressure, exhaustion, uncertainty, and emotional swings.

When you are winning, it can feel magical.

When you are losing, it can feel very dark.

To put it into perspective, if I had stayed in the NHL from 1998 until today, I would have spent twenty-eight years in the league and never won a Stanley Cup. I would have experienced the Final only once.

The current Head Athletic Therapist of the Canadiens, Jim Ramsay, who I worked with in New York, has spent thirty-six years in the NHL and has only reached the Final once as well.

The former Head Athletic Therapist in Montreal, Graham Rynbend, dedicated close to twenty-seven years to the organization and never won one either.

That is how hard it is to win.

Winning is not everything, but it certainly makes life feel lighter.

I loved my years in the league. They were meaningful, unforgettable, and helped shape so many experiences and relationships that followed.

Do I miss it?

No, I do not.

I look back with clarity now. I know exactly what it was. I grew tremendously through those experiences, and there are countless stories I could tell about my life in the game, but I will leave most of them where they belong.

Would I enjoy being there right now while the team is finally building momentum again?

Of course.

But in order to experience the possibility of winning now, I would have had to live through twenty-eight years of everything else that came before it.

I chose a different path.

And I have no regrets.

Now, I simply cheer for the people I know who continue the pursuit.

And even now, there is still a lot of real estate between today and someone hoisting the Stanley Cup.

Nothing is guaranteed.

So I will enjoy the ride from my couch.

Go Habs Go.

 “The way to get started is to quit talking and begin doing.”

― Walt Disney

It’s Mother’s Day weekend, and it had me scrolling through my picture library looking for photos to use as a tribute to all the mothers who have been part of our journey.

Thank you, by the way.

Maybe that’s the first place to begin when talking about action and the danger of waiting.

I don’t think anyone on this planet truly knows or feels ready to become a parent, especially a mother. Giving birth is no picnic, and everything that comes afterward is always being experienced for the very first time.

If we waited until we were ready, many of us would never have children at all. And we all know where that leads.

And that’s the point.

Don’t wait.

As I thumbed through old photos (that’s old school for scrolling), I started realizing just how much I’ve done, seen, tried, failed at, explored, and attempted again.

Life is not really about achieving as much as it is about exploring what’s possible.

Everyone wonders why we are here. What is our purpose?

The truth is that life itself is the gift.

A gift of opportunity.
A gift of possibility.

We get to do this.
We get to try.

The doing is in the being, and the being is in the doing. They coexist. We try things, we experience them, and through those experiences we discover where we find joy, meaning, frustration, heartbreak, excitement, and growth.

We feel it all.

That’s what our senses are for. They allow us to experience what it means to be alive.

But far too often, we are consumed by either the beginning or the end, instead of the experience itself. We let the fear of negative outcomes stop us from moving forward, or we become so attached to positive outcomes that we lose touch with what is happening right now.

Too often, we convince ourselves there will be a better time.

That this thing can wait.
That we can wait.

But time runs out.
It always does.

And none of us knows how much sand remains in the hourglass.

That book you wanted to write…

Write it.

That trip you wanted to take…

Take it.

That friend you wanted to call…

Call them.

That conversation you wanted to have…

Have it.

That course you wanted to create…

Create it.

That person you wanted to become…

Become them.

There is no reason to wait.

Waiting is like a mirage. Everything looks interesting, but nothing is ever truly experienced.

Mark Twain once said, “The secret to getting ahead is getting started.”

Imagine the possibilities created by your actions, not your inactions.

Walt Disney had a dream. He wanted to build a place where people could experience joy, even if only for a day. A place where imagination, wonder, and possibility came alive.

One could argue that it has become far too commercialized and materialized over time. I understand that perspective.

But I still prefer to recognize the intention behind it.

The belief that people could imagine something greater.
The belief that possibility matters.
The belief that dreams are worth pursuing despite obstacles, setbacks, criticism, or doubt.

That is the essence of action.

The willingness to move toward possibility before certainty arrives.

The key to overcoming impossibility is often found in a single moment of action that sees past doubt and chooses movement anyway.

As Pablo Picasso once said:

“Only put off until tomorrow what you are willing to die having left undone.”

So…

What will you do today?

 “If you don’t like the road you’re walking, pave another one”

― Dolly Parton

Lately, I’ve found myself stepping back and looking at things a little differently.

What I’m beginning to understand is this.

Nothing really happens to us.
We just make it about us.

Life unfolds the way it unfolds. Events come and go. Moments rise and fall. But somewhere along the way, we attach meaning to those moments. We build a story. We assign a label. We decide whether something is good or bad, fair or unfair, meant for us or against us.

And in doing so, we create the weight we end up carrying.

If we could learn to let life be what it is, without immediately interpreting it, analyzing it, or personalizing it, we would probably feel a lot lighter. Not because life becomes easier, but because we stop adding to it.

The same holds true with people.

If we allowed others to simply be who they are, without filtering them through our own expectations or judgments, we might find their company easier to enjoy. People are different. That’s not something to fix. It’s something to observe.

Observation creates space.
Judgment creates tension.

When we observe, we learn. When we allow, we open ourselves to something we might not have seen otherwise. It may not always align with how we would do things, but that doesn’t make it wrong. It just makes it different.

And then there’s the life we’re living.

The reality is, the life we have right now is the one we’ve created, whether consciously or not. If we want something different, we don’t need to wait. We need to move.

Action creates change.
Inaction preserves the status quo.

Nature doesn’t stand still. It moves toward entropy. And so do we. If we don’t choose a direction, one will be chosen for us.

That’s often what feeling stuck really is. Not an external force holding us in place, but an internal hesitation to step forward.

It’s easy to point outward. Circumstances, responsibilities, other people. But when you strip it all down, what holds us back most often is ourselves.

That’s not meant to be harsh. It’s meant to be freeing.

Because if it’s on us, then it’s also within our control to change.

No one is coming to save you.
But that doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.

In fact, one of the best parts of this whole experience is that we get to share it. We get to walk alongside others, learn from them, lean on them, and contribute to something beyond ourselves.

There’s also something I’ve come to appreciate about loss.

When something leaves our life, we tend to focus on what’s gone. That’s natural. But what we often don’t see, at least not right away, is what that loss creates space for.

Something new.
Someone new.
A different version of ourselves.

That doesn’t make loss easy. Especially when it involves people we love. But it does remind us that life continues to move, and that movement always brings possibility with it.

Which leads me to something else.

You are always in the right place at the right time.

Not because everything is perfect, but because everything that’s happening is part of a path that’s still unfolding. We rarely understand it in the moment. Most of the time, we only see it looking back.

And through all of it, one thing remains constant.

You are always choosing.

Even when you think you’re not. Even when you hesitate, avoid, or stand still. That, too, is a choice.

Life is a series of forks in the road. None of them come with guarantees. None of them come with certainty. They simply come with direction.

And once you begin to accept that, something interesting happens.

You start to realize that control, as we often define it, doesn’t really exist.

We can influence. We can prepare. We can respond.

But we can’t control outcomes the way we think we can.

And once you let go of that need, there’s a certain freedom that comes with it.

You become more present.
More aware.
More open to what is.

And if you find yourself in a moment that doesn’t feel right, you can remind yourself that it won’t last.

Another moment is coming.
Another choice is waiting.

And maybe the most important realization of all.

Don’t hold back your capacity to love.

Not for yourself. Not for others. Not based on whether someone has “earned” it in your eyes.

Just allow it.

Because when you do, it tends to find its way back to you, often in ways you didn’t expect.

 “Nothing great ever came that easy.”

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― Unknown

In 2003, my future wife and I began to imagine a course where we could combine our skills as therapists with our experience as performance practitioners. A year later, during the NHL lockout, I had a rare window of time, and we decided to bring that idea to life.

That summer, we ran our first course. About twenty practitioners joined us for a weekend, all of them driven by the same desire to get better at helping their clients. We focused on the lower quadrant. It felt manageable, and more importantly, it allowed us to present a clearer approach to understanding movement and creating meaningful change.

After that, life moved quickly, and teaching was put on hold. But the idea never left us. There was a quiet conviction that what we were doing represented a different way to approach injury and performance. Instead of simply managing symptoms, we kept coming back to deeper questions. Why is the issue there in the first place? Why not take a proactive approach? Why not use the same therapeutic tools not just to reduce pain, but to build more resilient, capable humans?

Teaching, as we would come to learn, is not for the faint of heart. It demands more than experience. It requires structure, clarity, and a system that others can actually use. Translating what you know into something transferable is a different kind of challenge altogether.

I remember putting together our first course syllabus and presentation. It was a grind. Software issues, formatting problems, and a lot of trial and error. When we finally got through it, I remember saying to Jaime that I was glad it was done and that I never wanted to do it again. That was probably a hundred iterations ago.

If you are going to share what you know, you have to be prepared to revisit it constantly. There is always a better way to say something. Always a clearer way to teach it. You do not finish it once. You refine it, again and again, knowing it will never truly be complete.

In 2013, we felt the pull to return to teaching. Not because we had everything figured out, but because we had reached a point where what we understood needed to be shared. I hesitate to say “knew,” because certainty is a dangerous thing in this space. Everything exists in context. It is all shades of grey. You can move forward, but you need to do so with awareness and humility.

In the fall of 2014, we ran our first official Reconditioning course. We had a full room of about thirty-five people, all eager to learn. By then, we had built a reputation for helping solve more complex cases, and there was a growing curiosity around how we approached our work.

That weekend is still vivid in my mind. The day before we were set to begin, I came down with a stomach virus. I spent most of the day before the course in the bathroom, wondering how I was going to get through it. We had spent months preparing, and now I was in rough shape.

I managed to get through the first evening session on little more than electrolytes. No food, no energy, just enough to stay upright and deliver. Somehow, I made it through the weekend. It was far from perfect, but it was real, and it marked the beginning of something important.

Over the next five years, we committed to live teaching. After two strong courses in Montreal, we realized we needed to expand beyond our immediate circle. That meant learning how to communicate what we did in a way that resonated with people we had never met. It meant identifying who we were trying to serve and finding language that invited them into the process.

Then came 2020.

The pandemic disrupted everything. Like everyone else, we were forced to adapt. We shifted our live events into digital formats, something we were fortunate to be somewhat prepared for. We had already begun recording our courses and experimenting with online delivery. We leaned into that and expanded.

We also moved the International Hockey Performance Summit online. For three years, it thrived in that format. But when we tried to bring it back to a live setting, the interest just was not there. The landscape had shifted.

Private education was evolving quickly, and keeping pace required constant attention. About a year and a half ago, we made the decision to rebuild everything. We rethought the curriculum, reshaped the delivery, and incorporated the deeper work we had done in neuroscience. We reshot content, rebuilt the platform, and created a new digital experience from the ground up.

It was a significant undertaking. Tools like ChatGPT played a role in helping us move faster and stay organized, but the real work was in the thinking, refining, and building.

This past weekend marked the culmination of seventeen months of that effort. Our first two cohorts completed fourteen weeks of online learning and came together in Montreal for a three-day, in-person experience.

There were people in that room who had been with us since 2014. A few even traced back to that first course in 2004. That is what stays with you. Not the content, not the logistics, but the community. People who continue to show up, driven by a shared commitment to help others move better, feel better, and live with less limitation.

It was a meaningful moment. One that brought a sense of perspective to the work, the challenges, and the sacrifices along the way.

It has been a long road.

And it feels like we are just getting started.

 “The measure of a life is not in what we accumulate,
but in what we awaken, in ourselves, and in others.”

― S.L.

If you’ve been reading this blog for any length of time, you’ve probably sensed a shift in my thinking. Over the past while, I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting on direction, on change, and on what I want this next chapter of life to look like.

For some time now, I’ve felt a growing sense of isolation. The pandemic changed the fabric of our community in ways that never quite returned to what they once were. Living in the mountains, something that once felt like an opportunity, slowly became a place where I felt disconnected. The truth is, I never really fell in love with skiing, and neither did my family. That matters more than you think when winter stretches on.

More than anything, I struggled to build the kind of community that energizes and challenges you. And if I’m being honest, that’s at least partly on me. You have to reach out in order to be reached.

At the same time, my wife and I have been building our education business. It has been some of the most meaningful work I’ve ever done, but also some of the most demanding. The ground beneath you in that space is never entirely stable, and since the pandemic, it’s been shifting even faster.

The way people learn has changed. The way they want to learn has changed. On one hand, there is a desire for flexibility, autonomy, and access. On the other, there is a deep need for connection, for shared experience, for being in a room with other people. It creates a kind of tension that is not easy to resolve. You are constantly trying to meet both needs, knowing that neither one alone is enough.

Layer on top of that the pace of technology, the ever-changing algorithms of communication, and the constant demand to stay relevant, and it becomes a landscape that is both full of opportunity and quietly exhausting. It is easier than ever to build and share, but harder than ever to truly connect.

And yet, through all of it, one thing has remained consistent for me.

I am driven by purpose.

I have come to understand that I am at my best when I am creating change. Not change for the sake of it, but change that improves what already exists. I’ve always been drawn to questioning convention, to asking whether the way things have always been done is actually the way they should continue to be done. I want the work I do to elevate people, to help them see what’s possible, and to give them a pathway toward it.

Most of that work has lived in the world of human performance. More recently, it has expanded through the podcast, through writing, and through the ongoing exploration of ideas in public. It has been a deeply creative process, one that I care about a great deal.

But creativity, especially when it lives in public, asks a lot of you. It requires constant attention, constant refinement, and a willingness to keep showing up. There are days I love that process, and days where I find myself wanting something quieter. Less doing, more being.

That tension led to a simple question.

What else is possible?

So I put myself out there. I opened the door to opportunities in leadership and performance, knowing that any real shift would likely mean a significant change for our family. A new place, a new rhythm, a new beginning.

At the same time, my wife and I were having our own conversations about what we wanted life to feel like moving forward. We both felt the same pull. Less isolation. More connection. A stronger sense of belonging.

What came back to us was something we couldn’t ignore.

An opportunity to return to Montreal. To a place that has always felt like home. A chance to reconnect with community, to support our daughter as she begins her university journey, and to build a life that feels more aligned with who we are now.

And professionally, an opportunity that felt uniquely right.

To step into a role where I can lead, create, and do the kind of work that has defined my career. To take on reconditioning projects from beginning to end, and to shape them in a way that reflects everything I’ve learned over the years. To challenge convention, to explore new possibilities, and to help others perform at the highest level of what they are capable of.

All of it within an environment I’ve admired for a long time.

Cirque du Soleil has always represented something different to me. It is a place where art and science intersect, where the limits of human performance are explored not just for outcome, but for expression. Every show is a reminder of what the human body can do when imagination and discipline come together.

To be part of that environment, to contribute to it, and to learn from it, feels like a natural extension of everything I have been pursuing.

So this is not an ending. It’s not even a pivot.

It’s a continuation, just in a new setting.

We will continue to teach, to write, and to build what we’ve started. But we will do it from a place that feels more connected, more alive, and more aligned with what we want our lives to be.

Sometimes change comes slowly, through quiet reflection.

And sometimes it asks you to step forward before everything feels certain.

Here is the next adventure.

 “Never Give Up….”

― RAYE – Life Boat

This past week felt like a convergence point.

A return to the moon.
A return to my past.
A shift in direction for my family.
And the experience of watching something rare emerge on stage.

For some time now, I have had a quiet feeling in my gut that something was not quite right.

My wife and I have been working relentlessly to build something we believe in. Something meaningful. Something that can help people move, think, and live better. It has always been a labour of love, rooted in a desire to share what we have learned over a lifetime.

But the reality is, building something like that in today’s world is not simple. Economics shift. Technology evolves. The landscape changes faster than you can stabilize your footing. It can feel like navigating a maze that keeps redrawing itself.

And somewhere in that process, I began to feel alone.

What started as a conscious decision to step into a quieter life, to enjoy nature and space after the pandemic, slowly turned into isolation. No one to blame but myself. But also not the life I want to lead.

At the same time, there has been a growing sense of responsibility. A pull to continue using what I have learned to help others move beyond their limitations.

This past weekend changed something.

I stepped back into my past. Concordia University held its Hall of Fame event, and several people who shaped my early career were being honoured, including athletes I had worked with, and my mentor and friend, Ron Rappel.

Walking into that room felt like stepping into a time machine.

It was a gathering of athletes, coaches, therapists, and physicians who had all been part of a shared pursuit. I found myself moving from one conversation to another, reconnecting with people I had not seen in decades.

And what came rushing back was not just the memories, but the feeling.

Connection.

The act of being around others who are striving, learning, exploring what is possible.

Some of the relationships built during that time remain among the most meaningful in my life. That environment shaped me more than I realized.

At the same time, my wife, my daughter, and I were making a decision.

We are heading back.

Back to the city. Back to where it all began professionally. Not out of nostalgia, but out of a desire to reconnect with what allows us to grow, to contribute, and to feel alive.

The chapter we created up north served its purpose. It gave us space, perspective, and time. But it has run its course.

It is time for a new chapter.

Then, on Sunday night, everything seemed to come together.

We went to see Raye perform.

And what I witnessed felt like the emergence of something rare.

A true artist.

My daughter introduced me to her music a few years ago, and since then, it has been a constant in our home. There is something about her that draws you in. Not just the voice, but the honesty. The depth. The willingness to explore without limitation.

You cannot quite define her sound.
You cannot neatly categorize her.
She does not fit into a box.

She is simply Raye.

If you have not listened to her yet, give yourself the space to do it properly. Put it on and let it run. See where it takes you.

What stood out most that night was not just the talent.

It was the message.

Hope.
Resilience.
Joy.

Not spoken as ideas, but expressed through experience.

Supported by an incredibly talented micro-orchestra, she did not perform at the audience. She invited them into her world. Into her musical home. And for a few hours, everyone in that room became part of it.

In her music, she does not hide from difficulty. She speaks to heartbreak, trauma, and moments where giving up felt close.

One line in particular stayed with me:

“Never give up.”

And then, in a moment between songs, she looked out into the crowd and said, “Everything is going to be alright.”

Simple words. But delivered with conviction.

You could feel that they were earned.

It felt like the entire weekend had been building toward that moment. As if everything I had experienced over those few days had been leading to a single message.

A reminder.

At the same time, almost as if it were part of the same story, we watched the return of a mission connected to Apollo 11 Moon Landing.

Fifty-six years after humanity first stepped onto the moon, we were again looking back at our planet from afar.

That image.

That small blue sphere in the vast darkness.

I was six years old when I watched the moon landing on television. And seeing those images again brought back that same sense of possibility.

It is remarkable what we are capable of.

And yet, it is just as remarkable how easy it is to lose our way.

This past week reminded me of something simple, but important.

We are meant to connect.
We are meant to grow.
We are meant to contribute.

And when things feel uncertain, when the path becomes unclear, sometimes all you need is a moment, or a series of moments, to bring you back.

A conversation.
A room full of people.
A decision to change direction.
A voice on a stage.

What a week.

What a reminder.

Never give up.

Everything is going to be alright.

 “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.