I never used to see my positive qualities. Maybe they weren’t mirrored back, maybe it felt dangerous to recognize them. In my family, showing strength felt like showing off. So I grew up thinking I wasn’t good at anything—I just did things.

Rugby gave me an early glimpse of something I couldn’t name back then. My teacher put me at fullback, trusting me with one of the hardest positions. I didn’t know why. Looking back now, it’s obvious:

  • I wasn’t scared of tackling anyone, any size.
  • I could catch a ball under pressure.
  • I was fast, able to cover ground quickly.

At the time, I couldn’t imagine what it felt like to hesitate in a tackle. Fear didn’t register—I just went. That same fearlessness showed up in skating, in Jiu-Jitsu, in chasing adrenaline with a broken wrist. Maybe it was courage, maybe stupidity, but it was mine.

Now, fifteen years later, those memories resurface when I’m alone. They don’t feel like nostalgia—they feel like integration. I see how my teachers recognized there was no malice in me, just distraction. I wasn’t a “bad kid,” I just couldn’t focus. They saw that, even when I didn’t.

What’s changed is discernment. At thirty-five, I know I can still make myself do anything. The difference is: now I ask, “Is it worth it?”

That shift shows up everywhere:

  • As a father, I face challenges head-on but choose my battles wisely.
  • In therapy training, I lean into vulnerability but respect when to pause.
  • At the poker table, I take risks but only when the odds make sense.
  • In fitness, I no longer chase adrenaline—I choose challenges that mean something.
  • In relationships, I know when to open myself and when to hold back.

Fearlessness was my raw quality. Discernment has turned it into wisdom.

I’m finally beginning to see what others once saw in me.