#1 ·
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the concept of the "grind" and whether we are actually losing the ability to value true, bone-deep struggle. I was watching some clips of high-level athletic competitions over the weekend—not even the big ones, just some intense heavy-lifting stuff—and it got me thinking about the psychological difference between someone who just shows up to be part of a group and someone who spends years obsessing over a single, crushing physical goal.
Don't get me wrong, I love seeing people succeed. I love the podiums and the medals and the recognition. But lately, I feel like there's this massive cultural shift toward making sure everyone feels like a winner, regardless of whether they actually pushed themselves to the absolute limit. We see it in youth sports, we see it in corporate "wellness" initiatives, and we see it in how we talk about achievement on social media. It feels like we're smoothing out all the jagged edges of competition to make things more comfortable for everyone.
But is that actually a bad thing? Or is it a disaster for human excellence?
If you look at the history of any serious discipline—whether it's weightlifting, classical music, or even high-stakes coding—there is a specific kind of mental toughness that only comes from being *not* the best. There is a profound, transformative power in coming incredibly close to a goal and realizing you fell just short. That sting, that literal ache of a silver medal or a second-place finish, is what drives the next cycle of training. It’s the fuel. If you remove the sting by handing out participation accolades or by lowering the bar so that "effort" is weighted the same as "result," do we actually end up with a more mediocre society?
I remember back in my high school years, I was on the track team. I wasn't a star. I was the kid who finished middle-of-the-pack most of the time. I remember one specific regional meet where I worked my tail off, thinking I had a real shot at the podium, only to finish just outside the qualifying spots. I was devastated. I remember sitting on the grass, feeling like a total failure. But looking back twenty years later, that specific feeling of "I was so close, yet so far" was the most important thing I ever learned. It taught me how to analyze my own weaknesses. It taught me that passion without precision doesn't get you anywhere.
Nowadays, it feels like we're trying to protect people from that exact feeling. We're hyper-aware of mental health—which is vital, obviously—but I worry we're conflating "mental well-being" with "avoiding the discomfort of competition." There is a massive difference between toxic environments that break people down and the healthy, constructive pressure of trying to be the best in the world at something.
When we celebrate the struggle, we are celebrating the human spirit. But when we celebrate the *intent* to struggle rather than the actual achievement, I think we're diluting the meaning of greatness. If everyone is an elite, then nobody is.
I’m curious to hear what you all think. Do you think we’ve become too soft in our pursuit of inclusivity, or is the old-school "win at all costs" mentality actually more damaging to our collective mental health than I'm giving it credit for? Does the value of a second-place finish hold the same weight it used to, or has the definition of "success" shifted too far toward just "showing up"?
Don't get me wrong, I love seeing people succeed. I love the podiums and the medals and the recognition. But lately, I feel like there's this massive cultural shift toward making sure everyone feels like a winner, regardless of whether they actually pushed themselves to the absolute limit. We see it in youth sports, we see it in corporate "wellness" initiatives, and we see it in how we talk about achievement on social media. It feels like we're smoothing out all the jagged edges of competition to make things more comfortable for everyone.
But is that actually a bad thing? Or is it a disaster for human excellence?
If you look at the history of any serious discipline—whether it's weightlifting, classical music, or even high-stakes coding—there is a specific kind of mental toughness that only comes from being *not* the best. There is a profound, transformative power in coming incredibly close to a goal and realizing you fell just short. That sting, that literal ache of a silver medal or a second-place finish, is what drives the next cycle of training. It’s the fuel. If you remove the sting by handing out participation accolades or by lowering the bar so that "effort" is weighted the same as "result," do we actually end up with a more mediocre society?
I remember back in my high school years, I was on the track team. I wasn't a star. I was the kid who finished middle-of-the-pack most of the time. I remember one specific regional meet where I worked my tail off, thinking I had a real shot at the podium, only to finish just outside the qualifying spots. I was devastated. I remember sitting on the grass, feeling like a total failure. But looking back twenty years later, that specific feeling of "I was so close, yet so far" was the most important thing I ever learned. It taught me how to analyze my own weaknesses. It taught me that passion without precision doesn't get you anywhere.
Nowadays, it feels like we're trying to protect people from that exact feeling. We're hyper-aware of mental health—which is vital, obviously—but I worry we're conflating "mental well-being" with "avoiding the discomfort of competition." There is a massive difference between toxic environments that break people down and the healthy, constructive pressure of trying to be the best in the world at something.
When we celebrate the struggle, we are celebrating the human spirit. But when we celebrate the *intent* to struggle rather than the actual achievement, I think we're diluting the meaning of greatness. If everyone is an elite, then nobody is.
I’m curious to hear what you all think. Do you think we’ve become too soft in our pursuit of inclusivity, or is the old-school "win at all costs" mentality actually more damaging to our collective mental health than I'm giving it credit for? Does the value of a second-place finish hold the same weight it used to, or has the definition of "success" shifted too far toward just "showing up"?