Unvarnished Reality

Malcolm Gladwell popularized the idea that it takes 10,000 hours of work to become an expert. I don’t know how many hours I’ve logged in this work, but I’ve loved every second. Or at least, I’ve convinced myself I have—because if I stopped to count, I might start questioning my sanity.

The truth is, the behind-the-scenes isn’t glamorous. It’s not dopamine. It’s not dopamine’s cousin. It’s spreadsheets at midnight, a wall of research papers that don’t know how to shut up, and the existential weight of athletes trusting you with their minds.

But I freaking love it.

I love the silence before a breakthrough. I love the awkward pauses in sessions where something sacred is trying to surface. I love the moments that don’t make it to highlight reels—the journal entries no one reads, the eye twitches before a tear, the rituals before the rituals.

Expertise doesn’t feel like mastery.

It feels like monotony.

It feels like hammering at the same damn stone day after day, whispering, “Break, you bastard,” until one day it cracks just right—and an athlete sees something in themselves they’d never seen before.

That’s what I live for. Not the crack, but the hammering.

So, no—I don’t know how many hours I’ve put in. But if the devil offered me a refund on my time, I’d tell him to go to hell.

I’m not here for the glamour.

I’m here for the grind.