Coaching High School Lax Gave Me So Much. It Also Took Its Toll.

Coaching lacrosse can hollow out your schedule, hijack your sleep, and move into your head like a tenant who never pays rent — but here’s the thing nobody should get wrong:

I loved coaching high school varsity lacrosse.

Not liked.
Loved.

It was one of the most treasured, electric, brutally beautiful experiences of my life.
And maybe that’s why it took so much — because I opened the door all the way.

High school lacrosse isn’t coaching, it’s immersion.
Five, sometimes six days a week.
Two-hour practices that turn into three because you’re the first one unlocking the locker room and the last one turning off the lights.
Meetings with the school, the community, parents, boosters — a small-town political ecosystem you never applied for.

And then the beast in your head:
the constant strategizing, the midnight film rabbit holes, the compulsive “what if we moved him to LSM?” thoughts that invade showers, car rides, and dinners like unwelcome guests.

You tell yourself you’ll keep distance in the off-season… but you don’t.
You draw up wall ball plans.
You message kids to check in.
You create club opportunities so your guys stay sharp.
You watch their progress like a parent with 60 sons because you genuinely care.

That's the part people miss:
I cared.
Deeply.
Maybe too deeply.

I wasn’t burned out because the job was terrible — I burned out because I loved the job enough to torch myself for it.

Coaching youth didn’t do this.
International tournaments didn’t do this.
Even the Colombian national team — as intense and proud as that was — didn’t do this.

Only high school did.

Because high school isn’t just a team.
It’s a community.
A heartbeat.
A bunch of kids counting on you to be the adult with the plan, the standard, the belief.

And I don’t resent that.
Not for a second.
Those years gave me purpose, connection, and moments I still think about with a quiet smile.

But here’s the honest twist:

If I could do it again, I’d draw clearer boundaries.
Not because I didn’t care — but because caring without limits is how passion becomes exhaustion.

I’d protect my time.
I’d protect my emotional energy.
I’d set expectations that didn’t require my entire identity to live inside a season.

Because here’s what happened when I finally stepped away:

My net worth went from $150,000 to $15 million in six years.

Not because I stopped coaching — but because I finally had the mental space to chase the business I’d been half-building for years.

When I was coaching, I told myself I was giving both my team and my business everything.
But looking back, I see it clearly:

I was giving the kids my heart…
and giving my future whatever scraps were left.

And that’s fine — if that’s the life you want.
But I had dreams too big to keep treating them like leftovers.

Coaching high school lacrosse wasn’t awful.
It was amazing, life-shaping, unforgettable.
But loving something doesn’t mean surrendering every part of yourself to it.

If I could talk to my younger coaching self, I’d tell him:

Love the game.
Love the kids.
But don’t let the season swallow the man.
Give your heart — not your whole life.

I’m grateful I coached.
I’m grateful I stopped.
And I’m grateful for every bit of who it made me along the way.