By most traditional standards, I’ve done alright. Built businesses, made money, checked boxes that make other people nod. But the real blueprint for whatever success I’ve had didn’t come from a boardroom—it came from lacrosse.
And not from the fireworks people think define the game. Not the cannon-shot goals that echo across the field, or the bone-jarring checks that leave the crowd gasping. Those are just highlights, sugar highs that fade by Monday. What stuck with me—what shaped me—were the unglamorous hours no one saw.
Wall ball in the summer heat, where the rhythm of the ball smacking brick became its own kind of meditation. Stringing and re-stringing sticks in my room at midnight, fingers raw, because I knew the pocket still wasn’t right. Running sprints when I didn’t even know if I liked the sport anymore. Those weren’t about chasing glory. They were about refusing to stand still.