One large realization that I have had over the last year is that toughness is like a language: if it isn’t practiced, it will be lost. When I talk about toughness, I am speaking of mental toughness (in my opinion, physical toughness is really just an outward display of mental toughness). I have always considered myself to be a “tough” person. I grew up as a competitive club swimmer, and when college came around I switched over to D1 lightweight rowing. As a LW rower, not only did I have a grueling practice schedule, but I was also required to maintain a low bodyweight so that I could weigh in at 160lbs each week (I am naturally 6’4 195). Toughness was never an issue. It was just a given. However, when the demands of a division one sport disappeared, and I was able to dictate the terms of my workouts each day, I started giving myself outs. Nothing dramatic, but overtime I realized that I would come up with “legitimate” reasons to forgo the hard run or the final set. Maybe my back ached, or my shoulder felt stiff, whatever it was I would tell myself that it was safer to just put the weight down or get off the rowing machine. As I did this more and more, I began noticing that these “justifications” were seeping into other parts of my life. I would come up with reasons not to wake up as early as I had planned, not to read as many pages as I had intended, or not to make as many cold calls as I had initially wanted. Ultimately, what I came to realize, was that throughout my life, my ability to make it through incredibly hard athletic challenges had also given me the mental edge that I required to get things done in other realms of my life. In short: mental toughness is a muscle, and mine was atrophying.
Toughness is Like a Language
Toughness is Like a Language
Toughness is Like a Language
One large realization that I have had over the last year is that toughness is like a language: if it isn’t practiced, it will be lost. When I talk about toughness, I am speaking of mental toughness (in my opinion, physical toughness is really just an outward display of mental toughness). I have always considered myself to be a “tough” person. I grew up as a competitive club swimmer, and when college came around I switched over to D1 lightweight rowing. As a LW rower, not only did I have a grueling practice schedule, but I was also required to maintain a low bodyweight so that I could weigh in at 160lbs each week (I am naturally 6’4 195). Toughness was never an issue. It was just a given. However, when the demands of a division one sport disappeared, and I was able to dictate the terms of my workouts each day, I started giving myself outs. Nothing dramatic, but overtime I realized that I would come up with “legitimate” reasons to forgo the hard run or the final set. Maybe my back ached, or my shoulder felt stiff, whatever it was I would tell myself that it was safer to just put the weight down or get off the rowing machine. As I did this more and more, I began noticing that these “justifications” were seeping into other parts of my life. I would come up with reasons not to wake up as early as I had planned, not to read as many pages as I had intended, or not to make as many cold calls as I had initially wanted. Ultimately, what I came to realize, was that throughout my life, my ability to make it through incredibly hard athletic challenges had also given me the mental edge that I required to get things done in other realms of my life. In short: mental toughness is a muscle, and mine was atrophying.