A few days ago, I found myself saying something to a client that I never expected to say.
"I don't feel very good at my job right now."
And I meant it.
Not because the athlete wasn't listening.
Not because he didn't care.
Not because he wasn't working hard.
In fact, he might be one of the most committed athletes I've ever worked with.
He's spent years working toward his goal of being a Division I pitcher.
He's trained relentlessly.
Made sacrifices.
Pushed through setbacks.
He's done everything you would reasonably expect from a young athlete who desperately wants to succeed.
Yet there we sat.
Stuck.
(And I've known him for three years...)
This athlete has struggled with one thing for as long as I've known him:
Throwing strikes consistently.
In general, that's a big deal for pitchers.
At the Division I level, it's often the difference between being a significant contributor and watching from the sidelines.
Recruiters seek it.
Coaches stress it.
Statistics reflect it.
And over time, the feedback became internalized.
Not:
"I struggle with command."
But:
I'm the guy who can't throw strikes."
There's a difference.
One describes a challenge.
The other describes an identity.
And once an athlete starts confusing the two, things get complicated.
The frustrating part?
This athlete already has a boatload of evidence that he belongs.
I've watched him pitch some really good baseball.
Two strong outings against teams currently competing in the NCAA Super Regionals. Struck out a likely first-round pick.
Moments where he trusted himself.
Moments where he let go of the outcome.
Moments where he simply competed.
"Attack it. F*** 'em."
That was his mantra.
He was committed to his process.
He commanded his pacing.
And when he does that?
He's really good.
By most objective standards…
Except his own.
The problem isn't that those moments never happened.
The problem is that they never seem to count.
Every walk becomes proof.
Every bad outing becomes proof.
Every setback gets added to the case against himself.
The successes?
Those get explained away.
Dismissed.
Treated like exceptions.
Never good enough.
And that's when I realized why I felt frustrated.
Not because he lacked evidence.
Because the evidence never seemed to matter.
Most people assume confidence comes from accumulating evidence.
A great game.
A solid season.
A Division I scholarship offer.
But this athlete already has all of that evidence.
The evidence isn't the problem.
The interpretation is.
And that's one of the hardest parts of my job.
can't make an athlete believe something about themselves.
I can point to evidence.
I can challenge assumptions.
I can create opportunities for reflection.
I can even be a cheerleader from time to time.
But I can't do the believing for them.
At some point, the athlete has to become willing to see themselves differently.
And that's where this story becomes bigger than baseball.
It's not just athletes who are impacted by this.
Parents do, too. I've experienced it with my own daughter.
There are moments when I can clearly see her growth, yet she remains focused on what she believes is missing.
Maybe you've experienced something similar.
You've told your athlete:
"Look how much you've improved."
"Remember that great game?"
"You've worked so hard to get here."
And your athlete responds with some version of:
"Yeah, but..."
The issue isn't a lack of encouragement.
The issue isn't a lack of evidence.
Sometimes the issue is the story they've decided is true.
And once a story becomes part of an athlete's identity, they begin collecting evidence to support it.
Even when the full body of evidence says otherwise.
A few questions to consider this week:
1. What labels might your athlete be carrying?
Not:
"I struggle with confidence."
But:
"I'm not confident."
Not:
"My shot needs to improve."
But:
I'm not a shooter."
Listen carefully to the language.
The difference matters.
2. What do you regularly acknowledge beyond performance?
Work ethic.
Resilience.
Leadership.
Courage.
Kindness.
Character.
If performance is the only thing being discussed, performance can start to feel like the only thing that matters.
3. What evidence about themselves might your athlete be refusing to accept?
Sometimes, athletes don't need more proof.
They need help believing the proof that already exists.
After that session, I kept thinking about how often we assume confidence comes from accumulating evidence.
But this athlete already has evidence.
The evidence isn't the problem.
The interpretation is.
And until athletes become willing to see themselves as more than the thing they struggle with most, every success will feel temporary, and every setback will feel permanent.
That's the hard part of this work.
Not teaching breathing.
Not teaching routines.
Not teaching focus.
Helping a young person stop defining themselves by the thing they struggle with most.
Because athletes play their best when they're free to be themselves.
And sometimes the biggest obstacle to that freedom isn't a coach.
It isn't a parent.
It isn't a lack of talent.
It's the story they've come to believe about themselves.
***
If this story resonated with you, I'd love to hear from you.
What is a label, belief, or story that your athlete seems to carry about themselves?
Just hit reply and let me know.
I read every response.
