A deep reflection on ambition, adversity, and what it means to keep pushing even when not everyone can win.
“Can’t let my foot off the gas. Either I’m going to crash and burn, or I’m going to see the checkered flag.”
That line plays in my head more often than I’d like to admit. There’s no pause button in the race I’m running. Every day I push through adversity, doubt, fatigue, wondering if it will ever be enough. I ask myself if I’m pushing because I believe in something greater, or if I’m just afraid of what happens when I stop. The truth? I think too much about the what-ifs.
I believe that not everyone is meant to win. If we were all meant to win, wouldn’t we all have what we need? But then I wonder, do we even know what we want? We chase dreams, pursue success, aim for significance. But if there were no struggle, would there be any growth? The fire still forges the steel. That steel doesn’t form in silence, it groans under the pressure, heat, and time. The flames test it, purify it, strengthen it. Without that process, it remains brittle and unformed. The wind still strengthens the tree’s roots. But not just any wind, the violent kind. The kind that threatens to tear down everything in its path. And yet, somehow, that wind teaches the tree to dig deeper, to anchor harder, to endure. Maybe it’s the resistance that makes us. Maybe it’s the adversity that clarifies who we really are, forcing us to shed the parts of ourselves that were never meant to last.
There is a first, a second, and a third place, in every record list, in every sporting bracket, in every sales war. If everyone stood at the top, there’d be no drive, no hierarchy, no ambition. No reason to climb. But even in competition, not all losses are the same. Some losses teach. Others break. Most are silent. We only hear about the winners. But there’s so much more beneath the surface of that podium.
I think about willpower and the body. Which gives out first? I’ve seen athletes collapse at the finish line, not for lack of heart, but because their body said no more. These are people who trained for years, waking up before the sun, running through pain, ignoring injuries, dialing in diets and hydration, all for a shot at something bigger than themselves. They don’t show up unprepared. They’ve studied every inch of the course, visualized every step, and imagined the ribbon breaking across their chest. But when the body fails, when the muscles seize, when the lungs burn, when the legs give, it doesn’t matter how much they believed. Is it really mind over matter when the matter revolts? There are limits we don’t choose. And when we reflect after the fact, when people say, “You should’ve done this,” or “Why didn’t you see that?”, it doesn’t help. Because in the moment, you do what you believe is right. You act with the knowledge, instincts, and emotional clarity you have at the time. Hindsight doesn’t fix what’s already broken. It just stands behind you and whispers about how you should have known better.
Mount Everest is littered with the bodies of those who believed their push would be enough. They had plans. They had drive. They poured time, energy, and money into reaching that peak. Some spent years preparing, climbing smaller mountains, training their lungs to breathe in thin air, learning how to navigate crevasses, avalanches, and shifting icefalls. They mortgaged their homes, left families behind, and chased a dream that lived above the clouds. But some never came back. Their bodies remain frozen in time, grim reminders of how unforgiving the mountain truly is. All can’t be first. All can’t make it. Some tried. Some died. And that’s not poetry. That’s real.
I ask myself: Will I die trying to make a difference? What if my body gives out before my purpose is fulfilled? Nikola Tesla died penniless, never to witness the full impact of his brilliance. Is effort enough without recognition? Do I push anyway? Is it insanity? Edison once said, “I haven’t failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.” But isn’t that the same as insanity, repeating actions expecting a different result? Who gets to decide what’s foolish and what’s visionary? I don’t want the hindsight answer. I want the now answer. I need to know now if I’m wasting my life or laying the groundwork for something bigger.
And still, I push. Every day. Fighting. Breathing. Believing that maybe, just maybe, there’s power in the push. That things can change. That locked doors might one day open. But what if, when I reach the end of this path, I turn around and all I see is rubble? Gravel in the potholes. Collapsed shoulders. The fractured road of my life. The shoulda, woulda, coulda will already be etched in the asphalt.
So I ask: Do I keep going? Do I try to change the road as I walk it? Do I pave over the past or learn to step lightly across the broken parts? Do I try to fix what’s already fractured or move forward knowing I can’t undo the cracks? Or do I accept the journey as it is,because maybe, just maybe, not everyone is supposed to win. And if that’s the case, is survival itself a kind of victory?
Even so, I hold onto this: the effort is worth the journey. Pain reminds us we’re alive. Struggle tells us we still have something to fight for. When the curtain calls, and it will, I want to be able to say I gave it everything. Even if I got it wrong. Even if I failed. At least I lived.
People say, “Choose where you stand.” But what if we don’t know what we’re standing on? What if the destination was chosen before the path was laid? I stumble through it all. Not with certainty, but with intent.
Because the weight of failure is suffocating. I wonder how much my children have suffered because of my missteps. How many cracks have I caused? How much destruction have I left in my wake? I can’t afford to wait for later. I need movement now. But I don’t know where I stand. Am I first, second, third, or one thousand seven hundred and ninety-seventh? I look back and I see the scars. I see the missed chances. I’m not at the end, but I’m not aligned with anything that feels like purpose. I’m off track. Crooked. Searching.
And I can’t help but ask: Will all of this be for nothing? What is my place?
Maybe the truth is… I don’t know yet.
But I’m still here. Still in pain. Still breathing. Still pushing.
Even if all can’t be winners, maybe trying still counts for something.