The Key is in Plain Sight
You know what to do to succeed. Will you do it?
I’ve failed twice to earn a spot to BUD/S, the first step in becoming a Navy SEAL.
I know why I failed both times. Expert mentors told me exactly what I needed to succeed each time, and a part of me chose failure. I spent a few years ashamed of that — not wanting to think about or discuss it — before I started coaching and realized how common this really is.
Everyone I coach works hard. They’re motivated and successful professionals in their fields with good reasons to become or stay strong and fit. So why would they choose to act in ways that frustrate their goals? Why do you?
When I arrived at the US Naval Academy in 2005, I had the resources I needed to become a SEAL. I was fit, a strong runner, and despite the interruptions of midshipman life, the training environment was excellent. There were several pools, gyms, excellent coaches, and peers to train with.
I had one little problem. I couldn’t swim. The application test for SEAL training included a 500-yard swim using the combat swimmer sidestroke, and my sluggish 11-minute time was an instant disqualifier.
For the next two years, I aimed to master the combat swimmer sidestroke. I attended every clinic, reviewed every YouTube video, watched instructional DVDs, and practiced until it felt smooth.
Still, my 500 yd time was too slow.
I mentioned this to an officer who offered to check my technique. In silence, he watched me swim a few lengths. I tagged the last wall and looked up, eagerly waiting for him to tell me what part of my stroke — or could it be my kickoff? — was dragging me down. Calmly, he told me:
“Stop the drills and stick to hard, long swims. Your form is excellent; you just haven’t put in the work yet.”
Feelings, Thoughts, and Choices
I thanked him sincerely and walked away confident, but that confidence soon gave way to other feelings.
The feeling of incompetence from falling behind my swim partners. The inadequacy and failure I felt every time I saw the pace clock. Feelings of doubt — I wasn’t built to swim — and hopelessness.
And on the heel of those feelings came new thoughts, with one in particular standing out: “You’re never going to be the best swimmer. Do good enough and win on your strengths.”
With the still, silent voice of wisdom now thoroughly silenced, I trained hard and began the selection screener — a weekend test designed to separate out candidates who couldn’t handle hard conditions — stronger, fitter, and more ready than ever.
I survived — hanging in to the end by sheer will and the exhausted determination of a thirst-starved nomad limping towards a mirage.
The tipping point was a river swim weighed down by our camouflage uniforms in the chill 50 degrees of our November nights. I was the last one to finish. The few that fell behind me had to be pulled out of the water because their slow speed kept them in the water too long, putting them at risk for hypothermia. I don’t even remember the next few hours, stumbling through until the sun warmed me up enough to think.
The SEALs don’t need survivors — they need performers — and I remember thinking: “I knew it, and I blew it.”
The lesson I thought I’d learned was that I failed to correctly assess my strengths and weaknesses and align them to the needs of the task. I simply underestimated the importance of my swim training.
In general, this idea makes intuitive sense. Self help gurus as far back as the 6th Century BC have said: “Know your enemy, and know yourself, and in a hundred battles, you will never be in peril.”
We’re told that if we attend enough Strengthsfinder workshops, take the right Team Personality Tests, and collect insider knowledge of the field and the goal to be achieved, we’re guaranteed success. Armed with this wisdom, I prepared for my second attempt.
After graduating from the Academy, I was assigned to a destroyer, USS John Paul Jones. To become a SEAL, I’d have to “cross-transfer,” tossing in my hat along with over a hundred applicants across the services competing for limited slots.
It would take two years to earn my qualifications and apply again, so I had plenty of time to get over my feelings and swim.
I found a swim coach at the Naval base who ran sessions specifically for SEAL candidates, providing instructions in the strokes I’d neglected as well as accountability to do the miles. I completed a PST once a month and steadily improved. I kept up my other training but focused less on my specialty — long-distance running — and more on strength, rucking, and obstacle course work.
Through a chance meeting, I ended up talking to a SEAL Chief about my training and my desire to cross-transfer from the fleet. He nodded, making occasional comments throughout, then told me:
“The selection committee doesn’t just want to know you’re fit — they want to know you’re the right fit. Come by the compound and work in with us at the gym in the morning. Get to know people. Let them know you. If you put out and they respect you, you’ll stand out.”
Again, I walked away with a deep knowing that he was right and a commitment to do exactly that.
Again, the feelings of inadequacy, undeserving, shame, and doubt crept in.
Again, my clever brain told a story about how it could backfire, how I could stand out in other ways, and I developed a new plan to better pursue my strategy. A year later, I’d almost forgotten about the conversation.
Halfway through my transfer interview, dressed in my sharpest dress blues, the Captain in charge asked me why I — an officer stationed in San Diego and training right next door to the SEALs — never made a personal connection with the Teams.
I don’t remember what I replied, but I do remember the feeling that I was shown all the cards — told which hand to play — and I’d chosen to lose.
Again. And there wouldn’t be a third chance.
The first lesson — know your weaknesses and know your business — isn’t enough.
Our devious brains protect us from doing the things we fear. These aren’t always the effortful things but the things that make us question our values, identity, and purpose. The things that put us in the path of shame and insecurity.
The real challenge, then, isn’t in the knowing. It’s in the unknowing, the twin forces of deep resistance and self-destructive cleverness that first turn us away and then blind us to the answer.
Systems, strategies, and self-help are useful. But when you’re truly stuck, you probably don’t need another article, idea, or book. You likely need to find the idea that scares you, that makes you want to turn away and justify every other possible option. Go back to that idea — move towards those feelings when you arise — and you’ll find yourself back on the path.
