“Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore.”
André Gide
It was a long while back now—back when phones still had buttons and my knees still had cartilage—when my friend Marshall ran his first marathon.
We talked afterward, and he sounded dazed—the way people do when they’ve just survived something they paid money to endure. He talked about the heat, the cramps, the miles that refused to end. I congratulated him the way any good friend would—by saying, “That sounds awful. Congratulations.”
Then he said something that’s stuck with me longer than most advice I’ve paid for.
“Stephen, I’ve never been stretched as thin or pushed as hard as I was in achieving this goal.”
At the time, I nodded politely while probably eating chips. But years later, that line came back and landed differently.
Because somewhere along the way, I realized most of my goals were things I already knew I could do. They didn’t ask me to grow—just to plan.
And honestly, there’s a quiet safety in that. Checking boxes feels good. You can build an entire personality around productivity and never risk changing at all.
Meanwhile, Marshall found a goal that outgrew him—and then somehow caught up.
I still wonder what that kind of goal would be for me. Not just something harder, but something that changes the shape of who I am—something that asks for more patience, more kindness, a little less fear.
It’s been a while, and I’d love to say I figured it out. I haven’t.
Every so often I get close—usually when life stretches me in ways I never asked for. When I’m doing something that scares me a little. When I notice I’m not quite who I was.
I’m not always chasing new mountains—but often facing the ones I’ve spent years walking around.
The climb can feel awkward and slow. But every now and then, I look up, realize the view’s changed—and maybe that’s enough.
