Come to Your Own Rescue

Weds ◆ January 10 ◆ 2024

I dropped out of the University of Georgia when I was 19.

I had no value for education or athletic opportunities.

Funny thing…

…when you study animal behavior science, it turns out almost all humans, and most other mammals, don’t value what comes easy and isn’t hard-earned.

For example, look at dogs who are free fed. Meaning, bowls of food are left out for them all day long to satiate themselves instantly with no effort.

Those dogs usually end up being labelled as finicky and not food motivated when it comes to training.

What else ya got?

But really, why would a dog have value for bottomless kibble that automatically appears in all-you-can-eat 24/7 form without ever having to lift a paw?

I guarantee you, there are no finicky street dogs like the ones we rescue in Romania, Moldova and Ukraine.

Most things that come easy aren’t appreciated.

Some people used to whine — and even get angry — about the cost of private 1:1 coaching with me.

But here’s the deal: people who pay, pay attention.

They’re invested.

Do you know how many friends have asked me for free workouts and nutrition plans — based on the killer results of my paying clients — and then never even started?

All of them.

No skin in the game.

I recently heard the self-made real estate millionaire, Barbara Corcoran of Shark Tank, on a podcast.

She said she never hired grads from wealthy families because there’s usually a lack of hunger and drive that kids working without a net exude.

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When I was a kid, my dad always said:

“You can have anything you want. A car, a phone, a tv, a college education, just go get a job and pay for it yourself.”

After dropping out of college and bouncing around for a year with no direction, I decided an education might be handy.

I had nothing but these two things:

1. the belief that I could have anything I was willing to work for (thanks, Dad); and

2. since I can read, I can teach myself anything.

It just so happened George Mason University (outside D.C. ) was fielding an inaugural NCAA Division I lacrosse team.

So I applied there.

I got pretty good grades in high school. No idea how.

Here’s the twist: I was a decent athlete but I’d never played lacrosse in my life. Especially not at a Division I level.

But I believed if I showed up and put in the work, I’d open a door and create opportunities for myself.

What choice did I have?

So, I marched into the Athletic Department and introduced myself to the coach, a former Ivy League All-American at Cornell.

What’s the worst that could happen? She would laugh me out the door?

She did.

It went like this:

ME: Hi, I excel at many sports but I’ve never played lacrosse. I would now like to not only play it at the highest level but I’d like you to pay for my education, too.

COACH: (blink, blink) Hahaha. (blink, blink, WTF?)

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I needed scholarship money like a drowning person needs oxygen.

No one else was coming to my rescue.

The coach didn’t take me seriously but I showed up every day. For myself.

I bartended at night. This was the early 90’s, so I read lacrosse books and studied VHS instruction tapes and games from the 80’s.

I “borrowed” a broken, crappy lacrosse stick from the intramural club team room. This was back when lacrosse sticks were made of heavy wood and women didn’t wear head or face protection.

I spent sweaty, repetitive hours in a racquetball room learning to catch, throw, shoot, pass against a wall to myself.

I would sneak into the Athletic Department’s indoor track after closing down the bar and run interval sprints until dawn.

I was doing pushups while people slept.

I didn’t have the years of prep school competition, travel teams, specialty equipment, and elite summer camps the other girls were raised on but I knew how to work for whatever it was I wanted.

I couldn’t wait around for someone to tell me I was good enough or that I had the right to be there.

Outworking everybody was my edge.

When tryouts came, there I was with a bunch of shiny young women recruited from the best New England and Atlantic Coast private schools.

I was wearing the same shoes I bartended in. The same shoes I did everything in.

The coach made a comment about my grimy cross-trainers and snarky snickers ensued. I was embarrassed.

And red-cheeked with shame.

Our first fitness test was a four-mile run called “Zion” that had a climb so steep most people never got to the top without losing their lunch and having to walk bent over.

I smoked every other person on the Zion run test by MINUTES in my shitty shoes. I averaged 6:36-minute miles.

Unless you’re Carrie Bradshaw, it’s not about the shoes. It’s about the woman in the shoes.

Suddenly, my coach — and the other athletes — took me seriously.

Not only did I walk on to a Division I lacrosse team in my shitty shoes, I was voted as a captain by my teammates and started and played almost every game.

I scored my first career goal with my left hand against Colgate University.

I’m right-handed.

I received that scholarship money and worked a part-time job for as many hours as the NCAA allowed for student-athletes while carrying a 4.0 GPA. I had a car payment and insurance bills, after all.

I was a Dean’s List student, belonged to two national honor societies, was a Colonial Athletic Association Scholar-Athlete and graduated with honors with a Bachelor of Arts in 20th Century English Literature and a Minor in American History before going on to grad school.

Now, I’m not telling you all this to impress you, peacock around or be a braggart.

I’m telling you this in case you happen to be sitting there waiting for your ship to come in.

If you want that ship to come in, dive into those shark-infested waters, swim your ass off to that ship, commandeer it, and bring it back to your port as your own.

The only talent you need is an unflagging work ethic and a fire in your belly that burns hotter than doubt, naysayers and insecurity.

And embarrassment. And shame.

Commit to what you believe you were breathed into existence for and close all exits.

Get to work even if all you have is a shitty pair of shoes.

Get active in your own rescue.

Now.

♥️P.S.

This week’s upcoming workout is here: