Stop Trying So Damn Hard

What happened when I let go and stopped "seeking"

I played golf for the first time last October. 

My friend–we’ll call him David to protect his identity–was getting married, so the other groomsmen and I took him out for a day on the greens (as the golfers call it, I think) the morning before he tied the knot. 

I’ve never been very interested in golf, if I’m honest. I appreciated the skill and focus it required, but to me, it just looked painfully boring and not that impressive athletically. Sorry golfers.

Anyway, my friends were pretty obsessed with it and took the sport quite seriously. 

They all showed up to the course with their own bags full of different clubs, you know, drivers, nine-irons, uhhh… putters? Those are golf clubs, right? I showed up empty-handed, not even expecting to make contact with a golf ball. I was there mostly to support the guys and learn a thing or two about golf. 

When we pulled up to the first hole, the man of the hour, David, stepped up to hit the first ball. 

I’ve decided to blame this on pre-wedding nerves, but he completely shanked it. I mean, it may have been the worst golf swing in recorded history. Had we been filming, it would’ve made ESPN’s Not Top Ten highlights. He struck the ball with the bottom of the driver and it ricocheted off the ground, nearly hit a group of elderly gentlemen, and landed only a few yards to our right. 

Not the best way to start your wedding day, man.   

All these guys, David included, had been golfing for years and boasted some pretty decent abilities. I on the other hand was a total newb, and waltzed in with a little bit of contempt for the entire concept of golf… but the latter would soon change.

A photo I took somewhere between Denver and Dallas. Just let go. Don’t try so hard… the road of life will take you wherever it wants in the end.

After they’d all given the first hole their best swing, it was my turn. I borrowed my friend’s driver and stepped up. 

I remembered the only bit of golf advice I’d ever heard: Keep your eye on the ball. 

I did a few practice swings, took a deep breath, and then ripped it. 

To everyone’s surprise, the ball sailed straight and landed short of the green. It was a relatively average shot compared to the rest of the group. But for someone who had never golfed before, it was incredible. 

For the rest of the day, I was hitting some impressive shots. To be honest, I never even made a hole, but it felt incredible just to strike the ball and shock my friends. On day one of my golf career, I was already showing some promise. It was amazing. 

Maybe golf isn’t so bad, I thought to myself. This is fun. 

Not to float my own boat too much, but I was pretty good…at least for a novice. 

You might attribute this to beginners' luck, but I think there was another reason I golfed so well on day one. 

My secret was simply that I was not trying at all. 

Throughout my years of climbing, surfing, playing soccer, and other sports, I’ve come to understand that trying hard is a paradox. The harder you try, the less likely you are to succeed. 

When I say this, I am not referring to the physical aspects of performance. I’m talking about the mental game. Of course, pushing our bodies and trying our absolute hardest physically is essential in sports. But on the other hand, pushing ourselves mentally only gets in our way.

When I stepped up to the golf ball each time, I had no expectations of even striking the ball. I had no pressure to impress my friends. I had no goals and no objectives, and thus I could just swing with complete freedom. I was loose and totally unrestricted by self-doubt or expectation. 

David, on the other hand, called himself a golfer. He’d talked about how long he’d been golfing, what types of clubs he had, and which courses he preferred. When he stepped up to the first hole, we could all sense the weight of expectation. Though I can only surmise what he was thinking, I would say he probably let his ego get in the way of his shot. He was trying too hard. 

This week, I started reading Haruki Murakami’s book, Novelist As A Vocation. I’m sure you can probably guess by the title, it’s a book about writing. 

Murakami is one of the most prolific Japanese novelists ever. He’s written dozens of bestsellers, had his work translated into more than 50 languages, and won numerous awards for his works.

What surprised me the most about Novelist As A Vocation is how unattached Murakami is from his profession and the levity with which he refers to writing. He says, over and over, that he didn’t even consider himself a writer, and that his life would still be complete and fulfilling without writing. In other words, he doesn’t take writing that seriously. 

By completely detaching his identity from his profession, he frees himself from the weight of expectation. He doesn’t try to write well, because he doesn’t care if his writing is considered good or not. His identity and self-worth are not attached to it. His ego is out of the way and he can just write. 

I’m not much of a note-taker when I read, but here’s a passage from Novelist As A Vocation, that I couldn’t help but highlight: 

This is purely my opinion, but if you want to express yourself as freely as you can, it’s probably best not to start out by asking “What am I seeking?” Rather, it’s better to ask “Who would I be if I were not seeking anything?” and then try to visualize that aspect of yourself. Asking “What am I seeking?” invariably leads you to ponder heavy issues. The heavier that discussion gets, the farther freedom retreats, and the slower your footwork becomes. The slower the footwork, the less lively your prose. When that happens, your writing won’t charm anyone–possibly even you. 

The you who is not seeking anything, by contrast, is light and free as a butterfly. All you have to do is uncup your hands and let it soar. Your words will flow effortlessly.

This idea of “seeking” has been a major obstacle in my life, both in sports and in everyday life. When I was playing soccer in college, I had lofty goals. Not only did I want to win every game and every possible trophy, but I also wanted to play professionally when I graduated. Because I was constantly “seeking” a result or an objective, I put immense pressure on myself. I got hung up on every mistake, every loss, and thus created constant roadblocks for myself. Not only did I stymie my own progress, but I also stopped enjoying the sport. I took it so seriously that I started to hate it, and my performance suffered.

Then, sometime between my junior and senior year of college, I met my now-fiancée Noa and fell madly in love with her. I was so infatuated with her that somehow soccer, which had been the sole focus of my life up until that point, took a backseat. I still had my goals and objectives and still worked toward them, but I no longer felt like I was “seeking” anything. I started to form an identity and envision a life that was unattached to soccer. What I mean is, I no longer needed any sort of result or objective to make me feel whole. And I didn’t need anyone either. My love for Noa was simply a catalyst that helped me develop an identity that depended on nothing outside of myself.

Same, same. Stop seeking. Enjoy the ride.

During my last season of college soccer, I effectively stopped “seeking”. I was still giving my full physical effort in every training session and every game. In fact, I think I was among the fittest and strongest players on the team. In one game that went into overtime, I ran more than 13 miles. And at the end of one strength-training practice, our coach challenged the whole team to hold a plank position for as long as we could. One by one my teammates started dropping out. After seven and a half minutes, only me and one other player were still holding a plank. At seven minutes and 50 seconds, he quit. I made it through eight minutes and ten seconds of excruciating abdominal pain before I tapped out. So yes, I was still trying as hard as I could physically, but I no longer added any mental weight to the sport whatsoever. 

At the end of the season, our team did poorly, which was disappointing but didn’t affect me in any way. Personally, I had one of the best seasons of my life on and off the field. I logged my highest number of assists and goals, I got a 3.9 GPA, and started dating my future wife. 

My life off the field had started to take shape. I stopped “seeking” success in soccer and, as Murakami says, started to form who I “would be if I were not seeking anything”.

Then, in January of 2018, I got drafted into the MLS by the Seattle Sounders. In the end, I never landed a professional contract in Seattle. But still, I had achieved my lifelong dream of making it to the MLS, only after I had finally stopped trying. Isn’t that kind of crazy? I actually achieved what I had always wanted, when I stopped wanting it. 

That is exactly what Murakami is talking about when he says “The you who is not seeking anything [...] is light and free as a butterfly.” When I gave up all my “seeking” in soccer, I was able to play light and free. I played the best I ever had because I genuinely didn’t care anymore. I wasn’t a soccer player anymore, I was just a person who played soccer sometimes. 

These days, I try to apply the same mindset to everything I do, like golf or writing. 

I once heard author Steven Pressfield talk about writing. He said, before he starts a first draft, he always begins with the line “And the bad version of this is…” 

By starting a story with that line, he removes all expectations of writing anything good. There’s no pressure to achieve any sort of result on the first draft. 

I’ve also adopted this technique in my writing. For me, it has completely eliminated writer’s block. In other words, I don’t get in my own way because I am not trying to write well or even trying to write. Like Murakami, I am not even a writer. I am just a person who writes. 

Whether in writing, sports, or in life in general, I can only truly enter a state of flow and effortlessness when I completely let go and stop “seeking”. 

My point is, the first step to playing golf well, is to stop trying to play golf well. Trust me, I golfed once. I know what I’m talking about.