1 small moment that compounds
My seven-year-old slips into the pool like he belongs there. No hesitation. No noise. The water meets him and he relaxes into it, as if itās always known his name. When I was twelve, my friends used to swim every summer in a freezing river near my home in Waterford, in the south of Ireland. They took lessons. They learned properly. I didnāt. I announced, loudly and proudly, that Iād teach myself. No classes. No help. Just bravado. The kind that sounds strong at twelve and looks stupid in hindsight. Fast forward four decades. I can swim. Technically. But Iām cautious. Awkward. Always aware of my limits. My son, on the other hand, started swimming at six months old. No ego. No declarations. Just repetition, guidance, and time in the water. At seven, heās a better swimmer than Iāll probably ever be. And thatās the point. Talent didnāt beat me. Fear didnāt beat me. Time didnāt beat me. Pride did. I confused independence with strength. Avoidance with courage. Saying āIāll figure it outā with actually doing the work. Watching him glide past me in the pool isnāt embarrassing. Itās clarifying. The lesson wasnāt about swimming. It never was. Itās about how many things weāre still bad at, not because we canāt learn, but because once upon a time we decided we wouldnāt. To this day, I still catch myself saying, āI can do it myself.ā But now I hear it differently. Not as strength. As a choice. Because the real difference between me and him was never talent or timing. It was willingness. Willingness to be guided. Willingness to learn out loud. Willingness to let someone else into the water. And once you see that, you canāt unsee it. Iāve watched the same pattern play out in business. Founders say āIāll figure it out myself,ā and quietly pay for it in time, money, and momentum. Youāre not stuck with what you can or canāt do. Youāre standing in front of a choice. And suddenly the question changes. Not āCan I do it myself?ā But āWhy would I want to?ā