Estimated reading time: 6 minutes

When the captain came calling

There was a season in my life when someone asked me to help chart a course on a boat that, on the surface, looked strong and steady, but underneath was taking on water.

The captain—let’s call him that (if you know, you know)—came to me one day, brow furrowed and frustration barely hidden; like a creature cornered, flicking its wings in the dark, and asked why people kept jumping overboard. He wanted to know why they signed up for his boat programming, showed up hopeful, and then quietly slipped away within weeks. Why his community felt more like a revolving door than a crew. There was this tone—half desperate, half defensive; like he couldn’t quite believe the boat program he built might not feel like home to everyone.  

Seeing the cracks below the surface

So I took a look, and I saw it right away. He had all the grit, all the intensity, but none of the grace for those just learning how to “hold the wheel.”

The programming was built for warships not for people. Not for beginners, not for returners, not for the ones who walked in scared but still hopeful. It was hard for the sake of being hard. No scaling, no stepping stones. Just a full send from Day One; like tossing a brand-new athlete into a hero WOD with a barbell twice their body weight and expecting them to thank you for the opportunity. No warm-up, no on-ramp, just chaos disguised as toughness. And people? They weren’t quitting because they were weak. They were leaving because there was no place for them to grow.

An invitation that felt like a powerful start

I told him the truth.

And he listened—eyes wide, head nodding. He even invited me in. Said, “Come help me build this. Be part of it.” And in that instant, my heart lit up. It felt like someone saw what I carried; the vision, the fire, the years of experience that didn’t come from textbooks but from trenches. It felt like a doorway into something that could change lives—the start of something powerful.

The program I never got to share

So I got to work.

I took one of his “boat program weeks” and rebuilt it, layer by layer. I created a version that made space for the human experience. A version that welcomed people in instead of burning them out. I was preparing to bring it to him, excited and proud, ready to show what I had created. But it was literally right before I could show him the completed week, before I could unveil the thoughtful progressions, the heart behind every rep and rest—that he pulled me aside.

He said, “Hey, umm… we need to talk about something,” eyes darting away, shoulders tight, like the weight of someone else’s opinion had already decided the outcome.

(And if you’ve ever been in that moment, you know that phrase never leads to something good. It’s the polite prelude to a storm.)

He said he’d talked to his partner. They found out I was going to help with the boat program and had a fit. They didn’t want me involved in any of it—not writing, not contributing, not even being present at the table. This was their thing. Their project. And just like that, I was uninvited.

Not because of my work. Not because I’d done something wrong. It was because someone else felt threatened by the idea of me being part of it.

The trapdoor moment

It shook me; it was like a trapdoor opened beneath me while I was still mid-sentence. Because it wasn’t just rejection—it was complete dismissal. It didn’t say, “Your ideas aren’t good enough.” It said, “Your presence isn’t welcome here.” It said, “You’re not a threat to the system, you’re a threat to someone’s ego.” It told me that no matter how valuable my insight was, no matter how deeply I cared or how hard I worked, it could still be cast aside because someone else felt small next to it.

That moment left me confused and honestly, a little stunned. I kept replaying it in my head, trying to connect dots that didn’t seem to belong to the same picture. But the truth is, I didn’t walk away. Not then. More moments like this would pile up before I finally understood what was happening. This wasn’t an isolated event. It was the beginning of a slow unraveling. The first crack in something I thought would be a solid adventure.

What time and god revealed

It took me a while—months, really. I spent most of the year revisiting that moment, and others like it, because it represented the shift in the whole story. Moments like this don’t leave quietly. Especially when they come after being invited in, seen, and trusted. That kind of emotional whiplash leaves a mark. It doesn’t let you move on clean. I had to sit with it—long enough to see what God was really trying to show me. Because sometimes, the lesson doesn’t show up in the moment—it rises out of the reflection. And when it finally did, here’s what I’ve come to learn:

To the ones with heart

To the coaches in the room:

Sometimes the lesson is about recognizing where your vision simply doesn’t belong.

Not every space is ready for the kind of transformation we bring. Not every room wants that kind of shift, and some are too tied to the way things have always been to make space for what could be.

That doesn’t mean our work isn’t good. It just means our calling is too big for that harbor.

Our vision isn’t meant to shrink to fit. It was built to expand, to lead, to open doors. So if you’ve ever been shut out, not because you weren’t good enough—but because you were too much for someone’s comfort level—don’t you dare shrink.

You are not too loud, too bold, too much. You are exactly what this world needs—and when your presence unsettles people, it’s not because you’re doing something wrong. What you carry isn’t just power—it’s purpose. It’s clarity, confidence, conviction, and compassion all wrapped in one. And that kind of light? It makes people confront what they’ve buried—doubt, ego, insecurity. Is it fear? Pettiness? Maybe all of it. But hear this: their discomfort is not your assignment. And it is never your responsibility to dim your light to make someone else feel okay in their shadow.

When you’re ready to rise

Build your own table. Raise your own flag. Light up the whole damn sky.

We weren’t made to blend in. We’re here to change everything.