I recently became a new parent, and I am convinced that having a newborn is an endurance sport.
I told my friend this — she has three kids, all several years older — and she replied, “Being a parent at any age is an endurance sport.”
I believe her.
It’s already been an incredible change in my life.
My wife and I went to the hospital as one couple… and came back as an entirely different one. Or, as my personal trainer and friend put it:
“You left the house with four legs, and came back with six.”
Everything in my life has shifted. Not just my sleep patterns (though definitely those), but also my thought patterns. How I think about my day. How I think about my work. How I think about the present, the future — even my past.
There are moments when I grieve my old life. But most of the time?
I’m excited for what’s ahead.
Still, it can be incredibly challenging.
There are days when you’re running on virtually no sleep, and you’ve got a full day of responsibilities ahead of you. That’s when your inner voice can turn on you.
It tells you you’re not strong enough. That you won’t make it. That you’re too weak to see this whole thing through. It whispers doubts about why you signed up for this at all. It makes you feel small.
And that’s when I remembered:
Parenting is an endurance sport.
It’s no different than the moments in my life when I’ve trained for something hard —
My first marathon.My sub-2 hour half marathon.Even a tough lift at the gym that pushed me to my limits.
What did I do in those moments?
I kept going.
That’s the magic of fitness in my life: It taught me I’m capable of far more than I think.
It wired my brain to face challenges with curiosity. With resilience. With a quiet, steady question:
What more can I do?
Running especially has trained me for this. That inner voice — the doubter — shows up on almost every run.
It says the same things:
you can’t do this.
you’re too tired.
you’re too weak.
you’re too slow.
you should stop.
you should quit.
I’ve come to see that voice as a smaller version of me.
Like a little Sam clinging to the legs of a stronger, taller version — trying to hold me back. He’s not malicious. He’s scared. He wants to keep me safe. But if I let him lead, I don’t move. I shrink. I spiral. I stall.
So I do what I’ve learned to do — I talk back.
Not with force. But with compassion.
Thank you for trying to protect me.
Thank you for your concern.
But I’m okay. I’m strong enough. I can do this. I will do this. You can let go now.
And then — I move forward.
At first, that small version of me hesitates.
But eventually, he loosens his grip. And I begin to believe in the bigger version of me.
The one who knows I can finish the run.
The one who knows I’ve done hard things before.
The one who knows I’m growing.
Because that voice of doubt? It’s there to protect you — to avoid risk, to preserve energy, to prevent failure. But risk is where we grow. Risk is where we become who we never thought possible. Risk is what we’re most proud of in the end — whether or not it works out.
I read a quote recently that’s stayed with me. I’m paraphrasing here, but the essence was this:
Don’t ask what will make your life easier.
Ask what will make your life bigger.
Having a child does not make your life easier. I can safely say that just a few weeks in.
But wow — it makes your life bigger.
It changes everything. It expands who you are. It pulls you into a version of yourself you hadn’t yet met. As Steve Jobs said, having a kid is like watching your heart run around outside your body. And I wouldn’t go back for anything.
Starting a business doesn’t make life easier.But it makes your life bigger.
Running a marathon doesn’t make life easier.But it makes your life bigger.
Committing to a relationship, to a marriage, to someone else’s well-being — that’s not easy.But it makes your life bigger.
It stretches you. It challenges you. It turns “I don’t know how I’ll do this” into “I do this every day.” You go from:
“How am I going to run 2 miles?”
to
“Oh, it’s just a 10-miler today. No problem.”
You go from:
“I’ve never changed a diaper, how do I even…?”
to
“This is the 14th diaper in 6 hours, and I can do it with one eye open.”
You grow.
And then you grow some more.
And through it all, you keep asking yourself:
What more can I do?
