Getting Good Happens in the Middle

I used to think that to get good at something, you had to pull back.

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Step out of the noise. Get quiet.
Study harder. Think deeper. Practice in solitude.

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And part of it is just what works for me. I need the stillness, the time away, the space to hear myself again and not get swept up in everything. Without that, I lose clarity. I burn out.

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But what’s become more and more clear over time is this: you can’t stay outside of something and expect to understand it. Not fully. You don’t become great at anything from the sidelines. You don’t fall in love with life by watching it. You don’t grow by waiting for the perfect conditions.

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You get good by being in it. Fully. Not tiptoeing in, but really being there—uncertain, sometimes overwhelmed, but present. Eyes open. Heart exposed.

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It means standing in the middle of it all. Not outside it, not above it, not trying to fix it or escape it.

Among people. Among questions. Among the mess and the beauty and the stretch of not knowing. You show up for what is, not for what you wish it were.

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And when I say “good,” I don’t just mean competent or doing the right thing.

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I mean developing skill—the kind that can only come from repetition, from being tested, from caring enough to keep going even when it’s uncomfortable.

I mean depth—creating something that holds weight because it comes from experience, not just theory.

I mean wisdom—not the kind you read about, but the kind that grows inside you slowly because you lived through it.

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The people who make the most meaningful work aren’t usually the ones with the neatest story or the cleanest plan. They’re the ones who let life shape them. Who let it get messy. Who let themselves care.

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The most beautiful things I’ve read or heard or seen came from people who weren’t trying to avoid the hard parts. They were right in the thick of it. They still are.

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A good writer doesn’t move you just because they craft beautiful words and clever sentences. They move you because they’ve felt the things they’re writing about. Their writing carries real feeling and meaning beneath the surface. It might stumble over grammar or lack polish, but if it reaches you, it’s good writing.

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A good artist doesn’t create something powerful because they’ve mastered the tools or created something visually perfect. They get inspired by the contrasts of life—the light and dark, joy and pain—and they bring that into their art through colors, shapes, and every stroke.

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A good teacher, coach, parent, or friend—they don't get better at what they do by knowing more, but by being willing to stay close and to listen. By being open to change, leaning into discomfort, and allowing themselves to grow alongside others.

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So yes, rest when you need to. Pull back. Breathe. Let things settle. But don’t disappear. Don’t stay away so long that you forget what it feels like to be in the middle of it all.

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Because that’s where the real stuff happens. Not in theory. Not someday, when things are clearer. But right here. In the mess. In the uncertainty. In the stretch.

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That’s where you grow.

That’s where you get really good.