The Sports I Quit: How Not Being Athletic Made Me a More Resilient Leader

Some childhood stories are about medals won, records broken, and trophies displayed proudly on the shelf. Mine are about trying—repeatedly—and quitting just as repeatedly. I was never particularly athletic, and despite a competitive streak that could have powered a small city, my body stubbornly refused to cooperate with my ambitions.

And yet, those early failures taught me lessons I rely on every day as a leader.

Growing up, I sampled sports the way some kids sample ice cream flavors. Judo. Track. Basketball. Table tennis. If it required coordination, I gave it a shot—optimistically, enthusiastically, and often with wildly misplaced confidence.

The problem was simple: my eye–hand coordination was… let’s call it “aspirational.”

I wasn’t terrible, just distinctly average. And for someone naturally competitive, “average” felt a bit like defeat. So most athletic endeavors ended the same way: one or two years in, I would quietly bow out, disappointed that I wasn’t better and frustrated that effort didn’t magically translate into excellence.

But the important part is this: I never stopped trying new things. I just didn’t pursue any of them long enough to become great. My competitive mindset wasn’t the issue; it was the mismatch between ambition and ability. The disappointment stung, but it also forced me to understand something important about myself—something that later became a leadership strength.

Ironically, the very activities I quit helped shape the career I built. Not being good at sports didn’t make me less competitive; it simply redirected my energy. Here’s what those early failures taught me about leading, building, and succeeding in business.

1. Competitiveness is a mindset, not a skillset.

I may not have had the coordination of a future Olympian, but the internal drive to compete—to push harder, improve, and win at something—never disappeared.

Competitiveness in business has nothing to do with physical talent. It shows up in persistence, resilience, and the refusal to settle for mediocrity. Sports revealed that my competitive engine ran hot; it just needed a different arena.

2. It’s okay not to be good at everything—just find the field where your strengths compound.

My athletic journey was a crash course in self-awareness. Talent matters. Strengths matter. And sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is walk away from something you want to be great at but aren’t naturally wired for.

In business, this translates into a powerful strategic principle: don’t force yourself—or your team—into roles that fight their natural strengths. Redirect energy toward areas where ability and ambition align.

3. Trying and quitting isn’t failure; it’s exploration.

As a child, each sport I tried gave me new insights about teamwork, discipline, and where I naturally thrived. Quitting wasn’t a sign of weakness—it was the process of filtering possibilities until I found the activities that energized me.

Leaders need this same mindset. Experimentation is essential. Not every initiative, role, or strategy will stick. What matters is the willingness to test, learn, and pivot.

4. Failure builds humility—and humility builds trust.

There’s nothing like getting repeatedly outplayed by kids half your size to give you perspective. Early humility made me a better collaborator, listener, and coach. In leadership, humility isn’t the absence of ambition—it’s the presence of balance.

People follow leaders who can admit where they’re not strong.

5. You don’t need natural talent to excel—you need persistence in the right domain.

Sports taught me that talent sets the starting line, not the finish. While athletic excellence eluded me, that competitive fire reemerged later—in sales, leadership, relationship-building, and business development. I traveled the world, led teams, consulted founders, and built companies not because I was naturally gifted at any one discipline, but because I kept showing up.

Persistence, when applied in the right direction, beats talent.

I may not have trophies from childhood sports, but I gained something else: clarity. I learned early that passion doesn’t always equal talent, that quitting isn’t always failure, and that competitiveness can thrive outside of athletics.

It didn’t keep me from trying—it simply kept me searching until I found the arena where I was meant to compete.