Greatness Is Smaller Than People Think

I think about greatness a lot.

What is it. How do you become great. Is greatness even achievable, or is it something you either get blessed with or you don’t.

Everyone is born with some mix of natural gifts and natural limits. Speed has been an obsession for the last 7 to 8 years, chasing every edge, training harder and smarter than most people around me, trying to become the best athlete possible.

And still, there are things that are simply not on the table.

I will never break the world record in the 100m. No matter how perfect the training is, no matter how disciplined the lifestyle is, my body is not built for that outcome. The ceiling is real. Certain performances will always be out of reach, not because the effort wasn’t there, but because the wiring and the frame aren’t designed for it.

That truth matters, because it forces a better question.

But that is not the full story.

Because when you look at “great” people, what stands out is not just talent, it is the way they keep moving. The way they respond to setbacks. The way they keep showing up when it would be easier to quit. The way they become something over time that they were not at the start.

And that part feels available.

Before the great man was great, he was just a man

There is a quote I keep coming back to.

Before anyone was “great,” they were ordinary. Unknown. Unqualified. Unproven. Still figuring it out. Still getting embarrassed. Still losing. Still learning.

History gets edited into a highlight reel, and it makes the first chapters look inevitable, like greatness was obvious the whole time.

It wasn’t.

That’s why moments in the Bible land the way they do. When you read Exodus 3:11–13, Moses is not standing there calling himself a legend, he is standing there asking the most human question possible.

Who am I to do this.

And when you read that, you realize how often God starts with people who feel wildly unqualified, and then moves through their obedience, not their ego.

The hesitation is real. The fear is real. The feeling of not belonging is real.

What changes the story is taking the next step anyway.

The “one step away” principle

When I reflect on my own journey, one of the biggest realizations is how many times I was closer than I thought.

I grew up in a small town in Idaho, in a family where nobody had gone to college before, and nobody had been a college athlete. There was no blueprint around me for Division I football. No one expected it. I didn’t even really expect it.

I loved sports. I loved the pros. I idolized athletes like Steph Curry, Alex Smith, and anyone who looked like they had reached a level that felt impossible from where I was standing.

But in my head, that world wasn’t for me.

Not because I didn’t want it.

Because it did not feel available. Those people had something I didn't have.

I got cut from my varsity football team in 8th grade. Played JV as a sophomore. And it wasn’t like this was some powerhouse program, it was Eagle, Idaho.

Summer workouts going into junior year, I heard our linebacker coach say, “Man, I don’t know what we’re going to do this year, we have nothing at linebacker.” It wasn’t meant for me, but it landed on me. And I remember thinking, watch. I’m going to prove you wrong. I truly believe it was a blessing from the Lord, and it was the like the fire inside me got lit again.

Competition has always been in me. It’s why I cared about grades. It’s why I trained the way I did. It’s why I took everything personally. I cannot stand losing in anything. But somewhere along the way, that edge got covered up by doubt. Confidence dropped. Started believing the limits other people quietly put on me. Started questioning whether I was actually good enough to do something great.

I ended up starting my Junior year at linebacker, 190 pounds soaking wet. Still figuring it out. Still trying to become who I knew I could be. The following year, I worked as hard as I could, every day, with that chip on my shoulder. Then senior year came and the work showed up differently. 215 pounds. Stronger. Faster. More confident. Dominated that season. And even then, college football still wasn’t the plan. It wasn’t even a real thought in my head.

Part of that was environment. My head coach was old, didn’t like me, and he did not do a single thing to help me get recruited. He didn't even let players have access to their film to make make highlight tapes. You had to go into his office and ask. I remember being so nervous halfway through senior year to even walk up and ask for access to my tape, like he’d laugh at me and say "why would you possibly need that".

Eventually I got the film. Made a highlight tape mid-year. Filled out an athletic profile with my height, weight, GPA, mostly because I wanted to watch my own highlights and see what I looked like on tape. I finished the edit, went to bed.

Woke up the next Monday with a text on my phone. “Hi, this is the D-line coach at Yale University, I’d like to come see you next week.” I had to look up Yale University in my phone. Being from the Northwest, I grew up seeing the Y logo for BYU, and I initially got it confused. Then it hit me, Ivy League. I had never even considered that world. Looked up the football division. Division I. Shocked.

Next thing I knew, I was flying across the country to New Haven, Connecticut, visiting a school I never imagined being connected to, and stepping into a world my family never expected to be in.

That one moment did not make me great.

But it proved something to me.

What I needed had been in me all along. The gifts were there. They were just getting covered up by a lack of confidence. And once I began to believe, the doors kept opening.

Greatness isn’t a trait, it’s a pattern

After my senior year, there were a few offers on the table, Yale, San Diego, and a couple others. Yale wanted me as a defensive end, and they ended up pulling the offer after I wouldn’t commit. By the time I even made my highlight tape, most schools had already finished their recruiting classes. I never really gave myself a chance to go through the process the right way, and once I realized that, it was hard to ignore. Options were there, but it still felt like I hadn’t actually tested what was possible.

My parents and I started evaluating everything. And we found a postgraduate military academy across the country in Virginia called Fork Union Military Academy, a place with a real track record of producing high-level football players. So I made a decision that sounded crazy to some people. I passed on the offers I had. I decided to go all in on betting on myself. Nothing was guaranteed. I could get hurt and end up with nowhere to attend college. But that didn't matter to me. Because now I believed.

So I packed my bags and headed across the country to enroll in a military academy. Wakeup calls came at 6 a.m. Students marched in uniforms. And cell phones were banned. But things were different this time, because there was a mission. A goal in mind. I knew what was possible.

That year ended with being voted Team M.V.P on a team with over 20 Division I players, some who are still in the NFL today. And I left with 20 Division I offers, and this time I had a real choice of where to go.

Eventually, that path led to Harvard.

And I’ll be honest, Harvard was not even a place I wanted to visit at first, because I was all-in on being a football player, and in my mind the best way to do that was to choose the biggest football opportunity I could find.

My parents pushed the Harvard visit anyway.

And when I got there, everything changed.

The history. The culture. The people. The opportunities, on the field and off. And a coach I connected with immediately, who had a vision for me right away, and made it clear he believed I could be something special there. Over time, he became one of the biggest influences in my life, and someone I still consider a mentor.

Looking back now, I would not trade my time at Harvard for anything. The relationships built there are worth more to me than any outcome. Not just football. Everything.

Being a student at the best school in the world came with its own challenges.

The first time I stepped into a Harvard classroom, that feeling came back, like I didn’t belong. Like everyone else had been preparing for that room their entire life, and I was just a kid from Idaho who somehow slipped through the cracks.

But I was familiar with that feeling by then.

Confidence is going to dwindle sometimes. That is part of being human.

That does not mean you stop.

That is where greatness starts, when you keep moving even when your mind is telling you you don’t belong, and you choose to prove yourself with daily habits instead of waiting until you feel ready.

Not everyone will see the vision

One thing that became obvious early is that not everyone is going to see it, and not everyone is going to give you a fair read.

There are people who will write you off without getting to know you. Coaches who doubt your ability. Professors who assume you do not belong in the room. Peers who decide what you are before you ever get a chance to show them. And sometimes it is not even personal, it is just how people operate, they judge fast, they label you, and they move on.

Even after committing to Harvard, with 20 Division I offers, testing in the 99th percentile at The Opening, and being a First Team linebacker, my high school head coach said this in the Idaho Statesman when asked about me: “About 50 percent of the kids out there, if they just hang with it, they will get some doors open. He’s just one of those guys. Nothing spectacular.”

After it was printed, I hung the article on my wall with that line highlighted. It probably wasn’t even meant the way I took it, but it was a reminder.

It is proof of something I have learned the hard way, external belief is inconsistent. Some people will doubt you even when the evidence is stacked. Some people will praise you and still disappear when it is time to show up. None of that is stable enough to build your life on.

The only thing that lasts is internal conviction.

Support helps. Doubt is real. But neither one can be the engine.

The engine is the decision to keep moving. To bet on yourself. Even when nobody else is sure.

The “great man” is built through faithfulness

This is where that verse connects for me.

Before the great man was great, he was just a man.

Before anything looks impressive from the outside, there is always a season where it looks ordinary, where it feels slow, where it feels like nobody sees it, where it feels like you are behind, where you are wondering if you even have what it takes.

That is Moses at the bush.

Who am I.

And the shift is not that Moses suddenly becomes fearless.

The shift is that he moves anyway.

And that is what I believe separates most people.

Not talent.

Not luck.

The decision to step forward even with hesitation.

The decision to act, and trust that God meets you on the way.

Choose service over spotlight. Character over image. Progress over perfection.

Because the first step is rarely glamorous, and it is almost never comfortable.

But it is always available.

Greatness is achievable, just not the way people think

Some ceilings are real.

Not everyone can do everything.

But greatness, the kind that lasts, is not just about outcomes, it is about becoming.

It is built through daily decisions that look small in the moment and massive in hindsight.

It is built by refusing to let other people put limits on what you can become.

It is built by using failure as fuel.

It is built by stepping into rooms where you feel unqualified and staying long enough to earn your place.

It is built by being consistent when your confidence wavers.

It is built by being faithful until faithfulness looks like greatness from a distance.

And the biggest lesson is simple.

What you are chasing is closer than it feels. Take the risk. Bet on yourself.

And if you lose. You learn. You adjust. You try again.

You find the thing that you are built for. The thing that you are meant to do. The thing that you are called to do.

Right now, you might just be a man. But you can become the kind of man history calls great.