One of the weirder truths of life is that difficulty is wildly uneven.
At school, I had a friend who completely fell apart before an inter-class rugby match. Not a final. Not a big deal. Just a muddy field and a whistle. He was pale, shaking, and genuinely distressed.
This baffled me.
I played county sport. Crowds never bothered me. Competition was fun. To me, this was nothing. To him, it was Everest.
It took me years to realise he wasn’t being dramatic or weak. His nervous system was on full alert, while mine was thinking about snacks.
The same thing shows up everywhere in adult life.
I enjoy public speaking. I like the challenge. Put me on a stage and my brain wakes up.
For some people, public speaking is a waking nightmare. Standing up, being looked at, and having a roomful of eyes waiting for you to say something sensible is enough to make the brain quietly exit the building. By the time they are ready to speak, the moment has passed and someone else has taken over, confidently talking about something only loosely related.
These people are not bad at their jobs. They run teams, build things, raise kids, and assemble flat pack furniture without crying.
Meanwhile, I find other things deeply stressful that many people breeze through.
Speaking to my accountant.
Group Zoom calls.
Loading the dishwasher to a high enough standard.
Professional life is basically a series of these mismatches. We quietly judge others for struggling with things we find easy, while hoping nobody notices the things that terrify us.
Life is a constant tightrope. Everyone is balancing. Everyone wobbles, just in different places.
The world isn’t divided into brave people and nervous people.
It’s divided into people who are brave in different situations.
And sometimes, those situations involve rugby.
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