Your Drive Isn’t the Problem

I was speaking with a former athlete the other day, someone who, from the outside, had “made the transition” to the real world beautifully. Good job out of college, steady promotions, now in a role she genuinely enjoys.

But as we dug deeper, she said something that caught my attention:

“In the beginning, I went from one driving thing to the next.”

She kept trying to crush everything put in front of her, chasing the feeling she used to have when she was confident as an athlete. And for a while, it worked.

Until it didn’t.

At some point, the drive started to catch up with her.

Always saying yes.

Always outworking everyone.

Always pushing harder, faster, more.

In sport, these mindsets are exactly what make us great. Coaches love it. Teams depend on it. It’s the fuel of high performance.

But in the real world?

It eventually burned her out and the worst part was she didn’t realize it was happening. She kept trying to work her way out of the way she was feeling.

She kept asking herself:

“Why am I so driven… yet so tired?”

“Why can’t I sustain the pace I used to?”

“Why do I feel less disciplined now than when I was an athlete?”

Honestly? Those questions got me thinking about my own athletic career.

I always believed my success came from grit. I played volleyball at 5’8”, so I figured the only way I was going to be able to compete was by being technically sound and in the best shape possible. So that’s what I did.

I assumed my success came from the part of me that pushed harder, fought longer, refused to quit.

I thought it was all drive.

But the farther I get from that world, the more I realize:

It was never just the drive. My drive was supported, held up, by an entire structure I never even noticed.

I had scheduled rest. Not rest I earned or felt guilty about. Rest was as much a part of training as the reps and sprints.

I had the rhythm of seasons. Clear moments to push, taper, recover, and reset. Sport has an ebb and flow. Work often doesn’t.

I had fueling. Coaches, teammates, trainers. Everyone treated food as performance, not guilt or convenience. Eating well wasn’t a luxury; it was part of the job.

I had visualization. Formal or not. I saw plays before they happened. I practiced confidence before I stepped onto the court.

I had designated workout times. Routine, structure, predictability. My body always knew when it was time to work and when it was time to stop.

I had a plan for improvement. Not vague goals, but a roadmap designed by people who understood the big picture.

I had community. Teammates who were living the same experience and who made the hard days feel normal.

I had coaches. People whose job was to show me what I couldn’t see myself.

I had built-in reflection. Film sessions, stats, honest conversations. I always knew what was working and what wasn’t.

And I had short feedback loops. Clarity that came in minutes or hours, not months.

None of this felt special at the time. It felt normal. Automatic. Just “how it worked.”

But now, I see it clearly:

This was the architecture that held my drive. It allowed me to push myself without breaking myself.

And here’s the truth athletes don’t learn until much later:

When we step into the real world, we take the drive with us but we abandon the structure.Then we wonder why that drive suddenly feels unsustainable.

We think we’re failing.

We think we’ve “lost discipline.”

We think we’re not who we used to be.

But that’s not it.

I kept the part of sport that pushed me and left behind the parts that protected me.

What happens when you take the drive into adulthood but leave the structure behind?That’s where things get messy. And that’s exactly where I’m going next.

See you next week. - Jill