The words came out of my mouth somehow, almost on their own.
“I can’t do this anymore. I quit.”
I had to ignore or bottle up the meaning of those words because they stung worse than a bullwhip to the eyeball.
Beyond the dictionary definitions and the collective meaning of that cute little phrase of horror… there was a maze of meaning behind them that nobody on planet earth but me understood.
Nobody knew what I’d been through… mostly because I hadn’t told anyone.
Yet, there I was sitting in front of Steve Cleveland, the BYU head basketball coach, in his office at the Marriott Center.
No part of me wanted to believe that I had just said those words.
I was shocked when I saw that he was disappointed too. It was all I could do to put on the man face and hold my chin from quivering.
My heart was broken. My soul crushed.
My mind was groping to grasp on to some kind of reality because it couldn’t fully grasp what had just happened.
The gush of words, emotions, feelings, anger, relief in my mind burst loose as if a pin prick had broken a dam of pressure.
Nothing made sense now.
Nothing.
Wait… but… I… I’m a basketball player. This is my dream, and I’m here. Playing for BYU.
Not any more.
I’d just quit. But I’m not a quitter.
A Dream
I grew up feeling like it wasn’t safe to voice one’s dream. So I had kept mine quiet.
The dream was close to my heart, yet I was scared to let it out into the world for fear that others might criticize or ridicule. If I fell short nobody would know and therefore they couldn’t make fun of me.
Luckily the good Lord blessed me with stubbornness. Somehow I quietly went about my business, moving towards my dream as if I didn’t know any better.
Playing for Brigham Young University was my dream.
I kept it quiet. I was always going to go to BYU no matter what. If not on scholarship, I’d make the team somehow.
Years later I found myself on the team and at BYU.
I had my dream in hand.
But did I?
Err, what? Serious. Weird question I know.
Have you ever been so close to achieving something important to you, a dream even, that you almost couldn’t decipher the difference between whether you’d actually achieved it or failed?
That was me.
Years later, and all grower up, this story is still raw. It hurts to tell it, but it needs to be told.
I’ve learned so much from the aches, but even still the aches remain as a remnant of wisdom, a different kind of wealth that I am grateful for.
I believe there are profound lessons that are laced through the braces of life. The painful yet gainful corrections yield a smashing harvest of progress if we have the guts to turn and look at them with refreshed perspective.
That’s hard to do sometimes, but always worth it.
Time gives us that perspective and the courage to open the tense of the past to learn in the present tense.
I gone and done that.
Homemade
This whole thing all started way back in the day when basketball showed up as an obsession for me.
It came right after baseball, and baseball came right after soccer.
Luckily, my growth plates matched my desire to grow tall so I could be good at basketball.
Like an elevator, I kept growing. Not stopping till I was 20 years old (thankfully I grew slowly and consistently).
At a young age I spent hours shooting hoops. Not playing real basketball or even dribbling.
Just shooting.
Nobody in my family was really sporty, so I made do with what I had.
My dad is a genius of sorts. An inventor and engineer. So we made up our own version of a basketball standard… one look at it and you can’t hide the homemade-ness.
It hung out over our gravel car port.
We got lots of things right about that project, but we missed some finer details, like an actual basketball.
For several years I shot hoops with a red, white and blue soccer ball in our gravel driveway.
When it was raining outside, which was a lot because we lived in Auburn, Washington at the time, I’d make hoops with laundry baskets in the parlor and drove my mom nuts bouncing Nerf balls off the walls throwing ally-oops to myself.
One time I saved up and bought a rim and attached it to a desk in the house so I could at least see and hear the swish of the net… a sound I never grew tired of.
My parents didn’t understand the whole competitive world of sports and what it took to climb the ranks and open doors of opportunity.
That’s not my parents’ fault, nor mine. Just the way it was.
I had nobody to play with. My little brother was four years younger than me and my older sisters weren’t that into sports. I had no competition. My friends lived a ways away and most kids close by couldn’t be bothered to play sports. They liked worms and banana slugs and stuff.
So it was just me. Myself and my imagination.
I learned to play and to move by watching Michael Jordan… and Shawn Kemp and Gary Payton do their thing. As early as 8 years old I was recording games on our ghetto VHS recorder with a wired remote control.
I thought it kinda laughable that they had the same kind of wire remote in the film room at BYU.
As I got older, I knew I had passion and a talent. But there was a problem. I had no confidence in myself.
I looked at my friends and teammates, they always seemed better. I saw them as more talented, with more opportunities. More gifted. More privileged. More wealthy. They played AAU and club ball and went to camps. I never did.
BYU camps were in the summer time and they cost $300.
So I never went. Never participated.
It was always me, separate from them. Not better than, but less than.
That subconscious cancerous thought took root and grew in my mind, never changing from junior high, to high school and on to college.
In the world I was tall, but in my mind I was small.
I’m skinny. I’m slow. I’m second rate. They’re better. They’re starters. They’re more experienced. They’re on scholarship. I’m not like them.
It didn’t matter how well I did… at anything. My subconscious mind was made up.
Case in point: I remember winning the three point contests on both my grade and school level in junior high as a 7th, 8th and 9th grader. Nobody ever beat me.
As an 8th grader, right around the time I dunked for the first time, I made 18 three pointers in a row during a contest that was like the NBA’s version except we didn’t have large crowds and there was no money ball. I ended up making 22 out of 25 shots. So far as I know, that record still stands.
Didn’t matter.
None of that positive stuff ever sunk into my thick skull and stubborn mind. It’s as if it never happened.
Luckily, bullheadedness has a few upsides. When I set my mind to something I have a hard time stopping. No matter what evidence I see in the world that proves I’m just mediocre, I didn’t stop playing basketball. I didn’t stop shooting…
Because I had a dream.
Movers, Not Shakers
My family moved many times from grade school through high school.
High school was a blur. I started in Utah, moved to AZ my junior year (two high schools there), then I came back to the same Utah high school to finish my senior year.
I went to three different high schools (terrible idea if I wanted a scholarship of any kind but I kinda felt nobody cared who I was anyways). High school consisted of a lot of missed opportunities. Spoiled dreams. Long stories.
But there I was, really tall now, but still keeping to myself. In my head. Swimming in mediocre thinking and less than mediocre results in athletics.
I played on all the junior high and high school teams (mixed in volleyball, golf and baseball as well)
In my spare time, I just kept growing.
As a junior I was 6’6″ and spent basketball season at a tiny charter school in Arizona. That was the only school I ever started for.
I averaged 24 points and was a stand out at that tiny school.
In reality, I never was “good enough” (in my mind or elsewhere), to start for any major high school program.
Somehow my mind handled the charter school nicely enough to get a few smokescreen recruitment letters sent to me… maybe three or four. Ball State, Canisius… you know, major college programs. That was it.
Reality is, other than the charter school and rec leagues, I never started a single game, at any level. Not even JV. Not one. Ever. Crazy eh?
I was small minded in every way.
Nobody taught me how powerful my mind was, to destroy or create.
Nobody taught me how to think.
I had to experience it for myself.
And I did. In ways that would change and shape my life forever.
Somehow my little dream to play at BYU, a religious school that my parents both attended, survived all of this nonsense.
Still determined and completely naive… I applied and was accepted to BYU. I enrolled as a part time student for winter semester of 2003 so that I wouldn’t waste any athletic eligibility.
I was going to make the team, somehow.
And the kid that never started a meaningful game in his life, would have a chance at a mainstream Division 1 program.
The Door
I worked hard during the summer of 2003 in the student facilities at BYU to try and get myself into what I thought was good shape (ha! I had no idea what good shape really was).
The day after school started I heard that the “guys” were playing pick up ball down at the Marriott Center.
This was my chance to weasel my little mediocre self into the good graces of the basketball people.
I knew who they were, but they didn’t know me.
After grabbing my ball stuff, I headed down there. Wondering if or how I could somehow get on to play.
I knew where the Marriott Center was but no idea where to go once I got inside. I walked in and pretended like I was a regular so that nobody would be the wiser.
It took me a good 15 minutes to figure out how to get down to the court level without making a scene.
I sat in the front row hoping nobody would see me since I felt more like a deranged fan trying to sneak a peak at the team than I did a player.
I watched a game.
Seemed like they had a few recruits in town and a few of the players were out there with them.
It was too early in the year for the coach to be working with the players so the guys were just having fun playing pick up ball.
Turns out, Jake Shoff thought he recognized me and asked me to come over.
I stepped out of the stands and couldn’t hide my one shining trait. Height.
Good thing is, I look exactly like my cousin Joe and Joe played at BYU as well. He’s a quarter inch under 7 feet tall and Jake really like him. That turned out to be a good ice breaker.
“You got next?”… he asks.
“Uh, you need one?”
“Just jump in.”
Without warming up or taking any practice shots, I did what the man said and ran for a game.
Other than being wide eyed about pretty much everything, I don’t remember much of anything during the ONE game I played. It would have only been a short game to 7 or 11 points playing by 1s and 2s.
All I remember is the ball going in the hoop several times and my team winning.
It was over as soon as it started.
Then, everyone packed up. I guess I’d come right when they were finishing for the day.
Ah. Figures.
I said thanks to Jake and left.
I thought I’d blown my chance. This was it. Now I’ll never… Queue the whiney Minnie Mouse voice in my head.
Tryouts weren’t until October and I wanted to get on the radar of the coaches before then to give me a better chance of making it through. (The chances to make it through tryouts is slim to none anyway, most schools hold them just because they have to and they usually have very little intention of actually keeping someone).
But I didn’t see any coaches that I recognized there.
I walked home, thinking my life was over.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
It wasn’t but three hours later that I got a phone call I’ll never forget.
There was no way I could have expected that call.
My cell phone rang about 6pm.
(Ha! This was the first cell phone that I ever owned, a little light blue Sony Ericsson brick phone with a tiny screen).
“Hi this is Coach Toolson from the Men’s Basketball team.”
SAY WHAAAt?!?!?!?!??!
I don’t know what came out of my mouth at that moment and I’d probably be embarrassed to remember what it was, but I remember word for word what he said.
“We saw you play today and we’d like you to come out to the team meeting tomorrow at 3pm.”
Rewind…
This is the kid who never started a game in his life, who snuck into the Marriott Center to fake like he knew what he was doing, and played ONE game to 7, or 11, whatever it was.
I hadn’t given my phone number to ANYONE and I don’t remember if I told them my name either. The only reference they had was my cousin.
And Coach Toolson, an assistant coach, called me on my cell phone (which was so new I wasn’t sure what my own phone number was) and asked me to come to a team meeting.
I didn’t know exactly how to take that. Should I be excited?
I hung up the phone…
Two minutes later I was freaking out.
Why would he want me to come to a team meeting? Am I on the team? I didn’t know that kind of thing was possible. I wasn’t on scholarship. I hadn’t tried out yet. They only saw me play for maybe 7 minutes.
I couldn’t possibly be on the team.
Hmmm… I dunno. (Yes, I was that knuckle-headed).
And how did he get my number?
I walked into the 3pm meeting at the Marriott Center the next day all wide eyed.
Trying not to get in anyone’s way, I found the back wall and followed it until I ran into the empty seat at the back of the room.
There was Mark Bigelow, Rafael Araujo, Kevin Woodberry, Jared Jensen…. all the dudes I’d watched on TV last year.
And then there was me.
I didn’t fit in. I felt awkward instantly.
I’m an impostor.
A poser. A faker.
They were recruited, on scholarship. They’re all buddy buddy with each other and I don’t even know if I’m on the team. I don’t know why I’m here. I could be the friggin’ equipment boy for all I know.
Turns out I was on the team. The next day I was meeting with compliance.
Shocker?
I didn’t have to tryout anymore.
For rills?
Yes. Yes!
The door was flung wide open for me to fulfill my dream of playing for BYU. Whatever they had seen during that one game of pickup ball, they liked.
I didn’t see that situation for what it really was… I couldn’t. It wasn’t till later that I learned they thought I fell out of the sky as a gift to the basketball program. A big man that can shoot and move well.
But I was just a walk on.
The Experience
The months that followed all blur together in my mind as one singular experience that is hard to explain.
We had two sets of lockers, one at the Marriott Center and the other in the Field House.
I remember heading down to the field house and opening my locker for the first time. There was stuff in it. Like lots of stuff.
I had my number 21.
Practice jerseys, two pairs of shoes. School issue. Sweat suit and hoodie.
It felt weird.
As if this wasn’t real and it was happening to someone else. This can’t be me experiencing this. Yet there I was. Lacing up my size 13 Nike Team shoes for the first time.
We were starting preseason workouts. I had no idea what I was getting myself into.
With my junk all put together, and laced up. I followed the guys out. Not saying a word. Nobody spoke to me either.
We walked from the field house to 156 RB… the gym where it all started.
I stepped onto that floor for the first time as a BYU basketball player. The gym smelled the same. I’d played in there dozens of times getting ready for the tryouts that I would never experience.
Now, the same guys I played pickup ball with in the RB, were moving out of the way for the BYU basketball team to take the floor to practice.
That was weirder.
After all these years, that feeling has never left me.
I related more to the guys that were playing pickup than to the team for which it was my dream to play.
I didn’t realize it, but I was on the team in body, but not mind.
The Pain
It started in my left foot, on day one, during our first practice in 156 RB.
Doing simple right-handed layups to get warm, I felt a pin-prick of pain in the top of my left foot.
Ah, that’s weird. I thought.
It’s nothing. No big deal.
Left hand layups now.
Oh.
Really?
A pin-prick of pain in my right foot too. Exactly similar to the one in my left foot.
The day went on and so did the pain. Luckily, it wasn’t that big of a deal at this point. Just noticeable.
But it persisted.
That little pin prick of a pain that happened only when I collected all my weight on my foot to jump or change directions worsened.
By two weeks later, every step would hurt… but only when I had my BYU sneakers laced up.
Beautiful.
What went on in my head was anything but beautiful.
“Now the walk-on, whom the coaching staff must not care much about because they didn’t recruit him, is injured. If he says anything to anyone then they’ll just cut him because he’s not worth the medical expenses.”
So I kept the pain to myself and just dealt with it.
This was my dream?
The Pain Squared
I was skinny at the time. I’m talking 6’ 9.75″ and 195 pounds soaking wet.
Not surprising that they wanted to fatten me up a bit. I got really good at making and eating gigantic piles of spaghetti.
No telling where all those carbs could have gone but it didn’t seem like there was much I could do to gain even one extra pound… and I never did.
Aside from eating, lifting weights was the thing to do.
Justin, the weight coach, had me doing the same regimen the other big guys were doing. The big guys that outweighed me by 65+ pounds.
I’d never done any real olympic lifts other than squats but the workouts were full of them. Nobody seemed to care to teach me how to do them so I just copied what I thought was proper form.
How long does it take to master olympic lifts without supervision?
We lifted pretty hard in the preseason.
It didn’t take long before muscles started showing up in places that never had any. I didn’t weigh any more but felt stronger.
I started to like this weight lifting thing, except for a weird stiffness in my back that kept showing up after workouts.
About two weeks into preseason workouts, eerily coinciding with the pain in my foot, the back pain became more than just stiffness.
It hurt all the time and hampered everything, even classes and tests in the testing center.
If the pain in my feet wasn’t enough, my back would sure make up for it.
By three weeks into pre-season workouts, real practice hasn’t even started yet and I’m hurting all over.
Yet I told nobody.
This was a common theme for me. Suffering in silence.
I never hung out with the players. I didn’t feel like I was wanted or that I fit in.
My roommates were fully aware of it though. They were the ones that tended to me like I was an invalid.
I’d go in to practice an hour or two early to try and get loose enough to play. Freshman always had to get taped first to get out of the way of the upperclassmen.
So I went early and tried to loosen up by playing games of “21” with Mike Dresser, Austin Ainge and Coach Andy Toolson.
Me showing up early made it easier to conceal the fact that I needed to come in early to try and loosen my back so that the I could stop walking like an old man and stand up straight.
After our daily three hour practices in the preseason, my back and feet were unbearable.
By the time I got home after practice my back was so sore and stiff that I couldn’t move. I spent the evenings laying on the floor of our living room for hours trying to focus enough to do homework and stay alive.
The pain in my abs was just about as worse since they had to compensate for a weak back and poor posture.
That was my life for months. Every day but Sunday. We didn’t practice or play on Sundays.
It wasn’t until Christmas that I told Coach Cleveland about my pain. He flipped out on me, but not for the reasons I’d feared. He scolded me for not telling anyone.
I thought he’d be upset that I was injured. Turns out he thought more of me as a basketball player and a person than I thought of myself.
The next day we had X-rays on my feet and tests done on my back.
I had clear stress fractures in the same spot on both feet and a bulging disk in my back.
Odd “injuries” if that’s what you want to call them.
He gave me a few weeks off to heal up.
Chiro visits in the training room were regular. Traction on my back was the best thing ever.
I wish those few weeks would have done some good, because I sure pretended that they did.
I laced up again.
My heart sunk when I felt the same pains in the same places. There was no improvement whatsoever.
By this point I was playing so far below my capability that I’m sure it was embarrassing for the coaching staff to even let me put on a practice jersey.
It’s no wonder Coach Rose would get on me for not hustling in defensive drills.
I was slow.
I couldn’t jump.
Every step hurt.
Every break I took my back stiffened.
Every time I bent over or jumped the pain was so bad I wanted to crumble to the floor.
Shooting pain from both feet up my leg and searing pain from my back shooting down my leg.
The pain collided somewhere in my hip, and was weird. Made common spasms seam like a tickle.
But I swallowed that pain and somehow pretended I was fine. I don’t know if that was pure stupidity, toughness or misplaced pride.
I spent January through March of 2004 in very much the same way I had spent the previous five months.
Basketball ate up 1pm until 11pm, every day. Two hours from prep. Three hour practice. Five hours flat on my back until bed.
That season our team ended up being ranked. That year we had beaten Oklahoma State who was ranked highly and eventually played in the Final Four.
At the NCAA’s, we played Syracuse in the first round and lost to Gerry McNamara who single-handily beat us with a 42 point performance.
By the time that loss ended our season, I had already ended mine mentally.
I was at home anyways. I never traveled with the team.
The Breakdown
As time went on, I just couldn’t hurt anymore. I wanted it to stop.
As much as I was in love with the idea of Seth Ellsworth the BYU basketball player, I couldn’t do this much pain for this little gain.
I had no real actualization of what I thought was my dream. The dream hadn’t turned out to be much of a dream at all.
This was a nightmare.
It was the toughest grind of my life to even make it that far through the season and I knew I couldn’t do another season like it and the pain showed no signs of letting up.
I was secretly hoping the pain would go away during the off season but was afraid it wouldn’t be worth it for the coaching staff to put up with me and all my baggage.
So I left.
I couldn’t face the reality of giving up my boyhood dream to play for BYU.
I got in my champaign colored ’97 Honda Accord with my little brother Adam and left, without telling the coaching staff where I was going.
We drove 1300 miles east on a road trip to one of my happy places. I left my classes. I left my school work. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going.
I just left.
After nearly two weeks with no contact between me and the coaching staff after the season had ended, I sauntered in to Coach Cleveland’s office.
It was April now.
That’s when I said the words I thought I’d never say.
“I quit.”
What came out of his mouth was something I didn’t anticipate.
“Well, Seth. I’m disappointed. Nobody knew where you went. I tried calling everyone we knew to find out what happened to you. You’ve got some great skills that we were really excited about. I wish you had let us know about what you were going through.”
Wow.
That should have been a clue that I had the whole situation backwards but somehow in my mind that didn’t change anything.
Eerily, that night I felt like a ton of bricks was lifted off my shoulder. I didn’t quite know how to interpret that.
I was devastated, yet relieved.
Relieved? What’s that supposed to mean?
My interpretations of the situation at that time were so far off base. I love basketball. There was no denying that. I loved to play it. Loved to practice. Loved to watch it. Basketball was my drug, my life and my fix. It’s what I did to get away. To cope. To compete.
Now it was gone.
What was left of my life?
Shock
The VERY NEXT DAY, I was bored. Not knowing what to do.
I knew I needed to settle back in to my classes and get things straightened out but I’d been used to playing basketball every day for the last year.
So I played.
Pretty odd for someone so “injured” like I was. Notwithstanding the pain, basketball was my life.
So I grabbed my stuff and went to RB 156, the same gym where I had my first practice the previous August after the random phone call from Coach Toolson and the first team meeting.
The same gym where the pin prick started in my left foot.
I didn’t realize it until after I’d played an entire pick up game that something was drastically different.
Maybe the full windmill dunk I threw down like I was mad at the world should have given me a clue.
The pain?
It was gone.
There was no pain.
I played an entire pick up game completely pain free.
[PAUSE]
WHAT?!?!?!?!?
[/PAUSE]
The day after I quit my dreams because of unbearable pain and chronic injury, I step on the court and play pain free.
I wouldn’t believe it if it hadn’t happened to me.
Not only was I pain free but I had my bounce that I’d been missing.
The quickness was there too.
[Enter instant depression and mid-life crisis from stage left]
It was hard to live in my own skin for the months that followed. I was entirely unequipped to interpret this.
What happened?
Why?
The Painful Reality
I don’t even know if it’s okay to call my career at BYU a career.
It was the worst career you’ve never heard of.
Mike Dresser, a great guy from Sacramento, made it through the October tryouts that Coach Toolson had saved me from. He turned out to be the walk-on that suited up and traveled with the team. He got some game time and played quite a bit. Way more than me.
If he played for one second, he would have played more than me.
I was “playing for BYU” but was I? Playing for BYU was my dream. Had I achieved it?
I never suited up for BYU. Not once. I never ran through the tunnel. I never even had a jersey made for me. I never traveled with the team, not even to local games. I never made it on the active roster. I never…
I ended up being nothing more than an asterisk.
A practice player.
I sat on the bench during the games, in street clothes, but my name wasn’t on the roster. My picture wasn’t on the poster or the plaque that I got at the end of the year during the banquet.
My signature wasn’t even on the ball that the team had signed.
In fact, I have no pictorial evidence that I actually played for BYU. I have no photographs. No press clippings. No news stories. No media guides. Nothing.
Yet I was there. I’d been there all year. Fighting through massive pain.
The only thing I have left are some old swag, practice jerseys and a placard with my name and number on it that went above my locker in the Marriott Center.
Sad.
Layer on top of that the fact that everything I thought I was, my identity, who I am, had something to do with basketball.
Now that was gone.
There was a void in my life that I didn’t know how to fill.
With the sudden ability I now had to play, the pain gone, my reality was conflicted. My thoughts were cankered. My dreams at night were riddled with the unrelenting “whys” and “what ifs”.
The three pointers I never got to shoot. The crowd I never got to light up. The dunks I never got to throw down. The difference I never got to make. The career I never got to have.
The people that told me “you’ll never…” were right.
My dream was to play for BYU, and I quit my dream.
Now I wished I’d never had that dream in the first place. It was eating me from the inside out.
Why?
Why had I gotten so close and had my dream ripped from me? Why was the door opened only to be slammed shut?
The Perspective of Time and the Beautiful Reality
To this day, I don’t know how to categorically answer as to whether or not I even achieved my dream of playing for Brigham Young University.
It doesn’t matter.
With the passage of time, it’s clear that there was something working in my life that was far more powerful and meaningful. I just didn’t know it at the time.
That experience made me who I am and has shaped my life in profound ways.
I now have answers. Powerful ones.
I mentioned how nobody had taught me how to think. Nobody taught me how powerful my mind was.
I know now.
In a blink, crippling injuries that riddled my body were gone. Alleviated. Healed.
How?
Because that’s how powerful the mind is.
The physical injuries themselves, easily seen by x-ray, were a creation of my mind.
The stress fractures were caused by stress. So was the bulging disk.
My mind and my thinking couldn’t handle my dream, so it sabotaged my body to keep it in line with what my mind was capable of handling… harmless pickup games or shooting hoops all by myself.
My mind steam rolled my dream because it didn’t know any better. It deployed a classic coping mechanism to keep me small and comfortable.
My comfort zone was mediocrity, and the “injuries” kept me mediocre.
Lots has changed since then.
I’ve changed.
The Mind
If your mind has the power to sabotage, it has the power to enable. To rise up. To create change. To become. To shatter barriers. To redefine boundaries. To break dams. To discover the version of yourself that is yet to materialize but that aches to show up in your life.
This is a major reason for my motivation behind competing in Long Drive at a world-class level.
I’ve been gifted an athletic ability that for obvious reasons I feel like I’ve squandered. I’ve also been gifted through the pain of experience an understanding of mind power that I lacked before.
I’m crystal clear that there’s more in me. I want to find out what that bit is. I want to let it out.
Why? Because you, me, us… we are not meant to be mediocre.
You were born with a unique ability.
What if you could actually harness the creative power of the mind on purpose…. on demand… on a whim… not to destroy your dreams but to explode your world by creating powerful positive and lasting change in a moment’s notice.
You can.
Our minds are more powerful than we can ever imagine.
My mind destroyed my basketball dreams with injuries that were just the excuses of a poor mindset… however, my mind has also created a new dream where I am able to hand others the key to unlock their own.
That’s what my work in The Breakthrough Challenge is all about.
And you should jump in. It will change your life.
Everything happens for a reason. My reason is clear. So I can share this with you.
If you feel like there’s more of YOU to give to yourself, your family, your business, then you might like what you’ll find after we hit the reset button and install some system upgrades in this little guided digital coaching experience I call the Breakthrough Challenge.
Click here for more about the Breakthrough Challenge
Go. Fight. Win.
SETH
