Good friends are hard to find.
Good friends are like cables attaching us to achievement.
They’re like a pair of running shoes that never goes flat, a barbell that never loses its rough texture, a weapon that never jams. They’re indispensable, trustworthy, and you work well together.
A good friend is hardly just a friend.
A good friend is a teammate.
And we all need teammates.
Because this shit isn’t fucking easy.
And it’s not that we want it to be easy. Of course we don’t. We want to grow, change, become strong or lean or quick. We want to throw thousands of punches, do thousands of reps, or run thousands of miles. We want our punches to be lethal, our reps to be heavy, and our miles to be fast.
We certainly don’t want it to be easy.
And so our friends—our team—the people next to us on this journey—need to share a vision.
Because we’re all in danger of backing down, giving up challenge for an easy life. It’s the detriment of many would-be warriors to fall away from challenge for the modern, comfortable luxuries we’re all afforded.
Soft couches, big fucking TVs, never-ceasing air conditioning and heat and hot showers. Fresh coffee and cold beer. Abundant food. Stimulants and depressants.
None of these are particularly deadly on their own.
But when you reject the opportunity of discomfort and fatigue for their pleasure, when you slowly drift away from sweat and blood and tears for an easy existence fueled by those luxuries, your life loses meaning.
It’s a common ailment. It’s an easy, modern death of the spirit while the flesh scrapes by, uninspired and without purpose.
We like to think we can beat it alone.
We like to think our willpower is stronger than trillions of marketing dollars always working on our minds.
But I don’t think it’s worth the risk.
I want a strong fucking team.
I want someone close by to call me out on bullshit, to shake me awake from my superficial dreams, to recalibrate my compass when I wander from the path. I want a bloody, sweaty band of brothers and sisters who don’t care about the time, the place, or the Instagram picture afterward: they just want to show the fuck up and work. For themselves, and for me, and for our vision.
Maybe I can do it alone.
But maybe I shouldn’t.
Maybe the impact of a team—individuals on me and me on those individuals—is a greater forge, a hotter fire, than the test of one’s own mettle against easy, modern culture. Perhaps alone I can overcome the temptation of safety and ease. Perhaps my character—my training and my goals—is the right kind of strong.
Don’t do it alone.
Bring it to the table.
Contribute to the vision.
Your team needs that character—your training and goals, your ideals—to breathe life into a vision.
What’s that vision going to be?
Let it be long, hard workouts and high-fives at the end of brutal challenges. Let it be mountaintops and podiums and declarations of victory in the ring. Let your team line the fuck up, smile in the face of your enemies, and stack the fucking bodies.
Sure, you might be able to do it alone.
But maybe you shouldn’t.
This shit isn’t fucking easy.
But I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Find some good friends.
Get a team together.
Stack the fucking bodies.