Hard things are friction. Not time. Not talent. Friction—the drag between intention and execution.
I never called myself a writer. But I started a blog anyway. Steven Pressfield was right: it’s a war of art, a war against resistance. And that war doesn’t stop at writing. It shows up in every pursuit worth doing.
I run. Twenty-eight years of it. Every step is friction—lacing up, pushing pace, training when tired. Lifting weights? Friction. Practical shooting? Friction. Others talk about “fun at the range.” I laugh. For me, it’s work against standards I’ll never quite meet. Every rep is resistance. Marathon training? The same. My job? The same.
Here’s the truth: outsiders will split. Some will say you’re strong and skilled. Others will say you suck. Both takes are noise. Standards expose the gaps. Standards create friction. And friction is what makes improvement possible.
Writing is no different. I read my own words and think they’re mediocre—not because they always are, but because the standard keeps moving. Past work raises the bar for the next. That’s the point: keep going, keep raising. Not for money. Not for recognition. Most of us will die unknown. That cannot be the point.
And then children arrive. Two small eyes watching. Sponges recording what you do, not what you say. Standards turn visible. They see you wake before dawn. They see you run, lift, write, shoot. They see you endure friction every day. They may not copy your path, but they’ll inherit your pattern. That is the legacy.
Friction never leaves. Face it daily, and it sharpens you—and shows the next generation what hard looks like.