Yesterday morning, Taly was having a moment. 

Spiz was in her face about it — the way older brothers do — because the pickleball had rolled onto the wet grass and she didn’t want to get her shoes wet. 

Please. 

His argument: you always do this. My argument: you’re not going to get your feet wet, just get the ball. Her argument: I don’t want to play from that side anyway. I’m not as good over there. 

And that’s where I stopped her. 

“You will never get better on that side if you never play from it.” 

She knew I was right. Spiz knew I was right. I knew I was right. 

And then I went on my walk. And I turned left. 

I turn right every single day. 

Same route. Same path. Same view. Same comfortable, familiar, predictable way that I have done so many times I could do it in my sleep — which, if I’m honest, is basically what I have been doing. 

I coach women every day about doing a little more or doing it differently. About how the body stops responding when you stop challenging it. About how doing the same thing at the same effort in the same direction doesn’t help you get better — it just maintains the habit of showing up. 

And then I turn right. 

This morning I turned left. 

That’s it. That was the whole radical act. Left instead of right. 

And here’s what happened: it felt harder. Not because the path is steeper or the distance is longer. It felt harder because it was different. My brain didn’t have the familiar landmarks to coast on. I couldn’t go through the motions because I didn’t know the motions. 

I was actually there. Present. Paying attention. 

I’ll be honest — I was going to cut it short. The thought came in somewhere around the halfway mark. Just turn around. You’ve done something. That’s enough. 

But I looked up at the horizon. Sun coming through. The kind of morning that reminds you why you bother getting out of bed at all. And I thought — keep going. 

So I did. I hit my target. I finished. 

And I felt it — that particular satisfaction that only comes when you do something that was genuinely a little bit hard. Not because it nearly broke you. Because it was just far enough outside of what was easy. 

Here’s what Taly taught me without meaning to. 

We all have a side we avoid. The uncomfortable side. The one where we’re not as good yet. The one that requires us to actually try instead of just perform competence we already have. 

For her it’s the backhand side of a pickleball court on a dewy Tuesday morning. 
For me it was literally just turning left on a walking track. 

For you — I don’t know. Maybe it’s the heavier weight you’ve been eyeing for three weeks. The exercise you always skip because it feels awkward. The floor work you avoid because getting up is harder than it used to be. The program you haven’t started because you’re waiting until you feel ready. 

You’re not going to get better on that side if you never go there. 

That’s not me being tough on you. That’s me standing on the wet grass telling you the same thing I told my granddaughter — because it’s true, and because I needed to hear it again myself this morning. 

Today I turned left. 

Today I’m also going back to finishing my book. Another left turn. Another uncomfortable side. 

Comfort is a habit. So is courage. Both start with one small choice — and sometimes it’s as simple as which direction you walk.