Unlocking Hidden Doors

Sometimes our greatest achievements are gateways, not destinations. They don't just celebrate past victories—they unlock deeper truths we never expected.

Last week, I learned my 2010 Olympic gold medal bobsled teammates and I will enter the US Olympic Hall of Fame. (I’ll link the announcement posts at the end, including heartfelt nods to my teammates and coaches) It’s something you’d expect would trigger pure celebration. Instead, as I sat on our couch reflecting on the news with my wife, Rhiannon, celebration quickly gave way to something deeper—something hidden, painful, but incredibly freeing.

In that quiet space between joy and unexpected tears—not an easy place for many men, including myself, to sit and wait—I finally allowed myself to face a truth I'd kept tightly locked away from even myself. The honor of entering the Hall of Fame wasn’t just validation—it was a key, turning in a door I'd refused to open for decades.

A decade before standing atop that Olympic podium, my reality was profoundly different. I arrived at the University of Florida as a celebrated high school national champion, only to find myself surrounded by other athletes whose talents overshadowed mine. Injuries quickly became my refuge, my safety net—an excuse ready-made for why my performance wasn't meeting expectations.

At the time, I didn’t understand it as fear. I certainly didn’t label it as shame. I didn’t even realize that in my past writings on this transition. But reflecting now, I can clearly see how deeply I feared not living up to my own potential. My injuries, conveniently, became a comfortable crutch, so comfortable that my coaches eventually had to intervene.

On a crisp December afternoon in my senior year, Coach Steve Thomas and Athletic Trainer Jon Fetter approached me after practice. Their message was blunt: I was banned from the athletic training room. No therapy, no treatments, no exceptions. I wasn't even worth the time of student trainers who were just beginning to learn their craft.

That moment was devastating—humiliating, really. To be told directly, "You're not worth it," was a gut punch that left me breathless. Yet today, I realize it was precisely what I needed. It forced me to confront my dependency on excuses and external validation. It forced honesty.

Months later, recovering from Tommy John surgery and facing what seemed like an impossible comeback, I made a pivotal decision: I began keeping promises to myself. Small ones at first—just showing up, consistently and deliberately. Gradually, these small promises grew into bigger commitments, leading to bigger accomplishments.

My first invitation to a National Team Camp.
Within a year of that surgery and mindset shift, a bed at the Olympic Training Center.
Then my first Olympics.
And a decade later at my third Games, that unforgettable gold medal moment.

Yet, even winning Olympic gold didn’t erase the embarrassment I’d buried. It took something as externally validating as the Team USA Hall of Fame induction—a place where there is no higher threshold for athletic accomplishment in my field—to finally crack open that hidden door. And here’s the uncomfortable truth: I'm not proud that I needed this external validation to get here. But I am incredibly grateful it allowed me to finally face and release the burden I'd carried silently for so long. And thus, I’m proud of the result.

This realization has made me wonder how many of us quietly carry unseen burdens, masking deeper truths behind extraordinary achievements. Athletes, entrepreneurs, artists—so many driven people who still move through life with a chip on their shoulder that's hard to understand from the outside. I see them, I empathize, and I recognize the courage it takes to let go.

And in seeing them clearly, I've finally recognized my own chip—a hidden burden I carried without even realizing it. It’s one I hope I've now exhumed.

Real growth—lasting growth—requires stepping into uncomfortable honesty. It requires vulnerability, courage, and above all, compassion—both for others and especially for ourselves.

My induction into the Hall of Fame didn't just honor a past achievement—it became my permission slip to finally acknowledge how broken I'd been. And in doing so, it reminded me we're never done evolving, never beyond learning deeper truths about ourselves, as long as we're brave enough to face them.

Thank you for joining me in this reflection, for listening as I navigate these truths. Sometimes I do remember that this newsletter started simply as an exercise to stretch my writing during the pandemic and I’m grateful to all of you still reading, still replying, and still sharing this far and wide.

And to Jon Fetter and Steve Thomas—thank you for removing my crutch. Your tough love gave me the courage to finally unlock myself.

- Steve