The Dangerous Part of Doing Hard Things

I've always believed there is value in doing hard things.

Hard things teach us discipline. They expose our weaknesses. They force us to grow in ways comfort never will. I still believe that. In fact, I think choosing difficult things on purpose is one of the best ways to become a stronger, wiser, and more resilient person.

Lately, though, I've been wondering if there's a danger that doesn't get talked about very often.

What happens after you become good at hard things?

A friend shared a story with me recently that has been bouncing around in my head.

Someone they know had family coming into town for the weekend, and they wanted the visit to be special. Before anyone arrived, they put together welcome baskets, wrote handwritten notes, planned activities, and spent hours thinking through all the little details that would make everyone feel cared for.

The weekend was a success. Everyone had a great time.

Then everyone went home.

What surprised me was what happened next.

The host couldn't shake the feeling that nobody had really acknowledged the effort. They weren't looking for a standing ovation. They weren't expecting a trophy. But they had poured themselves into creating a memorable weekend, and when almost nobody recognized the thought that had gone into it, disappointment quietly turned into resentment.

When I first heard the story, I thought it was about gratitude. The more I sat with it, though, the more I realized I don't think gratitude was the issue at all.

I think identity was.

Somewhere along the way, the joy of doing something thoughtful had become tied to having that thoughtfulness acknowledged. The act itself hadn't changed, but the motivation quietly had. What started as generosity slowly became a transaction, and when the acknowledgment never came, the generosity began to feel like labor.

That story made me uncomfortable because I realized I've done the same thing.

Not with welcome baskets.

With hard things.

After my cardiac arrest, people would occasionally ask if I had started running again.

My answer was almost always the same.

"Not really."

For a long time, I told myself it was because of my heart. Looking back, I don't think that was the real reason.

The truth was that I didn't want to run because I couldn't run the way I used to. I wasn't going to be training for ultramarathons anymore. I wasn't going to be chasing fifty-mile races. I wasn't going to be the guy people looked at and thought, "He's a runner."

Somewhere along the way, I had decided that if running wasn't hard, it wasn't worth doing.

One day my coach programmed a run into my training app. There wasn't anything remarkable about the workout itself. There was just a note.

"Your dog needs to run."

I laughed when I read it.

Then me and Sarge went for a run.

It was one of the most liberating runs I've had in years.

Not because I ran farther than I expected.

Not because I proved anything.

It was liberating because, for the first time in a long time, running wasn't about proving I was still the guy who could do hard things. It was just a run. Probably more like just a jog.

I don't think I realized how much of my identity had become wrapped up in doing hard things until I no longer had the opportunity to do them the way I once had.

That realization has made me wonder how often this shows up in the rest of our lives.

How many entrepreneurs build their identity around being the hardest worker in the room?

How many parents quietly hope their sacrifices will someday be acknowledged?

How many leaders refuse to ask for help because they've convinced themselves that being strong means carrying everything alone?

How many of us keep choosing hard things, not because they're helping us become better people, but because they keep reinforcing the identity we've built around ourselves?

I don't think doing hard things is the problem.

I think forgetting why we're doing them is.

There is a big difference between choosing difficult things because they align with your values and choosing them because they validate your identity.

One leads to growth.

The other eventually becomes a burden.

One leaves you free to keep becoming.

The other leaves you feeling like you have to keep proving.

I still want to do hard things.

I hope I always do.

I want to have the difficult conversations. I want to challenge myself. I want to keep stretching beyond what feels comfortable because I know that's where growth happens.

I just don't want doing hard things to become the reason I believe I'm valuable.

I want to do hard things because they align with the kind of person I want to become, not because I'm looking for validation, whether it comes from other people or from myself.

Maybe that's the dangerous part of being good at hard things.

If we're not paying attention, they can quietly stop being something we choose and start becoming who we believe we are.

When that happens, every hard thing becomes another performance, every accomplishment needs acknowledgment, and every setback starts to feel like a threat to our identity.

I'd rather let hard things shape my character than define it.

To me, there's all the difference in the world.