A new framework for mental toughness

An argument for practice over performance.

When I was kid, I spent hours shooting baskets in the driveway. It was just me and the ball, bouncing endlessly on the asphalt. I’d shoot at all hours and in all seasons. My neighbors would ask how I could practice so much, and I’d shrug because I wasn’t really practicing the way they understood it. 

In fact, I’ve never really told anyone this, but I used to create games in my mind and play them out from start to finish. I’d adopt various player’s mannerisms while mentally keeping score and subbing in replacements. Pro, college, didn’t matter. Sometimes I’d run Georgetown-Syracuse. Other times it would be Phoenix-Seattle. 

These pretend games not only offered a creative escape from the mundane repetition of formal drills, they also offered a physical framework for practicing basketball that was enjoyable. Not surprisingly, those solitary hours of driveway shooting made me one of the better players in my peer group. 

Don’t get me wrong. I liked playing real games too. But by the time high school rolled around, I wasn’t big or strong enough to make a huge impact beyond junior varsity. 

I could still shoot, though. At one point I had a free throw streak going that caught some attention. I don’t remember the exact number, but it was something like 30 in a row over the course of several games. I’d step to the line using the routine I perfected in my driveway, and confidently swish free throw after free throw. 

Then one day, a technical foul was called. My coach didn’t even bother telling me to shoot, everyone already knew I’d get the call. I could sense the crowd murmuring about how I never missed free throws. I stepped to the line as I had done so many times before, only this time I felt an ever so slight weakening in the knees.

Just before the ball arrived in my hands, a voice in my head said, “You’re going to miss.” And I did. Short. 

Now, I ask you: What is mental toughness? 

Was I mentally tough because I made 30-something free throws in a row without thinking twice? Or was I mentally weak because I choked when self-doubt entered the picture? 

Let me ask a different question. What is the true test of mental strength? 

Is it performing in the clutch, or is it constructing an environment that allows you to develop your skills in immersive joyful activity? 

It’s ok if the answers aren’t readily apparent. I’ve wrestled with these questions all my life, and I’m not sure any response is necessarily right or wrong. These days, however. I land on the side of practice over performance as a means of cultivating what we might call mental toughness or strength. 

Going all the way with the practice side of things essentially demands that the first question be treated as a paradox, or even a riddle. Mental toughness, from the practice point of view, is neither executing nor choking in high-pressure activities. Outcomes are not irrelevant -- nobody wants to screw up a job interview because they got nervous -- but they’re not the whole picture, or even the true aim. 

Rather, it’s creating an environment where you allow yourself to exist in those high-pressure situations. Those experiences are then treated as mere snapshots or data points to be studied later, so that you might learn and grow from them. These specific moments are no more or less significant than any other, even if the results happen to be treated with far greater scrutiny. Like, for example, missing a free throw short in a game when all eyes are suddenly on you.   

Over the last few years, I’ve read dozens of pop psychology books touting various mental strength approaches like “Mindset” and “Grit.” I’ve learned something from all of them and think they’re all valuable, but my natural skepticism is wary of codifying a universal definition of mental toughness into something that can fit on a book jacket. 

Of all the ones I’ve read, the one that comes closest to describing my feelings on the matter is “Flow,” by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. There’s various component parts to his theory, but the conditions of flow are best encapsulated by my driveway shooting games. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy competition -- I didn’t always choke -- but I was happiest by myself with only a basketball to keep me company. 

That emotion -- happiness -- is really what we’re all trying to achieve. Not the dopamine hit of instant gratification that comes with achieving some small victory, but a lasting feeling of fulfilment. The mistake comes in thinking those experiences are somehow magical when they are really the result of hours upon hours of immersive practice.  

One of the truly marvelous things about watching elite basketball players are the moments when they enter into a flowstate under the most intense pressure imaginable. Inevitably, they describe the phenomenon as something that is deliberate, almost peaceful. Time stands still. Events unfold in slow motion. It’s joyful without being exuberant, enriching without being celebratory.

What is make or miss compared with the knowledge that those spaces not only exist, but that you can inhabit them? 

Most of the time, the great players simply move on to the next game, the next shot, the next moment. Of course, as observers we can’t let it go so easily. We have a need to codify the experience. We honor results without giving process so much as a second thought. You’re either a hero or a bum, a god or a mortal. It’s for that reason that I think our popular definition of mental toughness is all screwed up.

One of the things I love about distance running is that it provides the environment to experience these issues directly. As Henry Abbott noted in our Runners I Know conversation, you can run badly and still have time to work things out. There is no free throw line to constantly prove your worth. It’s an evolving conversation, rather than a moment-to-moment series of reactions. 

To run at all is to be mentally tough. When we’re starting out, the pain and ache of muscles springing back into action can act as a deterrent. This is why many people stop before they truly get started. It’s not fun to feel that much physical anguish. Without some kind of breakthrough, you may get stuck in a negative feedback loop until you eventually quit. 

Oh well, you think, this is not for me! And maybe it isn’t. Maybe some other activity is more your jam, whether it’s biking, or kayaking, or walking. One of the things I want to emphasize with Running, Probably is that it’s not just about running itself, but about cultivating a discipline or practice that brings fulfillment. Running just happens to be the main focus. 

If you stick with running long enough, you start to realize that pain and discomfort never really goes away. Depending on your training, you may find that you are able to push them further and further into the background so that they don't reveal themselves until much, much later. 

It’s within those pain-free spaces when the ecstatic freedom of running reveals itself. It can be focused -- like a tempo run -- or it can be freeform, allowing you to get lost in joyful play or contemplative thought. When all those elements come together in synchronicity, well, that’s where the magic happens. It isn’t an accident. 

Inevitably, if you go far enough, the pain always comes back in some form or fashion. With experience, you can begin to anticipate it rising, and if you have developed enough mechanisms to deal with pain on its own terms, you can find a place to live comfortably with it. That’s the good stuff. That’s what running teaches me. 

That’s also hard. It requires work. Not only through training and physical development, but in expanding what your mind is able to tolerate, and then developing a new relationship with the external and internal focuses of pain. That’s where I think this mental toughness conversation needs to go. Not as a black and white indicator of value, but as a practice. 

Having the desire to take these things on is, to me, what being alive is all about. That’s why I honor everyone’s place in their running journey, from the earliest beginner to the accomplished ultrarunner. Because it’s not easy. It’s very difficult. Committing to a practice of running means inviting pain to come along for the ride. The key is learning how to deal with it so you can thrive.  

One of the things that blows my mind is that some people don’t have an internal monologue. Like my wife, for example. We were both taken aback when we realized we had fundamentally different ways of exploring the universe. “This explains so much!” we said in unison. 

Perhaps, if you are like my wife, some of what I’ve been saying doesn’t resonate as fully as it might for someone with an active inner dialogue. I’m fascinated by this and would like to know more about how you deal with the things I’ve been talking about. 

If it does resonate, I want to bring this conversation back to the moment at the free throw line when that inner voice made an appearance. Sometimes when I’m struggling with some mundane task, the voice will appear and tell me that I suck. It’s direct, this voice. We’ve known each other a long time. 

I want to yell back, “You don’t know me!” And the voice, because it is a trickster, will wink, and respond, “Don’t I though?” 

The voice will disappear back into whatever synapse in my brain it appeared from and leave me alone to ruminate on whether I do, or do not, suck. My body will tense, my blood pressure will rise, and if the voice has struck a particularly powerful chord, I may slowly recede into darkness. Most of the time, fortunately, it’ll just put me in a bad mood. 

As I became more aware of this inner voice as a teenager, I began the process of accumulating a number of defensive mechanisms. Some of them useful, many of them counterproductive. Often, they involved shutting down and becoming sullen, as is the way of many teenagers. 

It wasn’t until the last few years, when I started investigating alternative methods of dealing with the inner voice. That process began with exercise, namely running and working out. It then branched off into nutrition, meditation, and eventually, better sleep habits. I could name dozens of other factors, but those are the biggies.  

I’m not always on top of all these things all the time, and my defenses sometimes weaken. Only now, I have a structure and framework in place to deal with that voice, to disarm it, and release some of the anxious hold it has over me. 

So, I’ll ask one more time. What is mental toughness? 

Is it overcoming adversity every single moment of the day, or is it allowing yourself to fail knowing you have the tools to put the pieces back together, and then having the courage to start all over again? 

My hope is that this is only the start of what becomes an ongoing conversation. I don’t pretend to know all the answers and I’ve become much more adept at leaving myself open to ambiguity. I’d be honored to hear your thoughts. 

NOTE: As a final matter of housekeeping, I’ll be sending out a brief post later this week explaining the paid subscription options that will be available. Beginning with this Friday’s Ramble, RP will move behind a paywall. I thank you in advance for your consideration in supporting this work and this community.