How to get over your big win

For an audio dive on some of these concepts, and a lot more, listen to Slate’s “How To” podcast hosted by my good friend and author of best sellers “Range” and “The Sports Gene”, David Epstein, in the episode I was a guest on: “Congrats, You Won the Olympics. Now What?” (Image credit: Slate)

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In my last newsletter I wrote about what happens when you have to pivot because things don't work out as planned. 

But what about when things DO work out as planned? 

What about when you reach the big goal, or bring home the gold (or sell your company or…)? What do you do next? 

Well, first you celebrate. That part’s obvious. 

But after that… you might need to grieve. 

I’ve come to learn that our greatest win can also be our greatest loss. And that’s okay — IF we allow ourselves to move through the stages of grief just as we would for any other loss in our lives. 

This is something I want to share with athletes, or anyone pursuing a major, all-consuming goal in their lives. Because while that goal is your #1 priority now, eventually it won’t be. And you’ll need to figure out what comes next. 

Here’s my story:

My loss came the day I stood on the podium in 2010 with my bobsled teammates Steve Holcomb, Justin Olsen, and Curt Tomasevicz. 

With that gold medal around my neck, I’d never been so elated. But at the same time, I’d never felt so queasy. 

Don’t get me wrong, that elation was the biggest high I’d ever known. In terms of a joy moment, I’d say winning gold is just below watching your child being born — that’s how amazing it is.

And I’d wanted it for so long. (Here’s an epic picture of me wearing a USA Olympics sweatshirt at the tender age of 3.)

Growing up, every time the clock struck 11:11 - I made a wish. 

That wish was to go to the Olympics. Same thing every time the clock struck 3:33, 5:55, and so on. I would find any reason I could to signal to the universe that this was what I wanted.

I truly believed a gold medal would make me happy for the rest of my life. I would joke that I could be sitting on the curb, homeless, with nothing to my name but that gold medal and be completely happy.

And yeah, achieving that dream was incredibly, indescribably satisfying. It really was.

But I very quickly recognized that once that dream came true, something else went away. 

After winning gold in 2010, at 31 years old, I retired. And that meant saying goodbye to what had been my entire focus for as long as I could remember. 

When you’re an elite-level athlete (or striving to be the best in the world at something), you get to wake up every day with a single goal: to get better. 

There’s no question about who you are, either. You don’t sit and wonder who you are or what your purpose in life is. I was an athlete. That wasn’t part of my identity — it was my identity. 

So when you finally achieve this thing you were waiting for, working for, and wanting for so long, I’m not saying it isn’t great. It is.

But the moment you complete that goal, you lose that focus and certainty and sense of self. 

You go from simply following the plan, to being entirely plan-less, purposeless. As I’ve written before, it can feel like a complete case of identity theft.

There’s a more tangible loss, too: the process or the journey that brought you there. 

When you watch the Olympics on TV, you see the moments of glory. But you don’t see the hundreds or thousands of days that led to that. 

And, actually, that’s the stuff I miss the most. 

I miss getting in the sled truck after the race in Winterberg, Germany.

I miss knowing the roads and the autobahns in Europe so well that I could drive the six-hour trip from Winterberg to Altenberg, Germany without a map. 

I miss living four guys to a room in Olympic Training Centers in places like Lake Placid or Chula Vista. (ok - maybe I don’t miss four of us in a room that much.)

I miss goofing around with my teammates and our stupid inside jokes. (Like Steve Holcomb’s “Holcy Dance” which I describe in my interview with Dave Epstein.) 

And of course, I miss the time I spent with my teammates, coaches, and fellow athletes. Especially those who aren’t here anymore — like Holcomb, whose addiction ended his life far too early. 

Don’t get me wrong IN THE SLIGHTEST - I love what I’m doing now and I feel more challenged than I ever was as an athlete. I have an amazing wife and daughter, I’m incredibly proud of the work we do at Classroom Champions, and I’m determined to change the landscape of sport, business, and education for the better. 

I also consider myself extremely lucky. I am deeply fortunate and privileged to have chased and achieved my wildest dreams. 

My training days, though, were a unique period in my life that I just simply can’t return to no matter how much I would want. And all that ended the day I won.

I’ve come to learn that we experience loss, even when we win. And like I said, that’s okay.

It just means we need to recognize that loss. Honor it, grieve it. And figure out a new roadmap for the journey ahead.

In my case - I identified the parts about training and sport that I enjoyed the most and looked to replicate them in my next phase.

In the next several issues, I'll take a crack at a new roadmap for life after your big win. I’ll talk about the skills that no longer serve me and the skills that have. I’ll dig into the topic of mental health. And I’ll draw on some wisdom from friends who've been through it too. 

Thanks for reading. As always, looking forward to your feedback and thank you to everyone who messages every other week to give me your take on these topics.

- Steve