Watching the Olympics has always done something to me.

I grew up loving the Winter Games. My brother and I would fly down the hill in my parents’ backyard on our plastic sleds, absolutely convinced we were on Team USA — flying down the hills in a bobsled.

One year, we built our own bobsled track through the woods. We mounded up snow and ice to create four real curves with sides and walls. We filled trash cans with snow, packed it down, and even added water from the hose to sculpt a track that stretched nearly fifty yards through the trees.

We even gave it a name: The Snowy River.

We worked for hours on it.

We were just kids in the cold, but in our minds, we were Olympians.

Even now, when I see the medal ceremony — the gold medal being placed around someone’s neck, the flag rising, the anthem playing — something in me softens. I’ve felt tears in my eyes more than once thinking about the years of sacrifice that led to that triumphant moment.

And when I see that iconic podium with the Olympic rings, I recognize something uncomfortably familiar.

Because, for years, I was living on a podium too.

Not a real one.

An invisible one.

As many of you know, my life took a dramatic turn in 2013.

The way I was running my business, leading my teams, and relating to others eventually led to a personal collapse. From the outside, everything looked solid. Inside, the structure I had built my identity on couldn’t bear the weight.

It became the most painful and challenging chapter of my life to this point.

From fall of 2013 through 2014, I found myself in relational, emotional, and spiritual intensive care.

The ironic part?

Before the collapse, I would have told you I was a good man.

I was generous.
I went to church.
I volunteered on the music team.
I was a loving father of three.
Almost 18 years into marriage.

From the outside, I looked productive, responsible, steady, even faithful.

And in many ways, I was.

Yet, looking back, I can see what was hiding inside all that productivity and faithfulness.

I was quietly keeping score.

In my mind, it was as if each day there was an invisible Olympic platform.

Gold stood just a little higher than silver and bronze.

And in subtle, quiet ways, I kept imagining myself on the top step, gold medal hanging from my neck.

That invisible podium didn’t make me strong.

It made me lonely.

It wasn’t loud arrogance.

It sounded more like this:

I volunteer more than most people.
I’m gifted musically.
I’m sharper in business.
I treat people better.
I’m still married.

If someone made less than me, I must be working harder.
If someone made more than me, they probably had lucky connections.
Or they were flashy with it.
Or greedy with it.

No matter the situation, my mind could find a way to put me on the top step.

It was subtle.
And it was deeply self-righteous.

Nothing explosive.

Just quiet comparisons.
Silent scorekeeping.

What I began to understand after the collapse is this:

Pride is self-deception.
It convinces you that quiet comparisons are a reliable way to measure your value.

It feels justified.
It feels reasonable.
It can even feel responsible.

But in pride, the comparison almost always tilts one direction.

You aren’t really looking for who is above you. You’re scanning for who you can quietly place beneath you.

And over time, that posture isolates you.

If you’re always standing on the top step, you begin to drift from the people below you.

Sometimes you pull away from them.

Sometimes they pull away from you.

People can sense when they are being measured.

I saw this happen in my own business partnership.

Not because there was constant conflict.

But because pride creates subtle distance long before it creates visible fracture.

And pride has a way of shrinking your circle to only those who think like you — because it feels safer up there.

But it’s also lonelier.

For me, the target became humility.

I once heard it defined this way:

Humility is seeing myself in the correct estimation.

Not thinking less of myself.
Not thinking more of myself.

Thinking truly.

The truth is, I am deeply loved.
I am gifted.
I am capable.
I am thought about and sought out by God.

And I am also selfish at times.
I can see the world through a distorted lens.
I am flawed.
I am human.

Both are true.

And neither requires me to stand above you.

If my worth is secure, I don’t need to elevate myself.
And if your worth is secure in my thinking, I don’t need to diminish you.

So let me ask you gently:

Have you ever done what I did?

Looked at the landscape of people around you…
Measured them out…
And quietly awarded yourself the gold medal?

Blue collar vs white collar.
Trades vs corporate professionals.
Ivy League vs state school.
PhD vs entrepreneur.
Business owner vs employee.
Public school vs private school vs homeschool.
Stay-at-home parent vs career parent.
Organic vs fast food.
Debt-free vs financed.
Traditional values vs progressive values.
Conservative vs liberal.
Masked vs unmasked.
Vaccinated vs unvaccinated.
Rural vs urban.
Old-school vs woke.
Gym people vs couch people.
Early risers vs night owls.
Minimalists vs collectors.
Church every Sunday vs faith on your own terms.

Different topics.

Same platform.

And in subtle ways, we measure, compare, and climb.

I did.

I could always find a way to stand on the top step.

But humility — seeing myself in the correct estimation — invites me down.

Not to shrink.
Not to deny my gifts.

But to stand on level ground.

Secure in my worth.
And secure enough to honor yours.

If, as you read this, you sense even a hint of that quiet scorekeeping in your own life…

If you can see yourself occasionally climbing that invisible platform…

You’re not alone.

I’ve been there.

In many ways, I’m still recovering.

And if you ever want to talk about what it looks like to step down — to live from secure worth instead of quiet comparison — I’d be honored to sit with you.

As a recovering pride addict, I know the climb well.

And I know the freedom of coming down.

 

Photo from NBC 4 Washington.