When Pushing Is the Easy Part

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REFLECTIONS & IDEAS · PERFORMANCE & PERSPECTIVE

When pushing
is the easy part.

Kieran Lillis  ·  29 September 2026  ·  6 minute read

I started a new job recently.

New environment. New people. New expectations.

And naturally enough, there was doubt.

Will I be good at this?

Will I make an impact?

Do I actually know enough?

I've heard that voice plenty of times over the years.

Sport. Business. Coaching. Standing in front of a room to deliver a workshop. Walking into a new organisation. Putting something out publicly with my name attached to it.

The context changes.

The voice doesn't disappear.

But I've become better at doing something with it.

I look backwards.

Not to live in the past.

To collect evidence.

I've held different roles. I've built businesses. I've delivered workshops to rooms full of people. I've coached people who are now doing brilliantly. I've worked with teams. I've built relationships across sport, business and education.

People have trusted me with their development.

Organisations have trusted me with their people.

Teams have trusted me with their players.

Individuals have trusted me with parts of their lives they probably don't share with many people.

I've got feedback.

I've got results.

I've got experience.

I've come through difficult periods in my life and learned from them.

I've had things go well, and plenty that haven't.

And I'm still here, still learning, still moving forward.

I've got evidence.

So when the voice says, "What if you're not able for this?", I've realised I don't necessarily need to win an argument with it.

I can acknowledge it.

And then I can turn the volume down.

Because I don't think there's an on/off switch for doubt.

But I do think there's a volume button.

Stack the evidence

There's a concept in psychology called self-efficacy.

It was developed by psychologist Albert Bandura and, in simple terms, it's our belief in our ability to handle a particular task or situation.

It's not:

"I'm brilliant at everything."

It's closer to:

"I've got reason to believe I can handle this."

And there's a big difference.

Bandura identified a number of things that influence that belief.

Our previous experiences matter.

I've done difficult things before.

Seeing somebody we relate to succeed can matter.

If they can do it, maybe I can too.

The people around us matter.

Someone I respect believes I'm capable of this.

Even how we interpret what's happening in our body can matter.

A racing heart before a big moment could mean:

I'm not ready for this.

Or:

This matters to me. My body is getting ready.

Same heartbeat.

Different story.

But the one that really resonates with me is our own lived experience.

Psychologists call them mastery experiences.

I prefer:

Evidence.

Every difficult thing you've already navigated becomes another piece of evidence.

Every setback you've recovered from.

Every conversation you were terrified of having but eventually had.

Every room you once felt you didn't belong in.

Every skill you can do almost automatically today that once felt impossible.

We spend so much time measuring the gap between where we are and where we want to be that we forget to measure the distance we've already travelled.

So every now and again:

Turn around.

Look at how far you've come.

Stack the evidence.

That doesn't mean the doubt disappears.

I'm not sure it ever completely does.

Maybe the difference with people who consistently perform isn't that they've somehow eliminated self-doubt.

Maybe they've just become better at turning down the volume.

Here’s the slightly uncomfortable truth. I’m very good at doing hard shit I already know how to do. Give me a start line, a finish line and something physical to suffer through, and I’m grand. Ask me to slow down, admit I’m hurt or have a conversation I’ve been avoiding? Different story.

Then Jimmy Carr got me thinking...

I absolutely love Jimmy Carr.

I heard him make a point recently that stuck with me.

He questioned how many of the problems we experience mentally might have a physical component.

How much better might we feel if we consistently looked after some of the basics?

Sleep.

Food.

Exercise.

Movement.

Getting outside.

Connection.

And there's a lot of sense in that.

I'm a massive believer in exercise.

I've spent most of my life involved in sport, and the benefits I've gotten from it go far beyond physical fitness.

But the more I thought about what Jimmy said, the more I started thinking about the other side of it.

Because exercise isn't particularly difficult for me.

Before anyone gets the wrong idea...

I am by no means an exceptional runner.

There are absolute levels to running.

Plenty of people could make me look like I'm standing still.

That's not the point.

The point is that running is familiar to me.

Training is familiar.

Physical discomfort is familiar.

I've spent most of my life in sporting environments.

Give me a physical challenge and I understand the rules.

Work.

Push.

Keep moving.

Don't quit.

I've accumulated decades of evidence that tells me I can operate there.

Which has forced me to ask myself a slightly uncomfortable question.

Am I doing hard things, or the hard things I'm already good at?

We hear it constantly in the performance world.

Do hard things.

Run further.

Lift heavier.

Get into the cold water.

Train when you don't feel like it.

Push yourself.

Embrace discomfort.

I've probably subscribed to that mentality for most of my life.

And there's absolutely value in it.

But recently another concept has intrigued me.

Soft discipline.

Not soft standards.

Not taking the easy option.

And certainly not an excuse to avoid difficult things.

I'm talking about having enough self-awareness to recognise that discipline doesn't always mean more.

Sometimes discipline might mean backing off.

Recovering.

Going for the easy run when your ego wants the hard session.

Sleeping.

Saying no.

Leaving something in the tank.

Putting the phone down.

Making time for the people who matter.

Sitting still.

Writing.

Having the conversation.

I've spent years associating discipline with my ability to push.

I'm starting to realise there's discipline in knowing when not to push too.

And that's harder for me.

Because I know how to suffer physically.

I'm comfortable being uncomfortable there.

But ask me to sit quietly and properly examine why something has upset me?

That's harder.

Ask me why somebody's comment triggered a reaction?

Harder.

Ask me what's actually underneath the reaction?

Harder.

Am I angry?

Or am I actually hurt?

Embarrassed?

Insecure?

Afraid?

Rejected?

That’s a different type of workout.

And I know that because there was a short period in my life where trying to get away from what I was feeling became quite literal.

Portugal

In August 2025, something happened in my life that changed it considerably.

I won't go into the details here.

They're mine, and they're not actually important to the point I'm making.

But for a short period, I wasn't right.

And I knew I wasn't right.

My instinct was to do something I understood.

Train.

I wanted to get away for a few days, clear my head and train.

So I went to Portugal.

Sunshine.

A change of scenery.

Training.

Routine.

Space.

All the things I thought might help me reset.

And Portugal was lovely.

But I wasn't.

I could change the surroundings.

I could train.

I could keep myself occupied.

But I couldn't seem to get away from what I was feeling.

Through my work as a mental health facilitator with Movember, I'd previously received training around anxiety and depression.

As part of that training, we watched a short video called I Had a Black Dog, His Name Was Depression.

It uses the metaphor of a black dog to describe what living with depression can feel like.

I remembered that video when I was in Portugal.

And for the first time, I didn't just understand the metaphor intellectually.

I recognised the feeling.

It felt like there was a black dog following me around.

Different country.

Sun shining.

Training getting done.

And it was still there.

That recognition was important for me.

Because I knew I needed help.

And I also realised something that has stuck with me since:

I can't train my way out of everything.

And I can't outrun everything either.

So when I came home, I reached out.

I went through a number of therapy sessions during the winter of 2025.

And they helped enormously.

Not because somebody magically gave me all the answers.

They didn't.

But because I had to start looking at questions I'd probably have preferred not to answer.

What am I actually feeling?

Why am I reacting like this?

What am I avoiding?

What story am I telling myself?

What's underneath all of this?

Those questions don't come with a stopwatch.

There's no finish line.

Nobody claps when you're finished.

Sometimes you don't even know if you're making progress.

And for somebody who has spent most of his life in environments where progress can be measured pretty easily, I find that difficult.

I'm still figuring this out

I don't want this to read like I've gone away, done some therapy, discovered journaling and now have myself completely figured out.

I absolutely haven't.

I'm a work in progress.

That's actually why I've become more interested in things like breathwork.

Journaling.

Trying to slow down.

Sitting in silence occasionally.

Coming back to my personal mission statement.

I've also become interested in shadow work and the idea of examining the parts of ourselves we'd probably prefer not to look at.

I'm only beginning to explore that.

Some days I'll journal.

Some days I won't.

Sometimes I'll get into a brilliant rhythm with it and then some days I realise I haven't done it for three or four days.

And I've stopped beating myself up about that.

Just get back at it.

Because there's another trap here.

If I'm trying to reduce stress and understand myself better, adding another six things to my daily checklist probably isn't the answer.

Journal.

Meditate.

Breathwork.

Train.

Read.

Walk.

Cold shower.

Gratitude.

Eight hours sleep.

Suddenly your wellbeing routine needs its own project manager.

I've become increasingly conscious that if I keep adding things to my plate without eliminating anything, the things I'm doing to reduce stress can become another source of stress.

That's not the goal.

Maybe improvement isn't always about adding.

Sometimes it's about subtracting.

Creating some space.

And being okay with imperfect consistency.

"But I had a great upbringing..."

This has been another interesting thought for me.

Because I had a brilliant upbringing.

I was loved.

I was supported.

I was given every opportunity.

And there's almost a temptation to think:

What have I got to be working through?

But I'm learning that nothing catastrophic needs to have happened to you for there to be parts of yourself worth understanding.

You can have been loved and still fear rejection.

You can be confident in one environment and deeply unsure of yourself in another.

You can be resilient and still get hurt.

You can be grateful and still struggle.

You can be mentally strong and still ask for help.

You can have a great life and still want to understand yourself better.

Those things aren't contradictions.

Maybe part of maturity is being able to hold both truths.

I've been incredibly fortunate.

And:

I've still got work to do.

Maybe I just need to stack different evidence

And that brings me all the way back to self-efficacy.

I've accumulated plenty of evidence throughout my life that tells me I can tolerate physical discomfort.

I can train.

I can compete.

I can hurt.

I can keep going when I'm tired.

I can push.

There's plenty in that account.

But maybe there's another account I've needed to start depositing into.

I can ask for help.

I can sit with something uncomfortable.

I can be vulnerable without seeing it as weakness.

I can examine a reaction instead of immediately defending it.

I can admit something hurt me.

I can have the difficult conversation.

I can rest without feeling guilty.

I can miss a few days of a good habit without deciding I've failed.

I can look at something in myself I don't particularly like and get curious about it rather than running from it.

That's evidence too.

And maybe that's a type of high performance we don't talk about enough.

Because performance isn't always about extracting more from yourself.

Sometimes it's about understanding yourself well enough to know what you actually need.

So, what's actually hard for you?

I've got two questions for you this week.

The first:

Where are you forgetting how far you've already come?

Turn around for a minute.

Think about the person you were five years ago.

Think about what you've navigated since.

Think about the things that used to scare you.

Think about what you can do today that a previous version of you wasn't sure they'd ever be capable of.

Stack the evidence.

You don't need to silence the doubt.

Just don't let it be the only voice in the room.

And then ask yourself the more uncomfortable question:

What is actually hard for me?

Not what looks hard.

Not what gets applause.

Not what produces the impressive Strava screenshot.

Not what somebody on Instagram has told you discipline should look like.

And importantly:

Not the hard thing you've already become really good at doing.

What do you avoid?

Where do you distract yourself?

What conversation aren't you having?

What feeling don't you want to sit with?

Where might doing more actually be easier for you than stopping and looking inward?

I'm still figuring out the answers to those questions myself.

And I suspect I will be for a long time.

But I've realised something.

For one person, getting off the couch and running 10K might represent enormous discipline.

And it is.

For me?

Sometimes...

the 10K is the easy part.

The harder part is stopping.

Sitting still.

I started a new job recently.

New environment. New people. New expectations.

And naturally enough, there was doubt.

Will I be good at this?

Will I make an impact?

Do I actually know enough?

I've heard that voice plenty of times over the years.

Sport. Business. Coaching. Standing in front of a room to deliver a workshop. Walking into a new organisation. Putting something out publicly with my name attached to it.

The context changes.

The voice doesn't disappear.

But I've become better at doing something with it.

I look backwards.

Not to live in the past.

To collect evidence.

I've held different roles. I've built businesses. I've delivered workshops to rooms full of people. I've coached people who are now doing brilliantly. I've worked with teams. I've built relationships across sport, business and education.

People have trusted me with their development.

Organisations have trusted me with their people.

Teams have trusted me with their players.

Individuals have trusted me with parts of their lives they probably don't share with many people.

I've got feedback.

I've got results.

I've got experience.

I've come through difficult periods in my life and learned from them.

I've had things go well, and plenty that haven't.

And I'm still here, still learning, still moving forward.

I've got evidence.

So when the voice says, "What if you're not able for this?", I've realised I don't necessarily need to win an argument with it.

I can acknowledge it.

And then I can turn the volume down.

Because I don't think there's an on/off switch for doubt.

But I do think there's a volume button.

Stack the evidence

There's a concept in psychology called self-efficacy.

It was developed by psychologist Albert Bandura and, in simple terms, it's our belief in our ability to handle a particular task or situation.

It's not:

"I'm brilliant at everything."

It's closer to:

"I've got reason to believe I can handle this."

And there's a big difference.

Bandura identified a number of things that influence that belief.

Our previous experiences matter.

I've done difficult things before.

Seeing somebody we relate to succeed can matter.

If they can do it, maybe I can too.

The people around us matter.

Someone I respect believes I'm capable of this.

Even how we interpret what's happening in our body can matter.

A racing heart before a big moment could mean:

I'm not ready for this.

Or:

This matters to me. My body is getting ready.

Same heartbeat.

Different story.

But the one that really resonates with me is our own lived experience.

Psychologists call them mastery experiences.

I prefer:

Evidence.

Every difficult thing you've already navigated becomes another piece of evidence.

Every setback you've recovered from.

Every conversation you were terrified of having but eventually had.

Every room you once felt you didn't belong in.

Every skill you can do almost automatically today that once felt impossible.

We spend so much time measuring the gap between where we are and where we want to be that we forget to measure the distance we've already travelled.

So every now and again:

Turn around.

Look at how far you've come.

Stack the evidence.

That doesn't mean the doubt disappears.

I'm not sure it ever completely does.

Maybe the difference with people who consistently perform isn't that they've somehow eliminated self-doubt.

Maybe they've just become better at turning down the volume.

Here’s the slightly uncomfortable truth. I’m very good at doing hard shit I already know how to do. Give me a start line, a finish line and something physical to suffer through, and I’m grand. Ask me to slow down, admit I’m hurt or have a conversation I’ve been avoiding? Different story.

Then Jimmy Carr got me thinking...

I absolutely love Jimmy Carr.

I heard him make a point recently that stuck with me.

He questioned how many of the problems we experience mentally might have a physical component.

How much better might we feel if we consistently looked after some of the basics?

Sleep.

Food.

Exercise.

Movement.

Getting outside.

Connection.

And there's a lot of sense in that.

I'm a massive believer in exercise.

I've spent most of my life involved in sport, and the benefits I've gotten from it go far beyond physical fitness.

But the more I thought about what Jimmy said, the more I started thinking about the other side of it.

Because exercise isn't particularly difficult for me.

Before anyone gets the wrong idea...

I am by no means an exceptional runner.

There are absolute levels to running.

Plenty of people could make me look like I'm standing still.

That's not the point.

The point is that running is familiar to me.

Training is familiar.

Physical discomfort is familiar.

I've spent most of my life in sporting environments.

Give me a physical challenge and I understand the rules.

Work.

Push.

Keep moving.

Don't quit.

I've accumulated decades of evidence that tells me I can operate there.

Which has forced me to ask myself a slightly uncomfortable question.

Am I doing hard things, or the hard things I'm already good at?

We hear it constantly in the performance world.

Do hard things.

Run further.

Lift heavier.

Get into the cold water.

Train when you don't feel like it.

Push yourself.

Embrace discomfort.

I've probably subscribed to that mentality for most of my life.

And there's absolutely value in it.

But recently another concept has intrigued me.

Soft discipline.

Not soft standards.

Not taking the easy option.

And certainly not an excuse to avoid difficult things.

I'm talking about having enough self-awareness to recognise that discipline doesn't always mean more.

Sometimes discipline might mean backing off.

Recovering.

Going for the easy run when your ego wants the hard session.

Sleeping.

Saying no.

Leaving something in the tank.

Putting the phone down.

Making time for the people who matter.

Sitting still.

Writing.

Having the conversation.

I've spent years associating discipline with my ability to push.

I'm starting to realise there's discipline in knowing when not to push too.

And that's harder for me.

Because I know how to suffer physically.

I'm comfortable being uncomfortable there.

But ask me to sit quietly and properly examine why something has upset me?

That's harder.

Ask me why somebody's comment triggered a reaction?

Harder.

Ask me what's actually underneath the reaction?

Harder.

Am I angry?

Or am I actually hurt?

Embarrassed?

Insecure?

Afraid?

Rejected?

That’s a different type of workout.

What might you need to turn down?

Where are you forgetting how far you’ve already come, and what might ask more of you than simply pushing harder?

If this resonated, we can make space to explore what matters to you, your team or your organisation, and what a useful next step could look like.

Coming next week · Part Two

The Harder Part Is Stopping

Why slowing down, admitting something hurts and having the conversation can demand more discipline than simply pushing through.

Let’s talk ↗← Back to the Journal

© 2026 Kieran Lillis

LinkedIn ↗Instagram ↗

And having the courage to listen to what's there when I do.

If this resonated with you...

If something in this piece made you think about yourself, your team, or a conversation you've been avoiding, I'd be happy to chat.

Whether that's one-to-one coaching, working with a team or organisation, or simply exploring what support might look like, get in touch.