Developing a sports coaching approach that is infused with my Buddhist practice and studies was not a conscious strategy. It evolved over time, first in my own approach to sports—and then, filled with the sense of freedom and possibility that I personally gained from it, I more deliberately developed a philosophy of sports coaching that, I believe, serves as the essential backdrop for truly effective and comprehensive training. Because, as I’ve often said, we aren’t machines; while numbers allow us to assess many physiological parameters in sports, they are incapable of capturing the full scope of the athletic experience or making us happy athletes.
Debunking the Myth of a “Strong Mind”
You’ve often heard it—“What a strong mindset he/she has!”—to praise someone’s perseverance during a sporting effort, especially during long-distance events like ultras. What this means is that even though the body is battered, through sheer mental strength alone, one can still keep moving forward.
I’m going to make the opposite argument: it’s precisely because we manage not to listen too much to our “mind” that we’re still able to find the space to move forward. In Buddhist philosophy, the “mind” is a limited space, made up of our beliefs, habits, conditioning, and imperatives—which has nothing to do with consciousness, a far vaster realm that is itself a source of possibilities. What I mean by this is that when it hurts—which is inevitable in endurance sports—it’s not enough to tell yourself, “I’ll push forward no matter what; I’ll fight, I’ll struggle, and I’ll keep going.” I’d even suggest that the opposite is true: stop fighting and embrace the discomfort, say a resounding “yes” to it by integrating it into our conscious space. Because by doing so, we aren’t struggling; we no longer wish things were different, easier, or less painful; we don’t push the experience of difficulty into a corner of our mind while trying to ignore it—all of that is exhausting and can only last so long. Incorporating the difficulty of the moment into our experience, allowing it to be present in our consciousness, is the only way to truly deal with it. And coming to terms with it doesn’t mean giving up, but truly embracing it: focusing on what’s still possible within the actual circumstances of the moment, no matter how uncomfortable they may be; trusting in our ability to experience everything; and simply believing in ourselves. That, to me, is true “mental strength”: embracing what is, opening ourselves up to difficulties, and working with them rather than against them.
Not long ago, I was listening to an interview with the incredible Courtney Daulwater, who, I think, was saying exactly that when she described how she even looked forward with a certain impatience to the moment when the “pain cave” would arrive. She explained that at that moment, she imagined herself as a cave explorer with a chisel cutting through the rock, and this allowed her to move forward step by step, chipping away at the terrain and thus expanding her realm of possibility.
Redefining Discipline
When I was a child, people sometimes said I lacked discipline; by that, they didn’t mean that I couldn’t sit still in my school desk, that I often chatted, or that I didn’t always obey what the adult world expected of me. Yet now people say the opposite about me—that I’m very disciplined, rigorous, and determined. What has changed? My definition of discipline has evolved, and it no longer means obeying certain rules imposed from the outside, but rather the joy of devoting time to things that have deep meaning for me.
Yes, I certainly intend to promote a joyful discipline in sports. Buddhist teachings invite us to examine the motivation behind our actions and to be very clear about what that motivation is. And I suggest you apply this attitude to your athletic practice as well: why do you exercise? Of course, you might exercise because your doctor recommended it, because others do it, to lose weight, etc.—but for your commitment to last, it’s essential to enjoy it (at least a little) or to at least learn to appreciate physical activity.
Running, cycling, swimming, etc.—for the love of it
So I encourage you to ask yourself this simple question: Do you enjoy sports? If not, then what scares you, bores you, or puts you off? Often the answer to that last question is the effort involved—I don’t like feeling pain, I don’t like sweating, I don’t like being out of breath. To that I say—me neither. Yet I love sports; I get on my yoga mat every day, I run every day—some days with more enthusiasm than others—but in the end, I find great satisfaction in it; my routine is truly joyful.
You may be sensing where I’m going with this: it’s above all our relationship to effort that’s worth examining. Why approach physical activity as something difficult? We’re entirely free to choose our level of effort, to let it be gentle, to gently push it toward more intense levels without entering aggressive zones that leave us tired, worn out, and with no desire to return.
Let’s move away from this view of sports as something where you necessarily have to hurt yourself. “No pain, no gain” stems from a worldview where everything must be hard to be deserved. Not at all—exercise can be enjoyable; it’s adaptable, progressive, and flexible—it can include moments of rest and variations in intensity. I encourage you to always do a little less than you’re capable of: run a little slower during interval training, and make your long runs a little shorter. First, because the body doesn’t distinguish between these subtle differences in intensity, and there’s no benefit to pushing yourself to the limit—except for a high risk of injury and psychological exhaustion; second, because it’s essential to always keep a margin of possibilities; and third, because training that’s psychologically enjoyable leads to better physiological adaptation (the body and mind are connected—surprise?).
So what if we want to give it our all? That’s what races are for—they’re moments when we celebrate our fitness, reflect on past training sessions, and see where our capabilities take us on any given day. Let’s stop turning our training sessions into mini-races and trying to impress everyone around us. Let’s run happily, and let’s practice a joyful sport.
Freeing Ourselves from Comparison and Judgment
Buddhist philosophy suggests that we create our own dissatisfaction through our tendency to compare ourselves, evaluate ourselves, and constantly seek confirmation of our worth from outside ourselves. In sports, we may initially be satisfied with a workout or a race, but as soon as we compare our results to what we could have done, what we’ve done before, or what someone else has done, and the experience that felt just right a moment ago becomes a source of frustration and disappointment.
Participating in sports also means accepting the impermanence of everything and the non-linear nature of our athletic progress. It’s obvious—we know there are ups and downs. Sometimes things go very well, and other times not at all. But rather than viewing this in terms of positive or negative, can we simply embrace what’s there at any given moment and take satisfaction in always being able to do something with it? People recovering from injury know this: what a joy it is to simply put one foot in front of the other, what a blessing it is to get on a bike.
Let’s appreciate the simple fact of moving, of being in a body that responds and a heart that loves.
Getting Nowhere
Having goals is important when we exercise; it’s a source of motivation, a horizon to strive toward. But if we see it as an end in itself, we set ourselves up for many disappointments and frustrations. Imagine putting everything on the line for a race: we train for it; it takes up a lot of space in our minds and in our lives—we organize everything around it. We start to identify with our goal and imagine that if we achieve it, then we’ll finally have arrived somewhere, we’ll have a certain value, we’ll be appreciated, recognized, and so on… But our human worth doesn’t depend in the slightest on how we cross the finish line. Because we don’t actually arrive anywhere; we’re the same person, no more and no less, regardless of the outcome. If the result meets our expectations, then we experience a brief moment of glory—which is certainly enjoyable—but very quickly, we’re back in the race, and we have to do more or something else to keep proving to ourselves that we’re worth something. If we fall short of our goal, then we judge ourselves, make excuses, blame ourselves, or blame the weather, our nutrition, or the other runners….
Can we be competitive without setting a goal? My answer is yes. We can run plenty of races, set a benchmark for ourselves (in terms of time, ranking, or how we feel) that motivates us to aim high and tap into our potential, while at the same time fully embracing whatever comes our way, laughing a little at it all, and telling ourselves that just crossing the starting line is already a success. We try, we put our hearts into it, we go for it, and the rest is an experience—one that, like all experiences, is largely beyond our control.
Let’s let go of the outcome while fully immersing ourselves in the process. Getting nowhere so we can keep going everywhere.
Creating Possibilities
I run every day—which, by the way, I don’t recommend to my athletes; rest is essential. If I run every day while being fully aware that rest is essential, it’s because I love experimenting with the sensations of the moment—including fatigue—and integrating them into my sport, learning to work with them. I have a general idea of how my week is structured; right now, for example, I do two VO2max workouts a week, one long run, and the rest is very relaxed, in Zones 1 and 2. When I go for a run, I aim for at least 3k, and there are no hard-and-fast rules: if I’m tired, it’s a very easy jog, with a few walking breaks here and there; if I’m feeling energetic, I do interval training. In short, I put on my running shoes, head out the door, run a bit, and see how I feel. It’s a “no-program” program that lets me always create new possibilities. And seeing your sport this way is exciting—you learn flexibility and creativity, and you feel satisfied because there’s always a possibility.
This attitude of working with what is, of dealing with things as they are—rather than as I’d like them to be—is a form of training. It’s an exploration of our physical and psychological lives that, for me, is deeply inspired by my Buddhist practice. This practice invites me to support my athletes in every aspect of their lives, to help them discover unexplored possibilities, to trust in their own resources, and to always maintain a sense of humor.