When my two youngest boys were little, we made up a game. I can’t remember how it started, but I do remember we played it. A lot.
It was simple: we’d lay out an old exercise mat — maybe two feet by four — in the family room and line up all the Little People toys we could find. Farmers, a lion, a lamb, other animals, the three wise men, and a shepherd boy from a nativity set. Each of us would pick a character. I almost always picked the shepherd. My boys alternated between the lion and the lamb. In hindsight, that feels almost symbolic.
Once the toys were arranged, we’d take turns “bowling” our chosen figure down the mat into the lineup. The goal was to knock down as many as you could in one toss. You earned a point for each one knocked down, plus extra if your opponent’s character got knocked off the mat. When every figure had fallen, we’d set them up again. Just like bowling.
Just an old mat, some tiny plastic toys, and the three of us playing round after round.
I didn’t really enjoy the game. Honestly, it was a little boring. Crawling around on the floor for a slow-paced game of plastic-figure bowling doesn’t exactly scream good time. But I loved being with my boys. I loved that they looked forward to it — and that they knew I’d show up whenever they asked to play.
We played it for years. My youngest could barely talk when we started. He was still asking for “little lamby” long after his older brother had moved on.
And still, we played.
That’s what consistency looks like. It’s not a sprint until you’re so exhausted you can’t think straight anymore. It’s slow, steady, and just keeps showing up.
For a long time, I confused greatness with intensity. If I wasn’t pouring all my energy into something, what was the point? I chased big moments that looked impressive only because of the pressure. I thought excellence meant overextending myself until something snapped. And the worst part? I believed that breaking myself in the process made me noble.
That mindset earned me short-term praise. But over time, it made everything harder. I started resenting even the things I cared about — because I was always so tired.
Consistency, by contrast, almost feels boring. Inconsistent effort has a weird way of feeling more thrilling — until it breaks you.
Burnout doesn’t always come from working hard. It comes from working without margin, without rhythm, without breath. It comes from believing everything has to be done by me and right now. That it has to be fast and polished and worthy of a “wow.”
(Thriving on external validation is a difficult addiction to break.)
But consistency doesn’t earn wows. It builds slowly. Not through sprints, but through small, repeated steps.
Every time I played that game with my boys, I was taking one of those slow, meaningful steps.
I’ve been applying that practice to my days: showing up for a project even when progress is slow. Saying something kind even when I’m in a bad mood. Pausing before reacting. None of it is flashy. But it’s real. And it counts.
Consistency isn’t some kind of stepping stone to accomplishing something great. In a way, consistency is it’s own kind of greatness.
Most of us won’t do something in life that catches the attention of even tens of thousands. Our circles of influence will remain small. We probably won’t be remembered for our some great thing we accomplished. But we will be remembered for our steadiness. My family will. They already do.
A few weeks ago, my youngest — now far past the Little People stage — asked if I still remembered that game.
I’ve been writing through a season of rebuilding, and it led to a book I didn’t expect to write: You Don’t Have to Escape to Be Free. If you’re walking your own canyon right now and want something honest to keep you company, you can find the book here:
Yes, I remember, and now that my family is getting older — my oldest just got married — I’m reminded about that a lot. I want to be the dad, and someday the grandpa, who still gets down on the floor to play the silly games.
That’s where I am now: still trying to rebuild a life with a bit more margin and more being true to who I was and want to be. I’m learning not to let speed and results dictate how I feel about the day. I just want to be present.
Some days, I still miss the mark. I still overextend. But I’m reminding myself that the life I want isn’t made from big moments — it’s made from small ones that play on repeat.
There’s a quote attributed to Anthony Trollope: “A small daily task, if it be really daily, will beat the labors of a spasmodic Hercules.” I’ve had enough spasmodic Hercules in me for a lifetime. I’d rather be the guy who plays the same game with a kid too young to keep score. The guy who sends the email and makes the bed and says “yes” to small, important things and “no” to the big, unimportant ones.
The guy who just keeps showing up for the right reasons.
And that is more than enough.
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