Get Out of the Way

Aug 24

5 min read

“GET OUT OF HER WAY!”

Not road-rage get out of the way.

Rodeo-mom-standing-on-the-bleachers-yelling get out of the way.

There’s a difference.

Yesterday, we were sitting at a junior high/high school rodeo watching a friend’s horse make her pole and barrel runs. Someone else had gotten on this mare earlier (another rodeo momma) and discovered something pretty important about her:

She knew her job.

Like, really knew her job.

The problem wasn’t that she needed someone to show her where the barrels were. She didn’t need more steering, more pulling, more correcting, more managing.

She needed her rider to quit trying so damn hard to help her.

So as they came into the pattern, the advice from the sidelines was pretty simple.

“Get out of her way!”

Let her work.

And when her rider did?

The mare worked.

It was a beautiful run. Not because somebody suddenly taught that horse something new, but because somebody finally gave her enough room to use what she already knew.

We were ridiculously proud.

And somewhere between the cheering and replaying the run in our heads, I realized I’ve heard this same conversation several times lately.

Different horses. Different riders. Same lesson.

Get out of their way.

A couple of my students have actually started recognizing it themselves with their own horses.

“I need to quit micromanaging.”

“I need to let him do his job.”

Those are pretty insightful words coming from kids on horseback.

Especially considering how many of us grown adults still haven’t figured it out on the ground.

Because good Lord, do we like to micromanage our lives.

We micromanage the timing.

We micromanage the outcome.

We micromanage ourselves.

We decide something is probably going to be too hard before we actually find out.

We get uncomfortable and retreat to something familiar.

We have one bad day and start questioning the entire plan.

We get busy and the first thing sacrificed is sometimes the very thing we said mattered to us.

We convince ourselves we’re being practical.

Sometimes we are.

And sometimes?

We’re standing directly in the path of our own potential wondering why the damn thing won't move.

That's the part I've been thinking about.

Because getting out of the way doesn't mean doing nothing.

On a horse, you still have a job.

You still have to ride.

You still have to prepare.

You still have to know where you're going. You have to get your horse to the right place, give the right cues, stay balanced and be ready to help when help is actually needed.

But there's a point where helping turns into interfering.

There's a point where preparation turns into overthinking.

There's a point where being cautious turns into retreating.

And there is absolutely a point where fear puts on a respectable little outfit and starts calling itself "being realistic."

That's a sneaky one.

Because potential usually doesn't look particularly comfortable while you're growing into it.

Sometimes it looks like another practice when you're tired.

Sometimes it looks like sticking with something after a bad run.

Sometimes it's choosing the thing you said mattered when six other things suddenly sound easier or more fun.

Sometimes it's letting yourself be bad at something long enough to become good at it.

And sometimes it's trusting that all the work you've already done might actually work.

That last one is hard.

For riders.

For parents.

For coaches.

For me.

I've had to learn something about myself over the last few years too.

I see potential in people, and when I see it, I get excited about it.

Like... probably too excited.

I can see three steps ahead. I can see what could happen if we keep working, if we stay consistent, if we get through the ugly middle instead of turning around.

And then my expectations start building around a future that technically only exists in my head.

That's something therapy has made me look at a little differently.

I can see someone's potential.

I can encourage it.

I can teach.

I can create opportunities.

I can hold a door open.

I can believe like hell that somebody is capable of walking through it.

But I cannot walk through it for them.

And I can't be angry with someone for not following a path just because I can see where it could lead.

That's their choice.

That's their life.

That's their horse to ride.

That's been a hard lesson for someone whose natural instinct is basically, BUT DO YOU NOT SEE WHAT I SEE?!

Apparently yelling that louder does not count as emotional intelligence.

Who knew.

But there's another side to this too.

Sometimes we need people around us who see our potential before we do.

Someone who says, "Quit pulling."

Someone who says, "You've got this."

Someone who reminds us that one bad day doesn't erase six months of progress.

Someone who notices when we're retreating because we're scared rather than because we've genuinely changed direction.

Not someone who forces us forward.

Someone who reminds us that forward is still available.

Because there is comfort in backing up.

There is comfort in returning to what we already know we can do.

There is comfort in lowering the expectation enough that failure isn't really possible anymore.

But there's a cost to that comfort.

We never find out what would have happened.

What if you stayed?

What if you practiced?

What if you committed?

What if you stopped changing the plan every time it got uncomfortable?

What if the thing you've been trying so hard to control already knows what to do?

What if you don't need another strategy?

What if you just need to get out of the damn way?

That's what that mare reminded me yesterday.

She didn't magically become talented during that run.

The talent was already there.

The knowledge was already there.

The work had already been done.

She just finally had enough freedom to use it.

Maybe that's true for more of us than we realize.

Maybe we don't always need another lesson, another plan, another excuse, another easier route, another backup plan or another person telling us exactly what to do.

Maybe sometimes we need a little trust.

A little consistency.

A little courage.

And permission.

Permission to see what happens if we don't retreat the second something becomes uncomfortable.

Permission to trust the work we've already put in.

Permission to stop micromanaging every damn stride.

And maybe even permission to surprise ourselves.

So no, I'm not suggesting we all start living recklessly and screaming "GET OUT OF MY WAY" while merging onto the interstate.

Please don't.

I'm suggesting something much less dramatic.

The next time your instinct is to pull back, quit, overthink, change directions, lower the goal or grab tighter control of the reins...