Don’t Wish It Were Easier, Wish You Were Better

At the Adventure Racing World Championships in Tasmania, 2011, we lined up as favourites to win. We’d been training for months, and we knew we had the talent and the experience.

The race started with a kayak stage, and before the start, the Race Director issued every team a GPS tracker to carry throughout the event. Most teams just threw theirs in the kayak. But because we were the pre-race favourites, and the media wanted to track us closely, the Race Director asked me to mount our tracker to my PFD instead.

When we hit the first transition, we were in the lead, and the TA was empty except for us. But the moment we stepped in, we were mobbed. Journalists, photographers, cameras, race officials, they swarmed us. Everyone wanted a quote, a shot, a comment. I felt the pressure to keep our lead, to manage the chaos, to get us out of there fast, but also help the media do their job.

In the rush, with people shoving microphones in my face and flashbulbs popping, I made one small mistake: I left the tracker on my PFD, instead of transferring it to the next stage’s gear.

We tore out of the TA into the next stage, a two-hour trail run, feeling good about our position. When we arrived at the next TA, we were told: “You don’t have your tracker. That’s an 8-hour penalty.”

It was devastating. Eight hours is a race-ending penalty at that level. We appealed. I argued that the TA had been chaotic, and the media attention we’d been under had contributed. I argued that if we’d been left alone to transition undisturbed, the mistake likely wouldn’t have happened.

The race jury was firm. After an hour of arguing, they agreed to reduce the penalty, but only to six hours. Not enough to change the outcome.

It felt grossly unfair. And in the moment, it was hard not to dwell on that.

We carried that sense of unfairness through the rest of the race, and it showed. We didn’t race well. We second-guessed ourselves. We lost focus. And we lost the World Championship.

Unfairness isn’t real

Afterward, we sat down and faced some hard truths.

We could keep telling ourselves that it wasn’t fair. Or we could ask ourselves: If we’d been better, would it have mattered? Would we still have found a way to win?

And here’s the thing: “unfairness” isn’t even real. You can’t weigh it or measure it. It’s not made of molecules or atoms. It’s not something you can hold in your hand. It’s just an idea, a feeling, a perspective. It’s just a story we invent to explain why things didn’t go our way.

You can even gather people around you who agree with you, and it can feel good to have others nod and say, “Yeah, that was unfair.” But does that help you? Probably not.

The world is imperfect. Referees make bad calls. Race juries get it wrong. People treat you badly. Circumstances turn against you.

You can whinge about it, or you can accept it and move forward.

If you enjoy playing the “poor me” tune on your violin, go ahead. You can even form an orchestra. But don’t kid yourself that it’ll help you win races or achieve what really matters to you.

What is real are your actions. How you respond. How you improve.

We decided: from here on, we stop wishing the race was easier, fairer, and start working to be better.

It’s a mindset I’ve carried ever since, and one I’ve transferred into every part of my life.

Life is unfair sometimes. Things happen that you don’t deserve, or didn’t cause. But blaming those things doesn’t make you better, it just makes you bitter.

You have two choices: whinge about it, or improve.

That attitude set us up for an unprecedented period of dominance at the world level. Even at our final ARWC in Paraguay, a similar thing happened. We were given what we believed was a grossly unfair time penalty. We appealed, but the jury didn’t budge. So we did what we’d learned to do: we accepted it and decided to race better. Even when we later picked up another justified penalty near the end of the race, something that could have broken most teams, we stayed true to our philosophy. We executed the final 30 hours of racing perfectly, regained the lead, and won comfortably.

Stoicism: leaning into challenge

I’ve always been somewhat of a stoic, even before I knew what the word meant. I resonate deeply with the principles of stoicism, embracing challenge, seeking moments of hardship, being comfortable with discomfort.

It’s easy to perform well when everything goes your way. But the real test of character is how you perform when nothing goes your way.

I’ve learned to welcome those moments, when the storm sets in, when you’re cold and sore and tired, when the easy option is to quit or complain, because that’s where the real growth happens.

The best version of yourself isn’t forged when it’s easy. It’s forged in discomfort.

A very Kiwi mindset

I also think this mindset is deeply ingrained in the New Zealand psyche.

We’re a small country, geographically isolated, with a small population. We’ve always had to punch above our weight.

In sport, business, and culture, Kiwis have learned to push excuses and barriers aside and simply step up to whatever level is required.

We don’t expect the world to make it easy for us. And that, I think, is a big part of why we succeed far beyond what our size might predict.

It’s about humility, and honesty with yourself. Saying “It’s too hard” or “It’s unfair” is really just a way to avoid facing the reality of what’s required. It doesn’t support a proactive, positive approach.

A family philosophy

At home, we’ve instilled the same philosophy with our kids.

In our family, we had a simple rule: no whingeing or whining.

Our kids learned early that it was okay to ask for help, or to ask about proactive, positive steps they could take, but excuses and complaints weren’t acceptable.

When it came to sport, the only metric we used with our kids was effort and enjoyment. Results didn’t matter. All that mattered was that you gave it your best, and you had fun.

That approach meant they never felt the need to make excuses for disappointing results. If they tried their best and enjoyed the experience, that was success.

And it’s not just kids who need reminding: no one, in sport or in life, ever makes a choice thinking, “This is the worst option”, I’ll choose this. At any given moment, people choose what they believe is best at the time.

When you look back on mistakes, it’s important to be kind to the version of yourself that made those decisions. They were giving it their best with the knowledge and experience they had.

Taking full responsibility

One of the most important lessons I’ve learned in life is to take as much responsibility as I possibly can, for everything.

When I was a junior mountain biker racing at the elite level, I learned this the hard way.

At the New Zealand Championships, I was leading the race when my seat post broke on a descent. I had to ride a full lap standing up and ended up finishing second.

At the finish line, I said to my coach, “I would have won if my seat post hadn’t broken.”

He replied, “You may have won, if you hadn’t broken your seat post.”

That stuck with me. He was teaching me that I was responsible for everything, even mechanical failures. My preparation, my equipment choices, my maintenance, it was all on me.

He told me: “You finished second. You gave it 100%. That’s the result. And that’s fine. End of story.”

That moment shaped how I’ve approached everything since, owning my results, good or bad, and focusing on what I can do better next time.

Why it matters

The most satisfying thing about sport, and about life, isn’t the medals, or the wins.

It’s the journey of becoming better. Of building character, earning self-respect, and contributing to your team, your family, your community.

I often hear people say things like:

"I’d love to race True West, but the pack-rafting looks too hard.”

Or, “The navigation’s too hard.”

Or, “The weather’s too harsh.”

I could make True West easier.

Or… you could get better.

So next time you find yourself thinking something’s unfair, or too hard, remember: unfairness isn’t real. It’s just a thought.

What is real is the choice you make next.

Whinge? Or improve?

The choice is yours.

Nathan Fa’avae