Mastering Mastery

On Courage, Restraint, and the Power of Both

I used to think “mastery” was just my husband’s pet topic, a little too pat for my taste. But over the years, I’ve realized that the courage to try something new, and the wisdom to know when not to, is more powerful than I imagined. This piece is about bravery, restraint, and the kind of mastery that can change the way we live.

For years, decades really, my husband has preached the value of mastery. He says there’s no better feeling than tackling something you didn’t think you could do. It could be as small as passing a test in a difficult subject or as big as running a code in the ER. He’s made it a point to notice every time mastery leads to self-efficacy, and how self-efficacy then leads to more bravery.

I won’t lie. I used to find all the mastery talk kind of annoying. But if I’m being honest, I think it was because I was scared. Scared of trying new things. Scared of failing. Scared of what it would say about me if I couldn’t do something right away. I didn’t want to believe in mastery because I didn’t want to take the risk that mastery requires.

But lately, as much as I hate to say it, especially publicly, I think he might be right.

This week, we have dear friends visiting our lake house. Like so many of our closest friends, they’re phenomenal people. Both have spent their careers helping others. Both are thoughtful parents. And both are the kind of friends who once greeted our road-weary, cranky, over-packed family with tacos, margaritas, and personalized gift bags. Yes, plural. Yes, we were the guests. Budweiser tank tops for us, licorice for the kids, and a golf cart ride after dinner. These are not just good people. They are generous hosts and lifelong friends.

Today, they became our guests. And yes, we had gift bags waiting for them. They taught us well.

We spent the afternoon out on the water. For us, this is a summer routine. For them, it was more of an adventure. Our friend, who is in his fifties if that matters, decided to try both e-foiling and wake surfing. Neither are beginner-friendly sports. Both require strength, balance, and more than a little bravery. My husband coached him, encouraged him, and celebrated with him when he found his footing. And he did, imperfectly but undeniably. His pride was written across his face.

And damn it, I looked at my husband and said, “Mastery.”

Then it was my turn. I decided to try one-ski waterskiing again, something I’d done once earlier in the summer but hadn’t successfully repeated. The conditions weren’t ideal, but I tried anyway. And I did it. Our friend caught the moment on video. My smile was unmistakable.

Husband: 1. Me: 0.

But that wasn’t the whole story. Our friend’s wife, equally wonderful and equally brave, chose to stay in the boat. She cheered for her husband. She cheered for me. But she knew from the start she didn’t want to try the sports herself.

Before we had even left the dock, she had shared a story from a family trip years ago. They were kayaking in Georgia, and she’d told her husband she’d only feel safe sharing a kayak with him. But he’d already promised to paddle with his mother. She ended up in a kayak with her adult son, which felt safe enough. But that left her sister solo, and her sister, as she pointed out, had about the same athletic ability.

Let’s just say it didn’t go well. A near-Coast-Guard-level rescue and what my husband and I call “a marital” ensued.

I share this not to embarrass them, but because it illustrates something just as important as mastery: limits. Sometimes, staying in the boat is the healthy choice. Sometimes, not taking the risk is the best thing you can do for yourself. Mastery isn't about bravado. It's about discernment. Pushing yourself, but not beyond your nervous system’s window of tolerance.

That balance has been on my mind lately, not just because of a lake day, but because of my son. For years, we tried everything to help him build confidence. Talk therapy. Supportive parenting. Encouragement layered on encouragement. But it wasn’t until wilderness therapy that he really found it.

Out there, in the dirt and discomfort, he learned to start his own fire, cook his own meals, build his own shelter, and hike further and with a pack heavier than he thought he could carry. He was miserable, proud, challenged, and alive in a way I hadn’t seen before. Out in the Utah wilderness, he discovered he could take care of himself. Not because someone told him. Not because someone helped. Because he had done it.

No amount of reassurance or praise from me could have given him what that experience gave him: earned confidence. Mastery. The kind that requires risk.

And honestly? This writing has become my own version of mastery. I started with one page at a time. That was all I could manage. Too much more, and the feelings would flood me. But one page, I could do.

Then came reading aloud in therapy. Then sharing a few pages with a friend. Then submitting work. Then publishing. Each step required risk. Each one brought a small sense of mastery. Not easy, mind you. I still panic every time I publish something vulnerable. I still quietly freak out when I hold a boundary that risks upsetting someone.

But mastery has a cumulative effect. One brave act begets the next.

So no, this isn’t a tidy moral tale. It’s not “take the risk” or “know your limits.” It’s about learning to listen. Learning when it’s time to stretch and when it’s okay to stay in the boat. Sometimes we need the challenge. Sometimes we need the choice not to take it. Mastery is built in those moments of discernment, when we know ourselves well enough to decide which kind of courage the moment calls for.