What do you think of when you envision someone who is locked in?

What do you think of when you envision someone who is locked in?

Is it a look on their face?
Is it their body language—do they have a powerful stance, with their head up and their shoulders back?
Can you tell they are locked in by something they say— “We’ve got this!” “Come on, let’s go!”

Is it something else?

If you visited Welsh-Ryan Arena this past season, you may have watched me play.

At Northwestern, I’ve become known for playing with a ton of energy and passion—diving on the floor, getting loud, bringing fire to the game whenever I play.

But here is the irony.

Behind all that visible intensity, and my enthusiasm and love for the game, I’m usually calm.

That’s right, calm.

Focused.
Yes, I’m excited—I love playing the game—but I have learned how to regulate my body, and my emotions, with breathing and visualization.

This steadiness helps me to stay focused and grounded, even when the game gets chaotic.

Because what I have learned on the court is that effort alone isn’t enough.

Performance oftentimes lies in a careful dance between physical exertion and mental clarity.

I pride myself on working as hard as I possibly can. Outworking is necessary for success in a competitive game.

But the reality is that the act of “giving your all” on the court is nuanced. Sometimes, full-out, instantaneous physical effort is needed, like when diving on a loose ball. Other times, a combination of physical execution and mental clarity are needed, like when reading help defense, or defending a ball-screen.

The effort is still there in both, but it looks different. It is thoughtful. It flows.

If you’ve watched me play, you might assume my mind is oftentimes racing, because I love playing with a lot of energy. But what you might miss, even as a careful observer, is the calm underneath—the calm which I, as well as other competitors, oftentimes work to cultivate while playing the game.

In sports, it is especially hard to recognize calmness, because there is constant movement. From the outside, the game could easily be interpreted as a constantly intense and fast realm, broken only by timeouts.
But internally, the best players oftentimes find a sense of stillness amid the chaos.

I’m still learning every day, but I’ve found that the more I can embrace that calm beneath the chaos, the more fully I can show up for my team, the game, and myself.

So, what do you think of when you envision someone who is locked in?