Septmber 9, 2025
There’s a funny tension in that thought, isn’t there? On the surface, “trying your best” sounds noble, almost heroic. It’s the thing we tell kids before soccer games and the thing we tell ourselves before big presentations. But buried inside those words is a loophole. If I say I “tried my best,” then I’ve already given myself permission to fail. I’ve built an exit strategy before I even took the first step.
The problem is that “best” is slippery. My “best” on five hours of sleep isn’t my “best” after a week of rest. My “best” folding laundry after a long day of work isn’t my “best” when I’m caffeinated and in a mood to conquer house chores like a warrior poet. So when I say I tried my best, what I usually mean is: “I gave enough effort that I can feel okay about whatever happens next.”
That doesn’t sound like real commitment. That sounds like planning to shrug later and say, “Well, what more could I do?”
When I look back at moments I’m most proud of, they don’t sound like “trying my best.” They sound more like, “I did what it took.” When my wife and I brought our first newborn home, no one asked if we were trying our best to keep this tiny human alive. We just did it, feeding at 2 a.m., rocking until our arms went numb, stumbling through those long nights. It wasn’t “best” or “not best.” It was just what needed to be done.
And honestly? That’s a lesson I keep re-learning. Whether it’s writing posts for this site, hauling myself to the gym when I’d rather be in bed, or showing up to my kid’s school performance after a chaotic day at work, the things that matter most aren’t about best effort. They’re about full presence.
“Best” is an excuse that lets us off the hook. Presence is a choice that pulls us into the moment.
I think about this too when I catch myself half-assing things. And let’s be real—half-assing happens a lot. Sometimes it’s harmless (like leaving the fitted sheet wrinkled because life is too short for perfection). But other times, it eats away at trust, when I promise myself I’ll eat better, but settle for Doritos instead, or when I say I’ll be fully engaged with my kids, but my phone steals my attention.
Half-assing is really just “trying your best” in disguise. It’s effort with a built-in disclaimer. And while I don’t believe we’re meant to be perfect all the time (life is messy, kids are messy, my car is messy), I do believe there’s a difference between giving ourselves grace and giving ourselves excuses.
Grace says, “You didn’t get it all done today, but you’ll try again tomorrow.”
Excuses say, “You did your best, so why even bother pushing further?”
So where does this leave me? Probably somewhere between honest confession and hopeful challenge. I’ll admit I hide behind “best” when I don’t want to risk going all in. But I also know the moments I lean all the way forward—when I risk failure without excuses—are the ones that change me.
Maybe the real shift is to stop saying, “I tried my best” and start saying, “I did what it takes.”
Because there’s no loophole in that.
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