Your mind’s primary objective is to keep you from being eaten by a lion. Consider the implications of this for your life.

That wiring made perfect sense once. But in modern life — and especially in sport — the “lion” rarely looks like a predator. It looks like a crowd, a scoreboard, a mistake, a coach’s comment, a moment that suddenly feels bigger than it is. The nervous system doesn’t ask whether the threat is physical or psychological; it just reacts. Heart rate spikes. Vision narrows. Muscles tighten. What once kept us alive now shows up as urgency — rushing the moment, forcing the outcome. It doesn’t ask whether the threat is physical or psychological; it just reacts.

In sport, the lion lurks right before the snap, the face off, or the free throw — times when the moment feels big. Not because it is inherently dangerous, but because it activates conditioning laid down over time: past failures, expectations, identity, the fear of letting someone down. The nervous system responds less to the moment itself than to what the moment has come to represent. Suddenly, the athlete is no longer playing the game, but protecting themselves from what it might mean.

The turning point comes with awareness. Not trying to get rid of the nerves, not forcing calm, but recognizing what’s actually happening. This is my nervous system doing its job. When athletes learn to notice that moment — to feel their feet, soften their breath, widen their vision — they regain choice. The game slows just enough. Effort becomes directed again. They’re no longer defending against a threat; they’re playing the game.

And this doesn’t end at the sideline. Sport mirrors life. The same pattern shows up in life when moments feel big — not because they’re dangerous, but because they activate old conditioning. Before a hard conversation or a job interview. When feedback feels critical. The body tightens, the story speeds up, and urgency masquerades as truth. “What if I’m not good enough?” Recognition changes everything. What we’re feeling is not a threat but protection — and in that realization, in that space it creates, real freedom returns.

Over time, it helps to have something you return to regularly that quietly reconnects you to yourself — something embodied and absorbing. For me, that can be time on the water, fishing. The rhythm, the patience, the beauty, the way the mind settles when there’s nothing to force. In winter, (especially this winter) when the harbor freezes, I’ve been dabbling in watercolor painting and discovering it offers the same gift. A quiet creative practice that steadies the body, softens the mind, and trains the nervous system — through direct experience — in what it feels like to be at ease with ourselves.

My mind resisted at first. It wanted competence, certainty, and results. But learning to begin anyway — to stay with the process rather than the outcome — turned out to be the practice, quietly reinforcing something I already knew.

Most of the time, there is no lion. There is only a mind doing what it has always done —scanning, predicting, protecting. When we learn to recognize that impulse without obeying it, we recover something essential: our ability to stay present. In sport, that’s where the game opens back up. In life, it’s where conversations soften, decisions clarify, and we remember that we are not under threat — we are simply just here.

A simple practice:

Notice the reaction.
Feel your body. Feel your breath.
Widen your view.

That’s often all it takes to move from protection back to participation.

— Pete

ps - “Wondering Where the Lions Are” is a favorite Bruce Cockburn song, as is the “why” he wrote it. Check out the lyrics and some comments by Cockburn here.

Afterword

Part of what prompted this reflection is my work with a high school athlete who plays two sports. In one, he moves freely and confidently. In the other, he plays tight. The difference isn’t talent. It’s history.

During a club season, he tried to play through an injury. His performance suffered. He was benched. Criticized. The experience left a mark. Now, in a different setting, with a different coach, his nervous system still remembers. The lion shows up early.

It’s a sobering reminder of how much power coaches hold — not just over performance, but over how young athletes come to experience themselves. The moments we create, especially under pressure, don’t disappear when the season ends. They live on in bodies and beliefs. And they shape whether a game feels like something to engage with — or something to survive.

Author’s note: This reflection draws on themes explored more fully in my book, The Why of Sports, where presence — not pressure — is the doorway to performance, growth, and connection.

Thanks for Reading.

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