The Power of Pressure

Picture this: you're standing outside a hotel stairwell at midnight, crying uncontrollably. You're one of the world's greatest athletes, just weeks away from competing on home soil at the Olympics, with an entire nation's hopes resting on your shoulders. The pressure feels suffocating, and you're seriously considering quitting everything you've worked for your entire life. This was Johann Koss's reality before he went on to deliver one of the most dominant Olympic performances in history, setting three world records and winning three gold medals.

Most of us have been taught to see pressure as the enemy—something to manage, avoid, or simply endure. We're told to stay calm under pressure, to find ways to reduce stress, to seek work-life balance. But what if we've been looking at this all wrong? What if pressure isn't something to be feared or minimized, but rather a powerful force that, when properly understood and channeled, can unlock our highest potential? The stories in this exploration reveal a counterintuitive truth: the same force that can paralyze us with anxiety can also propel us to extraordinary achievements. The difference lies not in the pressure itself, but in how we choose to respond to it.

When Navy SEAL Commander Curt Cronin found himself under enemy fire in a remote Afghan valley, his response in those critical moments would determine whether his team lived or died. Leading a mixed unit of elite SEALs and hastily deployed National Guard troops, Cronin suddenly came under attack from Taliban insurgents. In that moment, with bullets cracking past his head and inexperienced soldiers around him succumbing to the "cold creep of fear," Cronin felt immense pressure to act quickly and decisively.

His response was immediate and instinctual. First, get down—because if you don't get shot, you have infinite time to figure things out. Second, identify where the fire is coming from. Third, take action. Within moments, Cronin called in helicopter support to rain fire down on their attackers. Looking back, he admits it might have been only the second or third-best tactical choice, but the fact that a decision was made quickly—that made it the best choice in that moment.

Cronin's experience illustrates the fundamental components of what creates pressure in our lives. At its core, pressure emerges from the intersection of three key factors: importance, uncertainty, and volume. Importance determines how much the outcome matters to us. Uncertainty reflects how unpredictable the situation feels. Volume represents the sheer amount we're trying to juggle. When these three forces combine, they create the internal experience we call pressure. Understanding this equation becomes our first step toward transforming pressure from an overwhelming force into a source of power and clarity.

Martha McCabe had spent years preparing for the 2012 Olympic Trials, but as the competition approached, she realized that the volume of well-meaning support from friends, family, and media was becoming a source of pressure rather than strength. Her solution was radical and deliberate: she deleted all her social media apps and got a completely new SIM card for her phone, giving the new number only to her tight inner circle. This wasn't rudeness—it was strategic simplification in service of peak performance.

McCabe's approach reveals a crucial insight about managing pressure in our most critical moments: sometimes the solution isn't to manage everything better, but to eliminate as much as possible. When we're facing peak pressure moments—those short, intense periods where everything feels like it's on the line—our attention naturally narrows and our capacity to juggle multiple inputs diminishes dramatically. The instinct to use time management techniques actually backfires, because being more efficient at handling volume just leads to taking on even more volume.

Instead, peak pressure moments require us to become masters of elimination. We must consciously separate what's truly at stake from what isn't, focus intensely on the few things we can actually control, and strip away every possible distraction. McCabe understood that her performance at the trials wouldn't be determined by how well she managed her social obligations, but by how completely she could focus on the pool. By creating structural barriers to distraction rather than relying on willpower alone, she freed herself to channel all her energy toward what truly mattered.

Rick Hansen had an audacious vision: to wheel around the world in his wheelchair, covering over 24,000 miles across 34 countries to raise awareness and funds for spinal cord research. What followed was 26 months of grinding, relentless pressure unlike anything most of us will ever face. Day after day, Hansen had to wheel the equivalent of more than two marathons while managing logistics, media appearances, and the constant physical and emotional toll of his journey.

The pressure nearly broke him before he even started. In the months leading up to departure, Hansen found himself consumed by the enormity of what he'd committed to accomplish. He wasn't sleeping, was becoming increasingly irritable, and genuinely feared he might crumble before the journey even began. The weight of public expectations, the complexity of coordinating such a massive undertaking, and the physical demands of training created a perfect storm of sustained pressure that threatened to overwhelm him.

What carried Hansen through was something deeper than motivation or willpower—it was an unshakeable connection to meaning. He had lived the experience of being marginalized and underestimated because of his disability, and he was determined to use his precious life energy to create change. This connection to purpose didn't make the journey easy or enjoyable, but it made the suffering meaningful. Hansen's story reveals that surviving the long haul of sustained pressure isn't about finding happiness in the struggle, but about maintaining a clear line of sight between our daily decisions and what matters most deeply to us.

When my father was diagnosed with throat cancer, his initial reaction was characteristically independent: he would drive himself to all 35 radiation treatments, thank you very much. His friends had organized an elaborate support schedule, mapping out who would accompany him to each appointment, but he politely declined their help. After all, he was a successful consultant who had spent his career solving problems and helping others—surely he could handle this on his own.

Within weeks, the brutal combination of radiation and chemotherapy had humbled him completely. The feeding tube, the exhaustion, the general toll on his body made it clear that his fierce independence wasn't serving him well. When he finally accepted help from his support network, he made a crucial distinction: "I realized that while I needed to do it myself in the end, I didn't need to do it alone."

This experience illuminated a counterintuitive truth about support during high-pressure periods: not all support is actually helpful, and the wrong kind can even add to our stress. Well-meaning friends who want to commiserate and dwell on how difficult things are can trap us in what feels like a "pity party." Family members whose own emotions about our situation become another burden for us to carry. Supporters who raise the stakes by constantly reminding us how important the outcome is to them. The most effective support comes from a tight circle of people who can focus on what we need rather than their own emotional reactions, who are "in the arena" with us rather than observing from the sidelines, and who understand that their role is to strengthen our inputs—our mindset and behavior—rather than amplifying the importance of our outputs.

Gerry Butts faced what he describes as the most intense pressure of his life when he had to testify before a House committee about his role in the SNC-Lavalin affair. With the nation watching and his reputation on the line, Butts experienced physical symptoms of stress unlike anything he'd felt before. In the moments before entering the hearing room, he told his wife he didn't know how he'd walk to his seat without vomiting. Yet when the cameras rolled, he delivered two hours of composed, articulate testimony that helped navigate his party through a political crisis.

The difference between his private anxiety and public performance came down to one word: preparation. Butts and his team had used what they called the "funnel approach," working from broad narrative down to the finest details, anticipating every possible line of questioning. They had even prepared him for the physical sensations he would experience, with his lawyer advising him that his mouth would be dry and his hands might shake, but that he should just keep talking and the feelings would pass.

This reveals the ultimate secret to transforming pressure from a liability into an asset: preparation creates the space between stimulus and response that allows us to choose our reaction rather than simply reacting automatically. When we're under intense pressure, our attention narrows dramatically and we lose access to higher-order thinking and creativity. In these moments, we don't rise to the level of our expectations—we fall to the level of our training. The goal isn't to eliminate pressure but to prepare so thoroughly that we can channel its energy toward peak performance rather than letting it overwhelm our systems.

The stories throughout this exploration reveal a profound shift in how we can understand and relate to pressure. From Johann Koss crying under a stairwell to Rick Hansen's 26-month odyssey, from Martha McCabe's strategic simplification to my father's reluctant acceptance of help, each narrative demonstrates that pressure isn't the problem—our relationship with pressure is. The same force that can paralyze us with anxiety contains within it the energy to propel us toward our greatest achievements.

The path forward requires us to become what we might call "pressure ambidextrous"—skilled at both handling intense peak moments and sustaining ourselves through long periods of challenge. This means connecting deeply with what gives our struggles meaning, learning to focus on what we can control while accepting what we cannot, and building support systems that truly support rather than add to our burden. Most importantly, it means preparing so thoroughly that when pressure arrives, we can transform its raw energy into focused performance. Pressure will always be with us—it's an inevitable companion to any life worth living. The question isn't whether we'll face pressure, but whether we'll learn to dance with it or be crushed by it.