Picture a middle-schooler slumping off the soccer field, soaked in sweat and splattered with mud, doing everything she can to not cry.

Soccer, when you’re in middle-school, is more than a game. It’s self-respect. It’s pride. It’s social standing. For many of the kids I used to coach, it was even more than that. Failing grades, broken families, gender confusion, bullying… The list of challenges those kids faced was broader and deeper than I could have imagined.

But on the soccer field, all of that could be forgotten. Kick, dribble, pass, shoot, cheer, laugh… You live in the moment. The process of playing (or in my case, of coaching) consumes all your attention. It is the perfect escape.

Until it isn’t.

Until everything goes wrong, and nothing you try works.

When that happens, the off-field problems crash down on you, magnified by the knowledge that you’ve just made them worse. Additionally, you have to deal with the biggest sin of all: you’ve let the team down.

“Sorry, coach,” she said, staring at her shoes. “I just… I couldn’t…”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “We got you.”

The players on the sideline rose to the moment, reassuring, joking, helping however they could.

When the player seemed a little recovered, I took her aside for a quiet conversation. “When you’re ready,” I said. “I’d like you back on the field.”

Panic, insecurity, and more than a little anger flooded through her expression. She had good reason. In soccer, as with so many other things, problems tend to multiply. A few bad moments, and suddenly all your skills leave you. Nothing makes sense. You thought you knew how to play, but you clearly don’t. All you’re doing is embarrassing yourself.

“Hear me out,” I said. “When you go back out there, I want you to forget about the team and just kick the ball.”

Let me explain. Some players are great with the ball on their feet. They can dribble circles around people. Others, have fantastic field vision and are capable of beautiful arcing passes. In this particular case, the player had a simple singular thing that she liked doing: kicking the ball.

“Kick the snot out of it,” I said.

“Really?”

“Don’t worry about the game or the team or anything else. If that ball comes anywhere near you, blast it. Let me worry about the game.”

The idea made her laugh. She went back onto the field, and, after a few ridiculous kicks, I called out. “You good? You back?”

She gave me a thumbs-up.

That scene repeated itself season after season, with player after player. It reached a point where the players were giving each other my speech. In some cases, I didn’t even have to say anything.

Players learned that by narrowing their focus to what they were good at, they could shake off the terrors and get their feet back under them.

Full disclosure: I didn’t start coaching with that philosophy. It took me about five years to figure it out.

What does this have to do with writing?

Take a moment to think about what you’re good at. If you’re a writer, are you fantastic at dialogue? Maybe action scenes are your strength, or romance. Maybe you’re unnaturally talented at writing villanelles. Whatever it is, remember it. Write it down, if you have to.

There will come a time when nothing is working, when the demons of self-doubt are roaring and you’re second-guessing every decision.

When that happens, take a breath, shut out all the noise, and enter your comfort zone. Do whatever it is that you do.

Embrace your talent. Celebrate it.

You’ll get your legs back under you soon enough.

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