What I Learned from a Navy SEAL About Getting Through Hard Days

Dr. John Hill, Editor & CEO

I used to think toughness looked like intensity—charging forward, raising your voice, refusing to slow down, and somehow convincing everyone that you had everything under control.

What I learned from a Navy SEAL was almost the opposite.

Real toughness is usually quieter. It looks like staying steady when the plan falls apart. It means doing the next necessary thing when motivation has already packed its bags and gone home. It is less about looking fearless and more about continuing to function while fear is sitting beside you.

That distinction has changed how I approach leadership, ministry, work, and the ordinary aggravations of life.

The first lesson was blunt: Embrace the suck.

I did not like that phrase at first. It sounded unnecessarily crude, perhaps even a little theatrical. But the point is useful. Some experiences are not meant to be enjoyable. They simply have to be endured.

I have sat through tense meetings where everyone was tired, defensive, and carefully avoiding the real issue. I have worked through financial problems where every solution created another problem. I have traveled when flights were delayed, arrangements collapsed, and the only available option was still a bad one.

In those moments, I used to waste energy asking, “Why is this so difficult?”

Now I ask, “What does getting through this require?”

That is a much better question.

Accepting difficulty does not make the difficulty disappear. It does keep me from being shocked by it every fifteen minutes. There is a strange amount of relief in admitting, “This is going to be unpleasant for a while.” Once I stop demanding that the experience become comfortable, I can finally concentrate on the work.

Another lesson was that calm is contagious.

I have watched what happens when a leader panics. The room becomes smaller. People begin protecting themselves. Minor problems suddenly feel dangerous because the person in charge is broadcasting fear.

I have also watched what happens when someone remains calm without pretending the problem is minor. That distinction matters. Calm leadership is not saying, “Everything is fine,” when it clearly is not. It is saying, “This is serious, but we can still think.”

I have learned to lower my voice when tension rises. I ask fewer questions at once. I write down what we actually know instead of repeating what we fear. Sometimes I pause before answering, even when the silence feels uncomfortable.

There is a tradeoff here. Move too slowly, and people may think you are detached. Move too quickly, and you make decisions from adrenaline. I still do not always get that balance right. But I have learned that people borrow emotional cues from their leaders. If I appear scattered, everyone feels less safe.

Then there is the famous instruction: Don’t ring the bell.

In SEAL training, ringing the bell means you are finished. You have chosen to leave.

The broader lesson is obvious: do not quit simply because you are hurting.

But I have had to think carefully about this one. There is a difference between quitting the mission and changing the method. Stubbornness can look remarkably similar to courage, especially from the inside.

I have stayed with plans longer than I should have because I did not want to appear weak. I have defended projects that needed to be redesigned. I have confused faithfulness with refusing to adjust.

So now I ask myself, “Am I abandoning something worthwhile, or am I finally admitting that this approach is not working?”

Do not ring the bell too soon. But do not keep running in the wrong direction merely to prove that you can endure pain.

The next lesson is that the only easy day was yesterday. Tomorrow’s work will not become lighter merely because today was difficult.

I have discovered that wishing for an easier season can become its own form of procrastination. I tell myself that I will write when the schedule settles down, exercise when travel decreases, or address the difficult issue when emotions cool.

Sometimes waiting is wise. More often, I am hoping life will provide a clean stretch of road. It rarely does.

The goal is not to make life increasingly miserable. The goal is to increase my capacity. Hard things become more manageable because I become more experienced, more disciplined, and less surprised by them.

A Navy SEAL also teaches you not to swim away from the sharks. Turn toward them.

In ordinary life, the sharks are usually conversations.

They are the employee who needs correction, the expense that does not make sense, the relationship that has become strained, or the decision everyone knows is coming but no one wants to name.

Avoidance feels like relief, but it charges interest.

I have seldom regretted addressing a problem early. I have often regretted allowing one to grow while I pretended to be patient. Sometimes what I called patience was simply fear wearing a respectable coat.

Then there is humor: Sing when you are up to your neck in mud.

I have learned that humor does not erase hardship, but it keeps hardship from owning the entire room. A well-timed joke can release pressure and remind people that the crisis is not the whole story.

Of course, humor can also wound. Sarcasm aimed at a frightened person is not leadership. The best humor in hard moments is usually directed at the situation—or at myself.

Finally, slow is smooth, and smooth is fast.

Rushing has cost me more time than careful preparation ever has. Hasty emails create follow-up conversations. Poorly checked numbers create hours of reconciliation. Decisions made to “get it over with” often return with friends.

Discipline feels slower at the beginning. Check the details. Prepare before the meeting. Read the document twice. Have the hard conversation clearly rather than vaguely.

Then, when the pressure comes, default to discipline. Do not wait to feel inspired. Character is most visible when circumstances are least cooperative.

That may be the lesson that stays with me most. I am not measured only by what I can do when rested, praised, and confident. The real test is who I become when I am tired, disappointed, inconvenienced, and uncertain.

Anybody can look capable on an easy day. The harder question is whether I can remain useful on the difficult one.