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Now let’s dive into this week’s Nugent Note.

I was taking questions after one of my talks recently when I got asked about what are some of my key inputs that keep me on track in life.

It got me thinking back to what I do consistently, day in and day out where I get the most bang for my buck if you will.

The top inputs that come to mind for me, and in no particular order, are sleep, fitness, nutrition, relationships, writing, and reading (I’m a sucker for a good book).

I’d argue sleep is one of the most important. So I’ll share with you what I know about sleep and what has worked for me. I’m no sleep expert but this is definitely a subject where I have nerded out quite a bit in the last few years.

I didn’t always prioritize sleep. Sleep was hard to come by in the Marines. Especially in the infantry. We prided ourselves on being able to operate under four hours. But that’s not sustainable.

I began actually prioritizing my sleep when I was a patient at Walter Reed because I wanted to help speed up my recovery and I knew sleep was one of the key inputs in my control. But once I left Walter Reed and started competing in adaptive sports at the Invictus Games, I kept on prioritizing my sleep. It was incredible to see the difference in how I recovered and performed on training days after quality sleep versus poor sleep. It was something I couldn’t ignore any longer.

And it’s been true in corporate and entrepreneurial life as well. It just takes planning, discipline, and execution.

What this looks like tactically for me:

• I block out my sleep like I would a meeting on my calendar

• No food 2-3 hours before bed (helps your body get into deeper sleep)

  • This is the hardest for me

• Blue light glasses about two hours before I go to bed (helps with circadian rhythm)

• White noise machine (helps muffle the NYC outside noise)

• Blinds in bedroom pulled down for complete darkness (my fiancée is not a fan of this because she prefers waking up to natural light)

• Ear plugs

• Nasal strip to breathe more efficiently

• Mouth tape to ensure nasal breathing (lots of research on why we should breathe through our noses)

• Eye mask for total darkness

Now I know you might be thinking I am crazy after reading that routine. But I slowly added all these steps over a few years and not all at once. We humans sleep for about 1/3 of our lifetime so I’m of the belief we should make sure we squeeze the most out of it.

Early on in my recovery at Walter Reed I struggled with sleeping, so I saw a sleep specialist. One of the biggest (and simplest) takeaways and changes that I implemented was how I viewed what activities I should do in bed. The doctor told me the bed is only for two activities. It’s for sleeping and sex. Nothing else. No reading, no watching tv, and no working on my laptop from bed. This signals to my brain that when I get into bed it knows exactly what to do and I can fall asleep quicker.

I know many of you reading this might have children (which I don’t have yet) so sleep might be harder for you to be prioritizing but that just means the focus should be on making whatever sleep you do get is as efficient as possible (making sure your body gets more REM and deep sleep).

• Light sleep: serves as the transition stage between wakefulness and deeper sleep

• Deep sleep: helps aid in muscle repair

• REM sleep: helps aid in cognitive repair

I’m a huge fan of the line, “you can’t manage what you don’t measure,” so a way I have been measuring my sleep is via my Whoop, which is a wearable health device that tracks lots of things but I get the most benefit from sleep tracking. See the screenshot below for what I’m talking about.

Most people think of physical grit as running races or lifting weights (which is only part of it). Consistently protecting your sleep when life is busy and demanding is one of the hardest physical disciplines there is in this day and age with people working around the clock.

Prioritizing sleep is another way I’ve found you can be training your physical grit. Why? Because it’s hard. For most people, sleep is the first thing to go. It’s the habit that most people delay and tell themselves, “I’ll get around to it eventually.” And then eventually never comes.

So here’s my challenge to you. If you struggle with sleep, implement just one of my recommendations below and let me know how it goes for you.

• Use your bed only for sleep and sex (if you implement one thing this is it)

• Block out your sleep window in your calendar like you would anything else (aim for 6-8 hours in a perfect world)

• Invest in a white noise machine and/or ear plugs

• Try out nasal strips or mouth-tape

• Don’t eat 2-3 hours before bed

• If you do consume alcohol, limit your last drink to 2-3 hours before bed (alcohol disrupts REM sleep even when it helps you fall asleep faster)

• Read fiction before bed (and watch your REM and deep sleep increase)

Let me know in the comments which recommendation you plan on implementing and keep me updated on how it goes.

— Patrick D. Nugent

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Now let’s dive into this week’s Nugent Note.

I was 15 minutes into a keynote in front of 700 people when someone in the audience passed out.

Everything up until that point had gone according to plan. I nailed my opening and had begun slowly building up to the climax of the talk.

Then all of a sudden I see all of this commotion going on in the back of the room. Quite distracting if I am being completely honest.

Next came some movement in the back in the form of a few heads turning back to see what was going on. Then people stepped in immediately, and within minutes medical personnel were on the scene. The person was taken to a hospital right away (and ended up being completely fine), which I’m grateful for but didn’t know in that moment.

I'd never planned for that. I don’t think anyone plans for someone in the audience to pass out during a speech. But it happened.

As a Marine, I'm wired to wargame everything and every conceivable scenario. Before every talk I run through the potential things that can go wrong: slides crash, microphone cuts out, someone asks a question that has no good answer (you’d be surprised some of the questions I get asked). I think through all of it because all of it has happened to me at some point. This paid off recently when I was in Boston for a talk and the slides weren’t working but I had wargamed that exact scenario.

Wargaming beforehand gives me the confidence and poise I need to take the stage prepared.

I typically do a rehearsal the day before a big talk and that is when I do the wargaming. I play out every scenario and then rehearse how I would respond in the moment. Very similar to what I would do in the Marines before going on a mission or operation.

But "audience member goes down in the back row" was never on the list. But it is now!

But in that moment, I had a decision to make and I knew I had to make it quickly. I started sweating a bit through my suit. This was my body telling me before my brain that this was an important decision.

Do I stop the talk and risk 700 people panicking over something most of them hadn't even noticed (remember, the person was in the back row)?

Or do I keep going, keep an eye on the situation, and trust the people around me to do their jobs?

I chose the latter. I chose to keep going. I made this decision because I saw how swiftly medical personnel arrived on the scene.

After the talk I immediately found the host and the first question I asked them was if the person who passed out was ok. I wasn’t sure if I handled the situation correctly. So part of me was dreading the conversation with the host.

Once I got the reassurance they were ok, I then asked them if I should have handled it differently from their point of view. They told me stopping the entire program likely would have created unnecessary alarm. They reassured me that the person was in the back row, receiving immediate care, and most of the audience had no idea anything had happened.

What I kept thinking about was the fact that I spend my career talking to audiences about navigating curveballs and setbacks. And in the middle of doing exactly that, life threw me one I never saw coming.

You can prepare for everything and still get surprised. That's not a failure of preparation. That's just the truth about how life works.

The real skill was never the plan. It was composure when the plan fell apart.

My question to you:

What’s the scenario you’ve never wargamed that happened to you?

— Patrick D. Nugent

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Now let’s dive into this week’s Nugent Note.

It was a beautiful fall day in Cambridge, Massachusetts and I was seated in the third row for one of my favorite courses in the semester. The course was Non-profit Leadership and Management and it was taught by Dr. Arthur Brooks who is one of the world’s leading experts on Happiness (he now teaches at Vanderbilt).

During this particular class, he talked to us about the power of a failure journal. He then went on to describe it as writing down our failures in real time so that we can come back to them later and analyze.

It was a bit of novel concept to me because I had always thought of journaling as something you do to recap your day or travels and then you never look back at it.

Intrigued, I took the concept and made it my own. I now call it a crucible moments journal. The moments that test you and your response. The system lives in the notes app on my phone. I wanted it to be practical and easy to access on the go. I didn’t need anything fancy and I definitely didn’t want a leather-bound notebook.

Here’s how it works:

1. After a crucible moment (or failure), I write it down. The raw and unfiltered version. And usually within a couple of hours (I try to abide by the 24-hour rule).

2. Three weeks later, I come back and write underneath it:

"What is one thing I learned in the meantime?"

3. Two months after that, I add one more line:

"Something good that happened because of this."

That's it. That’s all that’s needed for it to work.

Simple, yet extremely effective when done consistently.

It forces us to write down our moments of failures or setbacks and then process them as opposed to burying them deep down inside and/or forgetting about them completely.

I've been doing this for a couple of years now. The entries range from big to small. A deal I was sure I had that fell apart at the last minute. An injury I suffered because I was too stubborn to listen to my body (currently dealing with tennis elbow when I don’t even play tennis). A keynote where I tried a new story and it didn’t land as well as I had envisioned.

Every single time, when I come back at three weeks, the failure looks different than it did in the moment. And by two months, something good has almost always come from it (seems to always be a silver lining somewhere). The deal that fell through led me to a better opportunity to impact a different audience. The injury that forced me to slow down and prioritize rest and recovery. The story that flopped led me to reword it in a way that now resonates, and it's now the strongest story of my talk.

The pattern is so consistent now that I almost don't believe it while I'm writing the first entry. But I still write it anyway, because the journal has taught me something I couldn't have learned any other way:

Nothing is ever as bad as it seems in the moment. And the meaning doesn't show up on your timeline. It tends to show up on its own.

That's what I like to refer to as emotional grit. Not powering through failure. Sitting with it long enough to let it teach you something.

My question to you:

What’s one failure that ended up leading you somewhere better?

— Patrick D. Nugent

I write about grit, leadership, and navigating adversity, drawing from my experience in the Marines, elite athletics, and business.

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Now let’s dive into this week’s Nugent Note.

A few years ago, I finally mustered up the courage to share my story for the first time. It was during Covid so it was a virtual talk for a company’s off-site for their employees. I remember being nervous in the weeks leading up to it so much that I wrote out the entire speech to make sure I didn’t forget anything.

On the day of the talk I read the majority of the speech (which is something I never do now). It was honest, authentic, and people clapped at the end. A few even reached out to me afterward and said kind things.

I felt relief when it was over but when I sat with it a few days later, I realized the audience walked away moved (maybe), but without anything concrete to take with them. Nothing they could apply to their own life on Monday morning. And in my opinion that is one of the ultimate tests on if a speech or talk lands well with the audience.

That ended up bothering me.

So I started putting in the work. I started tweaking, improving, and figuring out how to go from inspiration to action (not an easy task). Because at the end of the day the goal of any speaker (and leader) should be to get people to act.

I did my own debriefs. Debriefs are key to learning and improving in the military so I figured they would be in this line of work as well. So after every talk, I sat down and asked myself what landed and what didn’t, where I lost the room and where I felt people lean in and become more engaged. I recorded myself, rewatched (which no one likes to hear the sound of their own voice), and took notes on what I would change.

Then I started studying the speakers I admired most, specifically the ones whose talks actually changed behavior in the audience.

The pattern seemed to be the same. Every one of them equipped people with an idea or a framework that they could remember after they left the room and implement that very same day.

That insight reshaped how I build every talk and keynote that I do now.

And it’s what ultimately led me to develop the GRIT framework (which I’ll unpack in a future post). A framework that helps you prepare for, respond to, and grow through the setbacks life throws your way.

But the principle applies well beyond a stage. Anyone who leads or teaches or mentors faces the same question:

Will the people in front of me walk away with something they can actually use?

It needs to be something specific and something they can put to work that very same day.

I’ve found that getting people moved and inspired is the easy part. The hard part is getting them to act, because that’s the whole point.

— Patrick D. Nugent

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Now let’s dive into this week’s Nugent Note.

I was standing in 95+ degree heat and close to 100% humidity deep in the Quantico woodlands (the infamous training area for new Marine Corps officers). The humidity was so thick you could chew it. And when I took off my body armor, the steam and sweat that had been trapped underneath for hours hissed out like a snake.

I was waiting to receive feedback from an instructor for a platoon attack I had just led. This was The Basic School in the summer of 2014 when I was a young Marine officer. My first real opportunity to prove I could lead Marines.

This was before I was shot, before my years at Walter Reed, and before everything most people reading this article know me for. I was just a young Marine officer learning one of the most important lessons of my career, and I learned it because my body forced me to.

As soon as the instructor started talking, every muscle in my body began to tighten and spasm. And not a small cramp you get from doing too many wind sprints. I’m talking about a full body lock-up (something I had never experienced). My arms, legs, and core. I masked the pain as best I could and stood there hoping it would pass.

It didn't.

I gritted my teeth and body through the entire debrief locked up. Performing my best acting job trying not to let anyone see what was happening. And when it was over, the instructor pulled me aside and said something I've never forgotten to this day:

”You can’t fight from an empty tank, let alone lead at a high level. If you’re body is locking up after a four hour operation, you’re already a liability to those you’re leading. What’s gonna happen when it’s day 30 of a deployment and your Marines are looking to you??”

My stomach sank and it felt as though the stress kept on coming my way. But he was right. I was embarrassed. I hadn't hydrated or eaten very much the night prior and the day of the operation. I let the stress of the mission consume me so completely that I forgot to take care of the one person responsible for every Marine in that platoon.

Me.

In the Marines we have a saying: "Pain retains." And the pain of those spasms gave me a lesson I still carry more than a decade later.

Some people believe self-neglect is dedication. It isn’t. I found it to be a liability. And if you’re in a leadership position it’s detrimental to those who put their trust and confidence in you.

It’s very difficult to lead anyone if you can’t even stand up straight.

Pain retains.

How many of us are waiting for the pain to teach us what we should already know?

How many leaders are skipping meals, skipping sleep, skipping the things that keep them sharp, and calling it dedication?

I did it. I wore it like a badge of honor. And all it did was make me worse at the job I cared about most.

The instructor's lesson wasn't just about water or food or sleep. It was about the trap of believing that self-sacrifice is leadership. The ego of putting the mission above yourself sounds noble until you realize you ARE the mission. One of your primary goals as a leader is to accomplish the mission and if you go down, your people go down with you.

Taking care of yourself isn't selfish. It's the first thing you owe the people who depend on you.

So now I treat hydration, sleep, and nutrition the same way I treated my gear before a mission. In the Marines, I would never go out on patrol with an empty magazine. Now, I refuse to show up to a keynote, a meeting, or any day that matters with an empty tank. Because all of those decisions are within my control.

Control the controllables.

My question to you:

Where are you confusing self neglect with dedication?

— Patrick D. Nugent

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Now let’s dive into this week’s Nugent Note.

I was sitting in a wheelchair at Walter Reed when a doctor told me my surgery was unsuccessful.

Some of the muscles below and above my right knee didn’t work due to the nerve damage from the gunshot wound I had suffered months prior. The plan we had built around that surgery was gone. This surgery was my last hope at a full recovery. The ability to have a fully functional right leg. But now, I was going to have to figure out an entirely new way to walk (and live) using essentially only one working muscle group in my right leg, my quad.

A younger version of myself might have stayed stuck in that moment. But I still had a belief, despite this major setback, that I could find a way to prove the doctors wrong (I was told I would never walk again). Because I had two major advantages at this time. I had the love and support of my family and the ambitious goal of proving the doctors wrong.

My immediate reaction was actual disbelief because I never thought I would have an unsuccessful surgery. This was surgery 15 and the previous 14 were successful. Despite the long odds, I had the hope and optimism that it would be successful. But once reality set in, I knew I had to make a decision.

Find a way forward or find a way to stay stuck feeling sorry for myself.

I decided to get to work. That was it. Nothing extraordinary. No negotiation with the diagnosis. No time spent on what the surgery was supposed to do (ok maybe a little bit). I knew I just had to focus on the next step (no pun intended).

Not because I’m wired differently than everyone else (although some people close to me might disagree, haha). But because I had already made a decision that the goal of me being able to walk again wasn’t changing.

When a Marine has a goal, watch out!

Walking again was non-negotiable to me. What was negotiable was everything else. The timeline, the approach, and the definition of what walking would look like. Would I need a cane, a walker, or something else entirely? I didn’t know but I was about to find out.

That’s what adjusting course actually looks like in practice and in real life. It means not giving up on the mission or your goals. But rather, releasing your grip on the method for how you achieve them.

I say “never quit” is terrible advice as someone who has had to figure out the difference the hard way. Many times.

The problem with “never quit” is that it puts two completely different decisions into one. It treats every moment of doubt, discomfort, or difficulty as a reason to dig in, grind your teeth, and tough it out. And sometimes that’s exactly the right call. But sometimes going all in is the wrong move. And the inability to tell the difference is where I’ve found that most people get stuck or confused.

Here’s how I think about it:

Adjusting course means the goal stays but the strategy for how you accomplish it changes. For example, when I was at Walter Reed, the goal was ALWAYS to walk again. But the plan for how I’d get there changed dozens of times that I began to lose track. This was largely due to the different surgeries, different rehab protocols, and different timelines that I experienced. If I had locked into one strategy and called it grit, I’d still be stuck and likely wouldn’t have made as much progress.

Another example was when I walked away from consulting to pursue speaking and building a platform around resilience. It was the same pattern. The mission, to serve others and create a positive impact in the world one person at a time, never changed. But the method and way I went about it did and that is adjusting course in real time.

Quitting is different. Quitting means that you genuinely believe the mission itself is no longer worth pursuing, or it’s genuinely breaking you physically, mentally, or emotionally. And sometimes that’s the right call.

Quitting can be the right call when the relationship you’re in has genuinely run its course. Or your values no longer align in the business partnership you’re in. Or it’s the career path you pursued for someone else’s reasons (I was guilty of this), instead of your own. These aren’t failures of grit. They’re acts of clarity. And once you have clarity, the next thing you need to do is act on it.

I’ve watched people destroy their health chasing a goal they stopped believing in years ago because someone told them quitting was weakness.

It’s not.

What is weakness is using discomfort as your signal to stop. I’ve found that discomfort is the baseline of anything worth doing in life. And that true growth only happens on the other side of it.

I wear an IDEO brace every day I leave my apartment. It is a constant physical reminder that the goal of walking was achieved through my ability to adapt, not my stubbornness (which I can be at times). I now race against able-bodied athletes. None of it is comfortable. Because if comfort were my filter I would have quit a long time ago.

I’ve tried to be comfortable being uncomfortable. A phrase I learned in the Marines.

But comfort isn’t the signal I am looking for. The signal I am looking for is alignment.

And what has helped me is asking myself the question:

Is what I am doing still pointing me toward the mission?

• If yes, adjust course and keep going.

• If no, that’s a different conversation entirely (maybe the decision is to quit).

I’ll be the first to admit that the hard part is sitting with the question honestly. And I mean honestly. I’m not talking about the version of honest that lets you off the hook either way. Only you know if you’re being honest with yourself.

So ask yourself:

• Am I adjusting course because the goal still matters and I need a better path?

• Or am I holding on because I am afraid of what quitting says about me?

I’ve learned that most “never quit” advice skips that question entirely. And that’s where most people get stuck. They grind through something they should have walked away from, or they walk away from something that just needed a new approach.

Remember, resilience isn’t a refusal to stop. It’s the clarity to know which move to make and the courage to make it.

Like most things in life, the hard part is having the courage to make the right move then actually making it.

Act. Learn. Iterate. Grow. Repeat.

So, if you’re in the ‘messy middle’ of something hard right now, I want you to sit with those two questions. Not to find the easy answer. But rather, to find the honest one for your specific situation.

The goal may be non-negotiable, but the method should never be.

My question to you:

When was the last time you had to adjust course or quit something important?

— Patrick D. Nugent

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Now let’s dive into this week’s Nugent Note.

A dying man told us how to live.

In March of 1993, Jimmy Valvano, the legendary college basketball coach known simply as Jimmy V, took the stage at the inaugural ESPY Awards to accept the Arthur Ashe Courage Award. He had been diagnosed with bone cancer. He was visibly frail yet still full of energy and life. And he delivered one of the most powerful speeches in sports history. Eight weeks later he was gone.

I think about that speech often. Not just because of what he said, but because of how he said it and how it made me feel both in the moment and after. A man who knew he was dying stood in front of the world and told them exactly how to live.

His framework was simple. Three things make for a great day:

Laugh. Think. Cry.

He believed a full day included finding something that made you laugh, spending time deep in thought, and letting your emotions move you to tears. Do those three things and according to Jimmy V, “that’s a heck of a day.”

He closed that speech with words I have never forgotten: “Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.”

Those that know me know that my mantra is Find A Way. Although different words, they hold the same conviction. You are never out of the fight.

Listening to that speech recently got me thinking about my own framework for growing grit and resilience. And I realized the structure isn’t all that different from what Jimmy V was describing.

If you want to grow your grit consistently, focus on three things:

Do something hard for your body.
Do something hard for your mind.
Do something hard for your emotions and spirit.

Do all three consistently and you put yourself on a different path than most people.

This matters because we need to be challenging ourselves when life is easy so that we are ready when life gets hard (because it will). And it often doesn’t happen at a moment of our choosing. Which is why we need to be ready and training for those moments.

Before I share the how, I want you to think about the why.

If you’re struggling to find motivation to grow your grit, I want you to think of one person who needs you to be gritty and resilient. It could be your spouse, your children, your team, or your clients. Whoever that person is, hold them in your mind. Because what I have found is that your why needs to be bigger than your excuses.

And one more thing before the list. Do not compare your hard to someone else’s hard. This is your journey. What stretches you is what counts. What’s hard for me is not the same as what is hard for you.

You decide. But once you decide, you need to act and follow through. Remember who you’re doing it for.

Physical — hard things for your body

• Signing up and completing a race (5K, 10K, marathon, HYROX, or Urban Iron)

• Protecting your sleep (6-8 hours consistently, non-negotiable)

• Sauna and cold plunge (this one qualifies as both physical and mental)

Mental — hard things for your mind

• Reading books (~50% of adults read at least one book last year, be in that half)

• Learning a new skill (I’d especially recommend learning AI beyond treating it like Google search)

• Technology free times throughout the day (First and last 20 mins of the day are a good place to start)

• Write, create, or share what you are learning instead of only consuming

Emotional/Spiritual — hard things for your emotions and spirit

• Establishing a boundary at work or home and sticking to it

• Asking for help when you’re struggling

• Have the hard conversation you have been avoiding

• Spend intentional time in reflection, prayer, or stillness (whatever that looks like for you)

Here’s the closer that ties it all together.

Jesse Itzler talks about what he calls the 100 Hour Rule. His claim is that 18 minutes a day, ~1.2% of your available time, is enough to be better than 95% of the world in any discipline after a year (let that sink in). The math works out to roughly 109 hours annually.

The point isn’t the exact number. The point is that consistency at a small scale compounds into something significant. Most people never start. The ones who do, and who keep going, separate themselves.

Jimmy V didn’t tell us to do extraordinary things. He told us to do three simple things every day with intention. Laugh. Think. Cry.

I’m asking you to do the same. Just make yours hard(er).

As Jimmy V said, “Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.”

Now I want to hear from you. Drop one hard thing in the comments that you are willing to commit to over the next 7 days. One thing. Mind, body, or spirit. Just pick one.

As I say,

— Patrick D. Nugent

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Now let’s dive into this week’s Nugent Note.

An Alive Day is the anniversary of the day a service member survived a life threatening injury.

Nine years ago today, on July 12th, 2017, a single bullet tore through my body and the only life I ever wanted. I was serving as a Marine infantry officer when my life split into two chapters, before and after. I almost didn’t make it to the after. But thanks to modern medicine and the work of some incredible doctors, I survived.

Today is my Alive Day. And as I reflect on nine years of rebuilding, I am overwhelmed with gratitude. Not because the road was easy. Because it definitely wasn’t. But because of everything it taught me.

I like the phrase ‘pain retains’. Because the hard moments in life typically don’t just leave a mark, they also leave you a lesson. But only if you’re willing to look for it.

So now I want to share with you the 9 lessons that have shaped who I am today from the pain I endured.

1. Don’t let others put limitations on you.

Early on, doctors told me three things I would never do again. They said I would never walk, go to the bathroom independently (#1 and #2), or have children. I proved them wrong on all three. Now it’s just a matter of time for children.

I want you to remember that other people’s limitations on you are just their best guess. You get to decide what is possible. Other people can influence, but only you make the decision. Choose wisely.

2. You can’t do it alone.

Trust me, I tried. Family, friends, doctors, nurses, and strangers all played a role in helping me come out stronger. The people who showed up when I had nothing to offer are the ones I will never forget. You know who you are (most of you are likely reading this right now).

Identify your people early. And when they show up, don't forget it.

3. Run your own race.

For me that was a late night in a consulting office staring at the NYC skyline wondering if I was building the right life. The moment I stopped comparing and started following my own curiosity and talents was the moment everything changed.

The moment you stop measuring your life against someone else's is the moment you start building one worth living in a way that feels authentic to you.

4. The answer is no unless you ask.

I applied to Harvard and Wharton and let them decide (never thought I would attend 1 let alone 2 ivy league institutions). I submitted my name for the Invictus Games and let the committee decide. Two and a half years ago I asked out Louisa, the woman who is now the most important person in my life.

Ask anyway, because sometimes you will surprise yourself with the response.

5. Do hard things.

We are each given one body, one mind, and one heart. Chosen discomfort in service of a meaningful goal is one of the greatest teachers I have ever had. Whether it was biking from San Francisco to San Diego (650 miles), competing in a HYROX, competing on a global stage at the Invictus Games, or climbing Mount Kilimanjaro.

In a world where everything is meant to be easy, choose hard. Sign up for the race, go on the silent retreat, seek help with something you’re struggling with. Growth only happens through choosing deliberate discomfort (on a consistent basis).

6. Emotional contagion is real. Your energy is contagious. Choose it wisely.

When I was in recovery, my parents and family made a decision early on that I didn’t fully appreciate until later. They chose to be strong in my presence. Not because they weren’t scared or heartbroken (they were). But because they knew I would feed off whatever energy they brought into that room. Their composure gave me permission to believe things were going to be okay.

I carried that lesson into everything that came after. Through the daily grind of recovery. Through building a business, stepping onto stages, and showing up for the people around me every day. The fastest way you set the tone as a leader isn't through a speech or a memo. It's through the energy you walk in with every single day. People are always watching. They are always calibrating. And whether you intend it or not, your energy spreads (positively and negatively).

7. Grit and resilience are learnable skills, not personality traits.

I was not born resilient. You likely weren’t either. But I was forced to practice it. And then I chose to keep practicing it. Every hard thing you finish teaches you that you can finish the next one.

Think of grit as passion and perseverance to achieve your long term goals.

Think of resilience as the interval of time you allow a bad thing to affect you.

Master both and there is very little in this world that can stop you.

8. Your environment shapes your outcome.

This isn't just about geography. It's about the people, institutions, and communities you choose to surround yourself with. The Marines taught me discipline and standards. Harvard and Wharton put me around people who thought differently than I did. BCG showed me how business actually worked. New York City put me around people building things and betting on themselves. Adaptive sports put me around people who refused to let their circumstances define their ceiling.

Every environment I chose deliberately made me better. Choose yours the same way.

9. Listen with the willingness to be persuaded.

Some of the most important shifts in my life came when someone challenged a belief I was holding too tightly. Logic and reason should move you. Ego should not.

One of the most powerful examples of this in my own life was going to therapy with a genuine openness to being challenged. That willingness introduced me to cognitive reappraisal, which is the practice of reframing how you interpret adversity and setbacks rather than just reacting to them. It didn't change what happened to me. It changed how I chose to see it. And it was that shift that changed everything that followed.

We live in a world where most people listen only to be proven right. They build echo chambers and call it conviction. Do the opposite.

Bonus: Your mindset can become your superpower.

Find A Way. The words I repeated in the back of a medevac helicopter that allowed me to not only survive, but to write these words today. The same words I turn to today. And so can you.

Nine years later I am more grateful, more curious, and more convicted than ever.

The bullet changed my life. It did not end it. If anything, it enhanced my life.

To everyone who has been a part of this journey, I want to say thank you. You know who you are and you know what you mean to me.

— Patrick D. Nugent

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Now let’s dive into this week’s Nugent Note.

At mile 80, a van pulled up beside me. The race director leaned out the window: “We’re closing down the course. Want a ride back?”

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about it.

Two years earlier, a gunshot wound to my pelvis had left doctors telling me I would never walk again. And here I was, already 80 miles into my first ever 100 mile bike race, in the dark, in November, with 20 miles still to go.

Let me back up and give you some more context.

After my injury I had to rebuild everything. The way I moved. The way I trained. The way I thought about what my body was capable of. Two years in, cycling was one of the only forms of cardio my body could handle without breaking down. But the Marine in me still needed to prove something. Not to anyone else. To myself. And I needed a big challenge.

So I did what made sense to me at the time. I found a 100 mile race and signed up.

I didn’t have a coach, a nutrition plan, or any experience racing. Just two months of long training rides every weekend, alone, and the stubborn belief that I would finish. My longest training ride going into race day was 60 miles. I figured that would be enough and I could gut out the remaining 40 miles on race day.

At the start line I noticed something I had come to expect. I was the only adaptive athlete there. Everyone around me looked like a serious cyclist. They had the fancy race bikes, the kit, and the confidence that came along with it. I had the basic gear but what I didn’t have was their history. It’s worth noting I used to make fun of cyclists for their funny kits and here I was, now one of them (the irony is not lost on me).

It was intimidating and motivating in equal measure. Intimidating because I was about to compete against people who had been doing this for years. Motivating because I was about to prove to myself that none of that mattered. The only thing I cared about was finishing.

The first 60 miles felt manageable. Hard, but manageable. I had been here before in training.

Then I hit mile 61.

Every mile after that was uncharted territory. My body was running on fumes and stubbornness. The sun had set and the temperature had dropped. It was November in Virginia. And I was experiencing the kind of cold when a gust of wind cuts right through you and gets into your bones. The only way to stay warm was to ride faster.

Almost everyone else had finished hours ago (I would later learn).

By mile 80 I had already set a personal best just by still being on the bike. And that’s when the van appeared.

The race director leaned out and offered me the ride back. I thought about how warm that van would be. How comfortable. I thought about my legs, which had been arguing with me for the last 20 miles. I thought about how no one would blame me for getting in. And how nobody would really know.

But I would know.

And that’s when the thought about why I signed up in the first place popped into my head.

I signed up for 100 miles. Not 80.

So I said thanks, but no thanks. I still had 20 miles left.

I finished in total darkness.

No cheering crowd. No finish line fanfare. Just my mom, who had driven out to be there with me for this moment. The moment I finished something hard after everything we had been through.

We went to dinner afterward to celebrate. Nothing fancy. Just the two of us. And I remember sitting across from her thinking that this was exactly what I needed it to be.

I’ve thought about that van a lot since then.

The moments that build resilience aren’t the ones where everything goes right. They’re the ones where quitting makes perfect sense and you choose to keep going anyway.

That van was the best thing that could have happened to me. Not because saying no was heroic. But because it taught me something about who I was becoming that the other 80 miles never could.

You find out who you are in the moments when the exit is right there and you choose not to take it.

The van taught me that.

When was the last time you had permission to quit and chose not to?

—Patrick D. Nugent

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Now let’s dive into this week’s Nugent Note.

Two of my Marines were in the center of the formation, breathing heavy, staring each other down. One tire between them. Everyone else watching.

To understand how we got here, you need to know what the previous two hours looked like.

Every Friday I led my platoon through physical training (PT). It was deliberately brutal. On this particular Friday, we started with 400 meter walking lunges to fatigue the legs (one of my favorites), moved into a timed 3 mile run, and capped it off with sets of max pull ups. By the end, everyone was breathing heavy, drenched in sweat, and ready to hit a cold shower.

That’s when I grabbed the tire.

Two Marines stepped into the center of the formation. The rules were simple. Each grabs the tire and the last one holding it wins. Simple, not easy. What followed was part tug of war, part wrestling match, and entirely revealing. You learn a lot about someone when they are exhausted and have nothing left in the tank but will alone.

One of my job’s as a leader was to create opportunities for my Marines to show that they could produce victory on will alone.

Every Marine got their turn in the ring. No rank. No excuses. Just competition and the respect that came with it.

Now if you’re not from the military, and the infantry culture in particular, you might be wondering why a platoon commander is handing his exhausted Marines a tire after hours of PT.

The answer is simple. As a leader, one of the most important traits you can grow in the people you lead is grit. And one of the only ways to do that is by creating consistent opportunities for them to do hard things. It’s even more powerful when it happens in a competition setting, in front of their peers, when they are exhausted. A perfect opportunity to test their will.

That’s when you find out what someone is actually made of.

It reminded me of a quote I love from Stephen Pressfield’s book Gates of Fire.

“The hardship of the exercises is intended less to strengthen the back than to toughen the mind. The Spartans say that any army may win while it still has legs under it; the real test comes when all strength is fled and the men must produce victory on will alone.”

I learned early on as a platoon commander that growing grit in others isn’t a nice to have. It’s imperative. It improves morale, builds cohesion, and sharpens performance when it matters most. In the Marines we are taught to leave a place and the people we lead better than we found them. The tire was one of the ways I tried to do that every Friday.

I understand a tire and dirt doesn’t translate to most corporate offices. But the principle does.

Every leader reading this has an opportunity to create moments of shared suffering for their team. Not to break people down. But to build something that can’t be manufactured in a conference room or a performance review. Trust, grit, and the knowledge that the person next to you won’t quit when things get hard.

Here are three ways to do it that a corporate leader can actually implement:

• Sign your team up for a physical endeavor. A 5K, a workout class, or a difficult hike. It doesn’t matter. Pick something hard and do it together. Shared suffering with a shared goal is one of the fastest ways to build team cohesion.

• Volunteer for something demanding as a team. Habitat for Humanity, a local food bank move, a community cleanup. Hard work done in service of others builds grit and purpose at the same time.

• Create an internal competition with real stakes. A sales challenge, a fitness challenge, a learning sprint. Whatever fits your team and your goals. The format matters less than the fact that people are pushing each other and being seen doing it.

The common thread across all of these is not the activity. It is the shared experience of doing something hard together and coming out the other side.

As a leader you set the tone, the emotional thermostat, and the direction of those you lead. If you want a gritty team you have to create the conditions for grit to grow. It doesn’t happen behind a desk. It doesn’t happen in a training module. It happens when people are tested together and choose not to quit.

That’s what two exhausted Marines wrestling over a tire on a Friday morning taught me. And it’s a lesson I have never forgotten.

What ways have you found to grow grit in the people you lead?

—Patrick D. Nugent

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Now let’s dive into this week’s Nugent Note.

It was 1am and I was sitting on the 45th floor staring out at the New York City skyline back in the summer of 2025. An incredible sight any time of day, but especially on a clear night like tonight.

My eyes kept finding One World Trade in the distance. I thought about what that building meant. To me it’s a symbol of strength, resilience, and unity. Then I thought about what I wanted my own life to mean.

I had everything I thought I wanted. A prestigious job, living in the best city in the world (I’m biased), and a paycheck I had spent years working toward. By every objective measure I was winning. Or was I?

And yet something felt deeply off.

I kept coming back to the same thought: I was building a life that looked right from the outside but felt wrong on the inside. I already knew what I was chasing. What I didn’t yet have was the courage to act on it.

That night was not a one time thing. It happened again and again over the coming months.

Here’s the part I hadn’t fully admitted to myself yet.

I had spent years stacking credentials.

• St. Ignatius High School in Cleveland

• The Citadel: The Military College of South Carolina

• The Marine Corps as an infantry officer

• Harvard Kennedy School of Government

• The Wharton School of Business

• Team Captain at the Invictus Games, bronze medalist

• Boston Consulting Group (BCG) in New York City

Each one legitimate and each one earned. But underneath all of it was the same quiet pattern.

I was chasing prestige.

Not because I loved prestige for its own sake. But because prestige gave me something to point to when the uniform was gone. It let me walk into rooms on borrowed authority before anyone could question whether I belonged there. My former Harvard professor Dr. Arthur Brooks talks about how most people are drawn to one of four things: prestige, power, money, or security. I didn't need to think long about which one had been driving me.

For a long time that had been enough.

It wasn’t enough anymore.

The moment I understood this didn’t happen at 1am in the office. It happened on a Saturday morning walk along the Hudson River. The West Side Highway was busy, the kind of bright summer day that makes New York feel like it’s working in your favor. The energy of fit people running and working out is contagious. I walked in silence for the first stretch the way I always do, letting the noise of the week settle.

And somewhere along the river the thought arrived. Not all at once but in pieces, the way most honest things do.

I wasn’t chasing the next opportunity. I was chasing borrowed authority. And I was starting to run out of things to borrow it from.

What I had actually been searching for all along wasn’t another credential. It was a mission. Not a room to walk into. A reason to be there.

I sat with that realization for months. I didn’t quit the next day. I kept showing up to work. But I also kept showing up to speaking engagements on the side, the way I had been doing throughout grad school and into consulting.

Something was different about those rooms.

When I finished a talk and someone came up to me afterward, whether it was a veteran who had been struggling, a student who had never heard their own story reflected back at them, a leader who needed permission to be honest about their hardest moments, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time behind a desk on the 45th floor.

I felt useful.

That feeling was everything and I wanted more of it. And for the first time in a long time, I knew exactly why.

What had started as a side project was starting to look like a calling. And I could no longer ignore the gap between what I was spending most of my time on and what was actually lighting me up.

So I made a choice. I stepped away from the stability and walked toward the unknown.

The fear was real. No guaranteed income. No clear roadmap. Just a belief that I had something to offer and a mission worth chasing.

Most people would call that quitting. I call it adjusting course.

Because adjusting course isn’t about abandoning ship. It’s about having the discipline to change direction when something bigger is calling.

The grittiest decisions I’ve made in my life weren’t the ones where I pushed through pain. They were the ones where I had the courage to pivot toward alignment before I had proof it would work.

Same pattern. Different chapter.

→ Walking away from football at The Citadel.
→ Walking away from consulting.
→ Walking toward speaking and building a platform around resilience.

The hardest part was never the work itself. It was trusting the pivot before I had proof.

If you’re in a role right now that checks every box but doesn’t feel aligned, I want you to sit with this:

Staying isn’t always grit. Sometimes the grittiest thing you can do is adjust course.

The question worth asking isn’t whether leaving is scary. It’s what staying is costing you.

What’s a pivot you made that felt risky at the time but turned out to be the right call?

—Patrick D. Nugent

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Now let’s dive into this week’s Nugent Note.

I am always on the lookout for ways I can grow my grit. Physically, mentally, and emotionally.

One way I have been doing that is through competing in HYROX. HYROX is a fitness endurance race that combines running with functional movements in a competition setting. Think weighted sled pushes, rowing, farmer carries (pictured above), and burpee broad jumps (brutal on the heartrate). All sandwiched between running intervals. It is as unforgiving as it sounds.

I came across HYROX because I was sick and tired of only seeing running competitions. Running long distances aggravates my leg. So when I found an event that combined running with functional movements, I signed up immediately. Before I fully knew what I was getting into.

That first race was in Chicago in 2024. I arrived early to warm up because I had never pushed a sled or done a burpee broad jump in competition before. What followed humbled me in ways I hadn’t been humbled since my time in the Marines. My lungs were on fire, my legs had nothing left, and I remember thinking somewhere around station six that this was much harder than I originally anticipated.

But I kept coming back. I wanted to keep testing myself. Because when I toe the starting line of a race its “me vs me”. I’m not competing against anyone else. Just me, my thoughts, and the clock.

This past weekend I competed in my third HYROX here in NYC, my backyard. I walked away with a personal best. In just two weeks, over 50,000 athletes from around the world competed in HYROX NYC. Standing in that crowd, watching that many people voluntarily sign up for something that difficult, was genuinely inspiring.

And before you start formulating an excuse in your head, let me introduce you to a few people who showed up anyway.

My sister, who gave birth about a year ago, competed alongside my brother-in-law in the doubles division. A close friend of ours decided the best way to mark her 60th birthday wasn’t a party, it was a HYROX. She wanted to do something hard to honor the milestone. So she showed up and did exactly that.

They didn’t wait until they were ready. They just showed up and didn’t stop until they crossed the finish line.

What keeps drawing me to events like HYROX and Urban Iron is that they combine running and functional movements in a way that is both accessible and genuinely challenging. Urban Iron, is a hybrid fitness race created by my girlfriend that takes competitors through a city’s most iconic gyms, just launched last year and has their next race this upcoming weekend in Chicago. If you’re looking for a reason to sign up for something hard, that’s your sign.

The only way I have found to keep growing my grit is to deliberately choose hard things. Not once every couple of years but multiple times a year. It has become routine and it needs to stay that way.

We had a saying in the Marines:

“You don’t rise to the occasion, you sink to your lowest level of training.”

So start training for something.

If you’re reading this, I challenge you to choose hard before life forces you to.

• A HYROX or Urban Iron

• A 5K or 10K

• Taking the stairs and not the elevator

• Signing up before you feel ready ( because you’ll never ‘feel’ ready)

Essentially whatever hard looks like for you. The form doesn’t matter. The choosing does.

Feel free to reach out if you need suggestions.

—Patrick D. Nugent

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Now let’s dive into this week’s Nugent Note.

Nobody wants to be seen as a quitter. Especially not at a place like The Citadel. So when I walked away from football after my freshman year, I had to get honest with myself about what I was actually doing.

It wasn't because it was hard (which it was), or time consuming (which it also was), it was because it no longer served my ultimate goal.

I had chosen a college like The Citadel because I wanted to become a military officer. A Marine officer to be more specific. Football was pulling me away from experiencing all that the school had to offer. The schedule, the demands, and the priorities didn't leave room for the thing I actually came for.

Honestly, when I finally made the decision, the first thing I felt was relief. As if a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Football had stopped being something I wanted and became something I was just enduring. I was surrounded by guys who weren't chasing the same thing I was and most had no interest in the military path. I respected that, but it left me feeling like an outsider in my own locker room. The identity of "football player" wasn't one I was holding onto. What I was holding onto was the reason I chose The Citadel in the first place.

Unlike the service academies (West Point, Naval Academy), most Citadel football players weren't pursuing a military path. I was one of the rare ones who actually was.

By the end of my freshman year, I realized the main thing that I was missing were the military leadership opportunities that had drawn me there in the first place.

So I made a choice. I adjusted course (notice how I didn't say quit). I stepped away from football to fully embrace the military path and leadership opportunities at the school.

My mission never wavered. I needed to learn as much as I possibly could about becoming a leader worth following. In a few short years I’d be responsible for the lives and welfare of Marines. What changed was the method to get there. That's what adjusting course actually looks like in practice.

That decision shaped everything that came after. My senior year, I was selected as the Regimental Commander (the highest student leadership position at The Citadel), ranked number one out of over 2,200 cadets. That doesn't happen if I'm still on the football schedule. The room I created by stepping away is exactly what I stepped into. (Still deciding if the buzz cut deserves a comeback.)

I've thought about that choice a lot since then. And I've come to believe there's a difference most people miss:

→ Quitting because something is hard is avoidance.
→ Adjusting course because something no longer serves you is alignment.

One is running away from your goal. The other is running toward your goal.

The hard part is being honest about which one you're doing.

If you're in the 'messy middle' of something right now, whether it be a job, a goal, a relationship, I want you to reflect and ask yourself:

Am I stopping because this got uncomfortable?
Or am I stopping because this isn't taking me where I actually want to go?

The answer matters.

My question to you:

When have you adjusted course instead of quitting?

—Patrick D. Nugent

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Now let’s dive into this week’s Nugent Note.

As most of you know, every year on my Alive Day (the anniversary of the day I got shot), I challenge myself to do something hard. I started this tradition as a way to ensure that at a minimum, one time a year I would have something on the calendar that would test and challenge me.

In the past it’s always been physical. Last year was 1,015 pull-ups and 1,015 push-ups in a few hours. Something that tests the body and its limits.

But in the summer of 2022, while living in Singapore, I decided to switch things up. I’m a self-proclaimed expert at pushing my body to the limit. But my mind? That was a different story. So what better way to challenge it then a silent retreat in Indonesia.

When I arrived in Bali and told my driver (yes, I had a driver) where I was headed, she thought I was crazy. She figured I’d spend my time at the beach like everyone else. Instead, we drove a couple of hours deep into the island.

When I checked in, they went over the rules: no phone, no computer, no iPad. No technology of any kind.

They then took me on a tour of the grounds. The common areas for meals, yoga, and breathwork, and the trails for walking. Then my room. Very spartan. Single bed, a chair with a desk, and a shower and toilet outside. In other words, it wasn’t the Four Seasons.

I walked around making slight eye contact with the other guests. People there stayed for different lengths of time. Some stayed for one day, one week, or a month. I had planned for 48 hours, mostly because I still wanted to explore other parts of Bali.

After getting settled, I sat down in that chair and started journaling. With no distractions, I must have written for a few hours (I lost track of time completely). I reflected on my life up to that point and the life I envisioned ahead. And that’s when it hit me: I had been outrunning my own mind. Constantly distracting it with technology or physical activity. It was a rarity for me to sit with my own thoughts, let alone actually put them on a page.

That night I got the best sleep of my life.

I had been training my physical grit for years. But my mental grit? Barely touched.

I like to define mental grit as the ability to sit with discomfort, silence, and your own thoughts long enough to keep moving toward what matters.

I could push through intense workouts like HYROX or endless amounts of pull-ups. But sitting with my own thoughts for 48 hours revealed the gap. My mind hadn't been getting the same reps as my body.

After the 48 hours I was ready to leave and get back to reality. But I also knew that the next time, I wanted to go for a full week. 48 hours was a real challenge, but I think I would have benefitted from staying longer. Which is why this year I’m planning to find a weeklong silent retreat. (Recommendations welcome in the comments.)

Since then, I’ve started treating mental fitness the same way I treat physical fitness. I’ll be honest, I still probably prioritize physical fitness slightly more. But the pursuit of mental grit has become just as rewarding.

Some of the daily practices I’ve built in:

• No phone for the first 30 minutes and last 30 minutes of the day (goal is practicing presence before the loud and chaotic noise of the world takes over)

• Removing social media apps from my phone during the day (goal is training yourself not to reach for a distraction every time you feel bored or uncomfortable)

• Daily meditation practice (goal is sitting still with thoughts which is a rep towards being comfortable in silence)

• Breathwork sessions like Wim Hof (controlled discomfort on purpose, training your mind to stay calm when your body wants to panic)

As you can see, the practices and rituals themselves are simple. It’s the discipline to actually do them. That my friend is where the mental grit lives.

Physical grit gets all the attention because it’s the easiest to measure. Did you finish the race? Did you climb the mountain? It’s also the most rewarding because that’s also where people cheer and clap for you. Physical grit feeds the ego.

But mental grit, that does the quiet work. Only you know if you trained your mind through meditation, digital detox, or other forms. It feeds something more important. It feeds and fuels the mind. And I would argue that’s the most important work we can do.

My question to you:

What’s the hard mental challenge you keep putting off?

—Patrick D. Nugent

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Now let’s dive into this week’s Nugent Note.

I wasn’t afraid of my disability. I was afraid of your eyes on it.

The stares, the questions, and the judgments were the things I tried to avoid.

A year after my injury I was standing in an elevator wearing shorts. Then, all of a sudden, a raucous crew in their early twenties barged in. One of them looked me in the eye and asked me point blank what happened to my leg.

They meant no harm, likely just curious. But that’s not how it felt. It felt as if I was being called out and forced to share the story of the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t know how to nor want to answer such a question. Especially on a 30 second elevator ride. So I told them it was an old sports injury. They didn’t pry further.

I mean, it’s not everyday you tell a stranger you got shot.

That wasn’t the only time. Another time I was waiting in line for a coffee when a little kid, probably five years old comes up to me.

He looks at me, looks at my leg, looks back at me and then asks: “Hey mister, what happened to your leg?”

I jokingly responded that I got in a fight with Superman and lost. His eyes lit up and then his mother said so sorry to bother. I said that’s alright, I know he meant no harm, again, likely just curious. I’d be curious as well.

When I wear pants, you don't even notice. Many people have no idea. And for a long time, I wanted it that way. Hiding felt easier than explaining.

But when the weather got warmer, like it is now, it became a challenging time. In the past I’d choose pants over shorts. I’d turn down invitations to go to the beach or the pool because I knew what that would entail. I’d be in a public, vulnerable space, likely forced to relive the day everything changed. I was afraid, so I hid that part of myself.

I hid because it felt safer. But I also knew deep down that I felt as if I was erasing part of myself.

So what changed?

A couple summers ago I turned down another pool invite. And I finally asked myself: How long am I going to let my scars make decisions for me?

Nothing drastic after that. I slowly began viewing my disability as an opportunity to welcome conversation and share my story. In a way that felt genuine and authentic. I was done hiding.

In doing so something strange happened. It allowed me to finally be my true authentic self. Something it turns out that people admire and respect. I became someone no longer afraid to show their scars or injuries. Someone who could provide hope, inspiration, and perspective. One conversation at a time.

Maybe your version isn’t a disability. Maybe it’s a scar, a story, a failure, a fear, or some part of yourself you’ve been keeping out of view.

You can’t grow if you don’t embrace discomfort. Sometimes that discomfort is you no longer hiding.

I used to hide my disability. Now I share it.

Not because it’s easy. Because hiding was harder. That’s my way of Finding A Way.

My question to you:

What’s something you’ve stopped hiding?

—Patrick D. Nugent

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Now let’s dive into this week’s Nugent Note.

On my first day of physical therapy, I couldn’t turn on an exercise bike.

It was a few months into my recovery after sustaining a gunshot wound. I had been confined to a hospital bed and wasn’t allowed to lift anything heavier than five pounds. I still had an ostomy bag and a PICC line in my arm delivering antibiotics. The only movement I was getting came from going to and from medical appointments, not the multi-hour training sessions I’d been used to in the Marines.

I was looking forward to the day when I would finally be allowed to begin physical therapy.

So when I got the greenlight to finally begin physical therapy I was ecstatic. I felt like an athlete returning to the arena after an injury. I was tossing and turning with excitement the night before, thinking about all the progress I would make and how quickly I’d get back to my old self.

The next day I showed up to my physical therapy appointment thirty minutes early. There was no chance I was going to be late to this one. I was sitting in the waiting room when I heard my name called. At this time I still was getting around in a wheelchair so I wheeled myself to meet my physical therapist.

After a brief introduction she let me know the plan for the day. We would begin with ten minutes on the exercise bike to warm up and then perform strengthening exercises.

I sat down on the exercise bike and started pedaling. I kept pedaling for about a minute while waiting for the screen to light up. Nothing lit up. I checked to make sure it was plugged in. It was. Annoyed, I asked my physical therapist if this bike was broken.

She shook her head and told me. “It’s not broken. You’re just not strong enough yet to turn it on.”

My stomach sank. I couldn’t believe it. I was embarrassed. Here I was, a Marine infantry officer and now I couldn’t even generate enough power to start a stationary bike. Something almost anyone could do without thinking.

It was day one of physical therapy, and I already felt drastically behind where I thought I would be. I thought I would be crushing these physical therapy sessions. I never thought I’d be struggling to turn on and ride a stationary bike.

The goal of physical therapy was simple. I needed to get my right quad strong enough to use a leg brace so I could walk again. But in that moment, on that stationary bike, walking felt impossibly far away.

I could have spiraled. Instead, I kept showing up. I knew that every session would take my full and undivided attention. I couldn’t mail in any sessions because I was nowhere near my goal.

I held onto the belief that I would walk again someday. It was a matter of when, not if, in my mind. That belief got me out of bed on the days I wanted to stay there. Because I knew progress wasn’t going to come from lying in a hospital bed. It would come from showing up and putting in the reps, even when I didn’t feel like it.

So I kept on showing up to that same stationary bike (my nemesis).

Day after day.

Pedal after pedal.

Until one day, the screen lit up.

That bike taught me something I still carry with me:

The setback is one moment. What you do next is the story.

Years later, I’m running on a track with that same leg brace.

Not because I was extraordinary. Because I kept showing up. Because I kept pedaling.

My question to you:

What’s a small win that kept you moving forward after a setback?

—Patrick D. Nugent

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Now let’s dive into this week’s Nugent Note.

I was chalking my hands before my final lift at the Invictus Games in Düsseldorf, Germany.

It was day one of competition, and powerlifting was first on the schedule.

A few months earlier, I had been named Team USA captain. It was a huge honor. But it also came with pressure.

Pressure to lead. Pressure to perform. Pressure to perform at a level worthy of the role.

Standing there backstage, waiting to be called, I was reminded of something I have come to believe deeply:

When the pressure hits, you won’t always be at your best. But you will almost always be at your most trained.

That is why preparation matters.

When pressure shows up, you need something to fall back on.

For me, that was a routine.

I started with breathing. I used box breathing to regulate my body and calm my nervous system.

Then I focused on what I could control. I visualized the walk to the bench, my grip on the bar, the tightness in my body, and the lift itself.

Finally, I used self-talk to direct my mind. I repeated a simple phrase to myself: Find A Way. Which actually meant find a way to press as hard as I possibly could. Find a way to use every muscle in my body to make the lift.

Then I heard my name.

I walked to the bench (heart racing), waved to my family and friends in the crowd (for a last minute motivational surge), and then locked in mentally.

I got strapped into the bench. Once ready, I squeezed my shoulder blades back and gripped the bar as hard as I could. I stared up at the stadium lights, more blinding than I would have liked but nothing I could do about that now. It was showtime.

Once the weight was unracked, I took a deep breath into my diaphragm and lowered the bar slowly to my chest.

I waited for the referee’s command. The weight got heavier and heavier after each tenth of a second.

“Lift!” Said the referee.

I blew the air out of my chest as if I were trying to blow out a hundred candles and drove the weight upward as hard as I could toward the blinding bright lights.

Then I saw my favorite color. I saw the green lights flashing.

Successful lift.

In that moment, I didn’t magically become more confident. I didn’t suddenly rise to a higher level physically or mentally. What happened was that I fell back on what I had trained to do. It was that simple.

That was the lesson.

The confidence I felt on that stage was built through years of preparation and the thousands of reps I had done in training for this exact moment. A moment that only lasted a few seconds. A moment that came with a lot of internal and external pressure.

I knew I would feel anxious. I knew the pressure would be real. But I also knew I had done the work required to walk into that moment with peace. I would have no regrets. I was confident in my preparation.

Not because I controlled the outcome.

But because I had controlled the preparation.

That day ended with a bronze medal. I am grateful for that. But the bigger win was the reminder that I left with:

Pressure does not change who you are. It reveals how you prepared.

So when your moment comes, and it will, do not expect yourself to suddenly become better, calmer, or more capable.

You will not rise to it. DO NOT plan on it.

Plan on falling back on what you have trained.

The better question, then, is not whether you will feel pressure. You will.

The better question is whether your preparation has earned you the right to trust yourself when it arrives.

My question to you:

What are you doing today to prepare for the moments that matter most?

—Patrick D. Nugent

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Now let’s dive into this week’s Nugent Note.

At 3 a.m. on Mount Kilimanjaro, I watched a long line of headlamps coming down the mountain.

A few months earlier, I had competed in the Invictus Games and was feeling confident physically. I was in peak shape and had a month to kill before I moved to New York City to start the next chapter of my life. So I asked a friend who was climbing the Seven Summits which mountain he thought I should attempt first. Without hesitation, he said Mount Kilimanjaro.

So I flew to Tanzania by myself. The only person I knew (via Whatsapp) was my guide Eli. Eli was kind, intelligent, and curious. The type of guide who when he tells you something, you don’t question, you just do. He had climbed the mountain 2-3 times a month for the last 20 years. In other words, he was no stranger to what lied ahead.

Eli and I spent a day in Moshi, a town just outside the national park before beginning the climb. This was an opportunity for me to get any last minute supplies and some much needed rest before the long journey up the mountain.

I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I underestimated just how difficult it would be. Every day brought some combination of cold, rain, wind, and the slow grind of altitude. For some reason I thought there would be more flat sections of the climb. I was sadly mistaken. Who knew climbing a mountain would be all uphill.

Summit day is the hardest. It comes after you’ve been already hiking for 4-5 days, not showered, and dealing with many of the physical ailments the mountain bestows upon you.

Most climbers leave around midnight so they can reach the top by sunrise. Eli suggested we leave later, around 2 a.m., so we could have the summit mostly to ourselves.

I didn’t argue. I agreed. Mainly because I preferred the extra hours of sleep.

The day began with Eli entering my tent telling me I needed to put on 3 pairs of socks, 3 pairs of pants, 4-5 top layers, two scarves, a winter hat, and two pairs of gloves. My eyes lit up. What did he know that I didn’t. Every other day I was fine with one pair of pants and a light jacket. But summit day is different. The weather and elements can be unforgiving. So I listened to Eli. I wanted to come back with all my fingers and toes.

We began climbing in complete darkness, our headlamps lighting the trail in front of us. It was peaceful, the only thing I heard was the wind, the rocks moving as we stepped, and my heavy breathing.

About a couple hours in, I noticed something strange. A long line of climbers were coming down the mountain toward us.

Confused, I asked Eli if they had already reached the summit.

He shook his head.

“No my friend. Unfortunately, those people are turning back. Not everyone makes it to the top.”

My stomach dropped. Wait, not making it to the top was an option? I thought. Flying halfway around the world and not summiting was not something I wanted to experience. All of my family and friends knew I was climbing this mountain. I couldn’t come back without having reached the summit. So I kept moving, one small step at a time. I was secretly praying that the altitude sickness wouldn’t find its way to me.

I wasn’t so lucky. About and hour later, I started feeling the altitude myself. My head was pounding and every breath felt harder than the last. In that moment, I understood exactly why so many people turned around. I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you I didn’t at least entertain the idea of heading back down the mountain. I then started suffering intense stomach pain (I hadn’t been able to go to the bathroom due to the altitude). And then to make matters worse my leg began bothering me. It wasn’t use to being locked up in a brace all day and it started cutting into my skin due to the uneven traversing we had to do while hiking.

So now I was dealing with the altitude, stomach pain, and the pain in my leg. I hit the trifecta.

But by that point I could see the summit.

So I told myself my simple motto that I turn to and remind myself of in tough times: find a way. Find a way to take one more step. Find a way to take one more breath. You can always take one more step and one more breath I told myself.

After a few more hours we eventually reached the top. Not a cloud in the sky. Just the landscape stretching endlessly in every direction. It was beautiful. I felt as if I was on top of the world.

Standing there, I couldn’t help but think about how far I had come. Six years earlier, after being shot, I had been told I would never walk again and then had to relearn how to walk.

Now, I was standing on top of the tallest mountain in Africa.

On the way down I started feeling worse. Much worse. When we reached camp, Eli checked my blood oxygen. It was in the low 60s. It should have been in the high 90s. We needed to descend quickly to lower elevation.

That climb reinforced something I’ve seen over and over again in life.

Most people don’t fail because the goal is impossible. They fail because the discomfort convinces them to turn around too soon.

Sometimes turning around is the right call. But often, the only way through is to keep going. And sometimes the only strategy that works is the simplest one.

Find a way to take one more step. Then another. Then another. Then another. Until you reach your destination.

My question to you:

What’s something in your life right now that is asking you to take just one more step?

If you’re interested in climbing Mount Kilimanjaro and are looking for a guide, Eli is your guy. Shoot me a message and I can connect you.

—Patrick D. Nugent

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Now let’s dive into this week’s Nugent Note.

I was running the stadium stairs at The Citadel’s football stadium early one morning, carrying a 45-pound plate over my head. I was huffing and puffing as my lungs felt like they were about to explode. The sun still hadn’t risen but the Charleston humidity was already brutal, making it hard to grip the weight. I went to drop the 45-pound plate when all of a sudden I heard our senior enlisted leader, a Gunnery Sergeant, yell from the bottom:

“Candidate Nugent, 500-word handwritten essay on stoicism. Due on my desk tomorrow at 6am!”

In our program, they called us “Candidates.” It was their way of reminding us we hadn’t earned anything yet, especially the title of a ‘Marine’.

I was caught off guard and remember asking myself, what the heck is stoicism and how am I going to write a 500-word essay on it by the following morning.

This physical training session was a part of our Marine-option training at The Citadel. It was one of the most grueling workouts I ever experienced. And I apparently made sure my facial expressions demonstrated that fact. I didn’t do a good job of hiding it.

I had no idea the meaning or definition of “stoicism.” I had never heard the word. But I would soon find out later that evening in the library.

This was back in 2012, pre-ChatGPT but not pre-internet or library.

I asked the librarian where I could find books or resources on stoicism. They pointed me in the right direction and then I spent the next few hours learning all I could about stoicism and writing my essay. And to my surprise I found it quite a fascinating topic. I learned that stoicism isn’t about acting tough. It’s staying in control of yourself under pressure.

The next morning our Gunnery Sergeant told me why he gave me that assignment.

He said, “As an officer, you have to master your response in front of your Marines.” He didn’t mean fake confidence or acting like I didn’t feel pain. He meant that I don’t get the luxury of broadcasting panic, frustration, or weakness every time things get hard.

He’d watched me on those stairs and my face and body language were saying everything I was trying not to say.

Years later, after my injury, stoicism came back into my life with more weight behind it.

Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus, and Zeno are some of the core Stoic philosophers. More recently, Ryan Holiday has made stoic philosophy more accessible to people.

If I had to boil stoic philosophy down to one sentence, it would be this:

You don’t control what happens to you in life. But you do get to control your response.

Simple. Not easy.

Stoicism isn’t pretending you’re fine. It’s choosing a disciplined response when you’re not.

I resonated with this on a deeply personal level.

I couldn’t control the fact that I had gotten shot, but I did get to control what I did next. I chose to respond by committing to the next controllable step every day, even when the long-term felt impossible and uncertain.

That’s what most people miss. Your response is your next action. The next smallest step you can make.

In recovery, some days the win was walking one lap around the hospital floor. Other days it was 30 extra minutes in physical therapy riding the exercise bike. At work, some days the win is sending the one uncomfortable email I’ve been avoiding.

Life will throw all of us curveballs. When it does, your job is simple: choose your response, then take the next controllable step.

At work:

You get a tough review from your boss.

Instead of defending yourself, ask one clarifying question: “What would ‘good’ look like in 30 days?” Then write down the top 1–2 behaviors they want changed and schedule a follow-up in two weeks (delegate earlier with clear owners and deadlines, align stakeholders before the meeting, flag issues early instead of letting them surprise people).

Your next controllable step isn’t fixing your whole reputation. It’s making the next deliverable undeniably better.

At home:

Your spouse or kid snaps at you.

Instead of arguing, run a quick check: am I tired, distracted, short-tempered, or on my phone? If yes, fix the controllable first. Put the phone down. Lower your voice. Ask: “Did I miss something?”

My girlfriend and I use a simple script when things get tense: say what happened (no accusations), say how it landed (name the emotion), say what you need, then make a clear request.

Most “random” blowups aren’t random.

In training:

You strain a leg muscle training for a race.

You could choose to stop training, or you could choose to adapt. Focus on physical therapy, upper-body work, mobility, sleep, nutrition.

The progress you made doesn’t just disappear, it just changes shape.

Remember, the choice is always yours to make.

My question to you:

What’s a recent event that derailed your plans, and what did you do next?

—Patrick D. Nugent

Hit reply and tell me your thoughts — I read every message. I encourage you to forward this to someone who would find it valuable.

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I write about grit, leadership, and navigating adversity, drawing from my experience in the Marines, elite athletics, and business.

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Now let’s dive into this week’s Nugent Note.

I’m sitting alone in the chow hall my sophomore year at The Citadel, eating grilled chicken and broccoli. I had just finished a workout and was still sweating through my shirt due to the South Carolina humidity. I was exhausted and wanted to eat in peace.

I had recently decided to stop playing football and pursue a Marine Corps scholarship. Life felt good. I was focused on my grades, my military training, and staying in my lane.

Then, my company commander (the top senior in my company), sat down across from me. I thought I was in trouble. After a little small talk, he asked a simple question:

“Why aren’t you applying for a leadership position?”

I told him the truth. I was focused on my academics and my military obligations. I didn’t see the need to add more to my plate.

He shook his head. He didn’t argue. He explained.

“In a few years, you’ll graduate and lead Marines. Getting leadership reps now, while you’re still in school, lets you learn, make mistakes, and grow before it really counts. Before real lives are at stake. Don’t waste these next couple of years.”

My stomach dropped. He was calling me out. I didn’t want to hear it. Because it forced me to confront something I hadn’t considered.

I didn’t see myself as someone who should step into that leadership role.

After taking time to reflect, I realized he was right. At a leadership school like The Citadel, choosing not to step up felt selfish. I didn’t choose a school like The Citadel to sit on the bench. I chose The Citadel to prepare myself to lead Marines. I needed leadership reps.

So I applied.

And didn’t get selected!

It felt like a punch to the gut, especially after that conversation.

On paper, I was a strong candidate. It didn’t matter. You can be qualified and still get passed over. It still hurt nonetheless.

So I put my head down and went to work. I jumped at any and every opportunity to step up and lead. No matter how small. Whether it was ten people or fifty. I wanted the experience. I wanted the reps.

I carried a chip on my shoulder, but not out of anger. Out of responsibility.

I needed to get better. Not for the position, but for the Marines I would one day have the honor of leading.

Over time, I got the reps I needed. And slowly, my confidence started to catch up to the expectations that had been placed on me.

Two years later, I was selected as Regimental Commander. The number one-ranked cadet in the entire school.

A position I never would have considered if that commander hadn’t sat down across from me in the chow hall and asked one question.

That conversation didn’t give me a role. It changed how I saw myself.

That’s what great leaders do. They don’t just evaluate performance. They challenge the limits people place on themselves.

At the time, I was focused on what felt manageable. Staying in my lane. Not taking on more than I needed to.

He saw something different. And more importantly, he said it.

Most people don’t need more information. They need someone to challenge the ceiling they’ve put on themselves.

Someone to tap them on the shoulder and call them forward before they’re ready.

So here’s my question for you:

What conversation do you need to have?

At work: Who on your team is capable of more than they’re currently showing?
At home: Who in your family needs to be challenged or supported?
In sport: Who in your locker room is playing small?

You never know which conversation will matter.

Someone had that conversation with you once.

Be the person who pulls up a chair and asks the question.

—Patrick D. Nugent

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