The Land

What I Wish Someone Had Told Me at 16 

My teenage years were actually pretty good, all things considered.

I was a bit of a late bloomer. I finished Grade 12 at 16 and turned 17 not long after. I was still figuring out who I was, still pretty impressionable, and still on a steep learning curve.

I went on to study horticulture. I was motivated, I had my mind set on becoming a landscape architect, and I feel pretty lucky that I found a path I genuinely enjoyed.

But if I could go back and sit down with that 16-year-old kid, there’s one thing I’d tell him.

Slow down.

Not because he was heading in the wrong direction.

Because he was in too much of a hurry to get there.

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One of the things I think is genuinely difficult for young men today is the sheer amount of choice in front of them.

When I was that age, the pathways seemed relatively straightforward. You went to university, you learnt a trade, or you found a job and started working. Today, young people are looking at an almost endless number of careers, businesses, lifestyles and opportunities.

That’s a good thing in many ways.

But having more choices doesn’t necessarily make choosing easier.

Sometimes it makes it harder to know whether you’re on the right path at all.

For me, the problem wasn’t a lack of direction. I found a direction pretty early.

The problem was patience.

I found something I wanted and ran at it hard. I was comparing myself to mates who were already earning money, and I started thinking about what I was missing out on.

Eventually, I dropped out of university not long before finishing.

Money was part of it. Comparison was part of it. Impatience was probably the biggest part.

At the time, I couldn’t see the value in pushing through to the end. Looking back, I realise the lesson wasn’t really about the piece of paper.

It was about finishing something I’d started.

That lesson followed me into adulthood.

I’d start a project, get excited about it, do well for a while, then get distracted by the next thing. I’d leave things sitting at 90 percent and move on to something else.

And I’ve learnt that the last ten percent matters.

It’s often the least exciting part. The new idea has worn off. The initial energy is gone. Nobody is clapping anymore.

But that’s often where the satisfaction comes from.

Not from starting something new.

From finishing something you’ve committed to.

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For a long time, I think I was trying to fill a gap by constantly looking for more.

More achievement. More money. More progress. More things to chase.

And there’s not much peace in that.

You can spend your whole life trying to build something better and never actually stop long enough to appreciate what you’ve already built.

I had good role models growing up. Genuinely solid men in my life, my father included.

But I’ve also learnt that sometimes a young man needs to hear something from someone outside his family.

Not because his dad hasn’t said it.

Sometimes it’s because a young man hears the same message differently when it comes from someone else. A coach. A mentor. Someone a little further down the road who can say, I’ve been there too.

That’s one of the reasons I care so much about coaching now.

And strangely enough, it’s the land that’s probably taught me the most about all of this.

Working out here has forced me to slow down.

Clearing weeds. Moving biomass. Cutting things back. Removing what has built up over time.

You can’t rush it.

You do a section, then another section, and gradually the property starts to change.

And I’ve started to realise that growth isn’t always about adding something.

Sometimes it’s about taking something away.

Clearing away the things that have grown over the top of you. The comparison. The pressure. The need to prove yourself. The constant feeling that you should be doing something more.

Until you can see what’s actually underneath.

If I could tell my 16-year-old self one thing, it would be this:

You don’t need to rush towards more.

Slow down.

Finish what matters.

Clear away what doesn’t.

And give yourself enough time to become the person you’re already becoming.