It starts in the gut. You know that feeling when you're watching a game, or maybe just watching someone else succeed at the very thing you used to love, and there’s this sharp, annoying twinge of "that could’ve been me"? That’s the moment you realize you’ve sidelined the quarterback in me. It isn't just about football. It’s about that internal leader, that person who wanted to take the shot, run the play, and actually be in the arena instead of just chirping from the bleachers.
We do it to ourselves constantly. We bench our own ambitions because life gets noisy, or because someone told us to "be realistic." Honestly, being realistic is often just a fancy way of saying we’re scared of failing in front of people.
The psychology of the bench
Why do we do this? Why do we voluntarily take ourselves out of the game? Psychologists often talk about "self-handicapping." It’s this weird thing humans do where we create obstacles for ourselves so that if we fail, we have a ready-made excuse. If I don't try to be the "quarterback" of my own career or life, I can’t technically lose. I'm just "on the sidelines."
It’s safe there. No one tackles you when you’re holding a clipboard. But the view sucks.
Dr. Carol Dweck’s work on mindset plays a huge role here. When we move from a growth mindset to a fixed one, we start believing our skills are set in stone. We think, "I'm not a natural leader," or "I'm not built for that kind of pressure." Suddenly, the decision to have sidelined the quarterback in me feels like a logical conclusion rather than a tragic mistake. We convince ourselves we’re doing everyone a favor by staying out of the way.
When the jersey stops fitting
There’s a specific kind of grief involved in giving up on a version of yourself. You remember the kid who thought they’d be CEO, or a pro athlete, or a world-class artist. Then, the mortgage happens. The 9-to-5 grind happens. You look in the mirror and you don't see a playmaker anymore; you see a spectator.
It’s subtle.
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You stop volunteering for the big projects at work. You stop sharing your "crazy" ideas with your partner. You basically become a backup player in your own story.
I’ve seen this happen to high-level executives who suddenly realize they’ve spent ten years executing someone else’s vision while their own dreams gathered dust in the garage. They didn't lose their talent. They just lost their nerve. They let the external noise—the critics, the "market trends," the family expectations—call the plays.
The cost of "playing it safe"
When you’ve sidelined the quarterback in me, the cost isn't just financial or professional. It’s deeply personal. You start feeling a sense of resentment. Not necessarily toward others, though that happens too, but toward the person in the mirror.
You become "fine."
"How's work?"
"It's fine."
"How are your hobbies?"
"They're fine."
"Fine" is the graveyard of the quarterback spirit. It’s what happens when you settle for the middle of the pack because the front of the pack is too windy.
How to get back on the field (without looking like a fool)
So, how do you fix it? You don't just run back onto the field and demand the ball. That’s how you get hurt—or at least how you get laughed at. You have to start with the "practice squad" mentality.
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First, you’ve got to acknowledge that you benched yourself. It wasn't the boss. It wasn't your ex. It was you. Owning that is actually incredibly empowering because if you’re the one who put yourself on the sideline, you’re the only one who can put yourself back in.
Audit your current "playbook." Look at your daily routine. Are you taking any risks? Are you making any "throws" that might get intercepted? If every single day is predictable and safe, you’re officially benched. Start by changing one small thing where you take the lead.
Find a coach, not a fan. Fans tell you you’re great even when you’re mediocre. Coaches tell you you’re being lazy and that your footwork is sloppy. You need someone who will call you out for having sidelined the quarterback in me. This could be a mentor, a therapist, or just that one friend who doesn't take your excuses.
Lower the stakes initially. You don't need to quit your job tomorrow to "find yourself." You just need to act like a leader in the job you have. Propose the idea you’ve been sitting on. Speak up in the meeting where you usually just take notes.
Expect the "hits." If you’re going to be the quarterback, you’re going to get hit. It’s part of the job description. People will disagree with you. Some plays will fail spectacularly. If you can't stomach a fumble, stay on the bench. But remember: the bench has zero upside.
The "Sunk Cost" Trap
A lot of people feel like it’s too late. They think, "I've been on the sidelines for twenty years, I can't go back now." This is the sunk cost fallacy. The time you spent benched is gone. You can't get it back. But that doesn't mean the next twenty years have to look the same.
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Think about Kurt Warner. He was bagging groceries before he became a Super Bowl MVP. He didn't let the "grocery store" years define his potential. He kept the quarterback in him alive even when the world told him he was a shelf-stocker.
Most of us aren't Kurt Warner, but the principle holds. Your current situation is a snapshot, not a movie. It can change the second you decide to stop being a passive observer of your own life.
Actionable steps for the "Benched" professional
Stop waiting for a "sign" or a "lucky break." Lucky breaks are just what happens when people who are ready for the ball finally get it.
- Identify one "big play" you’ve been avoiding. Maybe it's a difficult conversation, a career pivot, or a creative project.
- Set a deadline. Not a "someday" deadline. A "Tuesday at 2:00 PM" deadline.
- Execute. Don't overthink it. Don't ask for ten opinions. Just run the play.
- Analyze the footage. After you take the shot, look at what happened objectively. If it worked, great. If it didn't, what can you learn for the next drive?
We spend so much time worrying about the "what ifs" of failure that we completely ignore the "what ifs" of never trying. Having sidelined the quarterback in me is a slow-motion tragedy that most people don't even realize is happening until they're retired and looking back with a mountain of regrets.
The game is still going. The clock hasn't run out. There’s still time to grab your helmet, get off the pine, and call your own number. It’s going to be uncomfortable. You’re going to be out of breath. You might even get sacked. But at least you’ll be in the game.