Chapter 1

The Toll Booth at the Edge of Average

People often ask me to recommend a good doctor. When I name one, the next question is almost always, “Where is he located?” If I say thirty minutes away, they groan: “That’s far!” My reply is simple: “Do you want good, or do you want close?”

That groan says more than people realize. People say they want the best care, but even a short drive is enough to stop most of them. The distance isn’t unreasonable. The inconvenience just feels like too high a price to pay for what they claim to want.

I saw the same pattern in education. When I decided to pursue school administration, I enrolled in graduate school while still teaching full-time. Colleagues who already held administrative degrees reacted with disbelief. The system was rigged, they said. Connections mattered more than competence. Applying was a waste of time.

When I finished the degree, the doubts didn’t disappear — they shifted. People told me not to bother applying, that decisions were made long before interviews ever happened. Many had tried a few times, failed, and stopped. Convinced the outcome was predetermined, they quit early and explained their exit as realism.

I went to interviews knowing I probably wouldn’t be chosen. What others never even considered was that effort can still separate candidates, even when outcomes feel fixed. Most showed up having done the minimum. I prepared as if preparation mattered — because sometimes it does, and when it does, it matters a lot.

At twenty-seven, I became an assistant principal. Not because of special connections or luck, but because I kept doing what others had already decided wasn’t worth the effort. Persistence didn’t guarantee success, but quitting guaranteed failure.

For me, “unable” never meant “impossible.” As a full-time teacher, I still found ways to visit schools — sometimes by using personal days, other times by giving up a day’s pay. The cost wasn’t trivial, but it drew a clear line between wanting something and being willing to earn it.

Years later, I encountered the same toll booth in a different setting. While planning a new dance event, I spent over two months building a database, advertising across social media groups, and following up with emails and texts. The work was deliberate and time-consuming, and it all happened before the first song was ever played.

Before the event ever happened, I spoke with a woman who was a regular attendee at several local dance venues. When I mentioned hosting my event on Sunday afternoons instead of evenings, she dismissed the idea outright: “Nobody will come.”

She couldn’t see the work behind the decision. She couldn’t see that the toll had already been paid. When more than eighty people showed up — far more than at any local studio dance — the result seemed surprising to her. It wasn’t. It was earned.

Across careers, decades, and circumstances, the pattern never changed. Whether it’s avoiding a thirty-minute drive, quitting after a few rejections, skipping preparation, or clinging to what feels comfortable, people stop at the same place. Not because the goal is unreachable, but because the price feels inconvenient.

I once saw a sign on a classroom ceiling that said, “If you want to achieve what others don’t, you have to do what others won’t.”

That sign points to the toll booth — the place at the edge of average that guards the bridge to excellence. The toll is rarely money. It’s effort, sacrifice, persistence, and discipline. Those willing to pay it move forward. Those who aren’t stay where they are, still wanting what lies beyond, but rarely reaching it.