#881: Tales of Overcoming The Odds, and How to Turn Losses Into Wins — Tim McGraw, Terry Crews, Dax Shepard, and More

Hello, boys and girls, ladies and germs. This is an all-star compilation about mistakes, failed bets, rejection, and foggy roads—the moments when setbacks can become huge openings. And come on: before you decide what you want is impossible, maybe write in with hashtag bullshit.

I’d loved two wheels forever, but nobody wanted to adapt a motorcycle for a triple amputee. Murt Lawwill built a prosthetic handlebar attachment, then Randy found a clutch-free Aprilia and put both brakes on one right-hand lever. My feet and arm hold the bike; one hand handles everything else. A lot of people made that dream real.

Senior year, I stole the ball with seconds left, missed the layup, and our team lost. I’d imagined the hero party; instead, teammates, coach, and the paper blamed me. Alone later, one thought kept coming: I took the shot. Win or lose, I want it on my terms. That game means nothing now, but that lesson still drives me.

My first record went wood: one song hit thirty-eight, no hits, and the label quit calling. I learned what I didn’t want to sound like, gathered songs, and made the next album with Byron Gallimore without approval. They hated getting the bill, record, and artwork—until they heard it. I don’t make records by committee. Listen to smart people, but nobody else sees the picture in your head. During my Curb fight, I made my best album and had it ready when the dust settled. Take charge and act on your vision.

I handed in my first book expecting praise, then got thrown from a horse, suffered a concussion, and temporarily couldn’t read or remember finishing it. My editor said the book couldn’t be published and mentioned a ghostwriter. I asked for two chapters and every note. The writing was fine; the organization was a mess. I turned the criticism into a checklist, rebuilt the book, and it became a bestseller. I’m not magic—I was willing to be taught.

When CHiPs failed to launch, I lost the writer-director identity I’d planned for a decade and got depressed enough to price retirement. That failure led to a podcast, because I can learn more from how people hurt someone or screw up than from an Emmy. The collapse also gave me more time with my kids, flexibility for my wife, and probably more money. I got exactly what I wanted—a motorcycle movie with wheelies—and it didn’t work. I mostly know I don’t know what’s best for me.

I went from straight A’s to failing everything, skipping seventh grade, marrying at fifteen while eight months pregnant, and separating by sixteen. I got a GED by one point, lied about my age for work, and held two jobs. Looking at my son waiting in his crib, I knew his life depended on what I could provide. I refused to stand in the food-stamp line with him. Tuition reimbursement got me into community college, then D.C. police recruitment offered education benefits. My first academy shift was the Mount Pleasant riots. It was great.

I used to resent roadblocks, thinking life should be a clear route. My father always said life isn’t fair, and eventually I understood: plenty of people have to build the bridge themselves. Obstacles form you when you treat them as problems to solve, not proof you’ve been wronged. When the boot is in your face, don’t convince the boot. Go around it, over it, move left. Its doorway isn’t the only doorway.

Rene would say, we’ll get it, even when a lion’s trail was cold. He didn’t know the destination; he knew to find the next print, then the next. After trauma left me depressed and frozen, Martha Beck helped me heal. Tracking became my guide: get comfortable not knowing, lower your head, look again, and learn which signs matter. Follow what makes you alive, curious, expanded. You’ll lose the trail, so find good people alongside you and respond creatively to what appears next.