While out running one beautiful, early summer’s morning nearly 20 years ago, I learned a simple principle that has guided me ever since: ‘The Next Step’.
The sun was low in the sky, the breeze refreshingly cool, and the morning traffic had yet to reach its frantic, rush-hour levels. It was just me, my music and the street. Perfect—at least until I hit the half-mile marker.
As I passed the bus shelter that acted as my ‘you’ve made it a whole half mile!’ signal, I felt like I had nothing left in the tank. With four and half miles still to go, that was not a good thing.
Determined not to give in, I fixed my gaze on where I knew the one-mile marker lay and began a mental battle as I tried to convince myself I could make it that far. My legs felt heavy, my lungs burned, and doubt crept in with every laboured breath.
The more I peered into the distance, however, the further away that mile-marker seemed. The ‘you can’t do this’ voice became much louder than the ‘you’ve got this’ voice. I was losing the battle.
About to give up, I heard another voice—a voice I recognised but wasn’t mine. It said, ‘Andy, don’t concern yourself with how far you have to go. Simply lower your gaze and focus on your next step’.
I took heed and focused on my next step. It felt awkward looking down; I imagined running straight into a tree or signpost. But I persevered and gradually found a groove. My breathing steadied, and a curious calm began to replace the panic.
The urge to look up remained strong and, each time I succumbed, the sense of impending defeat returned. So I began to chant ‘next step’ over and over in my head. As I watched each footfall hit the tarmac, the urge to look up subsided.
As I focused on each step, I became more aware of everything around me than I ever remember being before. I could hear each breath. I could feel each step. I felt present—fully alive in that moment. The birdsong seemed clearer, the morning light more vibrant.
Later that day, reflecting on that run (which I completed in a time slightly better than my average), I realised that focusing on your next step wasn’t just a lesson for running; it was a lesson for life.
Success or failure in whatever you’re doing—whether running, raising a family, building a career, or pursuing your real life—lies in where you put your focus.
Of course, you must know where you’re heading. But when your focus is too far into the distance, you set yourself up to fail. When looking ahead, you see only glimpses of what’s coming rather than the full picture. You become overwhelmed by the ravines and cliffs between where you are and where you want to be, but miss the paths through them.
Those paths are only revealed when you’re fully present in the space you occupy right now. This present-moment awareness unlocks possibilities invisible to the distant gaze.
Success isn’t the product of giant leaps. It’s the accumulation of many steps—some small, some large—all taking place in the present, not some distant future.
You cannot know with certainty the steps you’ll need to take tomorrow. But you can know what steps you must take today.
So keep a picture of your destination in mind, but focus on where your foot will fall right now—on your next step. When you focus there, you can make each step count; and when each step counts, your dreams become reality.
