The Trenches

When most people hear the word trenches, they think of war. They picture soldiers huddled together beneath the surface, surrounded by uncertainty, exhaustion, fear, and danger. The trenches are where battles are fought. They are where courage is tested. They are where lives are forever changed.

Life has taught me that not all trenches are found on battlefields.

Some are found in classrooms. Some are found in locker rooms. Some are found around kitchen tables. Some are found in counseling offices. Some are found in churches. Some are found in hospital rooms. Some are found in boardrooms. Some are found in homes where no one else sees the tears after everyone else has gone to bed.

The trenches are anywhere people wrestle with becoming.

And whether we realize it or not, every one of us steps into those trenches every single day.

One of the greatest mistakes we make is believing that the battles people fight are visible.

They’re usually not.

The student acting out in class may be carrying shame. The athlete with the bad attitude may be terrified of failure. The parent who seems angry may actually be overwhelmed. The employee who has stopped caring may have quietly lost hope. The teenager who keeps pushing everyone away may simply be waiting to see if anyone will stay.

Behavior is visible.

The heart is not.

That’s why leading people is never as simple as correcting behavior. Before we can influence actions, we must first understand the person behind them.

Let me show you what I mean. The Phone Call

There’s a young woman I coach. I’ll call her Nia — that’s not her name, and I’ve changed the details that would tell you who she is, because her story belongs to her. But what I learned from her belongs in this book.

On the court, Nia is everything a coach hopes for. Focused. Competitive. A worker. When the season is running — practices, film, travel, games, goals — she thrives. If all you ever saw was the gym, you would think she was one of the most put-together young people you’d ever met.

But something happened to Nia that no young person should ever have to carry. And I’ve learned that her hardest days don’t come during the season.

They come after it ends.

The gym gets quiet. The structure disappears. The distractions fall away. And the empty spaces get louder.

I’ve also learned that pain keeps a calendar. As the anniversary of what happened approaches, her body and mind begin reacting before she even consciously knows why. The dark days get darker. That’s not weakness. That’s how wounds work. Trauma gets quieter when life has structure — and it speaks up when the structure is gone.

For a long time, I thought my job was to keep her in the gym. Keep her playing. Keep her busy. Keep the structure running.

Then one day it hit me: basketball had become her lifeline — and a lifeline is not the same thing as a life. The goal was never just “keep Nia playing.” The goal is helping Nia build a life that still has meaning when the season ends. More pillars. Faith. Gratitude. Friendships. Mentoring younger players. A future she’s walking toward. One pillar can crack. Five pillars hold a roof.

But here’s the moment I want you to see.

Around that anniversary, Nia calls me.

She doesn’t call for plays. She doesn’t call for advice. It took me a while to understand what those calls really were.

She was checking to see if someone was still there.

And I’ve learned to stop trying to fix the phone call. I don’t give a speech. I don’t offer five steps. I say some version of this:

“I’m glad you called. Stay here. We’re going to get through today.”

Not next year. Not forever.

Just today.

Sometimes you have to slow life all the way down and just take care of today. Be grateful you opened your eyes. Be grateful your toes touch the ground. Remember the people who love you — the family, the teammates, the mentors who will always be there.

Let’s just take care of today.

That’s the trench. Not the gym. Not the wins.

The phone call. My First Lesson

Nia is not the first person to teach me this. She’s the most recent in a long line.

Early in my coaching career, I thought my job was to teach basketball. If players worked hard, listened, and executed, everything else would take care of itself.

Sometimes it did. Often it didn’t.

Over the years I began noticing something. The players who struggled the most on the court were rarely fighting basketball problems. They were fighting life.

Some lacked confidence. Some didn’t believe they belonged. Some had never experienced consistent encouragement. Some carried wounds they couldn’t explain. Some had learned to protect themselves by pretending they didn’t care.

Basketball simply revealed what was already happening inside.

Eventually I realized I wasn’t coaching jump shots. I was coaching human beings.

And human beings always bring their hearts with them.

When God chose to rescue humanity, He didn’t do it from a distance.

He came near.

Jesus didn’t simply teach truth. He lived among people. He touched those everyone else avoided. He listened. He wept. He healed. He forgave. He challenged. He loved.

That changed the way I understood leadership.

Leadership isn’t standing above people. It’s kneeling beside them. It’s entering someone else’s struggle without losing hope. It’s helping carry burdens that were never meant to be carried alone.

It’s answering the phone.

Every person reading this book has influence.

You may never coach a state championship team. You may never preach to thousands. You may never lead a large organization.

But someone is watching you. Someone is learning from you. Someone is becoming because of you.

Influence isn’t reserved for people with titles. It’s the responsibility of anyone entrusted with another human being.

Will people become more fearful because of your presence, or more courageous? More ashamed, or more hopeful? More isolated, or more connected? Every interaction is shaping someone’s story.

I’ve come to believe something that has changed the way I see people.

The trench isn’t a place to conquer. It’s a place to serve.

It isn’t a place where we prove how much we know. It’s a place where we demonstrate how much we care.

People don’t need perfect leaders. They need present leaders. They don’t need someone who has all the answers. They need someone willing to stay when life gets hard.

Nia doesn’t call me because I’m wise. She calls because I answer.

That’s what makes the trenches sacred. Because it’s often in the hardest places that the deepest transformation begins.