My student Marcus appeared on my Zoom screen… and it looked like he just walked through a storm.
Shoulders heavy, voice low, hands folded in his lap. He’d come up short in a conference qualifier by several strokes the week before — and the number on his scorecard wasn’t what haunted him. It was how he felt standing over the ball. “I completely froze,” he told me. “Every time I addressed my irons, my hands locked up. The whole round. I couldn’t commit to a single swing.” He paused, staring somewhere past the camera. “I was terrified to pull the trigger.”
This wasn’t a swing issue nor was it about preparation. Marcus had been one of the hardest workers on his squad all season — early mornings on the range, extra reps in the short game area, film study on his own time. He knew his game inside and out. But when it counted — with coaches evaluating, teammates watching, and his position in the lineup hanging in the balance — something inside him shut down. Not because he lacked ability. But because his entire sense of self felt like it was riding on every shot.
What Performance Anxiety Really Is
I’ve sat across from hundreds of athletes who’ve told me some version of this same story. The specifics change — the tournament, the sport, the stakes — but the engine driving the anxiety is always identical. Performance anxiety, at its core, isn’t about a lack of talent or preparation. It’s about identity. It’s about playing to protect something fragile or to prove something you’re not sure is true. It’s the fear of being exposed — of having the curtain pulled back and everyone seeing that maybe you don’t really belong.
When your identity is chained to outcomes, every shot becomes an existential event. Every round becomes a verdict on your value as a person. And your nervous system, detecting a threat to something that feels essential, does exactly what it was designed to do — it protects you. It tightens your grip. It shortens your breath. It makes you tentative, guarded, playing not to lose. And no amount of range sessions can override that kind of internal pressure when you’re asking golf to tell you who you are.
“When your identity is chained to outcomes, every shot becomes an existential event. Every round becomes a verdict on your value as a person.”
The Example That Reveals the Answer
Partway through our conversation, Marcus brought up a player he’d been watching. He’d seen one of the game’s steadiest competitors, Scottie Scheffler, at a PGA Tour event. Scottie is known for his unshakable calm under the brightest lights. “I watched him walk the fairways under all that pressure,” Marcus said. “Thousands of people, cameras everywhere. And he looked like he was strolling through his neighborhood on a Sunday morning. Just completely at peace.” Marcus shook his head, still trying to process it. “How is that even possible? How does someone stay that calm when everything’s on the line?”
I let the question sit. Then I asked him what he thought the answer was.
He didn’t hesitate. “I think it’s because his faith is the foundation of everything. The crowds and the pressure and the leaderboard — none of that touches his core. Because what he’s grounded in is so much bigger and deeper than any tournament could be.”
That’s it. That’s the whole answer. A player can walk like that — calm, steady, fully present — because his identity isn’t on trial. It was settled long before he arrived at the course. Long before the first tee shot, long before the broadcast cameras went live, long before the leaderboard mattered. The verdict was already delivered: He belongs. He’s held. He’s enough. Not because of his ball-striking or his scoring average or his world ranking. But because of whose he is.
David Didn’t Fight Goliath Alone
I shared a story with Marcus that had been sitting on my heart for weeks. The story of David and Goliath. Everyone knows the broad strokes — a shepherd boy with a slingshot facing a giant in armor. The ultimate underdog narrative.
But here’s what most people breeze past: David wasn’t confident because he was self-sufficient. He wasn’t brave because he trusted in his own power. Yes, he had experience — he’d fought bears and lions with his bare hands protecting his flock. He had real preparation and genuine belief in his ability. But his confidence wasn’t sourced from any of that.
It came from who he represented. It came from the deep, settled knowing that God was with him. That he wasn’t fighting alone. That the outcome didn’t rest on his shoulders. David’s confidence was rooted in God’s ability to defeat whatever enemy stood in front of him. And that kind of confidence — the kind born from partnership with something infinitely greater than yourself — cannot be shaken by circumstance.
“That’s where real confidence lives,” I told Marcus. “Not in self-reliance. In partnership.”
He sat with that for a long moment. Then said something that brought it all together: “It’s like — no matter what your swing feels like that day, or what the conditions are, or what anyone says about you — when your belief is anchored in God and the abilities He gave you, nothing can touch that. No score, no ranking, no opinion can break it.”
“When your belief is anchored in God and the abilities He gave you, nothing can touch that. No score, no ranking, no opinion can break it.”
When Identity Is Already Won
The real problem with performance anxiety isn’t that we care too much. It’s that we’re playing for the wrong audience. When you’re performing to impress other people — to earn approval, to secure your spot, to prove you belong in their eyes — your identity becomes impossibly fragile. It shifts with every shot. One good round and you feel worthy. One bad round and you’re spiraling, questioning everything. That’s exhausting. And it’s completely unstable.
But when your identity is already settled — when you know who you are and whose you are before you ever step on the course — everything shifts. Not because the pressure evaporates. But because it no longer has the authority to define you.
Marcus and I kept working through what this actually looks like in practice. How do you take that truth — that your identity is settled, that you’re held before you ever perform — and carry it with you when the pressure peaks on the back nine?
We landed on something simple but transformative. Before every shot, Marcus would ground himself in one truth: God already defeated Goliath. I’m just here to steward the moment. Not to prove his worth. Not to earn his place. Just to be faithful with what’s been given. That shift — from proving to stewarding — changes everything. It lifts the crushing weight of needing every swing to validate your existence. It opens up space to play freely, fully, without the outcome dictating who you are.
The Round That Changed Everything
A couple weeks later, Marcus competed in a conference event. He texted me afterward, and I could feel something different in his words before he even explained what happened. “I played different today,” he wrote. “I wasn’t trying to prove anything to anyone. I was just... present.”
He posted one of his lowest rounds of the season. But what mattered more than any number on the card was how he felt walking off the 18th green. Grounded. Quiet inside. Free.
“I kept coming back to David,” he told me when we connected later. “Every time I felt the pressure creeping in, I just reminded myself: God’s got this. I’m here to do my part.“
That’s the shift. That’s the freedom. Not freedom from pressure — but freedom within it. The ability to stand inside moments that matter without needing those moments to tell you who you are. Because the validation was already given. The identity was already won. The battle was already decided.
Your job isn’t to prove you’re enough. It’s to trust that you already are.
Your Mental Coach,
Dr. Mat
P.S. Our team has been working so hard on something so cool, practical, and transformative for your life. It’s called the ONE Daily Devotional App. We will be launching on the Apple app store next week and this supportive community will be the first to know. Thanks for all your support.