Soccer shape was not marsh run shape. I found that out the hard way — waist-deep in the Ashley River, terrified, and more alive than I could describe.
There I was — up to my waist in pluff mud on the banks of the Ashley River — wondering what exactly I had gotten myself into.
My friend Fish had asked me to go on a marsh run with him. Fish was appropriately named. He was a machine, built for exactly this kind of thing, headed for pre-SEAL training. I knew before we started that I couldn’t keep up with him. I knew it clearly. And something inside me said to go anyway.
So there I was. Thigh-deep in the mud, the river close enough to remind me it was there, my mind running wild with everything I’d heard about what lived in those marshes. The gators. The snakes. All of it. I wanted out. I wanted solid ground beneath my feet and a shower and to never have agreed to this in the first place.
And I felt more alive than I can even describe.
I pulled myself out of the mud. I plodded my way back across the marsh, away from the river, back toward The Citadel. Back toward 2nd Battalion. Laughing to myself the whole way at what I must have looked like — this muddy, exhausted cadet who had absolutely no business attempting a marsh run with a future Navy SEAL.
Fish was already there when I arrived. He’d finished probably twenty, thirty minutes ahead of me. He took one look at me — head to toe in pluff mud — and couldn’t stop laughing. I couldn’t either. Because I had made it. Soccer shape turned out to be a completely different thing from marsh run shape. But I had made it. And that feeling — that specific feeling of arriving somewhere you weren’t sure you’d reach — is the thing I’ve been chasing ever since.
It’s in the moments we might fail that we find what we’re made of
I think about that young cadet sometimes. Fearless in a way that I didn’t fully appreciate at the time. Willing to try anything — not to show off, not to prove something to anyone else — but to find out what he was actually capable of. To push the limit and see where it was.
That willingness to step into something you might not be good at, to attempt something that could end badly, to say yes when everything sensible is telling you no — that is the thing that reveals who you are. Not the easy wins. Not the things you already know you can do. The marsh runs.
I worry sometimes that we’re raising a generation that never gets to find that out. We’ve built a world that removes the mud. Parents protect their students from failure. Schools find ways to pass students through without making them struggle. Nobody loses. Nobody falls short. Nobody ends up waist-deep in something they’re not sure they can get out of.
And so nobody ever finds out what they’re made of when it counts.
Five ways to find your own marsh run
I hear it all the time: “I heard that teacher is really hard. I think I’ll take a different one.” Take the hard teacher. Take the class you’re not sure you can pass. That B you earn in a class that genuinely challenged you will teach you more about yourself than the easy A ever will — and it might light a fire in you that takes you somewhere you never saw coming.
The marsh run was not in my wheelhouse. It was not my event. But it was exactly the kind of thing that showed me where my actual limits were — and that those limits were further out than I thought. Find your version of the marsh run. Attempt something outside your lane. See what happens.
Students and parents — Fish finished that marsh run thirty minutes before I did. That didn’t diminish what I accomplished by finishing. The goal isn’t to win. The goal is to complete something that required you to dig deep. First place is nice. Finishing when you weren’t sure you could is the thing that actually changes you.
The instinct to protect your student from struggle is natural. But the struggle is the point. The student who arrives at college having navigated real difficulty — having pulled themselves out of real mud — is in a completely different position than the one who’s been protected from every hard thing. Let them feel the fear. Let them find out they can handle it.
Students — the comfortable choice, the familiar class, the activity you already know you’re good at — none of those will show you what you’re actually made of. It’s the thing you’re not sure about. The attempt that could fail. The run you weren’t built for. That’s where you find out who you are.
I made it back to 2nd Battalion that day covered head to toe in pluff mud, laughing at myself, exhausted in a way that felt like a victory. Fish thought it was hilarious. I thought it was one of the best things I had ever done.
Not because I kept up. Not because I was built for it. Because I had tried something that scared me — and found out I could survive it.
That feeling is better lived than described. But I spend a lot of my time trying to point students toward it anyway.
Go find your marsh run.
Carpe diem.
Ready to stop playing it safe and start building something real? Entering the Arena is the guide for students and families who want to do it the right way.
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What did Chris Parsons learn from his marsh run at The Citadel?
Chris Parsons learned that the moments you might fail are the ones that show you what you're made of. As a cadet he agreed to a marsh run with a friend headed for pre-SEAL training, ended up waist-deep in pluff mud on the Ashley River, terrified — and finished anyway. The lesson he carries from it is that growth lives in the attempts that scare you, not in the easy wins you already know you can pull off.
Why does doing something that scares you matter for college admissions?
Because the students who discover what they're capable of are the ones who stepped into things they weren't sure they could do — the hard teacher, the class they might not ace, the activity outside their lane. That willingness to risk falling short is exactly what builds a genuine, confident applicant. Admissions officers can tell the difference between a student who has been protected from every struggle and one who has pulled themselves out of real mud.
How can a student find their own “marsh run”?
Start small and deliberate: take the harder teacher instead of the easy A, say yes to something you might not be good at, and stop measuring success only by finishing first. Chris finished his marsh run thirty minutes behind his friend — and it still counted. The point isn't to win; it's to attempt something that requires you to dig deeper than you knew you could.
What can parents do to help their student grow through struggle?
Resist the instinct to remove every obstacle. The struggle is the point. A student who arrives at college having navigated real difficulty is in a completely different position than one who's been shielded from every hard thing. Let them feel the fear, and let them find out they can handle it — that discovery is worth more than any grade you could protect.
How does “do something that scares you” connect to a stronger college application?
A student who has tested their own limits writes essays with substance, pursues activities with conviction, and speaks about themselves with earned confidence — all of which strengthen an application far more than a safe, polished résumé. At the College Planning Center, Chris helps families turn those real experiences into a college story that's authentically theirs. Go find your marsh run.
