I have never understood cards my whole life. I could never learn

Hear the words of Jacob Elordi, spoken with honesty and humility: “I have never understood cards my whole life. I could never learn card games, I didn’t have the patience for them.” Though simple in form, these words reveal a truth about the human condition: that not every mind is attuned to every craft, and that patience, more than intellect, is often the true key to mastery. Elordi’s confession is not of weakness, but of self-awareness, for he admits that the struggle lay not in complexity but in the stillness required to persist.

When he speaks of cards, we hear more than the shuffling of decks and the rules of games. Cards symbolize strategy, calculation, and above all, patience. To play them well is to endure delay, to observe carefully, to measure choices against the unseen. Yet Elordi acknowledges that his own nature, restless and urgent, could not bend to such stillness. In this we glimpse a broader truth: each of us has strengths that flourish easily and weaknesses that resist cultivation, and wisdom lies in knowing the difference.

History has often revealed such contrasts. Consider the great Alexander the Great, master of conquest and bold movement, who could never have endured the slow and methodical life of a scholar like Aristotle, his teacher. The general excelled in speed and daring, while the philosopher thrived in patience and reason. Both changed the world, yet each in a manner true to their own gifts. So too with Elordi—his path was not to sit with cards and calculation, but to bring energy and passion into performance.

The mention of patience is the heart of the matter. For patience is not only a virtue but a discipline, the art of restraining impulse and submitting to time. Without it, mastery in certain fields is impossible. Chess masters, musicians, monks—all achieve greatness through patience. Yet not all are called to such paths. Some blaze quickly, their energy best spent in bursts of creation rather than long contemplation. Elordi’s words remind us that to lack patience in one domain does not diminish the spirit; it simply directs it toward another where it may flourish.

We see this too in the life of Vincent van Gogh. He lacked patience for long academic training in the arts, yet his restless brushstrokes became the language of his genius. His paintings, wild and urgent, would not have existed had he confined himself to calm study. Likewise, the actor who lacks patience for card games may possess precisely the fire needed to bring vitality to stage and screen. Thus, what seems a failing may in truth be a strength, if turned toward the right field.

The lesson is this: do not despise your own limitations, for they may point you to the road that is truly yours. If you lack patience for one craft, seek the one where your passion can burn brightly. If you cannot endure stillness, perhaps you were made for movement. If you cannot master numbers, perhaps you were born for words. Every soul has its design, and wisdom is not in becoming all things, but in becoming fully what you are meant to be.

Practically, this means embracing self-knowledge. Try many things, and do not despair when some slip from your grasp. Instead, ask what this teaches you about your strengths. Cultivate patience where it is necessary—yes—but also honor the gifts that come more naturally. For in knowing both your strengths and your weaknesses, you chart the truest path toward fulfillment.

Thus the words of Jacob Elordi endure as a reminder: “I could never learn card games, I didn’t have the patience for them.” They are not the words of failure, but of clarity. They teach us that the human spirit is not universal in its talents, and that is its beauty. Let each one find the art, the labor, the passion that suits their soul, and there, with patience or with fire, achieve greatness.