Whatever I lack in size and strength and speed, I kind of make

In these words of Steven Yeun, there is a lesson etched in the marrow of struggle and perseverance. He speaks of size, strength, and speed—qualities the world often praises as the foundation of triumph. Yet he admits he does not excel in these gifts of nature. Instead, he exalts another quality, one less visible but far more enduring: grit. For what he lacks in outward measure, he replenishes through inner fire, the unyielding will to contend and endure when others may retreat. This is not merely about basketball; it is about life itself, where few are born with every advantage, but all may cultivate courage and persistence.

The ancients knew of this. They told stories not of those who possessed everything, but of those who, when stripped of strength or wealth or station, made war with what remained. It is the story of David against Goliath, where the small shepherd boy, armed not with size or armor but with skill, faith, and determination, felled the giant that armies feared. In Yeun’s words we hear the same echo: the battlefield may be uneven, yet the heart that refuses surrender is already mighty.

Notice also the joy with which he speaks: “I love elbowing and pushing people out or boxing them out.” This is not the joy of dominance, but the joy of effort, the delight in struggle itself. For the soul that embraces contest finds freedom; he does not compare himself endlessly to the swifter or the taller, but rather measures himself against his own will to press on. In this we hear the wisdom of the philosophers: that victory is not merely the crown, but the journey of the striving soul.

History is filled with such figures. Consider Thomas Edison, mocked for his lack of formal schooling, his mind slow to read but fierce to experiment. Where others saw failure in his thousands of unsuccessful trials, he saw only the patient work of grit. His incandescent lamp was not born of size, strength, or speed, but of endurance that outlasted discouragement. In the sweat of his repeated efforts, he embodied Yeun’s spirit: persistence conquers what raw talent alone cannot.

The lesson, then, is not to despair at the gifts withheld from us by fortune. One may be smaller, slower, less adorned by natural might. But one may always be grittier—more steadfast, more willing to rise when struck down, more willing to endure the bruises of effort. Such qualities have ever been the bedrock of greatness. For talent may dazzle, but grit outlasts; strength may shine, but resolve endures through storm and famine alike.

Take this teaching into your own walk of life: in your work, in your craft, in your relationships, do not measure yourself solely against the swift or the mighty. Instead, train your spirit in resilience, in the art of showing up when others have grown weary, in the discipline of pressing forward though the path is rough. Like the athlete who relishes the hard push under the basket, learn to find joy in the contest itself, knowing each small victory of endurance builds toward a lasting strength.

Practical actions flow from this truth. Cultivate daily habits that sharpen your perseverance: rise early even when comfort calls, finish the task even when ease tempts, return to the struggle even when defeat seems near. Celebrate not only the moment of triumph, but every hour of effort, every bruise of persistence, every unseen trial borne with patience. In these moments you forge the unseen weapon of grit, sharper than sword or spear.

Thus the teaching of Steven Yeun becomes timeless: do not lament what you lack—transform it by what you can will. The field may be uneven, the world may seem weighted toward the strong and swift, but the heart that delights in endurance shall not be denied. For the ancients knew, and we must remember: it is not the size of the warrior, but the size of the spirit, that determines the outcome of the battle.