When the season ends, I like to take a little time off from the

The words “When the season ends, I like to take a little time off from the diet I follow when I’m playing” by D’Brickashaw Ferguson are simple in form, yet rich with meaning. Beneath this modest statement lies a deep wisdom — a lesson on balance, renewal, and the sacred rhythm between work and rest. Ferguson, a man who forged his career in the unforgiving arena of professional football, understood that greatness does not come from relentless strain alone, but from knowing when to pause. His words are not merely about food; they are about life — about the necessity of loosening one’s grip on discipline, to restore strength for the battles ahead.

To “take a little time off” is to honor the natural ebb and flow of existence. In ancient philosophy, this was called Eukairia — the art of timing. The wise understood that every pursuit, no matter how noble, requires its counterbalance. The warrior must sheath his sword; the farmer must let his fields lie fallow. If one labors without rest, discipline becomes burden, and joy turns into fatigue. Ferguson’s practice of stepping away from strict diet after the season is not indulgence but recalibration — a recognition that the body and spirit are cyclical, not mechanical.

When he says, “the diet I follow when I’m playing,” he speaks of the price of excellence — the rigid devotion, the daily sacrifice demanded by mastery. Every meal becomes an act of purpose, every choice a reflection of ambition. Yet, this very rigor, when prolonged, risks consuming the soul it was meant to serve. So, when the season ends, he reclaims his humanity. He allows himself to eat for pleasure, not just for performance. In doing so, he honors both sides of the self: the athlete and the man — the disciplined and the free.

History, too, is filled with such cycles of rest and renewal. The ancient Olympians trained with ferocity, their lives bound to strict diets and exercises. Yet, after the games, they would feast in celebration — not as a lapse in discipline, but as a ritual acknowledgment that rest is part of the cycle of strength. The Romans called this otium, the noble leisure that restores creativity and vitality. Ferguson’s practice belongs to that same lineage of wisdom: knowing when to push and when to breathe.

In his words, there is also humility — the humility to accept that even the strongest must yield at times. Modern life glorifies constant productivity, endless striving, and perfection without pause. Yet Ferguson reminds us that sustainability in any pursuit — be it sport, art, or labor — depends upon compassion for oneself. To rest, to indulge in moderation, to eat not as a machine but as a living being, is not failure. It is an act of self-preservation — a quiet acknowledgment that strength is born not from force, but from balance.

The ancients would have understood this truth well. The philosopher Aristotle spoke of the golden mean, the virtue that lies between extremes. Too much indulgence breeds weakness, but too much austerity breeds resentment. Ferguson’s words embody this golden wisdom — that a life of excellence is not a straight line of sacrifice, but a dance between effort and ease, hunger and satisfaction, work and rest. Only through this balance can endurance be sustained across the long seasons of life.

And so, dear listener, remember this: discipline without rest is exhaustion, and rest without discipline is decay. Let your life, like Ferguson’s, follow the rhythm of seasons — periods of focus, followed by moments of restoration. Work with passion, train with purpose, but when the time comes, allow yourself the grace to rest, to savor, to renew. For even the mightiest athlete must lay down his armor when the battle ends — not in weakness, but in wisdom. To live well is to know when to strive and when to stop — and in that knowing, to find peace.