I can’t believe.
“I can’t believe you’ve turned yourself from someone who thought they were good into
someone who is actually good.”
That comment was made to me a few months after the Tokyo Olympics. It stung —
and at the same time, it validated something deep.
It felt like external validation — like I’d finally proven why others could believe in me.
What I didn’t realise then was that it was also validating something quieter: the way I’d
trusted myself long before there was any evidence to support it.
See, if the name Tom Wickham were to come up in hockey circles, you won’t hear
words like talented, gun, or exciting to watch. To be honest, my name probably didn’t
come up at all. And if it did, it was more likely followed by someone else should’ve
been picked, or he’s a hard worker, but he’s not that good.
I was under no illusion about where I sat. More than once, I was called in late. Named
a reserve — often told I was “selected” a reserve to soften the blow. Picked only
because someone else couldn’t go.
For a long time, playing hockey felt like survival, especially at the highest level. Not
chasing excellence — just trying not to disappear.
I did the inner work to loosen the grip. But I wasn’t naïve about the reality.
And it was attuning to that reality — and accepting it — that changed everything.
Because inside that acceptance, something revealed itself.
My real talent.
Not speed. Not flair. Not being the obvious choice.
My talent was love and belief.
Love for the game. Belief in myself — especially when it wasn’t consistently offered by
the world around me.
From that came unmatched perseverance and drive. A will to stay alive and in the hunt.
A refusal to fold.
I once heard that cockroaches are hard to kill. I took that on. It became a quiet code I
lived by — in hockey, under pressure, and in life.
As long as I’m still here, I’m still in it.
Maybe you’re thinking I was just too dumb to quit. Why put myself through the pain?
Why not walk away and do something else? Fair questions.
The answer is simple: I believed. I believed I was good enough when the world didn’t. I
loved the game. I wanted to play — all day, every day.
The real shift came when hockey stopped being about survival. When I let love lead
instead.
I accepted that it might take everything I had just to maybe be the last name on the list.
And strangely, once I stopped resisting that truth, my game lifted.
Not into dominance. Not into certainty.
But into expression.
To be clear — my best was likely just enough. And that became enough for me.
Because I got to do what I loved. I was thrown into environments that demanded
growth.
Performance isn’t built by fixing what’s broken. It’s revealed when we stop fighting who
we are.
When survival no longer leads. When belief no longer needs proving. When we stop
trying to become someone or something else — and fully commit to being who we are.
That’s when the game changes.
If any part of this resonates — or stirs something in you, in sport, leadership, or life —
you’re welcome to reach out. I’m always open to a genuine conversation.
someone who is actually good.”
That comment was made to me a few months after the Tokyo Olympics. It stung —
and at the same time, it validated something deep.
It felt like external validation — like I’d finally proven why others could believe in me.
What I didn’t realise then was that it was also validating something quieter: the way I’d
trusted myself long before there was any evidence to support it.
See, if the name Tom Wickham were to come up in hockey circles, you won’t hear
words like talented, gun, or exciting to watch. To be honest, my name probably didn’t
come up at all. And if it did, it was more likely followed by someone else should’ve
been picked, or he’s a hard worker, but he’s not that good.
I was under no illusion about where I sat. More than once, I was called in late. Named
a reserve — often told I was “selected” a reserve to soften the blow. Picked only
because someone else couldn’t go.
For a long time, playing hockey felt like survival, especially at the highest level. Not
chasing excellence — just trying not to disappear.
I did the inner work to loosen the grip. But I wasn’t naïve about the reality.
And it was attuning to that reality — and accepting it — that changed everything.
Because inside that acceptance, something revealed itself.
My real talent.
Not speed. Not flair. Not being the obvious choice.
My talent was love and belief.
Love for the game. Belief in myself — especially when it wasn’t consistently offered by
the world around me.
From that came unmatched perseverance and drive. A will to stay alive and in the hunt.
A refusal to fold.
I once heard that cockroaches are hard to kill. I took that on. It became a quiet code I
lived by — in hockey, under pressure, and in life.
As long as I’m still here, I’m still in it.
Maybe you’re thinking I was just too dumb to quit. Why put myself through the pain?
Why not walk away and do something else? Fair questions.
The answer is simple: I believed. I believed I was good enough when the world didn’t. I
loved the game. I wanted to play — all day, every day.
The real shift came when hockey stopped being about survival. When I let love lead
instead.
I accepted that it might take everything I had just to maybe be the last name on the list.
And strangely, once I stopped resisting that truth, my game lifted.
Not into dominance. Not into certainty.
But into expression.
To be clear — my best was likely just enough. And that became enough for me.
Because I got to do what I loved. I was thrown into environments that demanded
growth.
Performance isn’t built by fixing what’s broken. It’s revealed when we stop fighting who
we are.
When survival no longer leads. When belief no longer needs proving. When we stop
trying to become someone or something else — and fully commit to being who we are.
That’s when the game changes.
If any part of this resonates — or stirs something in you, in sport, leadership, or life —
you’re welcome to reach out. I’m always open to a genuine conversation.