When we design Rebellion experiences, the goal isn’t adrenaline or achievement, it’s awareness of your edge.

Awareness of how we respond when we hit our limits. Of the stories we tell ourselves when something feels just out of reach. Of the way our perception, of difficulty, of ourselves, can shift in an instant. 

A few weeks ago, I was guiding an EO Forum through a weeklong experience on the coast of Mexico. On day one, we went climbing at a secret beach only reachable by a short boat ride, a raw, newly bolted crag nestled in the jungle, quiet and wild. None of the participants were climbers. That was the point. We weren’t there to get them all to reach the top. We were there to meet their edge, fast.

What "You're Doing Great" Really Means When at The Edge.

One participant stood out. She must have attempted the same move more than a dozen times, getting stuck at the same section just a few feet off the ground. The crux was a single, slippery foothold that required full commitment on her right foot. The kind of move that demands trust in something your body and brain are both telling you is a bad idea.

Time after time, she tried. And time after time, her foot slipped. Eventually, while she hung on the wall, our local partner shouted out loud to her: “You’re doing great, you can come down if you want.”

I get it. It’s supportive. It’s compassionate. Feels like you are helping. But man I’ve come to hate those words.

Not because they’re unkind, but because they give people a way out right when they’re closest to breaking through their edge. “Doing great” praises the steps already taken, as if the person has done above expectation already, but it also subtly tells them the hard part is over, even when it’s not.It invites them to settle… instead of stepping forward and exploring that limit.

What You Say Matters

I always correct it to: “You’ve got this.” Because that says, “You can still go further.” And in this case, I knew 100% she could. For context, I’d spent time with her before this. Through interviews, through conversations with her forum, through seeing her lead and hesitate and laugh and push. I knew her enough to recognize that this wasn’t just a tough climb—it was the moment. Her moment. Even if it was just day one.

So I walked over, left the belay line, approached the wall, and asked her to rest, just for a minute. To hang there. To breathe. And to trust me one more time. Then I pointed to the precise spot on the wall.“Put your foot right here,” I said. “Trust it as if you know for a fact it will work”. She started again. Slowly. Carefully. She moved her foot into place.

And in that moment, unnoticed by her, but seen by everyone watching, I reached out and pressed the soft underside of my pinky finger just behind her shoe. That’s it. A tiny point of extra support. Not enough to hold her. But just enough to tip the balance. She didn’t know it. But she kept going. And she didn’t stop at the next crux. She climbed on, through harder, scarier, more technical sections. All the way to the top.

She came down from the wall shaking, half from adrenaline, half from something deeper. The rest of the group was silent at first, then broke into cheers. Not because she reached the top. But because they saw it. They saw the moment she could’ve quit… and didn’t. They saw what belief, patience, and one extra ounce of trust can do, even if that extra ounce came from my pinky.

The Power of Trusting Yourself

And you know what’s wild? That moment, on the first day, changed how she showed up for the rest of the week. She took bigger risks in our group sessions. Spoke with more clarity and conviction. Asked for help when she needed it. Led, without overthinking. She trusted herself.

One foothold. One breath. One tiny pinky. And one “You’ve got this”, not a “You’re doing great.” That’s all it took to remind her of what was already there, her own potential.