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The Cost of Being “All In”

  • Jan 15
  • 2 min read

There’s a moment in every serious journey where you stop hedging.


Not publicly. Not dramatically. Quietly.

For me, that moment came early one morning on a beach in Dubai, walking with my wife as we had done countless times before. The conversation wasn’t rehearsed. It wasn’t emotional. It was factual.


I remember saying to her, “We’re all in.”


If life were a game of poker, it meant every chip we had was being pushed into the centre of the table. No safety stack. No fallback hand. No quiet reserve to soften the landing if things didn’t work out.


That morning, we had $250 to our names.


I share that not for effect, but for accuracy — because words like commitment and belief are easy to use when they’re abstract. They become very different when they carry weight.


Being “all in” isn’t brave in the way it’s often portrayed. It’s unsettling. It sharpens everything. Decisions matter more. Time matters more. Mistakes feel heavier. You don’t get to be casual about your thinking anymore.


There’s also a cost people rarely talk about.


Man in a black suit with a blue pocket square sitting at a poker table, organizing chips and money, focused expression, dark background.

When you go all in on something you believe in, you quietly accept that comfort is postponed. That certainty is unavailable. That explaining your choices to others becomes difficult — because from the outside, it can look unnecessary, even reckless.


At that point, belief stops being motivational and starts being practical. You don’t feel confident every day. You act responsibly in the absence of confidence. You build structure where emotion can’t be trusted. You learn to separate fear from facts.


That period taught me something lasting: belief isn’t optimism. Belief is endurance with intention. It’s staying present when the numbers don’t yet support the vision. It’s continuing to make good decisions even when the margin for error is thin.


Looking back, the $250 mattered less than the clarity of that moment. Once everything was on the table, there was no energy wasted on half-measures. No internal negotiation about whether this was “really” happening.


It was.


And while I wouldn’t romanticise that phase — pressure is pressure, no matter how meaningful the goal — I do recognise its value. It stripped away excuses. It forced alignment. It clarified priorities in a way comfort never does.


Not everyone needs to go all in financially. But everyone who builds something meaningful eventually goes all in mentally. There’s always a point where the outcome matters enough that you stop playing defensively.

That morning on the beach wasn’t about money. It was about ownership — of the decision, the risk, and the responsibility that came with it.


Question: What would change in your work or life if you stopped hedging — and committed fully to the thing you say you believe in?


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