I was on my morning walk when I heard Steven Pressfield say on the Huberman Lab podcast, “An amateur has amateur habits; a professional has professional habits.”
It stopped me in my tracks.
It hit me because I recognised myself in both parts of that sentence.
The amateur, full of ideas, enthusiasm, and excuses. And the professional, consistent, steady, quietly getting on with it.
For context, Steven Pressfield is one of those writers who has earned the right to talk about discipline.
Before he became known for The War of Art, a book that’s basically scripture for creatives, he spent years doing odd jobs, battling resistance, and writing unseen manuscripts. Then came The Legend of Bagger Vance, and later, Gates of Fire, the novel that made the Spartan warrior ethos mainstream.
When Pressfield talks about professionalism, he’s not preaching theory; he’s lived the grind and come out the other side with pages, not just promises.
Listening to him on Huberman’s podcast, I began thinking about what separates amateur habits from professional ones in my own work; whether it’s building my companies, planning content for my brand, or writing essays for my newsletter.
An amateur, Pressfield says, waits for inspiration. The professional shows up regardless. That difference alone can shape a life.
An amateur treats creative work like a flirtation; passionate when it’s new, absent when it gets tough. The professional treats it like a marriage: dependable, sometimes unexciting, but rooted in commitment.
I could feel that in my bones. The amateur in me checks Instagram before writing. The professional version opens the laptop and starts typing.
The amateur makes excuses — I’m tired, it’s not the right time. The professional feels all of that, too, but still does the work.
Another thing Pressfield said stood out: “The professional plays hurt.” It’s such a simple phrase, yet it’s everything. Life rarely grants perfect conditions.
There’s always noise: the fatigue, the whole inbox, the doubts.
The amateur waits for silence.
The professional learns to work through the noise.
And then there’s identity.
Amateurs think their work is them; they crumble under criticism and inflate under praise. Professionals separate the two. They create, release, and move on. The work is something they do, not something they are.
That’s liberating.
As I listened, I thought of the many mornings I’ve waited for “the right moment” to start something.
Pressfield’s words reminded me that the right moment never comes; the habit does.
When I got home, I wrote this reflection not because I felt inspired, but because I wanted to practise showing up. Maybe that’s the small but vital shift from amateur to professional: doing the work whether anyone’s watching or not.
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