Always Plan for Sh*t to Go Wrong

Brendan Neil
21 hours ago
7 min read

Ten years earlier, I didn’t finish.

I set out to cover the entire Sunshine Coast under my own power — Run | Swim | Run — and I stopped when my body fell apart and the voices around me said it was sensible to stop. On paper, it was the right call. Thirty kilometres run. Ten kilometres swum. No fluids staying down. Body cramping. Hypothermia creeping in. No 25km run to the finish.

On paper, stopping made sense. Inside, it stayed unfinished.

That 2009 DNF didn’t haunt me because I failed. It stayed with me because I handed over agency at the moment it mattered most. I let the circumstances — and other people’s well-meaning logic — decide who I was going to be that day.

So in 2019, I went back.

Not to prove I was tougher. Not to rewrite a story for ego. But to close something I’d left open in myself.

Same coastline. Same concept.

Run from Noosa to Mudjimba (30km).

Swim the Island Charity Swim event, Mudjimba Beach around Old Woman Island to Mooloolaba Beach (10km).

Run from Mooloolaba to Caloundra (25km).

Ten years of living, losing, learning, and quietly strengthening my mind sat between those two moments.

And before I even laced up, I carried one rule into the day:

Always plan for sh*t to go wrong.

Not because I expected to fail. But because I refused to be shocked by reality.

When the plan fell apart

I need to start running around 1am. At 10pm, a storm tore across the Sunshine Coast. Wind shook my unit at Kings Beach. Rain came in sideways. It felt like our building would be blown off the hill. By the time I drove north to Noosa in the last hours of the night, it had eased — but the ocean was already changing mood.

I started running. Within 2km the rain returned. Strong southerly winds drove the rain into my face and out in the dark ocean, turned the open water into chaos.

Before I reached Mudjimba, the swim plan was scrapped. Conditions were too rough. The Swim event organisers switched to Plan B — four laps inside the protection of Mooloolaba Bay.

If I just jumped in the car - driven by my then partner - I could still complete the same overall distance.

No shame. No judgement. No shortcut. Still the original distances, just modified to suit conditions.

This is the moment where earlier versions of me could have listened to reason. To others who would have started negotiating with reality.

I could have listened to the argument the conditions weren’t fair. I could have agreed to pulling back. I could have told myself the symbolism still counted. I could have listened to others justifying, explaining my actions.

But this challenge wasn’t about perfect conditions. It was about covering the entire coast as a symbol of standing behind kids and families from special schools — families who don’t get to opt out when plans change. Families who live with disruption as part of their normal.

They don’t get to pause life until conditions improve. They adapt. They move. They carry on.

And 10 years later I don't let other people's limitations define mine.

So I did the same as those families. I moved forward.

The punch everyone gets

“Everyone has a plan until they’re punched in the face.”— Mike Tyson

That’s not boxing wisdom. That’s life.

Storms. Illness. Breakdowns. Loss. Bad timing. Worse luck. The punch always comes.

The difference isn’t who plans better. It's who can still think, adapt, and move after the hit lands.

Somewhere over the last decade, I stopped building plans that only worked in ideal conditions. I started building a mindset that could function when the plan got hit in the mouth.

The psychology of staying in the fight

Psychologists describe this capacity as psychological flexibility — the ability to accept disruption without freezing, folding, or fleeing. Over time, repeated exposure to stress builds what’s known as stress inoculation: the nervous system learns that discomfort isn’t danger. Add a strong internal locus of control and self-efficacy — the belief that I can influence my response even when I can’t control the situation — and chaos stops being something that derails you. It becomes something you navigate.

Sitting underneath all of it is tolerance of uncertainty: the willingness to move forward without perfect information, perfect conditions, or a perfect plan.

In plain terms:

I didn’t get braver. I got less surprised.

The simple human translation

People who cope well with chaos aren’t tougher. They’re less surprised by difficulty.

They’ve made room in their mind for:

uncertainty
discomfort
change
disruption

So when life punches sideways, they don’t lose three rounds negotiating with reality. They adjust their stance. And they stay in the fight.

2009 vs 2019

In 2009, when the plan broke, I broke with it. I handed the moment over to other people’s opinions, other people’s caution, other people’s comfort.

In 2019, when the plan broke, I didn’t panic. I didn’t romanticise it. I didn’t argue with reality.

I adjusted. And I kept moving.

The difference wasn’t fitness. It wasn’t courage. It was capacity — the capacity to stay functional when the story I’d rehearsed no longer matched the day I was living.

Organisers cancelling the swim - moving to Plan B at Mooloolaba - would add 17km of running. Now, a total of 47km of running even before getting my toes wet! An extra couple of hours. Extra energy spent.

Having budgeted for sh*t to go wrong allowed me to internally accept the challenge that mother nature had created. I hadn't counted on my body adding 17km, however my mind was ready.

I arranged for my mate Jason to find me and drop off his son at 3am. Jacob, at just 14yrs, would jog 20km with me. This doesn't surprise me. Young people will often pursue challenges way out of their comfort zone. Typically it's parents in my generation that seem to hold their own kids back further than they'd admit. Jason and Cath are parents who encourage their children to explore and push. And I admire them for their approach.

Durable confidence

“Always plan for sh*t to go wrong” isn’t pessimism. It's professionalism.

It’s the difference between fragile confidence and durable confidence.

Fragile confidence needs conditions to cooperate. Durable confidence assumes they won’t.

If your mindset only works when life behaves, it’s not a mindset. It's a fair-weather fantasy.

My self-created endurance challenges are largely solo. I have a collection of supporters who are amazing at keeping me safe. However the "doing" gets done with no pacing, guiding or shared effort. Having Jacob share 20km was great. A bumpy 4 lap swim in the bay followed with Matt paddling beside me. A typical bout of throwing up occurred with Matt suggesting maybe I'd done enough and should consider going to shore. My mind flashed back 10yrs to the concerned, well meaning advice from others... yep, not this time.

The finish no one saw

After the swim, there was a quick radio interview on the beach. I refuelled. High-fived the kids from the special schools. Cheered other swimmers home.

Baylin jumped on his bike to join me for the final 25 kilometres. Zayd and my then partner drove ahead, stopping along the way to encourage us.

You’d think that after running and swimming the length of a coastline, there’d be some kind of finish line. Applause. Streamers. A small crowd.

There wasn’t.

Baylin and I rolled along the coastal pathway toward Kings Beach enjoying the coastal views. Tired. Salt still dried on my skin. Legs heavy but steady.

We arrived to absolutely no one.

A quick phone call confirmed what I already suspected — everyone had run out of steam. The day had been long. They were home resting.

No banner. No crowd. No celebration moment.

Just Baylin and me.

We jogged up the second-steepest hill in our suburb to get home. No fanfare. Just quiet steps on bitumen.

And honestly?

That felt right.

Because the families I do this for don’t get applause either.

They don’t get a finish line at the end of a hard week. There are no medals for navigating therapies, appointments, sleepless nights, financial strain, advocacy battles, or the emotional load that comes with raising a child who needs more.

They just get up the next morning and do it again.

No cheering. No recognition. No fanfare.

Just love. Commitment. And quiet strength.

That’s what these challenges are really about.

Not public applause. Not proving toughness. Not collecting stories.

They’re about reminding myself that endurance isn’t loud.

It’s consistent. It's often unseen. It's built in the ordinary, uncelebrated moments.

The coastline wasn’t the victory.

The real win was this:

Ten years earlier, I stopped when things got uncertain.

In 2019, I finished — not because it was dramatic, not because anyone was watching — but because I’d learned how to keep moving when the conditions weren’t ideal and the applause wasn’t guaranteed.

That’s the kind of endurance I respect.

And that’s the kind I’m still building.

See More. Do More. Be More.

This mantra isn’t something I repeat when things are going well. It's what I lean on when they’re not.

See More than the immediate setback.

Do More than your first impulse.

Be More than the version of you that wants comfort.

I didn’t go back ten years later to prove I could finish a coastline. I went back to prove I wouldn’t abandon myself when it got uncomfortable, unpredictable, and messy.

That’s the real work.

Not chasing perfect conditions.

Waiting for clarity.

Not negotiating with reality.

But becoming the kind of person who can keep moving when the plan gets punched in the face.