The Price of Transformation: When Becoming a Role Model Costs You Yourself

A reflection on the unintended consequences of complete reinvention

Thirty-two years ago, I made a decision that would define the rest of my life. At 31, I looked in the mirror in Concord, Massachusetts and saw someone who wasn't worthy of the title "role model" – someone whose life revolved around the next party, the next fight, the next conquest at the bar. I was drinking too much, doing drugs, and living a life that had no business being anywhere near the young athletes I dreamed of coaching.

So I did what seemed logical at the time: I ran away from who I was.

I left everything I knew and almost everyone I cared about, moving to Atlanta with a plan to resurrect myself as someone else entirely. I drank exactly two beers my first year there. I did a makeover worthy of Madonna. I packed away "plain old Duey" and became "Coach Duey Evans" – someone parents would trust with their 11-year-old tennis prodigies, someone worthy of shaping the next generation of champions.

Here's what I didn't anticipate: I would succeed. But success, as I've learned, isn't always what it appears to be.

The Ultimate Irony

But here's the most painful irony of all: I have known and promoted the very concept that could have saved me from this fate. Fifteen years ago, I even made a video about it – The Power of 'And' (https://youtu.be/6-WR4BSPUcs?si=iV7okz_GplNN1bpN) and how it trumps 'or'. I've spent years teaching young players and their parents that you don't have to choose between being a great student AND a great athlete, between being competitive AND kind, between being dedicated AND balanced.

Yet I never applied this wisdom to my own life.

Instead of asking, "How can I be both a dedicated coach AND a complete human being?" I chose the tyranny of 'or'. I decided I had to be either the party guy from Massachusetts or the focused coach in Atlanta. Either someone who enjoyed life or someone who was worthy of respect. Either Duey or Coach Evans.

I made it a binary choice when it never had to be.

What I Missed: A Lesson from The Vortex

Over the past month, I've binged the television series "All American." I don't know why I chose it other than it's centered around football, which I used to play, and it's based on a true story – one of the main criteria I use when choosing something to watch. I don't believe in coincidences and suspect God chose it for me.

Over the story arc, the friend group called "The Vortex" evolves as a group of teenagers grow into young adults. Their relationships evolve in ways mine never really did. They face challenges together, support each other through transitions, celebrate victories, and weather defeats as a unit. They learn how to be friends through different phases of life – high school, college, career changes, relationships, setbacks.

Watching them has sent me into deep examination of who I am within any circle and what has led me here. They showed me something I never learned: how to grow WITH people instead of growing AWAY from them.

The Mission Consumed Everything

For over three decades, tennis was my oxygen. Every evening, every weekend, almost every holiday – consumed by the mission of developing young players. When women tried to get close to me, I'd say, "I left home in the pursuit of this," as if that explanation would somehow make the tennis widowhood easier to bear. My daughters' mother left me when my youngest was two months old because she already felt our relationship had died because of tennis. She was right.

I rationalized it all as necessary sacrifice for a greater good. I took what amounted to a vow of poverty because I felt that to be true to my mission of helping others, I couldn't focus on making money. So money flowed one way – out. My finances were never good, not because I wasn't capable of making a great living, but because I believed struggling financially somehow made me more authentic, more dedicated to the cause.

More 'or' thinking: I could either care about money OR care about kids. I could either be financially successful OR be true to my mission.

What I Didn't Lose (And What I Did)

Don't get me wrong – I turned out okay. I'm on good terms with many, if not most, of the women I've dated, including Kim Kurth, who I was in the longest relationship of my life, even though she now lives across the country and is married. I'm even on good terms with my daughters' mother, who has been successfully married for almost 20 years. These women seemed to understand something I didn't: that I likely had more time for a friendship than a romantic relationship.

The relationships I maintained tell a story about the person I became – someone capable of deep connection, respect, and genuine care for others. These women didn't write me off; they just recognized the reality of my capacity.

But here's what I did lose: I can count on my fingers – no need for toes – the number of times I have gone out to "have a beer" with a male friend or been to someone's house to watch a ball game over the past 30 or so years.

The Specific Loss

This isn't about being completely isolated or burning bridges. It's about losing the art of casual male friendship – the kind that involves showing up at someone's house on a Sunday afternoon to watch football, or calling a buddy to grab a beer after work just because. It's about losing the ability to maintain the kind of friendships that don't serve a purpose beyond simply enjoying each other's company.

The women in my life adapted to who I became and found ways to maintain connection within those parameters. But I never learned how to do that with men, or maybe I never made the effort. Male friendships, I discovered, often require a different kind of maintenance – one that involves time that doesn't have a clear purpose, conversations that aren't going anywhere specific, and presence that isn't goal-oriented.

Watching "The Vortex" evolve showed me what I missed: the art of growing together instead of growing apart. They faced life's transitions as a unit, supporting each other through changes while maintaining their bond and showing each other when choosing to struggle alone effected people other than themselves. I chose isolation and reinvention instead.

The Angels Along the Way

I wasn't completely alone in this journey. There were angels who tried to right the ship along the way. Mike Schwarz, who purchased a brand new Suburban for my program and donated $2,000 per month so I could pay my head coach Kyrian Nwokedi a real salary instead of forcing him to work a third shift job. My childhood friend Dirk Burrowes, who came to my rescue when I was about to be homeless. Jack Newman, who threw me a lifeline at a time when we really only knew each other by name. And my younger sister Stephanie, who has always come through when things got bad enough that I could swallow my pride and ask for help.

These people saw something worth saving, even when I was too buried in my mission to see it myself. They understood 'and' – they could help me AND still live their own lives. They offered me what The Vortex offered each other, but I was too focused on my mission to fully receive it.

The Wealth of Knowledge, The Poverty of Casual Connection

Now, at 63, I have a wealth of experience and knowledge. I have a plan for sharing it all for the benefit of others, for disrupting an industry that I've observed from the inside for more than half my life. I've maintained meaningful relationships with the women who mattered to me, and I've earned respect as a coach and mentor.

But I've lost the ability to just hang out. I've lost the muscle memory of friendship that doesn't serve a higher purpose. I've lost the simple pleasure of showing up somewhere just to be present with people who enjoy my company.

And the deepest irony? I knew better. I had the tool – The Power of 'And' – but I never used it on myself.

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

But maybe – just maybe – I'm finally starting to get it. Someone recently commented on An Open Letter to My Daughters "If the AI doesn't pan out, you can always write a book about Life Lessons."

In that moment, I realized I was about to do it again. I was thinking: either I succeed in using technology and what I've learned to disrupt the junior tennis development industry OR I pivot to writing about life lessons. Either tennis OR general life coaching. Either The Performance Architect serves tennis parents OR serves the general population.

But what if that's the wrong question entirely? What if the first lesson I need to teach is that The Performance Architect can serve both tennis AND the general population? What if all these years of experience in developing young athletes has given me insights that translate far beyond the tennis court?

What if I don't have to choose?

The Performance Architect's Greatest Challenge

The question now isn't whether I can go back – plain old Duey has been in storage too long for that. The question is whether I can finally apply my own teaching: Can I integrate the best of both versions AND create something new? Can I be the dedicated coach who changes lives AND the complete human being who knows how to grab a beer with a friend on a Saturday afternoon?

Can I serve the tennis community AND help parents in general? Can I use AI to revolutionize tennis development AND write about life lessons? Can I be The Performance Architect AND just Duey when the situation calls for it?

Can I learn, at 63, what The Vortex knew instinctively – how to grow WITH people instead of growing away from them?

That integration might be the most important development project I've ever undertaken. And this time, I'm going to remember my own lesson: It's not Coach Evans OR Duey from Massachusetts. It's not tennis OR life lessons. It's not AI OR books. It's not mission OR relationships.

It's both. It's 'and.'

Maybe the unintended consequence of spending thirty years becoming a role model is that I finally have something worth sharing with everyone – not just tennis parents, but anyone trying to help someone else become the best version of themselves while still maintaining the connections that make life worth living.

That's a lesson worth learning, even if it took me this long to figure it out.

What unintended consequences have you discovered in your own transformation journey? How do you balance becoming who you need to be with staying connected to who you are? And where in your life are you choosing 'or' when you could be choosing 'and'?