therealljidol: week 1, "resolution"
Quitter
Growing up, there was one glaring difference between my parents and the parents of my peers:
When one of my friends wanted to give up piano lessons, citing that they took up too much time and she’d rather do anything else, her parents sat her down and talked to her about why they had her in lessons and what they could do to balance her schedule.
When another friend wanted to give up their after school lessons, of some sort or another, the story was the same: what do you get out of it and how can we help.
When I told my parents that I was having a hard time balancing everything, my mom called the piano teacher for me and canceled all my lessons from that point forward. It hadn’t been what I was asking for - I wanted a brief respite before going back - but that’s how it was.
The saying “Mama didn’t raise no quitter” had no stock in our house. The lesson was pretty simple:
Life is hard, and it’s unpleasant, but if you want to, there’s always something you can quit.
AP Spanish, when I wanted to do Lit Mag too? Quit.
The instrument I loved and played daily for seven years, but decided I didn’t want to do anything with professionally? Quit.
Chemical Engineering as a major? Quit.
The job I loved but struggled to balance with school? Quit.
The job I hated, but kept because I needed to pay the bills? Quit, without a second thought and without a plan, over the phone, because why not burn that bridge, too.
I was an overachiever in a family that told me not to bother. Go to school, get a good degree, and if it’s too hard, you can do something else.
I believe they meant well. I know that they valued certain things, that they wanted me to have a good future. They just didn’t quite know how to convey that, how to make it stick.
Any time the going got tough, the tough got going - as in, they got up and sent in their resignation.
If it’s too hard, my mom’s sage advice was, you can always quit.
She told me this about my bachelor’s degree (“you could always quit and go to culinary school! We know how you like to cook!”), my PhD (“you know there’s always a place for you at the house, if you need one!”), the tech startup I founded (“there are other jobs out there, too, you know, where you don’t have to worry about finding the money to pay yourself”).
Everything I’ve achieved has always had my mom’s voice in the back of my head: you could always do something else, or you could always quit. It’s a running theme every time we talk on the phone: “And if I don’t like this job, oh well, I’ll just quit.”
I’m not a quitter, but it’s what I find myself thinking about, every time things get hard. I could just give up…
I could. I could quit. I used to be that girl, the one that ran from everything and had no ambition beyond no longer being in pain. When everything hurt, quitting and withdrawing to my room was my only solace.
I’d like to think I’ve grown, though.
I’ve gotten older, learned to hold my head higher. I’ve been through therapy, to deal with the things that hurt. I’ve learned to mostly silence the small voice in my head that tells me to give up. I’ve learned how to deal with the other things, the doubts and worries, the anxieties that tell me that I need to have a plan and part of that plan had better be quitting and cutting my losses. I’ve learned to embrace uncertainty.
You have to, if you want to succeed.
My family isn’t one for resolutions. We’re a family of quitters, after all - me with my PhD and my sister with her JD. Ambitionless, directionless - to an extent.
My mom makes some sort of vow, at least once a month, that this is going to be the year she loses weight, and this is going to be the year that…
I’ve never made a vow like that. It’s something else I’d quit, and I don’t want that. No more things piled into my life that are hard and make me unhappy, like stepping onto a scale every day would.
You see, I’ve made a bargain with quitting. I quit stuff before I start. It’s pretty novel - if I recognize that something will only cause me pain, I don’t start it. Dieting, for instance. I dealt with EDNOS in college, and I don’t want to repeat that mess, so I don’t keep a scale in the house. I watch what I eat, and I’m pretty careful about making sure to get enough vegetables and whatnot, but because I recognize now, as an adult, that eating well results in feeling better overall. I don’t shame anyone, and if I discuss diet, it’s in the blandest terms.
That hasn’t translated to “not caring”, though.
A few months ago, I realized that I probably wasn’t as fit as I would like to be.
In the old days, this would have turned into a days-long mantra of promising I was going to do something Extremely Difficult and never following through. Promising that I was going to run a marathon by the end of the year, or something equally absurd given my current fitness level and general lack of time, and then feeling sick and guilty when I didn’t reach that goal.
Now, things have shifted.
I started working out two months ago. “Working out” is probably overstating things; what I started doing were exercises to improve my overall fitness. Using an elliptical, going on walks, and trying to fit more cardio into my daily life. I log what I do, because I can’t help it (I am a scientist, after all), but the log is merely a daily reminder that I did what I set out to do.
Over time I’ve added strength training.
I’ve missed days, due to health or simply not having time.
I haven’t quit, though.
My mom doesn’t see results, and she gets upset about it. She immediately switches to a different diet plan, something else to attack the problem, and (I’m sure) blames herself for not doing a good enough job. Eventually she quits, and the cycle starts all over again in a week or two.
I’m not looking for the kind of results she is. I’m not interested in losing weight. I don’t want to see significant muscle growth. What I’m looking for is, do I see an overall improvement in my general fitness level, and that’s measured in a very different way from my mom’s numbers-on-a-scale. Do I generally feel better? Did I work out for longer, or did I do more exercises? When I started doing one particular kind of exercise, I could only do twenty before my legs were wobbly and I felt like I was going to die. Now, I can do 35. That’s the progress I’m looking for.
I’ve made a pact with the little voice in my head, telling me to quit. I’ve told it that if we try something once and honestly don’t enjoy it, we’ll switch to a different exercise. “Honestly don’t enjoy it” is pretty flexible - I’m not looking for, “I love everything that I do”, but I do want stuff that makes me feel good instead of ashamed or weak. Wall sits, for instance, suck. I’m not going to do any more wall sits. But squats - those make me feel powerful. Those, I can do.
I’ve quit one thing. I’ve substituted another. I haven’t given up, and I’m still exercising every day. This is the compromise I’ve made. This is how I’ve learned to be okay with quitting.
Now if only I could get through to my mom.
kickthehobbit is a quitter through and through, but she's mostly okay with that, nowadays.
Growing up, there was one glaring difference between my parents and the parents of my peers:
When one of my friends wanted to give up piano lessons, citing that they took up too much time and she’d rather do anything else, her parents sat her down and talked to her about why they had her in lessons and what they could do to balance her schedule.
When another friend wanted to give up their after school lessons, of some sort or another, the story was the same: what do you get out of it and how can we help.
When I told my parents that I was having a hard time balancing everything, my mom called the piano teacher for me and canceled all my lessons from that point forward. It hadn’t been what I was asking for - I wanted a brief respite before going back - but that’s how it was.
The saying “Mama didn’t raise no quitter” had no stock in our house. The lesson was pretty simple:
Life is hard, and it’s unpleasant, but if you want to, there’s always something you can quit.
AP Spanish, when I wanted to do Lit Mag too? Quit.
The instrument I loved and played daily for seven years, but decided I didn’t want to do anything with professionally? Quit.
Chemical Engineering as a major? Quit.
The job I loved but struggled to balance with school? Quit.
The job I hated, but kept because I needed to pay the bills? Quit, without a second thought and without a plan, over the phone, because why not burn that bridge, too.
I was an overachiever in a family that told me not to bother. Go to school, get a good degree, and if it’s too hard, you can do something else.
I believe they meant well. I know that they valued certain things, that they wanted me to have a good future. They just didn’t quite know how to convey that, how to make it stick.
Any time the going got tough, the tough got going - as in, they got up and sent in their resignation.
If it’s too hard, my mom’s sage advice was, you can always quit.
She told me this about my bachelor’s degree (“you could always quit and go to culinary school! We know how you like to cook!”), my PhD (“you know there’s always a place for you at the house, if you need one!”), the tech startup I founded (“there are other jobs out there, too, you know, where you don’t have to worry about finding the money to pay yourself”).
Everything I’ve achieved has always had my mom’s voice in the back of my head: you could always do something else, or you could always quit. It’s a running theme every time we talk on the phone: “And if I don’t like this job, oh well, I’ll just quit.”
I’m not a quitter, but it’s what I find myself thinking about, every time things get hard. I could just give up…
I could. I could quit. I used to be that girl, the one that ran from everything and had no ambition beyond no longer being in pain. When everything hurt, quitting and withdrawing to my room was my only solace.
I’d like to think I’ve grown, though.
I’ve gotten older, learned to hold my head higher. I’ve been through therapy, to deal with the things that hurt. I’ve learned to mostly silence the small voice in my head that tells me to give up. I’ve learned how to deal with the other things, the doubts and worries, the anxieties that tell me that I need to have a plan and part of that plan had better be quitting and cutting my losses. I’ve learned to embrace uncertainty.
You have to, if you want to succeed.
My family isn’t one for resolutions. We’re a family of quitters, after all - me with my PhD and my sister with her JD. Ambitionless, directionless - to an extent.
My mom makes some sort of vow, at least once a month, that this is going to be the year she loses weight, and this is going to be the year that…
I’ve never made a vow like that. It’s something else I’d quit, and I don’t want that. No more things piled into my life that are hard and make me unhappy, like stepping onto a scale every day would.
You see, I’ve made a bargain with quitting. I quit stuff before I start. It’s pretty novel - if I recognize that something will only cause me pain, I don’t start it. Dieting, for instance. I dealt with EDNOS in college, and I don’t want to repeat that mess, so I don’t keep a scale in the house. I watch what I eat, and I’m pretty careful about making sure to get enough vegetables and whatnot, but because I recognize now, as an adult, that eating well results in feeling better overall. I don’t shame anyone, and if I discuss diet, it’s in the blandest terms.
That hasn’t translated to “not caring”, though.
A few months ago, I realized that I probably wasn’t as fit as I would like to be.
In the old days, this would have turned into a days-long mantra of promising I was going to do something Extremely Difficult and never following through. Promising that I was going to run a marathon by the end of the year, or something equally absurd given my current fitness level and general lack of time, and then feeling sick and guilty when I didn’t reach that goal.
Now, things have shifted.
I started working out two months ago. “Working out” is probably overstating things; what I started doing were exercises to improve my overall fitness. Using an elliptical, going on walks, and trying to fit more cardio into my daily life. I log what I do, because I can’t help it (I am a scientist, after all), but the log is merely a daily reminder that I did what I set out to do.
Over time I’ve added strength training.
I’ve missed days, due to health or simply not having time.
I haven’t quit, though.
My mom doesn’t see results, and she gets upset about it. She immediately switches to a different diet plan, something else to attack the problem, and (I’m sure) blames herself for not doing a good enough job. Eventually she quits, and the cycle starts all over again in a week or two.
I’m not looking for the kind of results she is. I’m not interested in losing weight. I don’t want to see significant muscle growth. What I’m looking for is, do I see an overall improvement in my general fitness level, and that’s measured in a very different way from my mom’s numbers-on-a-scale. Do I generally feel better? Did I work out for longer, or did I do more exercises? When I started doing one particular kind of exercise, I could only do twenty before my legs were wobbly and I felt like I was going to die. Now, I can do 35. That’s the progress I’m looking for.
I’ve made a pact with the little voice in my head, telling me to quit. I’ve told it that if we try something once and honestly don’t enjoy it, we’ll switch to a different exercise. “Honestly don’t enjoy it” is pretty flexible - I’m not looking for, “I love everything that I do”, but I do want stuff that makes me feel good instead of ashamed or weak. Wall sits, for instance, suck. I’m not going to do any more wall sits. But squats - those make me feel powerful. Those, I can do.
I’ve quit one thing. I’ve substituted another. I haven’t given up, and I’m still exercising every day. This is the compromise I’ve made. This is how I’ve learned to be okay with quitting.
Now if only I could get through to my mom.
kickthehobbit is a quitter through and through, but she's mostly okay with that, nowadays.