If you know me, then you already know that I tend to be a bit competitive. When growing up, my sister would dread playing card games as you’ve never seen intensity like the intensity I can bring to a game of Go-Fish or No-Peek. Often, my family will joke (in that way that you know isn’t really a joke) about who gets to be on my team rather than the less favorable alternative: The Other Team. My running partner always teases me when we are casually running around a local park and I’ll unknowingly speed up to ‘beat’ the new mom and her stroller. I even look at auctions as a bit of a competition (I blame my mother for this one) and go in full bore, ready to ‘win’ all of the items. Spoiler alert: this particular type of competition leaves me broke.
Although these are ways my competitive nature exposes itself to those around me, there is no greater competition that I enter into than the one I am constantly in with myself. Whether it’s achieving new flexibility in yoga, or a better time in running or a more technical climb in mountaineering – I’m in a constant state of trying to out-do myself.
There are benefits to this particular type of neurosis. I’m confident and willing to work hard to master a new skill or achieve a new level. I have the ability to apply a level of discipline and dedication in order to accomplish these tasks that sometimes even surprises me as my desire for success often outweighs my desire for comfort.
There can be definite downsides to this level of determination though. It can turn into obsession, where the goal becomes the only thing in my life. It can turn into an energy drain – especially when I add too many things in to my daily life and simply cannot complete everything in the day. It can become un-fun and more about the doing the thing with only the end result in mind rather than enjoying the process and taking in the scenery along the journey.
This high level of focus brings some very sweet returns when I meet my goal. That time I worked my tail off for 3 months to try to improve my half marathon time and then I did – shaving nearly 14 minutes off – THAT was pretty sweet. However, it can also mean some pretty destructive crashes when my sheer will and determination are just not enough to cut it. As in this month, when I made a second annual attempt at writing 50,000 words in November – the equivalent to a small novel – as part of the NaNoWriMo project.
While I understand intellectually the critical role that failure plays in our lives, it doesn’t seem to make any difference in the moment it happens. Failure to me can and has meant complete and total loss. In the past, not achieving something that might seem like a simple loss to some – to me, it could mean a loss of motivation to do anything for weeks.
Enter two nights ago, when I realized that I hadn’t sat down to write in over 2 weeks and that my measly 5543 words was not going to turn into 50,000 words by Thursday at midnight. I mean, I’m good…. But even I have to admit defeat on this one. Since failure for me is a type of grief – I started the grieving process.
First, I denied that it was impossible. “If I could write 1500 words per hour, every hour…then maybe….”
Then I got angry, which is less effective when you are single and live alone with a cat and dog. When I started taking the cat to task for cuddling with me for too long the other morning and keeping me from writing, I realized I might have allowed the anger stage to run a little rampant.
I’m an expert bargainer though, so when I started Stage 3 I went to work coming up with all of the possible scenarios. “If I simply retyped my journal from Peru, would that be cheating? How about if I used some of the entries that wrote before the challenge started… just borrowed a few thousand words." Eventually though, I come to terms with the truth that there is not a single person that will be mad at me or hold it against me if I don’t do this writing challenge. In fact, nobody cares. I mean, sure, mom, you care.. but really, nobody cares.
Which is a fantastic transition into depression. This is where I spent the last few days – living in the fatalist mindset that clearly I am a failure that cannot complete even the simplest of tasks – like writing a novel in a month.
Then I re-read that last statement and realize how deluded I can get. ENTER: acceptance. Because the truth is, I’m only one person managing an entire full life. It’s a lot to ask of anyone, really. Living is a lot to ask.
My rational mind understands exactly what has happened here. It’s simple: I took on too much this month. I am training for my first 25k trail run in a few weeks, I’ve picked up a new indoor rock climbing habit, I’m prepping my rental apartment for a new tenant, I’m managing a part time work schedule with a full time teaching schedule and somewhere in there I started my annual daily yoga practice challenge. I worked myself into such a state of exhaustion that I finally had to throw my hands up and acknowledge that if all I did was live that would be exactly enough… writing a novel in a month does not determine my worth.
After I’d settled into this idea that all of the things didn’t have to happen, I was able to start to diffuse the cloud of stuff that was floating over me and distill what needed to stay and what could take a step back. It’s funny how perception can cloud otherwise clear intentions. Once I gave myself permission to let the guilt of not writing a novel in a month go, all of the sudden the rest of it seemed manageable.
I’m still training for my first 25k, I’m still completely addicted to indoor rock climbing, work will need to be full for now and I’m going to hold true to my daily yoga practice as it nourishes me.
I’ll still write the novel, too. I haven’t given the end goal up; I have a story to tell and a desire to tell it. However, it will not get told by Thursday. And, as it turns out, I’m ok with that.
One of my proudest successes - camping on the summit of Mt. Rainier. August 19, 2017.
(Psst... These 1,120 words count towards my book, right?)