Sometimes it’s better to be a quitter
Wednesday, March 11th, 2009
The finish line is overrated.
Many years ago, a youth running club practiced on fields just outside of my place of employment. One day, when I was walking to my car, I noticed a young boy. He was about 10 years old. His face was plump. Rolls of fat jiggled up and down on his abdomen.
He was one of twenty or so kids who were sprinting quarter miles, over and over again. He was pumping his arms. He was grunting. He was sweating. His face was beat red.
He was dead last.
I stood and watched, waiting to see his finish. I couldn’t wait to yell “good effort” and clap. He was putting everything he had into running, and it was truly inspiring to watch.
He scrunched up his eyes. He pumped his elbows a bit more.
Then he slowed down. He stopped. He bent forward and put his hands on his knees. He was about 25 yards from the finish.
“Don’t you stop now!” a woman yelled. “You stand up and you start running. Don’t you quit now like you’ve quit everything before this. If you fail at this, you’ll fail everything else for the rest of your life!”
She was his mother.
He looked at her for a moment. Then he looked at the ground. He looked back up at her. Then he stood and half ran, half walked the rest of the way to the finish.
I felt for that kid, and not just because he’d pulled the short straw in the mother department. I felt for him because, for most of the rest of his life, he would have a complex about finishing everything he started. He would repeatedly take on challenges that he abhorred. He would endure one miserable effort after another just to prove to himself, to his mother, and to the world that he was indeed not a quitter.
And it wouldn’t matter whether he succeeded or not. It wouldn’t matter whether he finished or not. He’d still be miserable because, most of the time, he’d be trying to finish the wrong race for the wrong reasons.
Crossing the Finish Line is Overrated
The first time I quit something, it was high school stage band. I played the keyboard, and I hated it. I hated the practices. I hated the black and white outfit I had to wear to performances. I hated that I’d dated one of the drummers and felt uncomfortable whenever he was around. And, truth be told, I hated that band wasn’t cool.
I wanted to quit stage band in the biggest way, but I kept showing up at practices and going to performances because I was not a quitter. I was someone who finished what she started.
Until I became a quitter.
My hands literally shook as I told the band director that I would not be showing up to another practice. I made eye contact with the floor the entire time. And I said, “I’m really sorry for letting you down” about 800 times. He said, “Okay, thanks for letting me know.”
A couple years later, I quit art, too. My mother had worked hard to pull strings to get me accepted into a two-year art appreciation course taught by Violette de Mazia at the Barnes Foundation. Miss de Mazia did not accept high school students into the program, but she made a special exception for me because she knew my mother, and my mother had no doubt convinced her that I was a brilliant artist whose paintings, one day, might hang on the walls of that very Foundation.
Every Tuesday I had an early dismissal so I could drive the hour or so from Wilmington, Delaware to the Foundation in Merion, Pennsylvania, where I sat for four hours listening to de Mazia’s lectures.
My art appreciation trips required me to miss track practice each Tuesday, so I got up at 5 a.m. those days and ran with my coach before school. They required me to miss an entire afternoon of academics, which meant I had to stay up late after I got home in order to do extra home work and reading. They also meant that I had to miss out on some of my social life, which was probably the real reason I hated going.
But I kept going for an entire year and a half before I finally quit. I kept at it that long because I didn’t want to disappoint my mother. I also didn’t want to let down de Mazia, who had made an exception for me.
But one day it snowed and, on my way home from the Foundation, I got stuck on the side of the road somewhere between Pennsylvania and Delaware. It took me four hours to get home. As soon I walked in the front door, I told my mother that I wasn’t going back.
Sometimes You Need to Quit Before You Can Succeed
I felt like a failure when I quit band and when I quit art. It wasn’t until many years later that I realized I needed to quit both in order to be a success. Band and art were the wrong races for me. Even if I had persevered, finishing those races would not have made me a winner. Finishing would have only made me one thing: a time-waster.
Writing, however, is different. I started writing in grade school. In high school, I worked on the school paper. In college I majored in journalism. My first job was at a newspaper, and I’ve been earning money to write something or other ever since.
It hasn’t always been easy. My 5th grade teacher hated my book reviews and told me I couldn’t write. I wanted to be Editor in Chief of my high school paper, but only rose as high as managing editor instead. I almost failed my first weed out journalism class at Penn State, and there were many aspects to many different writing jobs that I didn’t particularly like.
At times, I felt a lot like that fat kid who was running quarters. I wore myself out. I cried. I questioned my judgment many, many times.
But I always persevered because the writing has always come from within. I tried many times to leave it behind. I’ve gone back to school to become a sign language interpreter, a massage therapist, and a yoga teacher.
But I never became any of those things because writing has always followed me like a shadow. It won’t let me leave it behind.
My experiences with writing, art and music have taught me that some races are worth finishing, and others just aren’t. What makes the difference? Three words: Meaning, purpose, and destiny.
When you run the right race, you feel drawn to the finish line. Yes, the race might be hard. Your competitors might spit on you. Your knees or back might hurt. You might have blisters. You might even pee your pants. But if you are running the right race, you will keep putting one foot in front of the other because doing anything less results in just one sensation: despair.
When you are running the wrong race, however, you might not have a single hardship, but you’ll still think about quitting. And when you do quit, you’ll experience one sensation: relief.
My Inner Fat Kid
Whenever I’m going through a rough period with my writing, I think about that fat kid. I think about his determination. I think about his grit. I think about how very hard he tried to reach that finish line that day.
And it gives me hope. If he could push himself that hard to reach a finish line in the wrong race, I can find the courage and strength to push myself to get to the right finish line in the right race—and I don’t even need my mother to cheer me on to get there. (Although it is nice when she cheers for me, which she does often here in the comments area).
I’m happy that I quit stage band. I’m happy that I quit art.
And I’m just as happy that I didn’t quit writing.
Have you ever felt relieved after quitting? Have you ever persevered and been so glad you did? How do you keep going when you really want to stop? Leave a comment.
