100 Percent

Do you ever give 100 percent of your effort in any one thing?

I'd argue that most people, even dedicated, committed people, rarely do.

As a parent, I might give a solid 75% day-to-day. I could do more, and I know I could. I put off playing and teaching in favor of things I'd prefer to do instead.

As a person of faith, I might give 60%. I could do more, and I wish I did. I could make studying scripture a higher priority. I could give more effort in preparing for the Sabbath day. I notice hundreds of things in a day that I could do to bring me closer to my Savior, to be more like Him.

In a workout, I might try to give it everything I've got, but part of me still holds something back. I might be aware of how sore I'd be if I tried to lift something a little heavier. I might tell myself I'm pacing myself so I'll last through the hour. But at the end of the hour, I can look back and see where I could have given more, tried harder.

The trouble is, we as people often think we are giving our best effort, tricking ourselves into thinking that anything harder will be impossible, that doing more is not worth the return. We think more effort would just be beyond our ability.

It's important not to be too hard on yourself, and it's important to see how perfectionistic tendencies get in the way of progress.

However, sometimes we take the rhetoric of giving ourselves a break a little too far. We feel like we deserve an easier path, so we choose the easy way even when we know the harder way is the most important or the most rewarding.

And then something happens. We actually start to get weaker. We start lifting a lighter load on the regular, and our capacity for doing more gradually goes away. We start to believe we have a more limited ability, and we act within those limits.

When weightlifting, you have something called a one-rep max. This means the weight you can lift just one time, and you aren't able to lift something heavier. It's your 100% capacity.

When training to get stronger, you use this number to gauge your work. You don't have to lift 100% every day. You'd hurt yourself if you did.

But you have to know what you're capable of in order to get stronger. You have to be aware of what your maximum capacity can give you.

But capacity and effort are two different entities. One is physical, and the other one is mental. You can give 100 percent of your effort when working at only 50 percent of your ability.

You still measure your performance against your best ability, with the constant goal to eventually increase your capacity, instead of decreasing it.

The easy path will give you very little in return. It'll be an enjoyable walk, but that's all. The harder path will challenge you.

It's hard to choose something heavier when you're not used to it.
It's hard to love your neighbor when your neighbor is annoying.
It's hard to be patient when your children are fighting.
It's hard to choose to be different.
It's hard to give more time, more love, more kindness, more gratitude.

But don't back down. Find your capacity, and then give each day 100 percent of your purpose. And on the days when you aren't able to, be real with yourself. Admit you could have given a bit more, and course correct.

Just remember: don't scale down your effort, because little by little, your willingness to work will determine your capacity.

Make Yourself

I've written a lot about mental health issues, but I've also written a lot about putting in the work, about being consistent, about being real and honest with yourself.

But I realized today that I've overlooked a big part of overcoming something hard, and that part is self-denial.

So many times a day, I think about how I wish I could go to sleep, or have time to myself (introvert life), fly to a warm country, or just sit down and eat a huge plate of lasagna.

And on my bad days, that's as far as I get. I dwell on those wishes until they are not positive thoughts. Instead, resentment bubbles up inside me. Why is it so cold, anyway? Why can't people just leave me alone? Why do I have to eat salad?

Slowly but surely, I become a victim of my circumstances. I give away my control to the small annoyances until I'm surly and irritable and grouchy and unpleasant. I'm at the mercy of my own whims and petty desires.

On my good days, though, I cross the bridge from wishes to reality. I look forward to when I can go to sleep, but I keep myself busy so I can forget that I am tired. I seize time alone by driving to the store by myself or by turning on an audiobook while I wash the dishes or by going to the gym to workout.

In a small way, I make my own wishes come true. Maybe not in the grand way I want them to be, but the day can end and when it does I can say, I did something today that matters to me.

But that can only happen when I embrace self-denial. It takes saying to myself:

"Self, someone has to do this, and today, that person is going to be you."
"Self, you can sleep soon, but right now you need to recognize that something else is more important."
"Self, it's okay that you are hurting, but you can still finish what you started."

Self-denial is not ignoring your feelings or even pretending that things aren't hard when they are. It's realizing that you don't have to do anything. Nothing will force you. No one will make you.
You don't have to eat salad. You don't have to work out. You can just stay home if you don't want to leave the house.

cross the bridge... 

You have to make yourself. Will that self be the person who complains at the first sign of discomfort? Or will the self you make have more determination to cross the bridge, choosing not to be a victim of wishes, but instead a creator of reality?

You don't have to. You get to. You choose to. You're going to.

You don't, for example, have to pick up your kids from school. Bad things might happen if you don't, but you still don't have to. You're going to, or you get to, or you want to.

You don't, for instance, have to finish that last set of burpees. Your body might want to quit, and you really don't have to keep going. But you're going to, or you get to, or you want to.

You don't have to eat more protein. You don't have to be kinder to your neighbors. You don't have to spend more time with your family.

Make yourself. And then admire what you made.

The Mind is Weak

Not January. That is all. 

I heard that one of the hallmarks of depression is the impossible task. The seemingly small, simple thing that for some reason seems so daunting, you can't bring yourself to do it. Maybe it's the sink of dishes, or a phone call you have to make, or cleaning the bathtub. The impossible task can move, changing from day to day.

For some people, the impossible tasks add up, until life itself seems like the impossible task. Then eating is a chore, and healthy eating is even more so. Getting out of bed is a trial. Answering the door is impossible.

And all around you, your inability to pick yourself up off the ground is mocking you.

The cheerios are ground into the carpet.
The windows are covered in smudges.
The floor is sticky from who-even-knows-what that was spilled who-even-knows-when.
The fridge is full of half-expired, unprepared groceries from that meal plan you wrote when things were better.

Everything you look at, everything you hear, everything you feel tells the same story: failure.

Your kids aren't supposed to have screen time. They've been watching TV for five hours.
Your budget is supposed to be balanced. You spend money you don't have on things that won't make you feel better.
Your life isn't that bad. You spend time wondering why you can't feel grateful that your house is warm, that you have food to eat, that nobody is dying or injured.

January has come to town.

Part of me, the tough part, tells myself to suck it up. That's how things get done. I sucked it up for 20 minutes and put a load of dishes in the dishwasher. But it took all my mental energy to tackle that impossible task, and now I don't feel any victory in getting it done. Instead, I just feel defeat because that one small thing dominated my day before I got it done, and now it will dominate more of my time because it took so much away from me.

I'm not writing this down so that people feel sorry or to make anyone worry. I'm writing it down because so many times, writings about depression or anxiety or anything like that have some sort of positive ending:

"You're tougher than this."
"If you see someone struggling, lend a hand"
"What you do matters, even if you can't see it."
"There's a silver lining in all those ground-up cheerios."
"Someday, things will get better."

This isn't one of those posts. I can guarantee that I will feel this way tomorrow. I'll still function, smile, meet my obligations, and survive, until the next day. And the next day. And the next day.

I'm writing this down to say: the mind is weak. It's often the weakest part of your self. Your mind gives up, and it doesn't matter what your body or spirit is capable of. You're beaten before you even begin.

And that's what so many people face. They don't face it every once in a while. It's not a cold that you can cover up with Advil and sleep off with a good dose of Nyquil. It's not the occasional down day. It's neverending.

To live your life, you constantly have to summon up your knight to come to battle. But the knight of your mind is tired of training. He's constantly fighting. He never gets to trade off or back down at all.

Other people have knights that can rest, they have days where no battle is required. They can recover from their wounds, research battle tactics, regroup. They might even be able to recruit some allies before the next dragon enters the ring.

Your knight doesn't have that luxury.

He cannot stop; the gauntlet is always thrown down. The bombardment from the enemy is constant, and he cannot let his guard down for even a moment. The sweat is pouring down his face and he keeps going for as long as he can even though it hurts, even though he's bleeding, even though he can no longer feel his feet.

But then, he's just one knight. Something happens that lands a nullifying blow to his resolve and he drops to his knees. He can't catch his breath. He can't get up off the ground. And then neither can you.

In fact, it might be a while before he's ready to get back up -- if you do get up at all.

This is Tough

The new year is usually when people make new goals.

They choose things they want to change. They might want better health, or more patience, or more time spent doing things that aren't useless. You want to read more, to do more, to be more.

But then the going gets tough.

Change is challenging. It takes active work, even when you're at rest. It takes conscious thought to do something differently from the way you've always done it.

Change is boring. The before and after pictures are cool to see, but the day-to-day grind of eeking out a change brings no bells, whistles, or noticeable differences. How many small successes do you have to have day in and day out before you can actually celebrate your achievement?

Change is frustrating. You'll make mistakes, you'll fall behind, and you'll feel like quitting. You'll wonder why you can't just get your act together and keep moving forward.

Change is sneaky. It happens so gradually that you'll always wonder if what you're doing actually is making a difference. Maybe you're doing all this work for nothing. Maybe people won't notice anything new about you, even though you're paying the price required. You'll be looking so hard for it that you'll wonder if you're just making yourself see things that aren't there.

Change is tough. But so are you.

Change is renewing. You can succeed, and when you do, you'll empower yourself to change more. You'll make other changes you never thought you could make because you made this one.

Change is love. You change for yourself, but you change because of love. People love you the way you are, but you want to give back. So maybe you improve your health so you can be there for them. Maybe you put down your phone so you can see more of what matters. Maybe you learn something new or achieve something great, and you inspire others to join and walk alongside you.

Change is forgiving. You don't have to keep the decisions of the past. When you choose to change, you forgive yourself for the mistakes you made, and you resolve to do better. You create mercy for yourself instead of punishment. There's no justice in the ashes of the past, so don't stay there. Light a fire for the future instead.

Change is tough. But so are you.

Hopefully, change is permanent. The goals you set for yourself aren't just breezes that blow through your life without leaving a mark behind them. Instead, let them be a hurricane.

Waterfall in Oregon. Change is beautiful.