I was deeply unhappy in college. Freshman year, I kept a pencil by my bed and made a little slashmark on the wall next to my bed, without fail, every evening, before I slept: One more day over. The mark indicated I’d accomplished something, even if only the simple act of getting through another day of college. Transferring wasn’t an option; I had scholarship money I’d lose, and the yoke of liberal arts education is no freshman year classes will likely transfer to another school. I was stuck. I pored over the college catalogue, finding a loophole in the system to get out in three years by taking summer classes at a local university and signing up for upwards of 26 credit hours each semester. When I’d pulled it off, and applied for graduation a year early, the dean apparently threw a tantrum. How had this happened? How hadn’t my advisor known I was planning an early exit? Did the registrar, bursar, or transcript office not catch this? Three years? It was unacceptable; liberal arts graduates couldn’t possibly be well-rounded and "career ready" if they busted through the college’s rigorous curriculum in just three years. Could they, now?
Didn’t matter: It was too late. The only thing he could do, at that point, anyway, was listen to the screeching of my tires as I left town. I had two suitcases, a pile of cash from my last shift at Red Lobster, and a fierce, unrelenting belief I could survive anything.
I didn’t hear his tantrum; my advisor only told me of it, years later. She’d been “written up” for approving my courses each semester. They'd dinged her for "lack of communication." I was, by then, back on solid footing and making a nice life for myself. I told her how grateful I was; she’d known I was unspeakably unhappy, and the only thing she could do, in any practical sense, was sign my class sheets without questioning me. It took just a silent, swift scrawl of her pen.
I tell this story because I believe being unhappy, struggling, fighting through misery, makes us stronger, better people. I worry we don’t let kids fight through unhappiness. We want to take it away. Find its origin and kill it. Lie, cheat, steal, or punish so our little people don’t suffer. Look for ways around it. Deny bad days, or, failing that, try to make it all better with pep talks, ice cream, or by raging at the person who caused it. Lordy, I get it: I hate seeing my kids in pain. One of them has a particularly heart-wrenching cry, and it makes me actually ache to see it.
But I know—I've lived—the power of fighting through misery.
It’s not just kids I’m worried about. Adults feel pressure to be happy, to be grateful, to find the good in their lives. I call bull on that. We all have crappy days, crappy weeks, crappy years. Why deny it?
“Sometimes the only thing to do is get up, brush your teeth, and make yourself do something.” So said my father when I was a kid and didn’t feel good. Or when I was sad. Or depressed. Anxious. Frustrated. Overwhelmed. That’s the strategy I was raised on, and it’s in my bones, now: Get up and do something. Even if it’s a teeny-tiny something. Something. One thing. Any thing.
“When you feel your worst, that’s when you most need to pull out your very best dress, put on a little extra blush, and make yourself march in to work.” So said my first boss, a baller principal who really, really loved her blush. She's right. Being miserable is hard when you know you look good.
My husband has a strategy, too. He reminds me of it this time of year, when we’re both in the rut of gray January days: “Every day, find at least one thing you’re looking forward to.” This one works really well for me. Sometimes they are super-simple things. My breakfast of avocado toast. My workout. My chai latte. A hot bath at days' end. The sweet, sweet moment stretch my legs between the crispy cool sheets and let my eyelids rest.
Rather than work around hard times, we need to work through them, and we need to show others— kids, our students, our mentees—to do so, too. Looking forward really works. In the evenings, when I think about the next day, rather than despair about all the crap on my schedule, I find I actually have a lot to be excited about, especially if I allow teeny tiny things to be Things to Look Forward To. It's not about gratitude, necessarily; it's a simple decision to have —and enjoy— a decent day.
