My back isn’t what it was when I was 26 years old. Standing up to my waist in a hole, my back and arms ached, and I had at least 2 feet down to go.
I’ve dug up the same pipe in my yard at least three times, maybe four. At some point you stop counting. The first time I opened up that hole was to find and connect my sprinklers to the water main. This time — for the third (or fourth) time — I was digging because it was leaking. It felt like betrayal from the one, original piece of pipe I was sure would stand the test of time.
I knew right where it was. I also knew what needed to be done. Still, I stood with my shovel, imagining the gaping hole again for longer than I want to admit.
Standing, not starting.
I know how to dig. I’ve dug up sections of my yard so many times I’ve started sifting out the rocks to make digging the next time easier.
Easier. The dirt where I live grows rocks as fast as it grows weeds.
Standing there, I couldn’t find any part of me that wanted to do it. Being totally honest, I was mad. I was also burnt out. I felt hollow. I hadn’t even started digging and I was already tired, that stupid, heavy tired that seems to live in your bones and only comes out when you’ve got something onerous to do.
Eventually, I pushed my shovel into the pale earth. There was no burst of inspiration or sudden drive to get after it. I did it because it had to be done. My family needed water in the house which meant the pipe had to be fixed, and that dirt wasn’t going to move itself. (Note: I did find some angry motivation when a plumbing company quoted me $4,000 for the repair.)
And, so I dug.
It’s funny. That’s where I’ve been lately in my own life, minus the actual shovel, dirt, and pipe. They’re good metaphors though.
I’m working on building something, but also meeting the demands of clients, and a lingering project with my former employer that just won’t get finished. A lot of days, I wake up and the well of motivation has already run dry. The adrenaline ran out months ago.
Most of the time, it’s just work. The quiet, repetitive, monotonous, necessary kind. It’s the kind that gets done not because you have the motivation to do it but the discipline.
Honestly, I think we talk about motivation too much. The mountaintop gurus want us to believe that we’ll have limitless motivation when we’re “working in our genius.”
We treat motivation like we’re supposed to wait for, or find in a magical well, then protect it at all costs with focus time and Pomodoro timers. We wait on motivation to settle on us before we do something; anything.
If there’s one lesson I’ve learned from digging a hole I didn’t want to dig (again), it’s this: you don’t need motivation to move forward. You just need a reason to keep showing up in small, stubborn ways.
(Yes, I know the reason can be motivation, but stick with me here.)
Most days, I want to build a better life. For me, a better life looks like one where I believe I have more control over my time, where I get to spend more time reading for the sake of reading, and running just to run instead of feeling like it’s another obligation to fulfill every day.
My “better life” is one with few to no frantic meetings and more slow mornings. I want to show up for my family in significant ways, not just pay our bills in exchange for my time. I want to do work I believe in without needing it to validate me (which is especially hard because I mostly seek external validation).
I want to feel whole without feeling like I need to be impressive.
But wanting all that doesn’t mean I wake up energized and ready to take on the world. I definitely don’t spring to my desk or approach most days with bright-eyes and steely resolve. Some mornings I sit on the floor in my closet scrolling the same tired apps for too long. Some afternoons I open my laptop (Who am I kidding? I never close my laptop.) and stare at the screen, willing something useful to appear.
Some nights I do the dishes just because I don’t like waking up to a messy kitchen. That’s it, the entire motivation.
And, you know what? Maybe that’s enough.
We all know motivation ebbs and flows. Sometimes motivation fades for long periods of time, even for the people and things you love. What’s left when that motivation runs out is the practice of doing something because you said you would — and not in a shame-yourself-into-action way — but because you’re trying to be someone you can live with.
Thinking back on digging that hole reminded me of something I forget a lot: doing hard things isn’t about being driven. Sometimes, it’s just about going back to the work, your values, and the promises you made to yourself or someone else when you were clearer about things than you are today.
Eventually, I hit the section of pipe that was causing the problem. It was literally the only 18 inches of pipe I hadn’t replaced — a copper line, encased in concrete from the previous attempt at solving our problem. Little did I know at the time that certain concretes will eat right through copper pipe.
What’s really stuck with me, though, is that it wasn’t just that the pipe broke. It’s how the pipe broke. A long, slow erosion hidden inside a block of concrete, four feet below the surface. It’s damage I couldn’t see until the leak started. Even then, it wasn’t obvious until I started digging.
I had to call a professional to fix it. I didn’t have the tools or expertise to get the pipe out of the wall. Once the plumber was done, the entire line from the meter to the house was new, a direct-bury joint at each end. Nothing else to fail, at least for a long while (I hope).
It didn’t occur to me until recently that the soreness and dirt covering I wore that day are just what rebuilding looks like.
Most of us don’t have the luxury of a sweeping reinvention. We can’t burn our old life down and start over. It’s this:
- Recognizing where something’s been imperceptibly wearing out
- Digging when you don’t feel like it
- Replacing what doesn’t work anymore
- Getting a little help when you can’t do it alone.
I’m starting, slowly, to apply the same approach to parts of myself that feel a bit cracked and leaky: my routines, some of my relationships, my sense of self-worth (that’s a big one). I’ve been taking the time to ask questions about what I’ve let erode, maybe what I want to let erode, and what I actually want to carry forward. One of the hardest things for me is recognizing when to let go of something.
Here’s the theme: I haven’t arrived anywhere yet. There haven’t been any major breakthroughs. Some days I still avoid the work. Other days — better days — I dig a little. I write something. I go for a walk-run. I skip the third can of Dr. Pepper Zero Sugar. I put my phone away while I talk to my wife and kids.
They’re tiny things, but they feel like movement.
Truthfully, that’s where I am: not particularly inspired or especially motivated, but still showing up, still trying.
Still digging.
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