The Art of Grit

(6 Minutes)

There’s a kind of suffering that sneaks up on me sometimes.

Not from anything new — but from holding too tightly to an idea of myself that’s no longer true.

For a long time, I built a version of myself with care.

I needed it.

It made sense for who I was and what I was facing.

It helped me survive seasons that were harder than I realized at the time.

But life keeps moving, whether we ask it to or not.

It shapes us quietly, in ways we don’t always notice until we feel the discomfort of old stories no longer fitting.

And that’s where it gets tricky.

Because instead of adjusting, I’ve often found myself gripping harder — trying to defend an outdated version of me.

As if evolving would somehow erase all the work it took to get here.

As if letting go would mean those earlier chapters meant nothing.

But it’s not betrayal to grow.

It’s what’s supposed to happen.

Still, it’s easy to confuse loyalty with stagnation.

We convince ourselves we have to stay the same out of respect for the journey we’ve already traveled.

And in doing so, we quietly shut the door on joy.

I notice it every time I try to force myself into old shapes:

Joy shrinks.

Energy drains.

Life starts to feel heavier than it needs to be.

Cheryl Strayed once said, “Joy is not a luxury. It’s a necessity.”

That line has stayed with me, especially during seasons where choosing joy felt almost disloyal to who I thought I was supposed to be.

Joy isn’t a bonus we get after everything else is perfect.

It’s a vital sign that we’re living honestly — that we’re allowing ourselves to change when life calls us to.

Evolution doesn’t erase the past.

It honors it by building on it.

The person I used to be deserves gratitude, not imprisonment.

They fought battles that made me stronger.

They believed in dreams that carried me to places I wouldn’t otherwise know.

But keeping myself frozen out of loyalty doesn’t honor them.

It dishonors the very growth they fought for.

The beautiful — and difficult — thing about change is that it gives us freedom.

We can evolve.

Or we can stay stuck.

And often, staying stuck feels safer in the moment, even if it costs us far more over time.

I’ve lived that tension — pretending not to notice when I was outgrowing my own story, clinging to an identity that once saved me but now simply weighed me down.

Maybe the real act of love — toward ourselves and toward the journey we’ve lived — is giving ourselves permission to update the story.

To trust that who we’re becoming is not a rejection of who we were, but a continuation.

Joy can’t grow where we refuse to make space.

It needs truth.

It needs room to breathe.

Today, I’m trying to choose joy not because everything is neat or settled, but because it’s necessary — for a life that keeps moving, and a heart that’s brave enough to keep up.