My director sat behind a desk, across from me as we talked about a project I’d completed a while before. I said, “That’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
He held my gaze for a few seconds from behind the desk, then said, “You can’t say that.”
Identifying something as hard was apparently a sign of weakness, something not to be tolerated. As if everything is easy and difficulty doesn’t happen to successful people.
For the record during that project, I went from running a Tough Mudder in November to having to rest to cross my living room in March. After a relatively easy (ha!) P90X3 workout one morning in February, I was suddenly nauseated. I’d done that workout a couple dozen times before and looked forward to it for not kicking my butt. That day it did. Hard.
It was downhill from there. Down a lot of hills.
A dear friend and I were the only people on a runaway project from hell. We worked insane hours (her much more than me) and had a lifetime supply of shit sandwiches to eat, given that we were on other difficult projects as well. At one point, she had pneumonia while I had what turned out to be Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (Chronic Fatigue Syndrome). We both came to work that day.
We typically worked six days a week and I got a look at her online timesheet one night and gasped. I couldn’t work that many hours.
We got it done, and the software we worked on went live–to the universal hatred and anger of the user base, who lit us up for our efforts and its poor quality. All this happened about the time our previous director died of cancer. That happened one Friday afternoon when my friend and I were working together. I figured that was coming and wanted to be there for her if it did.
I dragged along on fumes until August, when I couldn’t go on any more. At the urging of my HR rep, I took partial disability. And got my claim denied. So now, with one kid in college and another a year from starting, I had only half income and no way to get full income. Even though insurance wouldn’t pay me, to work fulltime would be risking insurance fraud.
It felt like everything had gone to shit and there was a reason for that. It had. If not for my wife, my friend, and a surprise Mets World Series appearance, I don’t know what I’d have done.
After a lot of work, I appealed and won my claim and returned to work full-time in January. On New Years Eve, I had a single glass of champagne to celebrate the end of the Worst Year Ever. It took the better part of the next year to deal with the emotional leftovers.
No one should demand a person pretend their hell was no big deal.
We got the project done on time. The product flaws weren’t something we could control, though the user base didn’t care and let us know–vehemently. My colleague and I took turns picking each other up and we both survived. That Christmas we got together and shared a bottle of Dom Perignon, which tasted like validation.
It shook both of us to our core, but we stayed true to ourselves and got the job done. I wasn’t whining to my director, simply stating a fact. I didn’t say it was bad, or it sucked. I wasn’t inviting pity. I merely said it was hard. If anything, that was an understatement.
Everyone has difficult things. As much as The Fibro is slapping me around, it’s devastating a lot of other people. I understand how blessed I am right now. I’ve been to hell and I know how lonely and overwhelming it can be. And I know I’m not in the inner ring right now.
Life eventually scars everyone’s face. To pretend the scars are beautiful make-up denies the essence of life. It denies the substance of perseverance and the fragile beauty of resilience.
Because of what happened then, I’m better able to handle what’s happening now. In a sense, I trained for this.
Don’t pretend the hard things aren’t hard. Don’t deny yourself credit for facing a challenge you didn’t know you could accomplish. You earned those scars with sweat, tears, cursing, and walking through a darkness so heavy you could gag on it.
You could have given up and you didn’t. That’s priceless, not worthless.
Acknowledging difficulty allows you to see your growth through that difficulty. It validates your anguish and helps give it meaning. If fortifies you for the next hard thing.
So take your bow, even if there’s no one else in the room. Don’t let anyone deny you that.