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It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.” ~ Ursula K. Le Guin
I did my first pull-up. Like ever. In my entire life. I am 49 years old. That in itself is no small feat.
I have been working on this for so long—persistently, frequently, and stubbornly. There were days I questioned why I even cared, days when progress felt invisible, and days when it felt easier to just stay where I was. But I kept going anyway.
I was so focused on the goal.
I (somewhat) expected confetti to fall from the sky when I finally accomplished this goal. If not confetti, maybe glitter, or balloons, or at the very least a shiny gold star.
Surely the universe would recognize this moment as something significant.
Here’s what actually happened:
I felt good and strong.
I walked up to the bar.
I tried to do the pull-up without the assistance of bands.
I pulled.
I made it.
I did it.
Then it was done.
I stood there for a second, waiting for something else to happen. I met my goal and it was over. That was it. Boring. Not bad. Not disappointing. Just…uneventful. The moment passed as quickly as it arrived, and I was left standing there thinking, “Well, now what?”
It was almost anticlimactic after all the mental buildup, all the anticipation, and all the quiet work that led up to it.
It’s like that when we set goals. I’ve run marathons just to prove to myself that I could mentally do the task of running twenty-six miles. Our bodies are trainable. That part is fairly straightforward. It’s our minds that befuddle us, sabotage us, and distract us. To have control of a mind that is always racing—to get it to focus long enough to move forward hour after hour for a four-hour race—that was something. That was a real accomplishment.
And I did it. Twice.
But again, I crossed the finish line, got the medal, hugged the people who came to watch, contemplated my poor life choices and then life just kept going. I did it and it was good, but once again…where’s the glitter and confetti? Where is the dramatic pause in the soundtrack where everything feels different now? Turns out, most of life doesn’t work that way. It’s the journey that we learn in, and it’s the journey that gets forgotten.
All those early mornings, all those sore muscles, all those quiet conversations you have with yourself while you’re practicing and potentially looking like a fool in the gym—forgotten.
Lucky for me, I’m middle-aged and I truly don’t care if I look like a fool. That freedom alone might be one of the best perks of this season of life. I have bigger problems to solve now—like figuring out what I’m going to make for dinner for the rest of my life. And how did I get permanently assigned that task anyway? But I digress.
It’s the middle where we keep going despite failure, sickness, fatigue, overwhelm, sadness, and the plain boredom of it all. We live in this phenomenal world of shiny distractions. Everything is loud, fast, and competing for our attention. Doing one small task day in and day out doesn’t exactly scream excitement. It’s nothing short of boring—and at the same time, nothing short of spectacular.
Those are the days where you show up not because you’re motivated or inspired, but because you made a promise to yourself. You show up because its just what you do. I used to love to run, but I don’t do it anymore. My right ankle has decided that post-fracture, running is painful and it’s not going to contribute willingly to that activity anymore. It has its own opinions now. I’ve learned to respect that.
Still, I miss it. I miss the boredom. I miss the quiet. I miss the feeling of being alone with nothing but my thoughts and the rhythm of my body moving forward. It was almost freeing. This was running before we always had headphones or earbuds permanently attached to our ears. It was listening to the sound of my feet hitting the gravel. It was breathing, cadence, wind, birds, distant traffic, and the occasional startled deer jumping out of the ditch. It was mile after mile of thoughts, struggles, processing, planning, problem solving, dreaming, worrying, and letting things go.
There was so much chaos in my life as a late teen and early twenty-something. Most of that chaos I invited willingly. I was stubborn, impulsive, curious, emotional, and convinced I knew better than most people trying to give me advice. But since the universe conspired to allow me to live through it, I figured I must be meant to do something meaningful now.
Maybe survival itself carries responsibility.
Through all that chaos, I kept running. It was safe. It was predictable. It was boring in the best possible way. Then came the thoughts. If I can run three miles, can I run six? If I can run six, can I run ten? Can I run twenty-six? Each question planted a new seed. Each answer required more patience than talent.
Running taught me that consistency beats intensity almost every time. It taught me that boredom is not something to avoid—it’s often where the real work happens. I’m so grateful that I found that activity when I did. I learned more about myself on quiet country roads, often with a dog trotting alongside me, than I have anywhere else in life. Those miles held my prayers, my frustrations, my gratitude, my fear, my hope, and my stubborn determination.
Did I meet my goal of running a marathon? Yes, twice. But that achievement paled in comparison to all the hours of solitude where I cleared my head, regrouped emotionally, and tried my best to do better than the day before.
For some reason, I thought this pull-up would be different. Maybe because it felt unattainable for so many years. Maybe because upper body strength has never been my strong suit. Maybe because there was a small part of me that believed age might eventually close this door permanently. I expected applause. I expected fireworks. I expected a bigger emotional payoff. What I found instead was that all the time spent showing up and practicing simply reinforced that I am capable of showing up and practicing.
The frustrating part is that we don’t always get where we want to be when we want to be there. That part sometimes feels deeply unfair. We ponder, maybe if I had worked harder when I was younger this would have happened sooner. Or, maybe if I had been more disciplined, more focused, or more patient earlier in life, the timeline would look different. But comparison—even with our own past selves—rarely brings peace.
This time it was mindset. It was the plan, the repetition, the patience, and the refusal to quit. I didn’t plan to fail. I just didn’t know how long it would take to succeed. That uncertainty is uncomfortable for most of us. We like timelines. We like guarantees. We like knowing exactly how our effort will pay off. Growth rarely offers that kind of clarity. How many times do we plan things half-heartedly? We sort of want the goal, but if we don’t get it, it’s no big deal. We leave ourselves an easy exit. We tell ourselves we’ll try, but only if it doesn’t inconvenience us too much or require discomfort.
But…maybe it is a bigger deal than we realize.
Maybe the biggest shift happens the moment we truly decide. Deciding doesn’t mean instant success. It means commitment. It means we won’t give up just because it’s hard, slow, boring, or inconvenient. It means we’ll keep trying until we literally cannot keep trying. That’s the decision. So often we hop from one thing to another trying to please people, meet expectations, or chase whatever looks exciting in the moment.
We forget that we’re allowed to want something simply for ourselves—not for validation, not for applause, but because growth matters.
How can we truly show up for others when we’re pouring from an empty cup? It’s a tired cliché, but it keeps surviving because it’s true. Developing ourselves as humans—not just as mothers, wives, employees, caregivers, or leaders—strengthens every role we play. When we invest in ourselves, we don’t become selfish; we become steadier, calmer, more grounded, and more generous.
I like goals.
I thought I liked achieving goals. And I’ve achieved many over the years. But I’ve learned far more in the pursuit of them than in the moment of completion.
I’ve learned how to be kinder to myself when progress is slow.
I’ve learned how to extend that kindness toward others when they struggle.
When I fail, I carry more empathy instead of judgment.
When I succeed, I tend to show up more grounded and present for the people I love instead of chasing the next thing immediately.
So now I have to come up with something else. I have no shortage of ideas, because curiosity doesn’t really slow down with age—if anything, it gets more honest. But back to pull-ups…I think 10 is the next goal. Will it take me years? Maybe. Probably. But I already know I’ll learn a lot in the meantime. I’ll learn patience again. And just maybe—if the universe is feeling generous—the confetti will fall the next time.
~
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