long effort
the deepest part of yourself desires greatness.
Last Wednesday I took a long walk, the leaves spiraling down, the air heavy with sweet rain. The smell of brightness and longing and moss.
The turning of the seasons always makes us think about what changes, what never does. What we remember; forget. What we give up, what we continue to carry.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about effort. About how long it takes for effort to materialize. It takes a really really long time. With anything: health, work, thinking, writing. To have clarity on any of those fronts is a long feedback cycle.
At first it feels like you’re not making any progress. Turning helplessly in the liminal gap between who you are and who you want to be. Feeling like everyone is ahead of you in every little thing. Early days are marked by the number of times you’ll think to yourself: oh man is this really worth it? It’s so tedious. Should I keep going?
James Clear calls this the valley of disappointment. The first few weeks or months, perhaps even years — when things don’t work, there’s no traction, no users, no audience. Many people stop here. Give up. But to get anywhere close to mastery, to create something you’re proud of, you need to remain loyal to the vision. Protect your inputs. Refuse to get mired down by doubt.
Eventually a breakthrough occurs. When all your effort compounds. When the dam finally breaks. Then we call it epiphany. Realization. Clarity. But it wasn’t just one moment, was it? It was a thousand micro-moments of effort, all rising to the surface at last.
I’ve always believed this: when you put effort consistently toward one thing, one good thing — mediocrity has nowhere to go.
The Plateau of Latent Potential as coined by Clear is one idea that has largely changed my life. It argues for effort, even if it seems invisible. No effort is wasted. It always comes back.
The Plateau of Latent Potential is the time lag between efforts and achieving the results we want. Our efforts don’t make a visible change unless they cross a critical threshold.
When you finally break through the Plateau of Latent Potential, people will call it an overnight success.
The outside world only sees the most dramatic event rather than all that preceded it. But you know that it’s the work you did long ago—when it seemed that you weren’t making any progress—that makes the jump today possible.
James Clear
With learning new skills, I think to myself all the time: have faith. It will click.
An example: I used to be terrified of driving. But after three years of driving around and around some empty suburban car park, one day I didn’t feel anxious behind the wheel anymore. It just clicked.
Writing too. Sometimes writing feels like yanking myself out of quicksand — there’s nothing solid to hold onto. Other days, it sings. Beautifully. Suddenly everything flows. Everything connects. It’s one of the best feelings in the world.
I don’t know where this effort will get me. Maybe it amounts to nothing. Maybe it changes my life. But even after all this time, the only thing I’m certain of is simply showing up, showing up, showing up. Being loyal to the vision.
That’s where faith comes in. Not blind faith, but a deep trust that I have agency over what my inputs are. How hard I try. How earnestly I practice. How closely I pay attention. The undeniable truth is that the only thing we can control in our lives is our effort, our inputs. The rest is up to timing, serendipity.
Still, I believe things click into place when this essential formula is fulfilled: effort + presence + patience.
— effort —
Through effortful practice we learn that we can’t hold onto anything. Each time you practice, you let go of the past version of what it used to be. It continues to morph as we speak. Becoming more granular, more articulate, more precise. It makes you less sentimental about loss. With enough practice, we lose rigidity. We gain momentum, joyfulness, fluidity.
High effort is always an internal measurement. I return often to What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, Murakami’s essays about his four-month preparation for the 2005 New York City Marathon:
For me, running is both exercise and a metaphor. Running day after day, piling up the races, bit by bit I raise the bar, and by clearing each level I elevate myself. At least that’s why I’ve put in the effort day after day: to raise my own level. I’m no great runner, by any means. I’m at an ordinary – or perhaps more like mediocre – level. But that’s not the point. The point is whether or not I improved over yesterday. In long-distance running the only opponent you have to beat is yourself, the way you used to be.
— presence —
When you are present, everything becomes more interesting.
Interest is why I show up. Again and again and again. Because I’m obsessed with how being present — I mean, really being absorbed into something meaningful — makes the experience of living in the world richer, deeper, more grounded. As Simone Weil writes, absolutely unmixed attention is prayer.
When things become interesting, you want to do more of it. And you keep getting better.
Robert Greene calls this the cycle of accelerated returns. From his book Mastery:
The more you practice, practice becomes easier and more interesting, leading to the ability to practice for longer hours, which increases your skill level, which in turn makes practice even more interesting.
Shelby shared The Art of Learning by Josh Waitzkin with me. I loved what he writes about being fully present in practice and the concept of waiting:
The secret is that everything is always on the line. The more present we are at practice, the more present we will be in competition, in the boardroom, at the exam, the operating table, the big stage. If we have any hope of attaining excellence, let alone of showing what we’ve got under pressure, we have to be prepared by a lifestyle of reinforcement. Presence must be like breathing.
— patience —
Finally, patience. Having the courage to endure silence, slowness. Every butterfly has a cocoon, every Spring is preceded by Winter. We should be tireless, fluid like water as Margaret Atwood writes:
Water is patient. Dripping water wears away a stone. Remember that, my child. Remember you are half water.
Also from Waitzkin:
Not only do we have to be good at waiting, we have to love it. Because waiting is not waiting, it is life. Too many of us live without fully engaging our minds, waiting for that moment when our real lives begin.
Ultimately, I always return to this: Effort. Presence. Patience.
I know love is real because even if no one reads this, I’d still write it. The real art in learning takes place as we move beyond proficiency, when our work becomes an expression of our essence (Peter Kang).
Practice is just another way of conversing with the deepest part of yourself that desires greatness. Mastery means putting in effort when the world is silent, asleep, and you’re the only one awake.
-N.
If you liked this essay, you might like you find what you look for which is also about mindset.
BTW: I have written 29 posts this year, meaning an average of 1 post every 2 weeks this year!! Huge thank you for being here.
Quote of the Week
I will not be "famous," "great." I will go on adventuring, changing, opening my mind and my eyes, refusing to be stamped and stereotyped. The thing is to free one's self: to let it find its dimensions, not be impeded.
Virginia Woolf
Loved the concept of effort-presence-patience.
I stumbled upon your writing via Twitter and am so glad to have gotten to this post. I've been struggling with figuring out what it means to be present, and the reframing of presence hits different. Thank you for sharing.