Forget motivation. Reluctant discipline brings the greatest rewards.
I’m sure there is an internet quote I should attribute for that insight; I know I saw something recently online, and whatever it was clearly stuck with me—just not well enough to get credit.
At any rate, whoever inspired me is right. This week I got proof.
Sometimes reluctant discipline is a puddle of sweaty, partially tear-soaked gym clothes.
To gym or not to gym
I skipped my usual spin class on Monday so I could attend a community meeting in my neighborhood about gentrification. (Such activities are part of my #respectivist quest. More on that another time.)
Since it’s important to me to work out just enough to rationalize my gym membership, I booked a replacement class for Tuesday, which was clearly meant to be since my favorite instructor just happened to be subbing.
Except then I forgot socks.
You can’t really cycle without socks. I realized this on my way out of the office after a long and draining day, so of course I immediately decided to go buy socks somewhere.
Just kidding. Of course I immediately tried to cancel my spin class reservation.
But with less than an hour before the start of class, my gym app informed me it was too late to cancel.
Discipline by default
If you don’t show up for a reserved class, you get a mark on your permanent record, i.e., you eventually lose reservation privileges, and because I am not very good at getting in trouble, obviously I had to show up, socks or no.
Fortunately there was a sale on socks at the drug store near the subway stop. Unfortunately the sale was for ladies dress socks, but hey, for fifty-nine cents I’m not going to be picky.
There was also a sale on sports drinks, so basically the universe really wanted me to show up for my fitness commitment, regardless of my attitude.
Something to cry about
Though my discipline was reluctant, the payoff was unfettered.
As usual, my favorite instructor played music that pushed me to push myself.
I wore myself out completely, and by the end I was sobbing.
This is a good thing.
Crying is cathartic and important and I don’t do it nearly as often as I’d like. In the privacy of my own home, sure, I’ll let the tears flow when they come, but they usually show up as sniffles. It takes a lot to make me weep.
A “Creep” cover made me do it.
My favorite instructor always builds in a “free ride” at the end of class, where the music is loud and the lights are off. The song selection is always chill, but this time it was straight-up chilling.
In my vulnerable, spent state, I had no emotional defense for the aching sadness that seeped from the speakers. Residual sorrow I’d been storing for days, maybe weeks, suddenly spewed, and I sobbed.
It was dark. I was protected, safe, free. The storm passed.
Reluctant discipline for the win
Going to the gym is not something I often look forward to, or even necessarily enjoy while I’m doing it. Being done is by far the best part.
(Come to think of it, I sometimes feel the same way about writing, especially when getting up early is the only way to make it happen.)
But time and again, showing up reaps rewards. I can’t always predict the specific benefits in advance, nor are they always guaranteed.
Still, discipline has proven to be consistently effective, whether or not I enforce it with enthusiasm.
And I’ve learned that if I wait to take action until I feel motivated or inspired, I miss out on a good deal of goodness.
That’s why this #thankyouthursday, I am grateful for reluctant discipline.
Love > fear,
p.s. Next week I will probably be raving about the release of Glennon Doyle Melton’s Love Warrior (yes, again), and if you want to understand why, it’s not too late to preorder!