Why we need to be uncomfortable.

We have conflated happiness and comfort. And in my thoroughly unscientific opinion, we have lost the connection to the reptilian brain that got us here as a species. We're all neocortex now, a jumble of stress and worry. So we reach for various pacifiers: sugar, sex, drugs, alcohol, social media, consumerism. I believe it's growth through discomfort that produces happiness, and by seeking comfort instead, the circuit gets broken.

I think of the most rewarding pursuits of my life, and I wanted to quit all of them in the beginning. I walked onto a football field not knowing what a down was, and proceeded to get body slammed by another, much larger boy. I learned the offensive line and the defensive backfield, mastering my small portion of the game, learning to push past physical pain inflicted by bigger opponents -- which was pretty much everybody. It became a joy to play.

Learning Latin was a lesson in constant failure that churned up a maelstrom of self-pity and doubt. My brain was tearing itself apart trying to stretch and wrap itself around the language. Only after I surrendered did it make sense, did its athleticism and poetry make itself understood. It became a joy to learn. 

And finally, there was Jiu Jitsu. There's meme of a drowning white belt making it's way around BJJ social media. He's trying to keep his head above water, clawing at the surface for survival. This -- the drowning of Jiu Jitsu -- was the hardest part to accept. It's difficult for a grown man to make himself so vulnerable, to admit to himself and to others that he couldn't save his own life from a somewhat skilled or a stronger opponent. You fail quickly and often in BJJ. There are two mental approaches you can take in the face of such failure: 1) Rationalize it away, saying to yourself that we live in a world where such a skill isn't necessary; 2) Push yourself harder than any opponent, real or imagined, can. I chose to push myself.

One day, I got my first submission. I don't remember the move. I don't remember the training partner. And I don't remember because those facts are inconsequential. I learned to take more joy in the hundreds of times I've tapped out, or been submitted, ever since. That is where the growth comes from, as well as the grin I can't wipe off my face. It became a joy to train.

This is growth. This is discomfort. This, my friends, is happiness. 

What Latin taught me about failure.

It started out as a requirement. I wanted a concentration in classical studies to go with my history minor. I got more than I bargained for. I got my ass kicked.

Latin I was a bloodbath. I could memorize the declensions and conjugations. But when it came to translation or composition, I crumbled. I had no idea how the pieces fit together. When I looked under the hood of this language, I saw something awesome in its complexity. 

I was defeated. I dragged myself back to class and back to my copy of Wheelock's Latin day in and day out. Nothing worked. I was barely passing and felt like I was holding back the rest of the class. At first, I was ashamed of my failure. And then I accepted it. 

I ground out the rest of Latin I and managed to scrape together a B- for the semester. And I came back around for Latin II. I wanted that concentration. I went into Latin II knowing it was going to be an ordeal, knowing I would fail. And that's when it clicked.

I could read it left to right. I understood the syntax. And most important, I saw the beauty in the efficiency of the language. It had a functional strength that I've since pushed to emulate in how I approach English as a writer and editor.

Why did it suddenly make sense? I accepted that it was going to be difficult. I accepted that I was going to fail. And when I stopped trying so hard not to fail, I succeeded.

I keep my copy of Wheelock's Latin on my nightstand. I put my glasses on top of it before I go to sleep. When I put them on in the morning, it's the first object I see as my eyesight comes back into focus. It's a useful reminder.