The Hardest Thing You've Ever Done

I'm reading a memoir written by a woman about her experiences hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. (More about the book in a post to come.) One of her reminiscences is of saying to herself, "This is the hardest thing I've ever done."

That statement made me think about things I've done, and how difficult or easy they seemed at the time. For me, completing law school and receiving my Juris Doctor degree was my greatest accomplishment. In my memory, it seems I wanted to quit each and every day. I had a friend whom I met the first day of orientation before law school began; she was my age and we bolstered each other's courage throughout the years in school.

During the four years I was in law school, I endured my second divorce, my older son being sent home from college for a semester to "learn how to study," and gaining custody of my younger son. In my third and fourth years, I worked a full-time and two part-time jobs to keep tuition and rent paid and food on the table. Now, over 20 years later, I can't imagine having the strength and energy to accomplish all that, but I did. It was the hardest and most important thing I had ever done.

Ten years earlier, I had gotten my first divorce. At that time, it was the hardest thing I had ever done. I had been miserable for the entire 10 years, married to a man who was incredibly selfish and emotionally abusive. By the time I walked out, I had twice swallowed a handful of pills, hoping for release from the months-long migraine that the situation caused. People told me I was courageous. I felt like a failure.

Five years after my law school graduation, I was newly and blissfully happily married to a unique man who understood the aches of my soul. Six months into our marriage, he was diagnosed with metastatic prostate cancer. Walking beside him for 21 months as he battled cancer was hard, but selfless. All I had to do was stay incredibly organized and focused on easing his pain. The most precious note I remember from him during this time said, "Thank you for caring for me."

Those hard times had a payoff: a sense that there was nothing I couldn't do.

I could start over and start over and start over. My mulligans were endless. And with each starting over again, I survived.

Is that what goes together—accomplishing incredibly hard tasks and surviving?