Grit and Authenticity
Finding Healing and Connection by Climbing the Stairs Authentically
This article has triggering content. This article mentions abuse, homelessness, loss, addiction, and more. Please read with caution.
What do you think of when I say the word “grit”? For me personally, I think of a StairMaster. If you've ever been on a StairMaster, you know that once you're on it, the stairs do not stop. It is a constantly revolving set of steps that never ends. Unlike a treadmill, a StairMaster requires more muscles and a conscious choice to fight for every next step. That’s what I think of when I hear the word grit. Life keeps happening—and guess what? It’s going to get tough at some point. Grit is what enables us to make that conscious choice to fight for that next step. Grit is what keeps us moving. Grit is what tells our brain, “Just keep climbing. Head down. Push through.”
I learned about grit from a young age—not because I wanted to, but because I had to. Before the age of 21, I had divorced parents (like 50% of our country), went through the “who do you want to live with” battle, was abused by my stepfather, experienced loss multiple times, was abused by a fellow camper at summer camp, had a close family member get in trouble with the law due to addiction, worked four jobs at one time, lived out of my car, lost my passion for life, and ultimately even tried to take my own life. My mental health was at an all-time low. I felt alone. I felt hopeless. I felt like there was no one I could talk to because it wasn’t okay not to “be okay.” Fortunately, I was unsuccessful in my attempt, and I am still here today.
Although I won’t say I am “grateful” for all of this having happened, I did learn valuable lessons from it. I developed grit and tenacity during these formative years. As I reflected on the events that brought me to where I was mentally, I realized that while I was able to get through them, I still wasn’t able to openly talk about them. They were too “taboo” to mention. It was as if I had learned to climb the StairMaster, but I couldn’t tell my “coach” that I had a new personal best. Because of this, my mental health was still suffering. I was climbing, but I still felt alone. I still felt like there was no support, and I still felt like I had to take every step on my own. I wasn’t being authentic. When people would ask how I was doing, I would simply respond, “I’m fine,” and move on.
About a year later, I sat with a friend at a coffee shop on our college campus. We had been friends for a few years, so I could tell something was wrong when she didn’t immediately dive into her drink. There was a moment when the shop was finally empty and all you could hear was the soft music from the speakers. I looked into her eyes, put my coffee down, and asked, “Are you okay?”
Her eyes began welling up with tears. She had experienced a major life event similar to something I had gone through but had never shared. After she finished speaking, I said two powerful words: “me too.” For the next couple of hours, we sat in that coffee shop, cried, and talked about all the “stairs” we had climbed but never spoken about. It was more healing than anything I had experienced in my life. And then it hit me—being authentic in sharing your trials is healing. In a world where we are expected to put on a brave face, we have become accustomed to putting a strain on our own mental health for the sake of “aesthetics.” We desire acceptance, and in the society we’ve created, it is often not socially acceptable to be anything other than primped, polished, and happy.
My innate need to help others kicked in, and for once, I realized that although my life was unique, it also shared major life events and hardships with others. My thought process became, “How can I help others realize they are not taking the stairs alone?” instead of “Just keep climbing. Head down. Push through.” In the years that followed, friends and family asked me to speak with their friends or loved ones going through similar experiences as a way to help. I enjoyed being able to help in that way, but I felt I still needed to do more. There were still too many people climbing the stairs alone. This is the moment I decided I was going to write a book.
I sat down and thought about this book (which was still just an idea at the time), and all I could think about was how “unqualified” I was to write it. I was still in my 20s when I began writing, so my brain told me I was “too young.” I wasn’t a professional writer or counselor, so my brain told me I was “not important enough to listen to.” I was still climbing my own stairs—ones that took a lot of effort just to reach the top of—so my brain told me I was “not healed yet,” and therefore couldn’t help others.
With support from people I had met along the way, I wrote the book. It aimed to reach a wide variety of people and covered a wide variety of “stairs.” A few months after its release, I received my first review from someone I didn’t know. It read: “Beautiful book, such a good read, brought me tears and laughter. 10/10—READ THIS BOOK!”
It was a relief. I was so concerned with being “too out there,” “too much,” or “too heavy” that I almost didn’t publish it. Society has trained us not to be authentic when climbing difficult stairs: bury it, fake it until you make it, bottle it up. When we are not authentic, it not only takes a toll on our mental health, but it can also alienate others. By all means—push through. Get gritty. Take that next step. Fight to climb higher. But I implore you: don’t do it alone. Don’t do it quietly. Be authentic with what you’re feeling. Release it into the world, because you never know who is on that same StairMaster.
I challenge you to do three things: keep fighting to climb those stairs, be authentic, and challenge your impulse to hide what’s going on—you never know how you might help someone else.
