Aiming to Please

It happens gradually. The change occurs without warning. A person goes along as a young child with cheer and curiosity, playing and learning, discovering and growing. But then as an adolescent or a young adult he or she starts to realize the enormity of societal expectations. Maybe someone makes a nasty remark (or an admiring one) about our looks, our behavior, our friends, our academic skills or other abilities. This can be a significant moment. Suddenly, we may realize that this stuff matters to other people. Some children rapidly shrug off this recognition. They go their own way. But these are the few. For more of us, we are affected by the press of other people’s wants and opinions. Even if we don’t get entirely swept along by the pressure, we feel it deeply. We are motivated to get along. We aspire to win -- even at endeavors that we don’t value much. We aim to please. We are socialized to be a “good girl” or a "good boy." This goes deep. We become determined to get good grades, to impress peers, to get the approval of parents and other relatives. We may become diligent and dutiful. This is touted as normal and admirable. 

The dark side of this process is that by being swept along, we begin to lose sight of the internal forces that brought us joy. We may develop an ever-greater urgency to please others. The inevitable disagreements with the diverse views of those around us dismay and buffet us. It becomes harder to know what we actually want. 

Of course growing up requires learning about social standards and norms. That's important, if only to avoid inadvertently hurting people and avoiding awkward conflicts. But as we mature, we also need to be able to have confidence enough to choose the way we want to live and standards we reject. Is it important to us to dress fashionably? Is it important to be popular? Is it important to be admired for our brains or for our talents or our athletic abilities? We have to decide if these things matter to us, and if they do, to what degree. If this isn't a conscious choice, then we are ensnared in many choices that are not fully our own.

To some degree, it is inevitable that we will compare ourself with others. But to what degree? It seems to me that this is a culture in which the basis of comparison is often very harsh and continuous, and the focus is often on matters that aren't insignificant. Why berate myself for every demerit of beauty, talent and skill? Is it important to examine every physical flaw in myself or other people? I can't see how this can possibly make me happier. And becoming good at the witty, cutting remark only serves to undermine my own happiness at the small but real skills I do have. So why engage in this? This judging, comparing, self-loathing is highly culturally determined. In U.S. public education, there’s a huge emphasis on evaluations and competition. That’s not an inherent, unavoidable aspect of development. We could instead focus more on cooperation and encouragement. Creative activity, imaginative play and developing latent skills could be emphasized over testing and ranking of students. School -- and childhood generally -- could be more joyful and supportive than it is.

Harshly comparing ourself to others, and aspiring to be “best”, may galvanize our focus. For some, it may provide some boost in determination and zeal, and it may help us marshall energy toward some achievements. But this approach has very significant costs. In fact, it tends to move us toward a hardening and narrowing of our focus. This competitive, combative way of looking at the world sets us up to feel that even when we victories occur, with their little ego boosts, there is always a looming defeat on the horizon. Because no matter how much we aspire, no matter how hard we work, there will always be skills we lack and challenges we aren’t equipped to meet. And there will always be others equal to or more skilled. Even a gold medalist must know that sometime in the not-so-distant future that title will pass to another. It is inevitable that our the day will come when we'll be unable to raise our hand to wave goodbye, so of course a day will come when someone's talents will outshine ours. Having that humility and that appreciation of the changing sands on which all of life is built, that seems a more fruitful way to approach each day. (Really enjoying the abilities of others rather than trying to outdo them is something that gives so much more pleasure, and it's a skill I only learned later in life.)

An attitude that pushes ourselves to be the best isolates us. It inevitably drains joy from the experiences themselves. We may become so focused on the goals than anything short of the spectacular achievement feels like a mouthful of ashes. If you watch a skating competition, you'll frequently see the person who wins second place looking grim and fighting back tears. This is sad: their own wonderful activity has been reduced to something paltry by comparison with another's work. Striving squeezes something inside, so that we no longer play our music for our love of music; we no longer do our work with a sense of the creativity involved in the task. We’ve lost track of what gave us purpose, what brought us a spark. We’re mesmerized by an image of winning. But a win is an abstraction: the work itself is neither a win nor a loss. If we only enjoy work for the reward offered by others, we live life always at the whim of others. We are slaves to chance. We will live far away from well-spring of joy, from what motivated us as a young person. We’ll lose heart -- the most devastating loss a person can suffer. 

Whether you call it depression, which is rampant in our society, or whether you call it a loss of purpose or loss of heart, it’s devastating. I have been there -- I know. This loss of heart, a loss of the center of what makes us feel vitality, affects every aspect of life. It manifests in the slouched, self-effacing way the person stands, the halting, dreary way she or he speaks. There’s no spring in her step. There may be a slumping of shoulders, almost as though she wishes she could hide -- or disappear. There’s no light in his eyes. Perhaps gradually, and probably at no one pivotal moment, these people became convinced to live their life according to someone else’s standards. So the things that represented what is magical and precious in life began to recede. 

Decades back, I was diagnosed with depression. That terminology makes the condition sound merely  medical, like a broken arm, but it had to do more with heart and soul. I lost heart. For many years, I had poured enormous efforts into making myself into my version of a “respectable” person. It was an enormous effort. And it seemed to be succeeding as degrees accumulated, jobs came along, and I found work that felt meaningful. So when everything about me, my creation, came under intense and pitiless scrutiny by friends, colleagues and strangers, something in me began to crumble. I came to reconsider the entire effort to charm and placate the world. The edifice I had built did not work for me. I began to see that it was actually impossible to be true to myself and simultaneously please people all of the time. This was a major shake-up, and it occurred over the course of years. Painful as it was, I see it now as a good thing.

Around the same time, I had a close friend in D.C. who worked diligently to develop a reputation as formidably smart and competent economist. He was evidently talented, with stellar credentials. He’d get one prestigious job after another, but nothing seemed to bring much contentment. By his own report, he shouted and railed at other co-workers, and on one occasion he came to blows with another economist. 

Although apparently placid, this man was often angry, and beneath it was a lot of unexamined sadness and hurt. Once this friend told me of a dream that really shook him. He said in this dream, he wanted to take me to a place where he used to find frogs as a kid. He got very enthusiastic about finding this magical, marshy pond. But the trouble was, he no longer could recall how to find his way. In telling me about this dream, the sorrow in his voice suggested to me that there was a deep truth in this dream. He no longer knew how to go back to the places that gave him delight as a child. He couldn’t take me there -- as much as he might want to. Much worse, he couldn’t find his own way there, either.

Finding a way back to the source of wonder, of real vitality. That's what's worth doing. That's the journey of a hero. Or a heroine. And it's a journey we all must take.