On Giving a Shit

A reflection on effort, imperfection, and choosing to continue

I’ve been posting consistently on my blog for about six months.

Not perfectly. But consistently.

This week was the first time I missed a day. Not a week. A day. I didn’t disappear. It was just a delay. About twenty-four hours.

And still, I felt that familiar tightening in my chest. That quiet but insistent voice that loves to show up the moment we deviate from a plan.

You missed it.
You broke the streak.
You’re slipping.

It’s funny how quickly our minds reach for drama when the offense is minor.

Because the truth is, nothing actually happened. No one noticed. No opportunity vanished. The world did not tilt off its axis because a blog post went live a day later than planned.

But if you’ve ever tried to build something that matters to you, whether it’s a habit, a body, a business, or a life that feels more like your own, you know this moment well.

The moment where effort meets imperfection.
Where discipline brushes up against being human.
Where the all-or-nothing instinct rears its head.

We do this everywhere.

We miss a workout and suddenly the week is a wash.
We overindulge at dinner and decide we’ve “fallen off track.”
We drink a little too much one night and wake up convinced we’ve undone months of progress.

The logic is rarely conscious, but it’s consistent.

If it’s not perfect, it doesn’t count.
If I can’t do it exactly right, I might as well stop.

This mindset is seductive because it’s dramatic. It gives us a clean story. A beginning, a failure, an ending.

But it’s also the fastest way to abandon ourselves.

The real work. The unsexy work. The work that actually changes things looks very different.

It looks like giving a shit. Just enough.

Enough to notice you missed the day instead of pretending you didn’t care.
Enough to feel disappointed without turning that feeling into self-punishment.
Enough to say, quietly and without ceremony, let’s try again tomorrow.

That’s the part no one glorifies.

We celebrate discipline as if it’s rigid. As if strength is proven by never wobbling. As if the goal is to move through life untouched by distraction, emotion, or fatigue.

But real resilience doesn’t come from never falling off. It comes from not spiraling when you do.

From staying in relationship with what matters to you, even when your execution isn’t flawless.

Giving a shit doesn’t mean white-knuckling your way through life. It doesn’t mean grinding harder or demanding more from yourself.

It means staying oriented toward the thing you care about.

It means choosing continuation over collapse.

The real flex is not perfection.
It’s persistence without punishment.

It’s understanding that progress is cumulative, not fragile. That one missed day does not erase six months of showing up. That a single misstep does not require a dramatic reset or a declaration of failure.

It requires presence.

A willingness to say, I still care. I’m still here. I’ll pick this back up.

That’s it.

No grand recommitment. No shame-fueled vow to “do better.” No need to make the miss mean something about who you are.

Just enough care to continue.

And maybe that’s what giving a shit really is.

Not the intensity of your effort, but the steadiness of your return.