Have you ever heard yourself saying “I’m going to do this if it kills me”? As the pensioners at my gym can attest, it’s what I hiss every time I’m there, attempting slowly and laboriously to get myself a millimetre closer to doing the splits.
But what if it actually is killing me? Not the groin strain, problematic as that is, but because I’ve just read in New Scientist that giving up is good for you, while grinding on isn’t. One study showed that people who “struggled to disengage from unfulfilling goals” had higher levels of cortisol and inflammatory molecules. “The result,” the article explained, “could be a heightened susceptibility to all kinds of conditions, including cardiovascular disease and Alzheimer’s.” In addition, “goal disengagement” – giving up – correlated with a lower risk of headaches, constipation and eczema; it may even protect against infection. Of 131 older adults, those who scored highly on a giving up scale (asking how easily they stopped fixating on unfulfilling goals and pivoted to others) got fewer colds.
It’s a kick in the teeth for self-optimising strivers, but it feels odd even if you’re not the locked-in, 4am ice bath type. We’re taught from infancy that perseverance is a moral virtue and that persistence pays – it’s something everyone internalises, I think, and who doesn’t like a “triumph over adversity” arc?
Plus, in the age of influencers, grit and #goals are served up in transformation reels, training programmes and motivational quotes. God, the quotes: you lose 100% of the shots you don’t take; nothing worth having comes easy. (Investigating the quote glut, I’ve realised Thomas Edison was a one-man inspo factory; sample saying: “Our greatest weakness lies in giving up.” He should have invented the podcast.) Instinctively, it feels right that striving is – eventually – rewarded.
But in real life, you can strive and still fail; it’s pretty standard, actually. I can see it’s emotionally healthy to grasp that, and move on. Last year a New Yorker headline, Should you just give up?, dropped into my inbox at a tired moment and and I imagined it being whispered seductively in my ear. The piece discussed Oliver Burkeman’s Meditation for Mortals, which argues that our unrealistic striving represents a refusal to accept our limitations and finite lives; we’d be happier being more realistic about what we can achieve. Having mental flexibility and siting your self-worth in stuff other than self-imposed achievements is clearly saner. And quitters seem happier, too: they report higher life satisfaction and are less likely to suffer anxiety. It’s hardly surprising that has knock-on effects on physical health.
So is the answer to that New Yorker question “yes”, we should sign up for giving up, regardless of what Thomas Edison would think? Despite the evidence, I’m struggling with the idea of renouncing my goals. They are, currently: 1) write a novel; 2) join the metropolitan elite; 3) do the splits.
These reflect quite deep aspirations. I’ve assumed I’ll write a novel since I was a child; I think most voracious readers do and I don’t know who I am if I never manage it. Number two sounds silly, but after several very isolated decades, I developed a yearning to be the kind of person who not only goes to parties with urbane, Radio-4-famous people, but shines at them. Three, I suppose, is about turning 50 and wanting to fight the sense that I’m just a bag of rapidly failing flesh. They all tap into insecurities, disappointments and unfulfilled ideas of who I “should” be, and it’s hard giving up on that stuff.
But with the knowledge that I’m doing myself no good, I’m considering whether, and how, to call it quits. I have no imagination, so it’s probably time to retire the nonexistent novel, but maybe I can become a better, braver writer? I know I’ll never make Amol Rajan laugh, either, but for the first time in my adult life, I have a lovely group of friends near me – seeing them regularly will make me happier than standing awkwardly in the corner at a party full of strangers.
But not all goals need to be abandoned. I’m hypermobile and bitterly determined: dignity be damned, I’ll do the splits one day.
Emma Beddington is a Guardian columnist
