Don’t Try
Charles Bukowski once said, “Don’t try.”
It’s an interesting piece of advice when we consider how much importance we place upon perseverance. We’re encouraged to work through our difficulties, improve ourselves, and regard giving up as something that reflects poorly upon our character. There are certainly circumstances in which persistence is necessary. But I wonder whether we’ve become so accustomed to praising it that we seldom consider what happens when continuing to try becomes harmful.
Throughout our lives, we encounter people who have opinions about who we are, how we behave, and what we ought to change. Some of those observations are valuable. We may discover something about ourselves that we hadn’t recognized or come to understand how our conduct affects another person. Being willing to examine ourselves is an important part of growing as human beings. Yet there is a difference between considering another person’s perspective and allowing their opinions to determine how we understand ourselves.
When someone spends much of their life listening to what others believe is wrong with them, they can gradually develop the impression that there is always something requiring correction. They become more accommodating, reconsider their decisions, apologize for misunderstandings, and attempt to change qualities that others find difficult. Yet regardless of what they do, somebody may remain dissatisfied. They’re damned if they do and damned if they don’t.
This can be particularly damaging to people who genuinely care about how others feel. Someone who takes criticism seriously may spend years examining themselves in response to judgments that aren’t always reasonable. They may assume responsibility for difficulties they didn’t create or continue making concessions in the belief that greater understanding will eventually resolve the problem. Over time, even qualities that were never inherently wrong can become sources of self-doubt, simply because somebody else found them objectionable.
I know something about this because I’ve spent much of my life doing it. I’ve listened to people whose opinions mattered to me, taken their criticism seriously, and tried to make changes because I believed that perhaps they could see something about me that I couldn’t. Sometimes they were right. But there have also been times when I accepted responsibility simply because I wanted to resolve a disagreement or preserve a relationship. I thought that if I were sufficiently understanding, things might improve. What I didn’t always consider was whether the other person was making any comparable effort.
There is something terribly sad about reaching a point in your life where you begin to realize how much of yourself you’ve surrendered in the hope of being accepted. You can become so accustomed to questioning your own judgment that even ordinary interactions leave you wondering whether you’ve said or done something wrong. Another conversation. Another misunderstanding. Another opportunity for someone to explain what you ought to change. Eventually, even the prospect becomes exhausting.
We often speak about adversity as though it necessarily produces wisdom or resilience. Sometimes it does. But repeated disappointment, criticism, and rejection can also leave a person emotionally exhausted. I’ve had enough difficult experiences to know that surviving something doesn’t necessarily mean emerging from it unharmed. There are things we carry for years. Sometimes the damage becomes more apparent as we grow older, particularly when our physical health and energy are no longer what they once were.
This becomes especially relevant when we consider the expectations surrounding friendship and social involvement. We generally regard maintaining relationships and participating in social activities as indications of a fulfilling life. People who spend considerable time alone may be regarded as lonely, withdrawn, antisocial, or incapable of establishing meaningful connections. But can we really determine the quality of another person’s life simply by examining how socially involved they are?
Some people enjoy being surrounded by others. Some find greater satisfaction in solitude. Others may have wanted close friendships throughout their lives but discovered that the relationships they established required more emotional effort than they could reasonably sustain. They may have found themselves continually initiating contact, making accommodations, and trying to maintain connections that were seldom reciprocated.
Eventually, they may decide they no longer wish to participate.
There is a tendency to interpret that decision as evidence of an underlying problem. We may wonder whether the person is depressed, neurodivergent, socially anxious, or experiencing some other difficulty that explains their withdrawal. These are legitimate human experiences, and understanding them can be helpful when they’re relevant. But someone’s preference for solitude doesn’t automatically require a psychological explanation. A person can appreciate humanity, care about the wellbeing of others, and remain capable of affection without wanting to participate in relationships that have become exhausting.
I recently found myself in a social setting where I was reminded of how separate I’ve often felt from other people. I enjoyed the conversations that occurred, but for much of the time I was alone. There was nothing particularly unpleasant about the occasion, and I don’t believe anyone deliberately excluded me. What struck me was how familiar the experience felt.
And how little desire I had left to make the effort to become part of something.
For much of my life, I would have interpreted that feeling as another indication that I needed to change. Perhaps I should be more outgoing, more approachable, or simply different from the person I am. But I no longer want to examine every uncomfortable social experience as though it represents a personal shortcoming.
Relationships are complicated. People sometimes misunderstand one another without intending harm, and we can contribute to our own difficulties without recognizing it. But understanding another person’s shortcomings doesn’t obligate us to continually accommodate them, particularly when doing so begins to affect our own wellbeing. Communication, forgiveness, and compromise have value when the people involved are willing to contribute something themselves. Otherwise, the responsibility for maintaining the relationship can fall almost entirely upon the person who is already trying the hardest.
I’ve reached a point where I feel that caring so much about what other people think has cost me more than I understood at the time. I don’t say this because I believe I’ve been treated badly by everyone I’ve encountered, or because I consider myself innocent of having hurt others. I know that isn’t true. But I also know what it feels like to spend years trying to be a better person, only to discover that the effort has left you feeling increasingly inadequate.
And there is a kind of grief in that realization.
You cannot recover all the years you spent worrying about whether you were acceptable. You cannot undo every concession you made against your better judgment or restore the confidence you gradually lost while trying to satisfy people whose expectations may never have been reasonable. Recognition can help us understand what happened. It doesn’t necessarily repair the consequences.
Perhaps this is why I’ve begun to question the idea that giving up is always something to be ashamed of. We praise those who persevere without necessarily asking what they’re sacrificing or whether the circumstances they’re enduring are worth preserving. Yet there are situations in which continuing doesn’t improve anything.
It simply prolongs what has been wearing a person down.
I don’t believe solitude is necessarily the answer for everyone, nor would I suggest that withdrawing from relationships always improves a person’s circumstances. There are people whose isolation causes considerable suffering, just as there are people who find companionship essential to their happiness. But choosing to be alone can also be a reasonable response to the experiences a person has had. It shouldn’t automatically be regarded as evidence that something is wrong with them.
What surprises me most about my own decision to stop trying is the sense of relief that has accompanied it. I expected to feel defeated, perhaps even ashamed, because I’ve always associated giving up with failure.
Instead, I feel strangely peaceful.
There is sadness, certainly, because I haven’t stopped wanting the things that make human relationships meaningful. But I no longer feel compelled to pursue them at the expense of my own wellbeing.
I can still care about people, appreciate their company when our paths cross, and remain open to the possibility of meaningful connections. I simply don’t want to spend what remains of my energy trying to persuade anyone to value my presence.
There are other things in life that deserve my attention. I have my art, my writing, and interests that have continued to give my life meaning regardless of how other people perceive me. When the emotional demands of maintaining relationships begin interfering with my ability to pursue those things, I have to question what I am sacrificing and why. I can continue learning, examining my conduct, and improving the things about myself that I genuinely believe need improvement without treating every criticism as another obligation.
There comes a point when we have to consider whether the things we’re trying to preserve are worth what they’re costing us. And if they aren’t, I think it’s perfectly reasonable to give up.
I have spent much of my life believing that I should never stop trying, regardless of how difficult things became. Perhaps that belief helped me survive circumstances I might otherwise have found impossible to endure. But I can also recognize that the same determination, applied to relationships and the expectations of others, has sometimes worked against me.
I don’t regret having cared about people. I regret how often I believed that caring required me to disregard myself.
And if giving up means that I can finally live without continually questioning whether I am good enough for somebody else, then I no longer consider it a failure.
I consider it something I should have allowed myself to do a long time ago.
Marni Fraser
[1105.2026]
Image |2026 | Nevada
