Every night, we read three books before bed. We almost always finish them.

Last night, we didn't.

About three-quarters of the way through a book about butterflies and being present (and, no, this was not the passage from Zorba the Greek) I looked at Oliver and Sienna and asked, "Can I ask you something? Are either of you even into this book?" They answered in perfect unison.

"No."

"So...do we want to finish it?"

Sienna: "Yes. We should finish it."

Oliver: "No. Let's not finish it."

At that moment, I thought, Oh my God. My son is me, and my daughter is Vikram.

As we got ready for bed, a process that includeas asking Sienna if she wants her hair in braids or not, if they have to pee again or not, and, of course, gathering the handful of Trident gum Oliver insists on keeping under his pillow for "magic" and protection (a story for another day), and kissing their impossibly soft cheeks, pliable like brioche, I found myself reflecting upon something a client said just few hours earlier:

"I power through," he told me. "That's just what I do. I self-sacrifice and push."

Every so often, I think about all the things I quit in high school and college, and I regret them: piano, tennis, karate, and the one that hurts the most—singing.

A few years ago, I was lamenting quitting piano when my mom casually mentioned that she'd stopped our lessons because our piano teacher had made a pass at her.

I had no idea.

The last time my dad visited, he reminded me that I hadn't exactly loved practicing carotid artery chokes in karate. I had completely forgotten that part—perhaps because I fainted on the mat.

The singing, though. That one is entirely mine.

It was the first semester of my freshman year at Emory. I auditioned for the university's premier a cappella group called—wait for it—Aural Pleasure. (I know.)

There was one soprano spot.

I sang "Reflection" by Christina Aguilera. No piano. No accompaniment. Just me standing on stage in a massive theater full of seniors. I don't remember much about the audition itself. I don't remember whether they stopped me midway through or let me finish. I only remember that Taylor Barr, a Tri Delt with the voice of an actual angel, got the spot.

She deserved it. I could have auditioned for another choir. Instead, I just... I just stopped. I fucking quit.

In 2018, I started the Master's of Applied Positive Psychology program at the University of Pennsylvania. One of our professors was Angela Duckworth, whose research on grit—passion and perseverance for long-term goals—has become part of our cultural vocabulary.

Like every other student, I took the Grit Scale.

The questions practically tell you how you're supposed to answer.

"I finish whatever I begin."

"I have overcome setbacks to conquer an important challenge."

"I am a hard worker."

As I clicked through the questions, I felt...ashamed isn't quite the right word. Exposed, maybe. I knew I wasn't going to score particularly high, and I couldn't shake the feeling that everyone else in my cohort would.

A month ago, my parents came to visit. As part of my coaching program at Newfield, I had homework: ask four people who know you well how they would describe you.

My dad said, "Focused. Passionate. Responsible."

My mom said, "Committed. Highly motivated. Skinny legs."

I got my skinny legs from my dad. My brother has them, too.

But the other words?

Committed?

Highly motivated?

Do they even know me? I wondered.

If I were those things, wouldn't I have been the kind of person who kept singing?

My mom reminded me that I'd started a business.

She reminded me how many hours I'd poured into my Penn application, and then how I'd spent nearly thirty hours a week on coursework while working full-time.

I reminded myself how often I wish there were more hours in the day so I could obsess over my clients, reach out to prospective Double Shift and Goodbye Golden Handcuffs participants, write, and somehow still have enough left over for my children, my husband, my friends.

And I found myself wondering: What am I supposed to make of all of this? And, I think it’s the fact that I have spent the better part of twenty years assuming perseverance is measured by all the things I never stopped doing.

Thanks, Dr. Duckworth.

But maybe perseverance can be measured differently, like by the things I kept coming back to, no matter the circumstances.

Relationships. Writing. Understanding. Building. Then building again. Falling in love. Getting hurt. Getting back out there, over and over again.

Maybe, just maybe, the question isn't whether I've quit. I've asked myself that question a thousand times, and I already know the answer.

The better question is this: Have I spent twenty years organizing my identity around an eighteen-year-old version of myself?

Maybe it's time to quit that instead.