Quitting is contagious 

My Dad says that. It’s his way of motivating me to go for the gold. I’ve never appreciated it more than I do right now– 26 years old, confused as hell as to what I’m supposed to do next, applying for M.A. programmes, and watching all my friends get married. 

Quitting is contagious. 

I am the type to quit. I’m constantly scared about everything. I’m on a diet. It’s going great. Still, I’m scared I’ll fail so I really, really want to quit. I am a writer. I love my latest book. I’m afraid it’ll never get published. So I want to stop trying. Small things–a good, clean, cat-eye flick–big things–getting my student visa in Ireland. I want to quit. 

Quitting is contagious. 

I know that. I’ve known it since I was a kid and my Dad was trying to teach me to ride a bike (I can’t ride a bike). I excel at many things. They flee my mind when I’m wallowing in self-doubt. I know they’re there. All the reasons I shouldn’t give up. All the reasons I should trust in the process, keep at it, fight. 

“Quitting is contagious.”

My Dad’s voice is the mantra in my head when I do an extra push-up or even just when I’m scared I’m going to mess up a new recipe. Quitting seeps into your bones and makes you wish you had never allowed yourself to hope. Hope, though, brightens everything. Hope is contagious, too, it’s just harder to grasp. 

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