A personal essay on effort.

 

A personal essay on effort. 

From a young age I was always creating. I remember making up dream worlds and drawing maps that show you the world I wanted to be in, in great detail. I didn't show anyone my drawings until I was around 13. I was in Art class and we were challenged to create a poster, detailing a time within World War Two. This was what we were studying in history at the time, but my mind wandered into the idea of the propaganda posters and the idea that people were influenced by the flyers and the drawings in papers. The loud “look at me” messages. My poster represented just this and I worked day and night researching and sketching, fully focused on the idea. My sketch came to life. I used colouring pencils to help get the shading just right. I quietly handed it in. I remember this day still now as I was so proud of the effort I put in. I remember a week later and the teacher went through her favourite pieces. Mine wasn't included. I loved art class until then. She praised those that rarely completed their pieces, those that messed about and those that didn't care for art really.  I understood why she did it, but it did hurt me as she was praising those who didn't really put in the effort. 

Whilst that hurt, that wasn't the end of the story. I regularly attended a lunch club ran by the headmaster. I still think of him today, he was a gentle understanding force of nature. He was my cheerleader without me realising. I was working on something in my sketch book one lunchtime and he asked to see it, and he spotted my sketches of my poster. When I explained where the poster was, he told me to follow him. I think he felt my pain, maybe even understood it. We marched into the Art Studios and asked for my work. The next hour I sat in his office instead of going to maths showing him the process of how I created the piece and why. I didn't realise how much I needed that conversation until recently. 

He realised how much effort I had put in, and I wish I could thank him now.

Effort is something rarely spoken about as effort doesn't always create the amazing and profound results that make the end result come first. 

As someone who is neurodivergent I understand effort. When I was at school I often came home and went straight to bed for a nap. I was exhausted from not only the learning, but the effort it took to show up and fit in. This continued through my university days. I studied Law, as I thought that's what I should do to get a good job and thrive. Looking back and knowing what I know now, I regret that decision. I tried so hard to fit in, joined the groups and societies but I was always shattered from the effort, let alone the studying. 

I didn’t become a lawyer, but not for the want of really really trying, I just didn’t fit the mold. I got the grades to get into Oxford law school and this is really where I felt different. Training contracts were hard to come by unless you knew someone in the industry back then, that made me different. I got the grades but not the job. Three times I got told nearly, but not quite. 

Exhausted, I came home and got a job answering phones for customer service but I still struggled to climb the ladder.I was good at the jobs I got, I was the one going above and beyond, head down, extra hours, but never promoted.  It wasn’t until complete burnout at the age of 41 I realised something was wrong. 

It wasn’t that I couldn't do the job, I just put in more effort than most just to survive and the exhaustion made me anti-social, my face didn’t fit despite the results, and it was all too much. 

Whilst I was off sick as I just could’t cope in the corporate world anymore. So I wrote a lot of words. I drew and made. I went back to my younger self in a world I loved. I was doing something for me, no one else. And to this day no one will see those journals and sketch books. I knew what I needed for my own sanity. I needed creativity. 

From a life dealing with panic attacks that wouldn’t just go away, this was an outlet. Writing my feelings and thoughts of a world I just didn’t fit into, and drawing a world that I did.

I was diagnosed as being Autistic in March last year, aged 42. I had no clue. It wasn’t until someone realised my panic attacks had a pattern and how I saw the world, they suggested I had an assessment.

During this time I used creativity as an escape, like I did when I was younger to try and understand. I knew this is where I needed to be, creating didn’t feel like effort. Hours fly by when I make. My mind switches off. 

Still now, I struggle socially. The idea of small talk fills me with dread, yet teaching a needle felting workshop feels easy. The effort melts away. I am exhausted afterwards, but I know my extra effort to be social is worth it. It takes alot create a workshop. The effort it takes to master the medium, the effort it takes to make sure it is the right level for beginners and how long it will take. Socially I have a script ready in my head, pre-practiced over and over again just to do small talk, yet get me on my specialist subject and I can talk for hours. 

I understand effort. This could probably be my second specialist subject. The quiet, unnoticed effort, not the loud look at me effort that everyone has no choice but hear. I wish I could thank that headteacher now. That conversation I remember, clearly and it still brings a tear to my eye. I now bring those conversations to my workshops and my writing, which I'm proud to say that effort has created my job and what I do today. 

It’s still a lot of effort, don’t get me wrong. But it's the right effort.