The Insidious Habit of Setting Goals
I know this dance all too well. The professor weaves through the classroom, the rustle of papers accompanying her unusually swift approach. By the time she reaches me, a cacophony of chatter has overtaken the room — some are already reviewing their recently returned tests and eagerly comparing, complaining, sighing. But all this background noise is clouded as my attention shifts to the packet of pages now lying face down in front of me. I shouldn’t care this much, I know that, but I feel like I studied well this time. I scan the blank back of the paper, trying to detect any pen lines on the other side, as if seeing the red marks this way will be any easier. As long as I don’t look, my grade is like Schrodinger’s cat — an endless myriad of unknown possibilities. But eventually my need to know triumphs and I slowly turn the paper. A 90%. All I need is a 90%. That’s what I’ve been working towards. Please.
I open my eyes just enough to see the number inside the neat red circle at the top of the page… oh thank god it is a 90%! My heartbeat picks up. I did it! A wave of pride starts to swell in my chest, but as my eyes sweep the rest of the page it abruptly subsides. Jumping from mark to mark my smile fades. How could I have been so stupid? I find myself swimming in a sea of errors, stupid mistakes, and near misses. In hindsight it’s all so obvious. A 90% is what you wanted, I remind myself, yet I can’t help but feel disappointed. If I had just conjugated “こうかんする” correctly I wouldn’t have lost this point, and if I had reviewed a little more carefully, I would have known that you can’t use the particle “は” with phrases that describe a noun.
My bag slung over one shoulder, I shuffle out into the crowded hallway, clutching the paper. It crumples in my hand as I try to salvage my good mood. I did it. 90% is a good score, I think feebly. Yeah, but you could’ve done better, responds a harsher voice. I sigh, and mentally vow to study longer and harder next time. 90% is no longer an acceptable standard.
All my life, I had been told that setting goals was a surefire way to feel accomplished, but why, then, did it feel like I never really achieved anything at all?
My chronic unhappiness, as I have now come to understand, can be simply explained by something called an emotional appraisal. This term describes how humans use experience and context to determine how they should feel about a certain event. To appreciate how appraisals can undermine traditional goal-setting, it is best to explore how psychologists finally settled on a model for emotions that includes this abstract concept.
In the 1800s, William James and Carl Lange made the first attempt to formalize the process by which emotions arise and are experienced. These two psychologists posited that although emotions felt spontaneous, they were actually preceded — and caused — by a physiological response. They claimed that if you were to, say, see a grizzly bear in the forest, the reason you feel scared is because you would notice your heartbeat increase and your body start to tremble. Your mind would then interpret this particular combination of physiological reactions as an emotion: fear. This theory would predict that if you set, and then achieve, a goal you would experience the success, feel physical sensations (such as a racing heart), and then feel a rush of satisfaction and relief.
At first, this theory was praised and widely accepted. After all, it was found that emotions were dulled in patients who had suffered traumatic spinal injuries. James and Lange pointed proudly at this example, claiming that it proved that when the mind no longer had access to certain bodily signals it could no longer properly experience a diverse range of emotions. But not everyone was satisfied by this explanation. Surely feelings were too visceral to be a calculation based on mere physical symptoms. Additionally, the James-Lange Theory couldn’t account for differing emotions that arose from similar physical symptoms. For example, how could one differentiate between the fear of seeing a bear and the thrill of riding a rollercoaster? Both caused symptoms such as an increase in heartbeat and rapid breathing, so why didn’t they elicit the same emotion?
Psychologists Walter Cannon and Philip Bard came up with a more intuitive theory in the late 1920s: an event elicited both a feeling and the physical reactions that accompanied it simultaneously. This theory would predict that upon achieving a goal, you would experience the physical symptoms and the feeling of happiness at the same time.
While this proposition aligned with common sense and experience, it could not explain the connection between dampened emotions and spinal trauma. The Cannon-Bard Theory came under increased scrutiny when it was discovered that people could induce certain emotions by forcing their face into a smile or frown. With a clear link between physicality and emotions, it was hard to accept the claim that they occurred separately but synchronously. So the scientific community began a great search — how could we reconcile all that was known about emotions?
The answer came in the form of yet another hyphenated conjecture: the Schachter-Singer Theory. Scientists Stanley Schachter and Jerome Singer claimed that cognition was also responsible for what emotions we experience and when we experience them. They posited that in a situation with a grizzly bear, we would witness the bear, begin to experience the physical symptoms of fight or flight, and then make a crucial appraisal — was this a situation we knew to be dangerous, or one that was only thrilling? Using knowledge and experience to determine the bear was a threat, we would then be able to experience the correct emotion to inform our actions. Our fear would then propel us away from the bear. In short, the Schachter-Singer Theory proposed that events give rise to physical symptoms that suggest a range of possible emotions. Our brain then integrates both current and past associations to determine how we should interpret those physical reactions. This theory would predict that upon achieving a goal, we would use cognitive processes to evaluate our initial physical reactions and answer the question “is this event really a cause for celebration?”
With this modern explanation of emotions, it’s easier to see what goes so wrong when we set tangible goals. When I say I want to get a 90% on my Japanese test, I don’t actually want the 90%, I want what it represents. I want to feel smart. When I originally set the score-based goal, I falsely assume that my appraisal of the result will be based on whether I get the score or not. But I fail to realize the true criteria of my appraisals, as so many do. That my appraisal isn’t really based on whether I achieve my goal but rather whether I feel smart. When I see the mistakes, I don’t feel smart, and I’ll have a negative appraisal and feel upset no matter what number is written in the corner of the page. By setting a false goal, I am never forced to challenge the real source of the problem — my own poor self-esteem.
This is exactly what I discover as I moved through fall semester of my freshman year. When I make mistakes I’m crushed, but when I succeed I brush by my accomplishments, convinced that I can’t settle for my current level of achievement. Every day is a blur as I struggle to optimize my study schedule, my workout routine, my social interactions. I’m going to be happy when I get it just right, I think. But when is that? Will I ever be able to stop pushing? Ultimately, it is my manic striving that accidentally leads me to the answer.
In an insane bid to try almost every form of exercise on campus during my first year at Middlebury, I ended up stumbling into a student-lead yoga class. As I wait for the class to start, I lay unceremoniously on the floor, my face pressing into a borrow yoga mat. I hardly take in the faint smell of sweat and the chatter of people milling around, settling onto mats next to me. I’m mentally preparing my next Psychology of Emotions essay; I’ve recently developed the habit of cannibalizing one activity’s time for the purpose of another. My body moves mechanically as the class starts, barely registering the call to transition into downward dog. This is just another activity. A means to an end. I’ll do yoga, get fitter, and leave to finish my essay.
As we shift into the splayed resting position called Shavasana, we are instructed to close our eyes, and to relax all of our muscles into the floor. I diligently focus in on my breath as I scanned my body for tension. As I begin to let go, the shift is immediate and startling. I feel the stress drain from my limbs, the shocking release of obscure facial muscles. I feel like my body is sinking into the floor, dropping into a spot designed solely to contain it. Something tickles my cheek. Tears? Why am I crying. I search for the feeling. Not sadness…. relief? Yes, that’s it. I lay completely still, letting myself lose track of where my finger and toes end. Floating in this sea of silence I allow all my ambitions to trickle off my chest and onto the floor. With each breath I’m lighter, happier.
Memories bubble up into the space that my worries used to occupy. I see nights spent playing board games with my friends, afternoons consumed by hours of doodling, and refreshing morning bike rides. When did I stop doing these things? I wonder. When did I stop making it my goal to just be happy?
When the instructor gently suggests that we should wrap up our meditation, I say “namaste” and put my shoes back on just like I’d planned, but instead of heading towards the library to start the essay my feet pivot towards my room. It can wait until tomorrow, I think — I’ve got some friends to call. Leaves crackle under my sneakers as I climb the sloping path up towards Mead Chapel and I inhale deeply, relishing the sting of the brisk fall air. Look how easy that was, I think to myself. I achieved my goal. I’m happy.
