The Stoke and The Suffering

I dream of surfing the way many women my age dream of babies.
I don’t know how or why this desire came to be, but there it has sat, growing ever more urgent with each turn around the sun.
The thing I’ve come to know — like really, really know (in the same way one knows they’re alive) — is that the universe has a bigger and better plan for us than we can possibly come up with on our own, and so our job is just to stay open and see what shows up.
The more I have embraced this truth, the more fantastical the things that have shown up. Including, finally, an opportunity to go surfing.
We made the five hour drive up to Maine in the pouring rain, arriving at the vacant beach around 3:00 p.m. It was unseasonably cold, the sky the color of a day-old bruise above a churning sea.
I was so excited, I did not care. I put on my wetsuit, picked up the long, heavy board, and got in.
The two hours spent getting tossed around by that stormy sea were some of the best of my whole, entire life.
It was humbling, exhilarating, life-affirming. Hell, it was just fun. So much fun.
The next morning we showed up early with coffee in hand and watched the sun try to break through the dense gray cloud cover. The rain had stopped, but the waves were bigger, wilder than the day before. A few people were braving the beach in sweatshirts and rain coats. My friends saluted the sea with a conch shell chorus and we went in.
I got pounded. Literally punched in the face by the manic waves, over and over. Water went up my nose, in my ears, down my throat. I laughed every time and tried again. I learned how to catch a wave. I even stood up a few times.
A couple hours later when I got out of the water my friends, already congregated around the van, clapped and hooted, saluting me for being “the most stoked person ever.”
“Who you are is defined by what you’re willing to struggle for.”
-Mark Manson
In The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck, Mark Manson posits that we aren’t really driven by what we want the most, but what we are willing to suffer for.
You want to be a famous novelist, but do you want it bad enough that you are willing to suffer through days and months (or years) of the Sisyphean writing process? Or you want to be in a relationship. Are you wiling to do the hard work of owning your shit, communicating, and compromising? Are you willing to hang in there on the bad days when you hate their guts (or they hate yours)?
When I think about life through this lens, I see that we really can divide our choices into two camps: that which is worth the struggle, and that which is not. The things that we deem worth struggling for, ultimately bring great pleasure. The things that aren’t, don’t.
I wanted to surf. And the tenacious enthusiasm, the “stoke,” that desire brought to the experience was indeed a magic pill that made the harsh conditions not just tolerable, but enjoyable.
It didn’t feel like struggle, like suffering — it felt like the fullest kind of living I can imagine.
What are you willing to suffer for?
Knowing what it is, gives you a way into what makes you feel alive. And once you know that, you must do it.
Suffer, so that you can be deeply satisfied. Suffer, so that you can be happy.

