To all the young quitters of the world,

I was born a hoarder of mediocrity, dispirited by even the most menial of tasks. Gifted with abundant aptitude—cursed with atychiphobia. What use is a cat without sails, hopelessly set afloat in a sea with no current? When faced with a challenge, I’d give up before contemplating the reward. I was a winner of few, loser of none, for I could never lose a game that I’d never play. I too was a quitter wholly, by heart and mind; complacent, satisfied— safe.

Coddled by this mentality, I drifted aimlessly through grade school, consistently settling for participation awards. If it didn’t come to me naturally, I’d quit each sport my parents put me in by my second season. My room lay riddled with numerous abandoned projects. By middle school, quitting came to me as soaring does a peregrine. Only when I’d discovered the joy of making art did I learn to persevere.

My eighth-grade art class diverted me from a lengthy path leading to one destination— life-long unfulfillment. Tasked with creating an acrylic flower portrait, I finally accepted a challenge. I’d finally tried to move the boat. My vision translated from my mind to my hands to my canvas. This was it, I thought. This was what I was made to do. This was something I wouldn’t desert. Just shy of a few weeks of tedious editing and revisal, my painting was finished. I gently propped the canvas against the board, but when I stepped back to get a better view, my smile faded. My face contorted as I fought the oceans-worth of tears welling my eyes; I’d failed.

I’d ruined, disrespected, mutilated the flower’s image. Water started pouring through the crevices of my fatally flawed vessel. As I slowly tore away from the world, the sea of chagrin engulfed me greedily. Instinctively, my muscles relaxed as I began my descent; I’d already given up.

Just as the sky began to fade away into the murky sea, a small, wooden row boat floated into view.

“You’re a natural-born artist”. As if one compliment from my teacher had unturned years of defeatist ideals, my body began to propel itself to the surface. My hand gripped the ledge of the boat as I pulled my body over the side. I moved like it was something I’d always done. Before gathering myself, I briefly stared at the sunken catamaran below. With a scull in each hand, I started my next project.

This time I’d set out with a new mindset; this time, I controlled where I’d go. The subsequent project turned out as wretched as the last, as did the next few works I’d produced. Still, I would not quit. Art is a passion that would’ve laid dormant if I’d quit when I wanted to. It mattered not the quality of my work, but the slow improvements with each piece. I learned that like most things in life, art is not something perfected on the first try nor the second. It is not until the hundredth try that an artist starts to appreciate their work.

To this day, my art does not meet my standards, and it likely never will, but I’ll never stop creating. I’ll keep rowing until the water parts and my feet can touch the seafloor. Even then, I won’t stop moving. I’ll keep running until I can no longer endure because quitting is a comfort known only to the ordinary. Set sail with the propellant of a thousand ships and may your ship be unsinkable.