In Defense of Giving Up

Today’s post is an abridged excerpt from “In Defence of Giving Up” by Stacey May Fowles in Bad Artist edited by Nellwyn Lampert, Pamela Oakley, Christian Smith, and Gillian Turnbull. Copyright © 2024 by the contributors. Reprinted with permission of TouchWood Editions.

Before my daughter was born, in early 2018, I was mostly convinced my worth lay in writing eight hundred–word pieces in very little time for very little money. As a “permalancer,” as we’re now known, I earned my living and reputation by writing frequent, short pieces about timely issues for a consistent handful of publications, delivering each on a tight deadline and then measuring my credibility via clicks, likes, and shares.

At the time, I was also pretty sure that the price of that worth was having complete strangers call me all sorts of vile names on the internet, and that the insults and threats I commonly found in my inbox were part of what it meant to be “successful.” Declining work wasn’t part of the deal, but professional exhaustion, being treated badly, hustling and fighting to be heard for very little money on very little sleep definitely was.

As far as I was concerned, suffering gracefully was what it meant to be a professional writer, and turning things down—or even creating some reasonable boundaries—meant you just couldn’t hack it. Besides, saying “no thanks” to invitations and assignments just meant that they would be handed to someone else standing right behind you, eager to take your place.

Better to be grateful, teeth gritted, with a smile on your face.

It’s no exaggeration to say that we exist in a poisonously positive culture, one that constantly discourages us from complaining, calling things out, and, of course, quitting entirely. “Never give up,” the personal mantras espouse; “Anything is possible,” the Instagram squares scream—even when we’re on the floor, unsure if we can self-care ourselves back up again.

If only I worked hard enough, I would think. If only I gave it my all, put in those extra hours, exerted myself to the point of exhaustion. If only I was really, truly committed, burning myself out in pursuit of my lifelong dreams, then I could have everything I always wanted. Then people would respect me. Then I would be successful.

In that spirit of “I can do it,” I have put off rest, and care, and healing. I have tried to prove myself worthy by what I can take, by how much I can suffer, by how far I will go—certainly not by how well I write, and definitely not by how well I can take care of myself.

And, by doing all this, I have learned a pretty nasty truth; the more you endure, the more you will be asked to endure.

It’s a well-worn cliché to say that having a baby changes you. Some would even say it’s a smug sentiment, spoken by people justifying the fact that their lives have been irrevocably altered, and not necessarily for the better. But I don’t actually think it’s necessary to have a baby to see the necessity of slowing down, of asserting boundaries, of saying a loud “no, thank you” instead of yes to every opportunity—it just happened to be necessary for me. But getting pregnant a month after that book’s launch was the invitation necessary for a genuine breather.

Professional writing and publishing culture is packed with the kinds of jobs that people respect you for but don’t pay overtime, or even that well at all. You may be admired by peers for your “glamorous” bylines, you may “matter” enough to be part of that beautiful, successful crowd, but you are also constantly on the verge of a health crisis, or an economic crisis, or a total breakdown.

That’s the thing about the pervasive culture of overwork in publishing—it does everything in its power to make you stay stuck. It builds a mystique around what you do and who that makes you, so much so that you desperately miss the frenzy when it’s gone, regardless of how much happier and healthier you are in its absence.

After some time spent being forced to slow down (my daughter turned six this year), I’m certainly no longer convinced that teetering on the edge of burnout is what success really looks like. I no longer think the only way to matter is by checking your email in the middle of the night, by over-scheduling and under-sleeping, by exposing yourself to abuse or destroying yourself in the process of “succeeding.” Instead, I’m committed to trying to find genuine ways to resist the delirious pressure to always be producing.

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We live in a culture that urges us to never quit, that tells us we must follow our dreams at all costs, that anything is possible. But one thing this toxic hustle culture doesn’t teach us is just how healing it can be to simply surrender, give up, and let go. It doesn’t tell us how and when to release our grip or guide us to a place of acceptance and openness to what we can become after doing so. It doesn’t let on how liberating and powerful it can be to opt out and step away.

What I’ve learned is this: If something doesn’t value you, quit it. If something is actively harming you, quit it. If you genuinely hate something, quit it. Because despite what you’ve been told, despite what you’ve clung to and what people will say, giving up can actually be a very good thing.