I Know I Don’t Know When to Give Up



When I was a teenager, I worked in a hotel restaurant. One night, water started pouring into the cloak room. I grabbed a mop and got to work. I didn’t ask questions, didn’t call for help, didn’t stop to wonder where the water was coming from. I just mopped—bucket after bucket, like I was going to win the fight by sheer effort.

It didn’t stop. And neither did I.

Eventually, the hotel manager came by. He looked at the growing puddle, looked at me, and said, “You can stop now.”

I did. But not because the job was done—because someone made the decision for me.

That moment sticks with me. Not because it was dramatic, but because it was true. I don’t know when to give up. Still don’t, really. And that trait—it’s helped me, hurt me, and shaped me.

Looking back, I can almost hear Marcus Aurelius whispering:
“You have power over your mind—not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.”

If I’d understood that as a young man, maybe I wouldn’t have tried to mop up life itself. Maybe I would’ve paused, taken a breath, and asked: Is this mine to fix?

But when you’re young, you don’t separate effort from outcome. You think hard work is always the answer. You think persistence is virtue in every situation. Sometimes it is. Sometimes it’s just pride in a work shirt.

Stoicism doesn’t tell you to give up—it tells you to see clearly. To know the difference between what you control and what you don’t. That’s the part I missed.

I’ve stayed in fights too long. Jobs too long. Conversations too long. Relationships too long. Not out of love or loyalty—just because I didn’t want to be the one who gave up.

But here’s the truth:
There’s a difference between quitting and knowing it’s not your fight.

I still don’t know when to give up. But I’ve learned how to step back. To look at the situation. To judge it clearly. And to say, “Is this where my energy belongs?”

So if I could go back and talk to that kid in the hotel hallway, knee-deep in water with a mop in his hand, I wouldn’t tell him to stop.

I’d tell him to look up.

And then I’d tell him: Know what’s yours. Do your part. And let go of the rest.

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