Are you a hammer or a nail?
It’s a cliched question, to be sure. But it still gets asked, time and again.
The implication is relatively straightforward. Are you someone who initiates change? Or are you someone who effects it?
If you’re initiating change, you’re likely the hammer. You’re flying through the air in rhythmic motion, driving a nail toward a specified destination.
If you effect change, you’re the nail. You’re a piece of metal with a sharp edge, ready to pierce the wall.
The inherent premise of this question, of course, is that you must choose one option over the other.
You’re either the coach or the player. The firebrand or the workhorse. The hammer or the nail.
And yet, I find that I can’t choose just one option. Both choices apply.
I am a morning person.
On both weekdays and weekends, there’s a good chance my eyes are open before dawn’s first light peeks through the blinds. Heck, I might have even finished a workout by then.
While starting early has become commonplace for me, this routine doesn’t come naturally. Even after years of this pattern, I don’t find myself automatically springing out of bed at 4 AM.
Instead, I rely on my alarm clock to jolt me from my slumber, and coffee to keep me from returning to it. I also try and go to bed at an early hour, so that I facilitate an earlier wake up.
Doing all this, day in and day out, takes mental fortitude. And yet, I keep going.
For I am driven. I am determined to get the most out of every day. And committing to timely start is essential to achieving that goal.
Now, I recognize word driven is overused. Most of us describe ourselves that way, since that’s a trait that society expects of us.
And with that in mind, it’s hard to separate the wheat from the chaff. It’s hard to know who is just chirping about their motivation and who’s leaning in to it.
Yet, I truly feel my drive for success is a differentiator. And I put actions behind that belief, both by getting up early and by subjecting myself to intense self-critique.
This second trait is not for the faint of heart. Each day, I reflect upon all that I’ve done. But instead of patting myself on the back, I consider how I could have done everything better.
I am ruthless and exacting in my criticism during this process. That way I can properly course correct in the days ahead. Which then means those around me can see the benefits.
My daily self-critique might not be a pleasant experience. But provides the guidance to both initiate and effect the change I seek in myself.
And because of it, I can say I am both hammer and nail.
Withering self-criticism is not without danger. For we are not built to withstand such conflagrations.
If we serve as both hammer and nail, we risk driving ourselves into the ground. And our intentions become muddied.
For there is a fine line between masochism and self-pity. Both are considered gauche, but the second is far pithier than the first.
It is more acceptable to break ourselves down in order to build ourselves back up. Much like a home renovation project, the destruction is tolerated if it’s insulated from the wider environment and directed toward an improved end result.
Breaking oneself down in the hopes that others will feel sorry for us, by contrast, is largely unacceptable. It’s counterproductive, akin to smashing bottles in the grocery store aisle and waiting for someone to come clean up the mess.
I am conscious of all this, even as I continue my self-improvement crusade. I don’t want to push myself past the breaking point. And I don’t want my tactics to become someone else’s problem.
So, I toe that line between self-flagellation and self-pity, taking care to stay on the right side of it.
Or, at least I think I do.
There is an old tale of an emperor who walked the streets of his city, wearing nothing at all. Filled with self-righteousness, the emperor convinced himself that he was sporting a fancy garment. Yet, his subjects saw something far different — a naked man walking the streets.
This story is titled The Emperor’s New Clothes — one of many enduring masterpieces from Danish writer Hans Christian Andersen. And it remains a powerful parable about our dual reality.
For our lives are dominated by two perspectives — the way we see ourselves and the way others see us. And these two vantage points often contradict each other, sometimes drastically so.
The defining challenge of our existence is how to navigate this conflict.
We can try to get the best of both worlds — to live in a way that we approve of and others around us appreciate. Or, we can refuse to compromise, and choose one perspective over the other.
The emperor chose the latter route when he strolled out into the sunlight naked. Divas who rely on opinions of others for self-validation also follow this path — although they veer to the other extreme of it.
In a broad sense, these fringe cases sound ridiculous. Most of us are not this tone-deaf.
But when it comes to self-improvement, we might as well be.
For the process of changing our ways is sure to look different to us than it will to others. And even as we hone in on our own perspective, on fixing ourselves, the vantage point of others matters.
If we act as our toughest critic, we might consider the experience nothing more than a baptism by fire. But others? They might view this behavior as a cry for help, and act accordingly.
I don’t believe this to have been the case with my own crusade. It’s led to some raised eyebrows over the years, but nothing further than that.
But I can’t entirely be sure exactly how others view my actions. There is a diaspora of people who care about me, and I’m never quite sure how these habits affect them.
This weighs on me, particularly in a moment when isolation and vulnerability are so profound. I feel responsible to everyone invested in me. I don’t want to let them down — intentionally or not.
And yet, I have a responsibility to myself as well. To continually get the best out of myself, and to use the tactics that will further that aim.
When choosing between these responsibilities, I’ve generally sided with self-accountability. And so, I’ve continued to play that dual role of hammer and nail.
But lately, I’ve done so without blinders on. I’ve remained vigilant to how my efforts are received more broadly, and I’ve made the effort to explain myself when needed.
It’s only one step. But one step in the right direction nonetheless.
Is my experience universal? Of course not.
We each have our own priorities, tendencies and neuroses. And we each have our own circle of influence, who might react to our behavior in all kinds of unique ways.
Yet through all the endless permutations, one thing is clear: We are not in this alone.
It’s alright to be our toughest critic. Just as it’s perfectly acceptable to rely on our network of support.
But the other end of the equation still matters. Ignore it at your peril.