We lined up in the grass. Alongside us was a thick rope, which had a knot every foot or so.
My classmates and I looked back at our teacher, waiting for her command. When she gave it, we each grabbed the knot closest to us. Then we collectively lifted the rope off the ground.
We were quickly divided into two sections. Classmates closer to near end of the rope were now on one team. Classmates on the far end were their opponents.
With that settled, our teacher laid out the objective of the contest.
When I give the signal, pull the rope towards you as hard as you can. Rely on your teammates and work together.
That signal came a moment later. The battle was on.
My team pulled ferociously on the rope, even as the counterforce from our rivals threatened to lurch us forward.
In the end, our persistence paid off. The other team lost its edge, and the twine lost its tautness. We yanked the rope towards us, dragging our opponents over with it.
My first tug-of-war was a rousing success.
I wasn’t the first kid to take part in a tug-of-war. Nor was I the last.
Indeed, this activity has long been a staple of field days for elementary schools across this nation.
The meaning of this exercise remains a Rorschach test. Some see it as a testament to collaboration. Others view it as a showcase for the biggest and strongest. No opinion is definitive.
Regardless, these tug-of-war battles tend to fade into the rearview as we grow up. There are better things to be doing with our time than pulling on a rope.
Or are there?
We may be done playing tug-of-war by the time we reach adulthood. But the game is never quite done with us.
You see, tug-of-war is a parable for life. A simplistic demonstration of the give and take that dominates our existence.
Think about it.
We come into this world with much given.
Our very existence. Shelter. Clothes. Nourishment. Fresh diapers. Doting adoration. Holiday gifts. It’s all bestowed upon us.
This pattern continues through our scholastic years. Yes, we have homework and we take exams. Some of us even earn money for household chores. But in general, what we get is still what’s given to us.
The pattern starts to shift once adolescence morphs into adulthood. Now, we’re balancing what we give with what we take.
We give our talents to a profession so that we can take home a living wage. We give our heart to our soulmate so that we can take their hand in matrimony. We give the same existence we were once bestowed to a new generation — even as it takes our time, energy, and patience.
This phase continues for years, in a choreographed equilibrium. And then subtly, something sinister happens.
The act of taking becomes more pronounced. And we’re given less and less in return.
Our features are often the first to be taken from us. We look in the mirror to find smooth and vibrant replaced by wrinkled and gray.
Then our abilities are slowly taken away. Those physical benchmarks we once hit become unattainable. Those crystal clear memories become cloudy.
Opportunities are the next layer to be stripped from us. In the blink of an eye, experience goes from an advantage to a perceived liability. We watch helplessly as we’re passed over in favor of the next generation.
And finally, our loved ones are taken from us. Those further down the trail than us find its end, and we’re forced to reckon with their eternal absence.
At this point in the tug-of-war of life, we’ve lost our footing. We’re being dragged across the field, picking up bumps and bruises as we hang onto the rope for dear life.
It’s a process that’s as cruel as it is inevitable.
Never look a gift horse in the mouth.
I heard that phrase plenty in my youth.
You see, I’d been given a great deal. But I’d also developed distinct tastes.
Maybe I was just picky, or particular. But I could have – I should have – appeared more grateful for what I received.
So, those around me stayed on my case.
They implored me to stay humble. They encouraged me to practice gratitude. And they commanded me to send thank-you messages whenever possible.
None of this advice was particularly unique, of course. It all came from a societal playbook of manners and ethics.
Similar codes guide us through the early adulthood. They help us to maintain balance between giving and taking, keeping us sane and in the good graces of other.
But no playbook exists for that third phase of the tug-of-war of life, when everything is steadily taken from us.
We have no unified guidance on managing this distressing development – which can lurk over a large chunk of our lifespans. We’re left to deal with it on our own.
Generally, we manage this burden in one of two ways. We either rebel against our crumbling reality, or we paralyze ourselves in grief over it.
Neither does us any favors. Indeed, they only serve to make the situation worse.
It’s time for a third option to emerge from the shadows. And to remain transcendent in the limelight.
Let’s get to it.
The doubt set in shortly after my return to running.
I’d been on the shelf for four months, thanks to ankle surgery. Week after week, I’d hobbled around in a protective boot and endured physical therapy sessions – all to help my ankle heal and regain range of motion.
But now, I was back. I was cleared to run again, and to start building up for race training.
At first, I was confident. It would take a bit to get back in shape, sure. But once I did, I’d be just as I was before the surgery. I’d continue pursuing my goals and chasing medals in distance races.
But a few weeks into the process, reality hit me hard.
I was striding forward with the same effort as countless times before. But my feet weren’t hitting the pavement nearly as quickly.
My body seemed tentative. And yet, I felt just as sore and winded as I did in the old days.
I wasn’t slacking off. I just wasn’t as fast as I had been before.
Something had taken away one of my natural gifts — my speed.
Maybe it was the surgery. Maybe it was the passage of time. Perhaps it was both.
Regardless of the culprit, I was distraught. And I felt lost.
But amid my despair, a revelation hit me.
Maybe I couldn’t blaze across the pavement and stand atop the medal stand anymore. But I could still run at a decent pace.
I could still feel the wind in my face and the ground gliding under my feet. I could remain fulfilled with every stride.
In other words, I might have had something taken from me. But I still had plenty left that was worthy of enjoyment.
I try to use this same framing with other aspects of my life that have been stripped away. I might miss departed loved ones, for instance, but I still have the memories and lessons they’ve imparted on me.
It’s not everything. But it’s something.
This reframing is far more than a parlor trick. It’s a suitable path forward for all of us faced with the take era of our lives. It’s a glass-half-full approach tailor-made for an time of distress.
That’s a rope worth grabbing onto.
Let’s do so.