discipline
on doing the things you don't want to do
This week, in a season without work — where the days threaten to blur into one another — I clung to my to-do lists like a lifeline. The summer has been heavy with worry, the kind that hums beneath the surface and gnaws at my sanity, but routine has been my anchor. I gave myself non-negotiables: an hour outside walking, three job applications, thirty minutes of my marketing course (my attempt at being a shining candidate), an hour reading, and an hour writing — whether fiction or here, on Substack. They weren’t just tasks to check off; they were a framework to steady myself, a way to prove I could keep moving even when the future felt uncertain. And somewhere in the middle of these small daily acts, I realised discipline might be the purest form of self-love.
Everyone talks about self-love as if it’s the final destination, but I’ve learnt that discipline has always been the hardest, loneliest work. I have nobody to hold me accountable, nobody to talk to about these things. I wake each day to do my tasks and pace my apartment. Sometimes the only person I talk to is my husband, and other days, the dog or cat. I once believed self-love was the ultimate aim, a shining point where I’d finally make peace with every version of myself I’d ever rejected. I sought it in gentle acts: lighting a candle to ease a rough day, jotting kind words in my journal to feel worthy, buying flowers just because. Those moments felt warm, but they wavered when life grew heavy. Self-love, I’ve realised, is fragile without discipline. This — the work of staying true to my path, even when I want to quit — is the backbone of self-love. It’s ignoring current pleasures for bigger rewards to come, loving myself enough to do whatever I need to, to give myself everything I’ve ever wanted. It’s giving up the good for the great. It’s not just effort; it’s the deepest commitment to myself, the belief that I’ll have my own back, no matter what.
I tried to figure out why this feels so much harder than simply loving myself. Maybe it’s because it doesn’t offer instant gratification — it’s a daily grind for a long-term goal, and it applies to every element in life. If I want to upskill myself or learn something new, I have to take the time to do so. If I want to run a 5K without panting, I have to get out of the house and actually run. If I want to write better, I have to write badly first. Love alone doesn’t hold up at a crossroads. It says, “You’re worthy of happiness,” but this resolve says, “If you want it. Go get it.” It isn’t soft or fleeting; it’s the determination to keep going when doubt urges me to stop, to honour my gut when easier, safer maps appear. It’s about being relentless and having tunnel vision, believing in the long game, and knowing I will accomplish the things I want.
Sometimes I think about all the moments I’ve abandoned myself, not because I didn’t love myself, but because I lacked this strength. It’s far easier to push off doing things another day, to say yes to the fun things in the name of being young and free, but when that glamour fades, the only person I have to look at is myself, and worse than disappointing others is disappointing myself. And this isn’t to say I want to live my life by rules, but right now, I have no obligations, and the last thing I want to do is look back on this moment and think, “Why didn’t I do something with my time?” I know I will have regrets if I do that. I tend to regret easily.
So, this is how I rebuild. It’s not one grand decision but a thousand small ones: showing up to write when I’m uninspired, saying no to plans that drain me, getting that fresh air while the days are still long and sunny. Each choice is a refusal to betray my instincts, a step toward believing I can rely on myself. It means disappointing people sometimes, and that’s hard. It’s tempting to fall back on comfortable scripts — sleeping in, eating junk food and throwing a middle finger to the world. But each time I don’t, I teach myself that my voice is strong enough to lead. And I don’t let a bad habit, a bad moment take hold of my emotions.
Self-love is the feeling; this is the action. Without the action, the feeling rings hollow. It requires constant conversation: “What do I want? What do I need right now?” Most of us don’t pause to ask, too busy on autopilot, letting bad habits rule and emotions get the best of us when things go wrong. We forget we can know ourselves deeply and still ignore our voice. But when I start asking and listening, I see how I can let even myself down, giving up when I know I’m mentally stronger than that. I just need to push myself. I may not have a job right now, and some days are really fucking hard, but I’m going to, and I will, give myself the best chance of feeling better about all of this if I do put a little pressure on myself. I’m reminded of a quote I read a few months ago: “Just remember. Something good for you, something bad for you, and a change of scenery. That’s the winning formula.” Promise Me Sunshine. Cara Bastone.
I’m still finding my way. There are days I drift — hours lost to glowing screens, lunch made of nothing but hummus and crackers, the kitchen the only place I walk to. I’m only human. But I’ve learned it’s not about getting it right. It’s about coming back. Over and over, with patience and forgiveness, I return to myself. That is the only vow I want to keep — to be the one who stays, even when the world does not, and to trust this flawed, human voice as the one worth hearing.
Powerful thank you!