Chapter 2: Effort
What If Working Hard Is the Real Algorithm
This is a chapter from an unfolding book about designing a life that expands. I’m writing it as I live it—without pretending to have it all figured out.
There’s a moment that comes after ambition. After the plans. After the discussions. After the first surge of wanting more. It’s the moment when outlines on whiteboards meet the quiet of real life.
That’s Effort. It’s the slow, steady work that follows the spark of ambition. At first, effort feels honest. It feels like proof you meant it when you said you wanted more. You show up every day. You build routines—brick by brick, action by action. The hours add up, and momentum grows.
But over time, effort changes. The bold leaps you pictured become smaller, incremental steps. The clarity you began with fades, and the initial spark grows harder to see. Effort shapes itself into structured work—routines, systems, late nights—yet underneath, it remains the same: a choice to keep moving forward.
For me, putting in the effort feels like a uniquely reliable ‘algorithm’ that steadily compounds into meaningful progress. It’s something uniquely within our grasp—it outpaces talent when talent stops trying, and it outlasts luck when luck doesn’t show up. Even when the odds are against us — it can change the equation.
Like ambition, effort sometimes gets a bad rap. It’s often mistaken for hustle culture, but it’s not about burning out or doing more for the sake of doing. It’s about steady, intentional, and consistent action—reliability over drama. Working hard is often criticized for throwing off work-life balance. But maybe balance isn’t always about equal parts. Maybe it’s about knowing where your effort needs to go—and letting that be enough.
Practicing the Algorithm
I remember clearly the first time I truly faced the Learning Curve—it wasn’t pretty. It started with that familiar rush of confidence—what I've since heard called "Mt. Stupid." Everything seemed obvious, easy, inevitable. Then came what’s called the Valley of Depression. Progress stalled. Every step forward felt exhausting, even meaningless.
My first big project came with high stakes and a lot of unknowns. Initially, fixing each setback felt exhilarating, affirming that I was on the right path. But soon enough, those setbacks piled up—unexpected roadblocks, failed experiments, and late nights spent doubting every decision I'd made. It didn't feel good. It felt tiring and discouraging. I wasn't even sure it was worth continuing.
But here's the thing: I kept going, not because I was driven by certainty, but precisely because certainty was nowhere to be found. Effort became the one reliable thing I had. Each morning, despite how I felt the night before, I got up, adjusted my approach slightly, and moved forward. It wasn't heroic; it was practical. Effort became my lifeline, the steady rhythm beneath the noise.
Roosevelt captured it perfectly: “It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles... The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood...”. Effort was simply about staying in that arena.
Maybe scaling life isn’t about certainty or clean arcs of progress. Maybe it’s just about continuing—especially on the days when things feel unclear, unremarkable, or unresolved. Staying in the arena when there’s no fanfare. Trusting that quiet motion still counts.
If ambition is the spark, then effort is what keeps showing up—even when it’s inconvenient, even when it’s not glamorous. So maybe it’s not about mastering effort. Maybe it’s just about respecting it enough to keep going. Because that’s what effort does—it keeps going. Quietly. Repeatedly. Even when the results haven’t arrived yet.
Effort—steady, deliberate work—is the only algorithm I know that always runs. Timing can shift. Talent can stall. Luck can disappear. But effort is different. It’s the part you can control. The part you can return to. The part that quietly adds up.