“I promise to be faithful to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love you and to honor you all the days of my life.”—The wedding vow I heard last week.
Hi friends,
I attended two back-to-back weddings this past weekend. Beyond the festivities and gaining ten pounds within 24 hours, I wondered, “Why do people get married?”
While repeated many times in history, my friend’s vow above is an incredibly bold statement: I don’t know what will happen, but I will show up no matter what. The future is unknowable, but I have pre-decided my actions and will not waver.
I commit.
Marriage is, of course, only one of many forms of commitment. Another friend recently said she had signed up for the Berkeley Half Marathon. Her goal was to get in shape and challenge herself. She had paid the entry fee and started training with a group. Going from running a 5K to a half marathon would be uncomfortable, but she looked forward to it.
I asked her, “Why?” She said it was time (kairos) to commit.
Commitment is a paradox. We limit our options when we commit, making us seemingly less free. But an intentional commitment shifts our mindset: Rather than constantly searching for alternatives, we focus on making the current situation work.
When conflicts arise, a committed couple asks, “How do we resolve the disagreement?” When training becomes difficult, a committed runner asks, “What must I do to keep going?”
Eliminating options propels us to make a breakthrough.
I started writing a year ago as an experiment, and it has evolved into a weekly commitment. I still struggle and often wonder, Is this project worth it? What is the point? No one asks me to do this.
But then I ask myself: Are you ready to uncommit?
Once I say no, my energy goes to exploring new strategies. Some don’t help, but a few have become my cornerstone habits: I keep track of random ideas in a notebook regardless of how ridiculous they seem. I record voice memos on my walks (neighbors look at me weird). I highlight and copy interesting passages from my reading. I start writing earlier in the week when I can, so I don’t have to rush at the end.
My simple commitment—A letter must go out at 6:30 a.m. on Fridays—imposes a constraint, which forces me to find a path forward by paying attention to insights I otherwise would have missed.
Commitment requires recommitments; it’s never “once and done.” The newlyweds must decide every day if they will fulfill their vows. My half-marathon buddy must decide whether to stretch her distance today. Once I publish this post, I must decide whether to write another next week.
The commitment paradox is a fascinating life riddle. When we say yes to a commitment, we say no to other choices. But the reverse also holds: When we say no to most things, we can commit to a few that truly matter.
Commitment is an exercise of our freedom—arguably the highest form—not because we have to, but because we choose to.