“Come on, Jordan!”

A cacophony of voices packs into the padded room. The long mirror running the length of the Taekwondo studio reflects the dark, blurring figures surrounding me. I pant through my headgear; the fog-coated sheet of plastic blocking my jaw makes it feel like I am trying to inhale Florida.

“Let’s goooo!” someone claps from the distant couches.

My instructors weave between groups like rudders cutting through the sea, throwing words of critique and encouragement.

“Energy up! Energy up!”

“Dig deep!”

I bounce on my toes. My lead hand is raised by my eyes, the other tucked in front of my torso, protecting my ribs.

The “Ring of Fire:” a circle of eight people. I spar each person for one minute and then the next person does the same and so on.

This is one element of my six-hour black belt test.

I drag my breath into my lungs in short deliberate bursts; the smell of plastic-coated foam, bleach, sweat, and AC dust help steady my blurring vision. Sweat-slicked clothes and gear cling to my shaking frame. Nausea sloshes in my gut, but I keep my hands up.

I plant my back foot and my front leg lashes out, striking my opponent’s back, their chest, their side. Instead of rechambering back toward my body, my foot thunks onto the cushioned mats. I don’t have enough energy to grimace at the sloppiness because a series of blows crash into my in-range head. Battered, bruised, delirious with exhaustion and sputtering adrenaline, I don’t see much of anything. I keep moving.

I tell myself, “I will beat this.” I tell myself, “I am stronger than this.” This time tomorrow I’ll be able to say, “I earned it.” I’ll be able to say, “I did it. I’m done.”

Though I did persevere and complete my black belt test, the problem with viewing perseverance as a fight is that you are working toward a single goal, and life, the mess that it is, yields many goals. Additionally, most fights are over in a minute, at most two. Outside of self-defense, collapsing after a minute or two of intense labor is not an effective means of growth. Perseverance is not about pushing yourself to extremes, but about respecting your boundaries and continuing to move even when dizzy, disoriented, or drained.

Ridiculous as it seems, perseverance is a piñata party — spun around, you swing for your goal blindly — because you are not meant to get it on the first swing, the first round, or even the first hit. But you keep going because the mystery of when you will get it is fun. Some days you feel like the piñata itself: beaten, pulled up by flimsy string, somehow managing to move, bob out of the way of the next blow, and scattering, wasting sweet time like paper-wrapped bits of colored sugar.

Other days, you are the partygoer, and you do not face the swinging challenge alone. There are times when others fixate on the saccharine reward and the marvelous grin slips from your face. You also complain about not hitting the target, even though all you really cared about was the fun of the game, the rush of blindly swinging with all your might; you convince yourself the reward is the whole point. Because it hurts, it is humiliating, to face ridicule as others watch you flail blindfolded. You compare yourself to, judge yourself against, others, wondering, “How come they hit it and I didn’t?” It takes courage to swing for it like you mean it. It takes courage to let go of maybe looking like an idiot, to take pride or joy in the fact that the flailing is the only way to get where and what you want.

Perseverance is more elusive when not everything has such a clear-cut end. Little vague accomplishments are more difficult than big ones, which motivate you through the promised satisfaction of reaching the end of something big. We mark our being with seven variations of a day — week upon week, month upon month, year upon year — and somehow we find the strength to wake up with the alarm, on time, each morning. It is easy to do one hard thing once. It is hard to do easy things again and again. The challenge lies in recognizing the little rewards — the flimsy crumpled bits of flightless confetti no one sees. If you hold a piece with you, you remind yourself that each tattered scrap leads you closer to the grand prize, that the struggle itself is a gift. You learn to smile. The paper token is beautiful in its own right.

Perseverance does not need you to always know exactly what you want to or are going to do. More often than not, it requires reflecting on a vague sense of what you want to see in the world and keeping that feeling with you. There is a beautiful balance to piñatas. You swing: once, twice, thrice. And then you step back. You look at the mark with fresh, unhindered eyes. When you can, you swing again. You do not keep swinging blindly until you pass out or win. You are forced to stop. You are forced to think. Perseverance can be moving forward while having no plan. Many times, going out and doing things is the only way to acquire enough experience to figure out your version of the grand scheme of things.

I used to believe that if I was not pushing myself hard enough it meant I was not growing or persevering. I see this in other people too — the relentless drive to get things done, to never stop improving. You hear things, say things, like “Perseverance is pushing yourself harder than anyone else will,” or “If you’re not broken and crying, you’re not trying.” But as with many people, my determination to grow and persevere was counterproductive; it was abusive. Following my black belt test, I gradually dropped out of sparring. Exhausted and sobbing that I was not pushing myself hard enough, I refused to take joy in being used as an example in class, in receiving praise for my technique, or in simply moving. I thought I was persevering, always pushing myself to improve. I now realize I was being verbally abusive to myself so that I might immediately be “perfect.” This mindset was one of the reasons I stopped sparring: it was not enjoyable for me anymore. Because I viewed sparring as a whole like I did a single match, I expected the satisfaction of my improvement to come as quickly as the satisfaction of finishing a fight. And when it did not, I bullied myself into quitting. I did not persevere. However, throughout high school, I learned the importance of moderation when seeking to improve.

Persevering is the little moments more than the big ones. It is patience. Maybe you swing and hit nothing but air. You take off your mask and stare the cardboard and colored crepe paper down, pacing back a few steps. This is a different kind of rush, separate from adrenaline, frustration, and pain. You know it will fall. Your blindfold slips from your fingers as you hand it to the next person. You know you will not break by toppling it.

A quiet grin splits your features.

You have time.